Even to one so ignorant of architectural history as I, it was obvious that little of the crusader’s former home remained. I had half expected battlements and arrow slits, but instead it presented a plain, rather flattened aspect, with a tiled roof and sash windows of the type popular in the last century. Only as we drew nearer was it possible to make out a set of unsettling carvings surrounding the doorway – not gargoyles exactly, but something reminiscent of the demons that are often found displayed on the exterior of continental churches. Their presence was unexpected and seemed out of place, a remnant of an era long gone, and I wondered if perhaps they were all that survived of the original building.
Holmes too had noticed the carvings. He stopped before them and examined them for a minute, reaching up to run his long fingers across the distorted face of the nearest.
“Unusual,” he said, rubbing the stone dust from his hands. “But let us get inside before the sunlight disappears altogether.”
I nodded in agreement and rapped firmly on the door. There was no response at first, then footsteps could be heard approaching the door from the other side. It opened silently, revealing a short, elderly man with heavy side whiskers and small round glasses, framed by the gaslight which shone in the hallway behind him.
“Mr Holmes, Dr Watson,” he said. “Delighted to meet you. Lawrence Buxton, at your service.” He smiled shyly. “You wonder that I know your names already? That is simply explained. Knowing that I have been working on a history of the family and the manor house, Mr Thompson asked me to be here to greet you and the other visitors in his stead.” He held out an arm, inviting us inside. “I trust you had no difficulty finding the house?”
“The station guard provided us with directions,” I confirmed as we stepped inside. “I rather enjoyed the walk, in fact. Even though it is not overly warm, these country lanes make a pleasant change from traipsing around rainy London streets, and the house is quite striking.”
Buxton smiled with pleasure. “I’m so glad you like it. It has, of course, been extensively renovated over the years and in the process lost some of its charm, but one can yet make out some of the more interesting original features.”
“The carvings over the doorway, for example?”
We had by now passed through the main hallway, and into a large reception room, but Buxton stopped to consider Holmes’s remark.
“Actually no, those date to the fourteenth century, and the core of the house is much older than that. Built to the specifications of the fifth baron, they represent spirits and demons from the pantheon of certain Far East religions, and are echoed by exact duplicates in the grounds’ mausoleum to the north of the house. Their identities have been lost to us, but I am currently working on a short monograph in which I suggest potential sources. I would be happy to send you a copy once it is complete.”
Buxton was an academic to his fingertips, obviously willing to provide a short lecture on anything touching his area of expertise, no matter how abstruse it might be. I was polite, however, and said I would be honoured to read his paper, which seemed to please him.
“Then I shall be sure to send you a copy in due course. But I am being remiss in my duties. All but one of the other guests have already arrived and are upstairs, settling in. Captain Hopkirk has been in touch to say that he has been delayed, however, and will not be here before eight.
“But perhaps I can show you to your rooms, and you can refresh yourselves before dinner? Or would you prefer a more liquid form of refreshment?” He smiled at his own small joke, and gestured towards a nearby doorway, through which I could see a long room stretching to a magnificent fireplace. “The main hall is much admired by visitors,” he concluded, “and offers rather a splendid view of the grounds.”
The walk from the station had not been taxing, but it had been warm and suddenly the idea of a refreshing drink seemed a capital notion. I said as much to Buxton and he, with a tiny bow, gestured that we should precede him through the doorway.
* * *
The main hall was sparsely furnished and, while grand in size, obviously little used. The only decorations were a map of the estate on one wall and a large painting hung above the imposing fireplace. It showed what I assumed was the Thorpe family, or a previous generation of them at least, for the style of dress they wore was that of the previous century.
Buxton noticed me looking. “Painted by George Hayter,” he said, then added conspiratorially, “It is the last truly valuable painting in the collection. Or at least the last which can still be accounted for.”
There was no fire lit, but the unseasonal warmth of the day had heated the room to a comfortable temperature, and as Holmes and I relaxed into the two armchairs in front of the hearth, I was pleased once more by the thought of a few days in pleasant surroundings.
Our host brought us each a drink and took a seat between us, facing the fireplace. I pulled my pipe and tobacco from my pocket and began to fill the bowl, content to listen as Holmes and Buxton talked.
“I assume that Mr Thompson informed you why we have come to Thorpe Manor?” Holmes began as soon as he had lit one of his own gaspers.
“Only in the most general terms. You are not one of the bidders for the estate, I know, but are…’interested parties’ was the term Mr Thompson employed. Beyond that, however…”
He fell silent, waiting for one of us to provide an answer to his unspoken question. Holmes, however, replied with a question of his own.
“You are an expert on the manor, I believe, Mr Buxton?”
“I flatter myself that I know as much about the house as any man. In part – specifically, this central section of the dining room, the library, the main hall and the rooms directly upstairs – it is an ancient building, however, with a great deal of history attached to it, and it would take longer than the few years I have spent here to claim genuine expertise.” He gave a small, self-deprecating smile.
“What of the legends which surround it?” Holmes asked.
