by David Marcum
“It had been used for the storage of wood, but the billets, which had evidently been littered over the floor, were now piled at the sides, so as to leave a clear space in the middle. In this space lay a large and heavy flagstone with a rusted iron ring in the centre to which a thick shepherd’s-check muffler was attached.
“‘By Jove!’ cried my client. ‘That’s Brunton’s muffler. I have seen it on him, and could swear to it. What has the villain been doing here?’
“At my suggestion a couple of the county police were summoned to be present, and I then endeavored to raise the stone by pulling on the cravat. I could only move it slightly, and it was with the aid of one of the constables that I succeeded at last in carrying it to one side. A black hole yawned beneath into which we all peered, while Musgrave, kneeling at the side, pushed down the lantern.
“A small chamber about seven feet deep and four feet square lay open to us. At one side of this was a squat, brass-bound wooden box, the lid of which was hinged upwards, with this curious old-fashioned key projecting from the lock. It was furred outside by a thick layer of dust, and damp and worms had eaten through the wood, so that a crop of livid fungi was growing on the inside of it. Several discs of metal, old coins apparently, such as I hold here, were scattered over the bottom of the box, but it contained nothing else.
“At the moment, however, we had no thought for the old chest, for our eyes were riveted upon that which crouched beside it. It was the figure of a man, clad in a suit of black, who squatted down upon his hams with his forehead sunk upon the edge of the box and his two arms thrown out on each side of it. The attitude had drawn all the stagnant blood to the face, and no man could have recognized that distorted liver-colored countenance, but his height, his dress, and his hair were all sufficient to show my client, when we had drawn the body up, that it was indeed his missing butler. He had been dead some days, but there was no wound or bruise upon his person to show how he had met his dreadful end. When his body had been carried from the cellar we found ourselves still confronted with a problem which was almost as formidable as that with which we had started.
“I confess that so far, Watson, I had been disappointed in my investigation. I had reckoned upon solving the matter when once I had found the place referred to in the Ritual; but now I was there, and was apparently as far as ever from knowing what it was which the family had concealed with such elaborate precautions. It is true that I had thrown a light upon the fate of Brunton, but now I had to ascertain how that fate had come upon him, and what part had been played in the matter by the woman who had disappeared. I sat down upon a keg in the corner and thought the whole matter carefully over.
“It was the figure of a man.”
“You know my methods in such cases, Watson. I put myself in the man’s place and, having first gauged his intelligence, I try to imagine how I should myself have proceeded under the same circumstances. In this case the matter was simplified by Brunton’s intelligence being quite first-rate, so that it was unnecessary to make any allowance for the personal equation, as the astronomers have dubbed it. He knew that something valuable was concealed. He had spotted the place. He found that the stone which covered it was just too heavy for a man to move unaided. What would he do next? He could not get help from outside, even if he had some one whom he could trust, without the unbarring of doors and considerable risk of detection. It was better, if he could, to have his helpmate inside the house. But whom could he ask? This girl had been devoted to him. A man always finds it hard to realize that he may have finally lost a woman’s love, however badly he may have treated her. He would try by a few attentions to make his peace with the girl Howells, and then would engage her as his accomplice. Together they would come at night to the cellar, and their united force would suffice to raise the stone. So far I could follow their actions as if I had actually seen them.
“But for two of them, and one a woman, it must have been heavy work the raising of that stone. A burly Sussex policeman and I had found it no light job. What would they do to assist them? Probably what I should have done myself. I rose and examined carefully the different billets of wood which were scattered round the floor. Almost at once I came upon what I expected. One piece, about three feet in length, had a very marked indentation at one end, while several were flattened at the sides as if they had been compressed by some considerable weight. Evidently, as they had dragged the stone up they had thrust the chunks of wood into the chink, until at last, when the opening was large enough to crawl through, they would hold it open by a billet placed lengthwise, which might very well become indented at the lower end, since the whole weight of the stone would press it down on to the edge of this other slab. So far I was still on safe ground.
“And now how was I to proceed to reconstruct this midnight drama? Clearly, only one could fit into the hole, and that one was Brunton. The girl must have waited above. Brunton then unlocked the box, handed up the contents presumably – since they were not to be found – and then – and then what happened?
“What smouldering fire of vengeance had suddenly sprung into flame in this passionate Celtic woman’s soul when she saw the man who had wronged her – wronged her, perhaps, far more than we suspected – in her power? Was it a chance that the wood had slipped, and that the stone had shut Brunton into what had become his sepulchre? Had she only been guilty of silence as to his fate? Or had some sudden blow from her hand dashed the support away and sent the slab crashing down into its place? Be that as it might, I seemed to see that woman’s figure still clutching at her treasure trove and flying wildly up the winding stair, with her ears ringing perhaps with the muffled screams from behind her and with the drumming of frenzied hands against the slab of stone which was choking her faithless lover’s life out.
“Here was the secret of her blanched face, her shaken nerves, her peals of hysterical laughter on the next morning. But what had been in the box? What had she done with that? Of course, it must have been the old metal and pebbles which my client had dragged from the mere. She had thrown them in there at the first opportunity to remove the last trace of her crime.
