The Mammoth Book of the Lost Chronicles of Sherlock Holmes
Denis O. Smith’s interests range from logic and the history of London to Victorian society and railways, all of which contribute to giving his stories a true flavour of the period. He lives in the heart of Norfolk, England, from where he makes occasional trips to London to explore some of the capital’s more obscure corners.
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THE MAMMOTH BOOK OF
THE LOST
CHRONICLES
OF
SHERLOCK
HOLMES
DENIS O. SMITH
Constable & Robinson Ltd.
55–56 Russell Square
London WC1B 4HP
www.constablerobinson.com
First published in the UK by Robinson,
an imprint of Constable & Robinson Ltd., 2014
Copyright © Denis Smith, 2014
The right of Denis Smith to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.
Grateful acknowledgement to the Conan Doyle Estate Ltd. for permission to use the Sherlock Holmes characters created by the late Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.
All rights reserved. This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not be reproduced in whole or in part, in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system now known or hereafter invented, without written permission from the publisher and without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
A copy of the British Library Cataloguing in Publication
Data is available from the British Library
UK ISBN: 978-1-47211-059-6 (paperback)
UK ISBN: 978-1-47211-073-2 (ebook)
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First published in the United States in 2014 by Running Press Book Publishers,
A Member of the Perseus Books Group
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US ISBN: 978-0-7624-5220-0
US Library of Congress Control Number: 2013946639
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Contents
The Adventure of the Crimson Arrow
The Adventure of Kendal Terrace
A Hair’s Breadth
The Adventure of the Smiling Face
The Adventure of the Fourth Glove
The Adventure of the Richmond Recluse
The Adventure of the English Scholar
The Adventure of the Amethyst Ring
The Adventure of the Willow Pool
The Adventure of Queen Hippolyta
The Adventure of Dedstone Mill
An Incident in Society
The Adventure of
THE CRIMSON ARROW
BETWEEN THE YEARS 1881 AND 1890, I enjoyed the privilege of studying at first hand the methods of Mr Sherlock Holmes, the world’s first consulting detective, and during this period kept detailed records of a great many of the cases in which he was involved. A large number of these concerned private family matters, the details of which never reached the public press, but in others we would find ourselves in the very midst of the leading news of the day, and I would know that the actions my friend took one day would dictate the newspaper headlines of the next. Such a case was the Buckler’s Fold tragedy of ’84.
Readers will no doubt recall that Buckler’s Fold in Hampshire was the country estate of Sir George Kirkman, a man who had amassed great wealth from his interests in metalworking, mining and railway engineering. Beginning in a modest way, as the owner of a small chain-link forge in Birmingham, he had risen rapidly, both in wealth and eminence, until a fair slice of British industry lay under his command and he had received a knighthood for his achievements.
At the time of the tragedy that was to bring the name of Buckler’s Fold to national prominence, Sir George had held the estate for some eight years. It was his custom, during the summer months of the year, to invite notable people of the day to spend the weekend there. It was said that he prided himself upon the happy blend of the celebrated who gathered at his dinner table upon these occasions, and it was certainly true that many of those renowned at the time in the worlds of arts, letters and public life had made at least one visit to Buckler’s Fold. Indeed, it was said in some circles that one could not truly be said to be established in one’s chosen field until one had received an invitation to one of Sir George Kirkman’s weekend parties.
One unusual feature of such gatherings was an archery contest for the gentlemen, which, by custom, took place on Sunday, upon the lower lawn behind the house. Sir George had in recent years developed an interest in the sport, at which he had achieved a certain proficiency, and was keen to introduce others to what he termed “the world of toxophily”.
In the early part of May, 1884, the renowned African explorer, E. Woodforde Soames, had returned to England and become at once the most sought-after guest in London. He and his companion in adventure, Captain James Blake, had spent the previous six months exploring the upper reaches of the Zambezi River, and had several times come wit
hin an inch of their lives. Many stories of their adventures circulated at the time: of how their boat had sunk beneath them in a crocodile-infested river, of how a month’s provisions had been washed away in a matter of minutes, and of how Captain Blake had saved Woodforde Soames from a giant python at Zumbo. News of the hair-raising entertainment provided by these stories soon reached the ear of Sir George Kirkman, and as he himself had played a part in organizing the finance for their expedition and, it was said, looked for some return for the time and effort he had invested, an invitation to the two men to spend the weekend at Buckler’s Fold was duly dispatched. Among the other guests that weekend, as I learned from Friday’s Morning Post, was the rising young artist Mr Neville Whiting, whose engagement to the daughter of the Commander of the Solent Squadron had recently been announced. At the time I read it, his name meant nothing to me, and I could not have imagined then how soon the name would be upon everyone’s lips, nor what a significant part in his destiny would be played by my friend Sherlock Holmes.
