The MX Book of New Sherlock Holmes Stories - Part VII Read online

  The following day Holmes undertook several forays into the City to make enquiries of our client. “Heath has, or perhaps I should say had, connections aplenty,” my friend observed that evening, “reaching to the topmost levels of society, but he would appear to have gained the disapproval of his parents, the Berkshire Galton-Heaths.”

  “Is he an unpleasant fellow then?” I asked.

  “Far from it. He seems to be remembered with fondness in most quarters. This estrangement appears to have begun after Heath’s abruptly curtailed career.”

  “Singular,” I said. “Hard to imagine what a man in those circumstances might do to incur the displeasure of his own family.”

  “Families can be the queerest of things,” Holmes replied.

  He had never before spoken of family ties and I had assumed him to be as bereft of them as myself. Something in his tone now made me pause for thought. Holmes brought his hands together and rested his finger tips against his lips and gazed into the middle distance, a pose that accentuated the hook of his nose and the glittering focus of those dark eyes. “I have no doubt we shall avail ourselves of the truth very soon.”

  “You think that his family connections may have some bearing on the case?”

  “I am almost certain of it, though I will admit to being puzzled by finer points. I can only hope my enquiries may still provide us with answers.”

  Holmes crossed the room to stare into the street below as if he expected answers to arrive my messenger at any moment. He remained closed lipped on what those answers might be, and I knew better than to pursue the matter. He could be infuriatingly secretive at times, reluctant to divulge information that placed him in anything but a knowledgeable light. I put it out of my mind and went to pack my valise for our weekend trip.

  We travelled to Sussex the next day in the full expectation that that Heath’s “Good Neighbours” would turn out to be no more than an amusing distraction. Ridge House was a modern construction, fashioned in the new Arts and Crafts style, with steepled gables over large gothic windows, interspersed with a traditional tile-hung fascia, in the Sussex style.

  We were ushered by the housekeeper into a stylish and spacious, if sparsely furnished, hallway that was bathed in reflected shimmering colours from the stained glass fanlights that the light-oak panelling showed to its best effect.

  “No expense spared on architects,” said Holmes. “And plainly arranged with an invalid in mind - an invalid who prefers not to rely heavily on the help of others.”

  I looked about me. The decor was modern and the result was not displeasing. “I can see no accoutrements that might indicate the presence of a crippled occupant,” I said.

  “Do you not?” said Holmes. “Observe the width of the doors and lack of any front step, though there has plainly been one in previous times. These robust carpet runners are doubtless protecting the tiled floors from the constant use of a wheeled chair. The lack of occasional tables in the hallway, along with the many nicks in these new door frames, hint at the wheeled chair being inexpertly propelled through them.”

  “Mr. Heath prefers that as little is made of his shortcomings as possible.”

  I had not heard the man approach and started. The soft Scots voice was at odds with a large-boned man of some forty years, dressed in the sombre garb favoured by clerks and clerics and man-servants. There was something of the military about him, if I was not mistaken. “Dr. Watson,” I said, “and Mr. Sherlock Holmes.”

  “Of course. Mr. Heath is expecting you. He will be down shortly.” He inclined his head respectfully. “Frederick Pitman at your service, Mr. Heath’s private secretary. If there is anything you require, you have only to ask. This way gentlemen, if you please.’

  We were led into a drawing room tastefully furnished in the same modern Arts style. A few moments later, our host made his entrance. I knew him to be not yet thirty years old, yet his paper-pale face was lined and his dark hair was the peppered grey of one twenty years older. He clutched the wheel rims of his chair to propel himself forward, and from his expression it was plain that this action was painful, yet he waved away Pitman’s assistance. When he spoke, his voice was far stronger than his frailty would have me believe. “Welcome to Ridge House, gentlemen,” he said. “I trust your journey was without problems.”

  Holmes approached the man with hand outstretched. “It was without incident, thank you. Delighted to meet you again, sir.”

