The Big Book of Sherlock Holmes Stories (69 page)

“When you say ‘claiming'?” Holmes interjected.

“Sir Giles had a younger brother who—he told me—had left home under something of a cloud. They had completely lost touch and he had no idea whether his brother had issue or not. It would take a long and costly legal search to ascertain the truth of his ‘nephew's' claim—a search, incidentally, which he is about to put in hand.”

“I take it that he did not warm to the young man?”

“Quite the opposite. His reaction was almost chemical. There was something about ‘Robert Halliford'—for that is the only way I can think of him—that he distrusted on sight. Despite that, he felt obliged to give him board and lodging until the situation could be clarified. As for Robert, he acted as though he expected to have the fatted calf killed daily on his behalf, which only made matters worse, of course.”

“Presumably the young ‘Mr. Halliford' was able to provide some sort of credentials?”

“Not entirely. He claimed his effects had yet to arrive—they had been delayed at sea, he claimed—but he certainly knew a great deal about the family and Sir Giles in particular.”

“And what had he to say about himself?”

“Not a great deal, now you come to mention it. He seemed to have worked in various parts of the Far East and most recently in India, which is where he learned of Sir Giles's whereabouts. I once asked him about his profession and he answered something about having knocked about doing a bit of this and a bit of that. I didn't like to press the point.”

Holmes nodded thoughtfully. Then after a moment he said, “Did you notice his hands?”

Miss Lucas looked surprised, then furrowed her brow, as if conjuring up a vision of the man in question.

“Yes, they were strong hands. Not those of a gentleman. He had earned his living by them, now that I come to think of it. Strange, but I'd never thought of it before. But why…?”

“It is of no immediate matter. Simply that I like to build up a mental picture of someone before I meet them and Mr. Halliford the Younger seems to be a leading character in whatever play you are about to lay out for us. Oh, by the way, how did he and Miss Sommersby get on?”

Miss Lucas thought for a moment.

“To begin with they were very formal with one another. ‘Miss Sommersby, Mr. Halliford' sort of thing. Then they appeared to become very friendly, laughing and joking together.” She paused, as if recollecting something. “There was one small incident, though, I remember…”

Holmes leaned forward.

“Which was…?”

“One day she called him ‘Tommy' by mistake and he took it very badly. He told her she must be confusing him with one of her rich friends from the old days. Then he changed the subject and pretended he was only teasing her but one could see another side of him.”

“Tell us something of life at Halliford Hall.”

Clearly relieved to be back on familiar territory, Mary Lucas continued.

“It is rather a solitary life we lead—but then, that is one of the things we like most about it, the peace and predictability. Sir Giles is what, I suppose, one might call a creature of habit. Even though it is—or has been until recently—only Emily and himself, he insists on dressing for dinner. Then, when the ladies—or, in this case, lady, retires”—she smiled involuntarily at the solecism, and I could perfectly well see the womanly quality that had charmed an old bachelor's heart—“why then Giles would retire himself to the library on the ground floor to smoke his cigars, pass himself the vintage port and—I am perfectly sure—relive the good old days. It is a habit I shall encourage him to continue when we are…”

She broke off in some confusion and a blush rose from the collar of her dress. Collecting herself, she continued. “More than once he has fallen asleep in his chair by the fire and I have found him there the following morning. It is something neither of us ever refers to and, frankly, Mr. Holmes, what harm does it do? My only concern is that, since Giles”—I could not help but notice that the “Sir” had been forgotten—“is a chronic asthmatic, the morning chill might prove upsetting.”

“And now that there is another man in the house, Robert does not join him after dinner?” Holmes raised an interrogative eyebrow.

“For the first evening or two he did, now that you come to mention it.” She spoke reflectively, as if she were trying to conjure up the events from memory. “He would talk about the importance of male tradition and ritual and how the ranking officer—that's how he put it, ‘ranking officer'—by which he meant Giles, should be in a position to command the field of battle.”

“Which meant?”

