The Mammoth Book of the New Chronicles of Sherlock Holmes

I: The Strange Story of Amelia Davenoke

Of all the many curious cases to which the singular skills of Mr Sherlock Holmes were applied during the time we shared chambers together, there is none I can recall in which the circumstances were of a more dramatic or surprising character than that which concerned the well-known Suffolk family of Davenoke. The sombre and striking events which followed on so rapidly from the marriage of the Davenoke heir and the death of his father were accorded considerable publicity at the time, so that there will be few among my readers who are entirely ignorant of the matter; but the contemporary accounts all suffered from a want of accuracy, and all too often it was sought to remedy a deficiency of fact with a surfeit of imagination, with the result that a cheap and sensational gloss was put on an affair whose macabre details stood in no need of such adornment. It is with the intention, then, of supplying the first full and accurate account of the matter, and of correcting certain prevalent misapprehensions, that the following narrative is set down.

In the latter part of August, 1887, the bright if uncertain glories of an English summer were succeeded by a period of heavy and stifling weather. With each day that passed the air seemed yet more still and close, until I longed for a fresh breeze to blow away the overpowering heat and stickiness. Throughout the day our windows were thrown open to their widest extent, but it did little to relieve the oppressive airlessness of our rooms.

I had descended to breakfast that morning to find Sherlock Holmes in a morose humour. Without comment, he passed across the table a letter he had received by the first post. It was addressed from Phillimore Gardens, Kensington, and dated the previous evening.

‘Shall call upon you at ten o’clock, tomorrow morning,’ I read. ‘The matter is most urgent and important, and will require your undivided attention.’ No details were given as to the nature of the problem, but the word ‘important’ had been underscored three times, the last one ripping the paper clean through. At the foot of the sheet was the signature ‘Amelia Davenoke’. I looked up to find Holmes’s expressionless grey eyes upon me.

‘The lady is perhaps a trifle imperious in her tone,’ he remarked, ‘but she may be permitted our indulgence, for she is evidently in some distress. The violent underlining has clearly not been done for the reader’s benefit, for her pen has run out of ink halfway through it and she has not troubled to re-ink it. We may take it, then, to be more an expression of her own anguish.’

‘I seem to remember reading that Sir John Davenoke died not long ago,’ I remarked. ‘Your correspondent is probably his widow.’

Holmes shook his head. ‘He himself had been a widower for some time,’ he replied. He took a heavy red-bound volume from his long shelf of reference-books and turned the pages over for a few moments. ‘Here we are,’ said he, seating himself upon an arm of the fireside chair: ‘“John Arthur Cavendish Davenoke: Sixth baronet; Member of Parliament for Shoreswood and Soham, ’84 to ’86. The family has held the manor of Shoreswood in East Suffolk for over five hundred years and was closely allied in the fifteenth century with the Pole family, former Dukes of Suffolk, prior to the downfall of the latter.” – a somewhat ancient claim upon our interest, I am afraid – “Arms: argent, gouttée de sang, a lion vorant sable in a bordure of the same.”’ Holmes shut the book with a bang. ‘There is one son who succeeds him, Edward Hurst Geoffrey. Amelia Davenoke is presumably his wife.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘If her punctuality matches the urgency of her letter, she will be here in ten minutes, Watson, so if you could ring for the maid to clear the breakfast things, I should be most obliged.’

I was seated by the window, reading The Times, when our visitor arrived. She was a slight, pretty, almost elfin young woman, with very thick hair of a reddish, copper colour, and seemed as she entered our little room, looking hesitantly this way and that, like an angel from a Renaissance painting. Her appearance would have been striking upon any occasion, but was the more remarkable now for the deadly pallor of her face and the dark, almost black shadows which surrounded her restless, haunted eyes, all of which bespoke some grave anxiety. Beneath the light grey cloak which she handed me, she wore a simple dress of plain moss-green, relieved only by a touch of butter-coloured lace about the neck and wrists. She took the chair which my friend offered her and sat a few moments in silence, her fingers nervously twining and untwining.

‘Well, well, Lady Davenoke,’ said Holmes at length; ‘I understand from your note that you wish to consult me upon a matter of some urgency.’

‘That is true,’ returned our visitor quickly, raising her watery green eyes to meet my friend’s steady gaze. I was surprised to hear that her accent was of the very richest North American. ‘Your name was mentioned to me last night by Lady Congrave,’ she continued, ‘who said she could not speak too highly of you. I gathered that you performed some service for her.’

‘A trifling affair, as I recall it, involving a little missing jewellery.’

‘I fancy that Lady Congrave herself would not dismiss the matter so lightly,’ Lady Davenoke replied with some emphasis. ‘I have come to you because I, too, have lost something.’

‘Jewellery?’

‘My husband.’

Holmes’s eyebrows went up in surprise. ‘Perhaps you could enlarge upon the matter,’ said he.

‘Do not misunderstand me, Mr Holmes, if I say that I have come to you as a last resort. My meaning is simply this: that if you fail, then all further hope is useless, for I fear that no one else can help me. Alone I can do nothing. My husband has vanished and left me in dread, surrounded by mysterious forces against which I am powerless to defend myself.’

‘My dear madam,’ interjected my friend in his most soothing tones; ‘it is plain to see that you have been under some great strain lately; but whatever can have occurred to cause you to speak in this fashion?’

She did not reply at once, but passed her hand across her face, as if in an effort to clear her troubled brow. ‘Mr Holmes,’ said she at length, her voice low and tremulous, ‘I have entered the realm of fear and horror, and it seems I may never return. I have, all unwitting, become party to some dark and hidden transaction, some hideous and nameless menace, which surrounds me even now as I speak to you.’ She put her hand abruptly to her throat and her eyes darted nervously round the room.

‘Lady Davenoke,’ began Holmes in a tone of mild reproof. But even as he spoke, her eyes rolled up to the ceiling, a faint gasp escaped her lips and she pitched forward upon the hearth-rug in a dead faint.

We bore her swiftly to the sofa, where I placed a pillow beneath her head. Her pulse was faint, her brow horribly cold and clammy, and for a moment I feared that she would require greater medical attention than could be provided in our small sitting-room. An application of brandy to the lips brought some colour to her cheek, however, and her eyelids flickered and indicated returning consciousness. Then, suddenly, with a startling abruptness, her eyes opened wide and she cried out in a terrible wailing voice.

‘The window!’ she cried. ‘There is something there, outside! Oh, close the window, for the love of God!’ Her cries ended in a dreadful, piteous sob and she sank back into unconsciousness.

‘Her eyes were not seeing us,’ remarked Holmes softly.

I nodded. ‘She was undergoing some strange delusion, but it appears to have passed now; her face is relaxed once more.’

We covered her with a blanket and rang for some hot tea. Our landlady was most concerned at the state of the poor young woman, for she had heard her terrible cries and she insisted upon sitting with her until she was fully recovered. Her pulse was steady now and her breathing smooth and regular, and after a short while she opened her eyes again and gazed weakly at us, a look of incomprehension upon her face.

‘You’ve had a faint, my dear,’ said Mrs Hudson in a kindly voice, taking the other’s hand in hers; ‘but you will be all right in a moment, when you’ve got some hot tea inside you.’

‘You are among friends, Lady Davenoke,’ said Holmes. ‘You have nothing to fear.’

‘Oh, if only that were true, Mr Holmes; if only that were true!’

‘Perhaps when you are recovered you can give us the details of the matter and then we shall see if we can’t set about allaying your anxieties.’

Thus it was that ten minutes later, fortified by strong tea and composed once more, Amelia Davenoke began her strange tale. She was, as my friend had surmised, the wife of Sir Edward Davenoke, who had recently succeeded to the baronetcy upon the death of his father.

‘Let us first be clear as to the essential facts,’ said Holmes as his client hesitated a moment. He laid out his note-book upon his knee in a brisk and business-like manner. ‘Your husband has disappeared. Were you in London at the time?’

Lady Davenoke shook her head. ‘No, no; Montpelier, in the south of France.’

‘Indeed! And did you report his disappearance to the authorities there?’

Again she shook her head. ‘What could they know of it?’ she queried in a surprised voice. ‘Edward was not in Montpelier, but at Shoreswood.’

Holmes put down his pencil with a sigh.

‘My questions seem to create only confusion,’ said he, a flicker of a smile upon his lips. ‘Perhaps if you tell your story in your own words, the matter will be clearer.’

‘Where should I begin?’

‘If your troubles began with your husband’s disappearance, then begin there; if not, begin at any point that strikes you as appropriate. How you order your account is of less importance than that it is complete.’

‘Then I feel I must begin a year ago, when Edward and I first met,’ said Lady Davenoke after she had considered the matter in silence for a little while. ‘For it seems to me now – but, still, you will understand how it seems to me when you have heard what I have to tell you.’

‘By all means,’ said Holmes, leaning back in his chair and closing his eyes in an attitude of concentration.

‘My maiden name was Adams,’ his client continued after a moment. ‘My father is Claude Adams, the railroad proprietor. He was in at the beginning of the railroad boom in the States, and the Portland and Vermont made his fortune. He had had little education himself and, now that he was wealthy, was determined that his children should make up for what he himself had lacked. So it was that I came last year to Europe, with my aunt, Juliana Clemens. We were making a grand tour of all that was venerable and historic, and it was while we were in Florence, in July, that I made the acquaintance of Edward Davenoke.

‘He seemed to me the most pleasant and engaging young man I had ever met, and we soon struck up a fine friendship. His appearance was thoughtful and studious, especially when he wore his spectacles, but he had a most vivacious sense of fun which was never long repressed. He had with him a Belgian Sheepdog called Bruno, which he had acquired on his travels, and the two of them would sport about the noble streets and squares of Florence in the most incongruous and humorous way imaginable. All too soon after we had become friends, Edward was obliged to return home, to Shoreswood in Suffolk, but before he left he requested that my aunt and I call upon him when we visited England, later in the year. My aunt saw no objection to this suggestion and a date was fixed for our visit, in the fall of last year. For my own part I confess that the remainder of our European tour seemed dull and uninteresting compared to the time we had spent in Edward’s company, and were it not for the letters which we exchanged regularly, I do not know that I could have borne the months which were to pass before our boat sailed for England.

‘Eventually the day arrived. When I think now—’ She paused and gazed for a moment at her clasped hands. ‘When I think now of the happiness I felt on that day—’ Again she paused and shook her head slightly. ‘To have come three thousand miles, for this!’

Sherlock Holmes opened his eyes and, frowning slightly, made a dismissive gesture with his hand.

‘Do not distress yourself unnecessarily, Lady Davenoke,’ said he in a soft voice. ‘Describe each event in the order in which it occurred and, above all, resist the temptation to compare the present with the past; for in any such comparison the past has always the unfair advantage that one’s memory of it is both selective and partial.’

Our visitor smiled thinly, but appreciatively, and, after a moment, resumed her narrative.

‘Edward met us at Harwich and escorted us to Shoreswood Old Hall, which has been the seat of the family for centuries. It is a curious and not altogether attractive place; a dark and sombre house, built haphazardly of flint, plaster-work and brick, and lying half in ruins. The Davenokes have always been intensely proud of the richness of history which the house represents; but to me there is something chaotic and unpleasant about the place: if it represents history, then it is history as designed by a madman. The interior of the house presents an equally bizarre muddle, where, coming round some dark and dusty corner of a corridor, one will find an ornate Boulle cabinet standing beside a crude, axe-carved stool. There is much of value and interest in the house – the walls are lined with old paintings and tapestries and hung with weapons and curios of every shape and size – but all is dark and faded, and somehow oppressive. I guess I’m not very familiar with your old English houses, gentlemen, but I am sure they cannot all be like Shoreswood. The passages and stairs are shadowy and cramped, the rooms damp, and infested with mice and spiders. A short distance from the house lies what was once the Davenokes’ private chapel but is now a mouldering heap of ivy-covered stones. Even in broad daylight an unpleasant air of misery and ruin hangs over this place, but it is at night, when the moonlight falls upon it, that it assumes its most chill and minatory aspect. The locals, I understand, will not approach within a hundred yards of the place after sunset.’ Lady Davenoke’s voice faltered and an involuntary shudder shook her whole body.

‘But at first, although I can scarce believe it now,’ she continued after a moment, ‘the very oddness and antiquity of Shoreswood intrigued and charmed me. The estate lies in a green and fertile valley, a land of beautiful woodlands and streams, which reminds me very much of my home. My aunt and I took many a pleasant walk with Edward, along the narrow lanes and woodland paths there. His company was a constant and unvarying source of pleasure to me, which is more than I can say for that of his father, I am afraid.’ Her voice trembled with emotion and she bit her lip before continuing.

‘Sir John could be gay enough at times, when the mood was upon him, but his nature was a precariously balanced one, and a black, bitter side would often show itself for no apparent reason and endure for several days. During these periods it was best to keep out of his way, I found, for he could be harsh and cruel in his speech, and often drank to violent excess. I have since learnt – what is apparently common knowledge in the district – that it was entirely as a result of Sir John’s hard and sneering ways that his party lost the parliamentary seat of Shoreswood to their opponents, after it had been held without defeat for very nearly a century. Still, as I disliked and feared the father greatly, so did I love and trust the son to the same degree.

‘“You must forgive Father his rough ways,” said Edward to me one day, as we sat alone beside a slow, reed-girt stream. “He was not always as you see him now; but Mother’s death struck him a grave blow and, to tell the truth, he has never been quite the same man since.”

‘I was deeply impressed by Edward’s concern for my feelings and by his perception of what it was that troubled me; for I had, of course, never voiced my thoughts upon the subject and had striven to conceal my anxieties. In answer to my query, he told me that his mother had died three years previously. She had been on holiday with a cousin in Cornwall and had been stung fatally upon the foot by a weever fish whilst bathing in the sea off St Ives.

‘“I am so sorry,” said I.

‘He shook his head sadly. “She has been greatly missed by everyone,” said he. “She was always so generous and considerate. While she lived she had a gentle, uplifting influence upon the whole household; with her death passed away the Shoreswood I had known as a child.”

‘It was evident that Edward was saddened by the remembrance of these events and I sought to cheer him. I asked him to tell me more of his family. His brow cleared and, with the ready smile which so often illumined his handsome features, he consented.

‘“Some say that there has been a streak of insanity in the family all along,” he began. My face must have betrayed the surprise I felt at so bald a statement on such a dreadful subject, for Edward took one look at me and let out a roar of laughter. I knew then that he was teasing me, as he had done upon numerous other occasions. I chided him, but could not, I confess, resist a smile myself. There was something so noble and refined about him that the lightest of remarks could sound sublime when it was he who spoke them.

‘“I will tell you of the family legend,” he continued after a moment, the same smile still playing about his features.

‘“Please do,” I returned eagerly, for I had heard him allude before to some old legend which concerned his family and their ancestral home at Shoreswood.

‘“It is said that the Hall holds a dark secret,” he began, “a secret whose origins lie in the distant past. There is, so it is said, a mysterious chamber hidden deep within the bowels of the Hall and it is in this chamber that the secret lies. Of its nature, none can tell. Some say that a terrible monster is kept there, some hideous, unspeakable beast for which the family is in some way responsible; but there are numerous other opinions upon the matter, none of them very pleasant.”

‘“Surely you do not believe these old legends?”

‘“Of course not, dear,” Edward replied, smiling warmly and taking my hand in his. “But, really, I can speak with no more authority upon the matter than the local guide-book; for it is only when the heir takes possession of the estate that the secret is vouchsafed to him. It is said, however, that knowledge of the secret turns each happy heir into a sorrowful man.”

‘“Has your father ever spoken of the legend, or of the secret room?” I asked.

‘Edward shook his head. “I used to ask him about it when I was young, but he always brushed aside my questions without answer. Once, however, when I was eighteen, I chanced to raise the subject again, one dark evening after dinner. ‘Listen very carefully, Edward,’ said my father then, in a grave voice, ‘and remember my words. I am going to speak one sentence to you and it will be the only sentence I shall ever speak upon the subject this side of the grave. It is this: The lord of the manor of Shoreswood does not refer to the legend – never, you understand – neither of his own volition nor in answer to the question of another.’ With that he stood up from the dinner-table and walked from the room in silence. Of course, it all seemed a little exaggerated to me at the time, but I could not help but be deeply impressed by the serious tones in which my father had spoken. Moreover, from that day to this he has been as true as his word.”

