The Secret Journals of Sherlock Holmes E-Book

June Thomson

• Herausgeber: Allison & Busby
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 382

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2012

Beschreibung

SECRETS, SUSPENSE, AND CONSPIRACY. LONDON THROUGH THE EYES OF THE GREAT SHERLOCK HOLMES As Dr Watson's old manuscripts, deliberately unpublished to protect the names of those they concern, are released into the public, a multitude of previously unseen cases are revealed. An American millionaire receives threatening letters from a sinister Black Hand . . . A mysterious box terrifies a shop keeper . . . Holmes and Watson feel the influence of an old enemy from beyond the grave . . . And a tragedy occurs which Sherlock Holmes will never be able to forgive himself for failing to prevent. With murders, madness and diamonds abound, June Thomson continues the Holmes canon with a brilliance and ingenuity that perfectly captures where Conan Doyle left off.

Leseprobe

The Secret Journals of Sherlock Holmes

JUNE THOMSON

TO H.R.F. KEATING FOR AGAIN GIVING SO GENEROUSLY OF HIS TIME AND EXPERT ADVICE

I should again like to express my thanks to June Thomson for her help in preparing this third collection of short stories for publication.

Aubrey B. Watson, LDS, FDS, D. Orth.

CONTENTS

Title Page

Dedication

Epigraph

Foreword

The Case of the Millionaire’s Persecution

The Case of the Colonel’s Madness

The Case of the Addleton Tragedy

The Case of the Shopkeeper’s Terror

The Case of the Friesland Outrage

The Case of the Smith-Mortimer Succession

The Case of the Maupertuis Scandal

Appendix

About the Author

By June Thomson

Copyright

FOREWORD

by Aubrey B. Watson LDS, FDS, D. Orth.

Readers of the two earlier collections of hitherto unpublished accounts of adventures, supposedly undertaken by Sherlock Holmes and Dr John H. Watson, will be familiar with the circumstances under which they came into my possession.

However, for the benefit of new readers, I shall give a brief account of the facts.

They were bequeathed to me by my late uncle, also a Dr John Watson, although his middle initial was ‘F’ not ‘H’ and he was a Doctor of Philosophy, not medicine. Struck by the similarity of his own name to that of Sherlock Holmes’ illustrious chronicler, he had studied widely in the Holmes canon and had become an acknowledged expert.

It was for this reason that, in July 1939, he was approached by a Miss Adeline McWhirter, who claimed to be a relative of Dr John H. Watson on his mother’s side of the family. Finding herself in straitened circumstances, Miss McWhirter offered to sell to my late uncle a battered tin despatch box with the words ‘John H. Watson, MD, Late Indian Army’ painted on the lid which she said she had inherited. It was, she alleged, the same box which Dr John H. Watson, Sherlock Holmes’ companion, had deposited in his bank, Cox & Co. of Charing Cross,1 and contained records in his own handwriting of those adventures which the great consulting detective had undertaken and which for various reasons had never appeared in print.

Having examined both the box and its contents, my late uncle was convinced they were genuine and was planning to publish the latter when he was prevented from doing so by the outbreak of the Second World War.

Anxious about their safety, he made copies of the Watson papers before depositing the originals in their despatch box at his own bank in Lombard Street, London EC3. Unfortunately, the bank suffered a direct hit during the bombing of 1942, which reduced the papers to charred fragments and so blistered the paint on the box that the inscription was indecipherable.

Left with only his own copies of the original manuscripts and unable to trace Miss McWhirter, my late uncle decided very reluctantly not to publish in case his reputation as a scholar might be called into question. On his death, he left the papers, together with his own footnotes on them, to me.

As I pointed out in the Forewords to the two earlier volumes, I am an orthodontist by profession and, having no academic reputation to protect and no one to whom I can bequeath the papers in my turn, I have decided to offer them for publication although I cannot guarantee their authenticity.

Among them were several monographs which my late uncle had written on various matters pertaining to the published canon. Readers will find one of these, that on the subject of Dr John H. Watson’s second marriage, included in this volume as an appendix.

1 Dr John H. Watson refers to this despatch box in the opening paragraph of ‘The Problem of Thor Bridge’. Dr John F. Watson.

THE CASE OF THE MILLIONAIRE’S PERSECUTION

I see from my notes that it was on Thursday, 21st April 1895, only a few days before the arrival of Miss Violet Smith with an account of her singular adventures in Surrey,1 that a telegram was delivered at our Baker Street lodgings.2

While it was not unusual for my old friend Sherlock Holmes to receive such communications, requesting his assistance in some urgent case or other, few had summoned him in quite so peremptory a manner.

Having read it and raised a quizzical eyebrow at its contents, Holmes passed the missive to me with the comment, ‘Well, Watson, what do you make of that?’

