“It really is a sensational success for you,” said I in unfeigned admiration. “Without your intervention, Holmes, the case would probably never have been solved! Tomorrow morning, and for weeks, your name will be blazoned in every newspaper in the land!”

“I very much hope not,” said he, a note of alarm in his voice. “It might make my life here somewhat unendurable. I have told Lanner that he is at liberty to take as much credit as he pleases from the case, but he is an honest man, so I suppose I may receive a brief mention at the foot of a column on the back page!”

I laughed as I rose to my feet and put on my coat. “I had best be off,” I said. “I have a number of things to do. No doubt you will be taking a well-earned rest over the next few days!”

“On the contrary,” said he, “the Yelverton case has whetted my appetite for something a little more challenging! When I have finished this whisky and soda, I must turn my attention at once to those papers by your chair. They contain details of some bizarre and threatening letters received recently by the Earl of Redcastle, which promise to furnish me with a very pretty little problem!”

The Adventure of

THE SMILING FACE

THE NOTEBOOKS AND JOURNALS in which I recorded so many of the cases of my friend Sherlock Holmes hold much that is strange and dramatic and very little that is merely commonplace. For Holmes was generally recognized not only as the final court of appeal in cases which others had given up as unsolvable, but also as the first port of call for those who were sorely troubled but who had little in the way of facts or evidence with which they might enlist the sympathy and aid of the authorities. Among these latter cases, those that spring readily to mind include the strange tale of the hidden garden of Balethorpe House and the surprising nature of what was discovered there, the enigma of the thirteen steps at Hardshaw Hall, and the mystery surrounding the eminent archaeologist, Professor Palfreyman, and the old cottage in Stagg’s Lane. It is this last case which I now propose to relate.

It was a cold and foggy day in November, 1884, when Miss Georgina Calloway called at our chambers in Baker Street, shortly after nine o’clock in the morning, as I was glancing over the papers. She was a very handsome young lady, no more than four and twenty at the outside, I judged, with delicate, intelligent features and curly, gingery hair. Holmes showed her to a chair by our blazing fire, where she removed her gloves and held her hands out to the flames appreciatively.

“It is a cold morning,” said she, with a shiver.

“At least you have not had far to come,” remarked Holmes.

“That is true,” she returned, then paused, a look of surprise on her face. “How do you know how far I have travelled?” she asked.

“You have brought with you on your instep a little of that distinctive North Kent clay,” replied Holmes. “It is quite unmistakable. You have come up from some rural corner of Beckenham, I should say.”

“You are quite right,” said she. “Our cottage lies in an old country lane, about twenty minutes’ walk from Beckenham railway station. It is a very remote spot, considering how close it is to London. I used to think it simply quaint and peaceful, but now . . .”

“Now?”

“Now I find the isolation disturbing. Recently, I have been anxious and on edge all the time, as if waiting for something dreadful to happen. I shall speak honestly to you, so you will understand, even if you think me absurd. Some days recently, when the daylight has faded and the fog is creeping through the woods, I have not simply been anxious, I have been terrified.”

Our visitor’s face as she spoke these words seemed to lose all colour and become so white that I thought she would faint, but she bit her lip and turned to the fire for warmth.

“It is clear you are very upset,” said Holmes in a sympathetic tone. “Watson, please be so good as to ring for a pot of tea. I think we could all do with a cup! Now,” he continued after a moment, addressing Miss Calloway once more, “pray let us have some details, so that we may understand your circumstances better. Have you always lived where you live now?”

“No, for less than a year.”

“Do you live alone there?”

“No, with a distant relative, Professor James Palfreyman.”

“Is that the archaeologist?”

“Yes, that is he. I act as his housekeeper, and also as his secretary and assistant.”

“Is there anyone else in the house?”

“Mrs Wheeler, our cook, who is a widow. When I was first there, Mrs Wheeler’s daughter, Beryl, acted as housemaid, but in the summer she ran off with an Italian waiter who was staying at Penge. This was no great loss from the point of view of the household, as she had had a somewhat cavalier attitude to her work. Now Mrs Wheeler and I share the household duties between us. It is not very onerous, as Professor Palfreyman is not a great one for dusting and cleaning, so I just do what strikes me as absolutely necessary and leave the rest.”

“That sounds agreeable enough,” remarked Holmes with a chuckle. “I take it that your residence there did not initially cause you any anxiety.”

“No,” replied his visitor. “When I was first there everything seemed fine.”

“In that case,” said Holmes, “tell us how you came to be in such a rural spot, and what has happened since.” As he spoke, he leaned back in his chair, and closed his eyes. For a moment, Miss Calloway appeared surprised, but then she began the following account.

“My connection with Beckenham, and with Professor Palfreyman, dates only from the time of my mother’s funeral,” she began. “My father had died some years previously, when I was away at boarding school in Sussex. My chief interest at school had been botany, at which I was said to show promise, and I was hopeful that I might be able to continue my studies in that field, either at London University or the Botanical Institute at Kew. Shortly before I was due to leave school, however, my mother’s health began to decline, and I was obliged to abandon my plans and return home to look after her. We lived quite comfortably in Peckham, for my father had left her fairly well provided for, but to be honest I found it a somewhat dull existence. Then, in early December last year, my mother’s health suddenly declined markedly, and inside a week she had died.

‘‘It had all happened so quickly and with so little warning that I was in a state of shock for several days. I was also thrown into turmoil by the immediate uncertainty of my financial situation. The income my mother and I were living on came mainly from an insurance policy my father had taken out many years previously. This provided for my mother while she was alive, but ceased absolutely upon her death. Apart from that income, we had very little, and I was flung into wild despair as to what I could possibly do. A quarter’s rent would shortly fall due, and I could not afford to pay it, let alone pay for the other necessities of life. This is the state I was in on the day of my mother’s funeral: great sadness at her departure and utter despair at my own future.

“It was a cold day in December, with a few flakes of snow blowing in the air. There had been hardly anyone at the funeral, save myself and an elderly neighbour, and I was leaving the cemetery alone, deep in thought, when, to my surprise, a dis tinguished-looking elderly man approached and spoke to me. I had seen him standing a little way off, but as it was no one I knew, I had paid him no attention. Now he introduced himself as Professor Palfreyman, a distant cousin of my mother’s. He had seen a notice of her funeral in the local paper, he said, and although she and he had not met in the last ten years, he had wished to pay his last respects. I must have cut a sorry picture, for after a few moments he offered to buy me lunch at a nearby hotel, an offer I accepted.