  “Mr. Holmes.” Heath clasped Holmes’s briefly in greeting. “The honour is all mine. And you must be Dr. Watson?”

  “Indeed I am, sir.”

  “Delighted. Pitman, would you organise some tea?” Heath reached around awkwardly to grasp the wheels of his chair. I started forward to help but was waved away as impatiently as Pitman had been. “Please, gentlemen” said our host, “take a seat.” He waited until we were well ensconced before continuing. “I am glad you were able to come. It is more than a little embarrassing to have one’s estate descend into chaos by the Pharisees.”

  “Pharisees? I was not aware you were of that faith,” I said.

  “Oh, no, forgive me for any confusion. I am a Catholic by birth, now lapsed. It is difficult to place one’s faith in a deity that would take the use of your body on little more than a whim.”

  “I quite understand, sir.”

  “Heath, just call me Heath. Everyone does. I stand on no ceremony. In fact, one might say that I stand on very little.” He grinned at our silence. “Since my accident I have developed a gallows humour. Some people find it uncomfortable, but I make no apology for it. One must find amusement where one may.” With a mere flick of his fingers as he indicated the room. “This house was remodelled to suit my new circumstances. I find it preferable to live apart from the family, and from my father, in particular.”

  “You are isolated from them?” I said. “I should have thought you would require...”

  “I have Pitman.” Heath glowered at me - plainly, I had touched a nerve. “Pittman was a medical orderly for my father in the Militia. He is well versed in all that is required. Here, in this house, I can be myself. What is left of me, that is.” His laugh ended abruptly and it was quite obvious to me that he was in agony.

  “Might I be of some help?” I said. “As a doctor.”

  “I have a severed spine.” His reply was abrupt, his expression suddenly bereft of its easy smile, and relaxed as quickly. “Thank you, Doctor Watson. I appreciate the professional courtesy, but there is little to be done, I’m afraid, and I prefer not to dwell on it. Instead, let us talk about our intriguing little mystery. It’s not every man who sets up home only to find fairies living at the bottom of his garden.” He was beaming at us now, his face becoming that of a young man’s, bent on mischief. “Let me explain. ‘Pharisees’ is a local term for the ‘Good Neighbours’ – fairies, if you will. If it had meant anything else, would it have affected your taking the case?”

  “No, indeed,” Holmes replied. “I believe the local idiom places plurals onto nouns? Thus fairies become fairies-ees - Pharisees, if you will.”

  “Exactly so. They are simple people hereabouts, but prone to heathenish ways, if the curate is to be believed. He despairs that to some of his flock stories of witches, dragons, and fairies are given as much credence as his sermons.”

  “You do not share the concerns of your staff in that area.” Holmes said.

  Holmes and Heath regarded each other like a pair of strutting cocks. It was our host who broke the moment with a gurgling chuckle of pure joy. “You think I encourage these flights of fancy? Not in the slightest. I have a great respect for those in my employ, but I have a greater regard for science over mere superstition. My grandfather was a surgeon.” This last he aimed at me. “It gives me a complete understanding of my situation and also sets a limitation on my expectations. My lot will seldom now be a happy one.�
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  Holmes and I glanced at each other. Our host’s melancholia was not difficult to comprehend, but responding was less easy.

  Heath stared at the fire for a count of three, which seemed more like thirty. “I seem bound to apologise to you both,” he murmured. “This damnable business has me at a loss.”

  “Perhaps if you were to furnish us with the facts?” Holmes said. “How are these creatures manifesting themselves?”

  “‘Manifest’ would be a misleading term. Nobody has admitted to more than a glimpse of them,” he said. “They are exceptionally good at hiding all traces of their comings and goings.”

  “Only showing where they have been,” Holmes suggested.

  “Exactly so. I would dismiss it entirely, but I so hate cruelty to good horseflesh, no matter that it was a horse that made me the wreck I am. They are noble beasts.”

  “How have they been injured?” Holmes asked him.

