The Mammoth Book of the Lost Chronicles of Sherlock Holmes

by Denis O. Smith

  “As the months passed, I became more accustomed to Professor Palfreyman’s eccentric ways, although I never really got used to his talking to himself. Sometimes at night, I would hear him talking to himself in his bedroom, and I was never quite sure whether he was asleep or awake. One night, however, I had confirmation that the professor’s troubled mind was not confined to the hours of wakefulness. It came at the end of what had been an odd day, which had begun with a most curious incident. It may be of no significance – I cannot judge – but it sometimes seems to me that a slight decline in Professor Palfreyman’s competence and health dates from about that time. He and I were seated together at breakfast, one morning in the spring, when the maid brought in the post, which had just been delivered. There were a couple of tradesmen’s accounts and one expensive-looking long envelope.

  “‘I wonder what this can be?’ said the professor as he opened it and drew out the letter from within. Next moment, he let out a little cry of surprise. He held up the sheet and turned it over, and to my great surprise I saw that it was perfectly blank.

  “I laughed. ‘Someone has made a rather silly mistake,’ I said.

  “The professor did not reply, but looked again intently at the outside of the envelope.

  “‘Do you recognize the handwriting?’ I asked, as I saw his face assume a thoughtful expression. He did not respond to my question, but after a moment asked me if I knew what the date was.

  “I glanced at the calendar on the wall. ‘It is May the fourteenth,’ I said. At this an odd look came over his face, which contained something, I thought, of fear, and he sat without speaking for several minutes. ‘Perhaps there is a secret message on the sheet,’ I ventured at length in a jocular tone, as much to break the silence as because I thought it at all likely.

  “‘What do you mean?’ he asked.

  “‘I remember seeing in an Adventure Book for Girls which I read at school that spies and people of that sort send messages to each other in invisible ink.’ Afterwards, I regretted saying this, but what is done cannot be undone, and I wasn’t to know the effect it would have upon the professor. I had simply been trying to lighten the mood a little.

  “‘How could we read it if it’s invisible?’ the professor asked.

  “‘I understand that if you heat it the writing becomes visible,’ I said. I picked up the blank sheet, and, using the fire tongs from the coal scuttle, held it just in front of the blazing fire. At first nothing happened, then slowly something began to appear on the sheet. It wasn’t a message, however, but a drawing, a sketch of a human face. It was fairly crude, but I could see it was the face of a woman, with long hair and a broad smile. A strangled cry from behind me made me turn. The professor’s eyes were wide with fear.

  “‘What do you know of this?’ he demanded sharply.

  “‘Why, nothing,’ I cried in alarm. ‘What do you mean?’

  “A moment later, the spark of anger in his eyes had vanished. He sunk his head in his hands and remained motionless for several minutes. I turned back to the fire, to see that the flames had caught the bottom edge of the paper, and it was beginning to burn. Quickly, I tossed it onto the fire, and watched as the flames consumed that strange smiling face. Then I turned once more as I heard the professor stand up from the table.

  “‘Forgive me, Georgina, for speaking to you in that way,’ said he in a gentle tone. ‘I didn’t know what I was saying. Either someone has made a silly mistake, as you say, or someone is deliberately playing a trick upon me. In either case, let us say no more about it.’ He picked up the envelope from the table, tore it into several small pieces and threw them onto the fire, where they blazed up in an instant. He then began to speak to me about the architecture of ancient Sicily, which was something I had asked him about the previous day, and the incident of the letter was not mentioned again.

  “That night was very dark and overcast. I had been fast asleep, when I was abruptly awakened by a terrible cry. Scarcely knowing what I was doing, I struck a match and lit the candle beside my bed. It was, as I saw from my bedside clock, about quarter to four. The next moment came that terrible cry again, a cry of utter terror, and I knew then for certain that it was Professor Palfreyman. His bedroom is next to mine and the walls are not particularly thick. It was evident that he was having some kind of awful nightmare, and I sat up in bed, unsure what to do. Then I heard him cry again, ‘No!’ Then, after a slight pause, ‘Don’t look at it! For God’s sake, don’t look at the face!’ This was followed by a series of bangs and crashes, and I wondered if the professor had fallen out of bed. I flung on my dressing gown, picked up my candle and went to see what had happened.

