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

  With the last vestiges of sunset pinks fading from the western horizon, we took up our positions. It was a still and balmy night, with only the lightest of breezes coming in off the Seven Sisters, only a mile or two distant.

  Once the moon had climbed above the Downs, strong swathes of silvery light shone into the yard with a brightness that one could almost have read by. I would have wagered a considerable amount that for anyone, or anything, made of flesh and bone to enter the gates and cross the yard without detection would be close to impossible.

  As always on such vigils, Holmes spoke hardly at all, and I was forced to concentrate all my senses to keep myself awake. The front wall, and the feed store in which we were situated, cast dense shadows for several yards across the cobbles, but the rest of the space was so displayed in bright sepia tones that it might have been a photographic tableau captured on card for posterity. The scents of hay and straw and dust only partially masked the sweet musk of horse, and in our hideaway I also detected a tang of mouse and rat. The presence of rodents was additionally evident by their scuffling and squeaking in the recesses of the store. In their stalls across the yard, the horses snorted and stamped, plainly made restless by our presence in their domain. In the fields beyond, the intermittent baaing and bleating of ewes and lambs was carried clearly to us from the Downs, as nighttime noises often are.

  The faint wailing of a train whistle prompted Holmes to slip his pocket watch from his waistcoat pocket, its face barely readable despite the full moon. “The eleven-fifty-five to Eastbourne,” he whispered. “The witching hour approaches, Watson. If anything is to occur tonight, it will be in the next half-hour.”

  As predicted, it was a few minutes before midnight when our phantom intruder made its presence known in a most spectacular fashion. Without warning, the door of one stall flew open and the horse within burst out into the yard, its hooves clattering and sparking the cobbles. Perhaps it was dark shadows cast by the vibrant moon, but the face I glimpsed as the rider and steed passed was surely not the seraphic features of legend. If fey it was, then it struck me as some evil goblin creature. It raced to the far end of the yard, turned abruptly, and came at us at a full gallop to take the closed gate in fine style. A wild-eyed figure, garbed in billowing white robes, clung to the steed’s back, urging it forward with an ungodly wordless shouting whilst belabouring the beast’s flanks with the ends of the rope wrapped about the animals neck. The horse took the gate manfully, but rapped the top spar with its hind feet and a resounding clatter. It stumbled as it landed and I feared it would break a limb, but regained its feet and was away.

  Holmes, Pitman, and I had raced into the yard within moments of the theft and were all now left gaping at the fast-receding horse and rider. I have watched natives on the Afghan plains perform feats of astonishing horsemanship, but how any creature, human or otherwise, could control a horse under such conditions was beyond me.

  Holmes and I raced to fetch the two saddled horses while, Pitman who had seen the same visage as we had, only stared after the now vanished horse, apparently in frozen horror. Holmes had already opened the courtyard gate and mounted up, and I rapidly followed suit. Our steeds responded and took little urging to achieve a gallop. Once clear of the yard, we followed the same route that our intruder had taken, across an expanse of grass that sloped upwards onto a chalk pathway leading between sprawling tangles of bramble and gorse. Holmes caught a glimpse of movement way up the track and was away in hot pursuit. I urged my horse onward, bending low over its neck and ignoring the stabbings of old injuries in the thrill of the chase. As I reached that point I thought I caught a second glimpse, and heard the horse neigh shrilly. It continued its reckless gallop through a stand of trees approaching on the hill’s apex, and then was lost to even that limited view.

  There are few things in which I excel over Holmes, but horse riding is one of them. I lay lower still across the animal’s neck, my face almost pressed into its mane for fear of being scraped from the saddle by low branches, and plunged out on the other side of the cluster of trees. Soon I had left Holmes, always the more cautious rider, behind me. But as I crested the very top of the hill my horse stumbled in a rabbit scrape, almost tipping me over its head. I reigned in, aware in that moment of how reckless this chase was and how easily I might end up a cripple or dead.