  “Only one thus far... Ah, here is Pitman with the tea. Pitman, you saw the result of our night visitors. Give our guests an account.”

  “Well, sirs, we came to take residence in the late autumn, and it was little more than three weeks after that the groom came to inform us that one of the horses was loose in lane outside of the yard. It was sweating profusely and lamed by a mildly sprained fetlock.” Pitman paused to hand out the tea and went to stand near Heath, placing a double-handled mug on the table. “We concluded that the animal had managed to rattle open the bolts to his stall and taken fright on finding himself out alone. Fortunately, it had been a bright night and he’d not blundered into anything to harm him permanently. We dismissed it as one of those oddities, though a second bolt was ordered for his stable door.”

  “That was not the end, I take it?” Holmes asked.

  “All was quiet for a while,” Heath replied. “When it happened the following month, and the next, despite the double-bolted door, we had to assume it was no accident.”

  “The staff were questioned closely, but no one admitted knowing anything about it,” Pitman said.

  “Was there reason to suspect any of them?” I asked.

  “None at all,” Heath waved his hands in exasperation. “Being in no position to entertain, I keep a small staff for a house of this size. Pitman here, my housekeeper, and the cook. Just two maids currently, and three grounds men for the gardens. I have a more extensive staff on the stud.”

  “Stud?” I said.

  “You did not realise I bred horses, Doctor? It was one of the stable lads who began this fairy nonsense. Or rather his mother, who took him away after the third occurrence, claiming we were cursed by the Pharisees. Our tweeny left shortly after. I gave her a reference, of course. She is little more than a child and terrified by the rumours.”

  Holmes nodded, his dark eyes alive with amusement. “Generous of you. Now, these equine escapades - do they always occur on a bright moon?”

  “Always,” Heath said. “When the fifth month came around, Pitman here and the head groom lay in wait for the three nights of the full phase. Nothing occurred, which was disappointing, to say the least. I rather relished dis-providing proof of ancient legends.”

  “We know there was an intruder,” Pitman added. “The dogs were yammering, and we thought our phantom rider would be unmasked, but the hounds had scared him off. We discovered later that one of the ponies pastured to the rear of the property was hag-ridden, instead.” The man heaved a lugubrious sigh. “That poor creature was not merely winded and sweating, as the others had been. Our fairy creature had ridden her into a ditch and the damage was considerable.”

  “We lost that mare and the foal she carried. It was this that decided I should send for you,” said Heath. He gazed at us with wide-eyed expectation, tinged with challenge. “Since my chosen profession was stolen from me, I have concentrated on my remaining passion: Horse racing.” He smiled sheepishly. “My family consider it perverse that I should earn my crust with the very creatures that caused my near demise. But I strongly believe one cannot blame the entire horse tribe for the wildness of the one.”

  “Quite so. This house.” Holmes changed tack with a vague wave of dismissal. “I believe that Ridge House has been in your family for many years.”

  “It has.”

  “And evidently it has been extensively re-constructed. Do I detect the hand of Mr. Philip Webb?”

  “How very observant of you, Mr. Holmes. I find the ethos of the new movement both refreshing and practical. Fewer interconnecting rooms and thus fewer doors to negotiate. And far less gloomy, I may add.”

  “Also incorporating the very latest in German innovation, I understand.”

  Heath’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. “Why, yes. I’ve one of the new electric lifts, which has proved as bigger boon as I had hoped, despite my mother’s apprehension. She still does not entirely trust electrical wizardry. How did you know?”

  “Quite obvious. Mr. Pitman informed us you would be down shortly, and the vibration of a powerful engine was clearly discernible just before you entered. Some mechanical means of moving between floors was the most obvious explanation.” Holmes waved away Heath’s astonishment. “Were your family in residence when you began rebuilding Ridge House?”

  Heath shook his head, his pale cheeks curiously flushing pink with emotion. “That is a rather odd question, Mr. Holmes. Is it relevant?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “The land was leased, and indeed some of it still is, by a local dairy farmer. I kept as much as was necessary for my horses.”