‘“What does it mean, Edward?” I asked, anxious to hear again that laughter which could dispel all my fears and doubts.

‘He shook his head, however, and there was a look of perplexity upon his face. “My father is the only one who can answer that question at present,” he replied at length, “and he is not disposed to speak upon the matter.”

‘I did not take any of this very seriously, at the time, Mr Holmes,’ said Lady Davenoke in an unsteady voice, ‘but now—’

‘The old manor-houses of England are full of such legends, Lady Davenoke,’ said Holmes briskly. ‘They are relicts of a bygone age, an age of darkness and superstition, fit material for a history of human folly and wickedness, but of no other value. I have myself often considered writing such a history, but have been deterred by the sheer volume of material available.’

For a second, our client’s eyes flashed fire and a look of resolution came over her wan features.

‘You would not speak so glibly of old tales had you spent a night at Shoreswood Hall,’ said she angrily. ‘You would not make merry on human wickedness did you feel it all around you, every waking minute of your life – yes, and in every troubled moment of sleep, too.’ She paused for a moment, then continued in an altered tone: ‘Oh, but I see it now. I see by your face, Mr Holmes, that you were deliberately provoking me. You hoped to solve my problems for me by ridiculing that which I fear.’

‘Nevertheless, Lady Davenoke, what I say is true. There is nothing to be gained by dwelling upon vague and ancient fears.’

‘But if the fears become more tangible and immediate?’

‘Then they may be justified and I may be able to help you. Pray continue with your story. Despite the various misgivings to which you have alluded, you accepted Edward Davenoke when he asked for your hand, I take it.’

Holmes leaned back in his chair once more, his eyelids drooping, his fingertips together, the very picture of motionless concentration.

‘Edward proposed to me on Saturday, November the twenty-seventh, last year,’ said our visitor, her eyes shining with evident pleasure at the memory. ‘I had never been so happy in my life and, in truth, I believe Aunt Juliana was as thrilled as I was. We at once cabled my parents, who came over as soon as they were able, and we all spent Christmas at Shoreswood, before returning to America in the new year. It had been decided that the wedding would take place here in July, and so it did, just over six weeks ago, on Saturday the eighth. It was then, incidentally, that I first met Lady Congrave, who has recently been so kind to me. She is a distant cousin of Edward’s, upon his mother’s side.

‘We were to have left for the continent immediately afterwards, but Edward’s father fell ill on the day of the wedding and our holiday was postponed. Three weeks later, Sir John appeared to be completely recovered and we at length began our foreign travels. Alas! we had been in Paris scarcely two days when news came that he had suffered a relapse and that the doctors feared for his life. Edward at once returned to England, but as arrangements had already been made for us to travel to Montpelier, where friends were expecting us that day, it was decided that I should travel on alone, to explain the circumstances. Edward promised that he would keep me informed by wire as to his father’s condition.

‘Four days later I received a telegram informing me that Sir John had died in the night. I returned to England as quickly as I could, leaving most of my luggage behind in Montpelier, but it took me a good three days, and by the time I arrived at Harwich I was almost beside myself with tiredness. To my surprise, there was no one there to meet me, nor any message of explanation, although I had sent a wire to Shoreswood, just before I boarded the boat. I wired again from the railroad depot, to say when I should arrive at Wickham Market station, but when the train pulled in there, the only face I recognised was that of Staples, the Shoreswood groom. He is a sour-faced man, certainly not whom I would have chosen to meet me, and I confess I was bitterly disappointed. He informed me, with little effort at civility, that the funeral of his late master had already taken place and that my husband, Sir Edward, as he now was, had left Shoreswood the previous day. This surprised me greatly and I enquired where my husband had gone; but Staples just shrugged his shoulders in a surly fashion and declared that no one had troubled to tell him anything of the matter. If I wished to know more I must enquire of Hardwick, the butler, for he had driven Sir Edward to the railway station.

‘When we reached Shoreswood I was further surprised to find that Edward had left no letter of explanation for me. Hardwick seemed most distressed about this and almost came to the point of apologising for it himself, as if he felt he were partly to blame. He is an old and trusted servant, who has been at Shoreswood for many years, and I have no doubt he still regards Edward as the small boy he used to know; but, even allowing for this, his manner struck me as odd and inappropriate, in a way I could not quite define. He informed me that Edward had been obliged to leave for London, to attend to certain urgent matters in connection with his father’s estate, but could supply no further details. He had no idea when Edward might return.

‘It was scarcely the homecoming I had expected, alone in that unfriendly house, save for a handful of unprepossessing servants, to whom I was a virtual stranger. That night Shoreswood Hall seemed colder and more gloomy than I had ever known it before, but I consoled myself with the thought that Edward and I should no doubt be united once more in a few days’ time.’

‘One moment,’ interrupted Holmes. ‘Would you say that your husband’s apparently impetuous behaviour was in character, or not?’

‘He could he impulsive,’ Lady Davenoke replied hesitantly; ‘yes, I have known him impulsive in his actions. But he would always keep me informed. I have never known him inconsiderate in that respect before.’

‘Perhaps,’ suggested Holmes, ‘he did not expect to be away very long and thought that he would be back at Shoreswood before you returned from France.’

‘It is possible,’ returned Lady Davenoke, a note of enthusiasm in her voice. ‘Indeed, I think it very possible; I had not looked at the matter in that way before.’

‘Well, well, pray proceed with your account.’

‘The days passed without any word from Edward and I began to feel that something was very wrong. I felt so isolated and alone in that old dark house. Again I questioned Hardwick, but he could add nothing to what he had already told me.

‘“Sir Edward has gone to London,” said he. “That is all that I know.” And yet, this time I sensed that there was something evasive in his manner, as if perhaps he did know more, after all, but would not admit to it. I felt the same evasiveness when I questioned him as to what Edward had been doing on the days preceding my return. Needless to say, I learnt nothing.

‘At night-time my sleep was fitful and light, and I began to fancy that I could hear strange noises somewhere in the still darkness of the old house. Upon the fourth night I was awakened about one o’clock by the distant and muffled barking of a dog. It brought back to my mind Edward’s beloved Belgian Sheepdog and I realised that I had not seen the animal since my return. When I enquired of the groom next morning where Bruno might be, I was informed that he was locked up in the stables. I asked for him to be let out, but the man refused in the most surly of tones, saying that he was confined upon his master’s own express instructions. Sir Edward had been taking personal charge of the dog’s training, Staples informed me, and feared that if he were allowed to roam loose, without his master’s control, he would forget all that he had been taught, revert to his former undisciplined state and be forever unmanageable in the future. I argued the point with the groom; but he was adamant that he would not go against what he said my husband had told him and eventually I had to accept it, maddening though it was to yield to his insolent manner. Even the company of animals, I reflected, was denied me.

‘I have mentioned that I was having difficulty in sleeping at night, often lying awake for hours at a time, and it was this that took me next day to the family physician, Dr Ruddock. He is a kindly, grey-haired old gentleman, who squinted at me through his old-fashioned gilt pince-nez as I entered his consulting-room. He recommended a herbal infusion for my insomnia and then began to speak to me of the family into which I had so recently married, and to which he had been physician for so many years.

‘“They are a highly strung, nervous family,” said he. “They find it difficult to approach life calmly, and cannot take rest when they ought. I am hoping,” he added with a smile, “that you will have a steadying, calming effect upon young Sir Edward. He is often so serious and intense, and does not feel he can spare the time for leisurely reflection. But he should and you must insist upon it. Matters are rarely so pressing that one cannot lean on a gate-post for five minutes and admire the sunset – yes, and be all the better for it! His father was just the same, you know: always dashing about, as if his life depended upon it. It is my opinion that he might be with us still had he been of a steadier disposition.”

‘“Of what did he die?” I asked.

‘For a moment Dr Ruddock looked surprised. “Did you not know?” said he. “But of course, I was forgetting – you were in France at the time. Sir John had a sudden apoplectic seizure late one night. I was called, but there was nothing that could be done.” He shook his head. “To be perfectly frank, it was not entirely unexpected, sad as it was. However, it is Edward’s health which has been weighing most heavily upon my mind of late.”

‘This was news indeed to me, for apart from a slight attack of megrim, to which he is prone, Edward had seemed to me to be in the very best of health when we were last together, in Paris.

‘“I suppose the death of his father unseated him a little,” replied Dr Ruddock in answer to my query. “The last time I saw him – it would be the day after his father’s funeral – he was in a very agitated state. ‘Can you give me something to provide me with a little extra energy, Doctor?’ said he, gripping my arm nervously as he spoke. ‘My dear boy,’ I returned at once. ‘What you need is a good rest. It is evident that you are overwrought by recent events and by the thought of your new responsibilities. That is understandable, but you must not let things get on top of you. I recommend a week in bed.’ ‘No, no; I cannot,’ said he, shaking his head vigorously. ‘I have much to do and no time for lying idly about.’ With that he was off, before I could remonstrate with him further.”

‘“And I suppose you have no idea,” I asked, “where it was he was off to with such urgency?”

‘“None whatever,” replied the kindly old man, with a shake of the head; “nor what it was that he had to do that was so important as to make him ignore his doctor’s advice! If it were anything to do with the estate, I imagine his solicitor might know, but I’m afraid that I cannot enlighten you upon the matter.”

‘I left Dr Ruddock’s consulting-room that morning feeling more forlorn than ever. I had the disconcerting sensation that things were afoot of which I knew nothing. Before returning home I visited the church-yard, to pay my last respects to my late father-in-law, and stood long in thought beside his tomb. He at least was now at peace and mundane cares would trouble him no longer; the stewardship of Shoreswood, I reflected with a heavy heart, now lay in Edward’s hands and in mine.

‘That afternoon I wrote two letters. I had recalled Edward’s telling me that, when in London, the family always stayed at the Royal Suffolk Hotel in the City, so I wrote to him there, asking him to get in touch with me and let me know when he would be returning, for I felt in sore need of his company. The second letter was to the family solicitor, Mr Arthur Blackstone of Framlingham, informing him that I should be calling upon him, if it were convenient, in two days’ time. I doubted very much that I should learn anything there, but it at least gave me an opportunity to get away for a while from the melancholy loneliness of Shoreswood Hall.

‘I took a draught of Dr Ruddock’s infusion that night and it seemed to be effective, for I fell asleep more easily than before. Some hours later, however, I was awakened quite abruptly by a noise somewhere in the house. I sat up in bed and listened, my ears straining to catch any sound of the night. For a minute, I heard nothing, then, softly, there came the sound of steps approaching my bedroom door. The flesh upon my face seemed to creep and my heart to stop beating, as those horrible, soft, padded steps came closer. Never in my life had I been so terrified as at that moment. All Edward had told me of the family legend came rushing back to my mind in a confused surge. My throat constricted and I could take no breath. Then, as softly as they had approached, I heard the steps pad away, down the corridor, until I heard them no more.’

‘Did the footsteps return the way they had come?’ interrupted Holmes, without opening his eyes. ‘Did they, that is to say, approach specifically to your door and then recede, or did they merely pass it by as they went from one end of the corridor to the other?’

‘I cannot be certain upon the point,’ replied our visitor. ‘I believe they began at one end of the corridor and ended at the other.’

‘Is the situation of your room such that anyone might naturally pass it to reach somewhere else?’

‘It is possible. My bedroom is on the ground floor of the west wing – the only part of the house which is inhabited, in fact – and I suppose that one of the servants might have passed my door.’

‘You sound doubtful.’

‘I cannot imagine what anyone would be doing at that time of night. As far as I knew, everyone had retired to bed long before.’

‘Was your door locked?’

‘It is impossible to lock it, for there is no key.’

‘Very well; pray proceed.’

‘On Wednesday I drove over to Framlingham to see Mr Blackstone, from whom I had received a letter that morning confirming the arrangement. He is a large, jovial man and welcomed me into his chambers with effusive cordiality. When I informed him of the purpose of my visit, however, he was quite taken aback.

‘“To my certain knowledge,” said he, leafing through a sheaf of papers upon his large desk, “there is no outstanding business connected either with the estate or with his late father’s affairs which should require Sir Edward’s attention at the present. There are a couple of trivial matters, but I am dealing with them myself. Furthermore,” he added, a perplexed look upon his features, “that he should need to be in London is a mystery all by itself. For after Sir John retired from Parliament he had nothing to do with London whatever. Indeed, so far as I know, he never went up there once in the eighteen months before his death.”

‘“Edward gave you no indication at any time, then, of what it was that necessitated his presence in London?”

‘“None whatever and I saw him only a short time ago in this very room, immediately after the death of his father. I am sure that had there been anything upon his mind, he would have informed me.”

‘“What business brought him here?”

‘“I had requested that he come in to see me. There was a minor matter to be dealt with, concerning the tenancy of one of the farms on the estate and also an instruction which his father had given me some time ago.”

‘“Could either of these matters have obliged Edward to leave for London?” I asked.

‘“Oh, dear me, no. The first was a very trivial piece of business. The second merely concerned a bundle of old documents pertaining to Shoreswood which Sir John had deposited with me some years ago: upon his death I was to give them to Edward, provided that he had attained his twenty-first birthday at that time.”

‘“He evidently left them with you a long time ago.”

‘“Indeed, yes,” returned the solicitor. He examined his records for a few minutes. “In ’68,” said he at length; “nineteen years ago. Edward would have been only a small boy of seven or so then. Indeed, it is almost back in the time of old Sir Geoffrey, Edward’s grandfather. He was a fine old gentleman. A bit of a madcap, but a grand old fellow nonetheless. What the old documents were to do with, I cannot say, I’m afraid, for the bundle was tied and sealed with Sir John’s own ring, bearing the Davenoke crest, and he did not vouchsafe to me the contents. They appeared, so far as I could see, to be a collection of ancient deeds, depositions and so on – papers of such obvious antiquity that they certainly cannot be of any current concern. I am sorry that I cannot assist you further, but do not hesitate to consult me again at any time. I am always here,” he added after a moment, with an avuncular smile. “Indeed, I have been here longer than I care to remember. I have handled the affairs of the Davenokes for nigh on thirty years, and seen three generations of them come and go in these chambers.”

‘I thanked him for his help and left him sighing at the passage of time, and murmuring “dear, dear” over and over to himself. I felt frustrated once more in my efforts to learn what business it was that had obliged my husband to leave for London so abruptly, and it was with great reluctance that I made my way back to Shoreswood. No letter from Edward had arrived in my absence to cheer me and my heart sank yet further.

‘That night I placed an upright chair against my bedroom door, with a pair of shoes balanced upon the back, as I had done the night before. Should my door be opened whilst I slept, the noise of the falling shoes would surely awaken me. Against whom or what I sought to protect myself, I could not say; I knew only that I feared the vulnerability of sleep.

‘Such precautions began to seem superfluous, however, as I watched the long hours of the night pass without sleep closing my eyes. It was about two o’clock, when a slight noise from the garden caught my attention. It was a hard, clinking noise, as of one stone falling upon another, but distant and faint. I left my bed and pulled aside the curtain. The night was dark and still, and at first I could see nothing, but all at once I descried what appeared to be a faint, yellowish light, moving in silence among the chapel ruins, like a will-o’-the-wisp. For several minutes I followed its movements, round and about the ruins, until it vanished abruptly, as if extinguished. I waited at the window a little while, but it did not reappear. I was turning away, when out of the darkness, from the direction of the ruins, came another faint noise, just the same as the one I had heard before. I pulled the casement shut as best I could, but the wood of the frame is warped and ill-fitting and it is not even possible to close it fully, let alone secure the catch. However, I found a length of ribbon and knotted this around the handles. It was a flimsy safeguard, I knew, but it was better than nothing. As I returned to my bed I realised that I was shaking and trembling in every limb, as if with cold, although the night was a mild one. I hoped with all my heart that the morning’s post would bring a letter from my husband.

‘Alas! my hopes were in vain; my husband had sent no reply. I passed the day in melancholy solitude, scarcely leaving my room except to take my meals in the gloomy, shadowed dining-room. From the walls above me as I ate, rows of dark and faded portraits of Edward’s ancestors gazed down upon me in silence, and seemed to watch me closely with their malicious, staring eyes. The timbers of the floor and the panelling upon the walls creaked and groaned as I sat there. Hardwick informed me that it was the effect of the hot, dry weather upon the old wood, but it seemed to me as if the house itself resented my presence and grumbled with malevolence against me. On a sudden thought, I asked the butler if anyone at Shoreswood had ever seen lights of any kind at night. He shook his head.