It was a lengthy message which read: HAVE RECEIVED A SERIES OF ANONYMOUS LETTERS THREATENING MY LIFE STOP AS LOCAL CONSTABULARY QUITE INEFFECTUAL AM PLACING THE CASE IN YOUR HANDS STOP SHALL SEND MY CARRIAGE TO MEET YOU AT MAIDSTONE STATION OFF THE 2 23 TRAIN FROM CHARING CROSS STOP YOU MAY NAME YOUR OWN FEE STOP JOHN VINCENT HARDERN

‘He is clearly a man for whom money is no object and who is used to having his own way,’ I remarked.

‘A wealthy American, would you say?’ Holmes suggested. ‘A millionaire, perhaps, who has made his fortune from tobacco?’

Although I was used to my old friend’s remarkable powers, I was nevertheless startled by his comments, for I had read nothing in the telegram to warrant such precise conclusions.

‘How could you possibly have deduced all that, Holmes?’ I enquired, at which he burst out laughing.

‘There is no mystery,’ said he. ‘The plain fact of the matter is that John Vincent Hardern was the subject of a short article in The Times three weeks ago when he arrived in this country in which his wealth and background were remarked on. It is his first visit to England and he is here, it seems, for a year, principally to introduce his only daughter, Edith, to English society. For that purpose, he has taken the lease of a country residence as well as a house in Belgravia. As the Dowager Lady Wroxham is to chaperone the young lady for the London season and as her ladyship has an eligible son, I think we may safely assume that the next notice to appear in The Times of the two families will be the announcement of an engagement between Miss Hardern and Lord Wroxham. So marriages are made, Watson; not in heaven but by society hostesses in the drawing-rooms of Park Lane and Grosvenor Square.

‘That being said, I think I shall accept Hardern’s summons, little as I care for its high-handed tone.’

‘He says you may name your own fee,’ I pointed out.

Holmes waved a negligent hand.

‘Oh, the money is of no consequence! I have refused wealthy clients before when the cases they presented were of no particular interest. But threats to Hardern’s life! Now that is no trivial matter. We shall catch the 2.23 train, as Hardern specifies, and trust that in the course of our enquiries in Kent we shall find the solution to one aspect of the case which strikes me as particularly curious.’

‘The identity of the villain who has threatened Hardern’s life?’

‘That, too, my dear fellow. What interests me far more is the sequence of events.’

‘I do not follow you, Holmes.’

‘Then consider the facts such as we know them. According to The Times, Hardern arrived for the first time in England a mere three weeks ago and yet he has already received what he describes as a series of threatening letters. It seems too short a space of time for Hardern to make so mortal an enemy in this country, unless I gravely underestimate his talent for arousing hatred.’

‘So you do not think his correspondent is English?’

‘I said nothing of the sort. I merely expressed doubts about one aspect of the case.’

‘But if he is not English,’ I persisted, ‘must he not be American, someone who bears Hardern a grudge and who has followed him to England?’

‘That is possible but once again there is the matter of dates. Why wait for Hardern to come to England? Why not strike him down at home? It would seem the logical course, would it not?’

‘Perhaps the conditions over there made it impractical.’

‘That, too, is another possibility. However, until we are in possession of all the facts, any discussion of the matter is pure speculation. I have remarked before on the danger of basing a theory on insufficient data.’3

He refused to say another word on the matter, not even on the train to Maidstone where we were met at the station by Hardern’s brougham. After a journey of some three miles past the blossoming orchards of Kent, we arrived at our client’s residence, Marsham Hall, a noble Queen Anne mansion set among extensive grounds.

Here the butler, a dignified, middle-aged servant with a face as long and as pale as a church candle, conducted us into a large drawing-room where Hardern was waiting to welcome us.

He was a tall, heavily built man in his fifties, of an overbearing and autocratic manner, who gave a powerful impression of suppressed energy waiting to erupt, like a kettle about to come to the boil. His broad, ruddy features and shock of reddish hair spoke of a choleric nature.

No sooner were the introductions over, than he plunged straight into his account.

‘Now, see here, gentlemen,’ said he, ‘I am a man of few words and I don’t propose wasting your time or mine. I shall lay before you the facts of the case as briefly as possible. I received the first threatening letter within a few days of my taking up residence in the house.’

‘So soon?’ Holmes murmured, giving me a sideways glance. ‘I find that quite remarkable.’

‘So do I, sir! So do I! Why, I had barely set foot in this country when some blackguard had the audacity to tell me to clear out or take the consequences.’

‘You have no idea of his identity?’

‘No, I have not, sir! If I had, I should not have asked for your assistance. I would have sought the ruffian out myself and given him a good thrashing.’

‘I think such action would be unwise,’ Holmes remarked coolly. ‘May I see the letters? I assume you have kept them?’

‘Not the first one. I took it to be so much trash and I burnt it immediately.’

‘In your telegram, you mentioned a series of letters. How many were there?’

‘Four altogether. The other three are here.’

Striding across the room, Hardern jerked open the drawer of a bureau and took out a small bundle of papers which he handed to Holmes.

‘All posted in Maidstone, I see,’ my old friend remarked, examining the envelopes. ‘And all addressed in capital letters by the same hand. Now what of the contents?’

