The Mammoth Book of the New Chronicles of Sherlock Holmes

The Adventure of Juniper Cottage

‘Democritus or Heraclitus?’ said Sherlock Holmes in a thoughtful tone. ‘For which of them should we cast our vote?’

It was a fine day in the early spring. My companion having no urgent call upon his time, I had managed to prevail upon him to rise from the couch upon which he had spent most of the previous day, and take a walk with me about the bustling streets. For several hours we had ambled, from the West End, by way of the Strand to the City, with many a detour into curious old alleyways and odd, hidden courtyards, all of which yielded points of interest to my friend’s keen powers of observation and inference. At length we found ourselves upon the steps of the Royal Exchange, at the very hub of the City, and stood there for some time, watching in fascination the ceaseless and ever-changing flow of humanity passing back and forth along the streets that radiate like the spokes of a wheel from the Bank of England.

‘It was a point of dispute among the ancient Greeks, as you no doubt recall,’ continued my friend, a note of humour in his voice, ‘whether the world we see about us is composed of many quite separate atoms, as was argued by Democritus, or is in reality, despite appearances to the contrary, all one, as Heraclitus urged. Now, you and I may have a strong predisposition to regard these people who are passing before us now as perfectly distinct individuals, but, you must admit that, in the mass, they bear more than a passing resemblance to mere waves, like the waves of the sea, which come and go upon the shore!’

‘That can scarcely be denied; although I doubt if they themselves would thank you for the observation.’

My friend laughed, in that odd, noiseless way which was peculiar to him.

‘Perhaps not,’ he conceded. ‘We stand now,’ he continued after a moment, ‘at the very centre of the greatest city since Byzantium was in its pomp, perhaps the greatest city there has ever been upon the face of the earth. Millions jostle past us, each pursuing his own ends, and yet each, too, playing his part in the whole. Every one of them is connected in a thousand hidden ways with the others, making unseen and unimaginable patterns of action and influence all about us. And yet, were we to rise up from where we now stand, float above this scene of tremendous activity, and observe it from on high, it would resemble nothing so much as a bee’s nest. The thousands of comings and goings, which appear so random to us now, would be seen from afar to form the sort of intricate, rational patterns which one may observe in a hive of bees.’

‘It is certainly a busy scene,’ I remarked, smiling.

‘Indeed; save for two gentlemen standing idly upon the steps of the Royal Exchange!’ said he, consulting his watch. ‘This walk has been splendid exercise for the body,’ he continued in a brisk tone; ‘but my brain cries out for stimulation, Watson! Let us return now to Baker Street, and see if any of these busy bees has called to seek our services. It is possible, for we have been out for three hours. As I have frequently observed, there is nothing more likely to stimulate a client to call than to leave the house for a while!’

I laughed. ‘I am surprised at your embracing such an irrational and illogical precept, Holmes! In another, I should term it superstition!’

‘I cannot wonder at your regarding it in that light, Watson,’ said he with a chuckle. ‘But before you convict me of a woeful lapse from that strictly scientific mode of thought which I hold so dear, I would point out: a) that there is no logically valid method by which I can prompt a client to call, and thus any method, however illogical, is as good as any other; and b) that, in any case, as the old adage has it, life is greater than logic!’

When we reached Baker Street, a commissionaire from one of the nearby premises ran up to us.

‘Excuse me, gentlemen,’ said he. ‘You have a visitor, and a rum, fidgety cove, if ever I saw one. For twenty minutes he was a-walking forwards and backwards, backwards and forwards, on the pavement here. ‘Is this where Mr Holmes, the consulting detective, lives?’ says he to me. ‘It is,’ said I. ‘Would you like me to introduce you?’ But he shook his head. ‘No, thank you,’ says he. ‘I’ll just consider the matter a little longer.’ Then he was back to walking up and down as if his life depended on it, for another ten minutes afore he went in!’

‘Excellent!’ cried Holmes, rubbing his hands together. ‘A man with a problem, evidently! Let us hope it is a stimulating one!’

A young man stood up from the fireside chair as we entered our sitting-room. A clean-shaven, slightly built man of about thirty years of age, he was neatly dressed in a dark grey City suit. He introduced himself as Sidney Potter, and was, he said, a clerk at Lloyd’s.

‘Pray be seated,’ said Holmes, ‘and tell us what brings you here. You evidently regard the matter as important, to have taken the afternoon off, and come here direct from Lloyd’s. The ink upon your finger-ends tells me that you have been hard at work this morning.’

‘Indeed,’ said our visitor, looking in surprise at his ink-stained fingers. ‘I don’t know whether my little problem will be something in your line or not,’ he continued, ‘and, to be frank, I hesitated considerably before deciding to consult you; but I will give you the details of the matter and see if you can make anything of it.’

‘You have my full attention,’ said Holmes, leaning back in his chair, closing his eyes and placing his fingertips together.

‘I am a married man,’ Mr Potter began. ‘I have had a good berth in the City for twelve years now, and have lived in Lewisham since my marriage, seven years ago. My parents are both dead, I have no brothers or sisters, and my only close relative in recent years, other than my wife and small son, Horatio, has been my mother’s brother, Major Ullathorne, my uncle Henry. He was warned by his doctor some years ago that his heart was not strong, and he died, alas, eight weeks ago today, of a sudden heart seizure.

‘He had spent his entire career with the Royal Medway Regiment, and, after his retirement, lived in quiet seclusion near Woolwich, which is where the regiment has been stationed for many years. His house, a pretty little place known as “Juniper Cottage”, lies within easy walking distance of Woolwich, but is in a very rural situation, at the end of a long muddy track. He had only one near neighbour, an old friend of his, Major Loxley, a retired fellow-officer from the Medway Regiment, who writes cookery books under the name of ‘‘Major L.’’. I had visited my uncle many times, with my parents when I was younger, and, since my marriage, with my wife, and had always enjoyed the rural charm of the place. When his will was published, a few weeks after his death, I learnt that his entire estate had been left to me. There is a sum of money – not a great amount, but a pleasant surprise, nonetheless – a few little items of moderate value, and, principally, Juniper Cottage.

‘Now, my wife and I had been considering for some time whether we ought to move house. Lewisham has become much smokier since we first took up residence there, and Horatio suffers occasionally from croup. When I inherited Juniper Cottage, it therefore seemed a wonderful opportunity. It is a much healthier spot in which to bring up a child, and as all the trains from Woolwich pass through London Bridge station, my daily journey to work would be a very easy one. Mrs Potter and I discussed the matter fully, examining all the arguments for and against such a move, and, in the end, decided that we would do it. We therefore moved ourselves out there two weeks ago.

‘It is certainly a very pretty spot. The cottage is built on high ground, looking down from a distance upon Woolwich and the river, and at the back is a large garden, which faces south and has the sun upon it from dawn to dusk. The garden is beautifully kept, for Major Ullathorne was a very keen gardener. From the study, a pair of French windows leads directly on to this garden, and in the summer months he would generally leave these French windows standing open all day, so that the scents of the garden drifted into the house. We looked forward to following his example.

‘The house is at present still full of my uncle’s furniture and possessions, and it will be some time before we have sorted it all out. He was a very neat and methodical man, but he had acquired an enormous number of curios and trophies from his travels about the world, and parts of the cottage resemble a museum. For the moment, therefore, we have left most of our own furniture in our house in Lewisham, on which the rent is paid up for another two months.

