Dawn was breaking, chill and grey, as the train pulled out of Liverpool Street Station early that same morning. I had been too tired and drained of energy to question both the reason and the need for this sojourn before going to bed in an attempt to snatch a few hours’ rest. However, I believed that I had some notion of Holmes’ plans, and I thought that a night’s refreshing sleep would sharpen the brain and bring the whole picture into focus. I was wrong. For a start I managed but four hours’ sleep. Holmes was shaking my shoulder and rousing me at five. ‘Come along, Watson, we have a train to catch. Never let it be said that the old hounds were slow to lead the chase.’
‘Old hounds,’ I murmured drowsily, still hugging my pillow. ‘Haven’t you heard the saying about letting sleeping dogs lie?’
Holmes replied with a sound that fell somewhere between a laugh and a snort. ‘We leave in half an hour,’ he cried, slamming the door behind him.
Once the train had left the confines of London, a pale, watery sun struggled to make an appearance in the slate-coloured sky and I managed finally to shrug off the lethargy of sleep. ‘I presume,’ I said, addressing my friend, who was sitting huddled in the corner of our First Class compartment, staring out of the window and smoking a cigarette, ‘that our visit to Norwich is connected with the shooting accident on Lord Felshaw’s estate.’
‘Quite right, Watson. The young man whom we saw yesterday at Melmoth’s place was so over-confident that he rather foolishly gave us too much information for his own good. Tobias Felshaw, another of the decadent Melmoth crowd.’
‘And you suspect him of involvement in this affair?’
‘Right up to his corrupt, aristocratic neck.’
‘Melmoth’s accomplice.’
‘Yes. The pair of them now have three murders on their heads.’
‘Three?’
‘Daventry the night watchman; Sir George Faversham; and the poor devil who now lies in Melmoth’s coffin.’
‘You really think that they murdered Sir George because he could not or would not help them?’
‘Quite right, Watson. No doubt they approached him first with Setaph’s key, asking him for help in deciphering it with the promise of... well, any treasures found along with the Scroll of the Dead.’ Holmes gave a dry chuckle. ‘It was somewhat naive of them to make the approach directly; when Sir George failed to oblige them, for whatever reason, they had no option but to kill him.’
‘Because he knew their secret.’
‘Exactly.’
I shuddered at the thought of such a cold-blooded murder and then brought to mind the pale, cruel face of Melmoth with that absurd, maniacal glitter in his eyes. There is something inhuman about that kind of calculated butchery,’ I said.
‘These are evil men, Watson. They delight in their sin for its own sake.’
‘You think we will find them at Holden Hall?’
Holmes narrowed his eyes and blew out a thin wisp of smoke. ‘I cannot say for certain how events will fall out; but I am convinced that we shall find something to our advantage.’
Holden Hall was some twenty miles out of the old cathedral city of Norwich, so we hired a pony and trap at the station and drove ourselves. After a pleasant spell along some country roads, we entered the village of Holden Parva and I espied the village inn, The Blacksmith’s Arms. ‘My stomach tells me it’s lunch time, Holmes,’ I said, indicating the hostelry. ‘I’ve had nothing to eat since breakfast at six this morning, and that was only a tepid cup of coffee and a piece of toast.’
To my surprise, Holmes acquiesced to my request without objection. Tying our horse to a large iron ring fixed into the wall outside the inn, we entered. It was a rough and ready place with stone floors and simple wooden benches and stools, but all looked clean and tidy and the landlord, a short, dark-haired fellow, bade us a cheery welcome. We secured ourselves some bread, cheese and pickle, and a tankard of ale and sat at one of the benches to consume our fare. There were several other customers, men in rustic dress – moleskin trousers, gaiters, leather jerkins, and broad belts. A little knot of them leaned on the bar, deep in conversation with the landlord.
Holmes remained silent throughout our meal, but he was observing all about him with careful scrutiny. When we had devoured the last of the cheese, the landlord came over to collect our plates.
‘That was just what the doctor ordered,’ said Holmes cheerily giving me a sly grin. ‘Tell me, landlord, I couldn’t help hearing you talking about the dreadful shooting accident that occurred up at the Hall a few days ago.’
