After another short rest to catch our breath, we lit the lanterns we had brought with us, and made our way into the cave.
“Be careful, Strange!’’ I cautioned.
“Don’t be so timid, Palfreyman! There’s no point in hanging back!’’ he returned in characteristic fashion. Strange was one of those people who seemed unable to converse without insulting the person he was speaking to. I was not especially timid, and nor was I ‘‘hanging back’’, as he put it. On the contrary, he had brusquely pushed in front of me as we made our way into the cave, as if to ensure that he was the first to enter. I don’t think that in all the years I had known him, I had ever once seen him enter a room behind someone else. He really was, in many ways, the most dislikeable person I had ever known.
Slowly, holding up our lanterns to light the way, we made our way deeper into that very dark cave. The floor beneath our feet was surprisingly damp and smooth in places, as if sculpted by a considerable flow of water at some time in the distant past, and by the occasional flow even now, perhaps after one of the violent storms that are a feature of some months in those parts. Then, all at once, I descried another carving of the sixteen-pointed sun, quite small, on a projecting rock at the side of the cave, and called my companion back to see it.
“We are definitely going the right way,’’ said he, and set off forwards once more.
The floor of the cave had been sloping down for some time, quite steeply in places, but presently it levelled off again, and was covered in sand and other small debris. We had progressed some way – perhaps twenty yards – along this easier terrain, when something caught our eyes on the right-hand wall of the cave. I was about three or four yards behind Strange, but I think we saw it at the same moment.
“What on earth is that?’’ said I.
“It’s a tile of some sort,’’ Strange murmured, as much to himself as to me, and as I approached a little closer I could see that he was right.
It was a large tile, some seven or eight inches square, which seemed to have been set into a carved recess in the wall of the cave and affixed with mortar, some of which was visible round the edges. The tile itself, although a little dusty, was clearly creamy white in colour and highly glazed, showing in relief the face of a woman. It was a beautiful face, smiling in an angelic manner. At a glance, I could see that in its general style and craftsmanship it was from a later era than the time of Pellas II – at least late Greek, and possibly even Roman. This suggested that the tomb of Pellas II – if it were indeed in this cave – had been venerated centuries after his death. But as these thoughts flitted through my mind, I also recollected the warnings we had read in those ancient manuscripts.
“Thesprotia!’’ I cried. ‘‘Strange, it’s Thesprotia! Be careful! Remember the warnings!’’
“Don’t be absurd, Palfreyman!’’ came Strange’s reply, although he did not turn to me, but kept his eyes fixed upon that smiling face, almost as if he were physically unable to remove his gaze from it. ‘‘Don’t be superstitious!’’ It was then that a bitter thought flashed through my brain. I did not put it into words, not even in my own head, but, had I done so, it would have been something like, All right, Strange, you conceited fool! Be it on your own head! Die, if that is what you wish! A moment later, I had suppressed this thought, and cried aloud again.
“Strange!’’ I cried as he leaned forward to brush the dust from the tile with his hand. ‘‘Don’t look at it! Don’t look at the face!’’ Then some slight noise or sixth sense made me look down at his feet. There was something wrong there, I felt sure, although I could see nothing. I lowered my lantern to get a better look. ‘‘Strange!’’ I began. ‘‘The floor!’’
“The flaw is in your reasoning, Palfreyman,’’ he returned in that lazily arrogant manner of his, but the words died abruptly on his lips and, as there came a sudden sound of cracking and crumbling, he let out the most dreadful, deafening scream of fear. There was a puff of dust, and in a fraction of a second, my companion had vanished utterly from my sight. Clouds of dust had been stirred up and swirled about me, and for the best part of a minute I could see nothing at all. Then, as the dust cleared, I saw that where my colleague had been standing, in front of the tile on the wall, was a large gaping hole. It was clearly a classic Macedonian death trap, of which I had heard vague stories – a pit for the unwary, covered with sticks, dust and other debris, designed to protect the tomb of Pellas, and precisely what those ancient manuscripts had warned against. I ran to the edge of the hole, lay on the floor and peered down, but it was pitch black and I could see nothing. Evidently, Strange’s lantern had been extinguished as he fell. I held my own lantern as far down in the hole as I could, but it did not help. The pit was evidently very deep.
“Strange!’’ I called, again and again, but received no answer. In other circumstances, I might have lit a bundle of dry brushwood and tossed it down the hole to illuminate the bottom of the pit, but of course I could not do that while Strange was lying down there. Nor could I lower my lantern down on a rope, for we had brought no rope with us. I cursed myself for this, although, in truth, it was not my fault but Strange’s. If he had not been so impatient and determined to set off at once to look for Pellas’s tomb, we might have equipped ourselves properly for such an expedition.
Eventually I gave up calling down that dark pit, from which the only response was the echo of my own voice. I could do nothing further by myself; I would have to go and get help. I made my way to the mouth of the cave, where I found to my dismay that night had fallen, and the world outside the cave was as pitch black as that within. There was no moon that night, and save only the faint, cold light of the stars above me, there was not a light to be seen anywhere, from one horizon to the other.
