Solar Pons: The Final Cases

1

It was a dreary evening in early March when I returned to our familiar rooms in Baker Street. I was soaked to the skin for it had been raining earlier and I could not find a cab, and the dark clouds and louring skies promised a further downpour. As I opened the door to our welcoming sitting room, which was in semi-darkness, a familiar voice broke the silence.

“Come in my dear Watson. Mrs Hudson will be up with a hot meal in a few minutes, as I had already observed you from the window, my poor fellow.”

“Very good of you, Holmes,” I mumbled. “I will just get into some dry things and rejoin you.”

“It must have been very damp down Hackney way,” my friend observed with a dry chuckle.

“How could you possibly know that. Holmes?” I said in some surprise.

He burst into a throaty laugh.

“Because you inadvertently left your engagement pad on the table yonder.”

When I returned to the sitting room the lamps were alight and the apartment transformed, with the motherly figure of Mrs Hudson, our amiable landlady, bustling about laying the table, the covered dishes on which were giving off an agreeable aroma.

“Ah, shepherd’s pie!” said Holmes, rubbing his thin hands together and drawing up his chair.

“You have excelled yourself this evening, Mrs Hudson.”

“Very kind of you to say so, sir.”

She paused at the door, an anxious expression on her face.

“Did your visitor come back, Mr Holmes?”

“Visitor, Mrs Hudson?”

“Yes, sir. I was just going out, you see, and he said he would not bother you now. He said he would be back between six-thirty and seven-thirty, if that was convenient. I hope I have done right.”

“Certainly, Mrs Hudson.”

Holmes glanced at the clock over the mantel.

“It is only six o’clock now so we have plenty of time to do justice to your excellent meal. What sort of person would you say?”

“A foreign-looking gentleman, Mr Holmes. About forty, with a huge beard. He wore a plaid cape, a wide-brimmed hat and carried a shabby-looking holdall.”

I paused with a portion of shepherd’s pie halfway to my mouth.

“Why, you would make an admirable detective yourself, Mrs Hudson.”

Our good landlady flushed.

“Kind of you to say so, sir! Shall I show him up as soon as he arrives. Mr Holmes?”

“If you please.”

Holmes was silent as we made inroads into the excellent fare and it had just turned seven when he produced his pipe and pouch and sat himself back in his chair by the fire.

“A foreign gentleman with a beard and a shabby case, Homes,” I said at length, after the debris of our meal had been cleared and the room had resumed its normal aspect.

“Perhaps, Watson. But he may be an Englishman with a very mundane problem. It is unwise to speculate without sufficient data on which to base a prognosis.”

“As you say, Holmes.” I replied and sat down opposite him and immersed myself in the latest edition of The Lancet. It was just half-past seven and we had closed the curtains against the sheeting rain when there came a hesitant tap at the sitting room door. The apparition which presented itself was indeed bizarre and Mrs Hudson’s matter of fact description had not prepared me for such a sight.

He was of great height, and his dark beard, turning slightly grey at the edges, now flecked with rain, hung down over his plaid coat like a mat. His eyes were a brilliant blue underneath cavernous brows and his eyebrows, in contrast to the beard, were jet- black, which enhanced the piercing glance he gave to Holmes and myself. I had not time to take in anything else for I was now on my feet to extend a welcome. He stood just inside the door, water dripping from his clothing on to the carpet, looking owlishly from myself to Holmes, who had also risen from his chair.

“Mr Holmes? Dr Watson?” he said hesitantly in a deep bass voice.

“That is he,” I said, performing the introductions.

He gave an embarrassed look to both of us.

“I must apologise for this intrusion, gentlemen. Aristide Smedhurst at your service. Artist and writer for my pains. I would not have bothered you, Mr Holmes, but I am in the most terrible trouble.”

“This is the sole purpose of this agency — to assist,” said Holmes, extending a thin hand to our strange guest.

“Watson, would you be so kind? I think, under the circumstances, a stiff whisky would not come amiss.”

“Of course, Holmes,” I said, hastening to the sideboard.

“That is most gracious of you, gentlemen,” said Smedhurst, allowing himself to be led to a comfortable chair by the fire.

As I handed him the whisky glass his face came forward into the light and I saw that he had an unnatural pallor on his cheeks.

