The Mammoth Book of the Lost Chronicles of Sherlock Holmes

by Denis O. Smith

  “My correspondent is fourteen years of age,” remarked Holmes as I took the letter from the envelope, answering my thoughts rather than my words, as was his wont.

  Smoothing out the letter upon the table, I read the following:

  My dear Mr Holmes,

  Please forgive me for writing to you like this, and do not be angry with me. I know you must be very busy. You do not know me, but there is no one else I can turn to. My late father, Major George Borrow, had an account of one of your cases, part of which he read to me. He also told me that he had heard that if a case interests you, you will help people, even if they are poor, and that you can solve any mystery, however perplexing. You are my only hope. There is a mystery here, and I am very frightened, especially for my brother, Edwin. He is only twelve, and recently he was nearly killed. I am fourteen and three-quarters, but I still do not think I would be strong enough if anyone tried to murder me.

  Since our mother and father were killed when the Flying Scotsman was wrecked at Burntisland, we have lived with Aunt Margaret (Mama’s sister) and her husband, Mr John Hartley Lessingham, at East Harrington Hall. But now she has gone away and left us, and there is no one to speak up for us, especially as Mr Theakston has now gone, too.

  Please help me, Mr Holmes. At least let me speak to you before you decide. Please come to the London Library in St James’s Square, at eleven o’clock on Tuesday morning. It is my only chance to speak to you, as I may never be allowed to come to London again. I shall be wearing a maroon-coloured jacket and a matching crocheted bonnet. If there is anyone with me, do not speak to me. Please do not tell anyone about this letter and do not write back to me, or I do not know what might happen.

  Yours very sincerely

  Harriet Borrow

  I finished reading and we sat a moment in silence.

  “What do you make of it, Watson?” said Holmes at length.

  I shook my head.

  “It is difficult to know what to think,” I replied. “The girl appears to be genuinely in fear of something, but of course children often misconstrue the world about them, especially the actions of adults, and see mysteries and cause for fear when, in reality, none exist.”

  “Indeed,” concurred my friend. “You state the matter succinctly.”

  “But you simply cannot ignore the girl’s plea, Mr Holmes,” said my wife in a vehement tone. “She may, of course, for all we know, be a silly girl, with her head stuffed full of foolish ideas – things she has read about in books – but you cannot know that for certain until you have questioned her on the matter.”

  “Bravo, Mrs Watson!” cried Holmes, clapping his hands together in appreciation of her impassioned plea. “What a first-rate illustration of marital democracy!” he added with a chuckle. “You have, between the two of you, stated the quandary precisely! On the one hand I can hardly intrude myself like a busybody into the household of a stranger simply on a child’s say-so; on the other, I cannot ignore a sincere plea for help from whatever quarter it may come. Therein lies the dilemma. This sort of letter is always the most problematic. With older clients, there is at least some likelihood that they will estimate with reasonable accuracy the urgency of their case. Younger clients have a marked tendency to see as vital what is in reality trivial or unimportant.”

  “Do you receive many letters from people so young as this?” queried my wife.

  Holmes shook his head. “Thankfully not,” said he in a dry tone, “although there has been something of an increase in their number since your husband’s Study in Scarlet was published. I do receive the occasional request to locate a missing doll, or other highly prized toy, and am sometimes able to make a suggestion or two that proves useful. But let us return to the matter in hand, which promises to be somewhat more serious. I have had little opportunity, so far, to make any very searching enquiries on the matter. All I have been able to learn,” he continued, consulting his notebook, “is that John Hartley Lessingham and his wife live at East Harrington Hall in Leicestershire. The estate is a fairly large one, extending over four parishes: East Harrington, West Harrington, Bulby Upwith and Dedstone. An ancestor, Walter Lessingham, lost his life in the Royalist cause at the Battle of Naseby. The Hartley connection was made in the middle of the last century, when Samuel Lessingham married Ruth Hartley, only daughter of a needle-manufacturer from Redditch. Do you know anything of the present generation, Watson?”