‘“Do you mean what is termed the ‘will-o’-the-wisp’, or in some parts ‘jack-o’-lantern’?” said he in a thoughtful voice.

‘“Yes, that’s it, Hardwick. You have seen it then?”

‘Again he shook his head.

‘“I have heard of the phenomenon, madam, but I regret that I have never been privileged to witness it. I believe it occurs in more marshy areas. I have never heard of its being seen in these parts. Might I enquire the reason for your interest in the subject, madam?”

‘“Because I saw a moving light last night, in the ruined chapel.”

‘As I spoke these words, it seemed to me that a spark of fear sprang up in the man’s eyes, but he said nothing. Later in the day I put the same questions to Mrs Pybus, the cook.

‘“I don’t know nothing of any lights, madam,” said she in answer to my questions, “and I am forbidden to gossip about such things.”

‘“Forbidden?’ I queried. “Forbidden by whom?”

‘“Why, Mr Hardwick, madam.”

‘I could get nothing further from her and when I told her she could go, she bustled quickly away, with very evident relief. In truth, I think it very likely that she does, indeed, know nothing; but the butler is a different case altogether and I am convinced that there is much that he could tell me if he would. Unlike the other servants, he is a man of some intelligence and learning, and might, under other circumstances, have made Shoreswood almost bearable for me. But as matters stand, I have come to feel that I cannot trust him.

‘When I retired that night, I vowed to myself that if there were no letter from Edward the following morning, I should leave for London in the afternoon. This decision cheered me somewhat, but I still secured the door and window of my bedroom as I had done before. Perhaps these precautions strike you as absurd, gentlemen, as you sit here in the bustling heart of London; but had you spent nights alone in Shoreswood Hall I believe you would understand – yes, and feel as I felt that night. As I was by the window, a sudden slight noise from the garden set my hair on end. What the noise was, I do not know – perhaps an owl disturbing the leaves upon a tree – but my nerves were frayed and the slightest noise was enough to bring my heart to my mouth.

‘The moon was shining brightly that night, bathing the lawn outside in its grey light, and I could see quite clearly across to the woods. As I peered out, I saw something which sent my blood cold in my veins. A dark, hunched figure in a long hooded cloak was making its way slowly and deliberately across the lawn towards the house. With a thrill of loathing rising in my breast, I watched, unable to move, as the figure approached slowly in the moonlight. All at once, as on a sudden thought, it turned aside and struck out in another direction, until at length it vanished from my sight round an angle of the building. For twenty minutes I remained by the window, but saw nothing further, and heard nothing but the distant chiming of a church clock.

‘I was still awake when the church clock struck the next hour. So disturbed and agitated was I, that I could not think what to do. My dearest wish was to fly from this dreadful house that very minute and yet I feared to leave my little bedroom, not knowing what I might encounter beyond. Even as I debated the matter in my head, a slight noise at the window set me rigid with fear. It was, I suppose, but a very slight noise, as the flutter of a moth’s wing against the window-pane, but to me it was like the roar of Niagara. Then it came again, a faint creaking sound this time, and I realised with a feeling of sickness that someone – or something – was endeavouring to open my bedroom window from without.’

Lady Davenoke shuddered convulsively and stared for a long moment at her hands, which she had been clasping and unclasping violently all the while she spoke. Then she raised her head once more.

‘Other than a sensation of the blood rushing in my ears, I can remember nothing more,’ said she with a deep sigh. ‘I evidently passed out. When I awoke it was broad daylight and the birds were singing outside my window. There was no letter from my husband that morning, so I packed my bags and had Staples drive me to the railroad station.’

‘This disturbance at your bedroom window,’ interjected Holmes: ‘were you able to see the cause of it?’

‘No. The curtains were drawn.’

‘Then it could have been anything – or nothing; the wind, perhaps.’

‘But I had seen the hooded figure upon the lawn.’

‘Quite so. I do not doubt it for an instant. And you therefore quite naturally drew the conclusion that the two incidents were related.’

‘Are you suggesting otherwise?’

‘I have no opinion upon the matter, for the data are so far insufficient. There are any number of explanations which might account for what you have seen and heard, and it is much too early to favour any one against the others. It is a capital error to theorise ahead of the data. It biases the judgement. The figure you saw upon the lawn may have been that of a poacher, for example, and may have nothing whatever to do with the other incidents you have mentioned.’

‘I understand your point, Mr Holmes,’ said Lady Davenoke after a moment. She took a sip from a tumbler of water which I had passed her. ‘I am afraid, however,’ she continued after a moment, ‘that my own conclusions remain unshaken.’

‘You may of course be correct. I shall pursue the truth of the matter and then we shall see. What was the butler’s reaction when he learnt that you were leaving Shoreswood?’

‘He seemed quite disturbed about it, Mr Holmes. Indeed, he attempted rather clumsily to dissuade me from going. So I interpreted his remarks, at least, when he kept repeating that his master would no doubt be back in a day or so. It was almost as if he feared what I might discover in London. When it became evident to him that I was not to be dissuaded from going, he tried to learn my intended destination on the pretext that my husband might return in my absence and wish to know where I was staying. His manner was very agitated, his face the picture of deceit. Needless to say, I did not tell him what he wanted to know. Indeed, the fact that he clearly did not wish me to go merely hardened my resolve to leave at once, and the efforts with which he tried to learn my plans merely hardened my resolve not to satisfy his curiosity. I had been convinced ever since my return to Shoreswood that he was not telling me all he knew, so why should I tell him what was in my mind? I could not believe that he wanted the information simply to pass it on to Edward.’

‘What happened when you arrived in London?’ queried Holmes, as our visitor paused.

‘I called upon Lady Congrave, who appeared delighted to see me. She insisted that I stay with her whilst in London and would brook no argument upon the point. She had a friend staying with her – Miss Edith Strensall, a young lady of about my own age – and she, too, was most welcoming. I did not at first tell them what had brought me to London and they did not press me upon the point. The following day – that is, last Friday – I called at the Royal Suffolk Hotel. The manager, Mr Solferino, was most kind to me, but he was unable to help. Edward was not staying there and an examination of the hotel register showed that he had not been there at any time in the past six months. I asked Mr Solferino why the letter I had sent had not, then, been at once returned to me, and he explained that he had assumed that there had been some confusion over dates, and had held on to my letter for a couple of days in case my husband turned up.

‘“It has been sent back now, however,” said he. “Indeed, I am surprised that you have not already received it. No doubt it will be there by now. Please give your husband my best wishes – when you find him!” he added with a smile, not realising the feeling of utter desperation which gnawed at my soul.

‘I spent the next few days endeavouring to be pleasant to Lady Congrave, Miss Strensall and their visitors with increasing difficulty. Finally, yesterday afternoon, when the three of us were alone, Lady Congrave spoke frankly to me and begged me to tell them what it was that weighed so heavily upon my mind. I poured out my heart to them then and was glad afterwards that I had done so. They were most sympathetic and, more than that, they both made a positive suggestion. Miss Strensall declared that she would return with me to Shoreswood – she had no engagements and could leave as soon as I was ready – and Lady Congrave urged most strongly that I put the matter in your hands, Mr Holmes.’

‘I am honoured by her recommendation.’

‘She said that if anyone could help me, Mr Holmes, it was you; that you had never been known to fail.’

‘If only that were true!’

‘Mr Holmes, you must not fail this time! You must apply your utmost powers to my case. I am beset by such terrible, terrible troubles. What have I entered into with my marriage? What secret deeds are afoot at Shoreswood Hall? And where, oh where, is Edward? Only my husband can banish my fears and reassure my doubting mind, and only you, Mr Holmes, can tell me what has become of my husband!’

Our visitor’s voice had risen with emotion as she spoke, until these last words came in a cry of pleading which was pitiful to hear.

‘I shall do all in my power,’ said Holmes, in a voice which was at once soft and soothing, and yet contained in it also a note of confidence and authority. ‘Your case interests me, madam, and I can understand fully your distress. You have had a number of odd and disconcerting experiences, and have had no one to turn to for comfort. For some of these experiences, singular as they appear, there may of course be a perfectly natural explanation; but there are one or two points in your narrative which do not seem to admit of any very obvious answer.’ He sat for a moment in silence. ‘I cannot promise complete success, Lady Davenoke, but I think we should be able to make some progress.’ He lapsed once more into silence, tapping the ends of his fingers upon his chin. ‘Of course,’ he continued after a moment, ‘your husband may return of his own accord at any time and thus solve your problems at a stroke. Let us hope that that is so.’

A faint smile passed across her features at this remark, but the look of anxiety did not entirely leave her eyes. ‘Do you have hopes, Mr Holmes?’ said she.

‘Certainly, certainly. But first I must ask you an unpleasant but necessary question. Have you reported your husband’s disappearance to the authorities here?’

‘I went straight to the police after leaving the Royal Suffolk Hotel,’ Lady Davenoke replied, nodding her head. ‘They could shed no light upon the matter. No body has been found which could possibly be that of my husband, if that is the unpleasant possibility to which you refer. They have also been in touch with the County Constabularies of Suffolk and Essex, in case Edward had met with an accident on his way to London, but both sent a negative reply.’

‘Do you know of any relative or friend with whom he might stay?’

‘None at all. Edward has not a single close relative and the only friend he retains from his schooldays, Marmaduke Morton of Canterbury, is at present in the West Indies.’

‘Very well. When do you intend to return to Shoreswood?’

‘Today.’

Holmes’s eyebrows shot up in surprise.

‘My husband may, as you say, return – indeed, he may have returned already – and, if so, I would wish to be there. I would not go back to that place alone, you understand, but with a good friend beside me, someone with whom I can discuss matters, I believe that I shall be equal to whatever may occur. Besides, telling my troubles to you has fortified my heart and given me new hope. You look doubtful – do you think I do wrong in returning to Shoreswood?’

‘It might perhaps be better if you stayed away a few more days.’

‘Shall I be in danger there, Mr Holmes?’ queried our visitor, with a sharp glance at my friend’s impassive features. ‘Please answer me frankly!’

‘That I cannot say, Lady Davenoke. The matter is not entirely clear to me.’

‘Well, I would wish to return if it were possible. Would you wish to forbid me?’

Holmes shook his head with a smile.

‘Then I shall go,’ said she, returning his smile. ‘With Miss Strensall’s support I know I shall not be fearful. She is a very sensible woman. I shall await Edward’s return at Shoreswood, secure in the knowledge that you are doing all in your power to find him.’

‘Very well,’ said Holmes. ‘I shall be in touch the moment I have any news. And should you require our presence at Shoreswood,’ he added after a moment, ‘you have only to send a telegram.’

‘I shall not forget,’ said she.

II: In Which Various Letters are Sent and Received

‘What a very singular problem!’ said Holmes thoughtfully, as his client’s footsteps descended the stair.

‘And a singular young woman!’ I added. ‘One moment she trembles with fear, the next she is so bold as to spurn your advice!’

‘Women are a curious mixture of timidity and courage,’ remarked my friend, who had risen from his chair and was now gazing from the open window. ‘And the advent of either state seems generally to bear no reference to external circumstances.’

Together we watched the slight figure of our visitor, as she made her way slowly along the crowded pavement. Perhaps it was my fancy, but an air of tragedy seemed to hang over her even there, in bustling Baker Street. All at once I had an overpowering sensation of impending doom, an awful conviction that, do what we might, we could not protect Amelia Davenoke from the fate that awaited her. Involuntarily, I shook my head, as if to drive such thoughts from my mind.

‘She seems such a vulnerable young lady,’ said I.

‘It is her youth and inexperience,’ replied Holmes. ‘What do you make of that fellow over there?’

‘The man suffering from toothache?’ I queried, glancing across the street to where a man dressed all in black stood by a lamp-post. His dark frock-coat and top hat were both the worse for wear, and about his neck and jaw, making an incongruous contrast with the sobriety of the remainder of his attire, was a red muffler.

Holmes turned his head and stared at me for a moment, his brows drawn into an expression of surprise and puzzlement.

‘I was applying your own methods of observation and deduction,’ said I in reply to his unspoken question. ‘The temperature must be up in the eighties already, so unless he is a madman he must have some very good reason for wearing his muffler. A bad case of toothache seems the most probable answer.’

‘Ha! I fancy that on this occasion your explanation is a little over-ingenious,’ remarked my friend. There was a trace of a smile about his lips, but his voice was cold and serious. ‘Unless I am much mistaken, the purpose of his muffler is not a subtle one, but the simplest imaginable.’

‘Which is?’

‘To conceal his face. He has shown considerable interest in Lady Davenoke since she left our front doorstep. I should not be surprised if—Yes, by George! There he goes! Your boots and your hat, quickly, Watson !’

In less than thirty seconds we were upon the pavement, but neither our recent visitor nor the man in black was anywhere to be seen.

‘She took a cab from the corner,’ cried Holmes, hurrying in that direction.

Down King Street as we turned the corner, two hansom cabs were rattling away towards Gloucester Place and were already some distance ahead of us. It was evident that the man in the red muffler had also managed to secure a cab. Holmes groaned aloud and looked about him in desperation. No other cab was on the street. ‘Come on, Watson!’ said he, and we set off on foot as fast as we could. Ahead of us the two cabs, the one following the other at a short distance, turned left into Gloucester Place and vanished from our sight.

I was quite out of breath by the time we reached the corner and a sudden sharp pain in my left leg served as a savage reminder to me of the wound I bore from the Afghan war. Eagerly, Holmes scanned the busy street ahead of us, his brows drawn down over his piercing grey eyes. The rigidity of his pose, the keen, hawk-like expression upon his face, made him appear for all the world like a bird of prey surveying the field. But on this occasion the hunter’s search was fruitless: no cabs were visible which could possibly be the ones we sought.

‘They must have turned into George Street,’ said he grimly. A few yards ahead of us a cab dropped off a fare and Holmes sprang in. I followed with relief, for the pain in my leg was now severe.

‘First right ahead!’ called my friend to the driver; ‘as fast as you can!’

Along George Street we rattled at a great rate, until we reached the Edgware Road, passing several other vehicles as we did so, but without seeing anything of Lady Davenoke or the man who was following her.

‘We have lost them,’ said Holmes bitterly, as we faced the crowded, bustling prospect of the Edgware Road. ‘They have evidently taken another route. We may still be able to gain an advantage, however!’ he cried, his eyes flashing. ‘Phillimore Gardens, Cabbie! By the fastest route you know!’

The driver whipped up the horse and we were off at a gallop once more, down to the Park, past houses, shops and gardens, along busy roads and quiet, until we at last turned into Phillimore Gardens, our horse steaming with the effort. The street was almost deserted, save for a workman wheeling a barrow along and a couple of loafers leaning upon a wall talking, one of them clutching a copy of the Pink ’Un in his hand. Of one thing we could be certain; at such a pace had we travelled that it was inconceivable that the other cabs could have arrived before us. Now we had only to wait.

For twenty-five minutes we sat there, Holmes with his pocket-watch open upon his knee, but neither Lady Davenoke nor anyone else whom we could recognise arrived.

‘It is my fault,’ said Holmes at length, in a tone of resignation. ‘I had assumed that she would be returning directly to Lady Congrave’s house, but she has evidently gone elsewhere. Come! There is little point our waiting here any longer. Let us return to Baker Street!’ Though his tone was a philosophical one, there was no disguising the expression of disappointment upon his face.

Holmes went out after lunch, without saying where he was going. I passed the afternoon in an armchair, my aching leg upon a stool, endeavouring to read Colonel Forbes Macallan’s History of the Afghan Campaign. Certainly the sweltering weather suited the subject of the book, but try as I might to concentrate, I found my mind constantly wandering to our morning’s visitor and her recent strange experiences. Lady Davenoke’s singular tale, and our hectic dash through the streets, had left a most sinister impression upon my mind.

Why had her new husband, apparently so attentive to her before, now deserted her so abruptly and without a word of explanation? Why, in coming up to London, had he broken with the family tradition of staying at the Royal Suffolk Hotel? What was the explanation for the lights which Amelia Davenoke had seen in the ruined chapel at night-time and for the figure she had seen upon the lawn in the moonlight? Who was the man with the red muffler and why was he following her about London? The more I pondered these matters, the less sense could I make of them. My heart went out to that slight, elfin-like young woman, who walked amidst such mystery, so far from home and family, when she should have been enjoying to the full the first happy months of married life. With all my heart I wished to help her, but felt at an utter loss to know what to do. Fervently I hoped that Sherlock Holmes would conceive some line of inquiry, some course of action which we could follow.