The rosy features of the innkeeper lost some of their colour. ‘You’ve heard about it then, have you sir? My ain’t it surprisin’ how news travels?’
‘I had business up at the Hall with Lord Felshaw’s son and I was told he was away attending a funeral. That is how I came to know of the shooting.’
‘Aye, it’s a wicked affair,’ cried one of the men at the bar, who boasted a full thatch of yellow hair with a matching beard that was in danger of engulfing his whole face. ‘It may be wrong of me to say so, but those two, young master Tobias and his peculiar friend, have been asking for some disaster to fall upon their heads for some time.’
‘I take it that the “young master” is not liked?’
This remark provoked a chorus of guffaws.
‘You can say that again, sir,’ grinned the landlord. ‘Apart from anythin’ else, he ain’t natural.’ He winked grotesquely at Holmes. ‘If you get my meanin‘. Not what you’d call... a man.’
Holmes responded with an expression of shrewd comprehension.
‘Always having strange parties and the like up at the Hall,’ chipped in another fellow at the bar, while the others nodded, all apparently warming to a favourite topic of conversation.
‘He was cruel, too,’ added the fellow with the yellow beard. ‘On one occasion he thrashed a groom for not saddling his horse properly. He was hurt so bad the poor fellow nearly died. His lordship’s father had the whole thing hushed up and the chap was paid handsomely not to bring charges.’
‘This Tobias appears to be a very unpleasant customer,’ observed Holmes darkly. ‘I begin to think that I was fortunate that he was away when I called. He sounds somewhat unstable.’
‘When you’ve money,’ announced a whippet-faced fellow with slurred speech, the one in the group who seemed to have consumed more beer than the rest, ‘when you’ve money, you can get away with murder.’
There was a sudden silence and Holmes’ eyes twinkled merrily. ‘You’re not saying there was something amiss about the shooting accident, are you?’ he asked casually smiling at the men.
They glanced at each other, apparently tongue-tied.
‘Well, let’s put it like this, mister,’ whippet-face announced suddenly ‘we’ve only got his lordship’s words as to what went on. He has the Devil’s own temper and I wouldn’t put it past him to have shot his friend over some argument or other.’
‘Shut up, now, Nathan,’ said the bearded drinker quietly, nudging his companion in the ribs.
But Holmes was not going to let it stop there. The momentum was going nicely, and I could tell from his expression that he was aware there was more to know and that he wanted to know it. ‘But surely,’ he said in warm tones, as though he were an old friend of theirs, ‘there is the testimony of the estate worker who was with them when the accident happened.’
Whippet-face laughed. ‘Good point, sir. Good point. Only young Alfred’s done a bunk.’
‘You mean he’s disappeared?’
‘We reckon it’s like Thompson the groom all over again. He’s been paid to go away and be quiet,’ said the landlord softly as he moved back to the bar.
‘He’s not been seen around the estate since the accident,’ said whippet-face.
‘What about at home?’ I asked.
‘He lives on his own, has a little cottage on the estate, down by the lake.’
‘Look, gentlemen, isn’t it time we changed the conversation, eh?�
�� said the landlord nervously. ‘Too much talk about the goings on up at the Hall and it’s likely to bring a curse on the Inn.’
‘The only curse I’ve got is the missus,’ moaned whippet-face miserably; and then suddenly his face cracked into a wide beam as an infectious high-pitched whinny of merriment escaped his lips, causing his companions to laugh along with him. The tension was dispelled and they turned away from us and began to indulge in merry banter about whose turn it was to buy the next round of drinks.
Holmes leaned over and whispered in my ear. ‘You are invaluable on a case, Watson. Your suggestion to take lunch here was a master stroke.’
We left The Blacksmith’s Arms to the accompaniment of a series of nods and mumbled farewells from our lunch-time companions.
‘What those poor devils don’t know is that young Alfred hasn’t done a bunk with some loot,’ remarked Holmes once we had climbed aboard our trap. ‘He’s the corpse at Melmoth’s funeral today.’