“Thank you, Dr Watson.”

He gulped the fiery liquid gratefully and then, seeing Holmes’ sharp eyes upon him, gave an apologetic shrug.

“Forgive me, Mr Holmes, but if you had been through what I have experienced, it would be enough to shake even your iron nerve.”

“Indeed,” said Holmes in reassuring tones. “Pray do not apologise, my dear Mr Smedhurst. I observed when you first entered that your cape and trousers were covered in mud, as though you had fallen heavily. You have come all the way from Dorset today, I presume, so the matter must be serious.”

Our strange visitor gazed at Holmes open-mouthed.

“I did indeed have a nasty fall in my anxiety to catch my train. But how on earth could you know I come from Dorset?”

My old friend got up to light a spill for his pipe from the fire.

“There was nothing extraordinary about my surmise, I can assure you. Watson and I attended your exhibition at the Royal Academy last summer. Those extraordinary oils, water colours and pencil sketches of those weird landscapes remained long in my memory…”

“Why, of course, Holmes…” I broke in.

“And the exhibition catalogue, if I am not mistaken, gave your address in Dorset and said that you habitually worked in that fascinating part of the world,” Holmes went on smoothly. “But you have a problem, obviously.”

“Yes, Mr Holmes. I thought Dorset was fascinating at first,” went on Smedhurst bitterly. “But no longer after my experiences of the past two years.”

“But you called earlier and then went away. Why was that?”

A haunted look passed across the bearded man’s face.

“I thought I was followed here,” he mumbled, draining his glass. He eagerly accepted the replenishment I offered him.

“You are among friends, Mr Smedhurst,” Holmes went on. “Pray take your time. You are staying in town, of course.”

“At the Clarence, yes.”

“An admirable establishment. Which means you are not pressed for time this evening?”

“No, sir.”

The haggard look was back on our visitor’s face.

“For God’s sake, Mr Holmes, help me! This ghastly thing has appeared again. Both my sanity and my life are at stake!”

2

There was a long silence in the room, broken only by the distant clatter of a passing hansom. Holmes waited until our visitor had regained his calm and then gently asked him to continue. Draining the contents of his second glass of whisky with one fierce gulp, Smedhurst plunged straight into his story.

“I had grown tired of London, Mr Holmes, and felt the need of country air. There was also a young lady with whom I had forged an attachment. We had met at one of my exhibitions and I had escorted her to several functions in London. She lived at Parvise Magna, a small village in Dorset, so when I went down I searched for a suitable dwelling in the area. I soon found what I wanted. It was an ancient cottage and needed a lot of repair but stood in its own land about a mile from the village. It had belonged to an old man, Jabez Crawley, who had let it go to rack and ruin, and who had died the previous year. However, I negotiated a fair price with a local lawyer who had handled Crawley’s affairs, and moved in. At first, all went well and when my renovations had been completed I was extremely happy.”

Here Smedhurst paused and flushed slightly. Holmes leaned forward in his chair, a gentle smile softening his austere features.

“You had come to an understanding with this young lady?”

“Exactly so, Mr Holmes. A Miss Eveline Reynolds, a very charming person.”

“I can well imagine, Mr Smedhurst,” I put in.

Holmes’ smile widened.

“Ah, there is your romantic streak again, Watson.”

“Well. Mr Holmes,” our visitor continued, “as I have indicated things went well. Admirably. I had my studio on the first floor of the cottage and was turning out good work. Eveline — Miss Reynolds, that is — was a frequent visitor to the cottage and I also visited her home. She is an orphan and lives with an elderly aunt, the latter making me welcome enough. The first indication that something was wrong occurred a few months after my taking up residence. I returned home from a visit to Eveline one evening to find the premises in some disarray. Things had been moved from their familiar places, there were muddy boot-marks on the stairs, and some canvases in the studio had been disturbed.”

“In other words a search had been made,” said Holmes, a gleam of interest in his eyes.

“Exactly, sir. To say I was extremely annoyed, let alone alarmed and dismayed, would not adequately describe my feelings. I lit every lamp in the place and made a thorough search but found nothing.”

“The front door had been securely locked?”

“Certainly, Mr Holmes. I would never leave my home in that lonely place without first making all secure.”

