The Mammoth Book of New Sherlock Holmes Adventures (54 page)

“Someone has made a fire,” I said, as he stirred the blackened ashes on the rough floor with his boot. “A tramp has been living here, perhaps.”

“Perhaps, Watson,” he said, as though his thoughts were far away.

Then he stooped to pick up a small slip of cardboard from the remains of the fire. I went across to see what he had found. I made out the faint white lettering on a blue background: carroll and co.

“What does it mean, Holmes?”

“I do not yet know,” he said reflectively. “Time will tell. I think I have seen enough here to confirm my tentative theories. In the meantime we must get back to the cottage before it is completely dark.”

And he led the way up the quarry at a swift pace. He put his finger to his lips as we drew close to our destination and bending down behind the large boulder our client had indicated, he brought out the massive wrought-iron key. It was the work of a moment to open the cottage door and re-lock it from the other side. The key turned smoothly so it was obvious why Smedhurst’s mysterious intruder had been able to gain entry so easily.

“Could we have a light, Holmes?” I whispered.

“There is a dark lantern on the table yonder, which I observed on our previous visit. I think we might risk it for a few minutes to enable us to settle down. If he is coming at all tonight our man will not move until long after dark. I have baited the trap. Now let us just see what comes to the net.”

I could not repress a shudder at these words, and I felt something of the terror that Smedhurst had experienced in that lonely place. But the comforting feel of my revolver in my overcoat did much to reassure me. I lit the lantern, shielding the match with my hand, and when we had deposited our sandwiches and made ourselves comfortable in two wing chairs, I closed the shutter of the lantern so that only a thin line of luminescence broke the darkness. I placed it beneath the table where it could not be seen from the windows, and after loading my pistol and securing the safety catch I placed it and my whisky flask near at hand as the light slowly faded.

What can I say of that dreary vigil? That the dark cloud of horror which seemed to hang about the cottage that night will remain with me until my dying day. Combined with the melancholy screeching of distant owls, it merely emphasized the sombreness of our night watch. Holmes seemed impervious to all this for he sat immobile in his chair, for I could see his calm face in the dim light that still filtered through the parlour windows. Presently we ate the sandwiches and fortified with draughts of whisky from my flask, I became more alert. Several hours must have passed when I became aware that Holmes had stirred in his chair.

“I think the moment is approaching. Your pistol, Watson, if you please.”

Then I heard what his keen ears had already caught. A very faint, furtive scraping on the rocky path that led to the cottage. I had the pistol in my hand now and eased off the safety catch. The clouds had lifted momentarily and pale moonlight outlined the casement bars. By its spectral glow I suddenly saw a ghastly, crumpled face appear in the nearest frame and I almost cried aloud. But Holmes’s hand was on my arm and I waited with racing heart.

Then there was a metallic click and a key inserted from outside began to turn the lock. I was about to whisper to my companion when the door was suddenly flung wide and cold, damp air flowed into the room. We were both on our feet now. I vaguely glimpsed two figures in the doorway and then Holmes had thrown the shutter of the dark lantern back and its light flooded in, dispelling the gloom and revealing a dark-clad figure and behind him, the hideous thing that had appeared at the window. A dreadful cry of alarm and dismay, the pounding of feet back down the path and then the horrible creature had turned the other way.

“Quickly, Watson! Time is of the essence! I recognized the second man but we must identify the other.”

We were racing down the tangled pathway now, stumbling over the rocky surface but the white-faced creature was quicker still. I discharged my pistol into the air and our quarry dodged aside and redoubled its efforts. Then we were in thick bushes and I fired again. The flash and the explosion were followed by the most appalling cry. When we rounded the next corner I could see by the light of the lantern which Holmes still carried, that the thing had misjudged the distance on the blind bend and had fallen straight down into the quarry.

“It cannot have survived that fall, Holmes,” I said.

He shook his head.

“It was not your fault, old fellow. But we must hasten down in case he needs medical aid.”

