The Mammoth Book of the Lost Chronicles of Sherlock Holmes

by Denis O. Smith

  “That is a monstrous suggestion!” cried the secretary.

  At that moment there came a surprising interruption. Captain Reid himself stepped into the room, carrying in his hand a small leather satchel. I had the impression that he had been waiting for some time outside the doorway, listening to what was being said.

  “I have the stolen papers here,” said he, holding up the satchel. “It was in one of the places you suggested, Mr Holmes, hidden at the bottom of Northcote’s wardrobe.”

  “It’s a lie!” cried Northcote.

  “I will swear to it under oath,” returned Reid. “Besides, why should I lie?”

  “To blacken my name further,” cried Northcote, whose face had assumed a pale, sickly hue. “This is slander, gross slander! Gentlemen, I call upon all here present to witness this slander! I shall see this matter settled in court!”

  “When my father sees these letters, which he did not write, but which are in an imitation of his hand,” said Reid in a cold voice, “I think it is I that shall be the plaintiff in court and you the defendant, Northcote!”

  For a long moment, the secretary said nothing, but looked at each of us in turn as he swayed slightly on his feet. Then, abruptly, he flung himself to his knees in front of his employer and wrung his hands in silent entreaty. “It is true,” he cried at last. “I confess it. In a moment of madness I did it. I destroyed the letter you had written to your son and substituted one of my own, in which I made no reference to Sarah Dickens. I was angry that although he had treated the girl so badly and, as everyone seemed to think, driven her to take her own life, nevertheless the strong bond between father and son still persisted. This seemed to me unfair. Why should he live on happily when the one to whom he had caused so much sorrow had died? But as soon as the letter was sent, I regretted it bitterly. It was a hateful, shameful thing to do. Having falsified one letter, however, I was then obliged to falsify the next. Oh, have pity on me for my shameful actions!”

  There was a general shuffling of feet in the room, but no one spoke, and it was clear that no one could think what to say. Captain Reid looked down coldly at the abject figure of his father’s secretary squirming on the floor, and eventually broke the silence.

  “I ought to kick you from here to the coast,” said he in a tone of disgust.

  “Let me see those letters,” said Colonel Reid abruptly, like a man coming out of a dream.

  “One moment,” interrupted Holmes, and the room fell silent once more as everyone turned to see what he would say. “Let us not become too distracted by the matter of the letters. You may see them in a minute, Colonel Reid. But there is a greater crime in question here than the forging of letters: the murder of Sarah Dickens.”

  “No!” cried Northcote in a hoarse voice, rising unsteadily to his feet. “It cannot be! Sarah Dickens took her own life. Everyone believes that, save you, Mr Know-all Holmes! I would never have falsified any letters had I thought that the matter was one of murder!”

  “If everyone believes that Sarah Dickens took her own life, then everyone is in error. Sarah did not take her own life, and nor was her death an accident: she was murdered. The murderer had planned it coldly and carefully for some time. He had arranged to meet her by the Willow Pool on the afternoon she died. He had, I believe, feigned affection for her, and she no doubt went to meet him expecting to be met with friendship, but the only desire that stirred in his heart was a desire to be rid of someone whose existence was an inconvenience to him. He went to the Willow Pool that day for one reason only, to murder Sarah Dickens in cold blood.”

  “Your arguments have been very convincing, Mr Holmes,” interrupted Admiral Blythe-Headley. “Do you have any evidence to lead you to the culprit?”

  “I have a witness,” responded Holmes. So saying, he stepped to the open French windows and called to someone in the garden outside. The next moment Mr Yarrow, the vicar, entered, and with him was Noah Blogg.

  “Now, Noah,” said the vicar, “tell these gentlemen what you told me earlier.”

  The large young man hesitated, and seemed cowed and frightened by the grave faces about him.

  “You remember the day you and Harry Cork found the body of Sarah Dickens in the Willow Pool?” said the vicar by way of a prompt. The young man nodded his head dumbly and the vicar continued: “You had seen Sarah earlier that day, had you not, Noah?” Again the young man nodded. “Where had you seen her, Noah?”

