THE DISAPPEARANCE OF OLIVER JEFFORD

Later, when we had seated ourselves in the corner of the Great Eastern railway compartment bound for Ipswich, the Doctor apologised for giving me such a small and uninteresting newspaper clipping about the disappearance. ‘The more sensational stories have rather better information to offer even if they are interweaved with nonsense,’ he said as he arranged his coat comfortably over his knees. ‘That is generally the case but I wished to go through them again myself. You must read them in a moment, but first I will tell you what happned to me yesterday.’

He leant forward to itemise his research. ‘It did not take me long to establish that there are fifty-five English place names prefixed by the word South. However, as you would expect, few are on the east coast. The only ones that suggest themselves are South Shields in Northumberland, Southleigh in Lincolnshire, South Walsham in Norfolk, Southwold in Suffolk and Southend in Essex, not a large group and some of them are little more than hamlets without an inn. Of course the clerk might have been mistaken that the place is on the coast at all and, if that was the case, our task became nearly impossible. But I recalled our quarry’s telegram to the Morlands and those odd words about your fictitious convalescence ‘by the sea’. There was, as you and I agreed, no reason for the lie to take this form and I concluded it must have been the first thing that came into his head. Therefore it is certainly possible he was already thinking about a town by the sea.’

‘On the whole,’ he went on, ‘I therefore tended to believe the clerk, who from his conversation seems a man of particular, if limited, observational skills. Moreover, the place had to be more than a hamlet for the man said he had heard of it, even if he did not know it well. That, I think, narrows it down to South Shields, Southwold and Southend. Already I could have gone back there and asked him, but then I recalled Cream’s words to you about coastal erosion. The most spectacular coastal erosion in England is just along the shore at Dunwich and my inclination for Southwold and Dunwich was now becoming very strong. Then yesterday afternoon I suddenly recalled reading of the disappearance of Jefford in that town. At once I went out and bought all the newspapers and some of them, as you will see, were of great interest. Amidst much nonsense, which was to be expected, I discovered facts that immediately convinced me there must be a connection. I returned to my clerk and mentioned Southend. He shook his head. I then plumped for Southwold and he recalled it at once. It was the place. And even better, he was able to supply an inn. He is sure it was the Harbour Inn, for that turns out to be the reason he felt confident the town was on the coast.’

This was excellent news and now I settled down to look at the newspaper articles which had excited him. The case was certainly a bizarre one and the best article of all came, as he had said, from the lowliest source — a crimesheet called the Penny Illustrated Police News. At the top was a rendering of the old legend of the witch with graphic pictures of the wild chase and its aftermath. The article followed.

DISAPPEARANCE OF JEFFORD HEIR

Bloody Lettering in House

The Mystery of the Witch of Dunwich Heath

Has an ancient curse claimed a modern victim? Many strange circumstances surround the disappearance of Oliver Jefford from a house in Dunwich, not far from the celebrated witch’s pool, and further news is anxiously awaited.

The legend of Dunwich Heath is a famous one. No evening of ghostly tales around the fireside at Christmas would be complete without a recounting of the ‘wylde hunt’ at Dunwich Heath on a frosty winter’s night in 1690. And the witch’s awful words that ‘all would know what it is to drown’.

But now a modern sceptic may have fallen foul of the ancient curse. Oliver Jefford is a name not unknown to the sporting public after his success with the horse Wandering Minstrel at Newmarket some years ago. A single gentleman of means with many acquaintances, Mr Jefford has often occasioned comment for his colourful lifestyle, whether in the fashionable clubs of Pall Mall or the more out-of-the-way-places of the capital. Perhaps known best of all for his extravagant wagers, it was recently reported he bet a gentleman of the colonies he could walk across the river at low tide and nearly drowned in the attempt till his friend managed to drag him out and revive him.

Recently he inherited some property in the town of Dunwich, which added to his already considerable fortune, including a lonely house known as The Glebe not far from the celebrated witch’s pool of the legend.

Mr Jefford announced at once he would use it as a retreat to write some verses, for though as yet unpublished he has often talked of writing poetry. Seven days ago he was seen at the Ship Inn in the town of Dunwich, making light of the story of the witch. Several witnesses attest that, as the night wore on, Mr Jefford became more and more vehement, protesting loudly that he wished only to make the witch’s acquaintance and that he defied her curse, inviting her to come to his house and mete out revenge by taking his gold. He also indicated he had made a discovery that would disprove the thing once and for all, for, through his inheritance, he had come into possession of the celebrated witch’s rune, which is supposed to bring death on all who hold it. It must be added that some of his language was regarded as intemperate and even blasphemous by those present. Many of the citizens of Dunwich have respect for the legend and do not like to hear it taken lightly, especially on the eve of the anniversary of the hunt itself which is 1 December.

There was already much talk in the town that only a few hours earlier as darkness fell a forester going through Dunwich wood had heard a great wailing and caught sight of a naked figure screaming and moving in the trees. Several villagers believe this was a sighting of the howling man of the legend, which always presages a death.

Whatever the truth of this sighting, it is certain that late that night Jefford returned to his house on foot alone. Next day, which was the first of the month, he was seen by a local farmer on the path to his house with two figures. The farmer recognised Jefford walking beside a tall good-looking stranger of commanding appearance but did not catch a sight of the third.