Taking out the letters, he read them through in silence before passing them to me with the comment, ‘Note the quality of the paper, Watson, as well as the spelling. You will not need me to draw your attention to the imprint of a finger at the bottom of each page.’

Indeed, these marks were impossible to overlook. At the end of each message, where normally a signature would be found, was the impression of a single finger made in black ink, amounting in all to the three middle fingers of someone’s hand, presumably the mysterious correspondent’s.

They stood out, stark and sinister, against the white paper which was of a cheap quality, the type which could be bought at any stationer’s. I could make nothing, however, of Holmes’ comment about the spelling which was unremarkable, except perhaps in its correctness.

As for the messages themselves, they were printed, like the envelopes, in neat capital letters in the same black ink which had been used to produce the finger-marks.

The message of the one signed by the ring finger read: ‘You have been warned once, Hardern. Clear out of the country while you can.’

The second, which carried the impression of the middle finger, expanded on this theme: ‘Your life is in danger while you remain. This is no idle warning.’

It was the last, the one bearing the print of the forefinger, which was the most threatening.

‘You are a fool, Hardern,’ it read, ‘but you do yourself no favour by being stubborn. I shall not wait much longer. Pack up and leave at once or, on my oath, you are a dead man.’

Hardern, who had waited with considerable impatience while we read, could contain himself no longer.

‘Well, Mr Holmes,’ he burst out. ‘What conclusions have you come to? Who is this villain? And why is he persecuting me in this manner?’

‘My dear sir, I am not clairvoyant,’ Holmes answered, a gleam of amusement in his deep-set eyes. ‘I cannot put a name to your unknown correspondent. That will need much further enquiry. However, I can furnish you with a few details I have deduced. He is undoubtedly male, about thirty years of age, right-handed and a clerk by training if not by profession. He is, moreover, a British citizen.’

‘Not an American, Holmes?’ I interjected, a little dashed that my earlier theory regarding his nationality had been dismissed.

‘No, Watson, decidedly not. When I advised you to note the spelling, I had in mind the word “favour” which is written in the English manner. An American would have omitted the u. As for the rest of my conclusions,’ Holmes continued, turning to Hardern, ‘I have made a study of the various styles of handwriting and I can assure you that my deductions are correct. I see from your expression, sir, that my description means nothing to you.’

‘No, it does not, Mr Holmes!’ our client exclaimed. ‘Since my arrival, I have met no one who at all resembles it. In fact, the only acquaintances I have so far made in this country are the Dowager Lady Wroxham and her son, neither of whom would have any reason to threaten me. Why, it was on Lord Wroxham’s invitation that my daughter Edith and myself decided to make the trip to England in the first place.’

‘Under what circumstances was that?’ Holmes enquired.

‘I first met Gerald – Lord Wroxham – about eighteen months ago when he was in the States visiting some of his American kinsfolk. An aunt of his had married one of the Brightleys, friends of mine and of old Virginian stock who can trace their ancestry back to Tudor times. My daughter and I were invited to a reception given by the Brightleys in honour of their English relation and it was there that Edith and I were introduced to Gerald Wroxham.

‘To cut a long story short, Mr Holmes, the young couple took a shine to one other immediately. The possibility of marriage was hinted at but I objected on the grounds that they had not known each other long enough. It was then that Gerald Wroxham suggested I brought my daughter to England to meet his mother and to be introduced into English society. If they felt the same about one other on longer acquaintance, their formal engagement would be announced at the end of the season.

‘The Dowager Lady Wroxham approved of the arrangements and undertook to find suitable residences in London and in the country where Edith and I could stay during our visit. By great good fortune, this house came unexpectedly on the market. It had belonged to an elderly gentleman, Sir Cedric Forster-Dyke, whose relatives decided to admit him to a nursing-home. He was extremely deaf and had become increasingly bedridden. His family were delighted to find a tenant willing to take the house for the whole year and to retain the domestic staff.

‘From my point of view, it was particularly fortunate for two reasons. Firstly, Lady Wroxham’s residence, Whitehaven Manor, is a mere three miles away which meant the young people could meet easily and Edith could get to know Gerald’s family and friends. Secondly, the lease on a house in Sussex which Lady Wroxham had arranged for us had to be suddenly cancelled when fire broke out in the servants’ wing, causing considerable damage.

‘All of this happened when Edith and I were on board the ship bringing us to England and it was only when we arrived in London and were met off the train by Gerald Wroxham that we learnt of the fire in the Sussex house and the unexpected vacancy of Marsham Hall.’

At this point in our client’s narrative, Holmes broke in to exclaim, ‘Well, Mr Hardern, your account has effectively put paid to one possible explanation.’

‘And what was that, Mr Holmes?’

‘That one of your enemies in the States had engaged an English accomplice to send the threatening letters on his account. But as you yourself learnt only on your arrival in London that your country residence was to be in Kent, not Sussex, then he could hardly have arranged for your persecution in advance. But I interrupted you, Mr Hardern. Pray forgive me and continue your account.’

