The Mammoth Book of New Sherlock Holmes Adventures (69 page)

“Thank you. You are as a crutch to a cripple. Please, my dear fellow, indulge my infirmity by handing me my briar pipe and some shag tobacco before you go. This little problem requires thought.”

I was able to report to Holmes within three hours. One of the staff of the Baker Street Post Office, an avid admirer of Holmes and his methods, gladly and enthusiastically threw himself into the task of helping us. Despite approaching closing time he transmitted without a moment’s delay over the spans of the Atlantic Ocean and the vastness of the Americas to far away Barkerville. The eight hours time difference he explained ensured that our message would arrive at the Barkerville office as it opened its doors for the day’s work. He even promised to wait for the reply. The Canadians, despite the unusual nature of our urgently-worded enquiry, checked their records immediately; the letter to Musgrave had indeed been dispatched from their office and, they reported, duly appeared in their ledger in its proper place. The entry however, they were embarrassed to inform us, had been tampered with: the name and address of the sender had been obliterated. Their postmaster, William Topping – and yes, they confirmed, he was left-handed and he was on duty that day – denied any knowledge of the erasure or of the sender of the message. It had been done cunningly and deliberately, he said, by some mischiefmaker, taking advantage of the distractions of a busy office. There was no question of the ledger’s having been out of the station’s possession – a serious breach of regulations – but it was not unusual for it to lie open on the counter. Neither Mr Topping nor his aides could recall any particular registrants, female or otherwise, on that day. The illicit erasure, they regretted, left them with no means of identifying or locating the sender. As I returned to Baker Street I reflected that Holmes was faced with an adversary armed with more than mere cunning; that an astute mind of high calibre was challenging, perhaps even threatening, us from the Americas.

“She must have tampered with the postmark at the same time, Holmes,” said I, as I reported this unwelcome news. “She has taken as much care in falsifying it as in concealing her identity.”

“Indeed! And she still leaves us with two puzzles:
why
does she wish to communicate with me, and
what
is her message?”

“The first I can fathom,” said I. “From your account of the adventure of the Musgrave Ritual it seems that these Musgraves are not an over-bright lot. It seems clear that she intends to communicate with the family by an intermediary who is familiar with the events that arose from the ritual and intelligent enough to divine her message’s true import. You qualify on both counts, Holmes.”

“You may be right, Watson. I believe that you are right. It follows then that this mysterious sender knows the Musgrave family well. We progress! It now remains only to read her message.” He picked up the envelope and studied it again with minutest attention. Laying down his pipe he picked up a pencil and opened his notebook.

“Bah!” He exclaimed. “Trysor, the Welsh name for treasure, can be extracted from ‘Report Sy’, but what of that? We have no indication whatsoever that the message’s sender is a Welsh woman, or that treasure is involved. To the contrary, our correspondent is evidently a resident of Canada and our bullion mere blank paper. I get nowhere. What make you of report sy‘, Watson?”

“SY is an identifying code perhaps?” I suggested. “Or an abbreviation for Sydney, in Australia? Or for ‘symbol’?”

Holmes deliberated. “All three are possibilities. Let us consider a fourth: system. ‘Confidential Films’ or if there has been a slip of the writer’s pen, ‘Confidential Files’, implies some form of orderly arrangement. ‘system’ would answer to both. Dare we take it as a working hypothesis and see where it leads us?”

“You are probably correct,” I responded. “The word does suggest itself.”

“Very well. report system it is, until further data proves otherwise. Now, what of ‘confl films‘?”

It was my turn to scribble. “coffins!” I cried. “The word ‘coffins’ can be extracted from it, Holmes!”

“Good for you, Watson! ‘Coffins’ sounds promising; the word has a pleasing ring. That leaves us with mll. It is evidently a Roman date. M of course is 1000 and L is 50. 1000 ad plus two 50s.” He thought for a moment. “But the Romans never wrote LL to express 100. Its symbol was C. So our second L is suspect. It is ambiguous. It is ‘extra’. What date – or what message – is this sender trying to convey to us? 1050? 1100? Some date in between? What significance could such a date have on an envelope intended for us but addressed to Norman, or Newman, Musgrave?”

“I can think of none,” I confessed.