‘I have described the cottage to you in some detail so that you will appreciate what an idyllic spot it is. However, from the moment we arrived there, there has seemed, also, something odd and mysterious about the place. On the day we moved in, we found that a pane of glass in the kitchen window had been broken, and it was clear that someone had forced an entry and had been in the house. The papers in my uncle’s study had been rifled, and were in a state of considerable disarray. Daisy, my wife, is of a nervous disposition, and was very anxious at the thought that the intruder might return, but the local policeman, whom we sent for, thought it unlikely. ‘‘A house standing unoccupied for several weeks is too tempting a target for some roughs to ignore,’’ said he, ‘‘but now that you are in residence, I should not think they will trouble you again.’’ Daisy was reassured by this, and we put the matter behind us, and set about making the cottage feel like home.

‘Three days later, the evening brought high winds and a very heavy rainstorm, and we were sitting cosily by the fire, listening to the racket as the wind hurled sheets of rain against the window, and hoping that the tiles upon the roof were all sound, when, to our very great surprise, there came a sudden violent jangling at the front-door bell.

‘I hurried to open the door, and found a man of about my own age standing upon the step, dripping wet. He nodded his head to me, and as he did so a stream of water fell from the brim of his hat like a waterfall.

‘“Come in, come in!” I cried, hauling him into the house and closing the door against the driving rain. “Whatever are you doing out in this weather, and at this time of night!”

‘My wife hurried to fetch a towel, and as he was rubbing his face with it, he introduced himself as Jonathan Pleasant. He was a tall, strongly built man, with close-cropped ginger hair.

‘“Come to the sitting-room fire,” said I. “I am glad we are able to offer you shelter from the storm,” I added, thinking that he had lost his way in the dark, and had simply chanced upon our house. His response, however, quickly disabused me of that notion.

‘“Are you,” said he, “Mr Sidney Potter, nephew of the late Major Henry Ullathorne?”

‘“I am,” I returned in surprise.

‘“Very good,” said he, as he warmed his hands before the blazing fire. “Then you are just the man I am looking for; and I, I may tell you, am just the man that you are looking for!” So saying, he took my hand in his and wrung it vigorously.

‘“Your meaning is not clear to me, Mr Pleasant,” said I, puzzled by his manner.

‘“No?” he returned, flinging himself down in an armchair, crossing his legs, and, I must say, making himself very much at home. “You, Mr Potter, desire to sell this house. I am correct, am I not? And I, Mr Potter, desire to purchase it. What could be simpler!” He leaned back in his chair, winked at my wife in a conspiratorial manner, as if I were a half-wit, and chuckled heartily.

‘“Pardon me,” said I, “but I regret that you have been misinformed. I have no wish to sell this house. On the contrary, my wife and I have recently resolved to make it our permanent abode.”

‘“What!” cried he, springing up as if galvanised. “Can this be true? Do you mean to tell me that I have come all this way, in this foul weather, and have turned my ankle over in the lane, simply to have my offer thrown back in my face, and be dismissed without a minute’s consideration!”

‘“I regret the weather,” said I, feeling a little uncomfortable, “although it is scarcely my fault. Nor is it my fault that you have been misinformed. Might I enquire the name of the agent who told you that Juniper Cottage might be up for sale?”

‘He ran his fingers through his damp hair, and sat back down, a look of the most utter disappointment upon his features.

‘“It was not an agent,” said he at length. “It was a very knowledgeable man I met at the inn down the road, the Rose and Crown.”

‘Mr Pleasant explained that he was a commercial traveller for a stationery company, and having been a frequent visitor to the Woolwich area, considered that it would be an agreeable spot in which to live. He had mentioned this fact to a chance acquaintance at the Rose and Crown, who had informed him that Juniper Cottage was about to be put up for sale.

‘“He is a large, loud man, with a grey beard down to here,” said Pleasant, holding his hand halfway down his waistcoat front. “I dare say you know him well, Mr Potter.”

‘“I have never seen such a man,” I responded.

‘“That is odd, for he certainly knows all about you, or about your house, at any rate,” insisted our visitor, in a tone which seemed to imply that I was lying to him. “He informed me that you were desperate to sell, as you wished to move immediately.” He paused. “I could make you a very handsome offer,” he added after a moment.

‘“The house is not for sale, and that is final,” said I, in an emphatic tone.

‘“Very well,” said Pleasant, nodding his head. “I shall not mention it again, Mr Potter.”

‘It was still pouring with rain, and the wind sounded even more violent than ever, so I threw more wood on to the fire, my wife made a pot of tea, and we sat for a long time in conversation. Our visitor was amiable enough, once he had dropped the subject of the cottage, and our talk rambled hither and thither in an agreeable fashion. He had been to the theatre the previous evening, he informed us, to hear Jenny Beach sing her latest song, “A Teardrop on a Rose”, and he entertained us for some time with an account of this, and other similar anecdotes.

‘The evening wore on, but the storm did not abate. Eventually, it was time for bed, but the storm was as loud and violent as ever. It appeared, as our visitor observed, to have set in for the night. I could not possibly turn him out in such weather, stranger though he was, especially as he had mentioned that his sprained ankle was beginning to ache badly. I therefore offered him a shakedown on the couch, which he accepted gratefully, apologising profusely for putting us to trouble. My wife found a couple of blankets for him, and there, in the little sitting-room, we left him for the night.

‘Some time later, I was awakened from sleep by what I thought was distant thunder. But as I lay awake in the dark, I heard the same low, rumbling noise again, and I realised that it came from downstairs. For a moment I felt in a panic, and thought we must have burglars, then I recollected our visitor, and sighed with relief. Evidently he had moved a chair, or some other piece of furniture, to make himself more comfortable. I was just dropping off to sleep again, however, when I heard more quiet noises from below, the scraping of a table leg upon the floor, the opening and closing of a cupboard-door, and so on. I could not conceive what he was doing, but as the noises presently ceased, I did not think the matter worth getting out of bed for.

‘In the morning I tapped on the door of the sitting-room and pushed it open. There appeared to be no one there, and for a moment I thought that Mr Pleasant had already left us. Then I saw that he was crouching down on the floor, peering under a bureau. He sprang up when I addressed him, and explained that he had dropped a coin, which had rolled under the bureau. “It doesn’t matter,” said he: “it’s only a halfpenny.” He accompanied me to the dining-room for a little breakfast, but as we left the sitting-room I observed that some of the pictures on the walls were hanging crookedly, and I could not help but wonder again what our strange visitor had been doing during the night. Whatever it was, it had evidently not affected the recuperation of his sprained ankle, which appeared to have mended completely overnight.

‘I was a little late – as a result, no doubt, of my disturbed night – and had to hurry off to the railway station, leaving Mr Pleasant to linger over his boiled egg. On the way down the lane, however, I chanced to meet our neighbour, Major Loxley, who had been out early to buy a newspaper. I explained to him about our visitor, and asked him if he would look in at Juniper Cottage, in case my wife was concerned about the presence of a stranger there. This he agreed to do.

