There are other moments, too, dark, terrible moments, which need no bidding to emerge from the mysterious shaded recesses of memory, but which appear periodically of their own volition, for no apparent reason, often in the long drowsy watches of the night. The result is always the same: a sickening, jarring sensation, a frightening jolt to the mind, and in an instant one is fully awake and living again through that dreadful moment, the blood throbbing in one’s veins, the beads of perspiration breaking out upon one’s brow. It was a moment of this latter type that followed Mr Harte’s friendly wave to the men on the trap. I cannot count the many times the scene has been replayed upon the stage of my memory, where each second of time occupies a minute, and each minute seems an eternity.
The echo of Mr Harte’s greeting still hung in the air as the driver of the trap reined in his horse and drew it to a halt just in front of us. The man to the right of the driver seemed to grunt a response to the greeting and, as he did so, he drew back with his left hand the front of his overcoat, which was unfastened, and with his right brought out a heavy shotgun, which had been concealed beneath the coat, and began to raise it towards us. Mesmerized though I was by the strange, silent elevation of the deadly muzzle, I was conscious too of other movement, from Holmes on my right and Kraus’s son on my left. Then, as the shotgun reached the horizontal and pointed straight at us, my eyes for an instant met those of the man holding it, and I read there his evil, remorseless intent, even as his finger tightened on the trigger. The girl beside me was gripping my right arm so tightly that I could not move it. Then came a flash of fire from either side of me, and the simultaneous reports of two pistols. The man holding the shotgun let out a blood-curdling cry as the two shots struck home, I saw blood spring from his breast as he reeled over backwards, and as he did so, the gun in his hand discharged with a flash like lightning and a roar like thunder, and the deadly shot passed mere inches above our heads. Frau Kraus screamed, the horse in the shafts reared up in terror, and the young girl beside me slumped senseless upon my arm. Even as all these things were happening, the driver of the trap had dropped the reins and pulled out a large revolver from within his coat. Again, two shots rang out in unison from beside me, and the man on the trap pitched sideways from his seat and fell in a heap to the ground.
Holmes stepped forward quickly and seized the reins, as the horse whinnied and made to bolt, his eyes bulging with fear. I carried the young girl to the side of the road and laid her down on a grassy bank, then quickly examined the two strangers who had come with such murderous intent into our lives. They were both dead.
I looked round. The sound of the explosions was still ringing in my ears, and the air was thick with smoke and the smell of gunpowder. Rhodes Harte was standing in perfect stillness in the middle of the road, as if stunned into senselessness by the terrible rapidity of the events. “But, Mr Bradbury . . .” he began in a tone of stupefaction. “I thought . . .”
“It was almost certainly he you saw hiding in the garden of Owl’s Hill yesterday,” said Holmes. “He was no machinery salesman, but must in reality have been the advance scout for the assassination party. No doubt he wired his confederates with the information this morning. They would have killed us all without a thought, Mr Harte. Here,” he continued, thrusting his pistol back into his pocket, “help me turn the trap round and get the other man aboard. We have no time to lose!”
We passed no one on the road through the village, and reached the railway station with just a few minutes to spare. There, Kraus was momentarily nonplussed when he learnt that the last train was headed east, towards the Colchester line, and he would not be able to reach Cambridge that night.
“We can get from Colchester up to Ipswich, at least,” cried Harte. “You must come with me and stay the night at my house, Herr Kraus. You can make your way over to Cambridge on the other line, via Bury St Edmunds, tomorrow morning.”
Kraus seemed reluctant to impose upon the solicitor’s generosity, but his wife assured him that it was the only sensible thing to do, and he at length agreed. Harte then quickly sent a wire to his wife, instructing her to expect visitors, and as he rejoined us on the platform, the last train of the day drew noisily into the station of Little Gissingham.
Herr Kraus, his wife and son, Rhodes Harte and Emily Jane were quickly aboard, and the doors were slammed shut. Then, with a roar of steam and smoke, the train pulled away, quickly picked up speed and vanished into the darkness. For a few moments, Holmes and I stood there in silence, watching the red lamp on the last carriage until it had vanished round the curve, then we made our way out to the station yard.
“It is a terrible business,” remarked my friend, shaking his head as he regarded the two lifeless figures lying in the back of the trap. “Our only consolation can be that were it not they lying there, Watson, then it would be you and I. Come! Let us find the local constable and see if we can begin to explain how it is that two professional gentlemen from London are wandering the countryside with a cart containing dead men. It may prove somewhat difficult, especially as we have quite improperly permitted most of the witnesses to depart the scene, but we must do our best.”
The inquest upon the two dead men was held ten days later, at which, after much testimony had been heard, the verdict was recorded that they had been killed in self-defence. As to Herr Kraus and his family, I understand that they stayed only a short time in Cambridge, before moving once more, but I have little further information. I do recall that it was five years after the events I have described above that Adolf Kraus’s famous book, The Spirit of Man in World Literature, was published to great acclaim, but where he and his family were living then I cannot say, for they had by that time passed quite beyond my knowledge.
