“Presumably this room is the reason you bought the house?”
“That is so. Mr Holmes.”
“Very well.”
My companion suddenly became very alert.”
“We have just time to see outside before the light completely fails.”
He led the way downstairs at a rapid pace, Smedhurst and myself having difficulty in keeping up with him. We rejoined him on the paved area in front of the cottage.
“So your phantom made off in this direction?”
He pointed in front of us to where the paving gave out into a narrow path which wound among bushes. Again the haunted look passed across Smedhurst’s face and he went back and re-locked the front door.
“Yes, Mr Holmes.”
“Let us just see where this leads.”
By the yellow light of the lantern which the artist carried and which cast bizarre shadows before us, we traversed the path and presently came out on a cleared space which appeared to be floored with some hard substance difficult to make out in the dim light.
“Ah!”
Holmes drew in his breath with a sibilant hiss, as a vast black pit composed itself before us.
“A quarry, I presume?”
“Yes, Mr Holmes. I know little of such matters but I understand it was where they cut Purbeck stone with which they built houses thereabouts. It has not been in use this fifty years. It is not within my land, of course. My boundary ends just beyond the paved area and is marked with a post. I have not bothered to have a fence erected.”
“Quite so.”
Holmes was craning forward, looking intently into the forbidding depths before us.
“This place looks decidedly dangerous.”
“Yes. It is over a hundred feet deep. A sheer drop, as you can see.”
“But an ideal spot into which your phantom might have disappeared.”
Smedhurst gave us a startled look in the yellow light of the lantern he carried. There was a leprous glow on the far horizon and I was in a sombre mood as our small procession made its way back to the cottage. Smedhurst unlocked the front door and extended his hand in farewell.
“Will you not join us for dinner and stay the night at our hotel?” I said.
He shook his head.
“I do not care to be about after dark in these parts, gentlemen. But I will join you at the George tomorrow.”
“About midday,” Holmes replied. “I have a few calls to make in the morning. Until then.”
As we walked away we could hear the grating of the lock and the ponderous shooting of bolts at the great front door. At that moment I would not have changed places with our client for anything in the world.
“What a grim place, Holmes,” I said as we walked swiftly back through the gloom toward the faint glow that indicated the welcoming streets of Parvise Magna.
“Ah, I see you lack the artistic temperament, Watson,” said Holmes.
Our footsteps echoed unnaturally on the uneven, rocky surface of the path and dark clouds obscured the moon, only a few faint stars staring out on the horizon.
“I prefer 22IB, Holmes,” I said.
My companion chuckled, a long chain of sparks from his pipe, which he had lit on his way down from the cottage, making fiery little stipples on his lean, aquiline features.
“I certainly agree there, my dear fellow.”
4
The next morning I was up early but Holmes was earlier still for I found him at breakfast in the cheerful, beamed dining room, where a few sickly rays of sun glanced in at the windows. When we had finished our repast, Holmes jumped up swiftly and made for the door, hardly leaving me time to collect my overcoat from the rack and follow somewhat protestingly in his rear.
“We have very little time, Watson,” he said as I caught up with him in the surprisingly busy street.
“Firstly, we must just lay a call upon Mr Amos Hardcastle, the lawyer and see what he has to say about this matter.”
We had only some three or four hundred yards to go and when we had neared the brass plate which indicated that gentleman’s office, Holmes took me aside and pretended to study the contents of a saddlery shop window.
“Leave the talking to me, my dear fellow. My name will be Robinson for the purpose of this business.”
I had scarcely time to take this in before Holmes led the way up a dusty staircase to where a stout wooden door repeated the legend on the brass plate outside. A distant clock was just striking the hour of nine but the office was already astir and Holmes opened the door without further ado and I followed him in.
An elderly woman with grey hair rose from her desk in the dingy outer office and welcomed us with a wry smile. When Holmes had introduced himself as Robinson and explained that he would not keep Mr Hardcastle more than ten minutes, she nodded and crossed to an inner door, tapping before entering. There was a muffled colloquy from behind the panels and then the door opened again. The solicitor was a man of heavy build and late middle age, who wore a snuff-stained waistcoat and gold pince-nez. His white hair fell in an untidy quiff over his forehead but his manner was cheerful enough and he asked Holmes and myself to sit down opposite his battered desk.
The room, which was lit by two large and dusty windows, was piled high with papers on the far side while the area behind Hardcastle’s desk was stacked with labelled tin boxes from floor to ceiling. Holmes, in his persona as Robinson said that Smedhurst was thinking of selling his cottage and that he, Robinson, was thinking of buying it. He had come down with myself to view the property but had found that Smedhurst had apparently gone away for several days. He wondered if the lawyer had a key to the house so that we could have a look at it.
A cautious, professional look immediately settled on the lawyer’s face.
“Dear me. Mr Robinson, this is the first I have heard of it. Have you any written authority for what you say? This is merely formality you understand, my dear sir, but I’m sure you realise…”
“Certainly.”
I was even more astonished when Holmes produced a crumpled letter from the pocket of his Ulster and passed it across to Smedhurst’s solicitor. He scanned it cursorily through his pince-nez, biting his lip as he did so.
“All seems in order, Mr Robinson,” he said as he handed it back.
He turned to the massed japanned boxes behind him and went down them rapidly. He took one from the end of the piles and rattled it as though he expected to find something unpleasant in it.
“Here we are.”
He put it down on his desk, brushing the dust from the top of the box with a frayed sleeve. He opened it and went through a pile of yellowing papers. After sifting about for what seemed like an interminable time, he shook his head.
“I am so sorry to disappoint you, Mr Robinson, but I have nothing here. If I remember rightly my late client was a very retiring sort of person and inordinately frightened of burglars, though what he could have had of value up there was beyond me.”
He chuckled rustily.
“Some years ago he had the front door lock changed. It came with a massive single key, which he always retained on him. I have no doubt Mr Smedhurst has it still. My regrets, gentlemen.”
Holmes rose with alacrity and extended his hand to the lawyer.
“It was just a possibility. I am sorry to have disturbed you.”
“Not at all, not at all.”
He waved us out with a smile and as soon as we had regained the street I turned to Holmes.
“Where on earth did you get that letter?”
My companion smiled.