“Perhaps your domestic help…” I put in.

Smedhurst shook his head.

“I have a woman who comes in twice a week to do some cleaning and cooking but she arrives only when I am there.”

“No-one else has a key?” said Holmes.

“Not that I am aware of, Mr Holmes. There is only one key, an enormous thing more suited to the Bastille. The lawyer explained that the old man was terrified of being robbed and insisted on one key only and had a special lock fitted.”

“And the back door?”

“Firmly locked and bolted.”

“Nothing was stolen?”

“I made a thorough inventory but nothing was missing, so far as I could make out.”

“Did Miss Reynolds have a key?”

Again the vehement shake of the head.

“I offered to have one made for her but she did not wish it. We both felt it might compromise her.”

“Quite so,” I put in.

Holmes got up to knock out his pipe in the fender, his face alive with interest.

“Hmm. This is intriguing. There is more, of course?”

“Much more, Mr Holmes, but I will be as concise as possible. The next thing that happened was strange noises around the house. Heavy footsteps as though someone were on the prowl. Then the front door latch would be tried. That was the most frightening thing of all, Mr Holmes. In a lonely cottage, late at night, all sorts of thoughts pass through one’s head.”

“Quite so.”

“And then there were ghostly tappings at the window. I can tell you, Mr Holmes, that by that time my nerves were considerably on edge. These things continued for some months. In the interim Miss Reynolds and I had become engaged to be married.”

I was about to offer my congratulations when I was arrested by the warning look on Holmes’ face.

“You told your fiancée nothing about these unnerving incidents?”

“Certainly not.”

“You did not investigate these happenings?”

“I did, Mr Holmes. I have a very powerful hand lantern and I lit that and went outside. But I left the front door open, so that the light spilled across the garden, and I never moved more than three yards from the door.”

“You were very wise, Mr Smedhurst. Someone was evidently attempting to lure you from your home.”

Smedhurst turned white and caught his breath with a little gasp.

“I had not thought of that, Mr Holmes. This happened on several occasions, but I could never find anyone though there were occasional traces of boots in the mud when the weather was wet. Thank God, all these activities stopped when spring came.”

“Obviously, Mr Smedhurst. The person who was trying to frighten you could not carry out his activities during light spring and summer evenings.”

“But what is the point of all this, Mr Holmes?”

“Hopefully, we shall see in due course,” said my companion.

“Well, with the cessation of these manifestations, I regained my spirits somewhat and Miss Reynolds and I formally announced our engagement. In the meantime I visited the lawyer and in a roundabout way asked whether the former occupier of the cottage, Jabez Crawley, had ever mentioned anything out of the way there.”

“And what was this gentleman’s reaction?”

“Oh, he simply asked me a few questions about faulty drains, draught and damp and so forth and then queried whether I wished to sell the cottage.”

Holmes clasped his thin fingers before him and sat studying my client’s troubled face for a long moment.

“Last winter the things began again,” said Smedhurst. “Only it was worse this time. Not only weird noises, footsteps and tappings but one evening a fortnight ago a ghastly face like crumpled parchment appeared at the parlour window. I had left the curtains drawn back and you may remember the severe weather in February, so that there was a rime of frost on the panes. I caught a glimpse only for a moment but it turned my soul sick inside. A hideous white idiot face like a dwarf. I sat slumped for what must have been an hour without stirring outside. Nothing else happened or I should not have been able to answer for my sanity.”

“You may well say so. But you have other troubles also, Mr Smedhurst.”

The bearded man looked startled.

“I have heard that you can work miracles. Mr Holmes, and that you can almost see into people’s minds.”

Holmes gave a short laugh.

“Hardly, Mr Smedhurst. But I know a deeply troubled man when I see one. There is something beyond all this business, is there not? Something connected with Miss Reynolds?”

Smedhurst half-started from his chair and gave a strangled cry.

“You are right. Mr Holmes. There has been a growing estrangement because of all this. She wanted to know why I had changed but I did not want to involve her…”

He broke off and buried his head in his hands.

“Now I hear that she has taken up with a young man who has come to live in the village…”

Holmes put his finger to his lips and then laid his hand on our visitor’s shoulder.

“All may yet come right, Mr Smedhurst. Do not despair.”

