“I should like to meet them,” Holmes remarked, his eyes sparkling.
“I’m sure that can be arranged.”
I cast a warning glance at Holmes, who averted his eyes and resumed his pipe, sending a plume of smoke to the ornate ceiling.
“Of course, Watson here thinks that I am a slave to Morpheus and one foot in the grave.”
He gave me a mocking smile.
“Not at all.”
“And while we are about it,” added Holmes “why not a visit to the long barrow? Mens sana in sanee corpore, eh, Doctor?”
He grinned and helped himself to the tantalus.
* * *
The following day dawned clear and bright. The colonel had housed us in some of the smaller bedrooms, which lay in the upper storey of the east wing of the house, and from my bedroom window, I was able to gaze out over the surrounding countryside. In the far distance, I could make out the white outline of the curious hill figure we had seen from the train on our journey down. From this viewpoint, the horse seemed to be even more dragon-like, the head crooked at an angle in a posture that appeared menacing. In the foreground, the humped hill, with its strange, bluey white stones, stood out against a radiant sky, the seven oaks standing like sentinels around them. There was an air of secrecy about the hill which fascinated me.
The climb up the hill to the long barrow was no easy feat, since the burial mound itself lay some distance from the stone circle. However, when we reached our destination, we discovered that the view was everything we could wish for. From the barrow, the land sheered away in a breathtaking drop of some three-hundred feet to the barren plateau below. It was a bright, cold day in early April, and the sun gave to the stone circle a curious luminosity. Though many of the megaliths had tumbled or crashed to the ground, the majority were still standing. They stood like the frozen warriors of some bygone age.
At the top of the hill, beneath a mound of earth, the colonel turned to us and shouted above a bitter wind.
“Over here is the entrance. This is where the excavations were carried out.”
He pointed to a small opening in the mound no more than waist high. One by one we climbed through the gap and emerged into a small chamber. Inside the atmosphere was dank and suffocating. There was a cloying smell of wet stones compounded with something indefinable. We stood in the darkness while the colonel fumbled for his matches.
“You were saying,” said Holmes. His voice echoed strangely against the dry stone walling.
“A great deal of stuff has already been deposited in the museum,” continued the colonel, lighting the lamp he had brought with him. Holmes held up his own dark lantern and the shadows began to abate, revealing a low chamber, supported by blocks of stone.
“This is most unusual.” Holmes remarked, pointing to a marking on one of the foundation stones.
I knelt down and peered into the gloom at a primitive face etched into the rock. The features were animal-like, yet the eyes were distinctly human, watchful and cunning. The mouth was cruel and thin, and the general effect hideous in the extreme. Although the carving was crude and childlike in its execution, it was nevertheless eerily effective.
“Ah yes, the horned god,” the colonel replied. “These figures are to be found all over the barrow. I forgot to mention that one of the principal finds was a bronze mask. Professor Rhys discovered it about a fortnight ago, whilst examining the inner chamber.”
“Cernunnos, the Horned God. At least, that is what the Romans called him. The Celts had their own name. Interesting is it not, the resemblance to Pan, Watson?”
Holmes was examining the face on the stone intently at this point.
“Where exactly was the mask discovered?’’
“At the entrance to the inner chamber. Look. Over here.”
Holmes’s voice took on a note of curiosity.
“Tell me, was the entrance to the chamber sealed before it was discovered, Colonel?”
“I really have no idea. You would have to ask the Professor.”
Sherlock Holmes bent down again and began to examine the stone wall to the left of the entry. After a few seconds had elapsed, he suddenly stood up.
“Just a minute. What’s this?”
His voice had an edge to it which l often associated with our moments of danger. We turned to him in the semi-darkness to find him kneeling before what appeared to be a bundle of old clothes.
“A more recent visitor I fear. Colonel, kindly lend me your lamp, will you?”
The colonel leant forward with the lamp, then uttered a low cry of surprise.
“Good God, it’s Professor Rhys. Is he alright?”
Holmes examined the body thoroughly and then sighed.
“I am afraid that I have made the Professor’s acquaintance, but in the way I least expected. He is quite dead, poor fellow.”
* * *
The museum was a small, oblong building constructed of limestone, with the marks of Regency elegance about it. The front fascia bore a stuccoed porch, and the windows were slender and deep-set.
Inside, the effect was not nearly so pleasing. The rooms were dark and heavily veneered and had a smell of long disuse about them. Everywhere the dust lay thick upon the glass cabinets.
Rhys’s brother was a tall, round-shouldered man who walked with the stoop of the academic. He peered at us from behind gold-rimmed pebble glasses in a somewhat unfriendly manner. As he advanced to greet us, I noticed that he had his eyes fixed on Holmes, the glasses making him resemble some strange bird of prey. After Holmes had explained the circumstances of his brother’s death, Rhys sat for a while in silence, his head in his hands.
“I take it that you and your brother had not been working long on the museum?” Holmes asked him at length.
“No. Of course there is still a lot to be done before we can open to the public, but at least we had made a start.”