My friend returned at a quarter to six, an expression of fatigue upon his face. He dropped into his old blue armchair and stretched out his legs.

‘If Edward Davenoke were staying at one of the many hotels in the West End,’ said he after a moment, ‘the chances of our finding him would be slight, to say the least. However, we are given to understand that he has come up to town upon business of some kind and it therefore seems likely that he would take a hotel in the City.’

I nodded and he continued:

‘This consideration reduces the field of inquiry significantly, for there are far fewer hotels at that end of town than this. Now, I have this afternoon visited every hotel in the City at which our missing baronet might conceivably stay, without finding the slightest trace of him.’

‘You must be very disappointed!’

‘On the contrary,’ said he, ‘it is a most pleasing result – for the spirit, at least, if not for the body.’

‘I do not understand, Holmes.’

‘I mean, Watson, that the result of my inquiries is precisely as I had expected. It is always pleasing to have one’s views confirmed. As the chemist tests substance after substance for a certain reaction, hoping all the time in his heart that the reaction will not occur, for it is his theory that it should not do so, so I – the chemist of human complexities – test hotel after hotel for the presence of Edward Davenoke, hoping all the time, in this sense at least, that I do not find him there.’

‘Then you do not believe that he is staying in a hotel at all?’

‘Precisely, Watson. Pass me a whisky and soda, there’s a good fellow – and a cigar, too, if you would be so good; my body could tolerate a little relaxation!’

‘But if you are so sure that he is not there, then why look?’

‘The spirit of scientific inquiry, my dear fellow. One must test one’s theories. What is a theory that is never put to the test? – Nothing but a puff of empty vapour.’

I endeavoured to press my colleague further as to his views upon the matter, but he was unforthcoming. For twenty minutes he lay back in silence in his chair, the blue smoke of the cigar curling lazily up to the ceiling.

‘I wrote to Lady Davenoke whilst I was out,’ he remarked abruptly, without opening his eyes.

‘You sent her a telegram?’

‘No, a letter; for I wished to be sure that she was back at Shoreswood when my communication arrived, just in case anyone else there felt an inclination to open it in her absence.’

‘You suspect that someone might do such a thing?’ I queried, surprised at his remark.

‘It is possible and it is not a risk I was prepared to take. I have asked her to confirm that all is in order at Shoreswood and that everyone who should be there was indeed there when she returned. Now,’ he continued, rising from his seat, ‘I am retiring.’ He selected an old brier from a rack of pipes upon the mantelpiece and took up the Persian slipper in which he kept his tobacco. ‘Kindly inform Mrs Hudson that I shall not require supper this evening.’

My features must have betrayed the surprise I felt at his retiring at so early an hour, for at the doorway he paused.

‘I need to think,’ said he, ‘and my bedroom, being quieter, suits the purpose better. As for eating, you must be aware that the digestion of food takes oxygen from the brain and is thus inimical to profound thought.’ With that explanation he was gone and I saw him no more that night. It was evident, however, that his mind was sorely exercised by Amelia Davenoke’s problem, for late into the night I could hear the sound of his footsteps pacing backwards and forwards across the floor of his room.

In the morning, my friend did not show himself until late. His eyes were dark, his face haggard and drawn, and I had no need of my medical training to perceive that he had had little sleep that night. A few letters had arrived for him by the morning’s post. These he glanced over mechanically and without interest, his mind clearly elsewhere. Upon opening the last one, however, his expression changed utterly and he sat bolt upright in his chair as if he had been galvanised. It was, I could see, a letter-card, of the type which costs a penny-farthing from post offices, and which can be folded and sealed when the message has been written upon it.

‘The matter deepens,’ said Holmes in a tone of excitement. ‘Take a look!’

I took the letter from his outstretched fingers. The following brief and unsigned message, untidily written in black ink, was all it contained:

‘Whatever does it mean?’ I cried.

‘Simply that someone does not wish us involved.’

‘In the Davenoke case?’

‘So we must suppose; I am engaged in no other inquiry at present.’

‘But who?’

Holmes shook his head, his brows drawn down into a frown of concentration. ‘The letter bears an ‘E.C.’ postmark,’ said he.

‘It was posted in the City, then!’

‘Precisely, Watson, precisely!’

‘The writing is exceedingly untidy,’ I remarked, ‘which perhaps indicates an ill-educated person.’

‘I think not,’ returned my friend. ‘The letters are strong, firm and regularly formed. They quite lack the artificial and unnecessary flourishes with which the ill-educated feel obliged to decorate their script. In addition, the grammar is impeccable and the choice of words precise. It is apparent that whoever sent this note is no stranger to the art of writing.’

‘What then?’ I asked in surprise.

‘He is a reasonably well educated man – for a man’s hand it surely is – who was simply in a very great hurry when he wrote this note.’

‘Why should he be in a hurry?’

At this, Sherlock Holmes broke into one of those strange, noiseless bouts of laughing which were peculiar to him. ‘Perhaps,’ said he at length, ‘he had a train to catch.’

For the remainder of the day my friend did not once refer to Lady Davenoke’s mystery. In the afternoon he went out for an hour or two, returning with a small brown-paper package, which he placed upon his desk and did not open. All evening he occupied himself with some particularly malodorous chemical experiment, the air of our little room gradually thickening to an unhealthy reek, until I was at length driven to my bedroom by the noxious fumes. As I left the room I bade my friend good night, but he was engrossed over a bubbling retort and did not hear me. It was evident to me that he had deliberately concentrated his mind upon other matters since the morning, in order to drive the Davenoke case completely from his thoughts, that he might return to it afresh and with renewed mental energies at a later date. As I have had occasion to remark elsewhere, Holmes’s powers of mental detachment in such circumstances were quite extraordinary. Perhaps, I reflected as I climbed the stairs, he would return to the matter in the morning, if the letter he was expecting from Lady Davenoke arrived then.

We were seated at breakfast the following day when the maid brought up the post. Eagerly my friend sifted through the envelopes with his long thin fingers, selected two and put the rest aside. He tore open the first, glanced briefly inside and tossed it across to me. I was most surprised to see that it contained nothing at all. From the second he extracted a large, folded blue sheet, which he spread out upon his plate and studied closely for several minutes, a frown upon his face, before passing it to me. It was in the neat, rounded hand of Lady Davenoke and ran as follows:

‘Well, Watson, what do you make of it?’ enquired Holmes, as he poured himself a cup of coffee.

‘It seems the very best news your client could have hoped for,’ I replied. ‘No doubt the matter will soon resolve itself now. It is good that Lady Davenoke is now so cheerful.’

‘Oh? So that is how it strikes you?’ said he, passing me the toast-rack. He pushed back his chair in silence and took his coffee cup to the mantelpiece, where he set it down amid a litter of chemical bottles and test-tubes, and took up his black clay pipe.

‘I regret that I cannot share your optimism, Watson,’ he continued after a moment. ‘You will appreciate that I feel professionally responsible for the well-being of my client. From that point of view, this letter she has received is perhaps the most sinister development so far.’

‘You amaze me, Holmes! It struck me as extremely cheering!’

‘So are fairy-tales, Watson – and they contain as much of the truth as does that letter.’

‘Really, Holmes! What possible evidence can you have for such an assertion?’

‘The most significant evidence lies in the first envelope I passed you.’

‘But that envelope was perfectly empty!’

‘Therein lies its significance.’

‘Oh, this is absurd!’ I cried. ‘I can make neither head nor tail of it!’

‘You know my methods,’ said he laconically. ‘Apply them!’

I picked the empty envelope up from the table and examined it. It was very cheap, penny-a-packet commercial stationery, and bore the previous evening’s date and the ‘E.C.’ postmark, indicating that it had been posted in the City area. I remarked as much to my friend and he nodded.

‘Your name and address are correctly rendered,’ I continued, ‘but the writing is very scratchy, indicating perhaps that the writer is careless with his pen, or too mean to fit a fresh nib when one is undoubtedly needed. The writing itself, however, has a certain strength and regularity. It is the hand, I should say, of a man of character and intelligence.’

‘Thank you!’ cried my friend, choking with laughter and collapsing helplessly into a chair. I looked again at the envelope. ‘Holmes!’ I cried, ‘this hand is your own! You yourself wrote it!’

‘Indeed I did,’ said he when he had recovered himself. ‘I wrote it in a post office and the pen was the best one available, I am afraid.’

‘I am glad you find your own jest so amusing,’ I remarked with some asperity. ‘I was under the impression that we were engaged upon a serious investigation.’

‘So we are, my dear fellow, so we are,’ said he. His tone was an earnest one, but this served only to irritate me further.

‘You go too far, Holmes,’ said I coldly. ‘You send yourself a letter with nothing in it, open it up and gaze at its emptiness, then pronounce the matter to be of significance. It is significant only of idiocy!’

‘There you make a mistake, my dear friend.’

‘I think not.’

‘But you do, nonetheless. Your mistake is in supposing that I sent the letter to myself. That, I agree, would be idiocy.’

‘But you have admitted as much.’

‘Not at all. I admitted only that I wrote the address upon the letter, and you leapt to the conclusion that I also sent it. As these actions do go together as a general rule, the conclusion is, I admit, a natural one; but it by no means follows with apodictic certainty. The two actions are really quite distinct, a fact which I feel may be of considerable significance in the Davenoke case. But, come! I have no desire to make further mystery when there is so much already. Do you recall the Baker Street Division of the Detective Force?’

‘The Irregulars! Most certainly,’ said I, smiling at the thought, despite myself. ‘A more dishevelled and disreputable collection of street-Arabs I never saw in my life!’

‘Nevertheless, there is much good work to be got from them. You will no doubt recall the assistance they provided in the Jefferson Hope case, and also in that singular business of “The Three Eyes”.’

‘I am hardly likely to forget either of those cases. You are employing them at present, then?’

‘Precisely, Watson. As I informed you the other day, I myself made inquiries for Sir Edward Davenoke at virtually all the conceivable places. The Baker Street Irregulars are therefore trying all the inconceivable places – small hotels, many of them distinctly disreputable, cheap lodging houses, odd rooms that are let in public-houses and so on. I provided their leader, Wiggins, with a ready-stamped envelope, for him to communicate his findings to me – I addressed it myself, as writing is not Wiggins’s strong suit – in order that we should not have the house invaded by these boys, as has happened before – much to Mrs Hudson’s distress, as you will no doubt recollect. But if, and only if, he was certain that they had looked everywhere, and that there was nowhere remaining where Davenoke might be, he was to seal up the envelope, empty as it was, and send it back to me, to let me know that they had completed their task, and that Davenoke was nowhere to be found. Such a negative message is every bit as interesting and important, you see, as any positive message could be. Knowing the thoroughness with which Wiggins and his friends have always performed the tasks I have set them, I can thus declare with a confidence approaching almost to certainty that the letter which Amelia Davenoke has received is nothing more nor less than a monstrous lie.’

‘What, then, do you see as the truth?’

‘This is not the time to discuss theories,’ replied Holmes after a moment. ‘I am not yet entirely clear in my mind about one or two points. One thing that does seem clear to me, however, is that the arrival of this letter is bad – very bad. It rather eliminates the possibility that this whole business is a series of accidents, unfortunate mischances and misapprehensions, and renders it virtually certain that things are as I feared. All that had happened to this point was vague and inconclusive, and susceptible of some innocent explanation or other, however unlikely: thus, the man we saw in the street may indeed have been hurrying to visit his dentist, and the fact that his cab followed Lady Davenoke’s so closely may have been sheer chance; the anonymous note we received may have come from some crank or monomaniac who has no connection with the Davenokes whatever – it did not mention any names after all – and the fact that it came when it did may be utter coincidence; the figure Lady Davenoke saw upon the lawn may indeed have been a poacher, the lights some natural phenomenon, the footsteps in the night a servant sneaking to the kitchen for a slice of bread and cheese. But this letter she has received’ – he paused to give emphasis to his words – ‘this letter, I say, is a concrete, physical lie, which can in no wise be explained away.’

‘I see clearly now what you mean,’ said I. ‘But what can we do?’

‘We might do worse than read the book I picked up at Hatchard’s, yesterday afternoon,’ replied my friend. ‘It is always an advantage to understand fully the historical antecedents of a case.’

He took up the brown-paper packet which had lain unopened upon his desk and extracted a red-bound volume. As he turned the pages over, I saw that it was Robinson’s County Guide to East Suffolk. After a moment, he found what he was looking for.

‘“Shoreswood Old Hall, its history and legend”,’ he read aloud. ‘I shall give you a résumé of the history, Watson, and perhaps when you have finished your work with that egg-spoon you would be so good as to read the section devoted to the legend.’

‘Certainly, if it is of interest to you.’

‘“The manor of Shoreswood is one of the oldest in the country,”’ he began after a moment, ‘ “and has many historical associations. It has been the home of the Davenoke family since the middle of the fourteenth century, for a pipe roll of 1347, in the reign of Edward III, records that one Guy Davernuck was granted the manor of ‘Shorriswode’ in recognition of the service he had rendered the king at the battle of Crécy, the previous year. In the fifteenth century the Davenokes were closely associated with the Pole family, supporting the claims of the latter to” – this is not very interesting! Let me see – Ah! “At the time of the Reformation, the family remained faithful to the Church of Rome, but although their sympathies were widely known, they appear to have escaped any great penalty upon this account. Later, Roland Davenoke was one of the leading supporters of Mary Tudor’s successful claim upon the throne, he being largely responsible for the rallying of English Catholics at nearby Framlingham Castle, from where she marched to London to take the Crown. When Elizabeth became queen, the Davenokes were several times fined for recusancy, and for many years the estate lay under threat of confiscation, but the threat was never enacted. Elizabeth’s officers visited Shoreswood on many occasions, acting on persistent rumours that Jesuit priests from France were in hiding there, but none was ever discovered.

‘“At the time of the Civil War, Robert Davenoke took the Royalist side and was killed at the Battle of Naseby, fighting alongside Prince Rupert. A tradition in the area has it that the future King Charles II spent a night at Shoreswood after the Battle of Worcester, on his way into exile abroad.” – Ha! – If Charles II had indeed stayed a night in every place which lays a claim to harbouring him after the Battle of Worcester, he would never have found time to get abroad at all! What else do we have? Hum! – “In 1738, during the time of Sir Charles, the first baronet, a completely new house was begun three miles away, in the Palladian style then popular. The original house was thence known as ‘Shoreswood Old Hall’, in contradistinction to the new. So poorly was the new hall constructed, however, that within a dozen years it had become unsafe for habitation and within two dozen the greater part of it was in ruins. Having insufficient capital to effect the necessary repairs, the family moved back to the Old Hall, where they have remained ever since.”

‘There is little more of interest,’ said Holmes, his eye running down the page. ‘Ah! Amelia Davenoke is not alone in her dislike of the place. Apparently, David Hume, the philosopher, spent a night there in 1766 and described it afterwards, in a letter to Adam Smith, as “the most repugnant household in which a man was ever required to endure twenty-four hours”. Hum! The chapel seems to have had a history almost as chequered as that of the Davenokes themselves. Parts of it are Norman, including one wall which still stands. Listen to this, Watson! – “It was partly destroyed at the Reformation, partly restored under Mary Tudor, forcibly closed during Elizabeth’s long reign, and brought to its present state of ruin by Cromwell’s myrmidons, since when it has been left to moulder in picturesque decay.” What a wealth of history that sentence comprises! But I see that you are ready now to take over!’

My friend passed me the book, settled himself in his chair and put a match to his pipe, as I began the following singular account:

The legend associated with the Manor of Shoreswood, and hence with the family of Davenoke, is among the most remarkable of English folk-tales, containing as it does certain unique features which set it apart from other, similar legends. Yet it has, also, something in common with all such tales, in that it purports to record events which we feel reluctant to credit, but which were apparently well-attested by those present at the time.

Belief in a hidden chamber in Shoreswood Hall, and in a mysterious local creature, unlike any known animal, were both part of the common coin of rural folklore throughout the recorded history of the area. But the two beliefs appear to have been quite distinct and unconnected until the early years of the seventeenth century, during the reign of James I, when there occurred, so it is said, those events which were to forge an inseparable link between them in the popular imagination, and give to the creature the name of the Beast of Shoreswood. It was a dark and superstitious age, between the brash and confident gaiety of the Tudors and the harsh and bitter divisions of the Civil War; a fitting time, one might suppose, for a monster to stalk the shadowed lanes of the Deben valley, striking terror into the hearts of the simple country-folk who dwelt there.

