The Exploits of Sherlock Holmes (28 page)

"It is a nominal appointment only, Mr. Holmes. Mr. Tonston enjoys my father's confidence

and occupies his position at Abbotstanding in recognition of the earlier years spent in his

service in Sicily."

"Ah, quite so."

"My father himself seldom leaves the house and on the few occasions when he does he

never goes beyond the confines of his own park walls. Where there is love and understanding

and mutual interest, such a life might be tolerable. But, alas, such is not the case at

Abbotstanding. My father's character, though God-fearing, is not of a type to encourage

affection and, as time went on, his disposition, always severe and retiring, deepened into

periods of gloomy, savage brooding when he would lock himself into his study for days on end.

As you can imagine, Mr. Holmes, there was little of interest and less of happiness for a

young woman isolated from friends of her own age, deprived of all social contacts and

foredoomed to spend the best years of her life in the desolate magnificence of a half-ruinous

mediaeval hunting-lodge. Our existence was one of absolute monotony and then, some five

months ago, occurred an incident which, insignificant enough in itself, formed the first of that

singular chain of events which have brought me to lay my problems before you.

"I was returning from an early-morning walk in the park and on entering the avenue

leading from the lodge-gates to the house, I observed that there was something nailed to the

bole of an oak tree. On closer examination I discovered the object to be an ordinary

coloured print of the type used for illustrating Christmas carols or cheap books on religious art.

But the theme of the picture was unusual, even arresting.

"It consisted of a night sky broken by a barren hilltop on the brow of which, in two separate

groups of six and three, stood nine winged angels. As I stared at the picture, I was puzzled to

explain the note of incongruity that jarred through my senses until, in an instant, I perceived

the reason. It was the first time that I had beheld angels portrayed not in radiance but in robes of

funeral darkness. Across the lower part of the print were scrawled the words 'six and three.'

"

As our visitor paused, I glanced across at Sherlock Holmes. His brows were drawn down

and his eyes closed, but I could tell from the quick spirals of smoke rising from his pipe that

his interest had been deeply stirred.

"My first reaction," she went on, "was that it was a curious way for the carrier-man from

Lyndhurst to deliver some new-fangled calendar and so, plucking it down, I took it in with

me, and was on my way upstairs to my room when I met my father on the landing.

" 'This was on a tree in the avenue,' I said. 'I think McKinney should tell the Lyndhurst

carrier to deliver at the tradesmen's entrance instead of pinning things in odd places. I prefer

angels in white, don't you, Papa?"

"The words were hardly out of my mouth before he had snatched the print from me. For a

moment, he stood speechless, glaring down at the piece of paper in his shaking hands while

the colour ebbed from his face, leaving it drawn and livid.

" 'What is it, Papa?' I cried, clutching him by the arm. " 'The Dark Angels,' he whispered.

Then, with a gesture of horror, he shook off my hand and rushing into his study, locked

and bolted the door behind him.

"From that day on, my father never left the house. His time was spent in reading and

writing in his study or in long conferences with James Tonston whose gloomy and severe

character is somewhat akin to his own. I saw him seldom save at meal-times and it would

have been unbearable for me were it not for the fact that I had the friendship of one noble-

hearted woman, Mrs. Nordham, the wife of the Beaulieu doctor, who perceiving the

desolation of my life persisted in calling to see me two or three times a week despite my

father's open hostility to what he considered an unwarranted intrusion.

"It was some weeks later, on February 11th, to be precise, that our manservant came

to me just after breakfast with a most curious expression on his face.

" 'It's not the Lyndhurst carrier this time,' he announced sourly, 'and I don't like it,

miss.'

" 'What is the matter, McKinney?'

" 'Ask the front door,' said he, and went away mumbling and stroking his beard.

"I hastened to the entrance and there, nailed to the front door, was a similar print to

that which I had found on the oak tree in the avenue. And yet it was not exactly similar, for

this time the angels were only six in number and the figure '6' was marked on the bottom

of the page. I tore it down and was gazing at it with an inexplicable chill in my heart

when a hand reached out and took it from my fingers. Turning round I found Mr.

Tonston standing behind me. 'It is not for you, Miss Ferrers,' he said gravely, 'and for that

you can thank your Maker.'

" 'But what does it mean?' I cried wildly. 'If there is danger to my father, then why does

he not summon the police?'

" 'Because we do not need the police,' he replied. 'Believe me, your father and I are

quite capable of dealing with the situation, my dear young lady.' And, turning on his heel,

he vanished into the house. He must have taken the picture to my father, for he kept to

his room for a week afterwards."

"One moment," interrupted Holmes. "Can you recall the exact date when you found

the picture on the oak tree?"

"It was December 29th."

"And the second appeared on the front door on February 11th, you say. Thank you,

Miss Ferrers. Pray proceed with your interesting narrative."

"One evening, it would be about a fortnight later," continued our client, "my father and

I were sitting together at the dinner-table. It was a wild, tempestuous night with driving

squalls of rain and a wind that sobbed and howled like a lost soul down the great yawning

chimney-pieces of the ancient mansion. The meal was over and my father was moodily

drinking his port by the light of the heavy candle-branches that illumined the dining-table

when, raising his eyes to mine, he was seized with some reflection of the utter horror that

was at that very instant freezing the blood in my veins. Immediately in front of me, and

behind him, there was a window, the curtains of which were not fully drawn, leaving a

space of rain-splashed glass that threw back a dim glow from the candlelight.

"Peering through this glass was a man's face.

"The lower part of his features was covered with his hand, but beneath the rim of a

shapeless hat a pair of eyes, grinning and baleful, glared into my own.

