“I recall now,” said Mrs Hartley Lessingham, “that about that same time – not the same night, but it might have been the next one – I heard the carriage coming very late in the evening, when it was already pitch black. I thought that my husband was coming to persecute me further, but no one entered the mill. Instead, after a while I heard Legbourne Legge’s voice and, I believe, my husband’s, from somewhere outside. Then came the sound of digging in that little wood out there. This carried on for some time, then, eventually, I heard the sound of the carriage leaving again.”
Holmes shook his head, his features grave. “Then we can only conclude that somewhere in that little wood is the last resting place of the unfortunate Mr Theakston. I am sorry to speak of these things so bluntly, Harriet,” he continued, addressing the girl, “but we cannot avoid the truth.”
“I understand,” said she, biting her lip.
“I promise you that I will do my utmost to bring these wicked people to justice.”
“If the matter is as you surmise,” said Mrs Hartley Lessingham, “Mr Theakston’s blood may not be the first they have upon their hands. When first I was held captive here, my gaoler was a man called Meadowcroft, who had at one time been in charge of the mill, although he was a dreadful drunk. But one night I heard a terrific quarrel down by the riverbank, between, as far as I could tell, Meadowcroft and my husband. What it was about, I do not know – perhaps Meadowcroft was trying to blackmail my husband over my presence here – but it ended with the sound of a violent struggle, and then a scream from Meadowcroft. After that evening, I never saw him again, and did not know what had become of him.”
“He was found in the river,” said Miss Borrow. “Everyone thought he had just fallen in and drowned.”
“There!” cried Holmes as, with a final powerful blow, he managed at last to force the hinge of the manacle apart. “When you are ready, madam, we can depart. But what is that?” cried he, as the unmistakable sound of honking and gabbling, and the heavy beat of a thousand wings, came to our ears. “Something has put the geese up again!”
“I cannot see,” said I, looking from the window. “Something has certainly startled them, but the view is obscured by the wood. No, wait! There are horses coming! It is a carriage!”
I craned from the window as the carriage drew up in front of the mill. “It is Hartley Lessingham!” I cried.
“Let us take a look at this outside staircase,” said Holmes, sliding back the bolts and opening the door in the far wall. “It looks a little precarious, does it not?” said he as I joined him there. Outside the door was a small, splintering, rotten-looking wooden platform, from which a very long, dilapidated stair led down, in stages, to the stone embankment of the river far below, by the great mill-wheel.
“For myself, I would risk it,” said I, “but we cannot ask Mrs Hartley Lessingham and the children to descend that way.”
“I agree,” said Holmes. “We must therefore stay and meet Hartley Lessingham face to face in here.”
We turned back to the room as there came the sound of rapid footsteps on the stair. Then, for a moment, they stopped, and I heard a man’s voice, harsh and angry. “Get out of my way, you stupid woman!” he shouted. This was followed by a cry of fear and the sound of someone falling heavily down the stairs. Moments later, Hartley Lessingham burst into the room, brandishing a stout black walking stick, followed by Miss Rogerson and Captain Legbourne Legge. The children cried out with terror at the sight of him and clung to the side of their aunt, who had pressed herself back against the wall. I could not wonder at their alarm, for Hartley Lessingham was indeed a fearsome sight, well over six feet tall, and as broad as an ox. For a moment, this gigantic figure stood in silence, surveying us all, his features twisted and purple with rage.
“That’s the man!” cried Miss Rogerson all at once in a shrill voice, pointing her finger at me. “He was with the girl in London; I’m sure of it!”
“You!” said Hartley Lessingham in a thunderous tone, approaching me. “How dare you trespass upon my property! You are this person, Sherlock Holmes, I take it,” he continued, reading from a card in his hand and spitting the name out with fiery venom.
“No, he isn’t,” interjected Holmes in a calm voice. “I am.”
“Oh?” said Hartley Lessingham, turning to Holmes and advancing upon him menacingly. “So you are responsible for this impudent intrusion into my private affairs?”