‘When I arrived home that evening, my wife informed me that Major Loxley had called, as I had requested, but that while she was speaking to him at the front door, Mr Pleasant had disappeared from the dining-room. They had found him in the study, looking through the volumes in the bookshelves. My wife says he appeared a little discomfited at being discovered there. Several of the books were out of the shelves and stacked upon the floor, and, as they entered, he was rapidly turning over the pages of an antique copy of the Old Testament.

‘“Pardon my boldness,” said he; “but having put my head into this room by mistake, I could not resist having a look through this fine collection of books.”

‘“You might have asked permission,” said Loxley, in a tone of censure; but as the other was profuse in his apologies he did not press the matter further. Shortly afterwards, Mr Pleasant left.’

‘Do you know if Major Loxley knows of the man with the beard that your visitor claimed to have met at the local inn?’ queried Holmes.

‘I put that very question to him when I called round to see him, on the evening of the following day. He said he knew of no one in the district who could be described as “large and loud” and with a long grey beard, and we could only conclude that Mr Pleasant had lied to me. Bearing that in mind, and also the forced entry which had occurred before we moved into Juniper Cottage, I began to speculate as to whether my late uncle might have had objects of value in the house of which I was unaware. Loxley, however, thought not.

‘“Major Ullathorne picked up many odd curios in the course of his travels,” said he, “but none, so far as I am aware, of any great value.” He did think, however, that some of the books might fetch a few pounds. “The Old Testament that was interesting your visitor, for instance,” he continued. “I happened to notice that it was once the property of J. Hardiman Smallbone, and was signed by him, which probably makes it of some value.”

‘My features must have betrayed my puzzlement, for he quickly explained that this man Smallbone had been a local parson in the latter half of the last century, whose fiery and impassioned sermons had brought him celebrity throughout north-west Kent. Any volume which had been part of his own private library would have great value for his admirers and possibly also for the County Archive. Major Loxley considered that it might be worth my while to have some of the older books valued, and recommended a book-dealer in Woolwich, by the name of Vidler. As I was keen to dispose of some of my uncle’s possessions, in order to make a little more space in the cottage for our own belongings, I took up his suggestion, and we arranged to take a box of books down to Vidler’s shop the following afternoon, which was Saturday.

‘Mr Vidler was interested in the selection I took to show him, and appeared about to make me an offer for the lot. But as he was deliberating, I began to have the odd and disconcerting feeling that someone was watching me. Once or twice, out of the corner of my eye, I had had the impression of a face peering round a doorway at the back of the shop. I looked up sharply, and as I did so a face withdrew behind the door-frame. It was only a momentary glimpse I had, but in that fraction of a second, I had the distinct impression that the man watching me was none other than Jonathan Pleasant, the man I had put up at Juniper Cottage on the night of the storm.

‘“There is something very odd afoot here,” I said softly to Major Loxley. “That man, Pleasant, is following me about!” To the surprise of the old shop-keeper, I made a sudden dash towards his back room, with Loxley at my heels. But as we reached the doorway and looked into the room, a door in the opposite wall banged shut. We could not get it open for a moment, and when we did we found ourselves in the narrow lane which runs behind the shops. We could hear hurried footsteps ringing upon the pavement round the corner, and ran in that direction, but when we reached the corner, there was no one to be seen.

‘“Whoever it was, he has vanished,” said Loxley, scratching his head, and we returned to the bookshop. Mr Vidler made me an offer for the box of books, but I felt put out by what had happened, and not in the mood for concluding a bargain, so I told him I would consider his offer, but, for the moment, take my box of books back home again. As I was gathering them together, I asked the shop-keeper if he knew Jonathan Pleasant, and described him. He said he did not, but said that there had been a customer of that description in the shop shortly before we arrived, and that he might have slipped unnoticed into the back room as we entered. I was about to leave then, when it struck me that there were fewer books in the box than before. At first Mr Vidler disputed the matter, but when I insisted upon it, he let out a little cry.

‘“Oh, of course!” said he, as if in sudden recollection. “Do excuse my carelessness, Mr Potter! I carried a volume to the window, to study it in a better light, and forgot to replace it. Here it is!” he continued, picking up a volume from a shelf behind where he was standing. It was old Hardiman Smallbone’s copy of the Old Testament.’

Sherlock Holmes rubbed his hands together and chuckled. ‘Excellent!’ cried he, with the enthusiasm of a wine-connoisseur who has taken his first sip of a particularly rare and fine vintage.

‘My story interests you, then?’ queried Potter, a note of relief in his voice. ‘I had feared that you might think it too trivial a matter to concern yourself with. It is, of course, of the first importance to me, for I am determined to get to the bottom of why I am being persecuted by this man, Pleasant; but I can see that it might strike an outsider as a somewhat inconsequential business.’

Holmes shook his head emphatically. ‘One must never prejudge such a matter,’ said he. ‘One of the most terrible cases I was ever involved with began with the arrival of a packet of children’s wooden bricks in the post one morning. Besides, the great big crimes, which feature so frequently in the newspapers, and in connection with which you may have seen my name, are all too often banal and uninteresting, for all their sensation. The connoisseur of such things, Mr Potter, when presented with a choice between a pint-pot of weak and mediocre beer and a thimbleful of an exquisite and refined liqueur, will always choose the latter. Your case interests me greatly, and I should be pleased to look into the matter for you. Are we now up to date?’ he continued, glancing up at the clock. ‘I should like to see Juniper Cottage for myself, this afternoon if possible, and if we leave now we should be able to catch the three o’clock train from Charing Cross.’

‘I believe I have told you most of it,’ returned Potter. ‘I can give you the remaining details as we travel.’

‘Capital!’ cried Holmes, springing from his chair. ‘Let us be off to Woolwich at once, then. You will accompany us, Doctor?’

‘With great pleasure!’ said I. Mr Potter’s curious little puzzle had fired my imagination, and I was keen to see the scene of the mystery for myself. What Holmes might hope to learn there, I could not imagine, but knowing his profound mental resources, I could not doubt that we should leave Juniper Cottage knowing more than when we arrived.

Once we were aboard the train, Holmes’s client resumed his account.

‘Following the incident at the bookshop,’ said he, ‘I gave the matter a lot of thought, and discussed it exhaustively with Major Loxley, who was tolerably familiar with my late uncle’s affairs, but we could make nothing of it. It seemed to me, on reflection, that the man calling himself Pleasant – I put it that way for I have come to feel that it is not his real name – had the cut of a soldier. He was tall and upright, clean-shaven, and with close-cropped hair. This made me wonder if he was from the local barracks, and if the whole matter were not perhaps connected in some way with my uncle’s old regiment. For although he had been retired from active service for some years, most of his friends and acquaintances were men from the regiment, and he was a frequent visitor to the barracks.

‘I therefore called in a few days later, and asked to speak to the commanding officer, Colonel Headley, whom my uncle had known well. I was informed that he was absent that afternoon, at Rochester, but his adjutant, Major Felgate, was most obliging. He is a very smart-looking man, with a black moustache, and very sharp, inquisitive features. He expressed concern when I described to him the odd visitor we had had at Juniper Cottage, and the other incidents.

‘“I cannot recall offhand that any of our men exactly matches the description you have given me,” said he, stroking his moustache in a thoughtful way, “but I shall make thorough inquiries. If it turns out that any of our men are concerned in the matter, I shall get to the bottom of it, Mr Potter, you may be assured of that. Major Ullathorne, your uncle, was a very well-respected figure here, and the Royal Medway Regiment would certainly feel it its duty to do all it could to clear up any little mystery connected with one of its finest former servants.”