“Oh, he insisted that Giles's chair be moved next to the fireplace, so that he could survey the room and keep warm at the same time. He seemed most concerned that Giles should not sit in a draft.”

“But I take it the smoking room battles did not last long?”

“Not for more than a day or two and then Giles made it perfectly clear that he preferred his own company. A Company of One, I think was how he put it. To make it even more obvious, when he went to the library, one could hear the key turn in the lock.”

“So what was different about last night?”

“To begin with—nothing. Dinner was over and we had all said our good nights. I went to my room, played with Princess, and read for a while. Emily was in hers. Giles took himself off to the library as usual and Robert…I really don't know what Robert did in the evenings. He talked vaguely of some idea he was working on that would make him a fortune and I suppose he was working on that up in his room.”

“Which was?”

“Next to mine in the west wing. I should explain that the house is far too big and many of the rooms, though partly furnished, have been unoccupied for years.

“By the very nature of my duties I am an early riser, Mr. Holmes, and since I had slept but fitfully, I was up and about before it was even light. Something—call it a protective instinct, if you will—drew me to the library and it was then that I heard it….”

“Heard what?” I said.

“A laboured rhythmic sound like someone was breathing as if their life depended on it. I've never heard a sound quite like it—unless it was the old bellows at the local smithy. And then—gentlemen, you're going to think me quite mad. I wouldn't have credited it myself except that Princess, who goes with me everywhere, heard it, too. She was almost out of control…”

“Heard what?” I repeated.

“I heard a bird twittering.”

“A bird?”

“Yes, Doctor, I know it sounds absurd but that is what it sounded like.”

“And then what did you do?” This from Holmes, who was now leaning forward as if to snatch the words from her lips.

“I'm afraid my protective instincts overcame my professional discretion. I feared for Giles and, since I carry a set of keys to all the rooms, I ignored his instructions and invaded the sanctum sanctorum. It was as well I did, I can tell you, Mr. Holmes. He was slumped in his chair, fighting for breath, and scarcely seemed to know where he was. It was as much as I could do to get him out of there and into the hallway. Luckily, as soon as I did, I found Emily there. She had heard noises and come to see what was amiss.”

“And Master Robert?”

“Oh, he appeared a moment later at the top of the stairs, saw what was happening and came down to help us get Giles to his room.”

“Did you examine the library subsequently?”

“Certainly, but there was nothing misplaced. Giles's chair was where it always was—by the fire—and nothing else appeared to have been moved. Oh, there was one rather strange thing. There was an unusual smell in the room that I cannot recollect noticing there before….”

“Can you describe it?”

“It was sweet, pungent—almost like incense, Mr. Holmes. But once I had opened the windows, it soon vanished.

“Mr. Holmes, I realise I may be bothering you unnecessarily. After all, nothing actually happened. All I can tell you is that there was something unbearably evil in that room this morning and I fear for Giles's life. What should I do?”

Holmes appeared to be examining his tented fingers and to address his remarks more to me than to Mary Lucas.

“The case most definitely has certain points of interest and I believe you are right in your sense of something being very wrong at Halliford Hall. My suggestion is that you return there forthwith. Try and act as though nothing untoward has occurred, particularly as far as Robert is concerned. Allow the evening to proceed as normal. Watson and I will arrive on the evening train and come to the house when everyone has gone to bed. Leave the front door on the latch, if you would be so kind. We will keep watch outside
the room and see if we cannot determine the origin of these strange sounds and scents. Now, perhaps you will be good enough to draw a map of the ground floor for us…and you possess a spare key to the library? Excellent.”

A few minutes later a still anxious but distinctly relieved Mary Lucas had dried her eyes, put on her gloves (having removed the offending label), and departed for the railway station.

“And what do you think of it all, Watson?” my friend asked, leaning back in his chair.

“For my money it's the nephew,” I said. “Sees himself being cut out of the old man's inheritance; but how…?”