“If you wish to put it that way, then, yes, I am.”
“You impertinent scoundrel!” cried Hartley Lessingham, tearing up Holmes’s card and casting the pieces to the floor. “You scum! I didn’t like the look of you when I saw you earlier! I should have run you off the estate there and then, you infernal, interfering busybody!”
“Well, we all have regrets from time to time,” remarked Holmes in a careless tone.
“You dare to trifle with me?” thundered Hartley Lessingham. “You who are nothing but the dirt beneath my feet?”
“Dirt I may be, but at least I haven’t imprisoned my own wife and vilely abused children who were left in my care.”
“I’ll teach you to meddle in my affairs!” cried Hartley Lessingham in a menacing tone. He took his black stick in both hands, there came a sharp click, and from within the stick he drew forth a long, deadly-looking steel rapier.
I heard Holmes murmur my name, caught his eye for a split second, and saw it dart to a pile of short wooden staves that lay by my feet. Perceiving at once his meaning, I had, in another split second, stooped, picked up one of the staves, which was about three feet in length, and tossed it across to him. He snatched it from the air with his right hand, although his eye never for an instant left his adversary, who was advancing menacingly upon him, making slashes in the air with his rapier. Slowly and warily, the two men circled each other, their weapons held on guard. Without taking my eyes off them, I picked up another of the staves. What might happen in the desperate contest before me, I could not envisage, but I feared for my friend’s safety and held my stave ready to intervene the moment it appeared necessary.
I saw Hartley Lessingham’s eyes flicker in my direction, and he had evidently seen me pick up the stave, for he called to Legbourne Legge without turning his head. “Get your pistols, Legge! We’ll sort out these damned vermin once and for all!” At this, Legbourne Legge turned and hurried from the room, and I heard the rapid clatter of his footsteps down the stair.
My mind raced as I debated with myself the best course of action. I could position myself to the side of the doorway and strike at Legbourne Legge as he returned, and thus perhaps knock the pistol from his grasp, but Miss Rogerson might warn him that I was waiting for him. Perhaps, then, I should go to meet him on the stair, but then my own position would be too exposed and I should lose the element of surprise. Besides, if I left the room, I should not be able to help Holmes, and the children and their aunt would be left unguarded. Even as I considered the question, Hartley Lessingham made a slashing cut at Holmes. The latter managed to parry it with his stick, but then came another and another, as Holmes was slowly forced backwards towards the corner of the room. Upon Hartley Lessingham’s face was an expression of murderous hatred, and it was clear that we could expect no quarter from such a man. I could not possibly leave my post: I should just have to deal with Legbourne Legge as best I could when he returned.
The fight before me was becoming increasingly desperate. Back and forth went Holmes and his opponent, thrusting and parrying, slashing and blocking. Holmes had managed to extricate himself from the corner with a brief sally, but had been forced back again against the wall, and it was evident that Hartley Lessingham was slowly but surely gaining the upper hand and closing in, awaiting that split-second of a chance when his opponent’s guard would drop, and he could make the thrust which would end the struggle. Holmes, as I knew, was an expert at singlestick, and had taken part in competitions both at single-stick and fencing during his college days, but armed only with a stout stic
k against this gigantic, powerful opponent, who was clearly an accomplished swordsman, I doubted if he could resist for much longer.
Then, as Hartley Lessingham made a series of rapid thrusts, accompanied by blood-curdling cries of triumph, the sound of a horse’s hooves and the rattle of a carriage harness came to my ears. What it meant, I could not tell. I could only guess that Legbourne Legge was leaving, but for what reason, I could not imagine. Next moment, my attention was once more entirely taken up by the deadly fight before me. Holmes had been caught on the hand by his opponent’s rapier, for I saw a streak of blood across his knuckles. Hartley Lessingham evidently saw it, too, for he let out a howl of triumph and tossed his head back, like a wild beast scenting victory. At that precise instant, Holmes launched a sudden counter-attack of his own, and seized the initiative. Right and left went his staff, as he forced his way forward, and Hartley Lessingham attempted to parry. Then he struck a sharp blow on Hartley Lessingham’s sword hand and, in the split second that his opponent’s guard was down, made a straight thrust with his staff with all his might, and caught his opponent full in the face with the end of it.