I set off, picking my way carefully down the hill, but if the climb up had been difficult, the descent in the dark was almost impossible. I slipped, I stumbled, I fell. I picked myself up and carried on, but almost at once slipped again on the loose stones with which this part of the mountain was littered. It was almost hopeless, but I could achieve nothing by staying where I was, so I pressed on, testing every foothold before I put my weight on it. Then, perhaps inevitably, one small ledge, which had seemed firm when I tested it, abruptly collapsed when I put my whole weight on it, and in an instant I was plunging down the hill, head over heels, bringing down an avalanche of small rocks and stones with me, and with no idea whatever of where I was falling to. At some point in the fall, I cracked my head on a rock and knocked myself senseless, and that was the last thing I knew.
When I came to my senses, it was broad daylight and two of our porters were bending over me. My clothes were torn, my head ached furiously and I was covered in cuts and bruises. They helped me to my feet, but I could not walk unaided. Mercifully, I had no broken bones, but both my ankles were badly sprained. I explained to the men what had happened the previous evening, and an expedition was mounted to find and rescue my lost companion. The porters had brought a coil of rope with them, and we lowered a lantern into that dreadful pit into which Strange had fallen. It was very deep – at least twenty-five feet down – and we could see by the light of the lantern that Strange lay unmoving at the bottom. One of the porters volunteered to be lowered down, and he reported that, as we feared, Strange was dead. With some difficulty, we eventually got his body out of the pit, and it was dreadful to see the broken remains of what had been a strong and forceful man.
This, then, Georgina, is a true account of what occurred in the wilds of Western Macedonia all those years ago. I recovered soon enough from my injuries, and was feted as the discoverer of the lost tomb of Pellas II, although I always made sure I gave full credit to the part that Strange had played in its discovery. His death at our moment of triumph was sad, but perhaps the most melancholy aspect of it was that no one seemed to mourn him. He was unmarried and had no close family, and when I at last succeeded in discovering some distant relatives of his, and informed them of his death, it was cl
ear from their response that the matter was of no consequence to them. The strangely ironic conclusion of it all, then, was that I, who had disliked the man so intensely in life, was the only one saddened and affected by his death.
Later, when Professor Ormiston retired, I became the new head of the archaeological department, and I suppose I should be happy that my subsequent career was a reasonably distinguished one. But I have always been haunted by what happened that evening in Macedonia. That brief fraction of a second, when Strange screamed and vanished from my sight in a cloud of dust, is the worst moment of my life, and I cannot shake my brain free of it. Could I have done more to save him? Could my warning about the ground beneath his feet have been given more quickly, or in a louder tone? Could I have been more insistent in my warnings about Thesprotia? Were my actions – or lack of them – influenced in any way by my personal dislike of the man? I do not know the answers to any of these questions, but they will not leave me alone. They plague my thoughts during the day, and haunt my dreams at night. For all my professional success, and respected position in society, I have never in my life known untroubled happiness. At risk of embarrassing you, Georgina, I will say that the closest I have ever come to true happiness is in the last year, since you have moved into Bluebell Cottage. I am sorry that in return for the happiness your presence has brought me, I have been the cause of such alarms and upsets for you. It really is not fair on you, and I am not so selfish as to think it is. Sometimes I think that this state of affairs cannot, or should not, continue.
That, I believe, is everything, Georgina, and I hope you will think none the worse of me for it. In conclusion, I should like to offer you three observations, which the above experience and other episodes in my life have taught me. First, that no man, however clever he may think himself, ever really knows what will happen next. Second, that you should always be on your guard, for although first, superficial impressions can sometimes be surprisingly accurate, occasionally they are not, but are, on the contrary, quite misleading. Third, that there is nothing more terrible in all the world than a smile on the face of evil. Remember these things.
Your good friend, James Palfreyman
We sat in silence for some time when I had finished reading the professor’s account.
“Well, well,” said Holmes at last. “It is a singular document indeed, which explains what has been weighing so heavily on the professor’s mind. As he mentioned to you last week, however, Miss Calloway, most of the facts connected with the matter are already widely known – if not to you – so the only really new information concerns his very honest depiction of the strong antipathy he felt for this man Strange. Moreover, he makes no mention of the tile or the anonymous letters he has recently received through the post. I should very much like to know what his private thoughts are on those things. In his absence, however, we must do the best we can, and it is certainly upon the tile that we must now concentrate all our energies.”
“What could the tile possibly tell us?” asked Miss Calloway.
“Someone deliberately sent that tile to the professor,” replied Holmes, “and no doubt the same person also sent the anonymous letters. The aim seems clear enough – to torment him, and upset his equilibrium – and if so, it has certainly been successful: the professor’s worst moments, as you have recounted them to us, have generally followed the receipt of these unwelcome items of post. That is where we must therefore focus our attention, and as the letters have been destroyed, we are left only with the tile.”
“But the professor has buried it somewhere!”
“Then we must dig it up.”
“But it is smashed!”
“Then we must get hold of some strong glue, and try to put it together again. We may then be able to tell where the tile came from, whether it was purchased somewhere, or made individually by the person that sent it.”
“But who would do such a thing?”
