The Mammoth Book of the New Chronicles of Sherlock Holmes

by Denis O. Smith

  ‘I have my suspicions,’ said he.

  ‘Of what?’ I queried as he paused.

  ‘I suspect,’ he continued after a moment, ‘that in some profound way, which our limited intellects cannot fully grasp, Democritus and Heraclitus are both correct.’

  ‘Oh?’ said I, surprised by this digression in his thoughts from the business that had brought us out to Woolwich.

  ‘Yes,’ said he. ‘Watson!’ he added abruptly, in a more urgent tone, nodding his head in the direction of the down platform.

  The train there was drawing out of the station, and we could now see the passengers clearly, making their way along the platform. I followed my companion’s gaze, and descried a tall man, wearing a heavy overcoat with the collar turned up, and with a soft hat pulled down over his brow. His shoulders were hunched, and he hurried along the platform, as if anxious not to be observed or recognised. At the last moment, however, as he was leaving the platform, he turned his head slightly, and I saw, to my very great surprise, that it was the commanding officer of the Royal Medway Regiment, Colonel Headley.

  ‘Now, what do you suppose that Colonel Headley has been doing up in London?’ said Holmes. ‘And why is he trying so hard to avoid being seen?’

  ‘I seem to recall,’ I remarked, ‘that when we saw him earlier, he said that he was paying a call on some local officer.’

  ‘So he did,’ agreed Holmes, nodding his head in a thoughtful way.

  _______

  The following day was cloudy and dull, and darkness was falling by the time we reached Lewisham station. After a short wait, we were joined by Mr Potter, and caught the next train out to Woolwich, by which time the night was pitch black. We walked briskly up from the town, meeting no one on our way, until we reached the long, quiet lane which led up to Juniper Cottage. Some distance along a road to our right a light indicated the position of the Rose and Crown, but all else was utter blackness.

  ‘There are no lamps up here,’ remarked Holmes, ‘which suits our purposes admirably; for it is vital that we are not seen. Come! We must not speak again until we are safely in the cottage garden!’

  A long, slow walk up the deeply rutted track brought us at length to the garden gate, where Holmes paused a moment, listening intently for the sound of any movement, before passing through and following the path round the side of the house to the rear garden. In a few moments we were in position, crouching among a clump of laurel bushes at the side of the garden, close by the orchard.

  ‘From here we should be able to see anyone who comes,’ whispered Holmes. ‘Now we have only to wait.’

  And a long, cold wait it was, too. Faintly, I could hear a distant church clock strike the half-hours, and each time it struck, the temperature in the garden seemed to have dropped another degree. Holmes had brought with him a small flask of brandy, which he passed to us, and its warmth has never felt so welcome to me as on that icy night. From the hiding-place in which we crouched, like hunters of heavy game awaiting the arrival of some mighty and ferocious beast, we had the whole of the back of the house in view. Holmes’s opinion was that the French windows of the study presented the most likely point of entry for a burglar; but had an attempt been made to break in at any other part of the house, there is no doubt we should have heard it clearly, for, save the occasional hoot of an owl, the night was utterly silent and still.

  The church clock had struck ten, and I was straining my ears to catch any sound from the lane, when I was startled as Holmes plucked suddenly at my sleeve. I stiffened, all my senses alert. His keen hearing had evidently detected a sound I had missed, and I waited tensely to see what would happen next.

  What happened was so utterly unforeseen that I almost cried aloud in surprise. I was leaning forward slightly, to detect any sign of movement along the path at the side of the house, when there came all at once a rustling noise from the bushes behind me. I bit my lip to stifle a gasp. So concentrated had my thoughts been upon listening for sounds from the lane, that it had never occurred to me that an intruder might take a more circuitous route to the cottage, by the open land to the south. I held myself perfectly still, scarcely daring even to breathe, lest that slight movement give away our presence. After a moment, the sound came again, a little closer. It crossed my mind that it might be a fox, then, before I knew it, I could feel the movement as well as hear it, and could hear also heavy breathing. I was standing slightly to the right of my two companions, and someone, or something, was approaching immediately behind my right shoulder. Then, so close that his coat brushed my sleeve as he passed, a dark, burly figure in a long coat pushed through the bushes, stepped on to the lawn and made his way to the back of the house.