‘There is very little else to relate, sir. On Gerald Wroxham’s advice, we stayed a few days in a hotel in London while Marsham Hall was made ready for our arrival. He then accompanied us here and saw that we were comfortably installed. The first threatening letter arrived shortly afterwards; four days later to be precise.’

‘Bearing, I assume, the mark of a little finger printed in black ink?’

‘Indeed so, Mr Holmes!’

‘You notified the police?’

‘Only on the receipt of the second message. An Inspector Whiffen of the Kent Constabulary called at the house and examined that letter as well as the subsequent correspondence but could offer no explanation. He seemed to consider the whole affair was an elaborate hoax.’

‘Oh, it is a great deal more serious than that,’ Holmes said. ‘I believe your anonymous adversary is in deadly earnest. I also believe that you will receive a further letter, bearing this time a thumb-mark, thus completing the five prints of a whole hand. A black hand, Mr Hardern. Does that have any significance for you?’

‘I am totally at a loss, Mr Holmes. A black hand! What action do you advise me to take?’

‘To pay heed to the warnings and leave before that last letter arrives for, once it is delivered, your safety cannot be guaranteed.’

‘You suggest I return to the States? No, sir!’ Hardern exclaimed. ‘I refuse to be hounded out of this country.’

‘Then at least retire to your house in London.’

Hardern, whose anger had been simmering just below the surface, could contain it no longer. His blue eyes blazing, he brought his fist crashing down on the arm of his chair.

‘I will not, Mr Holmes! That would be capitulation and no man living has ever got the better of John Vincent Hardern!’

‘There is not only your safety to consider,’ Holmes reminded him quietly. ‘There is also your daughter’s.’

‘I am well aware of that, sir. She is at present out riding with Gerald Wroxham and his sister. As soon as they return, I shall ask if Edith may be allowed to move to Whitehaven Manor. I am sure Lady Wroxham will agree. She and her son are aware of the threats made against me. Indeed, it was Gerald Wroxham who recommended you, Mr Holmes. As for myself, I intend remaining here.’

‘Then I strongly advise you stay indoors and make sure the windows and doors are securely locked and barred at night. You have a revolver?’

‘A Colt, Mr Holmes.’

‘Then keep it with you at all times,’ Holmes said, rising to his feet. ‘And as soon as you receive the fifth letter, the one bearing the thumb-print, you must inform me at once.’

‘You really think Hardern’s life is in danger?’ I enquired when, a little later, having taken leave of our client, we set off in the brougham for the return journey to Maidstone station.

‘I fear so, Watson,’ Holmes replied, his expression grim. ‘As he has refused my advice to leave Marsham Hall immediately, we can only trust that, when his unknown enemy chooses to strike, we are at hand to deflect the blow. What an abstruse case this is proving to be! I refer not just to the matter of its sequence. There is also the motive to consider. Why should anyone wish to force Hardern to leave this country when he has only just arrived in it? Then there is the curious business of the Black Hand signature. It suggests a connection with an unlawful fraternity. And yet I know of no gang which operates under such a nom de guerre although I pride myself on keeping informed of all underworld activity.

‘I shall ask discreetly among my criminal acquaintances. In the meantime, I propose returning to Maidstone tomorrow to start making enquiries at the hotels and inns for a stranger answering my description.’

‘Do you wish me to accompany you?’

‘Thank you, but I think it would be better if I went alone. If we are to discover this man’s identity and whereabouts, we must go about it circumspectly. Two of us asking questions might arouse suspicion.’

The following morning, Holmes left for Maidstone by an early train, not returning to Baker Street until late that evening.

‘You have found out nothing?’ I enquired, seeing his morose expression as he entered the sitting-room.

‘Not a trace,’ he replied, seating himself wearily by the fire. ‘I believe I have visited every likely hostelry in the town and have drawn a complete blank. There remain, of course, the lodging-houses, of which there must be dozens but where I shall be forced to continue my enquiries tomorrow. To be frank, my dear fellow, it is like looking for one particular pebble on a beach. But I see no other alternative if I am to run this scoundrel to earth.’

In the event, there was no opportunity for him to return immediately to Kent as he had planned. The following day, Saturday, Miss Violet Smith arrived from Charlington in Surrey with her own remarkable account of her pursuit by an unknown cyclist, and begged for Holmes’ assistance. Reluctant though he was to take on another inquiry while he was so deeply immersed in the Hardern affair, her plight and the singular nature of the story she laid before him finally persuaded him to accept the case, even though I urged against it.

‘My dear Watson, I could hardly turn her away,’ he protested. ‘She is a solitary female with no one to protect her. I admit it will be a distraction. However, as I expect to hear nothing from Hardern for several days until the fifth and last letter is delivered, then I should have time to pursue this other investigation.’

‘But your enquiries in Kent!’

‘I shall continue those on Monday. If in the meantime you could assist me with the Sussex case, I should be infinitely obliged.’