  “In the shop, sir,” Blogg responded at length. “She came in to buy pegs. She talked to Mother.”

  “What did she say?”

  “She said she was going to pick blackberries at Jenkin’s Clump. Mother said they were better down the hill a way, and Sarah thanked her and said she’d look down there, too. After she’d gone, Mother said, ‘That girl’s up to something.’”

  “Do you know what she meant by that?” asked Holmes.

  Noah Blogg shook his head. “No, sir,” he answered.

  “Can you think what she might have meant by it, then?”

  Blogg appeared confused and did not immediately respond. “Perhaps Sarah was going to meet somebody,” he answered at length.

  “Very well. What did you do then?”

  “Thought I’d go up the Clump myself and surprise Sarah.”

  “And did you?”

  The young man nodded his head in a reluctant fashion, as if he would rather not continue.

  “So you went to Jenkin’s Clump?” persisted Holmes.

  “Yes,” responded Blogg at length. “There weren’t nobody there.”

  “And then?” queried Holmes, as the young man fell silent once more.

  “Sarah came, and a man came down the other path.”

  “Did they see you?”

  “No, sir. I was behind a tree.”

  “And then?”

  “Sarah said something, then he got hold of her and she shouted a lot, then he hit her and she stopped shouting. Then he pushed her in the water.”

  “And then?”

  “I went to have a look. He saw me and said, ‘What are you doing here, Blogg?’ and I said, ‘Nothing, sir.’ Then he said, ‘Sarah’s had a fit. You mustn’t say anything or they’ll think you killed her. You keep quiet and don’t say a word, and I’ll not tell them I saw you here. But if you say anything, I’ll tell them you killed her.’ So I had to keep quiet.”

  “I see,” said Holmes. “I think we all understand. Now, Noah, the man you saw in the woods that day with Sarah, do you see him in this room now?”

  The young man’s expression was one of utmost terror, and he did not raise his eyes from the floor.

  “You have nothing to fear,” said Holmes in a voice that was kindly but firm, “but you must tell the truth, Noah. Is that man here now?”

  “Yes,” mumbled Blogg, “it’s him.”

  Slowly, then, he raised his hand and pointed his finger at Colonel Reid’s secretary, William Northcote.

  “What nonsense!” cried the secretary. “This is an outrage! How dare you say such things, Blogg!” Then he turned to Holmes. “I don’t know how you have persuaded this simpleton to lie in this way,” said he in a bitter tone, “but you will not get away with it!”

  “It won’t do, Northcote,” returned Holmes, shaking his head. “These displays of outrage and remorse ring equally hollow. You murdered Sarah Dickens and forged the note that was found by the pool, to throw suspicion onto John Reid. You also placed one of his cufflinks, which you had found or stolen, into a pocket of the dead girl’s dress, to make the public suspicions against him even stronger. You then destroyed his father’s letters to him and sent him substitute letters of your own creation, to prevent his responding to the rumours, which you yourself had caused.”

  The secretary attempted to laugh, but it was a hoarse, harsh cry that escaped his lips. “Why should I kill Sarah Dickens?” he cried. “Why, she did not interest me at all!”

  “No,” said Holmes. “I agree. She did not interest you. Rather, she was a
danger to you. She knew something about you that you did not wish anyone else to know.”

  “And what was that, pray?” demanded Northcote in a sneering tone.

  “That you had been making free with Colonel Reid’s private papers, forging his signature and helping yourself to his money.”

  What happened next remains as little more than a blur in my memory. I have mentioned that upon the desk in the centre of the room was a very large globe. Now, with a sudden lunge, Northcote grasped this globe with both hands, lifted it from its stand and hurled it across the room to where we stood. There were cries, Miss Blythe-Headley screamed, and in the same instant the secretary dashed out through the French windows, into the garden. For a split second we all remained transfixed by this sudden eruption of violence, then, with a pitiful cry and an expression of the utmost agony upon his features, Colonel Reid collapsed to the floor like a rag doll.