The Adventure of
THE AMETHYST RING
SHERLOCK HOLMES had called at my house in Paddington on a cold and foggy day in January, just as I was finishing my morning surgery. Now, my last patient having departed, he handed me a visiting card he had received in the post that morning. It had scalloped edges, tinted a pale coral-pink, and the brief message upon it stated that Mr and Mrs A. Carter-Smythe would be giving an informal supper party on the evening of the twenty-fifth, to which Holmes was invited.
“I have not heard you mention these people before,” I remarked, looking up from the card.
“That is scarcely surprising,” returned my friend, “considering that I was perfectly unaware of their existence until that card arrived this morning. They have evidently heard or seen my name somewhere, and consider that my presence at their gathering would provide an amusing diversion for their other guests.”
“Will you go?” I asked.
“It is not my taste to act as an adornment at someone else’s supper table,” said he with a shake of the head. “I may say, Watson,” he continued in a tone of reproach, “that there has been a distinct increase in the number of such unwelcome social summonses since the publication of your Study in Scarlet brought my name before the public.”
“I regret any inconvenience I may have caused you,” I responded somewhat tartly. “My intention was simply to gain for you the credit I felt you deserved in the matter.”
“No doubt,” said he. “No doubt also,” he continued after a moment, “Mr and Mrs A. Carter-Smythe would be surprised if they knew where I have spent the last twenty-four hours. They might be somewhat less keen to welcome me to their supper party if they were aware of the company I have been keeping. I have been down in Rotherhithe,” he continued in answer to my query, “by the docks. I have been looking into the disappearance of one Jack Prentice, landlord of The Seven Stars, an old riverside inn there.”
“That does not sound much of a case for you, professionally speaking,” I remarked with a chuckle. “Why, the number of men who supposedly ‘disappear’ in London each year is perfectly phenomenal! I read an article on the subject in one of the monthly magazines not long ago. The author was a retired police officer, who stated that of the many hundr
eds of people reported as ‘missing’ each year, a sizeable number simply disappear of their own volition, to escape from pressing debts, unbearable spouses and the like.”
Holmes nodded. “I am aware of those facts,” said he, “but there is something about this case that intrigues me, Watson. It possesses certain features that are decidedly uncommon. In contrast to the examples you quote, for instance, it seems that Prentice has managed his life in a very orderly manner in recent years and does not owe anyone a penny; furthermore, his marriage is, by all accounts, an unusually happy one. Everyone I have spoken to avers that he would do anything rather than cause his wife distress. But why, then, did he leave his house in the middle of a rainy night, without a word to his wife? Where did he go to? Why did he take a candlestick with him? And what is the meaning of the mysterious sheet of symbols he left behind? I can give you the details if you wish. As a matter of fact, it is this case that has brought me to see you. I was rather hoping that you might be able to accompany me to Rotherhithe. There is something I wish to investigate further there, and your presence would be of great assistance to me.”
I glanced at the clock on the wall. “Some of the shops have announced end-of-season sales this week,” I said, “and I did promise my wife that I would take her today.”
“Oh, well,” said my friend in a tone of disappointment. “If you can’t come with me, I shall just have to manage alone.”
“Wait one moment,” I said as he made to stand up. I ran upstairs to speak to my wife, but was back again in a couple of minutes. “It is all arranged,” I said. “She will go with Dora, my neighbour’s wife, instead. To be honest,” I continued as I put on my hat and coat, “I think she would prefer to go with Dora. It may sound highly companionable to attend such events with one’s spouse, but it is probably a more enjoyable experience if one’s companion fully shares one’s enthusiasm for it. Speaking personally, I am somewhat more interested in learning about the disappearance of Jack Prentice!”
“I can give you all the details as we travel,” said Holmes. “It won’t take us long to get to Rotherhithe. We can get a Metropolitan train here at Paddington, which will take us all the way there. If only all my clients were so conveniently situated!”
Ten minutes later, we were seated in the corner of a first-class carriage, rattling along beneath the Marylebone Road, and my friend was explaining to me what it was about this unpromising-sounding case that he had found so intriguing.
“I might mention,” said he, “that the authorities are taking more than simply a passing interest in the matter. This is chiefly on account of the missing man’s former activities; for in years gone by he was frequently suspected of being involved in the disposal of stolen goods. Indeed, he served a sentence of two years in Pentonville Prison for such a crime, in the mid-’70s, although his conduct since then has been exemplary. But,” he continued, taking a small notebook from his pocket, “I shall give you the facts in order:
“Prentice was born in Rotherhithe in 1843,” he continued after a moment, turning the pages of his notebook, “so he’s in his mid-forties now. As a young man, he took to the sea, and spent some years sailing between England and Australia. After a while, however, he tired of these long voyages and transferred his services as a crewman to the countless number of smaller vessels plying between England and the Continent. This decision was perhaps influenced by the fact that he had, in 1866, married a local girl, Ann Cooke. For the next eight years or so he worked on these relatively short voyages to all the many ports of the European mainland. During this period, two children were born to the Prentices, a boy, William, in ’67, and a girl, Lily, in ’68.
