Страница 145 из 162
Presently we passed through an open gateway, decorated with an ancient crest. Beyond, a short drive ran between bare lime trees, to the house. It was evident the manor-farm had lost, over the years, the greater part of its grounds, although ample gardens remained, and a small area of grazing. Old, powerful oaks, their bareness outlined in white, skirted the building. This too had lost much of its original character to a later restoration, and festoons of ivy. Lights burned in tall windows at the front.
Miss Caston's small staff had done well. Fires and lamps were lit. Upstairs, Holmes and I were conducted to adjacent rooms, supplied with every comfort. The modern wallpaper and gas lighting in the corridors did not dispel the feeling of antiquity, for hilly floors and low ceilings inclined one to remember the fifteenth century.
We descended to the dining room. Here seemed to be the heart of the house. It was a broad, high chamber with beams of carved oak, russet walls, and curtains of heavy plush. Here and there hung something from another age, a Saxon double-axe, swords, and several dim paintings in gilded frames. A fire roared on the great hearth.
"Watson, leave your worship of the fire, and come out on to the terrace."
Somewhat reluctantly I followed Holmes, who now flung open the terrace doors and stalked forth into the winter night.
We were at the back of the house. Defined by snow, the gardens spread away to fields and pasture, darkly blotted by woods.
"Not there, Watson. Look down. Do you see?"
Under the steps leading from the terrace-those very steps on which the French Madame Caston had met her death-the snow lay thick and scarcely disturbed. The light of the room fell full there, upon four deeply incised letters: ENRV.
As I gazed, Holmes was off down the stair, kneeling by the letters and examining them closely.
"The snow has frozen hard and locked them in," I said. But other marks caught my eye. "Look, there are footsteps!"
"A woman's shoe. They will be Miss Caston's," said Holmes. "She too, it seems, did as I do now."
"Of course. But that was brave of her."
"She is a forthright woman, Watson. And highly acute, I believe."
Other than the scatter of woman's steps, the letters themselves, nothing was to be seen.
"They might have dropped from the sky."
Holmes stood up. "Despite her valour, it was a pity she walked about here. Some clue may have been defaced." He looked out over the gardens, with their shrubs and small trees, towards the wider landscape. "Watson, your silent shivering disturbs me. Go back indoors."
Affronted, I returned to the dining room, and found Miss Caston there, in a wine-red gown.
"They will serve di
"You must excuse Holmes, Miss Caston. The problem always comes first. He is a creature of the mind."
"I know it, Doctor. Your excellent stories have described him exactly. He is the High Priest of logic and all pure, rational things. But also," she added, smiling, "dangerous, partly unhuman, a leopard, with the brain almost of a god."
I was taken aback. Yet, in the extreme colourfulness of what she had said, I did seem to make out Sherlock Holmes, both as I had portrayed him, and as I had seen him to be. A being unique.
However, at that moment Holmes returned into the room and Miss Caston moved away, casting at him only one sidelong glance.
The di
I noticed Holmes observed the maid and the boy carefully. When they had left the room, he expressed the wish to interview each of the servants in turn. Miss Caston assured him all, save the gardener, who it seemed had gone elsewhere for Christmas, should make themselves available. The lady then left us, graciously, to our cigars.
"She is a fine and a most attractive woman," I said.
"Ah, Watson," said Holmes. He shook his head, half smiling.
"At least grant her this, she has, from what she has said, known a life less than perfect, yet she has a breeding far beyond her former station. Her talk betrays intellect and many accomplishments. But she is also womanly. She deserves her good fortune. It suits her."
"Perhaps. But our mysterious grudge-bearer does not agree with you." Then he held up his hand for silence.
From a nearby room, the crystal notes of a piano had begun to issue. It seemed very much in keeping with the lady that she should play so modestly apart, yet so beautifully, and with such delicate expression. The piece seemed transcribed from the works of Purcell, or Handel, perhaps, at his most melancholy.
"Yes," I said, "indeed, she plays delightfully."
"Watson," Holmes hissed at me. "Not the piano. Listen!"
Then I heard another sound, a dry sharp scratching, like claws. It came, I thought, from the far side of the large room, but then, startling me, it seemed to rise up into the air itself. After that there was a sort of soft quick rushing, like a fall of snow, but inside the house. We waited. All was quiet. Even the piano had fallen still.
"What can it have been, Holmes?"
He got up, and crossed to the fireplace. He began to walk about there, now and then tapping absently on the marble mantle, and the wall.
"The chimney?" I asked. "A bird, perhaps."
"Well, it has stopped."
I too went to the fireplace. On the hearth's marble lintel, upheld by two pillars, was the escutcheon I had glimpsed at the gate.
"There it is, Holmes, on the shield. De Castone's fox!"
3
To my mind, Holmes had seemed almost leisurely so far in his examination. He had not, for example, gone upstairs at once to view the study wall. Now however, he took his seat by the fire of the side parlour, and one by one, the remaining servants entered.
First came the cook, a Mrs. Castle. She was a large woman, neat and tidy, with a sad face which, I hazarded, had once been merry.
"Now, Mrs. Castle. We must thank you for your splendid di
"Oh, Mr. Holmes," she said, "I am so glad that it was enjoyed. I seldom have a chance to cook for more than Miss Caston, who has only a little appetite."
"Perhaps the former Miss Caston ate more heartily."
"Indeed, sir, she did. She was a stout lady who took an interest in her food."
"But I think you have other reasons to be uneasy."
"I have seen it!"
"You refer-?"
"The white fox. Last week, before the snow fell, I saw it, shining like a ghost under the moon. I know the story of wicked old Sir Hugh. It was often told in these parts. I grew up in Chislehurst Village. The fox was said to be a legend, but my brother saw just such a white fox, when he was a boy."
"Did he indeed."
"Then there are those letters cut in the snow. And the number upstairs, and all of us asleep-a five, done in red, high upon the wall. The five days before Christmas, when the lady is in peril. A horrible thing, Mr. Holmes, if a woman may not live at her own property alone, but she must go in fear of her life."
"After the death of your former employer, you take these signs seriously."
"The first Miss Caston had never had a day's indisposition until last Christmas. She always went away just before that time. But last year her carriage stood ready on the drive every day, and every day the poor old lady would want to go down, but she was much too ill. Her poor hands and feet were swollen, and she was so dizzy she could scarce stand. Then, she was struck down, just as she had always dreaded."
"And the fox?" Holmes asked her.
The cook blinked. She said, "Yes, that was strange."