The Mammoth Book of the Lost Chronicles of Sherlock Holmes

by Denis O. Smith

  “Captain John Reid, of the West Sussex Infantry,” said Holmes, introducing his visitor as I entered.

  The man who rose to greet me was of about my own age, tall and spare, with sun-bleached, wavy brown hair and a clean-shaven, weather-beaten face. There was, I thought, something stiff and laboured in his manner, as if he was struggling to master his emotions.

  “You have been in Afghanistan, I believe,” I remarked as we shook hands.

  “Indeed,” he replied. Then he turned to my friend. “I do not recall giving you the name of my regiment, Mr Holmes,” said he, an expression of curiosity upon his features.

  “You did not,” returned Holmes, “but your tiepin proclaims as much.”

  “How very observant of you!” declared our visitor.

  “A trifle,” returned Holmes. “But, to pass from mere observation to deduction, I perceive that though your regiment is based in Sussex, you have not come up from the country today. I take it you stayed in town last night.”

  “That is so, but how . . . ?”

  “Tut! Tut! Your boots, Captain Reid! Their highly polished condition tells me that you have undertaken no lengthy journey today.”

  “Indeed not. I stayed last night at my club, the United Infantry in St James’s Place. It was there, as I was talking to a Captain Meadowes of the Buffs, that I first heard your name, Mr Holmes. Captain Meadowes informs me that you can solve any problem presented to you.”

  “Captain Meadowes exaggerates. But, come, let us have the facts of the matter, and we shall see what we can make of them.”

  “I scarcely know where to begin.”

  “Is your service in India of any relevance?”

  “Possibly,” replied our visitor in a hesitant tone.

  “Then begin with that. I am sure that Dr Watson, especially, would be most interested to hear it.”

  “Very well,” said Reid. His manner as he began to speak was oddly uncertain and nervous, like that of a man who has lost all confidence in his own judgement; but gradually, as he described his time in Afghanistan and heard a little of mine, a strength and vigour returned to his voice.

  “I sailed with the first contingent of my regiment aboard the Jumna on the last day of August, 1878,” he began. “The remainder followed two weeks later on the Euphrates, along with a large number of Northumberland Fusiliers and several companies of Gloucesters. After a week in Bombay we all moved up north, to Peshawur. Things were quiet enough at first, but late in the year there were some heavy engagements, in the Khyber Pass, and at Jelalabad. After that it was calmer for a time, but there was a tension in the air, and we were all aware that trouble might flare up again at any moment. That moment came when Sir Louis Cavagnari was murdered at Cabul in September ’79, and all hell broke loose. We were at once placed under the command of Sir Frederick Roberts, who led us at Charasiab, and in the engagements that followed around Cabul. The fighting was severe, and it was many months before things quietened down again and we had full control of the area.

  “When news reached us the following August of fighting in the south of the country, and of the dreadful massacre at Maiwand, where I understand you were with the Berkshires, Dr Watson, we set off at once and marched down from Cabul to Candahar to relieve the siege there. As you will know, there was again very heavy fighting before the southern countryside could be considered safe. The West Sussex men did not leave the country until the spring of this year, and my own was practically the last company to do so. Since then we have been on easier duties, around Bombay.”

  “You have certainly seen your share of action,” I remarked.

  Our visitor nodded his head in a thoughtful way. “There were moments,” said he, “when I think I sincerely believed that Afghanistan was the true location of Hell. And yet,” he continued after a moment, “to be hated and attacked by strangers when you at least have your loyal companions about you is not, perhaps, the worst thing that can happen to a man.” He paused, but neither Holmes nor I spoke, and after a minute’s reflection he continued in a voice which trembled with emotion. “To be hated and abused by those from whom you had expected friendship and affection, and to bear this assault alone, is perhaps the hardest suffering to endure.”

  “Pray give us the details,” said Holmes after a moment, “however painful it may be to do so, and then perhaps we can begin to shed some light on your troubles.”

  “My family has lived in Sussex for many generations,” continued Reid after a moment. “My great-grandfather bought Oakbrook Hall and its estate at the beginning of the century, during the Napoleonic Wars, and there the family has lived ever since. The estate lies just outside Topley Cross, in the west of the county, near Petworth. My father was colonel of the West Sussex Infantry before his retirement, and had, I think, only two further aims in life: to marry off his only daughter, Louisa, successfully, and to see his only son follow him into the local regiment. The former was achieved five years ago, when Louisa married a solicitor from Cornwall, where she now lives, the latter not long afterwards. I joined the regiment four and a half years ago, at the same time as Arthur Ranworth, an old friend from my schooldays in Canterbury, whose home is at Broome Green, near Rye, at the other end of the county.