“I have not told you the worst, Mr Holmes. Last night someone tried to shoot me as I stood outside my cottage door. It was dusk and the shot missed me by inches. I have never been so frightened in my life.”

“Perhaps a poacher with a shotgun…” I began.

Smedhurst stood up abruptly, trying to control the trembling that shook his frame.

“No, Dr Watson. I know a rifle shot when I hear one. That bullet was meant for me!”

“Why did you not call in the police. Mr Smedhurst?”

“We have only a sleepy village constable, Mr Holmes, and I had no evidence.”

Holmes was on his feet now.

“Is there an inn in this Parvise Magna of yours?”

“Yes, Mr Holmes, the George and Dragon.”

“Good. If you will telegraph for rooms we will accompany you to Dorset in the morning. I take it you would wish to come, Watson?”

“By all means, Holmes. I will just warn my locum that I may be away for several days.”

“Admirable! Your revolver, Watson, and a packet of cartridges in your luggage, if you please. We have no time to lose!”

3

It was a bitterly cold day with a fine drizzle when we left London the following morning and after several changes we found ourselves on the Somerset and Dorset Railway, in a small and uncomfortable carriage which seemed to be carrying us into a bleak and inhospitable landscape. We had the compartment to ourselves and our client, evidently exhausted from his trials of past days, sat huddled in deep sleep in a far corner. Holmes sat smoking furiously next to me, the fragrant omissions from his pipe seeming to emulate the black smoke our funny little engine was shovelling over its shoulder as we wound our interminable way into the gathering dusk.

“Well, what do you make of it, Watson?”

I shrugged.

“Pointless, Holmes. An old cottage ransacked, ghostly manifestations and then a murderous attack.”

“But it adds up to a definite pattern, my dear fellow.”

“If Mr Smedhurst has the only key to the cottage, how could a marauder gain entrance without breaking a window or something of that sort?”

“Ah, you have taken that point, have you? There must obviously be another. Or someone must have manufactured one.”

“But for what purpose, Holmes?”

“That remains to be seen,” said he, his sharp, feral face alive with interest.

“What I cannot understand,” I went on, “is why, if someone has a key, they have not been back.”

Holmes gave a dry chuckle.

“That is simple enough. He has satisfied himself that the object of his search will not be easily discernible. He may wait for the owner himself to discover it.”

“Or scare him away.”

Holmes nodded approvingly.

“Excellent, Watson. You have hit the nail on the head.”

And he said not another word until we had reached our destination. This proved to be a somewhat ramshackle halt with a plank platform and I thought I had seldom seen a more desolate spot. Several oil lanterns beneath the station canopy were already alight and cast grotesque shadows as they swayed to and fro in the rising wind. But a closed carriage, which Smedhurst had already ordered from the hotel, was waiting and once our client had shaken off the terror which had overtaken him on the train, he quickly took charge of the situation and we were speedily rocking through the approaching dusk to our journey’s end.

I was surprised to find that Parvise Magna was not really a village but a small town composed of a broad main street, long lines of stone-built cottages and larger houses; no less than two inns; an ancient church; and a covered market.

“Things are looking up, Holmes,” I said, as the cheering lights of our substantial hostelry, the George and Dragon, came into view.

It was indeed a comfortable-looking inn, with blazing log fires, and when we had quickly registered and deposited our baggage with the manager. Holmes looked inquiringly at our client.

“There should be an hour or so of daylight left. Would that be sufficient time for me to visit your cottage?”

“Oh, indeed, Mr Holmes. It would only take twenty minutes to get there, providing we can retain the carriage.”

After a brief word with the manager Smedhurst led the way round to a side yard where the equipage was still waiting, and then we were driving swiftly out of the town and up into the winding fastnesses of the blunt-nosed hills. Presently we stopped at a place where an oak finger-post pointed up the hillside.

“I think we can walk back,” said Holmes, giving the driver a half guinea for his trouble, much to that worthy’s surprise and gratitude.

“It will give us an appetite for dinner,” Holmes added.

We followed Smedhurst up a broad, zigzag path, just wide enough for a horse and cart, that eventually wound between large boulders. It was an eerie and desolate place and I should not have cared to have spent one night there, let alone made it my permanent abode. I whispered as much to Holmes and he gave me a wry smile. There was still light enough in the sky to see our way and in a short while we came to a large stone cottage set back in a rustic enclosure that might once have been a garden.