As to the accuracy of the following we can make no claim. It is largely taken from what is probably the best account, that of one Thomas Swefling, a minor tax-official in the area at the time. As he did not set himself to record the events until twenty years after their occurrence, however, his account may contain many errors, which must, of necessity, be repeated here.

In the year 1607, Richard Davenoke was Lord of the Manor of Shoreswood, a man who was, by all accounts, neither better nor worse than his forebears, from which one may conclude that he was known for hard riding, hard fighting and hard drinking, for a general amiability on sunny days and a ferocious, unappeasable temper on dark days. His mother, a woman of Burgundian extraction, had for many years been a powerful force in the area, but since her death, two years previously, the responsibilities of the district had rested solely, and some said too heavily, upon Richard’s shoulders. For he was not by temperament a natural leader of men, and his life had already been touched by sorrow once before. His only brother, Arthur, had been drowned in the moat of Shoreswood Hall twenty years previously when still a small child, and it was often said of Richard Davenoke that this tragedy had so affected his young, impressionable soul that he had ever after borne its mark, and been subject to fits of black melancholy. But greater tragedy was yet to befall him, ensuring that the story of Richard Davenoke’s struggle against the Beast of Shoreswood would live forever in the annals of East Suffolk.

In the spring of that year, a series of inexplicable and ghastly attacks were made, under cover of darkness, upon domestic animals as they grazed peacefully in the fields. On each occasion, the ferocity of the attack was marked, but there was no common agreement among the local people as to the nature of the predator. Sentries were appointed and a watch kept, but the killer was never seen. Some argued that a wolf must be responsible, but others, observing with truth that no wolf had been seen in East Suffolk for over a hundred years, whispered darkly of some more unnatural agency.

After this initial onslaught, the attacks ceased for a while, but when they began afresh, as many had feared they would, it was with an even greater ferocity than before. Nothing that lived and breathed was safe from the blood-lust of the mysterious and unseen beast: sheep, cattle, horses and every other kind of harmless animal, all were butchered alike. By this time there was great fear among the local folk as to what the evil creature could be which passed amongst them at dead of night, for in not one instance of this hideous slaughter had an animal been killed for food. Clearly the beast was one which killed only to satisfy its thirst for blood. Then, at last, as all in their hearts had feared, a human victim was taken, a local farmer’s son who had been walking home alone, late at night. His body was found by the roadside next morning, almost torn to pieces by the ferocity of the attack.

Armed bands of men were at once formed, under the leadership of Richard Davenoke, to hunt down the beast; but though they scoured the countryside round, searched with hounds, and kept armed watch at night for many weeks, no trace of the mysterious creature could be found. A little later, another man was attacked and killed, then a third, then a fourth and fifth. People spoke now of the Beast of Shoreswood, and dark rumours began to circulate concerning Richard Davenoke’s supposedly dead brother. There were some who now recalled a strange deformity of the features which this unfortunate child was said to have possessed, a deformity so terrible that it was said to have given him the appearance of some low animal or rodent. Others remembered tales which had been current in the countryside twenty years previously despite the family’s attempts to suppress them, of wild childish tantrums verging almost upon madness.

Perhaps, the rumours now suggested, the story of Arthur’s death had been untrue, fabricated deliberately to conceal a truth far worse, that his bestial insanity had obliged his family to hide him away from the eyes of the world, confined for life in some secret and inaccessible chamber in Shoreswood Hall. Perhaps the source of the evil which had thrown such a pall of terror over the countryside was to be found in that dark and sombre building.

As is the way among fanciful and ill-educated people, these rumours soon acquired the status of fact. More and more openly were such thoughts spoken aloud, until they reached the ear of Richard Davenoke himself. Greatly angered, he did all in his power to suppress the rumours, but there were those who said that he did so with a weary reluctance, and without the light of truth in his eye. Certainly, the whole dreadful series of events seemed to have exacted an awful toll from the man. As chief landowner in the area, he had naturally assumed responsibility in the matter, and this responsibility and the worries and cares which came with it had almost destroyed him. Broken in health, his face lined with anxiety and his hair prematurely grey, he went about his daily business with the weariness of one who would welcome the release of the grave. In some, his appearance and manner evoked sympathy, but there were many others who saw in them a confirmation of the very worst of the rumours. A man so racked, they argued, was a man who was torn between two loyalties, who could not bring himself to do what in his heart he knew he must.

The atrocious and bloody deeds of violence continued to occur at irregular intervals, turning the nights of the country-folk to sleepless terror; and as they did so, so did the rumours grow and strengthen themselves by feeding upon the ignorance of the people. There were those who said, although not to his face, that Richard Davenoke should, once and for all, deny upon holy oath, if he could, the stories which were being told against his brother. Some argued for the opening of his brother’s tomb, whilst others wished to see a company of local yeomen allowed to enter and search Shoreswood Hall. Where this growing discontent might have ended, no one can say, for all at once, upon a shocking and horrific night in August, the matter reached a final and terrible climax.

In the darkest hours of the night, so it is said, when all had been long asleep, every soul in Shoreswood Hall was on a sudden instant rendered wide awake and struck with terror by the most dreadful and blood-curdling scream. For a long moment, the echo of the scream seemed to hang in the silent air after the sound itself had died, then doors were flung back and the noise of running footsteps filled the stairways and corridors of the Hall. One man cried out that he had seen a crouching figure slip away along a dark corridor, and several hurried that way to give pursuit, but nothing was found. The largest crowd had by now gathered outside the bed-chamber of Elizabeth Davenoke, wife of Richard, for it was from there that the unearthly sound had issued, but none dared enter. Then Richard Davenoke himself stepped to the front of the crowd, and, taking a long-bladed knife from his chief steward, he placed his hand upon the latch. With a resolute and grim expression, he bade all there remain without the door on peril of their lives, then, with a gesture of impulse, wrenched the door open and passed within, bolting it fast behind him.

What took place in that room then, none can tell. Certainly there were cries and groans, and the sounds of a struggle filled the air. Outside the room, the servants of Shoreswood stood listening in impotent and silent horror for what seemed an eternity. Abruptly, the door opened once more, and Richard Davenoke emerged, his clothes torn and his body a mass of cuts and scratches. ‘Your mistress is dead,’ said he with a face of stone, at which the servants all fell to weeping. ‘She is the very last victim that will ever be taken by the monster that has terrorised us for so long. Return to your beds now, and you, Joseph, my good and faithful servant, do you come with me and assist me, in the grim work that must now be done.’

Thus ended the six-month reign of terror of the Beast of Shoreswood, for there were no more killings. The funeral of Elizabeth Davenoke took place a few days later amid scenes of much sorrow, for she had been greatly loved in the district. There were those who said that another ceremony took place also, at dead of night, but if this were so, nothing is known of it, for a veil of secrecy had fallen upon Shoreswood Hall. There was great sympathy for Richard Davenoke in his time of sorrow, and he was never pressed to reveal what he knew of the terrible events of that year. Speculation naturally abounded, but no story was ever either confirmed or denied by the Lord of Shoreswood, who had sworn himself to total silence upon the matter. From that time onward, so it is said, he never once left his estate until the day he died, and scarcely ever ventured outside the Hall itself, spending his days in solitary study and prayer.

Fifteen years later, upon Richard’s death, his oldest son, Thomas, promised to make public all he might discover among his father’s papers concerning ‘The Beast of Shoreswood’, but either he found nothing, or chose not to disclose it, for the promise was never fulfilled. The alteration in the young man’s character which took place at that time led many to suspect that he had indeed discovered the truth, but thought it better to conceal it. For it is said that from the day upon which he assumed the title of Shoreswood, he was never again seen to smile. Thus arose the tradition that upon learning the secret of the Davenokes, each happy heir becomes a sorrowful man. Fanciful as this must strike the modern reader, it is a curious fact that no Lord of Shoreswood has ever openly disputed the tradition. Indeed, the family’s reluctance to speak at all upon the subject of the Beast or the secret chamber is striking, and, moreover, makes it unlikely that any fresh information will be forthcoming in the near future. As to the further manifestations of ‘the Beast’, an outbreak of sheep-maiming in 1699 was ascribed to it, as were a similar outrage in 1784 and the mysterious disappearance of twenty head of cattle in 1837; but in every case the evidence was scant, and the Shoreswood monster seems to have received the blame only for want of any better theory.

This then is the history of the Beast of Shoreswood, and of what is known as ‘The Curse of the Davenokes’. Is there any substance in these old tales? Is there any dark secret concealed in Shoreswood Hall? Or is the whole story a mere accretion of legends around a mundane and long-forgotten incident? I leave the reader to draw his own conclusions, which will be every bit as valid as the writer’s. Those who are interested may read with profit Dr Wilhelm Hertz’s monograph Der Werwolf (1862) which gives the best general account of such legends.

‘What a grim old tale!’ said I, as I put down the book.

‘Yes, it is charmingly Gothic, is it not?’ agreed my friend. ‘The author’s remark – that later outrages were ascribed to the Beast’s activities only in want of a more constructive theory – is a perceptive one. It was ever the case with such legends: once they are established they provide the basis of an explanation – of sorts – for all that would otherwise remain unexplained. This fact is no doubt a great encouragement to would-be malefactors.’

‘In the past, perhaps,’ said I, smiling; ‘but the influence of such tales must now be quite dead and buried – thank goodness!’

‘Not necessarily, Watson. Dark deeds have long shadows!’

There was a thoughtful note in his voice, which arrested my attention.

‘Surely you cannot think that this old legend has anything to do with Lady Davenoke’s case!’ I cried in surprise.

‘I am very much afraid that it may have,’ said Holmes, shaking his head.

‘But it is mere fantasy!’ I protested. ‘We surely cannot give credence to such a farrago of nonsense! Why, you yourself said to Lady Davenoke, only the other day—’

‘In this instance,’ interjected my friend, ‘it scarcely matters at all what you or I believe, Watson. What is important is what may or may not be believed by others. There is something unpleasant about this case; something which smells, like the rot of evil. We shall not cleanse the air and clear the troubled brow of Lady Amelia until we have found the source of the rot and destroyed it – whatever it may be.’

Three days passed and we heard nothing further. Several times I observed Holmes take up the Suffolk County Guide and read again the history of Shoreswood and the Davenokes with a frown upon his face. Then he would cast the book aside and close his eyes, and sit an hour in silent thought, his brow furrowed with concentration. At other times he would sit with one of his beloved black-letter editions upon his knee, his fingers picking absent-mindedly at imperfections in the pages, his eyes far away, and the page remaining unturned for hours at a time. Once I heard him speaking aloud to himself in German, and I assumed that he was reading from the book upon his knee until the words ‘Davenoke’ and ‘Hardwick’ caught my ear.

‘I begin to think that I have erred,’ said he upon the evening of the third day, ‘in not going down to Shoreswood last week, with Lady Davenoke. I admit to you, Watson, that I believed then that the matter would very likely resolve itself without my intervention. The longer it fails to do so, the greater is the danger to my client’s state of mind. It is this that worries me more than any other consideration.’

‘More even than any physical danger to which she may be exposed?’

‘Decidedly so,’ returned my friend. ‘You saw the condition she was in, Watson, on the day she paid us a visit: those haunted eyes, those nervous, twitching fingers. I have never seen a woman so near the end of her tether, and what is it now? – five days? six days?’

‘She has, at least, her friend, Miss Strensall, to keep her company now,’ I remarked. But Holmes shook his head, an expression of misgiving upon his features.

‘Perhaps the companionship will be some comfort to her,’ said he; ‘but a maiden lady, however well-intentioned, is not really what the situation requires.’

‘What, then?’

‘I think I shall go down tomorrow whether we hear from Lady Davenoke or not,’ said he after a moment. ‘My presence there can scarcely be less profitable than it is here and it is just possible that I might be able to do some good. I have one or two ideas I should wish to put to the test.’

‘Would a companion be of any value to you?’

‘My dear fellow! I had quite overlooked your natural diffidence and presumed that on this as on so many occasions you would be my colleague. Will you come?’

‘Nothing could prevent it!’

I was awakened abruptly at half past six the following morning by the deafening crack and rumble of thunder, directly overhead. The window in my bedroom rattled violently in its frame, and in an instant I was fully conscious and alert. I leaned from my bed and drew back the curtain, and as I did so a searing white light seemed to split the sky asunder. Scant seconds later the thunder crashed and rolled again, and the house trembled as if struck a blow by a mighty fist. A moment of unnatural silence followed, then the muffled beat of heavy raindrops filled the air and a sudden cold gust blew into the room. How many others, I wondered, of the four millions of souls that surrounded me in this brick-built fastness of civilisation, watched with awe as I did at that moment. For despite his pretensions to independence and aloofness from his fellows, that which unites one man with all others is both stronger and more deep-seated than that which separates them; and there is nothing which unites mankind so readily as the wild and merciless assault of cruel nature.

In twenty minutes the storm had passed away and the sky had lightened a little, but the rain continued to beat down without pause. As I dressed, I observed that it had proved too much for the guttering of the house opposite my window, and sheets of water fell in a dismal and unbroken curtain from the roof. I am not a man much given to fancies, nor one to put faith in portents or premonitions, but I confess that upon that morning the sense of relief which rises with the passing of such a storm was in my case tempered by an odd and troubling sensation of foreboding, as if the overture were finished, and the stage set for a singularly terrible and tragic drama.

There was a knock at my bedroom door as I was shaving and Sherlock Holmes entered.

‘The weather appears to have broken at last,’ I remarked, gesturing with my razor to the scene outside.

‘So has the case,’ said he, holding up a sheet of blue notepaper in front of my mirror. I took it from his grasp and turned it to the light. At the head of the sheet was the lion-and-bird crest of the Davenokes, and the date of the previous afternoon. The message was brief and ran as follows:

‘We leave by the ten-twenty train,’ said Holmes as I finished reading.

III: The Secret of Shoreswood Hall

The rain was still pouring down when we left our chambers and Baker Street had more the appearance of a river than a road. Fast currents splashed and swashed their way along the gutters, foaming and whirling round obstructions, while heavy raindrops battered the surface ceaselessly, sending fountains of spray high into the air.

Holmes was in a taciturn mood, and spoke scarcely a single word until we had left London far behind and our train was speeding through the rain-drenched Essex countryside. There was a suppressed excitement in his manner which I recognised, and I knew that he was glad to be afoot upon the trail once more and to have left behind the frustrating inactivity of Baker Street. For my own part, however, I could not help feeling that we were bound upon a fool’s errand. What could we hope to achieve in Suffolk, aside from giving a little momentary cheer to Lady Davenoke by our presence? Come to that, was it likely that we could achieve even that modest aim? We could not, after all, produce her husband, which was all she really cared about. But I had known my companion well, for six years and more, and had rarely known him be far astray in his reasoning: if he considered it worth our while to travel down to deepest Suffolk, I must suppose that it were so, doubtful as it seemed to me.

Holmes had been staring abstractedly from the window for some time, a frown upon his face, when he abruptly leaned forward and spoke.

‘We are running close to the coast,’ said he. ‘We should be in Ipswich shortly.’

The rain had abated a little now, but still cast its slanted streaks across the carriage-windows and dripped through the crack around the door. The country outside was a dark, waterlogged green, with here and there, a daub of the sad tints of autumn, brown and gold and red.

‘How can you tell?’ I asked. ‘I see nothing that indicates the coast is near.’

‘You do see,’ said he, ‘but you do not observe. Your mind is not trained to read the books in the running brooks, the sermons in stones, as Shakespeare puts it.’

‘Pray tell me, then.’

‘The trees, my dear fellow. See how they bend towards us as one. There is no surer sign that the coast is near. It is the rude sea-wind that bends and stunts them so, the harsh easterlies and north-easterlies that blow upon this fair coast.’

I saw at once that what he said was true. The isolated trees which dotted the margins of the fields were twisted and deformed, and seemed to reach out to us in silent and grotesque supplication.

‘Perhaps there is yet another tree which has felt the blast of these east winds,’ added my friend after a moment, in a thoughtful tone.

‘Whatever do you mean?’

‘I refer to the family-tree of the Davenokes,’ said he.

‘They are certainly a singular people.’

