‘Uncle Moreton rose to his feet. “Come along, then,” said he. “Let us see if we can decide the matter one way or the other.”
‘The door of High Grove was opened by Crompton’s housekeeper, a melancholy expression on her face. She showed us into the study, a large room at the back of the house, where we were joined a moment later by Crompton’s sister, Ethel. Her face, too, was marked by sorrow and it was clear she felt the loss of her brother very keenly.
‘“I am sorry to intrude upon you at such a time,” Uncle Moreton began, “but I wondered if I might see the Roman coin – a denarius, I believe – which your brother bought from the dealer in London – the one that was found in the field. I wanted to familiarise myself with it in case I chanced across the other one, which I know was fairly similar.”
‘“So I understand,” returned Miss Crompton. “Yes, I should be pleased to show it to you, and you need not apologise for the intrusion. I am sure my brother would have been delighted at your interest.”
‘She took a small silver coin from the corner of the mantelpiece and handed it to Uncle Moreton. “My brother was a very fine man,” she continued as we examined the coin, “a fine scholar and a great intellect. One of his deepest regrets was that, living where he did, he had so little opportunity for intellectual conversation, and he told me how much he had enjoyed his discussions with you and your family.”
‘“Rest assured, madam, that the pleasure was entirely ours,” responded Uncle Moreton. “His death is a great loss, not only to his family and friends, but to the parish in general. I wonder,” he continued after a moment, “if you have the invoice from the dealer that came with this coin. I am no expert on such things and should like to know as much as possible about it.”
‘“I think my brother kept such documents in here,” said Miss Crompton, opening the lid of a large bureau that stood by the wall. For a few moments she sifted through a pile of papers, then extracted a sheet. “I think this may be it,” said she, passing it to Uncle Moreton.
‘He took it to the window and held it so that I could see it, too, as he read the coin’s description aloud. “‘A silver denarius of the reign of Hadrian, minted in Rome about AD 120,’” he read, followed by some technical details regarding the silver content and so on, but as he did so his right index finger indicated to me the “quantity” column. To my very great dismay, this stated, not “two”, as I had hoped it would, but just “one”. It seemed that my theory was false. A moment later, however, and my disappointment had vanished. I leaned over and pointed with my own finger at the date of the invoice, which was May the fifth, more than a month before Crompton had claimed to have found a coin on his property, and more than two months before he said he had bought a coin from a dealer. As he continued to read, Uncle Moreton put his free hand on my finger and moved it away from the date. “Thank you very much for showing us these things,” he said to Miss Crompton as he finished reading. “It is very kind of you.”
‘We had walked some way back along the road before Uncle Moreton spoke. “It seems pretty clear, then,” he said at length, “that Crompton did purchase two coins, although not both at the same time, and that the one he claimed to have found was as much a purchase as the other one. No doubt the excitement and interest generated last year by his discovery of the remains of the villa had abated, and, disappointed by his failure to make any further significant discoveries, he succumbed to the temptation to fabricate a couple for himself.”
‘We walked on in silence for some time, until we came again to the grassy bank and sat down once more.
‘“There are two thoughts uppermost in my mind,” said Uncle Moreton. “First, with regard to Mr Crompton’s sad progress from local celebrity to violent death, I am reminded of an observation of Dr Johnson’s, in his commentary on one of Shakespeare’s plays, to the effect that ‘villainy has no natural stop; crimes generally lead on to other crimes, until, at last, they terminate in ruin’. Second, I am very sorry that we had to practise such a deceit upon Miss Crompton in that way. We had to know the truth, but I still feel ashamed of myself. It is clear she thought the world of her brother and I am sure she was right to do so. He was, in his own way, a fine and worthy man, for all that we have discovered about his dishonesty in this instance. Can you understand that, Sherlock?”
‘“I think so,” I replied; but young people are harsher judges of ethical questions than their elders, and I did not at that moment fully share my relative’s estimate of Crompton’s worthiness.