Our client then produced a massive, wrought iron key which, as he had said, might have served for the entrance to the Bastille, and unlocked the stout iron-studded front door. Holmes and I stood on the flagstone surround until Smedhurst had lit lamps within. The parlour was a huge room, with an ancient stone fireplace surmounted by a bressumer beam. The furniture was comfortable enough but the stone-flagged floor gave it a dank atmosphere, though Holmes seemed oblivious to such things. He went quickly to the large windows which fronted the room.

“This is where you saw the apparition, Mr Smedhurst?”

The tall man gulped.

“That is so, Mr Holmes. The nearest one.”

I waited while my companion examined the glass carefully. Then he went outside and I could hear his staccato footsteps going up and down. Then he reappeared, his face was absorbed and serious.

“Then the flagstone surround which appears to run round the entire house would not have shown any footprints.”

“That is so, Mr Holmes.”

“Let us just examine the rest of your abode.”

Smedhurst lit lamp after lamp as we toured the ground floor, which consisted of a simple toilet: a corridor; a store room; and a kitchen, which was primitively equipped. We went up a creaky wooden staircase to the first floor, where there were three bedrooms and a huge apartment equipped as a studio, with northern lights and canvases stacked against the walls. Holmes went over to stare at a grotesque charcoal sketch of distorted trees and bleak moorland, set all aslant by the near-genius of the artist.

“Presumably this room is the reason you bought the house?”

“That is so. Mr Holmes.”

“Very well.”

My companion suddenly became very alert.”

“We have just time to see outside before the light completely fails.”

He led the way downstairs at a rapid pace, Smedhurst and myself having difficulty in keeping up with him. We rejoined him on the paved area in front of the cottage.

“So your phantom made off in this direction?”

He pointed in front of us to where the paving gave out into a narrow path which wound among bushes. Again the haunted look passed across Smedhurst’s face and he went back and re-locked the front door.

“Yes, Mr Holmes.”

“Let us just see where this leads.”

By the yellow light of the lantern which the artist carried and which cast bizarre shadows before us, we traversed the path and presently came out on a cleared space which appeared to be floored with some hard substance difficult to make out in the dim light.

“Ah!”

Holmes drew in his breath with a sibilant hiss, as a vast black pit composed itself before us.

“A quarry, I presume?”

“Yes, Mr Holmes. I know little of such matters but I understand it was where they cut Purbeck stone with which they built houses thereabouts. It has not been in use this fifty years. It is not within my land, of course. My boundary ends just beyond the paved area and is marked with a post. I have not bothered to have a fence erected.”

“Quite so.”

Holmes was craning forward, looking intently into the forbidding depths before us.

“This place looks decidedly dangerous.”

“Yes. It is over a hundred feet deep. A sheer drop, as you can see.”

“But an ideal spot into which your phantom might have disappeared.”

Smedhurst gave us a startled look in the yellow light of the lantern he carried. There was a leprous glow on the far horizon and I was in a sombre mood as our small procession made its way back to the cottage. Smedhurst unlocked the front door and extended his hand in farewell.

“Will you not join us for dinner and stay the night at our hotel?” I said.

He shook his head.

“I do not care to be about after dark in these parts, gentlemen. But I will join you at the George tomorrow.”

“About midday,” Holmes replied. “I have a few calls to make in the morning. Until then.”

As we walked away we could hear the grating of the lock and the ponderous shooting of bolts at the great front door. At that moment I would not have changed places with our client for anything in the world.

“What a grim place, Holmes,” I said as we walked swiftly back through the gloom toward the faint glow that indicated the welcoming streets of Parvise Magna.

“Ah, I see you lack the artistic temperament, Watson,” said Holmes.

Our footsteps echoed unnaturally on the uneven, rocky surface of the path and dark clouds obscured the moon, only a few faint stars staring out on the horizon.

“I prefer 22IB, Holmes,” I said.

My companion chuckled, a long chain of sparks from his pipe, which he had lit on his way down from the cottage, making fiery little stipples on his lean, aquiline features.

“I certainly agree there, my dear fellow.”