  As I fought to reign my mount in to a standstill and waited for Holmes to catch up, I surveyed the surrounding countryside that was bathed in silver light, yet cloaked in the shadow of night. I knew that the long rolling expanse of hills to my right and left terminated in the English Channel. If I stared hard, I was sure that I could make out lights of passing ships and the glint of moonlight catching the wave tops.

  I leaned forward to slap my steed’s neck and peered across the open stretches of grass around us, staring and listening for all I was worth. There were no echoes of pounding hooves or cries of an excited equine, and no movement detected ahead of me. My quarry could not have had more than two minutes’ start at most, yet it had vanished as though it had never existed.

  Holmes was on the ground the moment his horse had come to a halt, pacing back and forth, examining the sward for any hint of a trail.

  “There are a few scores in the turf to be made out here,” he called to me, pointing along the track that led along the escarpment. “Our Elven rider seems to be going toward Cuckmere. But none of the signs are clear enough to follow.”

  “Vanished without trace,” I said. “‘Gone beneath the hill’, as the locals would have it.”

  Holmes favoured me with a withering glance. “To join Titania, no doubt.”

  “Only in a midsummer dream.” I grinned into the darkness. “One can see how superstitions would be used as explanation.”

  He nodded curtly but did not reply, instead only standing for a moment, gazing first to the west. “There is no hope of catching up with our quarry tonight,” he said at last. “At best, we would be roaming the slopes in the vague hope of stumbling across him, and that would be a waste of time.” He fell silent once more, looking not west now, but south toward the sea, his moonlit profile clear to me against the dark sky, as still and silent as some graven image, and I knew the signs. Holmes had deduced something from this landscape that I had not. “Come, Watson,” he said at last, as he hauled himself back into the saddle. “That is the last we shall see of him tonight. Our only course of action now is to return to the yard and see what we may glean from there.”

  “They say it’s no use chasing after Pharisees in the moon’s gaze,” Pitman mumbled. “Besides, would you want to catch it on your own? The locals say they’ll take you under the hill and that’ll be the last anyone would see of you. If you believe the stories.” He turned and led the horse away before I could ask what he meant.

  “I am sorry, Holmes,” I said. “I feel I have failed you.”

  “I hardly thought we would succeed,” he replied. “Our pixie was gone before we reached the gate. If Pitman is correct, the animal at least will return by dawn. Do not feel badly about it.”

  The sentiment was repeated by our host when we returned to the house. “Do not think you have failed,” Heath said. “The creature simply vanishes into thin air.”

  “Is that what you believe?” Holmes asked. “The horse is solid enough and its rider appeared to be likewise corporeal.”

  “I’m sure there is an explanation, but the locals are afraid,” Heath replied. “They believe they’d be whisked away forever.” He snorted quietly. “You can see why I needed your help.”

  “Indeed I do. But the night’s doings was not entirely a loss. I examined the area around the stable perimeter whilst Watson and Pitman settled the horses. There are fresh marks in the turf at the rear of the stable block that I am certain were not there earlier this evening. If you would leave word with the grooms not to trample the area, I shall return at dawn to make a more detailed
search. A few final enquiries and I shall have the answer to this mystery. All being well, we shall have our answers before tomorrow is out.”

  I breakfasted alone, our host being a late riser due to his health, and Holmes having left with the lark for Eastbourne, with the assurance that he would be back before lunch.

  The stolen horse had returned as predicted. It had sustained some bruising and a gash across the postern joints on both hind legs, presumably from hitting the gate in its escape. I was assured by the groom that the injury was not serious, but felt sure Heath would not view it quite so calmly.

  Holmes did not arrive back at Ridge House until late in the afternoon and was adamant that Heath and I should accompany him on a short jaunt. I was surprised that Heath readily agreed to the suggestion, though I could see this eagerness was much to see what conclusion Holmes was promising to reveal, rather than the outing itself.

  “Where have you been all day?” I asked him as the gig bowled along the lanes toward the sea.

  “I needed to send telegrams. Final details that I wished to confirm.”