  “As it happens, I do – by repute, at least. Hartley Lessingham is one of the most renowned amateur riders in England. He has a string of fine horses and has carried off almost every prize the sport has to offer. As a rider and competitor he is very much respected.”

  “And as a man?”

  “I do not believe he is very popular,” I replied, choosing my words with care. “There are those, I believe, who positively dislike the man. He is said to ill-treat his horses, for one thing. Then there was something of a scandal last year over an unpleasant incident at a meeting in the Midlands – Cantwell Heath, if I recall it correctly. The horse in front of him stumbled at a ditch and unseated his rider – a popular man by the name of Jackie Weston – and Hartley Lessingham rode straight over him, when he could, in the opinion of most observers, have easily avoided him altogether.”

  “Was the other rider seriously hurt?”

  “Both legs were badly broken, and but for the skill of the surgeon, he would have lost them entirely. As it is, they say he will never walk again without sticks.”

  “Did Hartley Lessingham express any remorse for the incident?”

  “None whatever, so far as I am aware, which is what made such a scandal of the affair. Apparently, his only response was to declare that accidents of that sort were only to be expected in such a manly sport.”

  “I see,” said Holmes, nodding his head. “I think that gives us a clear enough picture of the man. And the Borrows? Do you know anything of them?”

  “I read a book of memoirs and anecdotes a few years ago by a Major Borrow, With the East Sussex Foot in India. It was a rather entertaining volume, as I recall, but whether the author and the girl’s father are one and the same man, I could not say.”

  “Very well,” said Holmes. “Let us sketch out the situation, then. Major Borrow and his wife are killed. The son and daughter are taken in by the mother’s sister and her husband – Miss Borrow mentions no other children in the household, but of course there may be – then the aunt leaves, for reasons we do not know, and the children are left at East Harrington Hall in the care of Hartley Lessingham. He, of course, has no connection with the children other than through his wife, and does not sound the type of person to be motivated by any great charitable urge.”

  My friend fell silent then for a moment, his eyes far away.

  “There are definitely possibilities here,” said he at length in a quiet tone, as if thinking aloud. “Who, I wonder, is this Mr Theakston, to whom the girl refers? Could you spare the time to accompany me tomorrow morning at eleven, Watson?”

  “Certainly,” I returned. “I should have finished my morning surgery by ten o’clock, and shall then be at your disposal.”

  “Excellent! And Mrs Watson?”

  “I?” said my wife in surprise. “I am sure that I should be of no use to you, Mr Holmes.”

  “On the contrary,” returned he with emphasis, “your presence might make all the difference. To have someone of her own sex present may help to put Miss Borrow at her ease, and perhaps help to elicit information from her that she would otherwise be reluctant to give to two middle-aged gentlemen.”

  “Very well, then,” said she with a smile. “I should be delighted to accompany you, and to meet your enterprising young correspondent!”

  The London Library

  At ten-twenty the following morning, Sherlock Homes arrived at our door in a four-wheeler. The streets were thronged with traffic, and we reached St James’s Square only a few minutes before eleven o’clock. As we were alighting from the cab, a hired carriage dr
ew in to the side of the road just ahead of us. From this stepped a handsome woman in a highly ornamented outfit, followed by a young girl whom I judged to be about fourteen or fifteen years old. The latter was wearing a maroon velvet jacket with a knitted bonnet of the same hue perched on the back of her head. From beneath this, her long light-brown hair fell to her shoulders.

  As we approached the entrance to the library, we passed this couple on the pavement, and I was surprised to hear that the tones of the older woman were most harsh. She was instructing the girl to be ready to be collected at half past twelve.

  “You be late at your peril!” said she in an unpleasantly threatening tone, to which the girl quietly acquiesced.

  As we passed them, I stole a glance at their faces. The girl’s was soft, young and innocent, with some trace, I fancied, of sorrow about the eyes. The woman’s was hard and unkind, and with something in her expression that spoke of a limited, self-absorbed disposition. I realized, too, that my initial opinion, formed from a distance, that the woman was a handsome one, had been premature. There was a weight of powder and rouge upon her face, such as an actress on stage might have worn to look attractive from a distance. At closer quarters one saw only a thin, rather stupid face, with no points of attraction whatever.