  “My knock at his bedroom door brought no response, so I pushed the door open. Professor Palfreyman was sitting on the side of the bed in his night clothes, looking somewhat dazed, as if he were not fully awake. Before I could speak, he looked up and stared at my face with very great intensity, then emitted the most dreadful cry of fear that I have ever heard in my life, and put his hands up to cover his eyes.

  “‘Professor!’ I cried, taking a step forward. ‘Professor! It is I, Georgina! There is nothing to fear!’ I lowered my candle, so that it was not casting my face in a strange light, which I thought might have frightened him in his half-awake state. As I did so, he looked up and lowered his hands.

  “‘Georgina,’ he said. ‘Is it really you?’

  “I assured him that it was, at which a look of indescribable relief came over him. ‘I heard you cry out,’ I said. ‘Did you fall out of bed?’

  “‘I suppose I must have done,’ he replied. ‘I can’t really remember anything about it.’

  “I could see that he was embarrassed and ashamed of the whole episode, so I did not ask him any more about it. ‘I think,’ I said, ‘that you must have had a nightmare.’

  “He nodded his head, but insisted that, after a sip of water, he would be all right. I therefore returned to my own room, after lighting his candle from my own. Whether or not he managed to get back to sleep, I do not know, but I heard nothing further that night. I don’t know if Mrs Wheeler had heard much of this night-time commotion – she sleeps in the attic and is, besides, somewhat deaf – but her daughter, Beryl, certainly had. The next day I chanced to overhear her speaking to her mother about it and referring to the professor as ‘a madman’. I told her that she shouldn’t speak that way about Professor Palfreyman. ‘He has had rather a lot on his mind recently,’ I said, ‘and he simply had a bad nightmare, that is all. It could happen to anyone.’ She didn’t say much to this, but I think she resented being scolded by me, and it was not long after this that she ran off, as I mentioned earlier.

  “A few days later, when I was taking some books back to the university library for Professor Palfreyman, I mentioned his nightmare to Mr Martin, who was in the library, working on his thesis. I didn’t want to appear a gossipmonger, but I felt the need to speak to an educated person about it. I think I had thought that Tim might laugh it off and thus cheer me, but his response was surprisingly grave.

  “‘I am not sure it is entirely wise for you to stay with the old fellow any longer,’ said he, shaking his head.

  “‘Why, whatever do you mean, Tim?’ I returned. ‘Professor Palfreyman has been very kind and considerate to me. I could not simply walk out and leave him just because he had a bad nightmare!’

  “‘Of course, I understand that,’ said Mr Martin, ‘and I understand the gratitude you feel towards him. But,’ he added after a moment, ‘I still find it a little worrying, Georgina. You must know that when people start to lose their grip on reality it can be a very steep downward slope.’

  “I was shocked that he should say such a thing and protested vigorously. ‘You sound just like our housemaid,’ I said, and told him what Beryl had said.

  “He laughed. ‘I’m sorry if I’ve offended you, Georgina,’ said he, ‘but I’m just speaking my mind. How would I feel, do you imagine, if I simply said something to soothe your
nerves and told you that there was nothing to worry about, and then heard later that something terrible had happened and you were hurt? I should never forgive myself! It is always better to err on the side of caution, Georgina, even if it means offending someone.’

  “‘You don’t know the professor at all if you think he might do anything which would hurt me!’ I retorted, annoyed by his response. ‘Why, the professor is the very last person on earth who would ever do anything of the sort! He is the kindest, gentlest man I have ever known, and is, I fear, much more likely to cause harm to himself than to another!’

  “‘No doubt. But I am only thinking of you, Georgina. You cannot always be taking on other people’s problems; sometimes you have to think of yourself. And don’t forget that most people who have ended up being described as “mad” didn’t start off that way. Rather, they slipped by tiny, imperceptible steps away from normality. So, for all we know, may it be with Professor Palfreyman. He has been a very great scholar in his day and everyone has admired him. He has also been very kind to you. But that does not mean that there cannot ever be anything wrong with him. Come away from there, Georgina, if not for my sake, then for your own safety and peace of mind. Leave Bluebell Cottage.’