‘He said that he would communicate with me when he had any further information, but I have heard nothing so far, so it seems he has not yet managed to discover anything.’

Sherlock Holmes nodded. ‘Your uncle’s death was sudden, you say,’ he remarked after a moment. ‘Was he at home when he died?’

‘No, his body was found on the Plumstead marshes. Apparently he had taken himself off for a walk there.’

‘Indeed? That is a fair step for a retired gentleman,’ observed Holmes. ‘Was it his habit to take such long walks?’

‘Not that I am aware. His heart being weak, he was inclined to become breathless if he walked too far.’

‘Well, that is curious. There was an inquest, presumably.’

‘Yes. No one could shed any light upon why he should have been out on the marshes on a damp afternoon in February, but as the cause of death was established beyond question as heart failure, the matter was not pursued. The County Medical Officer said that the strain of the walk, perhaps exacerbated by the cold weather, had undoubtedly contributed to the heart failure, but that my uncle’s heart having been weak for years, he might have gone at any time.’

‘That is true,’ I remarked. ‘With conditions of that type, any stress or strain, physical or mental, is liable to hasten the end.’

‘I see,’ said Holmes, nodding his head in a thoughtful way. ‘Is there anything else you can tell us, Mr Potter?’

‘There is one more thing. It may have absolutely nothing to do with the present business, but I think I ought to tell you, for it was certainly odd and unusual. I had quite forgotten about it until these recent events. It was on a Sunday, during the hot weather last summer. I had gone down with my family to visit Major Ullathorne and take tea with him at Juniper Cottage. After tea, we sat for some time in the garden, talking and watching little Horatio play, but our conversation was interrupted by the door-bell. “Now, who on earth can that be, on a Sunday evening?” said Uncle Henry, and it was clear that he was not expecting any other visitors. He hurried off to answer it, for his maid had gone home for the week-end, and we heard him admit someone to the house. The garden in which we were sitting being at the back of the cottage, we could not, of course, see who had entered at the front door, but we could hear the sound of low voices through the open French windows of the study. Presently my uncle reappeared through these French windows, his features very serious, and, I thought, a little agitated.

‘“Do excuse my rudeness,” said he in an apologetic tone, “but I am afraid I must ask you to leave, Sidney. Something extremely important has cropped up, and I must devote my full attention to it. I do apologise.”

‘“Do not concern yourself, Uncle,” said I. “Daisy and I were just thinking of making our way home, anyway. The light will be going soon, and we don’t want to be walking down to the railway station in the dark.” As I informed him, it was quite unnecessary for him to apologise. My uncle was one of the most polite and considerate men that I have ever met. Besides, it was clear that whatever the information was that his caller had brought, it was of a very serious nature, for I had never before seen him appear so anxious.’

‘That is interesting, and suggestive,’ said Holmes, as Potter paused. ‘Of course, it is impossible at present to say whether the incident has a bearing on recent matters or not, but you were right to tell me of it.’

‘Do you see any chink of light in the mystery?’ asked Potter. ‘I confess I see none at all. Why I am being plagued by this man, Pleasant, and why he and others should be so determined to get their hands on Hardiman Smallbone’s Old Testament, I simply cannot imagine.’

‘The matter is not yet entirely clear to me,’ answered Holmes, ‘but a pattern is certainly discernible. The case contains one or two suggestive features, the chief one being, perhaps, the business of the crooked pictures on the sitting-room wall after Mr Pleasant’s visit. There are several different lines of inquiry open to us, so it should not be too long before we hit upon the truth. But here, unless I am mistaken, is our station, so let us make haste. I confess I am keen to see Juniper Cottage for myself!’

We had left the railway station and were walking through the bustling town, when Potter drew our attention to two military men some distance ahead of us, on the other side of the road.

‘That is Colonel Headley and his adjutant, Major Felgate,’ said our companion. ‘I wonder if they have any news.’

We crossed the road and soon caught up to the two soldiers. Potter introduced us, and Major Felgate, in turn, explained matters to the senior officer.

‘This is the nephew of the late Major Ullathorne,’ said he.

The Colonel shook Potter warmly by the hand. ‘Ullathorne was a good friend of mine,’ said he. ‘I was very shocked and saddened by his sudden death.’

‘Mr Potter consulted us a week or two ago,’ Felgate continued, ‘over some odd occurrences at his house, Ullathorne’s old quarters. It seems possible that one of our men has been making a nuisance of himself, and I said I would look into the matter.’

‘It was concerning that business that I wished to speak to you,’ said Potter.

‘I am afraid I cannot linger,’ interrupted Colonel Headley. ‘I have an appointment to see Colonel Shacklewell of the Artillery in ten minutes, so I shall have to leave you in the capable hands of Major Felgate.’

‘Should I order the carriage?’ enquired the major.

‘No, I only have the one appointment, so I’ll walk,’ returned the other. ‘It’s not far, and the exercise will do me good. I’ll be back later this afternoon. Major Felgate can give me the details of this business later,’ he continued, turning to Potter. Then, with a little bow, he hurried off, and turned up a side-street.

‘I have a little office at the Arsenal, gentlemen,’ said the major. ‘If you would come along there now, I can tell you what I have been able to discover so far.’

Five minutes later, we were seated in Major Felgate’s private room. For several minutes, he leafed through papers on his desk.

‘To be frank, Mr Potter,’ said he at length, ‘I have not been very successful so far. I have been extremely busy lately, and have not been able to devote as much time to the matter as I would have wished. I delegated two of my men to look into the matter of your Mr Pleasant, but they have not so far managed to identify him, and I am beginning to doubt that he is a Royal Medway man. It may be that he is a civilian employee, here at the Arsenal, for I believe that Major Ullathorne was on friendly terms with some of them.

‘One possibility which has arisen in the course of our researches, however, is that your late uncle may have been indebted to someone, either in the regiment, or at the Arsenal.’

‘That would surprise me greatly if it were true,’ responded Potter. ‘I never heard that Major Ullathorne was ever in debt in his life. He conducted both his business and his personal affairs in a most careful and correct manner.’

‘Quite so. I do not doubt it for a moment. Nevertheless, the suggestion is that in return for some favour, at some time in the past, Ullathorne had promised some possession of his to his creditor. It was probably not anything of great value, but simply something which had caught the fancy of the man he was obligated to. In which case, it may be that his sudden and untimely death occurred before the debt had been discharged, and his creditor has therefore decided to lay his hands on what he feels he is owed.’

‘Do you have any evidence that my uncle was involved in such a transaction?’ asked Potter in a tone of disbelief.

‘There is a rumour to that effect.’

‘But if someone feels he is owed something, why has he not simply approached me on the matter?’

‘Perhaps because the nature of the agreement between the two men was a strictly informal one. If he has no evidence of the debt, he may think it unlikely that you would believe him.’

‘Well,’ said Potter, as we walked up the hill after leaving the Arsenal, ‘I was not particularly impressed with Major Felgate’s theory, I must say.’

‘It does seem a trifle unlikely,’ Holmes agreed, ‘and somewhat inadequate as an explanation of recent events. I sense that there may be a little more involved in the matter than the major’s theory allows.’