‘More than that,’ said he; ‘there seems a streak in them that is difficult, stiff and unbending; as if, in learning for so long to resist the winds of these parts, they forgot, in the end, that occasionally everyone must bend a little. You must have been struck, Watson, by their knack of supporting losing causes – the Catholic side at the Reformation, the Royalist side in the Civil War. Depending on one’s point of view, they are either very loyal, or simply stubbornly resistant to change of any sort. Well, well, we are nearing our destination,’ he continued in a brisker tone; ‘let us review the case!’

‘That, at any rate, should present no great difficulty.’

‘Why so?’ said he, an expression of curiosity upon his features.

‘Simply because what we know amounts to virtually nothing.’

‘Well,’ said he amiably. ‘State the little we do know, then, and let us see how matters stand.’

‘We know,’ I began, ‘that Edward Davenoke left Shoreswood the day before his wife returned. He has apparently gone to London, although no one can suggest any reason why he should do so. He has written to his wife from there, stating that he is staying in some small hotel or other, but all your resources have failed to find him. Other than that, all we have are on the one hand, the anonymous note you received, telling you in so many words to mind your own business, which may, however, have nothing whatever to do with the case, and, on the other, a young woman who has got herself into an emotional and fearful state over the squeaks and creaks of an ancient house.’

‘Capital!’ cried my friend, his eyes shining with amusement. ‘A very illuminating exposition of the matter, my dear fellow!’

‘But if you agree with me,’ I protested, ‘then what earthly good can be achieved by our running down to Suffolk?’

‘None whatever,’ said he, shaking his head.

‘What!’ I ejaculated.

‘Fortunately, however, I do not agree with you. When I described your exposition as illuminating, I meant merely that you summarised accurately all the false assumptions which one might make about the matter.’

‘Pray, tell me your own views, then,’ said I somewhat tartly, for there seemed to be in his voice a tone of superiority which irritated me.

‘In the first place,’ said Holmes, after a moment, ‘you state that we know: a, that Davenoke left Shoreswood the day before his wife returned; b, that he has apparently gone to London; and c, that he wrote to her from there; but in truth we know none of these things. The butler, Hardwick, drove him to the station, but we do not know for certain that he caught a train; and if he did catch a train, we do not know where he went. Lady Davenoke had only the butler’s word for it that her husband had gone to London, if you recall her account; no one else knew anything of it.’

‘The letter she received came from London,’ I remarked. ‘The postmark could not have been forged and she recognised her husband’s own handwriting.’

‘Certainly,’ said he; ‘I do not doubt that he wrote it. But you had a demonstration the other day that he who writes a letter and he who posts it are not necessarily one and the same.’

‘You believe that Davenoke wrote the letter elsewhere and had a confederate post it for him?’

‘It is a distinct possibility.’

‘Why should he do that?’

‘Because he does not wish anyone to know where he is. He would have succeeded in his deception, too, were it not for our intervention.’

‘You speak as if you know his true whereabouts,’ I remarked in surprise.

‘Oh, there is no mystery about that,’ said he. ‘He is at Shoreswood, of course.’

‘What!’ I cried. ‘You astound me, Holmes! I had no idea—’

‘Really? Nevertheless, the indications were there, Watson. Indeed, it has seemed the most likely solution from the very beginning. What business could Sir Edward’s father have in London, when, aside from his relatively brief period as a Member of Parliament, he seems to have had nothing to do with the place? Certainly the solicitor knew of none and he has handled the family’s affairs for over a quarter of a century. That does not, of course, render it impossible, but it does seem fairly unlikely, to say the least. Then there are the singular circumstances surrounding Davenoke’s leaving: why should the butler drive him to the railway station, when a groom is employed at the Hall? Taken along with the butler’s subsequent odd and evasive manner, it is a most suggestive point. You will recall also, no doubt, the curious business of the dog. Lady Davenoke was given a singularly unconvincing explanation of his being chained up away from the house; evidently the true reason for his confinement is that if he were left free to roam where he would, he could not have failed to sniff out his master’s whereabouts, and so reveal the whole deception for what it is.’

‘You have suspected all along, then, that Davenoke had not left Shoreswood?’

Holmes nodded his head. ‘But I could not at first be certain,’ said he. ‘Given the initial data, there were, it seemed to me, seven possible explanations of what was really afoot, some of them, I might mention, taking it as a fact that Davenoke was dead. However, the circumstances surrounding Lady Amelia’s visit to us, her return to Shoreswood, and the letters which we both received, served to clarify the matter.’

‘How so?’

‘In the first place, as you observed a moment ago, Lady Davenoke certainly recognised her husband’s handwriting upon the letter she received. This I took as an indication that he was still alive, for it is by no means as easy as it might be supposed to counterfeit someone’s hand throughout a letter of some length, especially when it is to be read by one who is very familiar with the true hand. But if the hand were true, the contents of the letter manifestly were not. His explanation of why he had no address at which she could reach him must rank as the feeblest lie I have ever encountered. Indeed, the only rival which springs to mind is the butler’s explanation for his presence at Wickham Market station when Lady Davenoke returned there with Miss Strensall. His story of an ailing brother in Yoxford, or wherever it was, was clearly the purest poppycock.’

‘How could you be so sure?’ I asked.

‘Taken with what we already suspected, it was simply too much of a coincidence to swallow. It seemed very evident that Hardwick had travelled down on the same train as the ladies and alighted quickly at Wickham Market before they themselves did so. If this were so, then no doubt it was Hardwick we saw in Baker Street, following Lady Davenoke. Her familiarity with his features accounts, of course, for his anxiety to keep them concealed beneath his unseasonal muffler. No doubt, also, it was Hardwick who posted in London the letter from Edward Davenoke, which his wife received after her return to Shoreswood, and, incidentally, the anonymous note we received at the same time. He probably enquired my name and business of some bystander, while he was waiting outside our rooms in Baker Street, and guessed his mistress’s purpose in consulting me. Whatever Edward Davenoke is up to, Hardwick is evidently his trusted lieutenant, fully conversant with the matter and able to act upon his own judgement, for the decision to write the warning note to me – presumably from the post office in the City where he posted his master’s letter – must have been his alone.’

‘It is certainly plausible, so far as it goes,’ I remarked.

‘It is the only theory that fits the facts,’ returned my colleague. ‘Davenoke’s presence at Shoreswood – in hiding – will of course go a considerable way to explain all the strange nocturnal comings and goings which have so distressed our client.’

‘But how could Sir Edward Davenoke be at Shoreswood and his wife not know of it?’ I protested.

‘You forget that he has lived there all his life, Watson. He must know of many places where he could remain hidden from view. In fact, however, I believe that he is in the secret chamber which we have heard so much about.’

‘But there is no evidence that such a chamber even exists in reality,’ I argued; ‘it may be mere myth!’

‘Possibly,’ replied Holmes; ‘but there are features about Shoreswood – or its occupants, at least – that make the existence there of a secret chamber rather more likely. The Davenokes were well-known recusants during the religious troubles of the sixteenth century and were often suspected of harbouring Catholic priests. From what we know of the family, I think it more than likely that they did so, and that they had some hidey-hole constructed for the purpose, if one did not exist already. Such priest-holes are a common feature in houses of the period, and the proximity of Shoreswood to the east coast would make it an ideal first staging-post for anyone arriving secretly from the Continent. Then there is the later tradition that Charles II was hidden at Shoreswood for a night: whilst that seems unlikely to be true, it may well be that one of the other Royalist leaders was sheltered there on his way to follow Charles abroad and that it was this which gave rise to the rumour.’

‘It is possible,’ I conceded. ‘What a dark, confusing business it is! What is the purpose of it all? What is happening at Shoreswood? It seems to me that we have learnt nothing that can shed any light upon it at all.’

‘There is one thing,’ said he. ‘But, come! We approach our station! We can continue this interesting discussion later.’

Holmes had sent a wire from London and the Shoreswood trap was waiting for us at the station. We sprang in, the driver whipped up the horse and we rattled off at a great speed. The rain had quite stopped now and the sky was clearing, as the rags and tatters of the storm-rack were hurried on their way by a fresh breeze. We passed at a clatter through the outskirts of a village, then down a series of narrow, sodden lanes, where the arching trees met high overhead in a translucent green canopy and the golden rays of the afternoon sun sparkled upon the damp hedgerows.

After a drive of perhaps five miles, we turned in abruptly at the gates of the Shoreswood estate, where the close ranks of colossal beeches cast a dark and dismal shade. For some time, the drive wound between the trees and passed beside a quiet mere, thick with weeds; then the ground on either hand rose up steeply in banks of crumbling, bare earth, from which gnarled tree-roots protruded forlornly. All at once, we emerged from this gloom, rounded a small hillock and crossed an old stone bridge over a stream, and there before us lay Shoreswood Hall, grey and forbidding, its recesses in deep shadow. But for a curtain flapping from an upstairs window, I should have taken it for an ancient and long-uninhabited ruin.

At the centre of this grim pile, a low flight of crumbling and lichen-blotched steps led up to a dark oak door and, as we approached, this door was opened and a man in the garb of a butler stepped out. He had reached the foot of the steps and was about to speak to us when a second, slighter figure appeared in the doorway and ran with great haste down the steps. To my surprise, I saw that it was Lady Davenoke herself, clearly in a state of great distress.

‘That will be all right, Hardwick,’ said she, in a breathless voice. ‘These gentlemen are guests of mine. You may return to your duties.’

A look of acute surprise came over his features and he made as if to speak, but she paid him no heed and turned to us.

‘Please come with me, gentlemen,’ said she, her breast heaving violently with emotion. ‘I have much to tell you.’ She set off at once with short, quick steps, across the lawn, away from the house and towards a dense thicket of trees, one hand clutching her straw bonnet to her head, the other gathering the hem of her light-blue dress above the wet grass. We followed her along a narrow overgrown path which wound about the woods for some twenty or thirty yards, until we reached a small clearing, in which an old and weather-worn stone seat stood in picturesque isolation. All around, and upon the seat itself, the fallen leaves of the previous autumn lay in thick profusion.

‘We shall not be overheard here,’ said Lady Davenoke breathlessly, casting an anxious glance back the way we had come.

‘We are at your disposal,’ said Sherlock Holmes in a comforting tone. ‘When you have collected yourself, perhaps you could let us have the details of what has occurred.’

‘Edith and I returned here full of hope,’ responded the other after a moment, ‘but we were soon dispossessed of that foolishness. Upon the second night, I was roused from sleep by a tapping at my bedroom door and found Edith there in the darkness, weeping with fright at the strange noises she had heard.’

‘What sort of noises?’ interrupted Holmes sharply.

‘Just as I had heard previously: the soft opening and closing of doors and creeping footsteps upon the stairs. Poor girl! She had come to me for comfort, but that I could not give her, for my blood was as chilled as her own. For twenty minutes we sat together upon my bed, but we heard nothing further. The following day I had her bed moved into my room and since then we have at least had each other’s companionship in the night-time. But the evil, secret movements of the night have not abated and our sleep has scarcely been improved. One night we both saw a faint light by the river. I knew then that it was no mere product of my imagination. On another occasion, Edith swore that she saw a stooping figure in the chapel ruins, although I could not myself make it out.

‘Even in sleep I am tormented and have had the most terrible nightmares imaginable.’ She shook her head quickly as a shudder of revulsion passed through her body. ‘Upon the fourth night, Edith was wakened by a noise and saw to her surprise that my bed was empty. Fighting against her fears, she ventured out into the corridor. There, she says, she found me, at the head of the stairs in my nightgown, my eyes staring with horror. Yet believe me, Mr Holmes, when I say that I have no recollection of how I came to be there. It was as if I had been summoned in my sleep by some evil power. Oh, thank God that Edith was there to lead me back gently to the safety of my own room and bed!’

‘Has your letter to the Royal Suffolk Hotel been returned to you?’ queried Holmes as Lady Davenoke paused.

‘About two days after my return from London,’ she answered, nodding her head slightly. ‘The manager had been obliged to open my letter in order to see who had sent it, that he might return it to the correct address. He had then placed the letter, envelope and all, together with a note from himself, in one of the hotel’s own large envelopes, which had been sealed. However, as I came to open this envelope, it was immediately obvious to me that someone had steamed open the flap and attempted, not entirely successfully, to re-secure it. I said nothing, but at once recalled the look of guilt I had seen in Hardwick’s eyes as he brought in the mail that morning.

‘The following day, to take our minds from the dark conspiracy which seemed to encircle us, we decided to plant a few daffodil bulbs by the edge of the woods. The fresh air, and thoughts of spring flowers, would be a tonic to us both. We found trowels and a small sack of bulbs, and I brought out a couple of old newspapers for us to kneel on. Newspapers and journals which are no longer required are kept in a cupboard near the kitchen, and I had taken a small pile from there at random. As we were engaged in our bulb-planting, Edith chanced upon a humorous item in the newspaper upon which she was kneeling and began to read it aloud.

‘“What a preposterous story!” I cried, laughing. “And when did all that nonsense take place, Edith?”

‘“Why, just last Monday, believe it or not!” said she gaily, joining her own laughter to my own.

‘“One moment,” said I, as a sudden thought caused the laughter to die in my throat. “Let me have a look at that paper, Edith.” I took it from her and saw that it was the Globe, published on the very afternoon of the day I called to see you, Mr Holmes. “Does this newspaper belong to you, Edith?” said I to Miss Strensall. She shook her head. She had not, she said, had any newspaper with her the day we left London, but she remembered that I had purchased one at Liverpool Street railway terminal just before we caught our train.

‘“It was not this one,” said I, “but the St James’s Gazette – which is still where I left it, in my bedroom. So how, then, came a London evening newspaper to be in Shoreswood Hall, if we did not bring it?”

‘Her face fell grave as she saw my meaning. Instinctively, without thought, we both looked quickly over our shoulders, towards the Hall. Blank, dark windows stared back at us from its drab grey walls, but it seemed to me as I looked that a face had rapidly withdrawn from one of the upper windows even as we had turned.

‘The discovery of the newspaper brought home to me afresh the horror of my position, all ignorant of the hidden deeds about me. We had sought to distract our thoughts from such things in the garden, but instead had made a discovery that we could not have imagined. What the significance of it was, I could not see; but I impressed upon Miss Strensall that she must not speak a word on the matter and vowed to communicate with you at the first opportunity.

‘I wrote the letter that night and the following day suggested to Miss Strensall that we walk down to the village post office together. As we were descending the steps of the house, Hardwick, who had evidently heard the door, hurried out after us and enquired if he could be of service.

‘“I do not think so,” said I, and informed him of our errand.

‘“If you wish, my lady,” said he, “you may give the letter to me and I will have Staples run down with it.”

‘“No, thank you,” I replied firmly. “It is a lovely day and I am sure we shall find the walk beneficial.”

‘As we crossed the bridge, I glanced back and saw that Hardwick was still standing in the open doorway of the house. I knew that he would dearly have loved to see the address upon my letter, and to read its contents, and I had, I confess, an odd sense of elation to know that for once I was the one with the secret, I was the one causing anxiety in others.’

‘Is there anything else?’ queried Holmes, raising his head, which had been sunk in contemplation upon his breast.

‘That day and the next were mercifully free of event,’ replied our companion with feeling. ‘But this morning’s discovery has quite remedied the deficiency.’ She spoke these words with slow emphasis and as she did so the colour passed visibly from her face. It was evident that in speaking to us, the consciousness of recent events had been for a short time banished from her mind, but now, as her narrative was brought up to date, the full horror of them returned to her.

‘What is it?’ said Holmes in a soft voice, evidently perceiving as well as I the abrupt change in Lady Davenoke’s features.

‘Oh, it is so horrible! So horrible and pointless!’

Holmes raised his eyebrows questioningly.

‘Someone,’ she said, with emotion throbbing in her voice; ‘someone has killed Bruno, Edward’s beloved sheepdog. We found him this morning, Edith and I. He lay just within the woods, near the ruined chapel. He had been struck a heavy blow and the side of his head was a mass of blood—’

Her words ended abruptly and with a terrible wail of grief she began to sob uncontrollably. I gave her my handkerchief and put my hand upon her arm, and she turned to me and wept upon my shoulder.

Somewhere in the distance a woman’s voice called. Holmes left us, but returned in a moment accompanied by a small blonde-haired young woman, whom I took to be Edith Strensall.

‘Oh, Amelia!’ she cried in distress, rushing forward to put her arm round her friend. ‘Do not weep so, my dear!’

‘What can we do, Mr Holmes?’ said the other, her sobs lessening a little. ‘Must I live forever in this nightmare?’