  “By this time, I was so annoyed that I flatly refused to listen to any more such remarks, and we left it at that. As I travelled home on the train later that afternoon, however, Mr Martin’s words came back to me, rattling around in my head, and I found that I could not dismiss them so easily then as I had done earlier in the day. What the future might bring, I could not say, but I determined there and then that I would try my best to remain hopeful and cheery, and that if anyone were gloomy or downcast, it would not be because of me.”

  Miss Calloway paused and sipped her tea in silence for a few moments, a thoughtful expression on her face.

  “Some weeks passed, the bright spring turned into a fine summer, and our existence at Bluebell Cottage settled down once more into a peaceful and placid routine. Professor Palfreyman worked on his manuscripts most days and, once I had attended to the routine work of the household, I assisted him in keeping his papers in order, and also proceeded slowly in identifying and cataloguing his archaeological and artistic specimens. I was also able to indulge my own interest in botany by making sketches of the many wild flowers that grow in the woods behind the house. Sometimes the professor accompanied me and made sketches of his own. He is quite an accomplished artist. One of the books he is working on is an account for younger readers of daily life in Ancient Greece, which he hopes to illustrate with simple drawings of his own. He asked me if I would mind posing with a small amphora on my shoulder, so that he could make a naturalistic sketch of it, which of course I didn’t, and he subsequently made numerous other drawings of me in a variety of interesting poses, so one day I may be immortalized in an illustrated book!

  “During this period, the professor’s academic colleagues continued to drop in to see us from time to time, and in August we had Professor Schultz of Berlin University to stay for two weeks. During the summer vacation, Mr Martin came more frequently, too. Sometimes he would help me in attempting to bring order to the chaos of the professor’s possessions, and sometimes, if the weather was fine, we would go for walks through the nearby countryside. Of course, throughout this period, Professor Palfreyman continued to talk to himself, but in a subdued, amiably eccentric sort of way, and I never once heard him sound alarmed or angry. Sometimes, too, I heard him talking in his sleep, but there was no repeat of what had occurred that night in the spring, and if he suffered any nightmares, he kept the fact to himself. A new problem now arose, however, concerning the professor’s memory, which had become a little unreliable. Sometimes, he would put something down somewhere and then forget where he had put it, and I would have to search round the house to find it for him. Generally, I was successful, but on one particular occasion I was not, although my failure led to the professor’s making an interestingly philosophical admission. The object in question was an ancient Phoenician terracotta oil lamp, which had in the past stood on a low shelf at the side of the study, although it had often been buried under mounds of loose papers and other things. On the day the professor happened to miss it, I searched high and low for it, but in vain. Eventually, although I was reluctant to blame Beryl as she was no longer there to defend herself, I suggested that she had perhaps knocked it off the shelf and broken it some weeks previously, while dusting, and, afraid of admitting what she had done, had simply hidden the pieces somewhere. Professor Palfreyman did not seem very convinced by this explanation at first, but at length he conceded that it might be correct.

  “‘Although Mrs Wheeler is a charming and warm-hearted lady,’ said he in a low voice, closing the study door so that we should not be overheard, ‘her children, I regret to say, do not take after her, but rather follow her late husband, who was something of a bad lot.’

  “‘Children?’ I repeated. ‘Do you mean to say there are more than just Beryl?’

  “The professor nodded his head. ‘Mrs Wheeler also has a son, Sidney. His father was often in trouble with the police, and Sidney has followed his father closely in that respect, causing his mother considerable anxiety and unhappiness. He came to visit her here once, and although I tried to be welcoming, I found him rude, charmless and unpleasant. It turned out, anyway, that the only reason he had come here was to try to get some money from his mother, to help him escape from the police, who had a warrant out for his arrest. Where he is now and what he is doing, I have no idea. Anyway,’ he continued with a shake of the head, ‘with regard to the Phoenician lamp, I felt sure I had seen it since Beryl left us, but I suppose I must now accept that my memory is not as good as it used to be. Ah, well!’ he added in a philosophical tone. ‘Perhaps it will turn up again, some time in the future. Then again, perhaps it won’t! Life is too short, Georgina, to waste it in fretting about inanimate objects, however much one might feel attached to them!’ This remark, I felt, rather typified the professor’s new attitude: a reluctant acceptance of his slightly declining powers, and a sort of resolute determination to make the most of what remained. All in all, then, I think I could be forgiven for believing that the troubled times were behind us and that our future prospects were in the main only happy ones. Alas! Our troubles, like some foul beast of mythology, were not dead, but simply sleeping, and about to burst upon us anew.