  We passed on into the library, and a few moments later the girl entered. I had the impression that she had been crying. Holmes stood up and made a slight gesture to her and, with some hesitation, she made her way across the room to where we were seated at a large oblong table.

  “Miss Borrow?” said my friend. She took the hand he extended to her and, as he introduced us, she bobbed a curtsy to each of us in turn.

  “Excuse me, ma’am, but are you a nurse?” she asked my wife in a hesitant tone as she seated herself at the table.

  My wife smiled as she shook her head. “I have been called upon to act as such in an emergency once or twice,” she replied, “but no, my knowledge of nursing skills is somewhat limited, I am afraid.”

  A look of relief passed over the girl’s face.

  “Thank you,” said she quietly. “I am not mad, you know,” she added abruptly.

  “Why ever should we have supposed such a thing?” queried Holmes in a soft tone, eyeing her closely.

  “The presence of this gentleman, who is a doctor, made me wonder – but, of course, I recall now: Dr Watson is your friend, the author of the account my father read to me. But I wondered, because Miss Rogerson has often said she will have me declared insane and put away if I do not mend my ways.”

  Holmes frowned slightly. “And who is Miss Rogerson?” he asked.

  “A lady who has come to run the household since Aunt Margaret left. It was she who brought me here this morning.”

  “We saw her on the pavement outside,” said Holmes in a kindly voice. “Does she always speak to you in so stern a fashion?”

  The girl’s face flushed a deep crimson.

  “No, not always so,” she replied at length, “but she was angry with me.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I had tried to alight from the carriage quickly, before she had given me permission to do so.”

  “Your mind was perhaps on other things?”

  “It was not that. May I speak freely to you?”

  “Certainly.”

  “I mean, you will not scold me or think me wicked if I say whatever I wish?”

  “No, Miss Borrow, we shall not. If you speak the truth you have nothing to be ashamed of and need fear no censure. I need hardly add that anything you tell us will pass no further, so nor need you hesitate on that account.”

  “Thank you, Mr Holmes. I will tell you then why I wished to leave the carriage so quickly. It was because I knew that Miss Rogerson would not dare to slap or pinch me if we were on the pavement.”

  Again a frown crossed Holmes’s face. “Do you know anything of Miss Rogerson’s antecedents?” he asked after a moment. “Her appearance seems scarcely that of a typical house keeper.”

  “She is an old friend of Mr Hartley Lessingham’s. He knew her, I believe, before he married Aunt Margaret.”

  “I see. When did she arrive to take up her new duties?”

  “About ten days after Aunt Margaret left, in the middle of January.”

  “Do you and your brother see much of her when you are at home?”

  “At first we did not, but at the end of April our tutor, Mr Theakston, left us, and since that time Miss Rogerson has acted as our tutor, so that we usually see her for a little time every day of the week except Saturday and Sunday.”

  Miss Borrow paused, and for a moment Holmes regarded her face in silence. Then he spoke.

  “You wish,” said he, “to tell us that Miss Rogerson’s tutorship has not been an unqualified success, but you do not wish to appear rude or disloyal. Of course one should not, as a rule, malign people who are not present to defend themselves, but there are exceptions to every rule. We have come here today to hear your honest account of your troubles and difficulties. Please feel free to be as rude as you wish, provided only that you consider it justified: we shall think none the worse of you for it. Besides,” he added in a dry tone, “there are people to whom it is almost impossible to refer without appearing rude. Adults generally find a way of venting their feelings about such people; I do not see why such pleasure should be entirely denied to the more youthful members of society!”

  A slight smile, as if of appreciation, passed over the girl’s features.

  “I think that you perhaps remember your own youth more distinctly than do many adults, Mr Holmes,” she ventured.

  “Well, well,” returned he in a dismissive voice. “Pray, proceed with your account!”