We passed by a cabinet containing a collection of rusted swords and pendants.
“And your brother was largely responsible for this collection?”
“Correction. We were responsible. We both had an equal hand in the affair.”
“You are something of an archaeologist, I believe?”
“Not by occupation, more by interest. I am an antiquarian bookseller by trade. However, I have assisted my brother on numerous digs around the country, the most important being here in Linden, of course.”
“Ah, yes indeed. And the long barrow?”
“John did much of the exploratory work. I merely assisted with the labelling and cleaning of the finds.”
“And this, I take it, is the Mask of Cernunnos?”
We had come to a halt at a tall, rosewood cabinet. Inside hung a magnificent bronze mask about three feet in length. I was at once struck by the similarity between this and the carving I had seen inside the barrow. There was the same mood of menace about the face, and somehow the bronze casting only served to heighten the overall effect of a living, sentient being trapped behind the glass. I began to feel myself tense as I stared at the thing, and I noticed that my companions had fallen silent.
Two gleaming eyes were set above the raised cheeks. The mouth was cruelly curved into a grin which gave to the face a brooding malevolence. But the most striking feature about the head were the horns. Twisted, blackened and gnarled, they sprang from the sides like ancient and unruly vines. Although many centuries old, the object had a living quality about it.
“A most magnificent object,” said Holmes.
“Let me take it out for you,” said Rhys, opening the glass door and removing the mask.
“The craftsmanship is indeed unique. Your brother was most fortunate in discovering this piece. Hallo, what’s this on the back? It appears to be an inscription of some sort.”
Holmes moved t
he mask over into the direct rays of the sun.
“I never noticed that before,” said Rhys. “What does it say?”
“Yfi ydwy cerne y ceidwadwr y lle yma,
Mestillia y dyn a ddwyn fy ngwyneb.”
“I confess my Welsh is rather rusty. Could you oblige me with a translation, Mr. Rhys?”
“It means - let me see...” He adjusted his glasses. “I am Cernunnos, the guardian of this place. May the man who steals my face be cursed.”
A silence fell upon the room. After a while Holmes spoke.
“Tell me, did your brother never mention this inscription to you?”
“Not that I recall.”
“Well, perhaps he did not think it important. Clearly the inscription must be of a later date. Would you not agree?”
Rhys nodded.
“Yes, it’s couched in modern Welsh, not old Welsh. Your knowledge of Welsh is not so limited after all, Mr. Holmes.”
My companion flashed him a glance.
“A curious thing, nevertheless.”
“I must confess, I find the inscription a little disconcerting in the light of what has transpired,” the colonel remarked.
“Tell me, Mr. Rhys, have you any idea as to why your brother wanted to visit the long barrow last night?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“But you were on good terms?”
“Certainly.”
“Well, no matter. Thank you for taking the trouble to show us round. Oh, incidentally, you don’t happen to possess a pair of climbing boots that I could borrow? Dr. Watson and I are planning a walking expedition tomorrow, but I clean forgot to bring the appropriate footwear, and I observe that it is early closing in Linden.”
“Yes, I think I have a pair back at the house, if you would care to call on me this evening.”
“I should be most grateful to you.”
* * *
As we made our way back to Colonel Winget’s house, a light drizzle had started to stain the slate roofs of the distant town a dingy grey. Out among the mist, Cader Dyfed and its stone circle stood like grim giants, glowering at us.
“You are thinking about the long barrow,” I ventured, trying to match his pace.
“No, Watson, I am thinking about the murder.”
“Murder? Surely not?”
“There is a distinct possibility that Professor Rhys was murdered.”
“What makes you so certain?”
“The condition of the skull makes me certain.”
“But when we arrived at the museum you told Rhys that he had fallen. You said that he had hit his head on one of the foundation stones.”
“What I say and what I think can be two entirely separate things. Come now, Doctor. Use your intelligence. Would a man falling a distance of five feet make an indentation that size in his cranium?”
“Possibly not,” I answered, a little testily, “though I should say that it depended on the angle of the fall and the weight of the victim.”
By now we had come into view of Colonel Winget’s house.
“There is another thing I did not tell you. However, I must command you to keep this to yourself.”
He dug into his pocket and brought out a fragment of paper.
“What is it?”
“I took it from the Professor’s hand while you were outside.”
I looked at the crumpled fragment. Across it, scrawled in untidy handwriting, were the words:
the thing has come at last.
I looked at my companion and an image of the bronze mask rose before me.
“What on earth does this mean?”
“It means that Professor Rhys went to the barrow for a specific reason that evening. Exactly what that reason was, I shall be endeavouring to find out. By the way, would you be so good as to collect those boots for me after supper? I only hope that they fit. Oh, and give this letter to Rhys.”
We dined on grouse in the large dining room in the west wing of the house, surrounded by the memorabilia which Colonel Winget had collected from his numerous expeditions into the South American jungle. After supper had been concluded, I put on my sou’wester, for the rain which had begun on our return from the museum was still beating against the windows with a grim determination, and made my way up the driveway in the direction of Rhys’s house.
