The Mammoth Book of the Lost Chronicles of Sherlock Holmes

by Denis O. Smith

  Miss Borrow and I leaned forward to see. Holmes had been sifting through a thick sheaf of loose papers, which he had taken from a drawer. The one that had particularly arrested his attention contained the name “Margaret Hartley Lessingham”, written over and over again at random, all over the page, with, here and there, a few other odd words and phrases.

  “Is this your uncle’s handwriting?” Holmes asked Miss Borrow.

  “Undoubtedly,” said she. “But what does it mean? Can it be that under his harsh exterior he yet harbours a deep affection for my aunt, and that this repeated invocation of her name is his means of expressing his grief at her continued absence?”

  “I fancy it might bear some other interpretation,” returned Holmes, as he continued to sift through the contents of the desk.

  “But surely those words there,” the girl persisted, pointing to a line of writing, “are ‘send love’, and are followed by Aunt Margaret’s name?”

  Holmes glanced quickly at the words she had indicated. “I think,” said he, “that if you examine it more closely you will see that your aunt’s name has nothing whatever to do with the words which appear to precede it. The two groups of words appear to me to have been written at two different times. Moreover, the words which you have interpreted as ‘send love’ look to me more like ‘see above’.”

  “What, then?”

  “I shall tell you later. Are the stables far from the house?”

  Miss Borrow shook her head. “No,” said she, “they are no distance at all.”

  “Do you think that the groom would put a pony in the shafts of a trap upon your instruction?”

  “I believe so.”

  “Then have him do so at once, bring it round to the front of the house immediately, and wait for us there.”

  She made for the door, but Holmes called her back.

  “I think,” said he, “that it might be easier and quicker if you went this way.” He threw up the window sash and indicated the terrace outside. In a trice she had climbed through the window and run off along the terrace. “There’s quite a party building up in the hall out there, by the sound of it,” said he to me, nodding his head in the direction of the door as he continued to work his way methodically but swiftly through the contents of the desk drawers.

  I had heard the noises myself, the rapid footsteps and growing murmur of voices. It sounded rather as if the whole of the household were assembling outside the study door, waiting to confront us. I glanced at the boy. He appeared to be recovering with the usual rapidity of childhood, and although he had still not uttered a word, he was now sitting up, and there was a brighter light in his alert, dark eyes. I turned back to my companion. “What do you think we should do?” I asked him.

  “It might be as well—” began Holmes, but I was not to learn what was in his mind, for he broke off as the noise in the corridor outside abruptly increased and someone began to turn the door handle. “Quickly!” cried he in an urgent tone. “Pick up the boy and be ready to leave at once!”

  I just had time to gather up the boy in my arms once more, and wrap the blanket about him, when the door was pushed wide open. In the doorway stood a grey-haired, distinguished-looking man of fifty-odd, who was evidently the butler. Upon his features was an expression of both incomprehension and censure, and it was evident that the present circumstances fell quite outside his experience. In a crush behind him, pushing forward to see what was happening in the study, were ranged puzzled faces of every age and type, both male and female; it seemed that the whole domestic complement of the household must be present. Two liveried footmen, in particular, caught my eye, for they were both carrying stout cudgels and had expressions of great ferocity upon their features. Holmes glanced up, then returned to something he was writing in his notebook. Presently he finished, closed the notebook and replaced it in his pocket in a deliberate, unhurried manner. Then he turned to address the butler.

  “Yes?” said he in an unconcerned tone. “What is it?”

  “May I enquire, sir,” responded the butler after a moment, “what you are doing here, and by what right you are examining private papers belonging to my master, Mr Hartley Lessingham?”

  “Certainly you may,” returned Holmes in an affable tone, “if you will provide me with a satisfactory explanation as to why you have done nothing to protect this child while he was in this household.”

  “Really, sir,” said the butler, who was clearly surprised at this response, “it is hardly my place to speak of matters that are no concern of mine.”

  “I see,” said Holmes. “Well, then, I will make it your concern.” He motioned to me to bring the boy to him, then he carefully turned back the blanket to reveal the child’s hideously bruised leg. There was a sharp intake of breath from those in the corridor, and the butler frowned and put his hand up to his face. “Have you ever seen bruises as bad as these on a child before?” asked Holmes.

  “No, sir,” returned the butler, a pained expression upon his features.

  “No,” said Holmes, “and nor, I believe, has my colleague, who is a medical man of considerable experience.”

  “As I understand the matter, sir,” the butler ventured after a moment, “Master Edwin had a bad fall near the river.”

  Holmes shook his head. “The only fall of any significance has been the repeated fall of a large stick upon this poor boy’s body. Furthermore, I believe I have identified the stick in question, which is now lying in pieces upon the floor of the upstairs corridor.”

  There was a general murmur of voices from behind the butler. He turned with a frown on his face, evidently intending to tell them all to keep quiet, but one of the maids abruptly spoke out in a nervous, breathless manner, as if it had taken her some courage to do so.

  “He’s right,” said she in a defiant tone. “I’ve heard the poor lad screaming, enough to make you weep.” This daring statement appeared to embolden the others, some of whom murmured their agreement, and said that they, too, had heard screams.