4

The next morning I was up early but Holmes was earlier still for I found him at breakfast in the cheerful, beamed dining room, where a few sickly rays of sun glanced in at the windows. When we had finished our repast, Holmes jumped up swiftly and made for the door, hardly leaving me time to collect my overcoat from the rack and follow somewhat protestingly in his rear.

“We have very little time, Watson,” he said as I caught up with him in the surprisingly busy street.

“Firstly, we must just lay a call upon Mr Amos Hardcastle, the lawyer and see what he has to say about this matter.”

We had only some three or four hundred yards to go and when we had neared the brass plate which indicated that gentleman’s office, Holmes took me aside and pretended to study the contents of a saddlery shop window.

“Leave the talking to me, my dear fellow. My name will be Robinson for the purpose of this business.”

I had scarcely time to take this in before Holmes led the way up a dusty staircase to where a stout wooden door repeated the legend on the brass plate outside. A distant clock was just striking the hour of nine but the office was already astir and Holmes opened the door without further ado and I followed him in.

An elderly woman with grey hair rose from her desk in the dingy outer office and welcomed us with a wry smile. When Holmes had introduced himself as Robinson and explained that he would not keep Mr Hardcastle more than ten minutes, she nodded and crossed to an inner door, tapping before entering. There was a muffled colloquy from behind the panels and then the door opened again. The solicitor was a man of heavy build and late middle age, who wore a snuff-stained waistcoat and gold pince-nez. His white hair fell in an untidy quiff over his forehead but his manner was cheerful enough and he asked Holmes and myself to sit down opposite his battered desk.

The room, which was lit by two large and dusty windows, was piled high with papers on the far side while the area behind Hardcastle’s desk was stacked with labelled tin boxes from floor to ceiling. Holmes, in his persona as Robinson said that Smedhurst was thinking of selling his cottage and that he, Robinson, was thinking of buying it. He had come down with myself to view the property but had found that Smedhurst had apparently gone away for several days. He wondered if the lawyer had a key to the house so that we could have a look at it.

A cautious, professional look immediately settled on the lawyer’s face.

“Dear me. Mr Robinson, this is the first I have heard of it. Have you any written authority for what you say? This is merely formality you understand, my dear sir, but I’m sure you realise…”

“Certainly.”

I was even more astonished when Holmes produced a crumpled letter from the pocket of his Ulster and passed it across to Smedhurst’s solicitor. He scanned it cursorily through his pince-nez, biting his lip as he did so.

“All seems in order, Mr Robinson,” he said as he handed it back.

He turned to the massed japanned boxes behind him and went down them rapidly. He took one from the end of the piles and rattled it as though he expected to find something unpleasant in it.

“Here we are.”

He put it down on his desk, brushing the dust from the top of the box with a frayed sleeve. He opened it and went through a pile of yellowing papers. After sifting about for what seemed like an interminable time, he shook his head.

“I am so sorry to disappoint you, Mr Robinson, but I have nothing here. If I remember rightly my late client was a very retiring sort of person and inordinately frightened of burglars, though what he could have had of value up there was beyond me.”

He chuckled rustily.

“Some years ago he had the front door lock changed. It came with a massive single key, which he always retained on him. I have no doubt Mr Smedhurst has it still. My regrets, gentlemen.”

Holmes rose with alacrity and extended his hand to the lawyer.

“It was just a possibility. I am sorry to have disturbed you.”

“Not at all, not at all.”

He waved us out with a smile and as soon as we had regained the street I turned to Holmes.

“Where on earth did you get that letter?”

My companion smiled.

“Forged it, my dear fellow. I thought it might come in useful. I have a passable talent in that direction which has served its purpose from time to time. Now we must interview the young lady, which might be a more delicate matter and then I shall warn Smedhurst to make preparations for his departure.”

“Departure, Holmes?” I said as we walked rapidly down the busy street. “I am all at sea.”

“It is not the first time, old fellow,” said he with a wry smile. “But hopefully all will be made plain in due course.”

We walked several hundred yards and then turned at right-angles down a small alley, lined with pleasant old stone-built cottages. He stopped at the third on the right and opened a wrought-iron gate which gave on to a miniscule garden, where withered plants struggled for existence at this time of year. A motherly-looking lady in her early sixties opened the front door to his knock. She looked surprised, as well she might have.