A few minutes later we had scrambled to ground level and cautiously approached the motionless thing with the smashed body that told my trained eye that he had died instantly. I gently turned him over while Holmes held the lantern. When he removed the hideous carnival mask we found ourselves looking into the bloodied face of young Ashton, the surveyor, whose expression bore all the elements of shock and surprise that one often finds in cases of violent death.

6

Holmes’s hammering at the knocker of the substantial Georgian house at the edge of the town, presently brought a tousled house-keeper holding a candle in a trembling hand to a ground-floor window.

“I must see your master at once!” said Holmes. “I know he has just returned home so do not tell me that he cannot be disturbed. It is a matter of life and death!”

The door was unbolted at once and we slipped inside.

“Do not be alarmed, my good woman,” said Holmes gently. “Despite the hour, our errand is a vital one. I see by the muddy footprints on the parquet that your master has only recently returned. Pray tell him to come downstairs or we shall have to go up to him.”

The housekeeper nodded, the fright slowly fading from her face.

“I will not be a moment, gentlemen. Just let me light this lamp on the hall table.”

We sat down on two spindly chairs to wait, listening to the mumbled conversation going on above. The man who staggered down the stairs to meet us was a completely changed apparition to the smooth professional we had previously met.

“You may leave us, Mrs Hobbs,” he said through trembling lips.

He looked from one to the other of us while anger and despair fought for mastery in his features.

“What is the meaning of this intrusion in the middle of the night, Mr Robinson?”

“My name is Sherlock Holmes,” said my companion sternly. “Your friend is dead. We must have the truth or you are a lost man!”

Amos Hardcastle’s face was ashen. He mumbled incoherently and I thought he was going to have a stroke. I put my hand under his arm to help him down the last few treads and he almost fell into the chair I had just vacated. He looked round blankly, as though in a daze.

“Jabez Crawley’s nephew dead? And you are the detective, Sherlock Holmes.”

“Tell us the truth, Mr Hardcastle,” said Holmes, a smile of triumph on his face. “Or shall I tell the story for you.”

Something like anger flared momentarily in the lawyer’s eyes.

“My client …” he began but Holmes cut him short.

“Must I repeat; your client is dead. He tried to kill Mr Smedhurst. That makes you an accessory.”

The lawyer’s face turned even whiter if that were possible.

“I knew nothing of that,” he whispered. “Did you kill him?”

This to me. I shook my head.

“No. He fell over the edge of the quarry.”

“I will have you disbarred for unprofessional conduct and you will stand trial for criminal conspiracy and accessory to attempted murder,” said Holmes sternly. “It was unfortunate for you that I recognized you by the light of the lantern.”

“I beg you, Mr Holmes!”

“The time is long past for begging. Let me just try to reconstruct your dishonest sequence of events. I am sure you will correct me if I am wrong.”

Holmes sat down in a chair opposite the crushed figure of the lawyer and eyed him grimly.

“Let us just suppose that old Jabez Crawley did not leave a proper will. Just a scribbled note or two, leaving the cottage to his nephew in Australia, his only surviving relative. And supposing he had hinted that there was something valuable hidden there, without indicating its whereabouts. Money perhaps, bonds or the deeds to properties. There were two keys to the cottage. There had to be or you and the nephew could never have gone there and made searches while Mr Smedhurst was out. But that is to run ahead. Am I correct so far?”

The old man nodded sullenly. He looked like a cornered rat with his hair awry and his muddy clothes.

“You wrote to the nephew in Australia at his last known address. You got no reply, I presume?”

“No, sir. More than eight months had passed and I surmised that young Ashton had either died or moved to some other country.”

Holmes smiled thinly.

“You had many fruitless searches at the cottage in the interim – without result. So you sold it to Mr Smedhurst and pocketed the proceeds. You are a pretty scoundrel, even for a provincial lawyer.”

Hardcastle flushed but said nothing, his haunted eyes shifting first to Holmes and then on to me.

“After a long interval you got a reply from the nephew. Your letter had gone astray or been delayed. All this is fairly elementary.”