  “You could have told me, at least.”

  “All in good time, Watson. I did not wish to make rash pronouncements if the trail proved to be false. I was obliged to wait at the telegraph office for replies.”

  “Where does this trail take us?” I asked.

  “Trail?” Holmes smiled. “My investigations and this lane both lead to Clifton Farm.”

  Heath looked startled. “Clifton? You suspect my neighbours? They have horses of their own, Holmes. They’d have no cause to make free with mine.”

  “I would prefer my final piece of the puzzle was fitted in your presence.”

  “You have the answers?”

  “I believe I do.”

  Heath and Pitman, who was driving the cart, exchanged uneasy glances, which had me wondering if the mysteries that Holmes had disinterred were altogether unknown to them. I was at a loss, but it was no surprise to me that Holmes kept his own council as he often did. We continued our foray into the Downs in Heath’s large gig.

  After a short trip, we jolted to the top of a rise to where the hillside curtailed in a sudden drop-off from whence the sounds of the sea emanated. There were several small cottages along the lane, and a short distance away from them a medium-sized villa nestled in a fold of the hill. Above the villa, near the top of the rise, was a stand of trees. I surmised it to be the very coppice I had paused before in the previous night’s ride. For a speeding horse, the space from wood to cliff-edge was no distance and I was glad that I had trusted my instincts in not continuing the chase in darkness. Despite the time taken by road, we were barely a mile from Ridge House.

  “Holmes, where do you suppose our shade went from here?” I asked. “It is hardly far enough to exhaust a horse in the way that has been reported.”

  “Hence my telegrams, Watson. Local enquiries told me little, but I am certain that this place holds the key to our little conundrum.”

  “Why would you assume that?” Heath demanded.

  “Because the thief did not return his borrowed steeds, yet they all returned in a state of fatigue. Had they been released far from their stable they would have run witless, not as straight as a carrier pigeon returning to its roost. Ergo, they were ridden across the Downs for some distance but their services were dispensed with reasonably close by.”

  The house was a double-fronted build in red brick, with the distinctive blue banding of local clay. Despite a gabled porch, the oak door was bleached and scoured by briny winds that battered in from the sea on even the quietest evening. I assisted Pitman in debarking Heath’s outdoor chair by way of an ingenious detachable ramp, whilst Holmes went to rap sharply with the silvered top of his walking stick on the door’s grey planking.

  We stood for some time on the stone path, amid the drifts of sweet-scented blooms that were a shimmer with legions of honey bees. Holmes rapped once more and the door was finally opened by a matronly woman of middle years. I have been ensconced in medicine and medical establishments for sufficient years to recognise a nurse when one crossed my path.

  “Good evening. Mrs. Clarence-Stevens?” Holmes doffed his hat and smiled. “I believe you are expecting us?” She nodded rapidly, like a plump grey pigeon, and stood aside, grimacing at our difficulties in manoeuvring Heath’s chair into the parlour. “Allow me to introduce my colleague, Doctor Watson,” Holmes said to her. “You know Mr. Heath and his secretary, Mr. Pitman?”

  “Gentlemen.” She favoured me with a professional inclining of her head. Yet she raised her chin to view Heath and his batman with an arched brow and flared nostril. “I am Violet Stevens. Mr. Clarence is my brother-in-law.”

  “I was hoping we might speak with Mr. William Clarence-Stevens.”

  “That will not be possible I’m afraid.” Mrs. Stevens glanced toward the further door. “Mr. Clarence is indisposed.”

  Holmes smiled at her emphasis of names, an acid expression that I was not entirely sure this good woman deserved. “It is to be expected. I understand Mr. Clarence...” he paused at the title, as she had, before carrying on as normal, “...has been unwell for some time?”

  “He has,” she agreed.

  “Nevertheless I do believe that we should see him on a matter of some urgency.”

  The latch on the inner, closed, door clicked, as though someone had thumbed it from the other side, and few muffled expletives were followed by a thud.

