“You have certainly seen your share of action,” I remarked.

Our visitor nodded his head in a thoughtful way. “There were moments,” said he, “when I think I sincerely believed that Afghanistan was the true location of Hell. And yet,” he continued after a moment, “to be hated and attacked by strangers when you at least have your loyal companions about you is not, perhaps, the worst thing that can happen to a man.” He paused, but neither Holmes nor I spoke, and after a minute’s reflection he continued in a voice which trembled with emotion. “To be hated and abused by those from whom you had expected friendship and affection, and to bear this assault alone, is perhaps the hardest suffering to endure.”

“Pray give us the details,” said Holmes after a moment, “however painful it may be to do so, and then perhaps we can begin to shed some light on your troubles.”

“My family has lived in Sussex for many generations,” continued Reid after a moment. “My great-grandfather bought Oakbrook Hall and its estate at the beginning of the century, during the Napoleonic Wars, and there the family has lived ever since. The estate lies just outside Topley Cross, in the west of the county, near Petworth. My father was colonel of the West Sussex Infantry before his retirement, and had, I think, only two further aims in life: to marry off his only daughter, Louisa, successfully, and to see his only son follow him into the local regiment. The former was achieved five years ago, when Louisa married a solicitor from Cornwall, where she now lives, the latter not long afterwards. I joined the regiment four and a half years ago, at the same time as Arthur Ranworth, an old friend from my schooldays in Canterbury, whose home is at Broome Green, near Rye, at the other end of the county.

“In the summer of ’78 we were posted to India, as I have described. Before we left, Ranworth frequently came to stay with us at Topley Cross, along with Major French and Major Bastable, friends of ours from the regiment. We always had a splendid time when we were all together, and it was evident to me that my father was as proud of me as any father might be. He has an old friend and neighbour, Admiral Blythe-Headley, who is the largest landed proprietor in the district, and whose property adjoins our own. They are great rivals whenever the respective merits of the Army and Navy are being debated, and I know that my father was particularly proud when he was able to inform his friend that I had followed him into the West Sussex. The situation is a little difficult, as our neighbour’s own son, Anthony, who is a couple of years younger than me, seems only to cause distress to his father. At school he was regarded as an outstanding pupil, and showed every promise of a brilliant future. But he took up with a dissolute group of friends at university, and has since wasted his time in idle and frivolous pursuits. It is certainly not for me to judge him, but I know that he and his father have frequently quarrelled violently in recent years, not least when he forged his father’s signature against a gambling debt, a matter that nearly came to court.

‘‘Admiral Blythe-Headley, who is a widower, also has a daughter, Mary, who is about my own age, and is, I might say, the local beauty. When I was younger I spent many happy days at Topley Grange, the Blythe-Headley’s home, and I remember with fondness the long hours spent playing rounders and other such games with Mary and her cousins. I had always hoped that one day she might join her future to mine, and a few words she spoke to me before I sailed for India led me to believe that my hopes in this regard might not be entirely unjustified. I am mentioning all these things to you so that you will understand that before I went away, everything was as right as could be. My mother, it is true, did not enjoy the best of health, but this had been the case for some years, so that although it was always a source of concern to me, it was not especially so at this time.

“There is splendid fishing in the district, and what with that, turning out for the village cricket team, lending a hand with the harvest, and a hundred and one other things, the summer before I left passed all too quickly. I was obliged to spend some time at regimental headquarters, near Horsham, but Topley Cross being at no great distance from Horsham, I was often able to get away at the end of the week, and I came and went regularly, as did Captain Ranworth. Occasionally, I was obliged to leave Ranworth to find his own amusement, when I was occupied with farming business or in helping my father, but this presented no difficulty for him, for he is almost as familiar with the people and places of the district as I am myself, having been a regular visitor there since our early schooldays. Earlier that year, my father had begun work on a history of the West Sussex Regiment, and had had one of the bedrooms upstairs turned into a study especially for the purpose. He had also engaged a secretary, William Northcote, a scholarly young man recently down from Oxford, to assist him. My father had underestimated the work involved, however, and even with Northcote’s help would have found it altogether too much had I not been there to lend a hand. By the time the day of our embarkation arrived, however, he and his secretary had got into a routine and were making good progress. I know my father greatly appreciated the help I had been able to give him. In a letter I received from home a few weeks after my arrival in India, he described how well he and Northcote were now getting on with the work, and how invaluable my assistance had been.

“Half of this letter was written to me by my mother. Alas, it was the last communication I was ever to receive from her! I received two further letters from my father before the end of the year, but then heard nothing more – despite writing several letters myself – until some seven or eight months later. Then I received a brief note from my father, in the form almost of an official notification, to inform me that my mother’s illness had at last overcome her and that she had died in the spring. This news saddened me greatly, although it was not, in truth, entirely unexpected. My mother had been in poor health for some years, and I had always feared that she might die while I was abroad. The news was made especially distressing to me, however, by the curt, impersonal character of the note that conveyed it. I replied at once, expressing my sorrow, but received no further communication from home whatever.

“I have given you a sketch of the part I played in the Afghan campaign, so I will not weary you with further details, except to say that no group of men could have acted with more resolution and dedication to duty than did the men of the West Sussex. You may have observed on my tiepin the regimental motto, Fidus et Audax. Believe me when I tell you that no men could have been more ‘faithful and bold’. Some of my colleagues lost their lives in the campaign, and will not be forgotten; but every man that survived left that accursed country with his honour enhanced, and there is not one among them that does not deserve a decoration. For myself I make no claim to heroic status, but I did believe, as I returned to England, that I would be greeted as one, at least, who had fulfilled his duty to his native land to the fullest extent of his physical and mental capacities. I could not have imagined, on the long voyage home, that I would be met, instead, with cold indifference and contempt. What has happened in recent days has quite turned my brain, so that I feel I am losing my grip upon sanity, and can no longer trust my own thoughts or actions.”

Sherlock Holmes frowned. “Pray, continue,” said he in a soft voice as his visitor paused. “It is evident that something very strange must have occurred to disturb you in this way.”

“The West Sussex Infantry returned to England towards the end of last month,” continued Captain Reid after a moment. “I wired home as soon as I landed at Portsmouth, to say that I had arrived back safely and should be home in a few days. To this message I received no reply. I wired again from the regimental headquarters at Horsham on the morning I was leaving, with my time of arrival at the local railway station. When my train pulled in there, however, I saw, to my surprise, that there was no one there to meet me. Fortunately, the station fly was there, and was, I observed, still driven by the same fellow, Isaac Barham, who had often jested with me and teased me in my youth. I greeted him cordially, expecting some rustic witticism in response, or at the very least a smile of recognition. To my utter astonishment, a shudder of distaste seemed to pass across his features as he saw me. In a moment it was gone, and his face was once more impassive, but I knew that I could not have been mistaken.