Next day, the same farmer, who was his nearest neighbour, had occasion to visit the house in the course of searching for a lost pig.

Having knocked on the door and receiving no reply, he entered but thought the house to be empty. He called out and came to the main room where he found a quantity of blood on the floor, some of it formed into letters. There was no mistaking these letters, indeed when last reported they were still observable as first found.

witch

here

Poor Jefford in his last hours seemed to be trying to relate that the witch had returned. But, after an extensive search revealed nothing else at the property and no sign of Mr Jefford, others have scoffed at the message on the floor, declaring it is obviously a prank for Jefford’s own amusement. They claim he will be found soon enough enjoying his newfound glory, and ridiculing the curse, in the fashionable haunts of Mayfair. Certainly the farmer believes the blood is only that of his lost pig and wishes to take action against Jefford for his act of slaughter. But as yet any sign of the missing pig or of the man has not been discovered. Until Oliver Jefford reappears to set the record right, it must be prudent to keep an open mind. The powers of darkness are not a matter for jest, and never will be.

I put the paper down and the Doctor could see at once its effect on me. The other accounts had some details of interest, but only the somewhat scurrilous columns of the Penny Illustrated Police News revealed the true nature of Jefford’s character. The man was obviously a rake, an habitué of London’s lowlife and therefore exactly the type Cream would be likely to encounter in the course of his own pursuits. Moreover, it appeared he was rich, while we also knew Cream had been frustrated in his attempts to find money in that cottage and was eagerly seeking it. There was the ‘tall goodlooking stranger of commanding appearance’ and even that most telling aside about the wager and ‘a gentleman of the colonies’.

‘Of course, Doyle,’ said the Doctor in reply as I picked out the detail, ‘in itself that could have been nothing at all. There are plenty of gentlemen from the colonies who enjoy a bet. But, taken together with everything else, as well as our enemy’s established movements, his own words and the description of the figure in Jefford’s company, I do not believe this could be coincidence. The scent of him is too strong.’

We journeyed to Ipswich where we spent the night and then across country to Droxford before we joined a coach for Southwold, by which time it was late the next afternoon. I had never been to this part of England and, as our vehicle picked its way along the little roads in these last hours of daylight, the view was exquisite. I am aware some aestheticians like Ruskin have pronounced that a flat land holds no mystery. But as the wind got up and sent great clouds scurrying over that majestic panorama of fields and ditches and standing water, I reflected I had rarely seen anything so mysterious. With little sign of habitations or people, the sky and the landscape held sway and the lines of dykes and field borders seemed to recede away almost into infinity, as the unknown beckoned from behind every ditch and tree. Of course there was nothing here of the corruption of the city but it still seemed to me an extraordinarily fitting landscape for our enemy, being both bleak and yet suggestive.

The Doctor’s voice broke into these reveries. ‘We must be on our guard from the moment we arrive, Doyle. You will remember what happened at the Quarter Moon. I have no intention of telling the landlord anything beyond the fact we are enjoying a leisurely excursion and looking out for some seaside property.’

‘And if he is there when we arrive? Perhaps waiting for us?’

By now, we were in Southwold itself and passing low buildings we came to the harbour where fishing boats bobbed frantically, for a storm was threatening. ‘I have to consider that as well as everything else,’ said the Doctor, looking out at the rain that was starting to fall. ‘You may not know I make a regular visit to Glendoick in Perthshire every year for the shooting. It is something I have done since I was nineteen and I am a tolerable marksman. Of course I would prefer to see him tried but, if the thing was in the balance, I have a firearm.’

Though Bell seemed quite serious I had to smile at this, for the idea of the Doctor entering the Harbour Inn at Southwold and shooting one of its guests in cold blood was incongruous. But in one way I felt reassured to hear it. The quest for Cream was entering a new stage. If only this time, I thought as the coach finally came to rest, he could be delivered into our hands.

The inn proved to be a very modest establishment indeed, for there could not have been more than two or three guest bedrooms at most and we quickly established, rather to our disappointment, that the others were unoccupied. I suggested we should sound out the landlord at once but, rather to my surprise, the Doctor merely replied that the man did not look to be of a helpful disposition and he had urgent matters to pursue elsewhere in the town.

The landlord was indeed a small and somewhat furtive man called Burn, who showed little interest in us. Later we discovered he was a former fisherman who had lost his boat and had only undertaken the job so he could chat with the fishermen who congregated in the bar several evenings a week.

Few boats were out that night so there was a great throng of people in the bar when Bell reappeared and we descended from our rooms. They looked at us without much interest and returned to their talk as a maid showed us politely to the snug, a small room with a fire and a serving hatch which opened on to the main bar.

Here we were brought plates of halibut and egg and some tankards of beer, both of which were very welcome. Bell ate thoughtfully, surveying the bar and its occupants who were discussing the previous day’s catch. I understood his caution but was becoming increasingly frustrated by the fact he was yet to strike up a conversation with any of the people here, where our enemy had been. Of course it was comfortable enough by the fire and the fish was wonderfully fresh, but it hardly helped our cause. I was on the point of saying as much, when suddenly the outside door flew open, and a boy of about fifteen stepped in out of the street carrying a small packet.

He looked around and, as soon as he saw Burn behind the bar, he went over to him at once.

‘Mr Burn, I have an urgent packet for Dr Mere who is here. Please take me to him.’