A walk of about twenty minutes brought us to the lane which led up to Juniper Cottage, and a further five minutes up the steep, rutted track brought us to the garden gate. Two large, dark juniper bushes flanked the gateway, meeting above it to form an arch. Beyond the gate, a short paved path led up to the front door of the pretty little cottage. On either side of the porch stood currant bushes, covered with vivid red blooms, and in beds to the side of them, bright yellow daffodils nodded their heads in the breeze.

Mrs Potter had evidently heard our approach, for she opened the door as we reached it. Her husband introduced us, then gave us a little tour of the curious old building. In the room which had been Major Ullathorne’s study, a pair of French windows stood open, and we passed through them to a large and level rear garden. Beyond the neatly trimmed lawn was an area of fruit-trees and bushes, and, beyond that, a small wood separated the garden from open country. Away to the right, over a tall hedge, the chimneys of another cottage were visible, which Potter informed us belonged to Major Ullathorne’s old friend, Major Loxley.

After a glance round the garden, Sherlock Holmes returned to the study, and began a systematic examination of the room. Carefully, he lifted up every picture on the wall and peered behind it.

‘Are you looking for something in particular?’ queried Potter, a note of puzzlement in his voice.

‘A concealed safe or cupboard,’ returned Holmes as he continued his examination. ‘The pictures were askew after Mr Pleasant’s stay here, and it is possible that he had been looking for something behind them. It is a not uncommon ruse to conceal a small safe behind a picture. Another favourite hiding-place,’ he continued, moving to the bookshelves to the left of the French windows, ‘is behind a row of books. Your visitor may have thought that a possibility, too, for your wife remarked on the fact that he had taken a number of books from the shelves and had stacked them in a pile on the floor.’

Methodically, Holmes removed groups of four or five books, and felt carefully in the recess behind them, until he had examined the whole bookcase in this way. ‘There is no sign of anything there,’ said he, as he put the last of them back. ‘Of course, if there is such a hiding-place, it could be anywhere in the house, but the study seems the likeliest spot. Let us now try the floor!’

A couple of small Indian rugs were laid across the dark, varnished wooden floor, and these Holmes rolled up and placed to one side. Then, down on his hands and knees, he felt carefully with his finger-tips all over the floor. ‘This may be something,’ said he at length, pausing near the corner of the hearth. ‘Ah! There we are!’ he cried in triumph, lifting a small, square section of wooden flooring, which was hinged at one end.

Potter and I bent forward to see. In the recess below the floor, a few inches down, was a small metal door, about a foot square. From the centre of this door protruded a large horizontal handle, and around the handle were three concentric enamelled rings, each of which was marked with the letters of the alphabet.

‘I had no notion that such a safe existed,’ said Potter in surprise. ‘I was not aware that my uncle possessed anything of sufficient value to warrant such a thing.’

‘Mr Pleasant, I suspect, was aware of it,’ said Holmes, ‘and perhaps other people, too. I very much fancy, Mr Potter, that this little safe is the source of your recent troubles! Now, let me see! The handle will not move, so the safe is locked, as one would expect. Now, the lock, as you will observe, is an unusual one. There is no keyhole, so it is apparent that the locking and unlocking of the safe door is achieved by positioning these rings in a certain way. It is not a new idea – such locks were in use in the sixteenth century, and possibly earlier – but there have been great improvements in the design in recent years. One advantage of this type of lock is that there is no key to be lost or stolen, but a disadvantage is that one must ensure that the combination of letters required to operate it is not forgotten. The chief flaw of the design, however, is that if there is any play, any freedom of movement between the rings, then it is sometimes possible, by the application of gentle pressure, to feel when each of them is in the correct position, and thus to open the safe without ever having been made privy to its secret combination.

‘Let us have a look at it,’ he continued, lying full-length upon the floor, with his face close to the recess which held the safe. Slowly and gently, he began to turn the lettered dials. He was still so engaged, his face a mask of concentration, when Mrs Potter brought in a tray piled high with tea things.

‘Goodness!’ cried she, as she saw the hole in the floor, and Holmes lying full-length next to it. ‘Whatever is this!’

‘Mr Holmes has found a safe which belonged to Uncle Henry,’ replied Potter, a note of excitement in his voice.

‘Indeed I have,’ said Holmes, looking up with a wry expression upon his face. ‘I have found a safe, but I am unable to open it. It is evidently a very superior model, with closely machined locking parts, for there is no play whatever between the rings. Your arrival with tea is most opportune, madam, for a cup and a pipe, and five minutes’ quiet reflection is what is now required!’

For some time we sat sipping tea and smoking our pipes in silence, then Holmes rose from his chair with a sigh.

‘Well, well,’ said he. ‘We may as well try some of the more obvious combinations. I can see no other strategy at present. Your uncle’s full name, Mr Potter?’

‘Henry Alfred Ullathorne.’

‘Initials H.A.U., then. Let us try those letters and see if they produce any result!’

For a moment he twisted the dials on the safe door, then attempted to turn the handle, but it remained as immovable as before.

‘Now the same letters in the reverse order,’ said he, twisting the dials once more. ‘No! That is no better!’ he announced as he tried the handle again. ‘Your mother’s maiden name, Mr Potter?’

‘Frances Mabel Ullathorne.’

‘F.M.U., then. No! That is not it, either! Married initials F.M.P.: No! No good!’

Thus we worked our way through two dozen or more combinations without success. The initials of almost everyone Potter or his wife could think of were tried, together with such miscellaneous items as R.M.R., for the Royal Medway Regiment, and P.I.P., which was the name of a cat once owned by Major Ullathorne, but all suggestions were equally in vain.

‘It is possible that there is a note of the combination somewhere among your late uncle’s papers,’ remarked Holmes at length, ‘although I rather doubt it. As it is only a matter of three letters, he would be unlikely to forget it, and thus would probably have felt no need to write it down anywhere.’

‘I wonder if Major Loxley would know?’ said Mrs Potter. ‘He and your uncle were old friends, Sidney. He may have some idea of the letters your uncle would choose.’

‘What an excellent suggestion!’ returned Potter. ‘I shall fetch him at once. I shall not be a minute,’ he added as he stepped out of the French window and crossed the lawn to the hedge near the back of the garden.

In a moment he had returned, accompanied by a bluff-looking, elderly gentleman, with snow-white hair and moustache. We shook hands, then he bent his mind to the task.

‘I do recall Ullathorne mentioning something about a safe, a year or so ago,’ said he, ‘but I did not know where it was. I’m afraid I have no idea what the combination might be.’

‘We are open to any suggestions,’ said Holmes in a dry tone.

‘Let me see now,’ said the major. ‘My own initials are P.Q.L. I don’t imagine he’d have used those, but it is possible, I suppose.’

Holmes turned the dials and tried the major’s initials both backwards and forwards, but with no result. A few further suggestions were tried, but the handle of the safe remained resolutely immovable.

‘Could the lock not be drilled out in some way?’ queried Potter, scratching his head.

‘It may well come to that,’ returned Holmes, ‘but it will not be easy. These modern safes are specifically designed to resist drilling. You had best apply to the manufacturers for advice. They may have some suggestion to make.’

‘That sounds the best idea,’ Major Loxley concurred. ‘Might they not have a record of this safe’s combination?’