  “And the house itself?”

  He flushed crimson around his neck. Seemingly Holmes had hit a nerve. “The lease had expired and the tenant persuaded to relocate to a smaller property not too far from here. Not entirely willingly at first, I will admit, but we had reached a mutually acceptable agreement.”

  “There was ill feeling over the matter?”

  “It was Mrs. Stevens with whom I had dealings, and latterly her younger son when she passed away - the elder son being too infirm, I was led to understand. The Stevenses have been amicable enough since then. Any remaining ill will over the matter has come from my own family. I have never been able to ascertain why my father is so set against my living here. Our family physician advised sea air for my health and I had no wish to leave the country. I understand the original lease agreement was arranged by my grandfather as a great favour to the Stevens family.”

  “And these Stevenses are whom exactly?”

  Another shrug from our host spoke volumes. “Grandfather passed away last year and my father would not divulge the least thing on that score. Nobody of any note so far as I am aware, but the whole affair has caused a substantial rift between Father and me.”

  Holmes nodded, crossing to the window to survey the sunlit grounds, his hands clasped behind his back as he rocked on heel and toe. He whirled suddenly to face Heath. “The next midnight ride is imminent, one assumes?”

  “The moon reaches its zenith tonight,” Heath replied.

  “Then come nightfall Watson and I shall set a watch,” Holmes declared. “Just we two, I think. The fewer people present to frighten our quarry, the better. And keep the dogs away, if you please. We do not want our magical guest frightened away a second time.”

  “I must lend you Pitman here, at the very least.” He held a hand up to stay his manservant’s objections. “No arguments. He is my eyes and ears. I will watch from the windows of the rear bedrooms. I shall come to no harm. Good evening, gentlemen, and good luck.”

  The stables were far older than Ridge House, and able to accommodate a sizeable string. The yard itself formed an enclosed area, entered through a pair of wooden gates set in a brick wall. Stalls and various tack and store rooms faced each other to the right and left sides, with a loft running through each block and sheltered by a covered walkway acros
s the fronts. The coach house and indoor stalls completed the fourth side of the rectangular courtyard.

  “The horses stolen have always been from these outer stalls,” Pitman assured. “And always close to midnight.”

  “Then we have ample time to familiarise ourselves with the building,” Holmes replied. He made a thorough examination of the perimeter whilst I took the opportunity to examine the animals. They came shuffling and stamping to peer over the opened top sections of their stable doors, with much shaking of heads, curious at the late visit. All were bright-eyed and glossy coated, even by moonlight. It was a credit to the care lavished on them. Most were thoroughbreds, built for speed, but there were also four sturdy Welsh cobs, admirably suited for daily use in the hilly surroundings, situated closest to the gates.

  “For Mr. Heath’s carriage,” Pitman explained. A horse at the far end of the yard screamed its protest at some imagined terror, as such highly-strung beasts are won’t to do. Pitman called out a few wordless sounds to calm it. “They’re worried,” he drawled as he turned back to us. “They know the Pharisees, or whatever they are, come on a full moon.”

  “It’s always the thoroughbreds that are taken? Perhaps even the same animal?” Holmes asked.

  “The first three occasions, yes is was the same beast,” Pitman agreed. “Mr Heath sold it, thinking perhaps it was merely a troublesome animal. Since then, the selection seem to have been a random one.”

  Holmes gazed around the yard. “Does our night caller saddle its chosen animal?”

  “No, sir. Just a rope halter.”

  “Then perhaps we should saddle at least two of the cobs,” he said. “Better more than a chopped mane to grasp should one of us need to go in pursuit, and they are better suited to the rougher terrain.”

  “You think it will come to that?” I said. “Surely three of us can hold one intruder before there’s any need to go gallivanting across the hills in the dark.”

  “Best we are prepared for the worst.” he replied. “There is nothing left but to watch and wait.”