The Mammoth Book of New Sherlock Holmes Adventures - Mike Ashley [187]
The old man wrung his hands.
“I can assure you, Mr Holmes …”
“Well, that is a matter between you and the police,” said Holmes curtly. “We must inform them about the body in the quarry and the circumstances first thing in the morning, Watson. It is almost dawn, anyway.”
“Of course, Holmes.”
I glanced at my pocket watch and saw that it was almost four a.m. I felt a sudden weariness following the events of the night.
“What about the cave in the quarry?” I asked.
“That was as clear as crystal, Watson. When carrying out his dangerous masquerade, Ashton needed a refuge and an opportunity for a ghostly disappearance. He found the place near the cottage which suited his purposes admirably. When he had made his escape and was sure no one had followed, he lit the candle and tidied his clothing. Perhaps he cleaned his shoes if they were coated with mud.”
“But the fire, Holmes?”
He gave a thin smile.
“Why, simply to burn that huge papier-mâché carnival mask, Watson. The fragment of label unburned, reading carroll and co. showed that the mask had been bought from a well-known Soho emporium specializing in such things. Obviously, Ashton had bought a number of them.”
“Yes, but how would he take them to the cottage, Holmes?”
“Why, probably in a large paper bag. No one would take any notice when he passed through the town in broad daylight. The early hours were another matter. He could not risk taking that mask through the town to his house at dead of night in case he were seen; he might even have been stopped and questioned by the local constable. Hence the fire. Correct, Mr Hardcastle?”
“You are a devil, Mr Holmes,” was the man’s broken reply. “But you are correct in every detail.”
We left the shattered figure of Hardcastle huddled on the chair and walked back toward the centre of the town.
“How did you come to suspect Ashton?” I said.
“There was the irony, Watson. It could have been anyone in Parvise Magna. But then the idea grew in my mind. Ashton was young and personable; he had come from Australia; soon after the ghostly manifestations had appeared; and he had attached himself to Smedhurst’s fiancée.”
“Remarkable, Holmes.”
“You do me too much credit, my dear fellow.”
“I wonder what the secret of the cottage is?” I said.
He shrugged.
“Only time will tell. Otherwise, a very obvious affair”.
7
And so it proved. Some weeks later I came to the breakfast table to find Holmes smiling broadly. He passed a cheque across to me and my eyes widened as I read the amount above Smedhurst’s signature.
“Our artist has struck lucky at last, Watson,” he said. “His letter is full of news. He has shaved off his beard and is reunited with his fiancée.”
“Excellent, Holmes.”
“And there is more. Just glance at these two newspaper cuttings.”
The first related to the preliminary police court proceedings against Hardcastle, which Holmes and I had attended, and his subsequent striking off the legal rolls. The opening of the inquest on Ashton, which we were also required to attend had been held in camera due to the involvement of Hardcastle in these proceedings also, and had been adjourned sine die. Therefore there had been no reports of these proceedings in the Dorset or national newspapers. During the inquest a high-ranking police officer had informed Holmes that a sporting rifle with one spent cartridge in the breech had been found at Ashton’s home, together with a number of carnival masks.
The second cutting was even more sensational than the first. It was a lurid tale of an artist who had discovered £20,000 in golden guineas in a series of tin boxes beneath the oak flooring of his studio. There was no mention of Holmes, as I had expected, and the report merely concluded with the information that the discovery had been made by a carpenter carrying out work for Smedhurst.
“And here is something for you, Watson.”
Holmes passed