Holmes shook his head. ‘That is unlikely,’ said he. ‘Most safes of this type have adjustable cogs on the inside of the door, so that the owner can set the combination to whatever he pleases, before closing the door. I have little doubt that, whatever the combination is, it was known only to Major Ullathorne.’

‘It is quite a problem, then,’ said Loxley with a sigh, rising to his feet. ‘I shall leave you to it, gentlemen. I am sorry I was unable to be more help, Potter. Do let me know if you have any success with it, won’t you!’

‘We appear to have reached a dead end,’ said Potter, in a tone of disappointment, when the major had left us.

‘We have met with a temporary check,’ corrected Holmes. He leaned back in his chair and lit his pipe. ‘It is clear,’ he continued after a moment, ‘that someone wants something that is within this house. There was a burglary shortly before you moved here. Whether anything was taken on that occasion we cannot say, but we must suppose that the enterprise was not entirely successful, for the attention devoted to the cottage has not ceased. It seems certain that the visit you had a couple of weeks ago from the man calling himself Jonathan Pleasant was devised solely to give him an opportunity to search the house for something. That something, to judge by his mode of search – moving pictures on the wall, peering under the furniture, and so on – was this safe. Clearly, he knew of the safe’s existence, but not its whereabouts. Now, it would appear, from your account of the matter, that the safe remained on that occasion undiscovered. We cannot, therefore, expect all this mysterious activity to come to a halt, and must prepare ourselves for further attempts upon the premises. Our chief problem is that our opponent – or opponents, perhaps, for we do not know how many of them may be involved – may decide to lie low for a while, and wait for a suitable opportunity. This might suit them, but it does not suit us. I think we must try to force the pace a little, to flush our quarry out into the open, and the only way we can do this is to oblige our opponents to burgle the house at a time not of their choosing, but of ours.’

‘How on earth can we do that?’ asked Potter in a tone of puzzlement.

‘What I propose,’ responded Holmes, ‘is that you send a note to Lloyd’s, informing them that you will be unable to be present tomorrow to attend to your duties. You must then spend tomorrow disseminating as widely as possible the following information:

‘One, that you and your family will be away tomorrow night, staying at your old house in Lewisham. Two, that upon the following day, workmen will be arriving to render Juniper Cottage more proof against burglary. Three, that an expert locksmith from the safe company will also be coming that day to open your uncle’s safe. You must then take your family to Lewisham at five o’clock tomorrow afternoon, and meet us upon the down platform of Lewisham station at seven o’clock prompt. Is that all clear?’

Potter nodded his head, but there was an expression of bewilderment upon his face.

‘It must be made perfectly clear to any aspiring burglar,’ explained Holmes, ‘that tomorrow night represents the best, perhaps the only opportunity to break into Juniper Cottage. We must force him to come – and we must then be here to meet him!’

‘I understand,’ said Potter; ‘but how do you propose that I should disseminate the information you mention?’

‘Oh, there are many ways. You must sow the information broad-cast across the district – at the village shop, at the post office, at the railway station, and so on. You might also call in at the Rose and Crown for a glass of beer and inform the landlord of your plans. That alone should guarantee that everyone in the parish is privy to your arrangements before the day is out.’

‘Very well,’ said Potter. ‘I will do my best.’

‘What of the business of the books?’ I queried. ‘Why did Pleasant follow Mr Potter to the bookshop? I presume that it was he that instructed the bookseller to attempt to appropriate one of the volumes, although I cannot think why. What bearing, if any, do these incidents have upon the case?’

‘We cannot yet say for certain,’ returned Holmes. ‘Their significance may be central to the matter, or only peripheral. I have examined the book which appears to be the particular focus of interest – Hardiman Smallbone’s copy of the Old Testament – without discovering anything especially remarkable about it. I could essay at least seven possible explanations for Pleasant’s interest in it, but until we have more data, such speculation is both futile and dangerous. It is a capital error to theorise in advance of the data, for it biases the judgement, and one finds oneself unconsciously attempting to twist the facts to fit one’s theory. However, I have hopes that tomorrow night will furnish us with the data we require!’

We waited for some time at Woolwich Arsenal station for a train to take us back to town, and for much of this time Holmes sat in silence, as if lost in thought. A fast train from London had just pulled in, and I was idly watching the crowd of passengers who had alighted on the opposite platform, when my companion abruptly spoke.

‘I have my suspicions,’ said he.

‘Of what?’ I queried as he paused.

‘I suspect,’ he continued after a moment, ‘that in some profound way, which our limited intellects cannot fully grasp, Democritus and Heraclitus are both correct.’

‘Oh?’ said I, surprised by this digression in his thoughts from the business that had brought us out to Woolwich.

‘Yes,’ said he. ‘Watson!’ he added abruptly, in a more urgent tone, nodding his head in the direction of the down platform.

The train there was drawing out of the station, and we could now see the passengers clearly, making their way along the platform. I followed my companion’s gaze, and descried a tall man, wearing a heavy overcoat with the collar turned up, and with a soft hat pulled down over his brow. His shoulders were hunched, and he hurried along the platform, as if anxious not to be observed or recognised. At the last moment, however, as he was leaving the platform, he turned his head slightly, and I saw, to my very great surprise, that it was the commanding officer of the Royal Medway Regiment, Colonel Headley.

‘Now, what do you suppose that Colonel Headley has been doing up in London?’ said Holmes. ‘And why is he trying so hard to avoid being seen?’

‘I seem to recall,’ I remarked, ‘that when we saw him earlier, he said that he was paying a call on some local officer.’

‘So he did,’ agreed Holmes, nodding his head in a thoughtful way.

The following day was cloudy and dull, and darkness was falling by the time we reached Lewisham station. After a short wait, we were joined by Mr Potter, and caught the next train out to Woolwich, by which time the night was pitch black. We walked briskly up from the town, meeting no one on our way, until we reached the long, quiet lane which led up to Juniper Cottage. Some distance along a road to our right a light indicated the position of the Rose and Crown, but all else was utter blackness.

‘There are no lamps up here,’ remarked Holmes, ‘which suits our purposes admirably; for it is vital that we are not seen. Come! We must not speak again until we are safely in the cottage garden!’

A long, slow walk up the deeply rutted track brought us at length to the garden gate, where Holmes paused a moment, listening intently for the sound of any movement, before passing through and following the path round the side of the house to the rear garden. In a few moments we were in position, crouching among a clump of laurel bushes at the side of the garden, close by the orchard.

‘From here we should be able to see anyone who comes,’ whispered Holmes. ‘Now we have only to wait.’

And a long, cold wait it was, too. Faintly, I could hear a distant church clock strike the half-hours, and each time it struck, the temperature in the garden seemed to have dropped another degree. Holmes had brought with him a small flask of brandy, which he passed to us, and its warmth has never felt so welcome to me as on that icy night. From the hiding-place in which we crouched, like hunters of heavy game awaiting the arrival of some mighty and ferocious beast, we had the whole of the back of the house in view. Holmes’s opinion was that the French windows of the study presented the most likely point of entry for a burglar; but had an attempt been made to break in at any other part of the house, there is no doubt we should have heard it clearly, for, save the occasional hoot of an owl, the night was utterly silent and still.

The church clock had struck ten, and I was straining my ears to catch any sound from the lane, when I was startled as Holmes plucked suddenly at my sleeve. I stiffened, all my senses alert. His keen hearing had evidently detected a sound I had missed, and I waited tensely to see what would happen next.