  A stocky man of similar age to Mrs. Stevens edged into the room, closing the door firmly behind him. “My brother is unwell,” he said. “I am Joseph Stevens. I will deal with any matters you wish to discuss.”

  Holmes strolled to a seat and settled himself without hesitation and I followed suit a little les certainly, whilst Pitman remained at his master’s side.

  “Thank you, Mr. Stevens. Confirming your brother’s illness will forge the final link in a recent chain of events.” He flicked an imaginary speck from his knee. “One that you yourself inadvertently set in motion, Heath.”

  Heath blanched as far as one of his delicate health might. “Why would you possibly say that? I’ve done nothing to deserve remonstration.”

  “Oh, it was an entirely unknowing act on your part,” Holmes replied. “Was it not. Mr. Stevens?” He gazed blandly at the man standing at the door. “Clarence is your half brother, I believe.”

  “He is. And my responsibility since our mother passed on. Leaving Ridge House was hard on each of us, but especially on William.” Stevens strode across the room to loom over Heath. His fists were clenching and unclenching, and I believe he would have struck the invalid had Pitman not stepped in.

  “Joseph, please,” Mrs. Stevens implored him.

  Stevens turned away. “The strain of caring for him in such an agitated state was too much for a woman of our mother’s advanced years,” he growled.

  “Is that why you brought me here, Holmes?” Heath asked. “For this man to take me to task?”

  “You asked me to find the source of rumours concerning your Good Neighbours.” Holmes permitted himself a wry smile. “Whether all of your neighbours are good rather remains to be seen.”

  “My mother was wronged,” Stevens interjected.

  “I did nothing that was not legal,” Heath replied, his voice rising with his colour.

  Holmes brought his hands together in a resounding clap. “Gentlemen! Perhaps if I could lay out the facts before you descend to duelling?” He sat back once again and withdrew his cigarette case. “May I?” Mrs. Stevens nodded, and he took his time lighting it whilst his audience ranged themselves around him.

  “When I received Mr. Heath’s letter, I recalled his tragic accident and made enquiries accordingly.” He nodded at Heath. “In the course of those queries, and most particular your association with Ridge House, I came u
p against obstacles of considerable size. As I have some contacts with some considerable influence, I returned with the certain knowledge that our fairy conundrum had high-flying roots. On arrival, it became clear that the mystery was entirely down to the property’s previous tenants. The only question remaining was how and why.” He placed a cigarette between his lips and lit it before inhaling deeply, taking his time, playing his audience as expertly as he did his beloved violin.

  “As you are all aware, the main crux of this mystery is the theft - or perhaps I should say borrowing - of horses,” he continued. “The mystery rider came and went without trace, which told me that he must have known the stable block intimately.”

  “But why disguise the night-time visits as an act of magic?” I said. “And why ride these particular horses at all?”

  “My sentiments exactly. As an act of sabotage, or even revenge, it had limited impact, and had all the hallmarks of...” Heath nodded to Stevens. “If you will excuse me, all the hallmarks of a madman.”

  “My brother likes to ride horses,” Stevens muttered.

  “William is not without intelligence.” Mrs. Stevens laid a hand on her husband’s arm and spared Heath a look of utter disdain. “He suffers periods of great confusion, but at other times he is perfectly rational. Since you claim to know the whole of our history, Mr. Holmes, I would appreciate it if you gave him the respect that is rightfully his.”

  “Indeed. Almost a divine right,” he replied. “Because the father of Mr. William Clarence was not the newly made country squire, Mr. Josiah Stevens, as was commonly assumed, though his mother was indeed Constance Stevens, née Wilson. A former housemaid in Prinnie’s Brighton palace.”

  “What are you implying, Holmes?” I said.

  “That the name Clarence was chosen for his father,” Holmes replied. “And it was from the royal line that he inherited his appalling affliction. Mr. Clarence Stevens has porphyria in the same virulent form as his grandfather... the late King George III.” Holmes raised his voice to call, “is that not right, William Clarence?”