There came a wild howl of pain from Hartley Lessingham, and as he clutched his face, which was streaming with blood, the sword slipped from his grasp and fell to the floor. In the same moment, Holmes caught him a powerful blow on the side of the head, and he staggered backwards, still holding his face in his hands, until his back was against the wall. There he stood, panting and howling for several minutes, like some wild beast at bay. Then as he began to recover himself, he lowered his hands from his blood-smeared face and looked with baleful venom at Holmes, who had remained all this time in the centre of the room, unmoving.
“You will pay for this,” cried Hartley Lessingham, in a voice that was hoarse and full of fury. “You will pay with your life! Legge!” he cried loudly. “Where is that damned fool? Legge!”
There came the sound of someone bounding up the stairs at a terrific rate, but the man who burst into the room a moment later was not the corpulent Captain Legbourne Legge, but a sturdily built, sandy-haired man. His face seemed vaguely familiar to me, but for several seconds I could not place him. Then, with a jolt of surprise, I realized that he was the man Holmes and I had observed in the cab in Fleet Street the previous day, watching Harriet Borrow.
“Edgar!” cried Mrs Hartley Lessingham. “What on earth—”
“I have long suspected that things were not right in these parts,” said the newcomer, “but I was loath to interfere. I wrote in the spring, but was told by your husband that you had gone away, and that he did not know your whereabouts. Then, just this last week, I received a letter from a gentleman in London, giving me some fresh facts. He seemed to be under the impression, for some reason, that I might know where you were. I decided to make my own enquiries, which I have been doing for several days, until I resolved last night that I would come down and see for myself what was happening here. And I have come, it seems, not a moment too soon!”
“You’re never too soon, Shepherd,” said Hartley Lessingham in a sneering tone. “You’re always too late! You’ve missed all the entertainment! Now get out of my way!”
“Not so fast, Lessingham,” returned Shepherd, holding his ground as Hartley Lessingham made to push past him. “I have some questions for you.”
“What you have is of no interest to me!” said Hartley Lessingham in a supercilious tone, but he stopped as Holmes and I closed in on him with our staves. “You scum!” he cried at us, backing away a little. “Legge!” he called again. “Where the devil are you?”
“Your fat friend is having a little trouble loading his pistol,” said Shepherd. “He can’t help you.”
At this, Miss Rogerson ran from the room, and I heard her shouting down the stairs to Legbourne Legge. Hartley Lessingham backed slowly away from us, his eyes darting this way and that, like a rat in a trap, then, abruptly, he turned and made a bolt for the door in the end wall, snatched it open and, before we could stop him, had dashed out and down the steps outside.
I raced to the doorway and looked down. Hartley Lessingham was already some way down the staircase, which was swaying alarmingly at every footfall. Then he turned and looked up at us, an expression of savage hatred upon his features.
“You will all regret this!” he screamed at the top of his voice, shaking a huge knotted fist at us in wild, uncontrolled rage. But in turning to face us, he had leaned his weight upon the flimsy handrail, and even as he shook his fist, I heard the splintering crack of the rotten wood, and watched with horror as the broken handrail fell away and Hartley Lessingham pitched headlong from the stair. He made a desperate grab for one of the upright poles that had held the handrail, but it snapped clean off in his grasp like a matchstick, and with a terrible scream, he plunged down, down, until he hit the great water-wheel with a sickening thud and lay there like a broken doll. For a moment I stared in horror at this dreadful scene, but even from that distance I could see that he was dead.
I turned as there came the sound of rapid footsteps from behind us. Legbourne Legge dashed into the room, brandishing one of his old-fashioned pistols. He looked from one to the other of us, and as he did so, his mouth fell open in an expression of stupid incomprehension.
