The Adventure of

DEDSTONE MILL

A Surprising Letter

IT IS WITH SOME RELUCTANCE that I take up my pen to tell what I know of the East Harrington tragedy. Few readers will need reminding of an affair that appalled the whole country and cast such a cloud over that part of Leicestershire in which the events took place. Though some years have passed since details of the matter filled the pages of every newspaper in the land, such events slip less easily from the nation’s memory than from the nation’s press, and if it were argued that no fresh account of the matter is called for, I should, generally speaking, be inclined to agree. But many of the details of the case passed unreported at the time, and of all the newspaper accounts I read, only that of The Times was accurate, and that, although accurate, was not complete, so that much rumour and speculation accompanied the case, almost all of which was without foundation, as I am able to state with some authority. Indeed, my intimate involvement in the matter from an early stage places me in a unique position to give an accurate account of it, and perhaps also entails upon me now the duty to do so, and so confound those rumour-mongers who delight in blackening the names of the innocent. A further consideration concerns the many letters I have received over the years, requesting that I clarify this point or that in connection with the case, and it is also, therefore, in the hope of satisfying all these many correspondents that I have at last decided to publish this account.

In writing this series of short sketches it has been my constant intention to demonstrate the unique skills of my good friend Mr Sherlock Holmes, without whose intervention many of these tales would have been mysteries without solution. In selecting the cases to be included in the series, therefore, I have always sought, on the one hand, to choose those that offered my friend scope for the exercise of the remarkable powers he possessed, and, on the other, to avoid the depiction of sensational events merely for their own sake. Should the reader feel that the present narrative displays a falling-away from either or both of these ideals, I can only offer in mitigation the reasons given in the first paragraph above, and add that where the matter is of such great public interest, it would perhaps be perverse of me to omit it entirely from this series.

Following my marriage, and subsequent establishment in general practice in the Paddington district of London, I naturally saw somewhat less of Sherlock Holmes than in earlier years. But my interest in his cases and in the methods he used to solve them remained undiminished, and I was always glad of an opportunity to discuss his work with him. He had an invitation to dine with us whenever he wished, but it was only infrequently that we saw him at our table, for his practice, which was by then considerable, occupied most of his waking hours. It was with surprise and pleasure, then, that I returned home from a tiring afternoon round, one dull Monday in September, to learn that we had received a note from him.

“Mr Holmes wishes to dine with us this evening,” said my wife with a smile.

“That is splendid news!” said I. “I shall open a bottle of that vintage claret which old Mr Wilkins gave us last month! I have only been waiting for a suitable occasion!”

Holmes arrived punctually and we enjoyed a very pleasant meal, exchanging many humorous anecdotes from our respective practices. As the table was cleared, however, I observed a thoughtful look upon his face.

“You have something on your mind,” I remarked.

He turned to me and smiled. “You and I have certainly become transparent to each other over the years,” returned he with a chuckle. “But, yes, there is something upon which I should very much value your opinion.”

My wife had risen to leave us, but Holmes called her back. “Mrs Watson,” said he, “if you, too, could spare a few minutes, your observations might prove invaluable to me. I know you are eager to be cutting out and making up your curtains, but I do not think you will be disappointed by the matter I wish to lay before you.”

“Why, however do you know about the new curtains?” said she, resuming her seat with an expression of surprise upon her features.

“I observed a brown paper parcel from Marshall Snelgrove in the hall as I entered. From its shape, it is evidently a bale of material, and too large a bundle, surely, for any purpose but curtains. No doubt its future is inextricably linked with the scissors, tape measure and French chalk which I observed neatly placed at the foot of the stairs.”

“How very observant of you!” cried my wife with a light laugh. “You are correct, of course – the front bedroom has needed new curtains for some time – but I should much prefer to know how my opinion can be of any value to you.”

“It is quickly explained,” said Holmes. “I received this letter by the lunchtime post,” he continued, taking a small cream envelope from his inside pocket. “Perhaps, Watson, you would be so good as to read it aloud?”

I took the envelope from him. It bore a West London postmark, and the handwriting, while quite clear, was somewhat irregular and juvenile.

“My correspondent is fourteen years of age,” remarked Holmes as I took the letter from the envelope, answering my thoughts rather than my words, as was his wont.

Smoothing out the letter upon the table, I read the following:

My dear Mr Holmes,

Please forgive me for writing to you like this, and do not be angry with me. I know you must be very busy. You do not know me, but there is no one else I can turn to. My late father, Major George Borrow, had an account of one of your cases, part of which he read to me. He also told me that he had heard that if a case interests you, you will help people, even if they are poor, and that you can solve any mystery, however perplexing. You are my only hope. There is a mystery here, and I am very frightened, especially for my brother, Edwin. He is only twelve, and recently he was nearly killed. I am fourteen and three-quarters, but I still do not think I would be strong enough if anyone tried to murder me.

Since our mother and father were killed when the Flying Scotsman was wrecked at Burntisland, we have lived with Aunt Margaret (Mama’s sister) and her husband, Mr John Hartley Lessingham, at East Harrington Hall. But now she has gone away and left us, and there is no one to speak up for us, especially as Mr Theakston has now gone, too.

Please help me, Mr Holmes. At least let me speak to you before you decide. Please come to the London Library in St James’s Square, at eleven o’clock on Tuesday morning. It is my only chance to speak to you, as I may never be allowed to come to London again. I shall be wearing a maroon-coloured jacket and a matching crocheted bonnet. If there is anyone with me, do not speak to me. Please do not tell anyone about this letter and do not write back to me, or I do not know what might happen.

Yours very sincerely

Harriet Borrow

I finished reading and we sat a moment in silence.

“What do you make of it, Watson?” said Holmes at length.

I shook my head.

“It is difficult to know what to think,” I replied. “The girl appears to be genuinely in fear of something, but of course children often misconstrue the world about them, especially the actions of adults, and see mysteries and cause for fear when, in reality, none exist.”

“Indeed,” concurred my friend. “You state the matter succinctly.”

“But you simply cannot ignore the girl’s plea, Mr Holmes,” said my wife in a vehement tone. “She may, of course, for all we know, be a silly girl, with her head stuffed full of foolish ideas – things she has read about in books – but you cannot know that for certain until you have questioned her on the matter.”