‘“I therefore think that we – and Sylvie – should keep what we know to ourselves. The man is dead now and no purpose can be served by sullying his memory.”
‘“But it may be,” I argued, “that Michael Shaxby or someone else will be charged with his murder.”
‘“If that were to happen, we would of course tell all that we have discovered. I will keep a close eye on the matter, but if no one else is accused of the crimes, I will say nothing and you must do the same.” Uncle Moreton glanced at me, as if to read my thoughts from my features. “We would not wish to inflict further pain upon his sister unnecessarily, Sherlock. The pursuit of truth may be the highest intellectual aim that man can aspire to, but sometimes knowledge of the truth must be sufficient reward in and of itself, and nothing further is to be gained by publishing one’s knowledge.”
‘The weather began to deteriorate as our holiday drew to a close, and for two days the rain was so heavy that we were scarcely able to leave the house. Then, at the end of the week, with all our trunks and bags packed, we caught the London train at Alford. We were met at King’s Cross station, where the crowds, the bustle and the noise seemed a world away from the emptiness and quiet of the Wolds. We had said our goodbyes – for we were all going off in different directions – when I saw Sylvie say something to Aunt Phyllis and a moment later she ran over to me with a small brown-paper parcel in her hand. She partly unwrapped it and I saw that it was this mirror.
‘“This is for you,” said she in an abrupt, embarrassed tone, pushing the mirror into my hands. I protested that I could not possibly accept it – she, after all, had been much more responsible both for its design and for its execution – but she insisted. Then she leaned very close to me and whispered something in my ear, but at that moment a nearby locomotive let out a piercing blast on its whistle and I did not catch what she said. Whether it was something about herself or about me, about the mirror or even about Mr Crompton, I could not tell, and before I could ask her to repeat it, she had dashed back to her parents and they had left the station. Later, I discovered she had written her name on the back of the mirror.’
My friend turned the mirror over and I saw the name ‘Sylvie’ written in large letters, in pencil, across the back.
‘Unlike the inscription on Crompton’s tile, this one at least is authentic,’ said Holmes in a dry tone, ‘and this mirror is all that remains of that holiday long ago. And now, Watson,’ he continued, ‘as we sit here discussing these ancient events, we must presume that East Thrigby continues much the same as ever it did. No doubt the winds still whip the grass upon the sand dunes by the sea and bring heavy downpours to the villages of the Wolds. No doubt, too, the country folk go about their business in their old, unhurried way, the rabbits still play in the meadows, the brooks still babble on and the drama of what happened all those years ago is all but forgotten. And you and I, my dear fellow, are now the only people alive who know the true facts of the East Thrigby Mystery.’
The Adventure of Juniper Cottage
‘Democritus or Heraclitus?’ said Sherlock Holmes in a thoughtful tone. ‘For which of them should we cast our vote?’
It was a fine day in the early spring. My companion having no urgent call upon his time, I had managed to prevail upon him to rise from the couch upon which he had spent most of the previous day, and take a walk with me about the bustling streets. For several hours we had ambled, from the West End, by way of the Strand to the City, with many a detour
into curious old alleyways and odd, hidden courtyards, all of which yielded points of interest to my friend’s keen powers of observation and inference. At length we found ourselves upon the steps of the Royal Exchange, at the very hub of the City, and stood there for some time, watching in fascination the ceaseless and ever-changing flow of humanity passing back and forth along the streets that radiate like the spokes of a wheel from the Bank of England.
‘It was a point of dispute among the ancient Greeks, as you no doubt recall,’ continued my friend, a note of humour in his voice, ‘whether the world we see about us is composed of many quite separate atoms, as was argued by Democritus, or is in reality, despite appearances to the contrary, all one, as Heraclitus urged. Now, you and I may have a strong predisposition to regard these people who are passing before us now as perfectly distinct individuals, but, you must admit that, in the mass, they bear more than a passing resemblance to mere waves, like the waves of the sea, which come and go upon the shore!’
‘That can scarcely be denied; although I doubt if they themselves would thank you for the observation.’