  There he bent to the lock of the French windows, and a slight, metallic, scraping noise came to my ears. Clearly, he was trying to force the lock with a knife or similar implement. After a moment, Holmes plucked my sleeve once more and stepped out upon the lawn. Silently, and with great caution, the three of us approached the stooping, intent figure, then, at a signal from Holmes we made a sudden dash and flung ourselves upon him. With a desperate wail of fear, he fell to the ground in a heap, and the knife tumbled from his hand and clattered on to the flagstones below.

  Quickly Holmes lit a lantern, as Potter and I held our quarry in a firm grip. Then he held the lantern up to the intruder’s face, and I gasped in surprise. For the mysterious nocturnal visitor was none other than Mr Potter’s neighbour, Major Loxley.

  ‘I think you had best explain yourself,’ said Holmes in a severe tone. ‘Have you the key to these windows, Mr Potter?’

  Potter found the key, and in a minute we were in the study of the cottage, with all the lamps lit. Major Loxley sat slumped in a chair, his head in his hands, moaning softly to himself, like a man in the last reaches of despair.

  ‘Well, Major,’ said Potter at length. ‘We await your explanation! What is the meaning of this?’

  ‘The meaning,’ returned Loxley in a broken voice, ‘is that I am ruined!’

  ‘Come, come,’ said Holmes. ‘You were a good friend and neighbour of Major Ullathorne’s. Though your present behaviour is astounding, I am sure there must be some explanation for it, and perhaps, if that explanation is good enough, Mr Potter can be persuaded not to press charges.’

  ‘You do not understand,’ said Loxley, looking up. ‘Any charges that Potter might bring against me are as nothing, and I would face them without concern. But to explain my actions I must reveal my shame.’

  ‘We must have an explanation,’ insisted Holmes.

  ‘Very well,’ said Loxley after a moment. ‘It can make little difference now. You perhaps know something of the history of the Royal Medway Regiment? Few regiments have had a more honoured history. We were represented with distinction in the Peninsular Campaign, at Waterloo, in the Crimea, India and elsewhere. In recent years, however, the regiment has been on home duties, at Chatham and Dover, and here at Woolwich, to where the regimental headquarters was moved some years ago. During this time, a terrible change has come over the regiment. It may not be apparent to outside observers, but it is clear enough to those who know it from within, and who knew it in its better days. It is as if a corruption has entered into the body of the regiment, and once in, can neither be driven out nor destroyed, but must inevitably spread, in the end, to all parts. My opinion as to the origins and cause of this has varied over the years. There have been times when I have felt that the blame lay entirely with one man, or one small group of men, the few rotten apples in the barrel, which inevitably corrupt the rest; at other times it has seemed to me as if a general malaise has swept over the whole regiment, like the visitation of a plague.

  ‘I will not trouble you with the details. It is enough to tell you that colossal amounts of public money have found their way into private pockets, and that the regiment’s guard duties at the Royal Arsenal and the Royal Dockyards have provided ample opportunities for personal enrichment for those who sought it, from petty pilfering
and the unauthorised sale of public property, to frauds on a scale so massive and audacious that you would scarcely believe them possible.

  ‘A few years ago I was offered something by someone I knew. It was only a trifle, and seemed unimportant. In my own defence I will say that I did not fully understand at the time that I was accepting stolen property, although I think I knew in my heart that the transaction was not an entirely honest one. But having thus accepted a part of this corrupt bounty, I subsequently found it much more difficult to resist the persuasive pressures which were put upon me to play a part in various fraudulent schemes. Thus, little by little, I slipped into the mire of dishonesty.

  ‘At length, the few remaining honest men in the regiment began to see what was taking place about them, although it had been concealed with diabolical cunning. Your uncle and I had both been retired some years by this time, Mr Potter. Late last year, he was secretly approached, as a man of outstanding character, and asked to conduct a discreet investigation into the matter, as he subsequently confided to me in the strictest confidence. No one could be certain who, among the present strength of the regiment, could be trusted and who could not, which is why they had turned, in desperation, to Major Ullathorne. As an honoured former officer of the regiment he was welcome wherever the Royal Medway was represented, and could freely go anywhere, and see anything. His brief was, by conversations and discreet enquiries, to discover, if he could, the heart of the corruption which had infected the regiment. All this, I say, he confided to me, never suspecting for a minute that I myself had been touched by the tainted finger of corruption.