The newspapers of Monday morning occasionally included a brief mention of the weekend’s events at Buckler’s Fold, and when the name caught my eye on that particular morning, I glanced idly at the accompanying report. In a moment, however, I had cried out in surprise.
Holmes turned from the window, where he was smoking his after-breakfast pipe and staring moodily into the sunny street below, and raised his eyebrow questioningly.
“‘A tragic accident has occurred’,” I read aloud, “‘at Buckler’s Fold, country home of Sir George Kirkman, in which one of his guests has been struck by an arrow and killed. An archery competition is a regular feature of parties at Buckler’s Fold, and it is thought that the victim was struck by a stray shaft from this event while walking nearby. No further information is available at present.’”
“The longbow is a dangerous toy,” remarked my companion. “Hazlitt declares in one of his essays that the bow has now ceased for ever to be a weapon of offence; but if so, it is a singular thing how frequently people still manage to inflict injury and death upon one another with it.” With a shake of the head, he returned to his contemplation of the street below.
Holmes had been professionally engaged almost continuously throughout the preceding weeks, but upon that particular morning was free from any immediate calls upon his time. It was a pleasant spring day, and after some effort I managed to prevail upon him to take a stroll with me in the fresh air. Up to St John’s Wood Church we walked, and across the northern part of Regent’s Park to the zoo. It was a cheery sight, after the long cold months of the early spring, to see the blossom upon the trees and the spring flowers tossing their heads in such gay profusion in the park. As ever on such occasions, my friend’s keen powers of observation ensured that even the tiniest detail of our surroundings seemed possessed of interest.
We were walking slowly home through the sunshine, our conversation as meandering as our stroll, when we passed a newspaper stand near Baker Street station. The early editions of the evening papers were on sale and, with great surprise, I read the following in large letters upon a placard: “Arrow Murder – Latest”.
“Murder?” I cried.
“It can only refer to the death at Buckler’s Fold,” remarked Holmes, a note of heightened interest in his voice. Quickly he took up a copy of every paper available. “Listen to this, Watson,” said he, reading from the first of his bundle as we walked along. “‘The death of E. Woodforde Soames, shot in the back with an arrow at Buckler’s Fold in Hampshire yesterday, and at first reported to be an accident, is now considered to be murder. The Hampshire Constabulary were notified soon after the death was discovered. Considering the circumstances to be of a suspicious nature, they at once requested a senior detective inspector from Scotland Yard. Arriving at Buckler’s Fold at six o’clock, he had completed his preliminary investigation by seven, and proceeded to arrest one of the guests, Mr Neville Whiting, who was heard to protest his innocence in the strongest terms.’ They must have considered it a very straightforward matter, if they were able to make an arrest so quickly,” Holmes remarked as we walked down Baker Street, “although why anyone should wish to murder Woodforde Soames, probably the most popular man in England at the moment, must be regarded as something of a puzzle!”
When we reached the house, we were informed that a young lady, a Miss Audrey Greville, had called for Sherlock Holmes, and was awaiting his return. As we entered our little sitting room, a pretty, dark-haired young woman of about two-and-twenty stood up from the chair by the hearth, an expression of great agitation upon her pale features.
“Mr Holmes?” said she, looking from one to the other of us.
“Miss Greville,” returned my friend, bowing. “Pray be seated. You are, I take it, the fiancée of Mr Neville Whiting, and have come here directly from Buckler’s Fold.”
“Yes,” said she, her eyes opening wide in surprise. “Did someone tell you I was coming?”
Holmes shook his head. “You are clearly in some distress, and on the table by your gloves I see a copy of the Pall Mall Gazette, which is open at an account of the Buckler’s Fold trage dy. Next to it is the return half of a railway ticket issued by the London and South Western, and upon your third finger is an attractive and new engagement ring. Now, what is the latest news of the matter, and how may we help you?”