‘You have been very brave and sensible so far,’ returned my friend in an encouraging tone. ‘If you can be so for just a little longer, I promise you that I shall have some news for you by tomorrow.’

‘Do you mean it?’ said she, her reddened eyes opening wide with hope. ‘Do you really mean it, Mr Holmes?’

‘Most certainly, Lady Davenoke.’

‘My husband—?’

‘Twenty-four hours, Lady Davenoke, twenty-four hours. For the present you ladies may return to the needlework which our visit has interrupted – there is no mystery, madam; I observed the unmistakable mark of a thimble upon your finger when first you greeted us. Until tomorrow, then!’

The sun broke through the patchy clouds as we left the wood and cast long shadows across the lawn. A warm smell of wet vegetation filled the air and all nature seemed refreshed by the recent rain. Our way to the bridge across the stream took us close by the ruined chapel. Holmes paused there a moment, a thoughtful expression upon his face; then, indicating that I should wait at the edge of the ruins, he stepped over a few loose stones and proceeded to examine the whole area with minute care. Back and forth he went, now standing, now stooping, now down upon his hands and knees, his nose barely an inch above the flagstones. Then he took from his pocket a small, powerful lens, with which he inspected more closely certain marks upon the crumbling walls and floor. From time to time he frowned and muttered to himself, whether in puzzlement or satisfaction I could not tell, until at length, pocketing his lens once more, he rejoined me upon the lawn.

‘Come,’ said he. ‘There is an inn in the last village we passed, about a mile down the road. Perhaps we can get a little sustenance there.’

A pleasant walk of some twenty minutes brought us to the Black Lion, where Mr Jelks, the genial, soft-spoken landlord, produced an excellent meal for us of cold meat and pickles, and a pot of tea.

Afterwards, having booked rooms for the night, we repaired to the private sitting-room upstairs.

‘You are no doubt wondering what I intend to do,’ said Sherlock Holmes, when he had lit his pipe and we had smoked in silence for some time.

‘I confess that I am quite in the dark, both as to what has gone before and what is to come,’ I replied. ‘But what puzzles me most is why, if you are so certain that Davenoke is at Shoreswood, you did not apprise his wife of the fact.’

‘Our locus standi is a delicate one,’ replied my friend after a moment. ‘Words of explanation were better coming from Davenoke’s own lips than from mine.’

‘But if such words of explanation are not forthcoming?’

‘Then we must act as we see fit. Lady Davenoke certainly deserves an explanation from someone.’

‘I cannot imagine what that explanation could be,’ I remarked. ‘The whole affair is nothing but darkness and confusion!’

‘Not entirely,’ returned Holmes. ‘You must bear in mind that Edward Davenoke’s disappearance was abrupt; his wife had had no indication that anything of the sort might occur and such a desertion of his new bride seems out of character for the man. We must suppose, then, that it was as a result of something which took place after his return from abroad. Is there anything we know of which took place then and which might fit the part?’

‘All we know,’ I suggested, ‘is that Davenoke’s father died and was buried two or three days later.’

‘Anything else?’

‘Nothing of significance. He called in to see the solicitor over some trivial matter, just after his father’s death.’

‘Precisely, Watson! Precisely! There, if you will recall, the solicitor gave him a bundle of old documents, thereby fulfilling the instruction he had been given many years before, by Edward Davenoke’s father.’

‘The solicitor did not believe the papers to be of any importance.’

‘In his eyes, perhaps not. But he was only guessing, from their ancient appearance and from the fact that Sir John had deposited them with him nearly twenty years ago. He had not, as he admitted to Lady Davenoke, actually read the documents. Let us suppose that they pertain to the family legend.’

‘Why should they?’

‘Well, what else do you suggest? They are evidently historical and equally evidently of value to the family; otherwise, why deposit them with the solicitor in that way? Moreover, they are sealed personally by Sir John, so that even his trusted solicitor is not privy to their content – a suggestive point, do you not agree?’

I nodded, and he continued.

‘Now, we know from tradition that it is only when the heir takes possession of the estate that he learns the family secrets, which are known to no one else: Edward Davenoke said something of the sort himself. But we also know that, according to his father, who seemed to take the matter most seriously, “the Lord of the Manor of Shoreswood never speaks of the legend”, or something of the sort – and that prohibition seemed to include his own son. It is therefore apparent that the only way the heir can possibly learn anything of the matter is from documents passed on to him when he comes into his inheritance, documents which are at all other times locked away from human gaze. It seems certain beyond peradventure, then, that the documents which the solicitor passed to young Davenoke, whatever else they may have dealt with, contained details of the legend of the Beast of Shoreswood, the secret chamber and all the rest of it.’

‘I see that you must be right,’ I remarked. ‘Indeed, it seems perfectly obvious, the way you describe it. But if we assume that it is so, where does that get us?’

‘It gets us to the point where we must penetrate to the secret chamber tonight,’ said Holmes. ‘Yes, Watson, we must. For therein lies the source of all that has occurred to so distress our client.’

‘But no one knows where it is!’

‘It is not the location of the chamber which presents the problem, but its entrance. He who knows the entrance can scarcely fail to find the chamber itself. So our position is not so hopeless as you suppose.’

‘You know the entrance, then?’ I cried in surprise.

‘One of them, at least. There will almost certainly be an entrance to the chamber in the house itself, but we might look for a year and not find it. Fortunately, however, there is also an entrance in the ruined chapel, which has proved somewhat easier of discovery. I had suspected already that there would be an entrance there – Lady Davenoke’s account of the noises she had heard there, and the lights and the dark figure she had seen, indicated as much – and my close examination of the chapel this afternoon confirmed all my suspicions. The secret entrance is beneath one of the flagstones. It was simplicity itself to identify, for it was the only one which did not have thick grass growing in the cracks around it. The grass had evidently been cleared away, quite recently, presumably to facilitate the opening of the stone, which must hinge up in some way.

‘I was also able to discover,’ Holmes continued after a moment, as he refilled his pipe, ‘that the man who has been using that entrance and exit is around five foot six inches tall, wears size eight boots with steel tips, smokes a Latakia mixture and wears a very long plaid coat or ulster. So our midnight prowler begins to sound somewhat more like Edward Davenoke and somewhat less like a monster from the deep!’

‘How can you tell all these things?’

‘His boots had chipped away the stones in no fewer than seven places and left clear impressions in the rain-softened ground at the edge of the ruins. His height I gauge from his stride, a piece of elementary reasoning with which you are no doubt familiar. He had knocked his pipe out against a corner, and some of the unmistakable dark tobacco had remained unburnt. Woollen fibres were caught on the rough edge of a stone, and similar traces where he must have stepped over a raised row of stones at the edge of the ruins indicated clearly that his overcoat must reach almost to the ground. The dog was killed in the chapel, by the way, and dragged to where Lady Davenoke found it. But, come! We must now turn our minds to tonight’s enterprise. I have informed the landlord that we shall be out this evening and may be late in returning, and he has agreed to leave a back door open for us. I also took the opportunity when downstairs to locate a stout iron rod in the courtyard. Its usual employment is in the manipulation of refractory cart-wheels, but it should serve us well when we come to lever up the secret door. Incidentally,’ he added after a moment; ‘I should be obliged if you would fill your brandy flask before we leave. The sky is clear and the night may be a cold one. Now let us rest a little while, and compose our minds in silence, for later we shall need to be alert.’

The sun had already set when we left the inn and, away to the west, where a dark line of trees stood on the horizon, the sky met the land in a band of dull orange. High above us a noisy rabble of crows flew steadily westwards, home to their roost. By the time we reached the Shoreswood gateway, the sky was quite dark and the tree-lined drive ahead of us presented an impenetrable wall of blackness to our view. Down this dark alley we walked, and as we did so there came from time to time slight rustling noises in the undergrowth beside us, as some nocturnal creature scurried away at the sound of our footsteps. Once I was startled as an owl hooted loudly, directly over our heads. It wanted no great imagination to understand the fear and superstition with which primitive man had regarded the long hours of the night, and the unseen creatures which move abroad then. Beside me, my friend walked on steadily in silence. If he were entertaining thoughts like those that filled my own mind he gave no sign of it.

Presently there came to our ears the soft silvery babbling of water, and I knew we were approaching the small river which skirted the house and the chapel. Moments later we reached the bridge. Ahead of us in the darkness lay the yet darker mass of Shoreswood Hall. A single candle shone weakly in an upstairs window.

In silence Holmes motioned me to follow him, as he left the path and crossed the wet turf to the ruined chapel; in silence we sat for perhaps forty minutes, each on our block of stone, like a bizarre pair of statues. The night was indeed a chill one, and when I felt Holmes’s hand tap my arm lightly I passed him the brandy flask without query. Shortly afterwards, the candle in the window was extinguished and the blackness of the Hall was complete. Turning, so that his heavy cloak shielded the light from the house, he struck a match and lit a small pocket-lantern, then immediately closed the shutter. ‘Come,’ said he, rising to his feet.

It was chiefly by the sense of touch that we found the flagstone we sought, and I was able to confirm with my fingers my friend’s earlier observation that the grass had been cleared away from its edge. In its place, I felt a narrow space all around, from which a faint whisper of cold, dank air seemed to rise to my finger-ends. He handed me the lantern, and by the tiny slit of light which escaped from it I saw him push the narrower end of his makeshift lever into the crack and press down upon it. There came a scraping noise, as of stone upon stone and the flag lifted an inch or two. I took the weight and, together, with as little noise as possible, we turned the slab right back until it rested upon a block behind it. Lying flat on his stomach, Holmes plunged the lantern into the black hole which had opened before us and from which a foul, mephitic odour now arose. The yellow light of the lantern showed the earth floor below the hole to be some six or seven feet down. An old rotten-looking chest stood immediately beneath us, and had evidently been placed there to provide a step, for its edge was splintered and caked with mud. To one side of this sinister pit, a dark opening indicated where a low-roofed tunnel led away in the direction of the house.

Without a word, Holmes lowered himself into the darkness. ‘Be careful of your footing!’ he whispered sharply as I made to follow him. ‘The lid of this chest has no more strength than a rotten apple!’

In a moment I had joined him and, stooping, we entered the tunnel. Like the pit before it, the walls were clad in crumbling and ancient-looking brickwork, which narrowed to an arch at the top, the whole blotched all over, and covered with slime and the revolting excrescences of mould. In one or two places the brickwork had crumbled to dust and loose earth had fallen in and lay in heaps upon the floor. From these heaps, foul insects scurried and slithered as we passed, like figments of some evil dream. The smell of the damp earth was thick and unpleasant now, and mingled with the more penetrating smell of rot and decay in an almost overpowering stench.

For perhaps thirty yards this vile corridor led us on, now rising slightly, now falling a little, and all the time our backs were bent, for the roof was scarce four foot in height. Glad I was when my companion paused and held out his arm as a warning and I knew that we must be approaching the end. He closed his lantern down to the narrowest of slits and we proceeded then with great caution, our footsteps making no sound upon the earth floor. Presently the tunnel opened out slightly and the roof sloped up to about six feet, and we found ourselves before a stout, ancient-looking oak door. Its hinges were rusted and frail, but appeared from the sheen upon them to have been recently oiled. Through the crack beneath the door came a thin line of light. Holmes motioned me to silence and placed his hand upon the latch.

Quite what I expected to see as the door swung open, I do not know; but it could not have been the strange scene that now met our gaze. Before us was a narrow chamber, its walls formed of large blocks of stone, which glistened green with the damp. There was no window, but immediately opposite stood another identical oak door, and high in the wall to our right was what appeared to be some kind of ventilation-grille. In the centre of the flagged floor stood an old mildewed table upon which were several piles of old documents done up in tape, and a few loose sheets. Beside these stood two bottles of ink, a box of quill pens and a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles, neatly folded. On the floor to the side of the table was a stack of massive old books, bound in wood and leather, atop which stood a low-burning lamp, whose glimmer we had seen beneath the door. To the right of the table stood a simple wooden chair; to its left, against the damp wall, a crude cot bed, upon which lay a man, fully dressed, face down and asleep.

For several minutes we stood there in silence and might have stood there several more; but all at once, as if he sensed our presence – for we made no noise that could have roused him – the figure on the bed stirred, rolled over and sat up, rubbing his eyes as he did so.

He was a slim, pale-faced young man, with a look of studious perplexity upon his features. His dark hair was unkempt, his clothes dishevelled; but, even so, there was something civilised and sensitive about his appearance. No bank-clerk puzzling over an unbalanced ledger, no country parson pondering his next sermon could have seemed less like a denizen of a strange underground lair than this young man we now saw before us. Absent-mindedly, without turning his head, he reached out his hand for his spectacles.

‘Sir Edward Davenoke?’ said Sherlock Holmes softly. The young man before us started up as if shot, his eyes wide with terror. He sprang unsteadily to his feet, his face as white as a sheet. For a moment I was certain he would faint with the shock of our sudden appearance, but he clutched the edge of the table to steady himself and spoke suddenly and abruptly, in a nervous, breathless manner.

‘What! – who are you?’ he cried, his eyes roaming wildly from Holmes to me and back again, as if he could not control their movement. ‘What are you doing? How came you here? – How dare you!’

‘My name is Sherlock Holmes,’ said my friend in a calm voice. ‘This is my friend, Dr Watson. I have been retained by your wife to find you.’

‘But – but she believes I am in London.’

‘Fortunately, I did not.’

‘But – how came you?’ cried the other again, his voice almost hysterical. Then his eyes wandered to the open door behind us and the long dark passage which stretched away. ‘You have come through the tunnel!’ he cried. ‘No, no; that is impossible! No one knows of it! No one can have learnt the secret!’

‘There is no secret of man’s contrivance that cannot be uncovered,’ said Sherlock Holmes softly.

‘How dare you!’ cried Davenoke, his wild confusion resolving itself into hot anger. ‘How dare you intrude upon the privacy of my house!’

‘Your wife would have us find you wherever you were,’ returned Holmes; ‘that we are here therefore depends only upon the fact that you yourself are here.’

‘Why, you impertinent scoundrel! You interfering busybody! You have no right to pry into the affairs of others!’

‘Nor have I the desire.’

‘What I tell my wife is my own business!’

‘But when you tell her nothing but lies, she has a right to learn the truth from someone else. I act only in her interests and at her request. She has been most grievously worried by your unexplained disappearance.’

‘I cannot tell her,’ said the other after a moment’s hesitation. ‘I am engaged upon a matter of the utmost privacy, which must remain secret, even from my wife.’

‘You are engaged in a study of the family legend, the so-called “Curse of the Davenokes”.’

‘You seem to know a great deal of my business,’ retorted the other, a spark of anger returning to his eye. Then as Holmes did not speak, he nodded his head slowly and when he spoke it was in a more subdued voice: ‘Yes,’ said he; ‘partly that.’

‘Richard Davenoke’s account, in fact, of the troubles which beset the area during his time, in the early years of the seventeenth century.’

‘That indeed forms part of it. You have obviously read something of the matter, Mr Holmes.’ There was a note of respect in his voice and also something of caution. ‘You will be aware, then, that it is only when a Davenoke succeeds to his inheritance that the secret is vouchsafed to him. I am here because I have sworn to be here. I am acting as I was instructed to act, in a letter which my father left for me with the solicitor. He enjoined upon me that before reading the documents he left for me, I swear an oath upon the Bible that I shall at once study all that my ancestors have written upon the subject, communicating with no one at all whilst I am so engaged, and leaving this chamber only at night-time; and that I shall tell no one of what I have learnt, when I have completed the task. So my father instructed me; so his father had instructed him; so each heir is instructed by the one that has gone before.

‘Do not for one moment suppose that I wished to be here when I knew my wife had returned to the house; but there was nothing I could do about it when once I had pledged my word. I had no idea when I began that the task would be so great, and I thought I should have it finished in a couple of days. But there is so much to read, and the script is so ancient and unfamiliar. There are places, too, where it has almost faded from sight altogether, and these passages I am duty bound to copy out afresh, as my forebears have done, that the story be not lost altogether. The history is written in many hands, among which I recognise that of my own father. But, during all the time I have spent here, not five minutes have passed but I have thought of my wife – Heaven knows, I longed to see her again! One night, I even crept to her bedroom window, hoping to catch a sight of her, but the curtains were drawn and the window was closed and secured in some way, so I did not succeed in my plan.’