  “In the summer of ’78 we were posted to India, as I have described. Before we left, Ranworth frequently came to stay with us at Topley Cross, along with Major French and Major Bastable, friends of ours from the regiment. We always had a splendid time when we were all together, and it was evident to me that my father was as proud of me as any father might be. He has an old friend and neighbour, Admiral Blythe-Headley, who is the largest landed proprietor in the district, and whose property adjoins our own. They are great rivals whenever the respective merits of the Army and Navy are being debated, and I know that my father was particularly proud when he was able to inform his friend that I had followed him into the West Sussex. The situation is a little difficult, as our neighbour’s own son, Anthony, who is a couple of years younger than me, seems only to cause distress to his father. At school he was regarded as an outstanding pupil, and showed every promise of a brilliant future. But he took up with a dissolute group of friends at university, and has since wasted his time in idle and frivolous pursuits. It is certainly not for me to judge him, but I know that he and his father have frequently quarrelled violently in recent years, not least when he forged his father’s signature against a gambling debt, a matter that nearly came to court.

  ‘‘Admiral Blythe-Headley, who is a widower, also has a daughter, Mary, who is about my own age, and is, I might say, the local beauty. When I was younger I spent many happy days at Topley Grange, the Blythe-Headley’s home, and I remember with fondness the long hours spent playing rounders and other such games with Mary and her cousins. I had always hoped that one day she might join her future to mine, and a few words she spoke to me before I sailed for India led me to believe that my hopes in this regard might not be entirely unjustified. I am mentioning all these things to you so that you will understand that before I went away, everything was as right as could be. My mother, it is true, did not enjoy the best of health, but this had been the case for some years, so that although it was always a source of concern to me, it was not especially so at this time.

  “There is splendid fishing in the district, and what with that, turning out for the village cricket team, lending a hand with the harvest, and a hundred and one other things, the summer before I left passed all too quickly. I was obliged to spend some time at regimental headquarters, near Horsham, but Topley Cross being at no great distance from Horsham, I was often able to get away at the end of the week, and I came and went regularly, as did Captain Ranworth. Occasionally, I was obliged to leave Ranworth to find his own amusement, when I was occupied with farming business or in helping my father, but this presented no difficulty for him, for he is almost as familiar with the people and places of the district as I am myself, having been a regular visitor there since our early schooldays. Earlier that y
ear, my father had begun work on a history of the West Sussex Regiment, and had had one of the bedrooms upstairs turned into a study especially for the purpose. He had also engaged a secretary, William Northcote, a scholarly young man recently down from Oxford, to assist him. My father had underestimated the work involved, however, and even with Northcote’s help would have found it altogether too much had I not been there to lend a hand. By the time the day of our embarkation arrived, however, he and his secretary had got into a routine and were making good progress. I know my father greatly appreciated the help I had been able to give him. In a letter I received from home a few weeks after my arrival in India, he described how well he and Northcote were now getting on with the work, and how invaluable my assistance had been.

  “Half of this letter was written to me by my mother. Alas, it was the last communication I was ever to receive from her! I received two further letters from my father before the end of the year, but then heard nothing more – despite writing several letters myself – until some seven or eight months later. Then I received a brief note from my father, in the form almost of an official notification, to inform me that my mother’s illness had at last overcome her and that she had died in the spring. This news saddened me greatly, although it was not, in truth, entirely unexpected. My mother had been in poor health for some years, and I had always feared that she might die while I was abroad. The news was made especially distressing to me, however, by the curt, impersonal character of the note that conveyed it. I replied at once, expressing my sorrow, but received no further communication from home whatever.

  “I have given you a sketch of the part I played in the Afghan campaign, so I will not weary you with further details, except to say that no group of men could have acted with more resolution and dedication to duty than did the men of the West Sussex. You may have observed on my tiepin the regimental motto, Fidus et Audax. Believe me when I tell you that no men could have been more ‘faithful and bold’. Some of my colleagues lost their lives in the campaign, and will not be forgotten; but every man that survived left that accursed country with his honour enhanced, and there is not one among them that does not deserve a decoration. For myself I make no claim to heroic status, but I did believe, as I returned to England, that I would be greeted as one, at least, who had fulfilled his duty to his native land to the fullest extent of his physical and mental capacities. I could not have imagined, on the long voyage home, that I would be met, instead, with cold indifference and contempt. What has happened in recent days has quite turned my brain, so that I feel I am losing my grip upon sanity, and can no longer trust my own thoughts or actions.”

  Sherlock Holmes frowned. “Pray, continue,” said he in a soft voice as his visitor paused. “It is evident that something very strange must have occurred to disturb you in this way.”

  “The West Sussex Infantry returned to England towards the end of last month,” continued Captain Reid after a moment. “I wired home as soon as I landed at Portsmouth, to say that I had arrived back safely and should be home in a few days. To this message I received no reply. I wired again from the regimental headquarters at Horsham on the morning I was leaving, with my time of arrival at the local railway station. When my train pulled in there, however, I saw, to my surprise, that there was no one there to meet me. Fortunately, the station fly was there, and was, I observed, still driven by the same fellow, Isaac Barham, who had often jested with me and teased me in my youth. I greeted him cordially, expecting some rustic witticism in response, or at the very least a smile of recognition. To my utter astonishment, a shudder of distaste seemed to pass across his features as he saw me. In a moment it was gone, and his face was once more impassive, but I knew that I could not have been mistaken.