The look of dismay that crossed Buxton’s face was unmistakable. “I know a little of those, too. I wish that it were not so; the house has enough legitimate history in its bricks that it has no need of the cheap showmanship of the haunted house.”
He gave the last words such a weight of loathing that there could be no doubt as to his own views on the subject. Even so, it was best to be certain.
“You do not give the story of the ghost any credence, Mr Buxton?” I asked, in what I hoped was a neutral tone. “We met a fellow on the train who was quite convinced of the truth of the matter.”
“On the train, you say? That would be Simeon Forward, I imagine. There are no other villagers away that I know of. Like all of them, he is a slave to superstition. I, however, am not. The historical record concerning the late Edouard de Trop is remarkably complete, and full of both fascination and horror. There is no need for foolish embellishment of the sort propagated by credulous villagers and circulation-hungry reporters. The former at least have the lack of education as an excuse, but the latter…” He tailed off with a sniff of disdain.
“Quite so,” Holmes murmured with obvious approval. “Though my question pertained to the legend of the lost Thorpe Ruby rather than to the ghostly presence which is rumoured to guard it. And I believe,” he concluded, “that we have found exactly the sort of person to help us achieve that end.”
Buxton had grimaced throughout his description of the supernatural but he brightened at Holmes’s closing words, and after that could not have been more affable. He insisted on replenishing our drinks then resumed his seat and busied himself with lighting a pipe. Only after we were all comfortably smoking did he proceed to explain further his own opinion on the subject of the de Trop ghost.
“You must understand, Mr Holmes, that I have carried out considerable – and though I say it myself, quite important – work on the history of the local area in the past two years. My forthcoming essay on the practices of worship in rural Yorkshire in the eleventh cen
tury, will, I am confident, prove revolutionary once published. And yet, the only thing that seems to be of any interest to the wider world is the, in my opinion, distinctly unchristian local belief in ghosts and ghouls.
“Twice I have had to refuse an interview to reporters from the yellow press, you know, after discovering they had no intention of printing my views on the increased use of candles in the latter Middle Ages, but wished only to know if I had ever seen the ghost!”
Buxton had become rather red in the face as he spoke but now he stopped, and apologised if he had seemed to be hectoring us. With a contrite smile he invited Holmes to ask any question, and he would do his very best to give a satisfactory reply.
“If you could tell us exactly what happened to the unfortunate Edouard de Trop, that would be of great assistance. We have, of course, been given the rough outline of the story, but the devil is in the detail, I’m sure you would agree.”
Buxton gave a short barking laugh. “Literally, if the villagers are to be believed, Mr Holmes. But I would be more than happy to provide the verifiable historical facts. They will serve, I hope, as a counterweight to the… more superstitious accounts you will undoubtedly hear in the village.”
He puffed on his pipe for a second, considering where to begin.
“You are aware, I assume, that de Trop was accused of stealing a valuable native gem and returning with it to England? That he was accused is certainly true; it is mentioned in two distinct contemporary documents. The gem – interestingly, it has no fanciful nickname – is also potentially mentioned in the writings of a Saracen philosopher of the time, who notes that its loss to an enemy knight was a grave insult, which must be avenged at all costs. However, he appears to be referring to a wholly corporeal form of vengeance, rather than by means of a curse. There is, I must admit, some controversy among scholars over this point, with particular weight placed upon a possible mistranslation of certain key phrases in the account. In any case, what is generally agreed is that, whether a supernatural influence is intended or not, Saladin, the ruler of the Saracen, also ordered a group of his fabled assassins to follow the knight to England, in order to kill the thief and retrieve the gem.”
He paused and gestured expansively with his pipe. “It is at this point that events lose some of their historical certainty. We know that de Trop arrived back at what is now Thorpe Manor in the winter of 1188, and there is a single reference by a local chronicler to ‘a jewel of great beauty, gripped in talons of gold’, which was in his possession. But beyond that we have no definitive means of proving that de Trop acquired this jewel by underhand means, or indeed that the jewel in question is the self-same gem mentioned by the Arabic scholar. What we do know is that the knight was to die in quite horrific circumstances before the year was out, and that ‘dark-skinned men’ were involved in his death.”
“Dark-skinned men?”
“That is the phrase used. Let me see, the exact line is…yes, ‘And at the feast of St Lucius was seen the Lord Edouard to return and great was the rejoicing, though all was turned to ash by the dark-skinned men who followed him like dogs to the hare, and slew him in silence and in blood.’”
Buxton had a fine speaking voice and the ancient words rolled from his tongue with a pleasing richness. But I felt a shiver run along my back, and though it was by no means dark outside yet, the sunlight was beginning to fade and shadows in the hall seemed to encroach upon our little group as he completed his recital. I was suddenly terribly tired and in need of sleep.
Holmes’s interest had been kindled, however, and I knew that he would be content to stay up all night, teasing out everything he could from the elderly historian.
“Fascinating,” he said, leaning forward in his chair, pipe and whisky forgotten. “‘In silence and in blood’? An odd way of phrasing it. But then, I have never had an ear for poetry.”