What happened was so utterly unforeseen that I almost cried aloud in surprise. I was leaning forward slightly, to detect any sign of movement along the path at the side of the house, when there came all at once a rustling noise from the bushes behind me. I bit my lip to stifle a gasp. So concentrated had my thoughts been upon listening for sounds from the lane, that it had never occurred to me that an intruder might take a more circuitous route to the cottage, by the open land to the south. I held myself perfectly still, scarcely daring even to breathe, lest that slight movement give away our presence. After a moment, the sound came again, a little closer. It crossed my mind that it might be a fox, then, before I knew it, I could feel the movement as well as hear it, and could hear also heavy breathing. I was standing slightly to the right of my two companions, and someone, or something, was approaching immediately behind my right shoulder. Then, so close that his coat brushed my sleeve as he passed, a dark, burly figure in a long coat pushed through the bushes, stepped on to the lawn and made his way to the back of the house.

There he bent to the lock of the French windows, and a slight, metallic, scraping noise came to my ears. Clearly, he was trying to force the lock with a knife or similar implement. After a moment, Holmes plucked my sleeve once more and stepped out upon the lawn. Silently, and with great caution, the three of us approached the stooping, intent figure, then, at a signal from Holmes we made a sudden dash and flung ourselves upon him. With a desperate wail of fear, he fell to the ground in a heap, and the knife tumbled from his hand and clattered on to the flagstones below.

Quickly Holmes lit a lantern, as Potter and I held our quarry in a firm grip. Then he held the lantern up to the intruder’s face, and I gasped in surprise. For the mysterious nocturnal visitor was none other than Mr Potter’s neighbour, Major Loxley.

‘I think you had best explain yourself,’ said Holmes in a severe tone. ‘Have you the key to these windows, Mr Potter?’

Potter found the key, and in a minute we were in the study of the cottage, with all the lamps lit. Major Loxley sat slumped in a chair, his head in his hands, moaning softly to himself, like a man in the last reaches of despair.

‘Well, Major,’ said Potter at length. ‘We await your explanation! What is the meaning of this?’

‘The meaning,’ returned Loxley in a broken voice, ‘is that I am ruined!’

‘Come, come,’ said Holmes. ‘You were a good friend and neighbour of Major Ullathorne’s. Though your present behaviour is astounding, I am sure there must be some explanation for it, and perhaps, if that explanation is good enough, Mr Potter can be persuaded not to press charges.’

‘You do not understand,’ said Loxley, looking up. ‘Any charges that Potter might bring against me are as nothing, and I would face them without concern. But to explain my actions I must reveal my shame.’

‘We must have an explanation,’ insisted Holmes.

‘Very well,’ said Loxley after a moment. ‘It can make little difference now. You perhaps know something of the history of the Royal Medway Regiment? Few regiments have had a more honoured history. We were represented with distinction in the Peninsular Campaign, at Waterloo, in the Crimea, India and elsewhere. In recent years, however, the regiment has been on home duties, at Chatham and Dover, and here at Woolwich, to where the regimental headquarters was moved some years ago. During this time, a terrible change has come over the regiment. It may not be apparent to outside observers, but it is clear enough to those who know it from within, and who knew it in its better days. It is as if a corruption has entered into the body of the regiment, and once in, can neither be driven out nor destroyed, but must inevitably spread, in the end, to all parts. My opinion as to the origins and cause of this has varied over the years. There have been times when I have felt that the blame lay entirely with one man, or one small group of men, the few rotten apples in the barrel, which inevitably corrupt the rest; at other times it has seemed to me as if a general malaise has swept over the whole regiment, like the visitation of a plague.

‘I will not trouble you with the details. It is enough to tell you that colossal amounts of public money have found their way into private pockets, and that the regiment’s guard duties at the Royal Arsenal and the Royal Dockyards have provided ample opportunities for personal enrichment for those who sought it, from petty pilfering and the unauthorised sale of public property, to frauds on a scale so massive and audacious that you would scarcely believe them possible.

‘A few years ago I was offered something by someone I knew. It was only a trifle, and seemed unimportant. In my own defence I will say that I did not fully understand at the time that I was accepting stolen property, although I think I knew in my heart that the transaction was not an entirely honest one. But having thus accepted a part of this corrupt bounty, I subsequently found it much more difficult to resist the persuasive pressures which were put upon me to play a part in various fraudulent schemes. Thus, little by little, I slipped into the mire of dishonesty.

‘At length, the few remaining honest men in the regiment began to see what was taking place about them, although it had been concealed with diabolical cunning. Your uncle and I had both been retired some years by this time, Mr Potter. Late last year, he was secretly approached, as a man of outstanding character, and asked to conduct a discreet investigation into the matter, as he subsequently confided to me in the strictest confidence. No one could be certain who, among the present strength of the regiment, could be trusted and who could not, which is why they had turned, in desperation, to Major Ullathorne. As an honoured former officer of the regiment he was welcome wherever the Royal Medway was represented, and could freely go anywhere, and see anything. His brief was, by conversations and discreet enquiries, to discover, if he could, the heart of the corruption which had infected the regiment. All this, I say, he confided to me, never suspecting for a minute that I myself had been touched by the tainted finger of corruption.

‘I was prepared for the worst. Had Ullathorne lit upon any fact which implicated me in any way I should have accepted whatever fate had in store for me. In the meantime I kept my shameful secret locked in my breast, and feigned ignorance whenever he spoke to me of the corruption he was uncovering.

‘Unfortunately, discreet as Ullathorne was in his enquiries, his enemies got wind of what was afoot. The first I knew of it was when they approached me, and asked me to find out what he had discovered. I told them I knew nothing, but they were not satisfied, and told me that, unless I helped them, my own part in the shameful business would be exposed to public view. I knew that this was no idle threat, and gave them a small amount of the information which I had gleaned from my conversations with Ullathorne. One thing I did know – which I told them, as I did not believe it would be of any use to them – was that Major Ullathorne had had a safe fitted, late last year, in order to keep secure the documents relating to his investigation. Until you showed it to me yesterday, I had absolutely no idea where the safe was situated and had made no attempt whatever to discover it, deeming it better for me, under the circumstances, to remain in ignorance. What I did not know, I could not be forced to reveal to another. I did have one other piece of information concerning the safe, however. Ullathorne had informed me one evening that the lock was of the combination type, and that the key to the combination was hidden in a book.’

‘J. Hardiman Smallbone’s copy of the Old Testament,’ interjected Holmes.

‘Precisely, Mr Holmes. I told Ullathorne that it didn’t sound a very secure hiding-place. “Why, anyone might find it there!” I said. He laughed at this, and pointed out that the book was a big one. “As you may be aware, Loxley,” said he, “the Old Testament contains thirty-nine books, nine hundred and twenty-nine chapters, and nearly six hundred thousand words. They made me learn that at school! My enemies wouldn’t know where to begin their search! Patience – a great deal of it – would be the chief requirement, and that is something they do not possess!” The thought of this appeared to amuse him greatly, and he laughed for several minutes.’

‘You gave this information to your villainous colleagues, presumably,’ said Holmes.

‘I did,’ replied Loxley, hanging his head. ‘I thought it would be of no use to them, as neither they nor I knew the whereabouts of the safe.’