“That is what we must discover.”
“There is something that troubles me,” I interrupted. “We have intruded upon Professor Palfreyman’s privacy so far as to read this account, which he wrote specifically for Miss Calloway, but to dig up without his permission something which he himself has buried seems to me a yet deeper invasion of his privacy.”
“I can understand your misgivings, Watson,” returned Holmes, “but I do not share them. I am acting for Miss Calloway, and she has been in danger, as that bruise on the side of her head bears testimony. Her well-being is my first consideration. Compared with that, Professor Palfreyman’s privacy seems to me a secondary matter, and I feel sure that, if it were put to him in those terms, the professor himself could not but agree with me. Now, let us be off to the woods, and Miss Calloway can show us where the professor may have buried the broken tile!”
We passed through the kitchen, where Miss Calloway noted with surprise that the back door from the kitchen to the garden was not locked.
“I have never known the professor to go out and leave the house unlocked before,” said she.
“Then that is certainly curious,” responded Holmes, “but perhaps the reason will become clear to us shortly.”
We followed Miss Calloway down the long back garden, Holmes pausing to pick up a trowel and small pail which were lying on the ground beside a garden shed, until we reached a small wicket gate. “This is the way into the woods,” said our guide as she pushed open the gate and led the way through it, into the wood beyond. It was a dense wood, where the trees grew close together and brambles and other undergrowth filled much of the space between them. Most of the trees had lost their leaves now, and stood bare and damp-looking, but it was still not possible to see very far through the wood, for the cold grey fog had thickened in the last hour, and all but the nearest trees were little more than shapeless blurs.
All at once, Holmes stopped and let out a little cry of surprise. “Halloa! Someone has passed this way today,” said he, indicating clear footprints on the soft earth of the path.
“It was probably the professor,” said Miss Calloway. “Perhaps we shall find him in the woodland glade, smoking his pipe and ruminating.”
“I’m not sure about that,” said Holmes, speaking to himself as much as to our companion. “There is something decidedly odd about these tracks. Please keep as much to the side of the path as you can.”
From that moment on, Holmes led the way, his keen eyes following the footprints in the soft earth beneath us, and occasionally stopping to examine some mark at the side of the path that had caught his eye. Presently we came to a steep incline, where the ground ahead of us rose up ten feet or more.
“Professor Palfreyman believes these tall ridges which run through the wood are evidence of pre-historic agricultural practices,” remarked Miss Calloway, “and have been here since long before the trees. He has often said he will investigate them more thoroughly when he has the time.”
We had been climbing this steep little hill as she had been speaking. Now we reached the top and stood a moment on the narrow ridge. Immediately below us, the ground dropped down once more to a narrow gully, perhaps six feet wide, then rose up again to another ridge, similar to the one on which we were standing. It was not the ground that seized our attention, however, but something else, which had just become visible to us. On the second ridge, or just beyond it, stood a large, spreading tree, and from a low, horizontal branch of this tree, silhouetted against the grey mist, hung a rope, looped in the form of a noose.
“What in heaven’s name is that thing?” cried Miss Calloway in alarm.
“It is a hangman’s noose,” said Holmes. “What devilry is this?” He dashed down the slope and up the other side of the gully, Miss Calloway and I following close behind him. Again, we paused at the top of the ridge, and with a thrill of horror I surveyed the scene before us. Immediately ahead of us now was a small, open glade, perhaps twenty feet in each direction, and hemmed in on all sides by the dense wood. Upon the damp, leaf-strewn turf of this glade, stretched
out on their backs about a dozen feet apart, were the motionless figures of two men, their sightless eyes staring up at the clouds above.
Miss Calloway began to scream, but the scream died on her lips, and she collapsed and would have tumbled back into the gully had I not caught hold of her. Holmes sprang down into the glade and bent to examine the two figures on the ground. The first was an elderly man with grey hair and moustache.
“Dead,” said Holmes after a brief examination. “Head stove in at the back.”
Then he turned his attention to the other figure, a younger man.
“Also dead,” said Holmes. “Shot through the heart.”
Miss Calloway showed some signs of returning consciousness, and Holmes helped me get her off the ridge and into the glade, where I sat her on a large fallen log and put my arm round her, as much to physically support her as to comfort her.
“Who are these people?” Holmes asked her as she looked about her in bewilderment.
“That is Professor Palfreyman,” she replied, indicating the grey-haired man, “and the other is Tim – Mr Martin. Are they both dead?”
Holmes nodded. “We can do nothing for them now. Watson, please take Miss Calloway back to the house and give her something suitable to drink, and send that gardener for the police. You’d better write a note for him to take. Stress that the matter is of the utmost urgency. Don’t bother with any details; just state that two men have been found dead, and that they may need to call in someone from Scotland Yard.”
The hardest part of what Holmes had asked me to do was getting Miss Calloway back to the house. She was, understandably, in a state of extreme nervous collapse, and almost fainted twice more before we reached the kitchen door. In between times, she kept bursting into tears and weeping copiously, and I had to keep stopping to comfort her.
The Mammoth Book of the Lost Chronicles of Sherlock Holmes Page 15