  “I fancy, though,” said Holmes, “that you have not heard him so much in recent days.” There was general assent to this suggestion and Holmes continued. “This is not, however, because his suffering has been any the less in recent days, but because he has been gagged to prevent him crying out, and tied to the bed to prevent him moving.”

  There were horrified gasps at this revelation, and one of the young maids began to sob loudly. The butler appeared torn between his natural human sympathy for the boy and a desire to impose his authority upon his subordinates, and a variety of emotions passed in confusion across his features.

  For a few moments, Holmes regarded his audience in silence, then he spoke again in a calm and measured tone. “No doubt,” said he, looking past the butler and addressing those behind him, “you have observed the very heavy rain that has fallen in these parts recently and flooded the fields?” There was a general, quiet murmur of assent. “Perhaps you have heard that it is very likely that every minute of every day, it is raining somewhere in the world? But has it ever occurred to you that it is also very likely that, each and every minute of every day, someone, somewhere in the world, is suffering grievously? Indeed, it is more than likely that human suffering is somewhat more prevalent in the world than rainfall; for there are some places – Timbuctoo, for instance – where, as you may be aware, it hardly ever rains at all, but we cannot suppose that human suffering is any less frequent in Timbuc-too than elsewhere.”

  “No, sir,” said the butler.

  “Now one cannot, therefore, actively lament each and every occasion of suffering and injustice in the world, any more than one can lament every drop of rain that falls. There is too much of it for it to be a practical proposition. Were one to try, one would be unable to continue with one’s own life.”

  “No, sir.”

  “There might for instance, at this very moment, be someone suffering grievously in Timbuctoo.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “But we can do
nothing about it.”

  “No, sir.”

  “But if someone informed you that you had a power, a magic power, perhaps, to alleviate the suffering of the person in Timbuctoo, what then?”

  “An unlikely supposition, if I may say so, sir.”

  “No doubt, but suppose for a moment that it were true – that by simply lifting your hand you might alleviate that person’s suffering. Would you do it? Do you think you ought to do it?”

  “Most certainly, sir,” said the butler, to which there was a general murmur of agreement.

  “And if, knowing that you had this power, to alleviate someone’s suffering, you refused to exercise it, what then? Would you be a generous person, or a mean person? Of course, as you all agree, you would be a mean, ungenerous person.”

  Holmes regarded his audience in silence for a moment, before continuing. “Here,” said he at length, “is a little boy who has suffered at the hands of adults. He is not living in Timbuctoo, but here in England, at East Harrington. Which of you lifted your hand to alleviate his suffering?” This question was followed by a complete silence, during which I heard the clock on the mantelpiece ticking loudly. “You are thinking, perhaps,” Holmes continued after a moment, “that in our real world, where none of us has magic powers, things are not so simple. You are thinking that had you spoken out, you would have been at once dismissed from your position, without a reference.” The loud murmur of agreement that followed this suggestion indicated that Holmes had read the minds of his audience accurately. “This little boy has been beaten and starved. Had we not come today, I believe he would have died. And if he had died? What then? Is your position here worth this little boy’s life? Are all the domestic positions in the country worth a little boy’s life? I tell you this, if he had died, all the rain in heaven would not have sufficed to wash away the stain of this wickedness from East Harrington.”

  Holmes surveyed his audience in silence for several minutes before continuing. The domestic staff had now fallen completely silent, save for the young maid, who was still sobbing. “We are now going to reunite this boy with his aunt,” said he at length in a calm tone. “She has, as you may be aware, the same legal right to have the boy with her as her husband, Mr John Hartley Lessingham.” He stepped forward and motioned to me to follow him, and as I did so, the staff silently pressed themselves back against the wall of the corridor and made a clear pathway for us. We had almost reached the corner of the corridor when the butler spoke.

  “Pardon me, sir,” said he, “but who are you?”

  “My name is Sherlock Holmes,” returned my companion. “You are Hammond, I take it?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Very well, Hammond. Here is my card. You may inform your master that I can be reached at the address given there on most days of the week.”

  With that he turned on his heel and we left the house.

  “For a moment there, as the crowd began to muster, I thought we were undone,” said Holmes to me in a quiet tone as we descended the steps to the drive.

  “It did seem a little unlikely that they would willingly let us leave the house.”

  “Indeed. Those two big fellows with the cudgels might have presented a formidable obstacle.”

  “They could hardly stop us, though, after your eloquent words.”

  “Well, well, one’s tongue gains strength from the justice of one’s cause. I am not certain what will happen next, Watson, but if the worst comes to the worst, I know an excellent barrister to defend us. But here is Miss Borrow with the pony and trap!”

  The trap had appeared at a clatter round the corner of the building as he spoke, with the groom holding the reins and Miss Borrow seated in the back.

  “If you will climb in the back with the boy,” said Holmes to me as the trap drew to a halt before us, “I shall take the reins. We shall drive the trap ourselves,” he continued, addressing the groom. For a moment, the latter hesitated and appeared a little reluctant to yield up his vehicle. “This pony is a very fine-looking animal,” continued Holmes. “What is its name?”