“For twenty minutes I had sat motionless, thinking the matter out. Musgrave still stood with a very pale face, swinging his lantern and peering down into the hole.
“‘These are coins of Charles the First,’ said he, holding out the few which had been in the box. ‘You see we were right in fixing our date for the Ritual.’
“‘We may find something else of Charles the First,’ I cried, as the probable meaning of the first two questions of the Ritual broke suddenly upon me. ‘Let me see the contents of the bag which you fished from the mere.’
“We ascended to his study, and he laid the débris before me. I could understand his regarding it as of small importance when I looked at it, for the metal was almost black and the stones lustreless and dull. I rubbed one of them on my sleeve, however, and it glowed afterwards like a spark in the dark hollow of my hand. The metal work was in the form of a double ring, but it had been bent and twisted out of its original shape.
“‘You must bear in mind,’ said I, ‘that the royal party made head in England even after the death of the king, and that when they at last fled they probably left many of their most precious possessions buried behind them, with the intention of returning for them in more peaceful times.’
“‘My ancestor, Sir Ralph Musgrave, as a prominent Cavalier and the right-hand man of Charles the Second in his wanderings,’ said my friend.
“‘Ah, indeed!’ I answered. ‘Well now, I think that really should give us the last link that we wanted. I must congratulate you on coming into the possession, though in rather a tragic manner of a relic which is of great intrinsic value, but of even greater importance as an historical curiosity.’
“‘What is it, then?’ he gasped in astonishment.
“‘It is nothing less than the ancient crown of the kings of England.’
“‘The crown!’
“‘
Precisely. Consider what the Ritual says: How does it run? “Whose was it?” “His who is gone.” That was after the execution of Charles. Then, “Who shall have it?” “He who will come.” That was Charles the Second, whose advent was already foreseen. There can, I think, be no doubt that this battered and shapeless diadem once encircled the brows of the royal Stuarts.’
“‘And how came it in the pond?’
“‘Ah, that is a question that will take some time to answer.’ And with that I sketched out to him the whole long chain of surmise and of proof which I had constructed. The twilight had closed in and the moon was shining brightly in the sky before my narrative was finished.
“‘And how was it then that Charles did not get his crown when he returned?’ asked Musgrave, pushing back the relic into its linen bag.
“‘Ah, there you lay your finger upon the one point which we shall probably never be able to clear up. It is likely that the Musgrave who held the secret died in the interval, and by some oversight left this guide to his descendant without explaining the meaning of it. From that day to this it has been handed down from father to son, until at last it came within reach of a man who tore its secret out of it and lost his life in the venture.’
“And that’s the story of the Musgrave Ritual, Watson. They have the crown down at Hurlstone – though they had some legal bother and a considerable sum to pay before they were allowed to retain it. I am sure that if you mentioned my name they would be happy to show it to you. Of the woman nothing was ever heard, and the probability is that she got away out of England and carried herself and the memory of her crime to some land beyond the seas.”
A Day at the Races
by Mark Mower
It had long been a habit of mine to cast off the shackles of my professional life and to make the annual pilgrimage to Epsom Downs in order to meet up with a group of old student friends from Pembroke College, Oxford. Our get-together at the Derby Stakes was predicated upon the enduring friendship that we still enjoyed and the chance to indulge in a day of mirth, gambling, and drinking. And it was in this most unlikely of settings that I first encountered Mr. Sherlock Holmes.
It was on a Wednesday in the early part of June 1880 that my story began. That afternoon, I had enjoyed some small success, having placed my usual stake of one guinea on the nose of the Duke of Westminster’s thoroughbred Bend Or, ridden at that time by the immensely talented Fred Archer. Having collected my winnings, I readily agreed to buy our party of eight some Champagne in a marquee near the Tattenham Corner end of Epsom Fair. While seating ourselves around a large trestle table just inside the canopy, my dear friend Cedric Stone began to gesticulate wildly in the direction of a tall, thin-looking fellow, who sat alone at one of the tables close to the main bar. With a wholehearted invitation to join us, the young man pulled up a chair and was soon introduced to our boisterous party. Stone explained that our guest was a private detective from London who had recently assisted his father in recovering a valuable diamond ring from the clutches of a well-known gentleman thief. To a further round of loud cheers and the evident embarrassment of the man, we welcomed Holmes to the group and insisted that he partake of some refreshment with us.
It was gloriously hot and sunny that afternoon, and despite the hustle and bustle of the busy marquee, Holmes soon looked to be relaxed in our company. I guessed he was still in his twenties and some five or six years younger than most of us. Gaunt and eagle-eyed, in a smartly-tailored Norfolk jacket, cap, and breeches, I found him to be observant, direct and witty, and charming in his general manner. There was no doubting his keen intelligence, and he seemed conversant on most subjects – including earlier Derby winners – explaining that he and his brother regularly attended the Classics. However, he was quick to point out that his visit to the Derby that year had nothing to do with his fondness for the turf. In fact, he had just completed a case linked to horseracing, of which he could say no more.