Rhys ushered me into the hallway but did not offer me any hospitality, and I was left dripping by the cloak stand whilst he fetched the boots. A series of framed prints hung on the walls, and I stood staring at them while I waited. One particular piece caught my attention. Measuring only ten inches by eight, it was a mezzotint depicting the long barrow. By all accounts, it had been executed in the eighteenth century or early nineteenth century, for there seemed to be many more trees surrounding the summit of the hill and more of the stones were upright.
As I stared at the picture, I noticed a tiny detail which had escaped me on first glance. At the very centre of the circle, shrouded beneath the mightiest of the oaks, there appeared a horned figure. Because the figure was indistinct and, since it stood in profile, it was difficult to see more, but I noticed there was part of another figure present and only just in view, raised on a stone slab which lay in front of the first figure. This figure was prone and I could not see the head, but it appeared to be lifeless, and it occurred to me that it might possibly be the figure of a small child.
My examination of the two figures was interrupted by Rhys, bearing the boots I had requested. He said little to me, and when asked, seemed to know nothing about the origin of the picture, merely commenting that his brother had obtained it some years ago in an auction in Ludlow. I thanked him for the boots and, without further ado, made my way out into the lane.
Once outside, I was pleased to see that the wind and the rain had abated. I decided it might prove valuable to return to the long barrow, and subject it to a more detailed examination. I was sure that if I spent even a few minutes alone in the barrow, the mystery surrounding Professor Rhys’s untimely end might well be lifted.
As I climbed the hill, the mist cleared away and I was confronted with the stones, etched against the darkening sky like hunched figures. I was reminded of the ancient character of the landscape and its curious timelessness.
By now I had reached the top of the winding path and, passing between two great oaks, I dropped down into the mouth of the barrow. Pausing to light my dark lantern, I crouched and went inside.
In daylight this subterranean cave had appeared to be small. Now, in the gathering darkness, the stone walls seemed even closer and the air even ranker. I closed my eyes, trying to attune my mind to the atmosphere of the place. Within seconds of so doing, found myself in the grip of a vision so real that I was forced to drop the lantern onto the earth, where it smashed and the light was extinguished, leaving me in utter darkness.
When I closed my eyes, I was confronted by a face - the very face that I had glimpsed carved upon the rock, the face I had later seen in the museum. But this time, the face was no man-made impression, no artist’s carving. It was as real and as vibrant as my own. That face - how shall I describe it? - twisted and wizened with a skin as dark as tanned leather, yet mobile, full of guile and cunning. The eyes, seeming to laugh at me, the mouth revealing thin bloodless lips and a forked tongue. It was a face I have seen painted on the murals at Pompeii or in the nightmare visions of Hieronymus Bosch, combining menace and trickery.
The horned head fixed its gaze upon me. What it conveyed to me were not words but ideas-foul, unspeakable ideas, murderous impulses from the deepest recesses of the mind, disgusting acts hewn from nightmare.
I knew immediately that it had been utter folly to come here. In so doing I had exposed myself to something ancient and nameless, and I realised that the fate which had befallen Professor Rhys wo
uld certainly befall me if I stayed longer. Forcing my eyes open, I plunged into the darkness. Half blind, I banged against one of the stone walls and felt a searing pain shoot across my forehead. Undaunted, I eventually found the opening, launching myself into the clean air.
I ran down the steep incline of the hillside, my feet and ankles tearing against the nettles and briars, for I saw that the presence in the cave was now close behind me and gaining ground. I knew because I could hear the clicking of its horned feet and rasping of its breath, making its way across the grass immediately to the left of me. When I glanced fearfully across I could see it against the shadows, a hunched figure moving with the rapidity of a stag in flight, its hideous head turned towards me.
How long that journey lasted I do not recall. But I do recall the painful relief of seeing the lighted windows of the colonel’s mansion and noting, as I grew closer to the entrance, the figure to my left drawing back into the shadow, thinning into an insubstantial wisp as it came into the penumbra of the lamplight.
The colonel’s butler admitted me. Observing me closely, he asked if I would care for a nightcap, to which I gratefully assented.
For the best part of an hour, I sat in the great leather armchair by the fire, my limbs shaking, staring at the embers, the table lamp to my left providing a comforting glow.
At length I fell into a fitful sleep, from which I later awoke, the nightmare vision still painfully vivid. Then to bed, where I slept lightly with the lamp on until at last the dawn brought me relief from the horrors of the night.
When I finally surfaced and made my way down to the breakfast room, I found a note waiting for me. It was written in my friend’s usual laconic style:
Long barrow. 10 o’clock. Be there without fail. Bring Winget.
Fortunately, Colonel Winget was happy to fall in with Holmes’s imperative and, after we had finished eating, I changed into my walking shoes and we left the house. As we approached the long barrow, I thought I could make out the outline of a figure pacing to and fro at the entrance.
The MX Book of New Sherlock Holmes Stories - Part X Page 6