  ‘I was prepared for the worst. Had Ullathorne lit upon any fact which implicated me in any way I should have accepted whatever fate had in store for me. In the meantime I kept my shameful secret locked in my breast, and feigned ignorance whenever he spoke to me of the corruption he was uncovering.

  ‘Unfortunately, discreet as Ullathorne was in his enquiries, his enemies got wind of what was afoot. The first I knew of it was when they approached me, and asked me to find out what he had discovered. I told them I knew nothing, but they were not satisfied, and told me that, unless I helped them, my own part in the shameful business would be exposed to public view. I knew that this was no idle threat, and gave them a small amount of the information which I had gleaned from my conversations with Ullathorne. One thing I did know – which I told them, as I did not believe it would be of any use to them – was that Major Ullathorne had had a safe fitted, late last year, in order to keep secure the documents relating to his investigation. Until you showed it to me yesterday, I had absolutely no idea where the safe was situated and had made no attempt whatever to discover it, deeming it better for me, under the circumstances, to remain in ignorance. What I did not know, I could not be forced to reveal to another. I did have one other piece of information concerning the safe, however. Ullathorne had informed me one evening that the lock was of the combination type, and that the key to the combination was hidden in a book.’

  ‘J. Hardiman Smallbone’s copy of the Old Testament,’ interjected Holmes.

  ‘Precisely, Mr Holmes. I told Ullathorne that it didn’t sound a very secure hiding-place. “Why, anyone might find it there!” I said. He laughed at this, and pointed out that the book was a big one. “As you may be aware, Loxley,” said he, “the Old Testament contains thirty-nine books, nine hundred and twenty-nine chapters, and nearly six hundred thousand words. They made me learn that at school! My enemies wouldn’t know where to begin their search! Patience – a great deal of it – would be the chief requirement, and that is something they do not possess!” The thought of this appeared to amuse him greatly, and he laughed for several minutes.’

  ‘You gave this information to your villainous colleagues, presumably,’ said Holmes.

  ‘I did,’ replied Loxley, hanging his head. ‘I thought it would be of no use to them, as neither they nor I knew the whereabouts of the safe.’

  ‘So they sent Jonathan Pleasant here to try to find the safe and its secret combination. When he was unsuccessful, in both respects, they told you to persuade Mr Potter to sell Smallbone’s book to the dealer, Vidler, whom they had presumably bribed to make him do as they wished.’

  Loxley nodded his head in silent acknowledgement of these charges.

  ‘Who is this man, Pleasant?’ asked Holmes.

  ‘A member of the conspiracy,’ Loxley replied, ‘no doubt chosen for the task on account of his persuasive manner of speech. In himself, he is unimportant, merely one of the small fry that are always to be found swimming alongside the great sharks.’

  ‘Hum!’ said Holmes. ‘Let us take another look at the book.’ He took the old volume from the shelf, and turned the pages over for several minutes. ‘I can find no marks upon the pages,’ said he at length. ‘Did Major Ullathorne have a favourite chapter, or verse, Major Loxley?’

  ‘Not that I can recall,’ returned the other.

  ‘Nor I,’ said Potter.

  ‘We could try the letters “J.H.S.”, the initials of the original owner,’ I suggested.

  ‘What a good idea!’ cried Potter. ‘That may indeed be the answer!’

  ‘Let us try it, then,’ said Holmes. In a moment he had rolled back the rug and lifted up the hinged floorboard. Then, lying full length upon the floor, he carefully turned the dials on the safe door. I watched with keen anticipation as he gripped the handle and applied pressure, but there came at once an expression of disappointment upon his features, which dashed my hopes. He then tried the same letters in the reverse order, but fared no better. For some time, then, he lay upon the floor in silent thought, until, all at once, with a little cry, he raised himself up on his elbow, and turned his attention once more to the lettered dials.