Within an hour or so, our party began to disperse, some colleagues saying their goodbyes before returning to London or Oxford, and a couple arranging to travel further afield. That left just Cedric and I in the company of Holmes, who seemed keen to stick with us and head for a quieter part of the fair. A short time later, we were seated at a small wooden table in a more convivial setting, enjoying a pot of tea and a thick slice of Madeira cake with the gentle sound of accordion music being played close by.
“Tell me, Mr. Hughes, what made you become a school master, when your real passion in life appears to be the study of astronomy?”
Holmes’s question caught me by surprise and my hand moved instinctively to the lapel badge of the Royal Astronomical Society that I always wore on any formal or social occasion. I returned a grin and answered, “I am indeed a fellow of the Royal Society – but more of an amateur star-gazer than a serious scientist. My father bought me my first telescope when I was eight years old, and I have never lost the fascination for staring into the great unknown. Is it a field of study that interests you?”
Holmes snorted rather dismissively. “No, I can’t say that it is. My focus has always been on more earthly matters.”
“Now, that is a shame. The Society thrives on the keen instincts and observational talents of its members. You don’t seem to miss much at all and would be well equipped looking through the lens of a reflecting telescope. But tell me, how did you know that I was a school master? Has Cedric been briefing you?”
Cedric, who was sat opposite me, laughed and held up his arms. “Not guilty, my Lord! You are now discovering why Mr. Holmes is such a well-regarded detective, Geraint.”
“I see. Well I am a master – or beak as the boys like to refer to us – at Harrow. I teach mathematics and have been in the post since leaving university. I have no great ambitions, so an easy life teaching at my former school seemed preferable to the rigours, demands, and uncertainties of a scientific career. In short, I suppose I am by nature somewhat slothful, Mr. Holmes. But I am still at a loss to know how you could have guessed my profession.”
“I rarely, if ever, resort to guesswork, Mr. Hughes. I follow a rudimentary, yet generally effective, pattern of observational analysis – placing one or two discernible facts together – to form a working hypothesis. The more facts and data I gather, the stronger becomes my supposition. In your case, the clues were overwhelming.”
I was at once both intrigued and vexed by his words. Was the course of my life so obviously transparent?
“I think you must carry on and put poor Geraint out of his misery, Mr. Holmes!” This time it was Cedric who spoke, looking every bit as keen as I was to hear more.
Holmes sat forward in his chair, his eyes fixed firmly on mine. “Your general demeanour speaks of someone used to the hubbub of a common room or school refectory. In the marquee you were completely unfazed by the noise and commotion around you. I watched you take the lead in shepherding your friends into the tent, pointing and issuing directions and ensuring that you were the last in, so as to leave no one behind. Ever the school master, your voice was clear and commanding, yet never close to a shout. Your attire attests to your chosen profession – a tweed frock coat, with leather padding on the elbows to minimise the wear as you work away at your desk and a pair of sleeve garters on that keenly-starched white shirt. Other tell-tale signs merely add to the whole: The ink stains on your left thumb and forefinger, the wooden ruler tucked within an inside pocket, and the eye glasses that you rely upon to read, yet hide within your top pocket for reasons of vanity. The profession suits your bachelor status, but I suspect that you have not given up all hope of marrying one day.”
It was a singular performance which prompted both Cedric and I to applaud, neither of us knowing what to say as a direct response. I felt no slight at the remarks and at once realised that his extraordinary talents set him apart, though I had no notion then that he would become the world-renowned investigator we know today. His mention of my bachelor status triggered a fresh set of thoughts which I then fe
lt I had to share with the detective.
“You will no doubt think me presumptuous, Mr. Holmes, but since I have now seen you at work, there is a conundrum with which I am currently faced, upon which I would value your professional opinion. Clearly, I would not expect you to labour without recompense, so should say that I would be happy to pay you a reasonable fee for any help you can provide.”
Holmes nodded, sat back in his chair and brought his right index finger up to his thin lips while contemplating the proposition. “Without any offence to you, sir, I would prefer to hear the nature of the conundrum first, before I commit to provide any assistance – particularly if the matter you refer to concerns a young woman.”
For a second time, Holmes had succeeded in leaving me speechless. Once more, Cedric intervened on my behalf. “There is certainly no fooling you, Mr. Holmes. Geraint has already shared with me the facts of the matter I believe he is about to disclose – it is a pretty puzzle and does indeed concern an even prettier young lady.”
Holmes remained impassive, glancing casually in the direction of the accordion players before focusing once more on my expectant face. “The involuntary dilation of your pupils when I mentioned your hopes of marrying one day betrayed your emotional state. I will gladly listen to what you have to say, but must point out that I generally avoid cases of a matrimonial or romantic nature.”
I was quick to respond. “That is understood. But I think you will find the facts of this case a little more engaging.”
A quick nod from the detective suggested that he was in agreement, and with this as a sufficient inducement, I then began my narrative.
“A little over a year ago, I was called into the study of the Headmaster, the Reverend Henry Butler, with an announcement that he had a mission for me. He is an affable fellow, but one who expects his staff to rise to any particular challenges they are set. And despite my initial reservations about any scheme or plan he had in mind, I was subsequently reassured to learn that the task itself appeared to be relatively straightforward.