My friend laughed, in that odd, noiseless way which was peculiar to him.
‘Perhaps not,’ he conceded. ‘We stand now,’ he continued after a moment, ‘at the very centre of the greatest city since Byzantium was in its pomp, perhaps the greatest city there has ever been upon the face of the earth. Millions jostle past us, each pursuing his own ends, and yet each, too, playing his part in the whole. Every one of them is connected in a thousand hidden ways with the others, making unseen and unimaginable patterns of action and influence all about us. And yet, were we to rise up from where we now stand, float above this scene of tremendous activity, and observe it from on high, it would resemble nothing so much as a bee’s nest. The thousands of comings and goings, which appear so random to us now, would be seen from afar to form the sort of intricate, rational patterns which one may observe in a hive of bees.’
‘It is certainly a busy scene,’ I remarked, smiling.
‘Indeed; save for two gentlemen standing idly upon the steps of the Royal Exchange!’ said he, consulting his watch. ‘This walk has been splendid exercise for the body,’ he continued in a brisk tone; ‘but my brain cries out for stimulation, Watson! Let us return now to Baker Street, and see if any of these busy bees has called to seek our services. It is possible, for we have been out for three hours. As I have frequently observed, there is nothing more likely to stimulate a client to call than to leave the house for a while!’
I laughed. ‘I am surprised at your embracing such an irrational and illogical precept, Holmes! In another, I should term it superstition!’
‘I cannot wonder at your regarding it in that light, Watson,’ said he with a chuckle. ‘But before you convict me of a woeful lapse from that strictly scientific mode of thought which I hold so dear, I would point out: a) that there is no logically valid method by which I can prompt a client to call, and thus any method, however illogical, is as good as any other; and b) that, in any case, as the old adage has it, life is greater than logic!’
When we reached Baker Street, a commissionaire from one of the nearby premises ran up to us.
‘Excuse me, gentlemen,’ said he. ‘You have a visitor, and a rum, fidgety cove, if ever I saw one. For twenty minutes he was a-walking forwards and backwards, backwards and forwards, on the pavement here. ‘Is this where Mr Holmes, the consulting detective, lives?’ says he to me. ‘It is,’ said I. ‘Would you like me to introduce you?’ But he shook his head. ‘No, thank you,’ says he. ‘I’ll just consider the matter a little longer.’ Then he was back to walking up and down as if his life depended on it, for another ten minutes afore he went in!’
‘Excellent!’ cried Holmes, rubbing his hands together. ‘A man with a problem, evidently! Let us hope it is a stimulating one!’
A young man stood up from the fireside chair as we entered our sitting-room. A clean-shaven, slightly built man of about thirty years of age, he was neatly dressed in a dark grey City suit. He introduced himself as Sidney Potter, and was, he said, a clerk at Lloyd’s.
‘Pray be seated,’ said Holmes, ‘and tell us what brings you here. You evidently regard the matter as important, to have taken the afternoon off, and come here direct from Lloyd’s. The ink upon your finger-ends tells me that you have been hard at work this morning.’
‘Indeed,’ said our visitor, looking in surprise at his ink-stained fingers. ‘I don’t know whether my little problem will be something in your line or not,’ he continued, ‘and, to be frank, I hesitated considerably before deciding to consult you; but I will give you the details of the matter and see if you can make anything of it.’
‘You have my full attention,’ said Holmes, leaning back in his chair, closing his eyes and placing his fingertips together.
‘I am a married man,’ Mr Potter began. ‘I have had a good berth in the City for twelve years now, and have lived in Lewisham since my marriage, seven years ago. My parents are both dead, I have no brothers or sisters, and my only close relative in recent years, other than my wife and small son, Horatio, has been my mother’s brother, Major Ullathorne, my uncle Henry. He was warned by his doctor some years ago that his heart was not strong, and he died, alas, eight weeks ago today, of a sudden heart seizure.