  “‘What is it?’ said I. ‘You look as if you have seen a ghost!’

  “He mumbled something in response, which I did not catch, threw my bag aboard and we set off, rattling along the narrow, hilly lanes. Not once did he open his mouth, although once or twice I caught him stealing a glance at me. We passed by fields and hedgerows and wooded dells, all alive with the scents of late summer, and an uprush of joy filled my heart to be home in this beautiful countryside once more.

  “‘It is good to be back in England,’ said I aloud at length, unable to contain my thoughts any longer.

  “‘Is it?’ was his mumbled response.

  “‘There were times in India when I feared I might never return,’ I remarked, ignoring his surly, unfriendly manner.

  “‘It’d be better if you never had,’ said he under his breath.

  “‘What did you say!’ I cried, although I had heard it clear enough, but he just grunted and averted his eyes.

  “This greeting, from the first person I had met who knew me was both remarkable and unpleasant, but I thought that Barham had perhaps suffered some personal tragedy recently, which had affected his brain, and I determined not to let it lower my spirits. Our way took us presently through the village of Topley Cross, and as we passed through the market place I saw several people I knew. I raised my arm to wave a greeting as we passed, but they turned away hurriedly, as if in a pretence of not having seen me, although it was perfectly plain that they had. I could conceive of no explanation for this, at least as pertaining to myself, and I wondered if it were Isaac Barham they were shunning. Perhaps, I speculated, my driver’s morose and unfriendly manner was the result of some general falling-out between him and the rest of the district.

  “Presently, we turned in at the gate of Oakbrook Hall, and as the drive passed between the gnarled old oaks, the tall elms and beeches, all clothed in the colours of autumn, I almost cried aloud, so joyful was I to be home. When we drew up before the Hall, I sprang down from the trap, paid off my surly companion with a sense of relief and hurried indoors.

  “There was a stillness and silence about the house that seemed strange to me and was not how I remembered it. For a moment, I stood in the hallway and called, but this elicited no response. I glanced into the library, which is also my father’s old study, but there was no one there. At length, I tugged the bell rope in the hall, and Bunning, my father’s butler, appeared presently from the back of the house; but when he saw who it was that had summoned him he stopped dead in his tracks and clutched his chest. I thought at first that he was suffering some kind of heart seizure, but when he spoke it was clear to me that it was simply my presence there that troubled him.

  “‘Master John!’ said he in a breathless tone.

  “‘None other,’ said I. ‘This is a fine welcome, Bunning, I must say! Is my father not at home?’

  “‘Colonel Reid is in the upstairs study, sir,’ replied he. ‘He is engaged upon his manuscript.’

  “‘I see. Well, kindly inform him, if he can spare a moment, that his son is home from India.’ With that I returned to the library in no very good humour. But the library of Oakbrook Hall has always had a soothing effect upon me. There is a serenity there, in the smell of old leather and polish, and on that day these scents were mingled with those of late summer flowers, for the French windows stood open to the garden. I poured myself a glass of sherry from a decanter and emptied my mind of every thought save that of the pleasure I felt just to be there, at home at Oakbrook once more.

  “A few minutes later I heard footsteps in the passage. It was not my father who entered the library, however, but his secretary, Northcote. He blinked at me from behind his spectacles, and informed me in his customary nervous, embarrassed manner that my father was indisposed. He had retired to his room, having left strict instructions that he was not to be disturbed, and would see me that evening at dinner.

  “It seemed a strange, cold homecoming for one who had travelled so far, and for so long, in the hope of seeing once more his familiar house and home, but there was nothing I could do about it. I occupied myself as best I could for the remainder of the day and, in truth, the exhaustion that I had resisted during my long journey finally swept over me like a wave upon a beach, and
I spent long periods of the day asleep on my bed.

  “At dinner that night, my father greeted me with a cool formality. He had never been a very expressive man, and it was clear that my mother’s death had affected him deeply, and I explained his lack of warmth on those grounds. Also, Northcote was dining with us, which perhaps placed a further constraint upon the conversation. Physically my father seemed much as ever, although his hair had turned white while I had been away, but mentally and spiritually he seemed to have aged by more than the three years I had spent in India. When I ventured to allude to my mother, he brushed aside my remarks and indicated quite clearly that he did not wish the subject to be raised. I told him, then, something of my exploits in Afghanistan, and was rewarded by a spark of interest in his eyes. But soon this spark had faded again, and when I paused for a moment in my account, he did not ask me to continue, but excused himself from the table and left the room.

  “This left me alone with Northcote, and I endeavoured to learn from him what had wrought this change in my father’s manner.

  “‘Did you not receive the letter that Colonel Reid sent you at Horsham?’ said he.

  “I shook my head.

  “‘No matter,’ said he. ‘Your father has had many worries, Captain Reid. Your mother’s death was a blow from which he has never fully recovered.’