‘You succeeded at least in putting terror into your wife’s heart,’ said Holmes sternly. ‘It was a most foolish thing to do. She had already observed your creeping about the lawn in the moonlight, and believed that you were a phantom from another age.’

Davenoke sat down heavily on his chair and clapped his hand to his head.

‘You could at least have sent a message to your wife through your confidant, Hardwick,’ continued Holmes, in a tone of remonstrance.

‘No, no!’ cried the other in a pleading tone. ‘You do not understand! The oath forbids me from speaking to anyone, anyone at all. Hardwick brings me food and takes away my empty plates, and that is all.’

‘Lady Davenoke heard him, one midnight. That also frightened her.’

‘I regret that it did so, but the preservation of secrecy was uppermost in my mind. For it is written that he who breaks his holy oath upon any point shall bring down a curse upon himself and his household.’

Holmes snorted. ‘You wrote a letter to your wife,’ said he, ‘which the butler posted for you, to make it appear that you were in London. If you could communicate to the extent of a lie, you could communicate the truth.’

‘Hardwick left a note with my food one night,’ replied the other after a moment, ‘informing me that Amelia had written to the Royal Suffolk Hotel. At first I intended to do nothing about it, but when he later informed me that she was leaving Shoreswood and would not tell him where she was going, I became desperate. I strongly suspected that she would go to London, and in that moment of desperation I broke my vow of silence, instructed Hardwick to follow her, to ensure that she came to no harm, and hurriedly composed the letter you refer to, telling him to post it while away. I did it for her sake, to reassure her. It seemed the best idea at the time, but I was, as I say, desperate, and not capable of proper judgement upon the matter. I knew I was breaking my oath, but prayed that the curse would not fall upon me. Now, what have I gained? I have succeeded only in invoking the curse while achieving nothing, either for myself or my wife.’

‘This talk of curses is pernicious and evil,’ said Holmes sharply. ‘You must not allow your mind to be prey to such ancient superstitions. The Dark Ages are passed and gone, Sir Edward!’

‘Are they?’ returned the other. ‘Are they indeed? You might speak otherwise had you been confined in this cell as long as I have, Mr Holmes.’ He rose to his feet once more, his mouth set in bitter determination, a strange light in his eye. ‘Had you lived alone in this hell-hole and spent your every hour in the company of these—’ He brought his fist down violently upon the pile of documents which covered the table, sending them flying to the floor. ‘Oh, no, Mr Holmes!’ cried he, with a horrible, sneering laugh: ‘There is more in Heaven and Earth than is dreamt of in your philosophy!’

Holmes snorted. ‘Let us keep to particulars,’ said he sharply. ‘What happened to the dog?’

‘Bruno? I killed him! Yes, I do not wonder that your features express shock! He had evidently managed to free himself somehow, for as I was climbing out of my rat-hole in the chapel last night he sprang at me without warning, out of the darkness. No doubt he merely wanted to greet his master, but I was unnerved already by what I had been reading and he took me utterly by surprise. Before I knew what I was doing, I had lashed out with the stick I was carrying and caught him heavily upon the side of the head. He fell without a sound and breathed his last at my feet. Already, the curse begins to take effect, you see, Mr Holmes!’ A perverse glint of triumph replaced the look of horror in Davenoke’s eye as he spoke these last words. ‘Deny it if you can!’ cried he.

‘Tell me then,’ said Holmes, answering the vehemence of the other with firmness of his own: ‘Who has placed this curse upon you?’

‘It is written,’ responded the other. ‘It is written in the family documents. The Davenokes have been true to their obligations for countless generations.’

‘It is written by Richard Davenoke,’ retorted Holmes; ‘a man as you are a man. What right or power has he to place a curse upon generations unborn? Indeed,’ Holmes continued, as Davenoke did not reply, ‘if any man has ever forfeited the right to impose obligations upon another it is he.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Richard Davenoke was a murderer most foul and bestial.’

Sir Edward sprang back, a look of great fear in his eye. ‘You cannot say this!’ he cried. ‘You cannot know!’

‘It is only too obvious. Richard Davenoke himself committed all those ghastly crimes which were ascribed to “the Beast of Shoreswood”. He himself was the beast, the only monster who ever dwelt here. To anyone familiar with the ways of evil, the pattern is all too clear. There never had been a Beast of Shoreswood before he invented it. It is the most common feature of all myths: the projection back into the distant and unrecorded past of what belongs rightly only to the present. The invention of history is a great device for those who would hide their own present evil. Richard’s younger brother – the one who had drowned in the moat – was rumoured to have had a hideous deformity of the features; but the hideous deformity was in no one’s face, but in the mind of Richard.’

‘He was totally insane,’ said the other simply, clutching his head in his hand. ‘The truth was that the brother had indeed drowned in the moat when young, but he had drowned by the hand of Richard.’

‘I suspected it,’ said Holmes. ‘And these papers, I imagine, consist of Richard’s personal history of his whole vile, bloody life: a sort of diabolical “Confessions of St Augustine”.’

Sir Edward nodded his head slowly, his face haggard and grave. ‘How you can know these things, I do not know. The family has kept the secret for three hundred years. The family name has not been stained.’

‘It serves no purpose now.’

‘I have given my oath to my own father, as every Davenoke has done before me.’

‘Indeed, right back to Richard himself, who sought to protect only his own name. It is there the chain begins, in a pool of blood. What one man has begun, another may end. You must break the chain, Sir Edward!’

‘I have my duty as a Davenoke.’

‘Your first duty is to the living.’

‘A solemn oath is a solemn oath.’

‘A solemn oath upon an evil issue is no oath at all.’

‘Do not fence words with me, Mr Holmes!’ cried the other, his voice rising with anger.

‘Your wife – Lady Davenoke – has been half out of her mind with worry these last weeks. Does that mean nothing to you?’

Sir Edward did not reply, and it was evident from the tortured twitching of his face that his mind was in a state of terrible turmoil and indecision. Sherlock Holmes’s firm manner and clear argument had had some effect, and a battle was now raging in his soul between the forces of light and of dark; between independent reason and the power of tradition. For several minutes a deathly hush fell upon that dank chamber as Sir Edward rocked upon his feet, his head clutched in his hands. At length he opened his mouth as if about to speak, but what he was to say then, we were never to learn. For there came all at once a most startling interruption.

The sound of clattering feet broke suddenly upon the silence and seconds later the heavy door opposite burst open with a crash. In rushed Hardwick, clad only in a dressing-gown and bearing a lantern. His hair was awry, his eyes wild with panic.

‘Sir Edward!’ cried he in anguish, taking no heed of our presence. ‘Come quickly! Lady Amelia has had an accident. Oh, come at once!’

‘What!’ cried the other.

‘She walked in her sleep, Sir Edward. She did not know the stairs. She has fallen and hurt herself. Come quickly!’

We hurried at once from the room, Davenoke leading the way up a steep stone staircase which seemed to be set within the very wall of the building. Under a low arch we passed and emerged through the back of a colossal old fireplace, into a dark and empty room. Through an open doorway we hastened and along an echoing corridor, the madly swinging lanterns casting their wild light upon dark and sombre old portraits, grim suits of armour and heavy medieval weapons which hung upon the walls. Then we were through a doorway and into a wide hall, lit with many lamps and candles.

Three or four people stood in their night-clothes at the foot of the stair, their faces full of fear and apprehension. Before them lay the prostrate figure of Amelia Davenoke.

‘I am a doctor,’ I cried. ‘Stand aside. Do not move her!’

I bent to the still figure at their feet. The luxuriant copper-coloured hair lay loosely upon her shoulders and I moved it gently to one side. There was something horribly unnatural about the angle of her head and neck. Desperately and repeatedly I sought for signs of life, but all in vain. It was clear that she had broken her neck in the fall and would breathe no more. I cannot describe the feelings which coursed then through my soul; I recall only that I rose to my feet and breathed deeply before I could make the terrible pronouncement which had fallen to my lot.

The women present burst forth at once into terrible weeping. I believe, in truth, that they had known the sad fact already, but had hoped against all reason that I could prove their senses to be mistaken. Hardwick began to usher them gently up the stairs and I had turned to say something to Holmes, when we were all struck rigid by a terrible piercing cry.

‘The curse is come upon me!’ cried the young baronet, in a voice which struck a chill to my soul. ‘It has came to pass as it is written!’

‘Sir Edward—’ began Sherlock Holmes.

‘You!’ interrupted the other, turning upon my friend with a murderous venom in his eye. ‘You dare to speak to me!’ he cried. ‘Get out! Leave my house this instant! Get out, do you hear !’

After only a moment’s hesitation, Holmes made a sign to me and we quickly withdrew.

‘It is a terrible thing, to leave him there like that,’ said my friend tensely, as we passed through the front doorway into the darkness of the night. ‘But, had we stayed, it might have been more terrible yet. You saw the look in his eye, Watson.’

I had to acknowledge the truth of his observation. Dreadful as it seemed to walk away from that tragic scene, there was nothing else we could do. The man had every right to throw us out, innocent though we were of any part in the tragedy which had befallen him.

Not a single word further passed between us that night, but I caught sight of Holmes’s ashen face as we mounted the stairs of the inn and saw more clearly there than any words could ever have conveyed, how deeply the death of Amelia Davenoke had moved him. For myself, I confess that I was numb with shock at the events of the evening, and sat long in a chair, smoking my pipe and unable to sleep.

It was scant hours later, and the first grey light of dawn was breaking, when I was roused by a terrific commotion downstairs. At first I endeavoured to ignore it; I needed no further alarms that night. But the tumult increased, until I wearily left my bed, slipped on my dressing-gown and hurried downstairs to see what was the matter. I found Sherlock Holmes, fully dressed, at the foot of the stairs, in earnest conversation with the landlord.

‘There’s worse, Watson,’ said he, turning to me. ‘I am a desperate fool to have left that young man alone last night – a criminal fool!’

‘Whatever has happened?’ I cried in alarm.

‘Shoreswood Hall is ablaze, that’s what! They have sent for fire-engines from Framlingham, Woodbridge and goodness knows where else, but I’m damned if it will do any good. Quickly now! Into your clothes and let us see if we can help!’

Two minutes later I was dressed and we were hurrying up the road in the company of three men from the village. It was a chill morning and patches of mist lay in hollows in the fields.

‘It seems,’ said Holmes to me, ‘that not long after you and I had been so unceremoniously ejected from Shoreswood last night, Davenoke decided to make it a general prescription and threw everyone else out, too.’

‘What!’ I cried. ‘Miss Strensall, too?’

‘Miss Strensall, Hardwick, the cook, the maids – everyone. Hardwick drove them all down to Wickham, where his sister has a house. However, he found himself unable to sleep for anxiety over his young master; so, like the faithful servant he is, he drove back again to Shoreswood to see if there was anything he could do to help. When he got there the house was going up like a bonfire, from one end to the other, and there was no sign of Sir Edward. He tried to find a way in but the fierce heat drove him back, so he came down and roused the whole village.’

‘There’ll be no putting it out if it’s caught as he says,’ said one of the men with us. ‘There’s too much dry wood in that old place.’

At that moment a great surge of orange flame showed above the treetops ahead of us, like a giant fireball, and the distant noise of roaring and crackling came clearly on the morning air.

‘It must be sixty feet in the air!’ I cried.

‘The roof has fallen in!’ said Holmes in dismay.

‘Aye!’ cried one of the men with us. ‘There’ll be no saving her now.’ We quickened our pace to a run, though each of us knew in his heart that the effort was useless, and when at last we reached the scene, the heat was so intense that we could get no closer than the ruined chapel. Small groups of silent men stood around there in impotent horror as the terrible inferno raged before them with an awesome, deafening roar. From every window the wicked flames blazed and spluttered with the force of a blast-furnace. From the top of the building, dense clouds of smoke and flame surged upwards, and scattered sparks and flaming debris all about us.

‘Does anyone know where Sir Edward Davenoke is?’ shouted Holmes at the top of his voice to one of the bystanders. In answer, the man raised one finger and pointed it at the dreadful sight before us.

At seven-thirty we finally abandoned our terrible vigil and returned to the inn. The fire-engines had at length arrived but had been unable to approach close enough to have any effect upon the fire. The officers of the County Constabulary were summoned, and Holmes spent a considerable time with them in the parlour of the inn, going over and over the events of the previous night. At length, when our presence could serve no further purpose, we made our way to the railway station, weary and dejected beyond description, and caught the first available train to London.

It was as we were passing Brentwood station that Sherlock Holmes spoke for the first and only time on what was the most melancholy and depressing journey I can ever recall.

‘I have failed,’ said he. ‘I have failed more tragically than I have ever failed before.’

‘Nonsense!’ I retorted, seeing clearly what was passing in his mind. ‘No blame can attach to you. There is nothing you could have done which would have averted this tragedy.’

‘I could have told Lady Davenoke all I suspected, when we spoke yesterday afternoon. A positive theory, however disagreeable, is more consoling to the mind than a vague, nameless dread.’

‘Perhaps, but the lady was in such a state of nerves that I doubt very much that your confidence would have had any beneficial effect upon her. Besides, you were endeavouring to limit your interference in the matter to the very minimum. Your judgement was sound.’

My friend lapsed into silence for a moment before replying.

‘The saddest story I have ever known,’ said he then, ‘is that of the Babes in the Wood.’

My face must have betrayed the surprise I felt at this abrupt and, so it seemed to me, incongruous remark, for he hastened to assure me that he spoke in earnest.

‘The whole of world literature contains nothing more pitiful,’ he continued. ‘There is no tragedy written which is not a mere embellishment upon that theme. What are Oedipus and Hamlet, but helpless babes lost in the thicket of fate, unable either to understand their predicament or to escape from it? In the story of the Babes in the Wood, the two infants are banished to the forest by a wicked parent and only spared the axe because the man delegated to do the deed shrinks from it at the last. So they wander together in the forest as the cold night closes in. Without food or shelter, and without either the knowledge or resource to procure them, their tenure of life is a brief and pathetic one. They die unloved and unwanted, forsaken and alone; and when they are dead the trees shed their leaves upon them, as a coverlet, and a robin pipes his song over their grave. And what is so pathetic and moving about their fate? It is that they are so innocent, so helpless. There is no true tragedy in the world’s literature which you can name me, Watson, which is not that story retold.’

I was not disposed to argue with him, so I said nothing. Besides, I could see that he felt keenly the sentiments of which he spoke.

‘And the profound sad truth,’ he continued after a moment, ‘which I confess has only come to me as I have advanced a little in years, is that, at bottom, when all the talking is done and the posturing abandoned, we are all lost babes, in the wood we know as life.’

I returned to Suffolk the following week to give evidence at the inquest. No traces had been found of the bodies of Sir Edward Davenoke and his wife, nor ever were. The verdict reached by the coroner’s jury was one of accidental death in both cases, it being supposed that the blaze had been started by chance, by one of the many lamps and candles which had been lit that night. Sherlock Holmes, I was aware, was privately of the opinion that, distraught with grief, and driven perhaps beyond the bounds of sanity, Davenoke had fired the Hall himself; but neither Holmes nor I voiced this opinion publicly. Nothing would have been gained thereby, and the matter could in any case never have been proved for certain one way or the other. Of Shoreswood Hall itself nothing remained but a blackened shell upon a blackened field. It had occurred to me in London that the contents of that damp underground chamber in which we had spoken with Sir Edward might have escaped the inferno, but that, too, was empty and black, no doubt overcome by the intense heat of the raging fire above it.

This, then, is the true history of the final days of the family of Davenoke, resident in East Suffolk since the days of the Plantagenets, and of how Mr Sherlock Holmes and I came to be involved. It is my hope that this narrative, with all its faults and inadequacies, will go some way towards satisfying the curiosity of those many correspondents who have raised the matter with me, in particular that worthy archivist, Mr Alexander Pargeter of the Suffolk County Records Office at Ipswich. In closing I could do no better than to quote from an article which appeared in the Daily Telegraph three days after our return to London, under the heading ‘THE LAST OF THE DAVENOKES’. The anonymous correspondent, in a fine essay, demonstrating round good sense and historical perception, comments upon the previous history of the family and laments the death of Sir Edward and that of his young American bride, upon whom so many hopes had rested, and concludes with the following remark:

‘With the tragic and untimely death of Sir Edward Davenoke, seventh baronet of that title, and last of his line, there passes away for all time not merely his own family and name, nor yet merely one significant part of the history of the County of Suffolk, but, indeed, a part of the very history of England.’