‘He had spent his entire career with the Royal Medway Regiment, and, after his retirement, lived in quiet seclusion near Woolwich, which is where the regiment has been stationed for many years. His house, a pretty little place known as “Juniper Cottage”, lies within easy walking distance of Woolwich, but is in a very rural situation, at the end of a long muddy track. He had only one near neighbour, an old friend of his, Major Loxley, a retired fellow-officer from the Medway Regiment, who writes cookery books under the name of ‘‘Major L.’’. I had visited my uncle many times, with my parents when I was younger, and, since my marriage, with my wife, and had always enjoyed the rural charm of the place. When his will was published, a few weeks after his death, I learnt that his entire estate had been left to me. There is a sum of money – not a great amount, but a pleasant surprise, nonetheless – a few little items of moderate value, and, principally, Juniper Cottage.
‘Now, my wife and I had been considering for some time whether we ought to move house. Lewisham has become much smokier since we first took up residence there, and Horatio suffers occasionally from croup. When I inherited Juniper Cottage, it therefore seemed a wonderful opportunity. It is a much healthier spot in which to bring up a child, and as all the trains from Woolwich pass through London Bridge station, my daily journey to work would be a very easy one. Mrs Potter and I discussed the matter fully, examining all the arguments for and against such a move, and, in the end, decided that we would do it. We therefore moved ourselves out there two weeks ago.
‘It is certainly a very pretty spot. The cottage is built on high ground, looking down from a distance upon Woolwich and the river, and at the back is a large garden, which faces south and has the sun upon it from dawn to dusk. The garden is beautifully kept, for Major Ullathorne was a very keen gardener. From the study, a pair of French windows leads directly on to this garden, and in the summer months he would generally leave these French windows standing open all day, so that the scents of the garden drifted into the house. We looked forward to following his example.
‘The house is at present still full of my uncle’s furniture and possessions, and it will be some time before we have sorted it all out. He was a very neat and methodical man, but he had acquired an enormous number of curios and trophies from his travels about the world, and parts of the cottage resemble a museum. For the moment, therefore, we have left most of our own furniture in our house in Lewisham, on which the rent is paid up for another two months.
‘I have described the cottage to you in some detail so that you will appreciate what an idyllic spot it is. However, from the moment we arrived there, there has seemed, also, something odd and mysterious about the place. On the
day we moved in, we found that a pane of glass in the kitchen window had been broken, and it was clear that someone had forced an entry and had been in the house. The papers in my uncle’s study had been rifled, and were in a state of considerable disarray. Daisy, my wife, is of a nervous disposition, and was very anxious at the thought that the intruder might return, but the local policeman, whom we sent for, thought it unlikely. ‘‘A house standing unoccupied for several weeks is too tempting a target for some roughs to ignore,’’ said he, ‘‘but now that you are in residence, I should not think they will trouble you again.’’ Daisy was reassured by this, and we put the matter behind us, and set about making the cottage feel like home.
‘Three days later, the evening brought high winds and a very heavy rainstorm, and we were sitting cosily by the fire, listening to the racket as the wind hurled sheets of rain against the window, and hoping that the tiles upon the roof were all sound, when, to our very great surprise, there came a sudden violent jangling at the front-door bell.
‘I hurried to open the door, and found a man of about my own age standing upon the step, dripping wet. He nodded his head to me, and as he did so a stream of water fell from the brim of his hat like a waterfall.
‘“Come in, come in!” I cried, hauling him into the house and closing the door against the driving rain. “Whatever are you doing out in this weather, and at this time of night!”
‘My wife hurried to fetch a towel, and as he was rubbing his face with it, he introduced himself as Jonathan Pleasant. He was a tall, strongly built man, with close-cropped ginger hair.
‘“Come to the sitting-room fire,” said I. “I am glad we are able to offer you shelter from the storm,” I added, thinking that he had lost his way in the dark, and had simply chanced upon our house. His response, however, quickly disabused me of that notion.
‘“Are you,” said he, “Mr Sidney Potter, nephew of the late Major Henry Ullathorne?”
The Mammoth Book of the New Chronicles of Sherlock Holmes Page 54