"My father must have realized instinctively that the danger lay behind him for, seizing a

heavy candelabrum from the table, in one movement he turned and flung it at the

window.

"There was an appalling crash of glass, and I caught a glimpse of the curtains

streaming like great crimson bat-wings in the wind that howled through the shattered

casement. The flame of the remaining candles blew flat and dim, and then I must have

fainted. When I came to myself, I was lying on my bed. The next day, my father made no

reference to the incident and the window was repaired by a man from the village. And now,

Mr. Holmes, my story draws to its close.

"On March 25th, exactly six weeks and three days ago, when my father and I took

our places for breakfast, there upon the table lay the print of the demon angels, six and

three. But this time there was no number scrawled across the lower portion."

"And your father?" asked Holmes very seriously.

"My father has resigned himself with the calm of a man who waits upon an inescapable

destiny. For the first time for many years, he looked at me gently. 'It has come,' said he, 'and it

is well.'

"I threw myself on my knees beside him, imploring him to call in the police, to put an

end to this mystery that threw its chill shadow over our desolate lives. 'The shadow is nearly

lifted, my child,' he replied.

"Then, after a moment's hesitation, he laid his hand upon my head.

" 'If anybody, any stranger, should communicate with you,' said he, 'say only that your

father kept you always in ignorance of his affairs and that he bade you state that the name of

the maker is in the butt of the gun. Remember those words and forget all else, if you value

that happier, better life that will shortly commence for you,' With that he rose and left the

room.

"Since that time, I have seen little of him and, at last, taking my courage in both hands, I

wrote to Sir Robert that I was in deep trouble and wished to meet him. Then, inventing an

excuse, I slipped away yesterday and came up to London where Sir Robert, having heard a

little of the story from my lips, advised me to lay my problem frankly before you."

I have never seen my friend more grave. His brows were drawn down over his eyes and he

shook his head despondently.

"It is kindest in the long run that I should be frank with you," he said at last. "You must

plan a new life for yourself, preferably in London where you will quickly make new friends

of your own age."

"But my father?"

Holmes rose to his feet.

"Dr. Watson and I will accompany you at once to Hampshire. If I cannot prevent, at least

I may be able to avenge."

"Holmes!" I cried, horror-struck.

"It's no good, Watson," he said, laying his fingers gently on Miss Ferrers' shoulder. "It

would be the basest treachery to this brave young lady to arouse hopes that I cannot share. It

is better that we face the facts."

"The facts!" I replied. "Why, a man may have a foot in the grave and yet live."

Holmes looked at me curiously for a moment.

"True, Watson," he said thoughtfully. "But we must waste no further time. Unless my

memory belies me, there is a train to Hampshire within the hour. A few necessities in a bag

should meet the case."

I was hastily gathering my things together when Holmes came into my bedroom.

"It might be advisable to take your revolver," he said softly.

"Then there is danger?"

"Deadly danger, Watson." He smote his forehead with his hand. "My God, what irony. She

has come just a day too late."

As we accompanied Miss Ferrers from the sitting-room, Holmes paused at the bookshelf to

slip a slim calf-bound volume into the pocket of his Inverness cape and then, scribbling a

telegram, he handed the form to Mrs. Hudson in the hallway. "Kindly see that it is dispatched

immediately," said he.

A four-wheeler carried us to Waterloo, where we were just in time to catch a Bournemouth

train stopping at Lyndhurst Road Station.

It was a melancholy journey. Sherlock Holmes leaned back in his corner seat, his ear-

flapped travelling-cap drawn over his eyes and his long, thin fingers tapping restlessly on the

window-ledge. I tried to engage our companion in conversation and to convey a little of the

sympathy that I felt for her in this time of anxiety, but though her replies were gracious and

kindly it was obvious that her mind was preoccupied with her own thoughts. I think that we

were all glad when, some two hours later, we alighted at the little Hampshire station. As we

reached the gates, a pleasant-faced woman hurried forward.

"Mr. Sherlock Holmes?" said she. "Thank heavens that the Beaulieu Post Office delivered

your telegram in time. Daphne, my dear!"

"Mrs. Nordham! But—but I don't understand."

"Now, Miss Ferrers," said Holmes soothingly. "It would help us greatly if you will entrust

yourself to your friend. Mrs. Nordham, I know that you will take good care of her. Come,

Watson."

We hailed a fly in the station yard and, in a few moments, we were free from the hamlet

and bowling along a desolate road that stretched away straight as a ribbon, rising and dipping

and rising again over lonely expanses of heath broken here and there by clumps of holly and

bounded in every direction by the dark out-spurs of a great forest. After some miles, on

mounting a long hill, we saw below us a sheet of water and the grey, hoary ruins of

Beaulieu Abbey, then the road plunged into the forest and some ten minutes later we

wheeled beneath an arch of crumbling masonry into an avenue lined by noble oak trees

whose interlocked branches met overhead in a gloomy twilight. Holmes pointed forward. "It

is as I feared," he said bitterly. "We are too late."

Riding in the same direction as ourselves but far ahead of us down the avenue, I caught a

glimpse of a police-constable on a bicycle.

The drive opened out into a wooded park with a gaunt, battlemented mansion set amid the

broken terraces and parterres of that saddest of all spectacles, an old-world garden run to

wilderness and bathed in the red glow of the setting sun. At some little distance from the

house, a group of men were gathered beside a stunted cedar tree and at a word from Holmes,

our driver pulled up and we hurried towards them across the turf.

The group was composed of the policeman, a gentleman with a small bag which I easily