I felt a sudden chill at the thought of the heartless nerve required to contemplate and plan such an atrocious act, let alone carry it out.
‘I had deduced these facts while still in London,’ admitted my friend, ‘and although it is satisfying to have things confirmed, there is a greater purpose to our sojourn.’
‘Which is?’
To test out a little theory of mine.’
I was well aware that it was useless to enquire what this theory was. I knew my friend of old and how he loved to surprise me in his theatrical manner by revealing at the eleventh hour some remarkable development in the investigation. He would explain it all at the time it suited him and not before, despite any pleas from me. If I had learned anything from my years with Sherlock Holmes, it was patience.
We continued our journey to Holden Hall, leaving all signs of habitation behind. We became enveloped in a green world of rustling, budding greenery, birdsong and animal calls – a natural world far removed from the greed and cruelty of mankind. I had slipped into a reverie about man’s inhumanity to man when Holmes nudged my elbow and pointed. Through the trees, I observed in the distance a great house, with a large stretch of water beyond.
‘There lies our destination.’
‘The lake?’
My companion smiled. ‘Not quite. Alfred’s cottage. Remember our loquacious friend back at the inn informed us that his cottage was down by the lake. Now, in order to make our visit less public, we’ll slip over the wall yonder and follow the line of trees, using it as a screen, until we reach the water.’
‘What if we’re spotted – apprehended? There must be a game-keeper on patrol.’
‘I will think of something, never fear.’
‘We may not be given the opportunity to explain ourselves.’
‘You always look on the black side, Watson. You have your revolver with you, haven’t you? Good. Now do come on.’
Leaving the horse and trap off the road behind a thicket, we clambered over the low wall and entered the grounds of Holden Hall.
By now it was two in the afternoon and the early promise of a fine spring day was dwindling. Amorphous grey clouds were forming in the sky, gradually but relentlessly blocking out any trace of the pale eggshell blue. The breeze had also stiffened, rattling the branches above our heads, shaking the new green shoots wildly.
There was no given path and so we aimed ourselves in the direction of the lake and set off. After travelling some three hundred yards through the wood, the thick, green undergrowth pressing in on us from both sides, Holmes stopped and pulled an eyeglass from his coat. Then he passed it to me, indicating where I should look. I moved the eyeglass slowly across the terrain beyond the trees, scanning the grey choppy waters of the lake, then shifted my gaze to the greensward on shore and up towards the bank of trees on the horizon. It was then that I observed it: a little cottage perched on the edge of the wood above the lake. It was a small, ramshackle building of honey-coloured stone. The garden appeared to be overgrown and the windows were bleared with dirt. ‘Alfred’s cottage,’ I whispered.
‘It must be. Observe how the wood curves around behind it. We can make our way to the rear of the building by continuing to use the trees as a screen,’ he said, pocketing his telescope. ‘Come along, Watson, the game’s afoot.’ And with this utterance, he was off at great speed through the undergrowth.
As we moved through the trees in line with the sweep of the lake, we heard a gunshot echo in the woods behind us. We dropped to the ground and listened. Moments later there was another sharp crack of gunfire.
‘There is a gamekeeper about,’ I whispered harshly.
And going about his appointed task, by the sound of it,’ remarked Holmes with a tight smile. ‘Those shots were a fair distance away. Provided we keep our senses alert, we should have no difficulty escaping his notice.’
We waited in silence for some little time but heard no further noise of gunfire, and so we recommenced our trek through the undergrowth. As we moved, I strained my ears to pick up any unusual sound, anything to signal that danger was near, but apart from the wind through the trees and the occasional animal noise, I heard nothing of significance.
Within ten minutes we had reached the section of the wood directly behind the cottage. The building appeared still and empty. There was no smoke spiralling from its drunken chimney pot and no sight nor sound to suggest that it was occupied.
‘I hope we are doing the right thing, Holmes. What if it belongs to some other estate worker?’
Holmes ignored my remark and motioned me to follow him out of the wood, down towards the cottage. With some misgivings, I followed.