“We wish to see Miss Eveline Reynolds on a most important matter. Please do not be alarmed, dear lady. A short interview will be greatly to her benefit.”

The cloud gathering on her face disappeared immediately.

“Please come in. My niece is in the next room sewing. Whom shall I say…?”

Holmes leaned forward and whispered something in her ear. I saw a surprising change come over her face.

“I am sure she will be pleased to see you in view of what you have just told me.”

She ushered us into a charmingly furnished oak-beamed parlour where a slim, golden-haired girl of some 28 years was sitting at a sewing frame. She got up suddenly as we entered and looked inquiringly at her aunt.

“Please don’t be alarmed, dear. These are friends of Mr Smedhurst.”

“Ah!”

The girl could not suppress the exclamation that rose to her lips. The aunt had silently withdrawn and Miss Reynolds came forward to shake hands formally, beckoning us into easy chairs near the welcoming fire.

“You have news of Aristide? I have been so worried about him…”

There was such a pleading look on her face that I saw a dramatic change in Holmes himself.

“This is an extremely difficult matter. Miss Reynolds. But I am afraid we are forgetting our manners. I am Sherlock Holmes and this is my friend and colleague Dr Watson. I have asked your aunt not to reveal our identities and I would ask you to do the same.”

He held up his hand as the girl started forward in her chair.

“Please let me continue. Mr Smedhurst is in some great difficulty and he has called upon me to help him. Am I to take it that your engagement has been broken off?”

The girl bit her lip.

“It is nothing of my doing, Mr Holmes. He has changed over the last year or so and become evasive. He no longer confides in me. He has taken to drinking rather heavily and now he had grown that ridiculous-looking beard!”

Little red spots of anger were starting out on her cheeks.

“Forgive me again, my dear young lady, but Mr Smedhurst appears to think that you have transferred your affections elsewhere.”

The girl stared at Holmes in astonishment and then burst out laughing.

“You must mean Mr Jacob Ashton. He is a young Australian who came to the village a long while back. He is a surveyor by profession. My aunt and I occasionally lunch or dine at the George and Dragon and we made his acquaintance there. He is in practice here, but we are friends, nothing more.”

“Ah, that is good news indeed, Miss Reynolds,” said Holmes, rising abruptly from his chair. “I cannot confide in you at the present moment but you may be sure that all will yet be well between you.”

“Ah, if only I could believe you, Mr Holmes!”

“You may. And I might add that he was thinking only of you in his present troubles and did not wish you involved.”

The girl shook hands with us warmly, and after Holmes had again asked her not to reveal his identity, we left the house with its occupants more cheerful than when we had arrived.

“Now for Smedhurst, Watson. I must prime him as to his role in our little drama.

Ah, there is our man himself!”

He had just noticed our client’s reflection in a shop window and, turning, we saw that he was making for the George and Dragon. We followed as quickly as possible, catching him at the entrance, where Holmes had a muffled conversation, before following him into the crowded restaurant. A waiter hurried forward as we sat down to order our meal when Smedhurst gave an exclamation and said, “Why, there is young Ashton at the table yonder.”

Holmes leaned forward and put his hand gently in our client’s shoulder.

“You have no need to worry. Miss Reynolds and Ashton are merely friends.”

With a muffled apology he rose from the table and I was astonished to see him make straight for the surveyor, who was lunching alone at a side table. He bent over, presumably to introduce himself and then beckoned me across.

“Please forgive this intrusion, Mr Ashton, but I understand you are a surveyor. Myself and my friend Mr Watson are hoping to buy a cottage down here and have found exactly what we require. Mr Smedhurst, who is lunching with us, as you have perhaps noticed, is anxious to sell and we wondered whether you would be kind enough to undertake the survey?”

Ashton, who was a pleasant-looking man of about thirty with black curly hair, seemed embarrassed, I thought.

“Certainly, Mr Robinson,” he stammered. “But this is the first I have heard of it. Miss Reynolds did not mention it.”

“It was a sudden decision,” said Holmes smoothly. “Mr Smedhurst is going to London for a few days this evening, but is leaving the key of the cottage with us. I have the address of your office. And now, I have interrupted your lunch long enough.”

