The Mammoth Book of New Sherlock Holmes Adventures - Mike Ashley [185]
What can I say of that dreary vigil? That the dark cloud of horror which seemed to hang about the cottage that night will remain with me until my dying day. Combined with the melancholy screeching of distant owls, it merely emphasized the sombreness of our night watch. Holmes seemed impervious to all this for he sat immobile in his chair, for I could see his calm face in the dim light that still filtered through the parlour windows. Presently we ate the sandwiches and fortified with draughts of whisky from my flask, I became more alert. Several hours must have passed when I became aware that Holmes had stirred in his chair.
“I think the moment is approaching. Your pistol, Watson, if you please.”
Then I heard what his keen ears had already caught. A very faint, furtive scraping on the rocky path that led to the cottage. I had the pistol in my hand now and eased off the safety catch. The clouds had lifted momentarily and pale moonlight outlined the casement bars. By its spectral glow I suddenly saw a ghastly, crumpled face appear in the nearest frame and I almost cried aloud. But Holmes’s hand was on my arm and I waited with racing heart.
Then there was a metallic click and a key inserted from outside began to turn the lock. I was about to whisper to my companion when the door was suddenly flung wide and cold, damp air flowed into the room. We were both on our feet now. I vaguely glimpsed two figures in the doorway and then Holmes had thrown the shutter of the dark lantern back and its light flooded in, dispelling the gloom and revealing a dark-clad figure and behind him, the hideous thing that had appeared at the window. A dreadful cry of alarm and dismay, the pounding of feet back down the path and then the horrible creature had turned the other way.
“Quickly, Watson! Time is of the essence! I recognized the second man but we must identify the other.”
We were racing down the tangled pathway now, stumbling over the rocky surface but the white-faced creature was quicker still. I discharged my pistol into the air and our quarry dodged aside and redoubled its efforts. Then we were in thick bushes and I fired again. The flash and the explosion were followed by the most appalling cry. When we rounded the next corner I could see by the light of the lantern which Holmes still carried, that the thing had misjudged the distance on the blind bend and had fallen straight down into the quarry.
“It cannot have survived that fall, Holmes,” I said.
He shook his head.
“It was not your fault, old fellow. But we must hasten down in case he needs medical aid.”
A few minutes later we had scrambled to ground level and cautiously approached the motionless thing with the smashed body that told my trained eye that he had died instantly. I gently turned him over while Holmes held the lantern. When he removed the hideous carnival mask we found ourselves looking into the bloodied face of young Ashton, the surveyor, whose expression bore all the elements of shock and surprise that one often finds in cases of violent death.
6
Holmes’s hammering at the knocker of the substantial Georgian house at the edge of the town, presently brought a tousled house-keeper holding a candle in a trembling hand to a ground-floor window.
“I must see your master at once!” said Holmes. “I know he has just returned home so do not tell me that he cannot be disturbed. It is a matter of life and death!”
The door was unbolted at once and we slipped inside.
“Do not be alarmed, my good woman,” said Holmes gently. “Despite the hour, our errand is a vital one. I see by the muddy footprints on the parquet that your master has only recently returned. Pray tell him to come downstairs or we shall have to go up to him.”
The housekeeper nodded, the fright slowly fading from her face.
“I will not