  “Good God!” cried his son in alarm.

  “He has had a seizure!” I cried. “Stand back!” Quickly, I bent down and examined the limp, prostrate figure. His haggard face was a dull grey colour and his lips had turned purple. For a moment I feared that he was beyond all human help, but as I loosened his collar and desperately examined him for signs of life, there came the faintest of breaths from his dry lips. “Is there a fire lit in his bedroom?” I asked his son.

  “There’s one laid ready,” replied he. “We’ll put a match to it at once.”

  “Then help me carry him to his bed. We must keep him warm and make him as comfortable as possible.”

  “Northcote will be getting away!” cried someone behind me as we carried the old man from the room and turned up the stairs.

  “He will not get far,” I heard Holmes respond. “I have sentries posted in the garden for just such an eventuality.”

  It was some time before I was able to return to the library. I had done all I could for Colonel Reid, sent his servant for the family physician and left him in the care of his son and the housekeeper. As I rejoined the company downstairs, they were discussing the apprehension of Northcote. I gathered that he had been brought back to the library, and that Holmes had instructed that he be taken at once to the constable in Topley Cross, with a message of explanation which Holmes himself had written.

  “So,” said Admiral Blythe-Headley, “you expected North-cote to flee in this way?”

  “I thought it not unlikely,” returned Holmes. “My sentries, as you saw, were Jack Blogg, father of Noah, and John Dickens, brother of the dead girl. He naturally has an interest in seeing the truth established, and justice done. He is employed at Topley Grange, I understand, Admiral.”

  “That is so. He assists his father on their own farm in the mornings and works in our gardens in the afternoons. We employ several of the local smallholders in this way at various times of the year. They are by far the best workers, we have found.”

  “It was Dickens that damaged your garden bench.”

  “What!” cried the admiral. “The blackguard! He will never work for me again!”

  Holmes held up his hand. “Do not rush to decisions, I pray you,” said he. “This whole business has been marked by overhasty judgements, almost all of which have been proved wrong. You must understand that Dickens has been sorely afflicted by his sister’s death. He may appear a somewhat rude and unpolished young man, but he has a good heart, and had, I believe, a deep and genuine affection for his sister. I am sure he no more feels the sentiments he carved into your woodwork than would Captain Reid himself, whom you previously accused of it. But on the day last week that Reid visited Topley Grange, Dickens was working in the gardens, and was incensed that this man whom he regarded as morally responsible for his sister’s death should, as he saw it, be renewing his social round as if nothing were amiss. Consumed with rage, he determined to do all he could to further wound Reid’s standing in the district. He correctly judged that if he damaged the bench in the way he did, Reid would be blamed for it.”

  “How did you discover that Dickens was responsible?” I asked.

  “Mr Yarrow had mentioned to us that Dickens had been employed at Topley Grange on the day of his sister’s death, and I thought it likely that he was still so employed. If so, it seemed a distinct possibility to me that he was responsible for the damage, for I was already convinced that it was he that sent the white feather to Reid.”

  “Why so?” I asked

  “The yard at Hawthorn Farm, as you no doubt observed, is littered with white duck feathers that are precisely the same as the feather Reid received. In addition, a blank sheet had been torn from the girl’s exercise book, as you yourself remarked, Watson, and this, as I observed, exactly corresponded to the sheet that enclosed the feather, marked with the initials S. D.”

  “How came Dickens, a man so full of hatred for Captain Reid, to be your ally?” asked Mary Blythe-Headley in puzzlement. “I should have expected his attitude to you to have been one only of hostility.”

  “And so it was, when we spoke to him yesterday, as Dr Watson will confirm. But when I called to see him very early this morning, before he had left the house, I was armed with the knowledge – or conviction, at least – that it was he who had sent the anonymous letter to Reid and damaged the bench, by both of which actions, I assured him, he had laid himself open to criminal proceedings. By this threat I secured his attention and, little by little, managed to convince him that the deep hostility he held towards my client was quite misplaced. It was steep, steep work, I can assure you, but in the end I succeeded. I think you will find, Admiral, that Dickens will henceforth prove to be an honest worker, and if you can forgive him his one lapse, will never again damage your property.”