Ashton got up to shake hands with the pair of us.

“Honoured, my dear sir,” he said with a smile. “My hours are from 9.30 a.m. until 6 p.m., unless I am out on survey. I look forward to seeing you soon.”

“I cannot see, Holmes…” I began as we regained our table.

“I seem to have heard you say that before, Watson,” said my companion with a disarming smile. “I think the oxtail soup and then the steak will do admirably in my case.”

And he talked of nothing but trivial matters until the meal was over.

5

“Now, you understand the procedures I have outlined to you, Mr Smedhurst,” said Holmes as we regained the street.

Our client nodded.

“I will leave Parvise Magna this afternoon, in daylight, with my luggage and make sure my departure is noted in the town, both by pony and trap and by train. I will give out that I am going to London for a week to see an aunt and make myself conspicuous on the platform. I will stay away for three nights. I will leave the cottage key behind a big boulder about thirty feet from the front door. You cannot miss it, Mr Holmes. There is a fissure at the back and I will place it there, well concealed.”

“Excellent, Mr Smedhurst. Now there is just one thing more.”

“What is that, Mr Holmes?”

My companion gave him a thin smile.

“Shave off your beard. Miss Reynolds does not like it.”

I spent most of the afternoon reading in the smoking room of the George and Dragon, while Holmes was away on some errand of his own. Presently he rejoined me and we both noted with satisfaction the departure of Smedhurst as his pony and trap clattered down the main street on its way to the station. As gas lamps began to be lit in the street outside Holmes rose from his deep leather chair, his whole being tense and animated.

“I think you might fetch your revolver, old fellow. We may need it before the night is out. I have some provisions in my greatcoat pocket so we shall not go hungry.”

“In that case I will bring my whisky flask,” said I.

A quarter of an hour later we left the hotel and made our way inconspicuously through side streets, as though taking an innocuous afternoon stroll. Though there was still an hour or so of daylight the sky was dark and sombre as we cleared the outskirts of Parvise Magna and a pallid mist was rising from the drenched fields which skirted the rounded hills. We were both silent as we continued our walk and presently Holmes turned aside to avoid approaching our client’s cottage from the front. When we could just see the roof of the property through the bare branches of leafless trees, we diverged from the path and in a few moments found ourselves on the overgrown track that led to the quarry. It was a grim place at that late time of day and we both paused as though possessed of the same impulse, and gazed down over the hundred foot drop.

“An awful spot. Holmes.”

“Indeed, Watson. But I think there is a more agreeable approach yonder.”

He pointed forward and I then saw what appeared to be a white thread which turned out to be a shelving part of the quarry that led downward in gentle slopes. Our feet gritted on the loose shale and after we had descended about halfway my companion gave a sharp exclamation.

He led the way across the face of the quarry to where a dark hole gaped. It was obviously man-made and perhaps provided shelter for the quarrymen in years gone by. I followed him in and saw that the cavern was about ten feet across and some twenty feet deep. There was a narrow shelf of rock on the left-hand side, about five feet in.

“Hulloa,” I said. “Here is a candle, Holmes.”

I bent closer.

“And recently used, I should say, judging by the spent matches which are perfectly dry and not wet as they would be had they been there a long time.”

Holmes came to look over my shoulder.

“You are constantly improving, my dear fellow. You are not far out.”

He went back into the rear of the cave which the failing daylight still penetrated.

“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 clip 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:

“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 emphasised 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 drafts 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’ 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 recognised 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’ hammering at the knocker of the substantial Georgian house at the edge of town, presently brought a tousled housekeeper 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 recognised 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 would 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 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 4 a.m. I felt a sudden weariness following the events of the night.

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

“That was 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 bum 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 specialising 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 the 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 asked.

“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 curious 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 subsequently 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.”

Holmes passed across a small buff envelope. That too was from Smedhurst and was an invitation to his wedding celebrations a month hence. I glanced up at Holmes’ own invitation on the mantelpiece.

“Will you be joining me, Holmes?”

My companion gave me an enigmatic smile.

“I think not, Watson. Marriage is a very uncertain and risky business. But you may give the bride and groom my best wishes and a suitable gift from Garrards if you will.”

And he reached out for his violin.