“I think it quite remarkable, Holmes,” I interjected. “I had no idea …”

“Later, old fellow,” he interrupted. “So young Ashton made his way here and you gave him all the information at your disposal without, of course, telling him that he was the rightful owner of the cottage and that you had yourself sold it and kept the money.”

One look at the lawyer’s face told me that once again my companion had arrived at the right conclusion.

“You worked out a plan of campaign. The nephew would try and sow a little discord between Smedhurst and his fiancée, in the most subtle way, of course, at the same time keeping an eye on Smedhurst’s activities. Then the pair of you invented the series of ghostly happenings. When you drew a blank there and further searches threw no light on old Crawley’s secret, you resorted to stronger measures, with the apparition at the window and then, finally, a short while ago, the attempt at murder.”

The old man wrung his hands.

“I can assure you, Mr Holmes …”

“Well, that is a matter between you and the police,” said Holmes curtly. “We must inform them about the body in the quarry and the circumstances first thing in the morning, Watson. It is almost dawn, anyway.”

“Of course, Holmes.”

I glanced at my pocket watch and saw that it was almost four a.m. I felt a sudden weariness following the events of the night.

“What about the cave in the quarry?” I asked.

“That was as clear as crystal, Watson. When carrying out his dangerous masquerade, Ashton needed a refuge and an opportunity for a ghostly disappearance. He found the place near the cottage which suited his purposes admirably. When he had made his escape and was sure no one had followed, he lit the candle and tidied his clothing. Perhaps he cleaned his shoes if they were coated with mud.”

“But the fire, Holmes?”

He gave a thin smile.

“Why, simply to burn that huge papier-mâché carnival mask, Watson. The fragment of label unburned, reading carroll and co. showed that the mask had been bought from a well-known Soho emporium specializing in such things. Obviously, Ashton had bought a number of them.”

“Yes, but how would he take them to the cottage, Holmes?”

“Why, probably in a large paper bag. No one would take any notice when he passed through the town in broad daylight. The early hours were another matter. He could not risk taking that mask through the town to his house at dead of night in case he were seen; he might even have been stopped and questioned by the local constable. Hence the fire. Correct, Mr Hardcastle?”

“You are a devil, Mr Holmes,” was the man’s broken reply. “But you are correct in every detail.”

We left the shattered figure of Hardcastle huddled on the chair and walked back toward the centre of the town.

“How did you come to suspect Ashton?” I said.

“There was the irony, Watson. It could have been anyone in Parvise Magna. But then the idea grew in my mind. Ashton was young and personable; he had come from Australia; soon after the ghostly manifestations had appeared; and he had attached himself to Smedhurst’s fiancée.”

“Remarkable, Holmes.”

“You do me too much credit, my dear fellow.”

“I wonder what the secret of the cottage is?” I said.

He shrugged.

“Only time will tell. Otherwise, a very obvious affair”.

7

And so it proved. Some weeks later I came to the breakfast table to find Holmes smiling broadly. He passed a cheque across to me and my eyes widened as I read the amount above Smedhurst’s signature.

“Our artist has struck lucky at last, Watson,” he said. “His letter is full of news. He has shaved off his beard and is reunited with his fiancée.”

“Excellent, Holmes.”

“And there is more. Just glance at these two newspaper cuttings.”

The first related to the preliminary police court proceedings against Hardcastle, which Holmes and I had attended, and his subsequent striking off the legal rolls. The opening of the inquest on Ashton, which we were also required to attend had been held
in camera
due to the involvement of Hardcastle in these proceedings also, and had been adjourned
sine die.
Therefore there had been no reports of these proceedings in the Dorset or national newspapers. During the inquest a high-ranking police officer had informed Holmes that a sporting rifle with one spent cartridge in the breech had been found at Ashton’s home, together with a number of carnival masks.

The second cutting was even more sensational than the first. It was a lurid tale of an artist who had discovered £20,000 in golden guineas in a series of tin boxes beneath the oak flooring of his studio. There was no mention of Holmes, as I had expected, and the report merely concluded with the information that the discovery had been made by a carpenter carrying out work for Smedhurst.

“And here is something for you, Watson.”