‘Of course, Holmes; in any way I can,’ I assured him.

Therefore, on the Monday, when Holmes set off once more for Kent, I was despatched to Charlington in order to make enquiries there on his behalf, quite unsuccessfully according to Holmes who criticised my methods.4 Although at the time I was deeply hurt, I could make allowances for his strictures. His own investigations in Kent, as well as those among his criminal acquaintances, had still come to nothing and, in consequence, he was in a state of high nervous tension.

The Surrey adventure was satisfactorily resolved on the following Saturday, 30th April, when Holmes and I were in time to prevent the abduction of Miss Violet Smith and to effect the arrest of a certain Mr Woodley who had been attempting, by means of a forced marriage, to seize the young lady’s fortune.

It was a singular triumph for my old friend who now had the leisure to turn his full attention to the Hardern affair.

In the meantime, he had heard nothing from the American millionaire and it was this period of uncertainty which plunged him into the deepest gloom. He was fearful that, despite his confident assertion that the Black Hand would not strike until after the receipt of the fifth letter, he might be mistaken and his client’s life was therefore in immediate jeopardy.

It was not until the following Monday, 2nd May, that Holmes at last received the long-awaited communication from Hardern which arrived by the second post.

As soon as it was delivered, Holmes eagerly tore the envelope open.

It contained two sheets of paper, the first a letter from Hardern himself which Holmes set to one side while he hurriedly scanned the second missive, before passing it to me.

As he had anticipated, it bore at the bottom of the page the thumb-print of the Black Hand while the message itself was as chilling to the blood as that sinister imprint.

It was dated Saturday, 30th April, and read: ‘I have waited long enough, Hardern, but time is running out. Leave at once, for your days are already numbered.’

‘A charming note, is it not, Watson?’ Holmes asked with a grim smile. ‘But at least we know that the villain has not yet struck, as I had feared.’

‘Perhaps Hardern will at last take the matter seriously and decide to leave,’ I suggested, although without much hope, I must confess.

Holmes confirmed my doubts.

‘Out of the question, Watson! The man is as stubborn as a mule. Instead, he proposes in his letter that we catch the 3.17 train to Maidstone this afternoon and stay overnight at Marsham Hall, although what he imagines we can achieve is beyond my comprehension. We are no nearer establishing the identity of the Black Hand, let alone apprehending him. Apart from standing guard over our client, we can offer little else.’ Rising to his feet, he began to pace restlessly about the room. ‘This is a most damnable affair, Watson! An unknown adversary and a client who declines to take my advice! I can think of no worse combination.’

‘You could refuse to continue with the case,’ I pointed out.

‘And risk putting Hardern’s life in danger? Never! Besides, it would be admitting defeat,’ Holmes cried, at which last exclamation I had to admit a wry amusement, despite the gravity of the situation, for my old friend was proving as obstinate as his client.

Under the circumstances, there was nothing Holmes could do except comply with Hardern’s instructions, however unwillingly, and consequently we caught the afternoon train to Maidstone, fully expecting our journey would be wasted, although, as a precaution, Holmes insisted I packed my army revolver.

However, as soon as we arrived at Marsham Hall, we were made aware that, since our receipt of Hardern’s letter that morning, something of a much more dramatic nature had occurred. Hardern himself was impatiently awaiting us, pacing up and down the terrace with the restlessness of a caged lion.

Hardly had the carriage halted than he came rushing down the steps to meet us, calling out excitedly, ‘The villain has sent me another of his damnable threats, this time inside the house itself! Come and see for yourselves.’

As he hustled us into the hall, he continued over his shoulder, ‘It must have happened last night or in the early hours of the morning …’

He broke off to address the butler, who had come forward to take our coats.

‘Be quick about it, Mallow,’ he ordered in his hectoring manner. ‘And then bring Inspector Whiffen to me at once. You know where to find him.’

Hurriedly divesting ourselves of our outer garments, we turned to hasten after Hardern, who had gone charging ahead of us with the energy of a steam locomotive down a series of corridors and passages which led at last to the kitchen quarters.

Here, our client unlocked a door which he then flung open with one sweep of his arm, at the same time announcing dramatically, ‘Take a look at that, gentlemen!’

We found ourselves in a narrow pantry equipped with shelves and a sink with wooden draining-boards, above which a small casement window, less than three feet square, was swinging open upon its hinges.

Below it, stamped in black ink on the whitewashed wall, was a single handprint, its fingers splayed out and so clearly delineated that, even from the doorway, it was possible to make out the individual lines and whorls which marked the surface of the skin.

It was accompanied by a message in the same neat capital letters which the Black Hand had used in all his communications.

‘Your time has come, Hardern,’ it read. ‘Beware the terror that strikes at night.’

‘You see, Mr Holmes!’ the American millionaire was expostulating. ‘The infernal scoundrel has had the audacity to force his way into my house. It is not to be tolerated!’