  “Miss Rogerson,” said the other after a moment, “is a very stupid woman. She beats us for not knowing things, but she herself knows nothing. Once when Edwin asked her where India was, she could not find it on the wall map in the schoolroom, and I could see that she was looking for it among the Greek islands. Sometimes she uses French words, but it is only to appear superior, for she always pronounces them wrongly and does not really know what they mean.”

  “Do you know why Mr Theakston left?”

  Miss Borrow shook her head. “I was very sorry that he did,” she returned. “He left in a hurry, and did not even say goodbye to us, which was quite unlike him. He had been our only friend after Aunt Margaret’s departure, and had taught us such a lot. Since he left, Edwin’s education has almost ceased. But I think he may have been dismissed by Mr Hartley Lessingham, for I heard them exchanging sharp words upon the evening he left.”

  “Did you hear what it was they were discussing?”

  “Not very clearly. They were in the library downstairs, and I was sitting on the top of the stairs. But several times I heard them mention the mill at Dedstone.”

  “A mill? That sounds an unlikely topic for your tutor and his employer to have words over. Hum! Let us leave this matter for the moment, if we may,” said Holmes. “Perhaps you could tell us first a little of your family’s history, and how you came to be in your present situation?”

  “Very well,” said the girl. “Edwin and I were both born in India and have lived most of our lives there. We know no one in England. Our home was at Chalpur, which is where my father’s regiment was stationed. After he left the service, we stayed on in India for some years, for he was engaged in various business activities in connection with the jute trade. I remember that he remarked that it seemed the right trade for him to be in, as he had often heard that his ancestors were all Jutes. Until recently, then, we had never lived in England, except for two holiday visits with my mother. Then, two years ago, my father sold most of his interests in India, and we returned to England. By this time, so I understand, he was a very wealthy man. We took a large house in Brixton and lived happily there for a while.

  “My mother’s sister, Aunt Margaret, who was some years younger than my mother, had married while we were in India, and my parents had th
us been unable to attend the wedding. I remember the surprise on my mother’s face when she received the letter from Aunt Margaret informing her of the forthcoming marriage. ‘Would you believe it, George!’ said she to my father. ‘Margaret is to be married in two months’ time, to a man named John Hartley Lessingham!’ Both my mother and father had always been certain that Aunt Margaret would marry Edgar Shepherd, an old friend of the family who farms in Sussex and whom she had known for many years. ‘Perhaps she grew weary of waiting for Shepherd to propose to her,’ suggested my father, ‘or perhaps she found him a trifle dull. When last I saw him, on our most recent visit to England, his conversation seemed to consist chiefly of cattle diseases and the price of turnips and cabbages. This Hartley Lessingham was perhaps a somewhat more dashing suitor!’

  “Upon our return to England, Aunt Margaret invited us to visit her at her new home at East Harrington, which we did. Then, eighteen months ago, Edwin and I again went to stay there while Mother and Father journeyed north, to Scotland, where my father had a half-interest in a jute mill in Dundee. Alas! It was a journey from which they were never to return.”

  She broke off with a sob, and taking out her handkerchief, dabbed her eyes. My wife leaned across the table and patted her hand gently.

  “There, there,” said she in a kindly voice. “The loss of one’s parents is indeed a cruel blow, as I know from personal experience. But the future holds out hope to us all.”

  Holmes glanced at his watch.

  “You had best continue with your account,” said he. “There are only fifty minutes remaining to us.”

  “Aunt Margaret offered to be like a parent to Edwin and me,” said Miss Borrow after a moment, when she had composed herself, “and at first our life was as pleasant at East Harrington as could be expected under the circumstances. She engaged a tutor for us, Mr Theakston, an amusing man from the north. For a while all was well. Our lessons were the most enjoyable you could imagine. Mr Theakston was a good teacher, and he loved East Harrington as much as we did. He often took us on nature rambles over the estate, to record the birds and butterflies, and the wild flowers that grow in abundance there, especially by the river. He would tell us the most curious and interesting things. He explained to us one day where our measurements come from, how the inch, the foot and the yard are drawn directly from the dimensions of the human body, and how those nations which have adopted a more artificial system are thereby inconvenienced by forever having to use odd amounts of their measurements to represent their everyday requirements.