There was a low wall and some outbuildings at the rear of the property, and a pen which at one time had obviously contained chickens. Holmes instructed me to stay by the wall while he, crouching low, crept up to the window and peered over the sill. He turned to me and shook his head. ‘You stay there and keep out of sight,’ he hissed, ‘and I will take a look around the front.’
Before I had the opportunity to reply, my companion had disappeared down the side of the house. With a resigned shrug of the shoulders, I knelt down in the damp grass by the wall and waited. Time ticked by with no signs of movement in the house. A fine drizzle now began to fall and I tensed at every small noise: the creaking and rustle of the trees behind me, the unrecognisable cry of some woodland creature, and the wail of the wind as it swept around the corners of the cottage. The old cottage stared back at me blankly, the dirty windows and the begrimed door revealing none of its secrets.
After a time, impatience overcame all other considerations. I rose to my feet, intent on following Holmes around to the front of the cottage, when suddenly the rear door began to move. I dropped to my knees again and watched. At first the handle trembled indignantly and then started to turn with a rusty creak. I held my breath as the door juddered away from the warped frame and began to open, reluctantly, an inch at a time. Automatically, my hand reached into my coat pocket for my revolver as a dark figure, its face in shadow, was revealed in the doorway.
‘Sorry to have kept you waiting,’ came a voice, obviously addressing me. ‘Do come in.’
Eight
THE SECRET OF THE COTTAGE
The dark figure emerged from the doorway into the daylight. It was Sherlock Holmes.
‘Come out, Watson,’ he said. ‘There is no further need to remain in hiding.’
My friend ushered me into the cottage, pushing the door back into its weather-warped frame so that it closed behind us. He must have read the concern in my face, for he patted me on the back reassuringly. ‘Don’t look so worried, Watson. There is no one here other than us.’
‘A wasted journey, then.’
‘On the contrary,’ beamed Holmes, ‘this place is a real treasure house. Come, let me show you.’
Taking my arm, he led me into a small kitchen. In the centre stood a rough wooden table on which lay a mouldy chunk of bread, three dirty tin plates, and some crockery. Over the grate hung
a large greasy pot which contained the congealed dregs of some foul concoction.
‘Rather a lot of dirty dishes for one estate worker, don’t you think?’ Holmes said, pointedly.
‘A lazy estate worker. It is obvious that he has not washed up for some time.’
‘Not quite. Scrutiny of these plates reveals that they contain the remains of the same meal.’
‘What are you suggesting?’
‘On examining the debris here,’ he said, picking up what looked like the bones of a rabbit from one of the plates, ‘it seems clear that two people have partaken of this rabbit stew. Two plates, two mugs, and two sets of cutlery.’ He dropped the bone and it clattered noisily onto the plate.
‘Two people. But who?’
‘Come, Watson. Use your brain. Who has need to hide out here?’
‘I suppose you mean Melmoth. Alfred gets the coffin, and Melmoth inherits the cottage where he can lie low for a while.’
Holmes nodded. And...?’
‘It can’t be Tobias Felshaw. He was in London yesterday and he will be at the funeral today.’
‘Indeed. So who is the other character in this puzzle who remains missing?’
I thought for a moment, and then the answer came to me in a blinding flash. ‘You can’t mean Miss Andrews’ father, Sir Alistair?’ I cried.
‘Bull’s eye,’ he cried, rubbing his hands together with enthusiasm. ‘Good man. Yes, of course. An ideal place to hold him as a prisoner until they forced him to decipher Setaph’s key and then the stolen papyrus. There are two beds upstairs: both have been slept in, but one still has rope tied to its head, obviously where Sir Alistair was secured during the night. And then there is this...’
Again he took my arm and pulled me into the tiny front parlour of the cottage. The only furniture in the room was an ancient sofa and a threadbare armchair pulled up to the tiny fireplace. Holmes leaned over the side of this chair and scooped up a handful of crumpled papers which had been lying on the floor by its side.
‘Look at these,’ he said, grinning and thrusting them in my hand.
The Scroll of the Dead Page 7