Holmes stepped forward to examine the casement, first shutting and then opening it again.

‘The window is loose in its frame,’ he announced. ‘It was simply a matter of inserting the blade of a knife, or a similar instrument, into the gap and lifting the catch. Was anyone disturbed by the intrusion?’

‘I heard nothing,’ Hardern informed him. ‘As for the servants, they sleep on the top floor of another wing. Inspector Whiffen questioned them earlier but they, too, were not aware that anything was amiss.’

‘Then who discovered the pantry had been broken into?’

‘The housekeeper. Fortunately, she is a sensible woman and came straight to me. After I had examined the scoundrel’s handiwork, I ordered her to lock the door and say nothing of her discovery on the threat of instant dismissal. I have no intention of allowing my affairs to become the subject of servants’ gossip. I then sent for Inspector Whiffen. Ah, I believe I hear him coming now!’

All three of us turned at the sound of footsteps approaching along the stone-flagged passage to see a thick-set, blunt-featured man, accompanied by Mallow, the butler.

It was obvious that Whiffen had already examined the black handprint and the message, for he hardly troubled to glance at them as Hardern introduced him to Holmes and myself.

It was Mallow who was the more deeply affected. He had come to a halt in the passageway just behind the inspector and was staring fixedly over his shoulder, his pallid features even paler than usual and his eyes nearly starting out of his head in horrified consternation.

‘Oh, Mr Hardern!’ he gasped out involuntarily. ‘What a dreadful outrage, sir!’

Hardern seemed aware for the first time of the butler’s presence.

‘Now you know why the police have been sent for,’ he said brusquely. ‘But, if you value your place, not a word to the other servants. It is none of their business. As far as they are concerned, an attempt was made last night to break into Marsham Hall; nothing more. That is why Inspector Whiffen and his men are here. You understand? Then you may go.’

‘Very good, sir,’ Mallow replied, his features resuming that expression of polite deference which a well-trained servant learns to maintain under all circumstances.

‘And now,’ Hardern continued, as the butler departed, ‘I suggest we lock this place up again and retire to discuss what is to be done. And I warn you, I expect action to be taken!’

It was a demand which he repeated when, a few minutes later, we took our seats in the drawing-room.

Hardern remained standing in front of the fireplace, glaring down at us with considerable disfavour.

‘So,’ he barked out, ‘exactly how do you propose laying this villain by the heels? Inspector Whiffen?’

‘Well, Mr Hardern,’ the inspector began, a little apprehensive at being called upon to speak first. ‘At present, I have my sergeant and a constable searching the grounds for the place where the man entered.’

‘But they cover several acres,’ Hardern protested. ‘It will take hours!’

‘I think not,’ Holmes interjected. He was sitting at ease in his chair, his legs crossed, not at all intimidated by our client’s blustering manner. ‘As all the letters were posted in Maidstone, I think we may safely assume that the Black Hand is residing somewhere in or near the town. I therefore propose that we begin our search in that part of the estate which adjoins the Maidstone road. Inspector Whiffen, if you and your colleagues would care to assist us, our task will be made lighter.’

‘What shall we be looking for, Mr Holmes?’ Whiffen enquired.

‘Any signs that someone has recently entered – a fresh footprint or newly disturbed undergrowth. In the meantime, you, Mr Hardern, will remain in the house.’

‘Now, see here, Mr Holmes …’ Hardern began in protest.

‘No, sir; you shall not accompany us,’ my old friend said sternly. ‘I cannot guarantee your safety. At this very moment, the Black Hand may be lurking somewhere nearby, waiting for you to emerge into the open. You have refused to take my advice in the past, Mr Hardern. This time I fully intend you shall obey my instructions.’

It was quite clear from the millionaire’s expression that no one had ever before had the temerity to address him in this manner. But he offered no further objection and shortly afterwards the three of us, Holmes, Inspector Whiffen and I, left the house and, having collected the sergeant and the constable, who were poking about ineffectually in the shrubbery with sticks, we set off for that part of the estate which abutted the main road into Maidstone.

On Holmes’ instructions, we spread out, each of us taking a separate stretch of the boundary hedge. It was Inspector Whiffen who found evidence of the intruder. ‘Over here, Mr Holmes!’ he called out.

When we joined him, we found him pointing excitedly at some bushes, where there were clear signs in the disturbed foliage and the trampled earth below that someone had recently forced a way through the undergrowth.

With the eagerness of a bloodhound hot upon the trail, Holmes threw himself down on his knees to examine the bush and the surrounding soil, subjecting both to a minute scrutiny, at the same time commenting aloud on each fresh discovery as much for his own benefit as ours.

‘See the way the leaves are broken! The twigs, too! As for the boot-marks, they are highly significant.’

‘Of what, Mr Holmes?’ Inspector Whiffen enquired in a baffled tone.

‘Of the fact that our quarry has broken into the grounds but has not yet broken out again. All the foliage is bent inwards. The footprints, too, point in only one direction. It means, gentlemen, that the Black Hand must be lying low somewhere in the grounds.’