“On the surface, then, Jack Prentice’s life appeared straightforward, law-abiding and above board. However, the police authorities in Rotherhithe began to suspect that there was a little more to it than there appeared to be. There had at that time been a spate of burglaries in the West End, and the police were concerned that very few of the stolen items – jewellery and so on – were turning up again. Although the police were not, it must be said, very successful at solving any of these crimes, their record of eventually recovering the stolen property was reasonably good, thanks mainly to a network of paid informers, but also to their own dogged persistence. Now, however, they were finding that the proportion of stolen goods that they were able to recover was much lower than it had been previously. Rumours reached them that much of this plunder was being smuggled abroad, where it would, of course, be much easier to dispose of. A sort of indirect confirmation of this theory was received when some jewellery turned up in London which subsequent investigation showed had been stolen in Paris two months earlier.
“Having had their attention drawn to this illicit cross-Channel trade, the police soon found their suspicions converging upon some of the criminal elements in Rotherhithe and, in particular, upon a notorious villain by the name of Elias Dack, who ran an old inn there called The Cocked Hat. Have you ever heard anything of Dack, Watson?”
“Never.”
“Well, that is perhaps not so surprising, for he has little to do with honest citizens. But in that part of south-east London where his gang holds sway, his name is a byword for cruelty and violence, and strikes instant fear into the breast of anyone that hears it. From his lair at The Cocked Hat – a plague-spot on the face of London – he exercises ruthless control over the district and none dare cross him. Yet, despite his notoriety, the police have never been able to bring any serious charge against him. In the early ’70s, the police were convinced that Dack was the guiding brain behind the crimes they were investigating, yet they could not get near him. Instead, therefore, they began to pick off the outliers of his criminal pack, particularly those who connected Dack with the cross-Channel trade. One of these was Jack Prentice, who was arrested early in ’74, in possession of stolen goods, for which he was convicted and sentenced to two years’ imprisonment. Prentice’s wife informs me that she was shocked by this, as she had no idea that he had been engaged in anything underhand, and I believe her. She seems a decent sort, Watson, and deserves our help.
“Upon Prentice’s release from Pentonville in 1876, his wife made him vow to give up his criminal ways, and abjure all his former associates, especially Dack, whom she says she has always detested. No doubt chastened by his time in prison, Prentice agreed to do as she said. Shortly afterwards, he also turned his back on the sea, became the landlord of The Seven Stars and settled down. There, for the last dozen years or so, he has remained. It is an interesting old inn, Watson, which has stood on that spot since before the time of Shakespeare and Marlowe. Much of it is little changed from those days, although part of the panelling in the tap room is said to be from an eighteenth century man o’ war, and a fine painting of the ship in question hangs on the wall there.
‘‘The Prentices’ children, who are, of course, now grown up, helped them in the house for a time, but they have now both left. The son, William, married a girl from Deptford by the name of Daisy Weekes, and works in a local timber yard. There seems to be some slight ill-feeling between him and his parents, and he hasn’t been in The Seven Stars for several months. The daughter, Lily, married one Teddy Bates, a sail-maker, and Mrs Prentice says she usually sees her at least once every week. The place in the household left vacant by the children’s departure has been filled, partly at least, by the arrival of Maria, a young girl of about eighteen, from Corunna in northern Spain. She apparently arrived in Rotherhithe last summer, in the company of an English sailor who had promised to marry her when they reached London, but who, upon their arrival here, promptly deserted her and set sail for the Far East, leaving her destitute and homeless. Mrs Prentice saw her in the street one day, took pity on her and took her into her own home, where she helps with the cooking, cleaning and other household tasks. Other than this girl, there are no servants in the house. This, then, is the peaceful and settled household from which Jack Prentice has so mysteriously disappeared.
“To come
now to recent events: Mrs Prentice informs me that she noted with displeasure that Elias Dack and two of his cronies called in at The Seven Stars one night last week and engaged her husband in conversation. After they had left, she asked him what Dack had wanted.
“‘Nothing special,’ said Prentice, ‘just gossip.’ She did not believe him but, as it was clear he did not wish to discuss the matter further, she did not press the point. A couple of days later, however, on the tenth, there was another unwelcome visitor in the pub, a man of the vilest antecedents, who glories in the name of ‘One-eye’ Vokes. Notorious in the district for his violence and criminality, he is known by everyone to be a sort of vicious emissary for Elias Dack. The ocular shortcoming that has given him his name is the result of a bar-room brawl several years ago, when he was hit in the face with a beer bottle, by one ‘Spider’ Wilkins. Wilkins himself was later found dead in mysterious circumstances, but evidence was lacking, and although the police strongly suspected that Vokes was responsible, no one was ever charged with the murder. After the visit of ‘One-eye’ Vokes to The Seven Stars last week, Mrs Prentice confronted her husband, warning him that if she ever found out that he had taken up his old criminal ways again she would leave him forthwith. Prentice protested his innocence and assured her he had told Vokes he did not want anything to do with him or Dack.
The Mammoth Book of the Lost Chronicles of Sherlock Holmes Page 30