  The admiral appeared unmoved by my friend’s plea for forgiveness on behalf of his errant gardener, but then his daughter spoke out.

  “Oh Father,” said she, “have a little charity! It is I who am insulted by the carving on the bench, and I certainly don’t care about it! You fear that you have been led to make a fool of yourself in sending that bill to Colonel Reid, but you should not punish Dickens simply because you feel foolish. None of these things would have occurred if only you and Anthony had had a little more confidence in Captain Reid, and had not been so hasty to think the worst of him.”

  Admiral Blythe-Headley appeared angry at this lecture from his daughter. He opened his mouth to speak, but closed it again without saying anything, as Captain Reid re-entered the room.

  “How is your father?” asked Mary Blythe-Headley in a voice of concern.

  “He is sleeping peacefully now,” returned Reid. “He appears comfortable enough, and we must hope that, with rest, he will recover. But, pray tell me what has happened while I have been absent.”

  In a few words, Holmes apprised his client of all that had occurred.

  “This is a simply astounding business,” said Reid with a shake of the head, as Holmes finished speaking. “What on earth led you to the conclusion that Northcote lay behind it all? And how did you know that Noah Blogg knew more of the matter than anyone had ever supposed?”

  “As it happens, those two aspects of the matter came together in one moment of enlightenment, from my point of view,” Holmes replied. “Dr Watson and I had an appointment yesterday afternoon to meet Mr Yarrow by the Willow Pool in Jenkin’s Clump. We were standing near the pool when he arrived, and as I saw him at the top of the hill, it passed briefly through my mind that we were probably very close to the spot upon which Noah Blogg had been standing when you encountered him last week, and that the vicar, who was on the path from here to the pool, was at the same place as you had been when Blogg first saw you. It was also, I might add, at almost exactly the same time of day, a little after two o’clock in the afternoon. This coincidence might have passed from my mind as swiftly as it had entered it, but for one singular fact: as I looked up the steep pathway, waiting to greet the vicar, I realized all at once that I could not see him.”

  “What on earth do you mean?” as
ked Reid in a tone of puzzlement.

  “It was, as I say, shortly after two o’clock on a very sunny day, and the path from here to Jenkin’s Clump runs as you are aware, from south to north. As I looked up the hill, the sun lay almost directly behind Mr Yarrow, and all I could see of him was a black silhouette. It really would have been impossible for me to swear whether the man I saw were he or not. It must have been precisely the same for Blogg when he saw you there last week, on what, as you described it to us, was also a very sunny day. You could see clearly that it was he, but he could not possibly have known that the dark figure he saw at the top of the path was you. Considering that you had been back in the parish for scarcely twenty-four hours, and that Blogg was probably unaware at that time of your return, it becomes even less likely that he recognized you. Yet, as you recounted to us the other day, he looked up at you for only the briefest of moments before letting out a howl of fear and fleeing, as if for his life, through the woods. Clearly, he was in mortal terror of someone, but the more I considered the matter, the more convinced I became that that someone was not you.

  “But if not you, then who could it be? What other young man of a roughly similar height and stature might be walking on the path from Oakbrook Hall? Clearly, the most likely candidate was your father’s secretary, Northcote. But this raised further questions: why should Blogg be in such fear of anyone, and why, in particular, should he be in such fear of Northcote? Dr Watson and I had met Blogg earlier in the day, and had found him an amiable and friendly young man. It was clear, however, that despite his fine physique, his simple cast of mind gave him a certain timidity of manner. Such a young man, I judged, might well be cowed into fearfulness by threats from someone with a more powerful character than his own. But why should North-cote, or anyone else, have threatened him? Then I recalled that during his interview with us, by the Willow Pool, in which the subject of Sarah Dickens had been raised, his gaze had continually wandered, involuntarily as it appeared, to a particular spot in the water, close by where we were standing.