‘Then should we widen the search, Mr Holmes?’ Whiffen asked, clearly depending on my old friend to make the decisions.

‘There is not time for that. We must use another stratagem,’ Holmes replied briskly. ‘We now know not only where he has made his entrance but where he will make his exit when he is in need of one. The man may be as cunning as a fox but, like all wild creatures, he will come and go by the same familiar path.’

‘So you think he will strike soon, Holmes?’ I asked.

‘Without a doubt; probably this very evening. The black hand and the message upon the pantry wall with its warning of terror by night suggest that the man is growing desperate. I fully expect this affair to come to a head very shortly and, when it does, we shall be ready with our trap in the shape of Inspector Whiffen here and his colleagues.’

Turning to address the officer, he continued, ‘As soon as it grows dusk, I suggest you and your men conceal yourselves in the shrubbery, near to this bush, ready to arrest the Black Hand the moment he appears. Dr Watson, who is armed, will stay close to Mr Hardern in order to protect him while I shall also remain in the house in case of any attack in that quarter, although I do not expect the Black Hand to strike until much later tonight when everyone is in bed.’

As events were to prove, Holmes was too sanguine in making this assertion.

We returned to the house where the plan was put to our client, who listened attentively, only objecting to that part of it which concerned his own safety when he again showed that obstinacy of character which we had experienced before.

‘Now, see here, Mr Holmes!’ said he, bristling up at once. ‘Do you expect me to sit idly by, looked after by you and Dr Watson like a child by its nursemaids? No, sir! I have a gun and, by thunder, I mean to use it! I’ll have you know I am reckoned to be the best shot in the whole of West Virginia.’

Once more, Holmes overrode him.

His voice as cold and as cutting as steel, he replied, ‘I do not doubt it, Mr Hardern. However, I, too, have a reputation to preserve and that is to protect my client’s life at all costs. And now, sir, it will soon be growing dark. I suggest you make arrangements for Inspector Whiffen and his men to be given supper before they leave to set up their ambuscade.’

His brow contracted, Hardern stalked across the room to ring the bell for Mallow to whom he conveyed these instructions and, shortly afterwards, Whiffen and the other officers were summoned to the servants’ hall.

Our own meal was served in the dining-room, where the curtains had been drawn against the gathering dusk. At Holmes’ request, it was a simple supper of soup and cold meat although Hardern, determined to play the host, had ordered the butler to serve an excellent bottle of claret.

Mallow was in the very act of filling our glasses when the blow was struck.

It was so sudden and unexpected that I was aware only of a sound like a shell exploding as the drawn curtains were blown apart and a shower of broken glass was sent flying across the room. At almost the same instant, something round and dark fell with a crash upon the table, scattering china and silver in every direction before finally rolling to a halt beside my plate. It was only then that I realised that the object was nothing more deadly than a large stone which had been hurled through the window.

Mallow, who was already on his feet, was the first to take action.

Dropping the decanter in his haste, he started for the door leading into the hall, closely followed by Holmes who, thrusting back his chair, sprinted after him. By the time I had sufficiently recovered from the shock to follow, they had disappeared through the front door into the garden.

It was a wild evening with a strong wind sending the clouds scurrying across the moon, so that the scene before me was alternately brightly lit or plunged into deep shadow.

As I halted at the top of the porch steps in order to get my bearings, the sky momentarily cleared and the darkness lifted. In those few seconds of illumination, I saw the thin, stooped figure of the butler running across the lawn towards the shrubbery. Holmes, who was close on his heels, turned his head briefly to call out to me before the moon was again obscured.

‘Keep Hardern in the house, Watson! This could well be a trap!’

The warning came too late. Hardern, who must have followed me out on to the porch, had already descended the steps and had set off in pursuit across the darkened garden, shouting out as he ran, ‘By God, I’ll lay that infernal villain by the heels myself!’

What happened next was over literally in a flash. The moon suddenly reappeared, its pale, cold light streaming down and throwing into silhouette a venerable cedar tree which stood in the centre of the lawn, its black branches threshing in the wind. Below it, I caught a glimpse of Hardern, head lowered and shoulders hunched as, bellowing like an enraged bull, he went charging forward.

At that same moment, a loud report rang out from the shrubbery, accompanied by a spurt of yellow flame, and I heard the whine of a bullet pass in front of me.

It was a sound familiar to me from the battle of Maiwand5 but before I could draw my own revolver, I saw Hardern topple face forward to the ground.

My first thought was that he was dead, felled by the bullet, and I ran towards him, calling for Holmes who turned and came racing back. But even as we reached the inert figure, Hardern was struggling to his feet.

‘I tripped over a d——d root and the bullet missed me!’ he roared out. ‘Go after him! He mustn’t escape.’

‘Brave words, Mr Hardern,’ Holmes remarked in a tone of genuine admiration. ‘But further pursuit on my part would be useless. The Black Hand has too long a start. We can only trust that either the butler or Whiffen and his colleagues can capture this villain before he escapes. In the meantime, I urge you to return to the house in case another attempt is made upon you.’