“Neville – Mr Whiting – has been arrested,” said she, and bit her lip hard as she began to sob. I passed her a handkerchief and she dabbed her eyes. “Forgive me,” she continued after a moment, “but it has been such a great shock.”
“That is hardly surprising,” said Holmes in an encouraging tone. “What is the evidence against Mr Whiting?”
“We had had a quarrel, earlier in the day,” the young lady replied. “He accused me of flirting with other gentlemen.”
“With Woodforde Soames?”
“Yes.”
“And were you?”
She bit her lip again. “He seemed such a grand figure,” said she at length, “and has had such exciting adventures. Perhaps I was paying him an excessive amount of attention, but if I was, it was no more than that. Neville became so jealous and unreasonable. He said that Soames’s opinion of himself was big enough already, without my making it even bigger.”
“What happened later?”
“The archery contest took place early in the afternoon. I had persuaded Neville to take part, although he said he was not interested and had never fired a longbow in his life. It was foolish of me.”
“He was not very successful?”
“He did not hit the target once. I did not think it would concern him, considering that he had said he was not interested, but perhaps I was wrong. There were seven or eight gentlemen taking part, and although one or two of the others did scarcely any better than Neville, that appeared to afford him little consolation. I think he felt humiliated. Mr Woodforde Soames was the eventual winner and, I must admit, I found myself cheering as he shot his last arrows. I looked round for Neville then, but found that he had already left the lawn. I asked if anyone had seen him, and was informed that he had gone off into the nearby woods and taken his bow and quiver with him.”
“When did you next see him?”
“About an hour and a half later. My mother and I were taking tea on the terrace when he returned. He appeared in a better humour and apologized for his earlier temper. I asked him where he had been and he said he had taken a long walk through the orchards and the woods and loosed off a few practice arrows at the trees there.”
“Was Woodforde Soames present when Mr Whiting returned?”
Miss Greville shook her head. “No,” said she. “He had gone for a walk shortly after the archery contest ended, as had several of the others. All had returned within an hour or two, except Mr Soames. Then one of Sir George Kirkman’s servants ran onto the terrace, his face as white as a sheet, and whispered something to Sir George, who then stood up and announced that one of his gamekeepers had found Mr W
oodforde Soames dead in the woods. It appeared, he said, that he had been struck by an arrow. I don’t think that anyone there could believe it. Mr Soames had had an air of indestructibility about him and had, moreover, just returned unscathed from six months in the most dangerous parts of the world. That he should shortly thereafter lose his life in a wood in Hampshire seemed simply too fantastic to be true.”
“Much of life seems too fantastic to be true,” remarked Holmes drily. “What action was taken?”
“Sir George sent one of his men to notify the local police authorities. They later sent for a detective from London, who arrived early in the evening and interviewed everyone there. In little over an hour he had arrested Neville.”
“On what grounds?”
“The quarrel we had had earlier in the day had been witnessed by several people, who had overheard Neville’s wild remarks concerning Mr Woodforde Soames.”
“That is all?” said Holmes in surprise.
The young lady shook her head but did not reply immediately. “No,” said she at length. “The arrow that killed Mr Soames was one of Neville’s.”
“How was that established?”
“The shafts of the arrows were stained in a variety of colours, and each man taking part in the archery contest was given a quiver containing a dozen arrows of the same colour. Neville’s were crimson, and it was a crimson arrow that killed Mr Woodforde Soames. But, Mr Holmes,” our visitor cried in an impassioned voice, “Neville could not have done it! It is simply inconceivable! No one who knows his gentle character could believe it for an instant!”
Holmes considered the matter for a while in silence. “What is the name of the detective inspector from London?” he asked at length.
“Mr Lestrade,” replied Miss Greville.
“Ha! So Lestrade is on the trail! Is he still at Buckler’s Fold?”
“Yes. He stayed in the area last night, and returned to the house this morning to take further statements from everyone. When it came to my turn to be interviewed, I asked him if there was any possibility that his conclusions might be mistaken. He shook his head briskly and declared that the circumstances admitted of no doubt whatever.