“Yes, yes, Watson,” Holmes interrupted impatiently. “Mr. Robert Halliford is clearly trying to secure what he thinks of as his—always supposing he is who he says he is—but, as you rightly ask, how? Not in this case, who—but how?

“This afternoon we shall make our pilgrimage to Lewes. Oh, and slip your service revolver into your pocket, would you, Watson? There's a good fellow. I always feel that Mr. Webley's No. 2 makes such a comfortable travelling companion. He can be so persuasive.”

In the end we reached Lewes with ample time to spare and were able to enjoy an evening stroll around the Sussex county town before keeping our rendezvous. I have always been partial to country air, but to Holmes there is something almost sinister about the great outdoors. Where I see air and space, he perceives isolation and the privacy to perform all manner of secret wickedness. “In the lowest part of a big city, Watson, there is always someone to hear the cry for help and perhaps even to provide it but here…If Miss Lucas lived here in this bustling little town, I would have less to fear for her than in some brick mausoleum even a few miles distant.”

As dusk began to fall we hired a pony and trap and drove to the small group of houses that passed for Halliford village. Since one of them was inevitably the village pub, we were able to make ourselves popular by buying drinks for the regulars and steering them—no great feat—into local gossip. They were able to confirm most of the facts of Miss Lucas's narrative. The squire, as they referred to Sir Giles, was irascible but well liked, as befitted one of the “old uns.” For the “young un” they had no time at all. “A bit above 'isself” was the general verdict. “It'll be a sad day for Halliford if that one gets to be squire,” said an old man in the chimney corner.

“Have you noticed, old fellow, that one often learns as much from the locals as from the protagonists in a case?” said Holmes, as we returned to our corner table. “They frequently do not know what they know.”

We whiled away the evening pleasantly enough in this fashion until, consulting his watch, Holmes finished his drink. “What do you say to a visit to the library now, Watson?”

Our entry to Halliford Hall passed off without incident. The heavy front door opened to the touch and as we passed through the silent marbled hallway, a dark figure glided up to us.

“Thank heavens you're here, gentlemen,” Mary Lucas whispered. “Everyone is in their rooms, except Giles”—and she indicated the door of what we now knew to be the famous library. “But there was a dreadful row over dinner between Giles and Robert and it was as though Robert was already the master of the house, the way he talked to Giles. Something is in the air, I know it.”

“My best advice to you, Miss Lucas, is to take yourself off to bed now. Watson and I will stand guard from the room opposite.” A moment later her ghostly presence could be seen flitting up the wide central staircase and Holmes and I were alone in our vigil.

We have been obliged to stay awake through the small hours on more than one occasion in the past but truth to tell, I have never found it easy. The mind is an easy prey to idle fancies and every noise carries too many disturbing possibilities. The creak of an old house settling can be a footstep approaching one with evil intent and, of course, Miss Lucas's premonitions did not exactly help matters. My only consolation was the
reassuring presence of my two old friends—Mr. Holmes and Mr. Webley.

From time to time one or other of us would tiptoe across the hall and listen at the door. Each time the result was the same. There was the crackling of the fire—a sound which gradually diminished as the night wore on—and a regular, rather congested breathing, presumably the result of Sir Giles's asthma.

Then at around five, when I happened to be listening, there was a sudden staccato sound, as though one last ember was stubbornly giving up the ghost. It was over in a moment. Half an hour or so later the wheezing began. By this time we were both at the door.

It was rhythmic but erratic. The noise would build up and then suddenly stop. A minute or so later it would start up again. I looked at Holmes and mouthed, “What?” but he raised a finger to his lips in warning.

Now the noise had stopped altogether as suddenly as it had started. We looked at one another and I could see indecision written on Holmes's face. A moment later it had been replaced by determination as a new sound from inside the room came to our ears.

It was the sound of a small bird chirruping.

“Come along, Watson,” Holmes shouted, “there isn't a moment to lose. Fool that I am, we may already be too late!” The key was ready in his hand.