Hardly had he finished speaking than we were joined by the butler, who came towards us across the lawn, breathing heavily, his clothes and hair much dishevelled.

‘You lost him?’ Holmes demanded.

‘In the shrubbery, sir,’ Mallow replied, struggling for breath and visibly trembling with his exertions.

‘Did you catch sight of him?’

‘Only a glimpse. He’s a big man, Mr Holmes; as tall as you but much broader across the shoulders.’

‘Well done, Mallow!’ Holmes exclaimed. ‘At least we now know what the Black Hand looks like. And now, if you and Dr Watson would care to escort Mr Hardern into the house, I have a crucial piece of evidence I wish to retrieve.’

‘What is that, Mr Holmes?’ Hardern enquired.

‘You shall see that, sir, when I have recovered it,’ Holmes replied.

There was a strange note of jubilation in his voice which seemed out of keeping with the seriousness of the situation and, as Hardern and the butler set off towards the house, I deliberately lingered behind.

‘I know that air of excitement, Holmes,’ I announced. ‘It means you are hot on the scent.’

‘A mere whiff so far, Watson,’ said he, his eyes sparkling in the moonlight which was now drenching the scene. ‘But I believe it will lead directly to our quarry. Now be a good fellow and go with our client. After such a close encounter with the Black Hand, he will no doubt be suffering from shock and may need your ministrations.’

As I turned away to comply, I glanced back over my shoulder to see my old friend walking briskly across the lawn in the direction of the shrubbery.

The effect of the night’s adventure on John Vincent Hardern manifested itself more in anger than in shock. Although I suggested he sit quietly until he had recovered, he refused my medical advice and stamped up and down the drawing-room, all the time inveighing against the Black Hand and the infernal persecution to which he had been subjected, while Mallow and I looked on helplessly.

‘It is intolerable!’ he exclaimed. ‘I wish I had never set foot in this country. Law and order, sir! You English do not know the meaning of the words. As for Mr Holmes’ much-vaunted reputation as a consulting detective, why he is nothing but a mere amateur!’

I was about to protest at this quite unwarranted attack on my old friend’s professional skills, when the door opened and Holmes himself entered the room.

‘I am quite willing to admit,’ said he cheerily, ‘that the inquiry has not been entirely successful until this moment. However, the case is now solved.’

‘Solved! How?’ Hardern demanded, coming to a halt and regarding Holmes with great astonishment.

‘If you care to sit down, Mr Hardern, I shall explain. And I shall require your presence, too, Mallow,’ he added, as the butler made as if to leave the room.

‘Mine, sir?’ Mallow had halted in the doorway, his long, pale face turned in our direction.

‘Yes, yours. For you know more about this affair than you have admitted, do you not? Your mistake was to describe the Black Hand as a broad-shouldered man. By so doing, you put into my grasp the first loose thread by which this whole tangled affair may finally be unravelled.

‘The Black Hand entered the house through the pantry window before leaving his mark on the wall; a small window through which only a man with narrow shoulders could have gained entry. This was my first piece of evidence in my search for the man’s identity. The second is this.’

Putting his hand into his pocket, he took out a revolver with a stubby, rounded butt and a short barrel, not more than two and a half inches in length.

‘This is the gun which was fired at Mr Hardern. When I was chasing the Black Hand across the garden, I heard him throw the weapon away into the shrubbery, no doubt because it was used not only for tonight’s attempted murder but for an even more serious crime. Consequently, he may well have preferred not to be found with it in his possession, should he be caught. I went back to retrieve it. It is a Webley, known popularly as the “British Bulldog”.6

‘A similar revolver was used last March in a daring robbery in which a police constable was mortally wounded. Before he died, however, he was able to describe fully both the gun and the man who fired it. He was tall and thin, in his early thirties, with long, pale features; a description which bears a remarkable resemblance to you, Mallow. Who is he? Your younger brother?’

Before the butler could reply, a loud commotion was heard in the hall. Moments later the door burst open and Inspector Whiffen and his fellow officers entered, bearing between them the struggling figure of a man, his wrists handcuffed.

At the sight of him, Mallow started forward. ‘Victor!’ he cried, his voice anguished.

To those of us observing the scene, the likeness between the two men was indeed remarkable. Apart from the difference in their ages, they might have been twins. Both had the same dark eyes and narrow, pallid features. But while the butler’s bore an expression of agonised grief, those of his brother, whom we had come to know as the Black Hand, were twisted into an expression of such dreadful rage and depravity that I involuntarily shrank back.

‘Keep your mouth shut!’ the Black Hand shouted at Mallow. ‘These fools know nothing!’

‘It is too late,’ his brother told him. ‘This gentleman is Mr Sherlock Holmes and he is already acquainted with most of the facts.’

‘Holmes! That interfering half-wit!’ Victor Mallow screamed out, letting fly a string of oaths.