“Poetry, perhaps, but entirely explicable, I assure you, Mr Holmes. The story has it that de Trop, as a staunch and hardy Englishman, was horribly tortured, with both his arms and his legs broken, to force him to reveal where he had hidden the gem. In the end, so determined was he to say nothing to his savage captors that he bit through his own tongue, rendering him unable to speak.”
I grimaced, but Holmes, as ever, was uninterested in what he would no doubt have described as “local colour”. “And the gem was never found?”
“No, Mr Holmes. The gem, if it ever actually existed – and I for one am not convinced of that – disappeared on the night of de Trop’s alleged murder.”
“Much as the Thorpe art collection has now disappeared?”
Buxton gave Holmes a curious look. “Indeed, Mr Holmes, though there has long been gossip in the village that Lord Thorpe must be funding himself somehow, for he has not made a penny from his land in forty years.”
“Have you noticed paintings going missing in the time you have been visiting the manor house?” Holmes pressed.
Buxton shook his head. “I have not, but I would not be likely to. The entirety of my access to the house before this week was to pass from the front door to the library and back again, and the majority of the Thorpe Collection was, allegedly, kept under lock and key in a storage room upstairs. Whenever I visited, the doors to the other rooms were always closed and I was not encouraged to open them.”
“That is a shame, Mr Buxton,” replied Holmes. “It would have been interesting to be able to establish a timetable of some sort. But I must admit that the walk from the station has left me both hungrier and a little more tired than I thought, and it would be good to freshen up before dinner.”
“Forgive me, gentlemen,” replied our host, jumping to his feet. “I have been remiss in my manners. As I said, few visitors come to Thorpe Manor and none with so sympathetic an ear. I fear I have kept you from your rest in my enthusiasm. Please, do follow me, and I will show you up to your rooms.”
With that, he led the way out of the hall and up the staircase, indicating the various rooms as he did so. The main hall from which we had just departed was positioned to the right of the stairs and behind it was a small library (“now poorly stocked”, according to our guide). Beyond that, behind the stairs lay the servants’ area (“largely abandoned”, Buxton explained) and a doorway which led down to an extensive storage cellar. On the left-hand side of the main stairs lay the dining room, to which we would repair for dinner later. Upstairs, Buxton continued, were the guest rooms and the entry to the east wing (“shuttered and closed for thirty years and more”, our host confided). Apart from that, he concluded, everything of interest on the estate lay in the grounds. Exactly what he meant he did not say, but in any case I felt a headache coming on, and decided an explanation could wait.
Rather than speak further, therefore, I was happy to take my leave and open the window of my room, allowing the cool early evening air to circulate. We had been travelling for most of the day and I had taken two large whiskies on a largely empty stomach. A wash, a change of clothes and, most importantly, a good meal and all would be well, I was sure.
* * *
An hour later, the sound of a gong announced dinner, and Holmes and I met on the landing outside our rooms. He appeared in good spirits, the best indeed that I had seen him in since he had revealed the identity of the real Duke of Forgill several months before.
“I think this may well turn out to be a diverting break, after all, Watson,” he announced as I closed the door to my room behind me. “Mr Buxton is, in his own way, as much a fantasist as the ghost-fearing Simeon Forward, but some of his conversation is not without interest, and I fancy the next day or so may prove of more consequence than the same period spent in Baker Street. And clearly the country air has already done wonders for your leg, for I saw no sign of a limp as you positively strode along the path from the station.”
I smiled ruefully. “A change in scenery can be beneficial for all manner of ailments, Holmes.”
We both laughed at that, and still laughing, we made our way down
stairs.
Chapter Three
Dinner for Seven
I had thought we would be given an opportunity to meet our fellow guests over a drink before going into dinner, but Buxton met us at the bottom of the stairs with an apology, explaining that, due to a lack of staff, it had been thought prudent to go directly through to the dining room, where introductions might be made while we ate. Holmes, never one to stand on ceremony, was quick to reassure him that no apology was needed.
I must admit that I too was not displeased to have a chance to observe the others before learning anything about them. Holmes routinely surprised and impressed strangers by deducing their professions and way of life apparently from thin air, and the thought occurred that it might be interesting to see how accurate I could be in the same position.
We therefore followed the little historian through, the final guests to arrive.
* * *
The dining room, like the main hall, gave the impression of a once great room now much reduced in stature. The two magnificent chandeliers suspended above the long oak dining table must once have illuminated every corner with a shimmering light, but now hung dusty and unlit, replaced by a series of elegant but unpolished silver candelabra. The wallpaper, which showed in deep maroon rectangles at regular intervals where paintings had once hung, was faded and frayed at the edges and even in the uncertain light of a candle flame, the chips and marks on the paintwork of the wainscot were plain to see.
At least the view through the large window which took up most of the farthest wall was undiminished; through it I could just make out some low-lying hills in the distance and, closer at hand, a wide expanse of garden, dotted by strange shadows of irregular shape and size and small groves of trees.
The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes--Sherlock Holmes and the Crusader's Curse Page 2