  “Buttercup, sir.”

  “Well, you may rest assured that we shall take great care of Buttercup, and she will be returned to you later.”

  With that, he took the reins from the groom’s hand and sprang aboard, and in a moment we were rattling up the drive and away from East Harrington Hall.

  “Are we going to the railway station?” asked Miss Borrow.

  “No,” said Holmes. “We cannot leave until we have got to the bottom of this business once and for all. We are going to the mill.”

  Dedstone Mill

  Just before we entered the narrow belt of woods, and the stately brick mansion vanished from view, I looked back and saw that several of the domestic staff were at the front door, watching us depart. No doubt they were wondering who, exactly, we were, and what we were going to do. If so, their wonder could scarcely have been any greater than my own. I could not help feeling that we had entangled ourselves somewhat more intimately in this thorny business than I had expected, and I confess that I could not quite see how we would extricate ourselves, nor how it would all end up. Although I had complete confidence in Holmes’s judgement – more so than I had ever had in that of any man – it seemed to me that we were wading rather too deeply into what were dark and treacherous waters.

  When we reached the obelisk, Holmes reined in the pony for a moment and consulted his map once again. I looked up at the huge stone pineapple far above our heads. There seemed something monstrous about it, and something grotesque, too, in the notion that one could express one’s hospitality in a stone monument, as if in doing so one had done one’s duty and need not thenceforth trouble oneself with all the little acts of kindness that are the true mark of hospitality. Above this monument, the clouds were darker now – almost the colour of slate – and the wind that whipped about us was laden with raindrops.

  In a moment, Holmes had made his decision and turned the trap into the roadway to the right. As we rattled along between the trees, the rain began to fall, and Miss Borrow, who was clad only in a light dress, began to shiver. The boy, who had been sitting on my knee, appeared to be recovering a little, so I sat him down beside her, unwrapped the blanket a little, and extended it over the girl’s head and shoulders. The two of them huddled close together and pulled the blanket tight around them, as the heavens opened and the rain teemed down.

  A minute later we were through the narrow belt of trees and into open countryside, our way taking us between the dripping hawthorn hedges that bordered the sodden fields. To be soaking wet was no new experience for me – I was once caught in a cloudburst in India which was so heavy it almost knocked me to the ground – but I do not think that rain had ever before made me feel quite so cold and miserable. Fortunately, the shower, although heavy, was not prolonged, and in a few minutes had abated.

  Holmes glanced round at us, caught my eye and chuckled. “Dry clothes, a hot drink and a pipe,” said he.

  “You have divined my deepest desires,” I returned, “although I don’t imagine that in this case it was very difficult.” To myself I reflected, as I had many times before, upon my friend’s remarkable resilience of spirit. However daunting or depressing the circumstances might be, his resolution never faltered, his enthusiasm for the challenges of life never appeared to wane one iota, but, on the contrary, seemed to bubble over with an almost prodigal superfluity and remedy the want of effervescence in those around him. The infectiousness of his enthusiasm made him the very finest of companions in all circumstances, but especially so in adversity. Would this indomitable strength of spirit and good humour ever flag, I wondered, this side of the grave? I rather doubted it. I had scarcely ever known Holmes morose, save only when he was bored by the tedium of inaction.

  “Mr Holmes?” said Miss Borrow abruptly, emerging from under the blanket and interrupting my own train of thought. “May I ask a question?”

  “By all means,” returned he, re
moving his hat and slapping it on his knee to knock off the raindrops. “What is it you wish to know?”

  “You said that you would explain to me why my uncle had written my aunt’s name over and over so many times.”

  “I think it likely,” replied Holmes after a moment, “that in writing her name, and the other miscellaneous words and phrases we saw earlier, he was endeavouring to imitate her hand, so that he could sign letters and papers in her name and give the impression that she had signed them herself.”

  “Why should he do that?”

  “There may be some official documents, which require both their signatures, and as your aunt is not here to sign for herself, your uncle has no doubt forged her signature.”

  “Will people not know that she is no longer at East Harrington?”

  “Not necessarily. Your uncle has dealings with, among others, solicitors in Gray’s Inn, in London. No doubt they will occasionally send someone up here, but most of the time the business will be conducted by post. I doubt that they are aware that your aunt is not still at the Hall. I have made a note of the solicitor’s address. Tomorrow, I shall run down to Gray’s Inn and swear an affidavit of all that I have discovered here today.”

  “Do you think that the documents you mention have anything to do with Edwin or me?”

  “Quite possibly.”

  “I know that we were left a little money in my father’s will, and that our aunt and uncle draw on this, to pay for our upkeep.”

  “The sum of money involved is perhaps somewhat greater than you realize, but yes, that is part of the subject of your uncle’s dealings with the solicitors at Gray’s Inn. Now, Miss Borrow, if you could answer a question for me: do you recall how your tutor, Mr Theakston, left the house on the evening he departed?”

  The girl nodded. “He left for the railway station in this trap. I was watching from an upstairs window.”

  “Was the trap driven by the groom?”