  ‘What is it?’ I queried.

  ‘An odd little idea that has occurred to me,’ replied he. ‘It may be as useless as the others. Let us see!’

  In perfect silence, we watched as he applied pressure once more to the handle of the safe. Without a sound, and with no apparent resistance, it turned smoothly through ninety degrees. Then he pulled it gently upwards, and the safe door opened smoothly and noiselessly until it stood upright from the floor. With a little cry of triumph, he reached his hand into the recess and withdrew two long, bulky-looking manila envelopes.

  ‘Hurrah!’ cried Potter. ‘Well done, Mr Holmes!’

  ‘What was the combination, and how on earth did you discover it?’ I asked.

  ‘The letters are “J.O.B.”,’ replied Holmes. ‘The Book of Job is the only one of the books in the Old Testament whose title consists of just three letters; and Job, if you recall, was noted for his patience, a quality to which Major Ullathorne had drawn particular attention.’

  ‘Of course!’ I cried. ‘How obvious!’

  ‘Everything is obvi ous when once it has been explained to you,’ returned Holmes, a trace of asperity in his voice. ‘There is nothing else in the safe,’ he continued, ‘so we must take it that these two envelopes contain all the information and evidence that Major Ullathorne had managed to gather on the regimental corruption before his untimely death.’

  ‘We must place them in the hands of the authorities without delay,’ said Potter.

  ‘You will do no such thing,’ said a voice behind us, in a harsh, icy tone. ‘Hand me those envelopes at once.’

  A cold, creeping sensation seemed to pass up the back of my neck, as I turned my head. There in the open French window stood a tall, strongly built man. He wore a long, heavy brown coat, the collar of which was turned up high, and a soft, broad-brimmed brown hat, pulled low over his brow. But his face was what drew my attention, or, rather, his lack of face, for it was completely covered by an oblong of black silk, in which slits had been cut for his eyes. In his black-gloved hand was a revolver, pointed directly at Sherlock Holmes. How long he had been standing there, I had no idea, but it was clear that he had witnessed the opening of the safe. For a long moment no one moved or spoke.
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br />   ‘Hand over the envelopes,’ he repeated, ‘or I fire the gun.’

  ‘I know who you are!’ cried Major Loxley suddenly, in a loud, angry voice. ‘The fountain-head from which all abominations flow! That mask doesn’t hide you from me!’

  ‘I’d have thought you’d have enough sense to keep your mouth shut!’ returned the other in a menacing tone.

  ‘I’ve kept my mouth shut for too long already!’ cried Loxley. ‘I should have exposed you years ago! You poisoned my life, as you poisoned the lives of everyone you came in contact with.’

  ‘Be quiet, you old fool,’ cried the intruder in an angry tone, ‘or you’ll end up like your interfering friend, Ullathorne!’

  ‘What! You killed him!’

  ‘No, I didn’t. How was I to know the feeble old fool would have a seizure as my men were asking him a few questions. You!’ the intruder continued in a louder tone, turning to Holmes: ‘Mr Busybody Holmes! Hand over those envelopes now, or you’re a dead man! I’ll give you five seconds!’

  ‘You villain!’ cried Major Loxley, rising to his feet.

  ‘Get back, you fool!’ cried the intruder, turning the pistol upon the major. ‘Get back!’

  For a split second, Loxley hesitated, then, with an inarticulate cry, he flung himself at the intruder. The pistol cracked, and a spurt of blood showed near the major’s collar, as he reeled round with a groan and fell heavily to the floor. In that same instant, and before the intruder could recover from the major’s assault, Holmes had sprung across the room like a cat, and seized hold of him. In a second, the two of them had crashed and tumbled out of the French window and into the garden. Potter and I sprang up at once and raced after them.

  It was evident that Holmes’s adversary was an immensely powerful man. Over and over they tumbled across the muddy lawn, their struggle illuminated by the weak yellow lamp-light from the study. Potter dived in to lend his assistance, but the outcome of the struggle was still not clear. But I had seen as I dashed from the study that the intruder’s pistol had fallen from his grasp and lay in the flower-bed by the window. Quickly I snatched it up, and, with a shout, clapped it hard to his temple, and he lay still.