“You may well say so. But you have other troubles also, Mr Smedhurst.”
The bearded man looked startled.
“I have heard that you can work miracles. Mr Holmes, and that you can almost see into people’s minds.”
Holmes gave a short laugh.
“Hardly, Mr Smedhurst. But I know a deeply troubled man when I see one. There is something beyond all this business, is there not? Something connected with Miss Reynolds?”
Smedhurst half-started from his chair and gave a strangled cry.
“You are right. Mr Holmes. There has been a growing estrangement because of all this. She wanted to know why I had changed but I did not want to involve her…”
He broke off and buried his head in his hands.
“Now I hear that she has taken up with a young man who has come to live in the village…”
Holmes put his finger to his lips and then laid his hand on our visitor’s shoulder.
“All may yet come right, Mr Smedhurst. Do not despair.”
“I have not told you the worst, Mr Holmes. Last night someone tried to shoot me as I stood outside my cottage door. It was dusk and the shot missed me by inches. I have never been so frightened in my life.”
“Perhaps a poacher with a shotgun…” I began.
Smedhurst stood up abruptly, trying to control the trembling that shook his frame.
“No, Dr Watson. I know a rifle shot when I hear one. That bullet was meant for me!”
“Why did you not call in the police. Mr Smedhurst?”
“We have only a sleepy village constable, Mr Holmes, and I had no evidence.”
Holmes was on his feet now.
“Is there an inn in this Parvise Magna of yours?”
“Yes, Mr Holmes, the George and Dragon.”
“Good. If you will telegraph for rooms we will accompany you to Dorset in the morning. I take it you would wish to come, Watson?”
“By all means, Holmes. I will just warn my locum that I may be away for several days.”
“Admirable! Your revolver, Watson, and a packet of cartridges in your luggage, if you please. We have no time to lose!”
3
It was a bitterly cold day with a fine drizzle when we left London the following morning and after several changes we found ourselves on the Somerset and Dorset Railway, in a small and uncomfortable carriage which seemed to be carrying us into a bleak and inhospitable landscape. We had the compartment to ourselves and our client, evidently exhausted from his trials of past days, sat huddled in deep sleep in a far corner. Holmes sat smoking furiously next to me, the fragrant omissions from his pipe seeming to emulate the black smoke our funny little engine was shovelling over its shoulder as we wound our interminable way into the gathering dusk.
“Well, what do you make of it, Watson?”
I shrugged.
“Pointless, Holmes. An old cottage ransacked, ghostly manifestations and then a murderous attack.”
“But it adds up to a definite pattern, my dear fellow.”
“If Mr Smedhurst has the only key to the cottage, how could a marauder gain entrance without breaking a window or something of that sort?”
“Ah, you have taken that point, have you? There must obviously be another. Or someone must have manufactured one.”
“But for what purpose, Holmes?”
“That remains to be seen,” said he, his sharp, feral face alive with interest.
“What I cannot understand,” I went on, “is why, if someone has a key, they have not been back.”
Holmes gave a dry chuckle.
“That is simple enough. He has satisfied himself that the object of his search will not be easily discernible. He may wait for the owner himself to discover it.”
“Or scare him away.”
Holmes nodded approvingly.
“Excellent, Watson. You have hit the nail on the head.”
And he said not another word until we had reached our destination. This proved to be a somewhat ramshackle halt with a plank platform and I thought I had seldom seen a more desolate spot. Several oil lanterns beneath the station canopy were already alight and cast grotesque shadows as they swayed to and fro in the rising wind. But a closed carriage, which Smedhurst had already ordered from the hotel, was waiting and once our client had shaken off the terror which had overtaken him on the train, he quickly took charge of the situation and we were speedily rocking through the approaching dusk to our journey’s end.
I was surprised to find that Parvise Magna was not really a village but a small town composed of a broad main street, long lines of stone-built cottages and larger houses; no less than two inns; an ancient church; and a covered market.
“Things are looking up, Holmes,” I said, as the cheering lights of our substantial hostelry, the George and Dragon, came into view.
It was indeed a comfortable-looking inn, with blazing log fires, and when we had quickly registered and deposited our baggage with the manager. Holmes looked inquiringly at our client.
“There should be an hour or so of daylight left. Would that be sufficient time for me to visit your cottage?”
“Oh, indeed, Mr Holmes. It would only take twenty minutes to get there, providing we can retain the carriage.”
After a brief word with the manager Smedhurst led the way round to a side yard where the equipage was still waiting, and then we were driving swiftly out of the town and up into the winding fastnesses of the blunt-nosed hills. Presently we stopped at a place where an oak finger-post pointed up the hillside.
“I think we can walk back,” said Holmes, giving the driver a half guinea for his trouble, much to that worthy’s surprise and gratitude.
“It will give us an appetite for dinner,” Holmes added.
We followed Smedhurst up a broad, zigzag path, just wide enough for a horse and cart, that eventually wound between large boulders. It was an eerie and desolate place and I should not have cared to have spent one night there, let alone made it my permanent abode. I whispered as much to Holmes and he gave me a wry smile. There was still light enough in the sky to see our way and in a short while we came to a large stone cottage set back in a rustic enclosure that might once have been a garden.
Our client then produced a massive, wrought iron key which, as he had said, might have served for the entrance to the Bastille, and unlocked the stout iron-studded front door. Holmes and I stood on the flagstone surround until Smedhurst had lit lamps within. The parlour was a huge room, with an ancient stone fireplace surmounted by a bressumer beam. The furniture was comfortable enough but the stone-flagged floor gave it a dank atmosphere, though Holmes seemed oblivious to such things. He went quickly to the large windows which fronted the room.
“This is where you saw the apparition, Mr Smedhurst?”
The tall man gulped.
“That is so, Mr Holmes. The nearest one.”
I waited while my companion examined the glass carefully. Then he went outside and I could hear his staccato footsteps going up and down. Then he reappeared, his face was absorbed and serious.
“Then the flagstone surround which appears to run round the entire house would not have shown any footprints.”
“That is so, Mr Holmes.”
“Let us just examine the rest of your abode.”
Smedhurst lit lamp after lamp as we toured the ground floor, which consisted of a simple toilet: a corridor; a store room; and a kitchen, which was primitively equipped. We went up a creaky wooden staircase to the first floor, where there were three bedrooms and a huge apartment equipped as a studio, with northern lights and canvases stacked against the walls. Holmes went over to stare at a grotesque charcoal sketch of distorted trees and bleak moorland, set all aslant by the near-genius of the artist.