  “The summer had passed and autumn was well advanced when, one day, the morning post brought a small package for Professor Palfreyman as we were seated at the breakfast table. This was just two or three weeks ago, in the middle of October.

  “‘It is probably one of those Etruscan specimens I have been after for a while,’ said he in an enthusiastic tone as he cut the string and unwrapped the parcel. ‘Let us see!’

  “Within the brown paper was a stout cardboard box, and within the box was loose straw and similar packaging material. Professor Palfreyman thrust his hand into this and withdrew a wide, flat object, wrapped in tissue paper, which I thought might be a tile of some kind. He laid it on the table, and I stood up and came round behind his chair to get a better look at it. As he unwrapped the tissue paper, I saw that it was indeed a glazed tile, about four or five inches square. In colour, it was a creamy-white, and on it, in shallow relief, was depicted a most beautiful smiling female face.

  “‘Oh, how lovely!’ I cried aloud, but even as I did so, I knew that something was wrong. With a strange, inarticulate cry, Professor Palfreyman pushed his chair back from the table and staggered to his feet. For a moment he stood there, swaying unsteadily, his eyes staring wildly, his mouth agape, then, abruptly, he pitched forward senseless upon the breakfast table. I called Mrs Wheeler, and between us we managed to lay the professor on the hearthrug, with a blanket over him and a cushion under his head. Mrs Wheeler brought in some fresh strong coffee a few minutes later, and when he stirred, I got him to take a sip. Presently he sat up, but as he did so, he groaned and clutched his head. />
  “‘Oh, my head!’ said he. ‘What happened?’

  “Then, as he remembered, a grim expression came over his face. He stood up unsteadily, then, without another word, picked the tile up from the table and walked out of the house with it. A few moments later, I heard a noise outside, and when I looked out I saw that he had taken a hammer from the tool shed and, with a series of violent blows, was smashing the tile up on the ground. He then picked up all the broken pieces, placed them in a small pail, and carried them off down the back garden and into the woods. When he returned to the house ten minutes later, he made no reference to what had happened. He simply asked me if I would be so good as to clear the debris from the breakfast table, then disappeared into his study to work on his manuscript.”

  “One moment,” said Holmes, holding his hand up to interrupt Miss Calloway’s narrative. “When you cleared away the wrapping paper and other materials that had enclosed the tile, did you observe where it had come from, or where it had been posted?”

  Miss Calloway shook her head. “It was the first thing that occurred to me,” she replied, “but there was no label or other identifying mark anywhere on the package. The postmark was smudged, and all I could see of that was that it had been posted somewhere in London. I also went most carefully through the packing materials, to see if there was a note anywhere in it that we had missed, but there was not.”

  “What became of this material?”

  “I burnt it all in the incinerator in the garden.”

  “Very well. Pray continue with your account.”

  “The professor has never referred to this incident since, and there is something in his manner that has prevented my asking him about it. Of course, I have often thought about it and wondered what it might mean, but could make nothing of it. But that it had had a profound effect upon the professor I could not doubt. The following day, I carried some papers into his study and found that he was not at his desk as usual, but had pulled out an old tin trunk from under a chest of drawers and was rooting around in it. Presently, he found what he was looking for and held it up, and I saw that it was a very small revolver. I was aware that he possessed such a weapon, for he had often told me how some of his archaeological expeditions in years gone by had taken him into wild and dangerous places, in which possession of a pistol might be the difference between life and death, but I had never seen it before. He then spent the next hour cleaning and oiling this revolver and, having found an old box of cartridges, spent half the afternoon in target practice at the bottom of the garden. When I went out to ask him what he was doing, he answered me in a grave tone.