‘So they sent Jonathan Pleasant here to try to find the safe and its secret combination. When he was unsuccessful, in both respects, they told you to persuade Mr Potter to sell Smallbone’s book to the dealer, Vidler, whom they had presumably bribed to make him do as they wished.’

Loxley nodded his head in silent acknowledgement of these charges.

‘Who is this man, Pleasant?’ asked Holmes.

‘A member of the conspiracy,’ Loxley replied, ‘no doubt chosen for the task on account of his persuasive manner of speech. In himself, he is unimportant, merely one of the small fry that are always to be found swimming alongside the great sharks.’

‘Hum!’ said Holmes. ‘Let us take another look at the book.’ He took the old volume from the shelf, and turned the pages over for several minutes. ‘I can find no marks upon the pages,’ said he at length. ‘Did Major Ullathorne have a favourite chapter, or verse, Major Loxley?’

‘Not that I can recall,’ returned the other.

‘Nor I,’ said Potter.

‘We could try the letters “J.H.S.”, the initials of the original owner,’ I suggested.

‘What a good idea!’ cried Potter. ‘That may indeed be the answer!’

‘Let us try it, then,’ said Holmes. In a moment he had rolled back the rug and lifted up the hinged floorboard. Then, lying full length upon the floor, he carefully turned the dials on the safe door. I watched with keen anticipation as he gripped the handle and applied pressure, but there came at once an expression of disappointment upon his features, which dashed my hopes. He then tried the same letters in the reverse order, but fared no better. For some time, then, he lay upon the floor in silent thought, until, all at once, with a little cry, he raised himself up on his elbow, and turned his attention once more to the lettered dials.

‘What is it?’ I queried.

‘An odd little idea that has occurred to me,’ replied he. ‘It may be as useless as the others. Let us see!’

In perfect silence, we watched as he applied pressure once more to the handle of the safe. Without a sound, and with no apparent resistance, it turned smoothly through ninety degrees. Then he pulled it gently upwards, and the safe door opened smoothly and noiselessly until it stood upright from the floor. With a little cry of triumph, he reached his hand into the recess and withdrew two long, bulky-looking manila envelopes.

‘Hurrah!’ cried Potter. ‘Well done, Mr Holmes!’

‘What was the combination, and how on earth did you discover it?’ I asked.

‘The letters are “J.O.B.”,’ replied Holmes. ‘The Book of Job is the only one of the books in the Old Testament whose title consists of just three letters; and Job, if you recall, was noted for his patience, a quality to which Major Ullathorne had drawn particular attention.’

‘Of course!’ I cried. ‘How obvious!’

‘Everything is obvi ous when once it has been explained to you,’ returned Holmes, a trace of asperity in his voice. ‘There is nothing else in the safe,’ he continued, ‘so we must take it that these two envelopes contain all the information and evidence that Major Ullathorne had managed to gather on the regimental corruption before his untimely death.’

‘We must place them in the hands of the authorities without delay,’ said Potter.

‘You will do no such thing,’ said a voice behind us, in a harsh, icy tone. ‘Hand me those envelopes at once.’

A cold, creeping sensation seemed to pass up the back of my neck, as I turned my head. There in the open French window stood a tall, strongly built man. He wore a long, heavy brown coat, the collar of which was turned up high, and a soft, broad-brimmed brown hat, pulled low over his brow. But his face was what drew my attention, or, rather, his lack of face, for it was completely covered by an oblong of black silk, in which slits had been cut for his eyes. In his black-gloved hand was a revolver, pointed directly at Sherlock Holmes. How long he had been standing there, I had no idea, but it was clear that he had witnessed the opening of the safe. For a long moment no one moved or spoke.

‘Hand over the envelopes,’ he repeated, ‘or I fire the gun.’

‘I know who you are!’ cried Major Loxley suddenly, in a loud, angry voice. ‘The fountain-head from which all abominations flow! That mask doesn’t hide you from me!’

‘I’d have thought you’d have enough sense to keep your mouth shut!’ returned the other in a menacing tone.

‘I’ve kept my mouth shut for too long already!’ cried Loxley. ‘I should have exposed you years ago! You poisoned my life, as you poisoned the lives of everyone you came in contact with.’

‘Be quiet, you old fool,’ cried the intruder in an angry tone, ‘or you’ll end up like your interfering friend, Ullathorne!’

‘What! You killed him!’

‘No, I didn’t. How was I to know the feeble old fool would have a seizure as my men were asking him a few questions. You!’ the intruder continued in a louder tone, turning to Holmes: ‘Mr Busybody Holmes! Hand over those envelopes now, or you’re a dead man! I’ll give you five seconds!’

‘You villain!’ cried Major Loxley, rising to his feet.

‘Get back, you fool!’ cried the intruder, turning the pistol upon the major. ‘Get back!’

For a split second, Loxley hesitated, then, with an inarticulate cry, he flung himself at the intruder. The pistol cracked, and a spurt of blood showed near the major’s collar, as he reeled round with a groan and fell heavily to the floor. In that same instant, and before the intruder could recover from the major’s assault, Holmes had sprung across the room like a cat, and seized hold of him. In a second, the two of them had crashed and tumbled out of the French window and into the garden. Potter and I sprang up at once and raced after them.

It was evident that Holmes’s adversary was an immensely powerful man. Over and over they tumbled across the muddy lawn, their struggle illuminated by the weak yellow lamp-light from the study. Potter dived in to lend his assistance, but the outcome of the struggle was still not clear. But I had seen as I dashed from the study that the intruder’s pistol had fallen from his grasp and lay in the flower-bed by the window. Quickly I snatched it up, and, with a shout, clapped it hard to his temple, and he lay still.

In a moment we had lashed our prisoner’s arms and legs with a curtain-cord. Then Holmes bent down to the still, silent figure. ‘Let us see this villain’s face,’ said he. He grasped the black silk mask and pulled it away, to reveal the snarling, twisted features of Major Felgate.

The evidence which Major Ullathorne had gathered before his death, together with certain information which Colonel Headley had lately managed to acquire, proved sufficient to break the power of Felgate’s criminal organisation, and to send everyone connected with it to trial. It was, we learnt, Colonel Headley himself who had visited Major Ullathorne’s cottage so mysteriously the previous summer to request his help, and we also learnt later that on the day we had seen the colonel at Woolwich station, he had been returning from Westminster where he had had a secret interview with the Prime Minister and the Secretary of State for War, to brief them on the state of affairs at the Royal Medway’s headquarters. He had harboured strong suspicions of Major Felgate and one or two other officers for some time, and was determined that they did not learn of the steps he was taking to bring about their downfall, and cleanse the Royal Medway Regiment.

Alas for that famous old regiment, despite the trial and conviction of Felgate – whom Holmes declared to be one of the most plausible villains he had ever encountered – and Colonel Headley’s Herculean efforts to root out the wide-spread corruption, it survived little more than ten years as an independent regiment, being merged during the ’nineties into one of the larger Kent regiments. Major Loxley, I am glad to say, recovered fully from his wound, which was not so serious as at first appeared. In the court proceedings which followed the arrests, a lenient view was taken of his involvement in the matter, in consequence of numerous mitigating circumstances, and he was able at last to enjoy a peaceful and untroubled retirement as neighbour to the Potters, who, to the best of my knowledge, live still, to this day, at Juniper Cottage.