The Mammoth Book of New Sherlock Holmes Adventures - Mike Ashley [180]
Our client then produced a massive, wrought iron key which, as he had said, might well 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. When 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 with northern lights equipped as a studio, 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.
“Presumably this room is the reason you bought the house?”
“That is so, Mr Holmes.”
“Very well.”
My companion suddenly became very alert.
“We just have 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 carefully 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 hereabouts. 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 by 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 me 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 the 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