“Where the devil is Lessingham?” he demanded of Miss Rogerson, who had followed him into the room.
“It’s all up, Legge,” said Holmes in a voice of authority. “Hartley Lessingham is dead, and you’ll be arrested for the murder of Theakston. We have a witness.”
For a moment Legbourne Legge stood there in silence, a look of indecision upon his fat, flabby face as he pointed his pistol at each of us in turn. Then, in an instant, he abruptly put the pistol up to the side of his head, pulled the trigger and blew his own brains out.
Mrs Hartley Lessingham screamed as Legbourne Legge’s lifeless body slumped to the floor, and the children buried their faces in her skirts. Then, as his blood spread out across the dusty floor, Miss Rogerson uttered a sharp cry and ran from the room and down the stair. With an expression of great weariness, Holmes cast aside his stave and picked up his jacket from where it lay by the wall. Then he stepped forward to usher the others from the room.
“What in the name of Heaven has been happening here?” cried Shepherd, a mixture of bewilderment and horror in his voice.
“Let us first get everyone downstairs and away from here,” responded Holmes as he pulled on his jacket. “I will answer later any questions you may have, Shepherd. For now, let us waste no time in shaking from our feet the dust of this vile and ill-starred place.”
AN INCIDENT IN SOCIETY
DURING THE YEARS I SHARED ROOMS with Sherlock Holmes, the number of those who came to seek his help was perfectly stupendous. From every walk of life they came, so that upon our stair in Baker Street, monarchs, statesmen and noblemen would rub shoulders with tailors, shopkeepers and clerks. As might be supposed, there were, among the many cases that Holmes handled over the years, some which involved those whose names were familiar in every household in the land. In the main, I have passed over such cases when selecting those to be published, lest I lay myself open to a charge of sensationalism. In some, however, the facts were in themselves sufficiently remarkable to warrant publication, and I would be doing my readers a disservice were I to ignore them altogether. An especially memorable such episode occurred one December in the early ’80s. Though the matter was never reported in the papers, it was one that touched upon issues of enormous national importance.
There were at that time, among the many notable members of London Society, two women of very differing reputations and antecedents. The first was the Duchess of Pont, widow of the great statesman whose premature death had been such a grievous loss to the nation. She was renowned for the parties she gave at her house in Belgravia, a singular blend of gaiety and serious discussion, for it was her habit to include among her guests many prominent politicians, writers and diplomats. It was well known that mo
re than one foreign statesman had travelled halfway across Europe simply for the privilege of being present at one of the Duchess of Pont’s parties, and it was said that many political decisions of international importance had had their origins in informal discussions at her house.
The second woman was Grizelda Magdalena Hoffmannstal, although it was not certain that this was her real name. She styled herself the Princess Zelda, but the provenance of her title was a matter of some debate, as, indeed, were her antecedents in general. She herself never revealed anything of her past, and the mystery that seemed to surround her inevitably led to wild conjecture and an air of glamour. This she appeared to enjoy, and she certainly never did anything to dispel it. Some said that she was enormously wealthy, and it was undoubtedly true that she lived in a fashion that bespoke great wealth. But it is doubtful if she ever paid out a penny from her own purse, for she was never lacking for gentlemen admirers, who were only too willing to do whatever might be necessary to gain her favour. Needless to say, the female half of London Society took a somewhat less favourable view of the Princess Zelda, but on the whole the Press ignored this point of view. There were also rumours in some quarters that the princess was a spy, in the pay of several foreign governments at once and in London only to work mischief, but little credence was given to this view. Sherlock Holmes, however, averred on more than one occasion that the Princess Zelda was undoubtedly the most dangerous woman in London. This struck me at the time as a somewhat exaggerated claim, but as I had found in the past that Holmes’s opinions invariably proved nearer to the mark than those expressed in the public prints, I reserved my opinion.
The Mammoth Book of the Lost Chronicles of Sherlock Holmes Page 55