Holmes rose to his feet. “I have it, Watson! I believe I have it!” His face glowed with excitement. “Reginald Musgrave, that devoted custodian of his ancient feudal keep, told me years ago that his estate’s ancient oak tree was probably
in situ
at the time of the Norman Conquest. The Norman Conquest, Watson! 1066, as we were taught at school, when the feudal system was at its height.
This
is the explanation for the deliberate change of name from Newman to Norman! It is another of the sender’s tricks. She grows more interesting hourly! She is directing us to that labyrinth of catacombs, crypts and ancient dungeons of which I told you before. Yes, my boy, the solution to this pretty puzzle lies in the ancient coffins of the Musgraves’ manor at Hurlstone!”

I felt my blood quicken with excitement. “You have reasoned it out marvellously,” said I.

“Well, if you will be kind enough to select an early train tomorrow to western Sussex I will send a telegram at once to Nathaniel Musgrave, the new squire, to tell him of our arrival. I have no doubt that he will be glad to see us. It will be a pleasure to introduce him to you, Watson.”

“I look forward to it,” said I heartily. “Reginald Musgrave was a man in whose family story, and your part in it, I found great interest. That fresh developments are now expected adds special appeal. The game is evidently afoot once more!”

“Indeed it is, old friend, and a ‘grave’ one it may prove to be,” said Holmes with a chuckle. He was, as always, in good spirits when his brain was grappling with an intellectual challenge. At seven the next morning a first class smoker from Waterloo found us bound for Hurlstone. We arrived at the pleasant country station to find a two-wheeler waiting. The driver greeted us cheerfully.

“Mr Sherlock Holmes? Dr Watson? I am from Hurlstone, sirs, sent by Mister Nathaniel to meet you. I trust you had a good journey?”

“Thank you, yes.”

Holmes glanced at me, then addressed the man again.

“Sir Reginald and I were friends for a good many years. Tell me, how did this tragedy happen?”

“An inexperienced house guest at a shooting party was the cause of it, sir. He was following Sir Reginald out of a copse to meet the beaters and failed to unload his gun while climbing over a fence. The triggers were caught by brambles. Sir Reginald took the full charge of both barrels in the back. We thank the Good Lord that the master did not suffer. It was all done in a flash.”

“A tragedy indeed,” responded Holmes, after a pause.

“Yes, sir. His death was a great loss. He had many friends in the district – very many. It was standing room only in St Mary’s at the memorial service. He represented our district right well in Westminster, too.”

On arrival at Hurlstone we were greeted warmly by Nathaniel Musgrave, a pleasant, courtly young man of aristocratic mien. Expressing our regrets at the calamity, we were ushered into the new wing of his ancient manor.

“Hurlstone appears to generate mysteries,” remarked Holmes, as he seated himself in a proffered arm chair in Musgrave’s study. “On my previous visit, as you know, I was summoned by your cousin to look into the disappearance of two members of your staff. I come now bringing my own puzzle: it developed yesterday in London in connection with a Mr Newman, or Norman, Musgrave, who died several years ago and who may, or may not, be related to you.”

“Ah! Yes! Newman! He worked in a publishing company, did he not? He has certainly been to Hurlstone. I never met him but I know a little of him. He was a relative, but a distant one. He was an amiable churchgoer, living quietly and dedicating his spare time to the service of Rome. This prevented his taking more than a cursory interest in our estate, or indeed in the family. I am afraid we rather lost touch with him over the years. What problem has he produced?”

Holmes explained the matter, concisely summarizing Garrison Bolt’s visit, the extraordinary letter and the chain of reasoning which had led him to this return visit to Hurlstone. Nathaniel Musgrave examined the envelope carefully.

“I have no correspondents in the west of Canada,” he said. “I know no one there. I can make nothing of the letter other than to applaud your extraordinary deductions. You were clearly intended to bring the letter to Hurlstone, but what we are meant to do with it is utterly beyond me. Frankly I am amazed that you have deduced so much. My cousin told me of your extra-ordinary powers, Mr Holmes, and I can see that he was not exaggerating. As you know,” he continued, “we have the crown which you so dramatically identified for us. We have had it fully restored. Perhaps you would like to see it. Incidentally, we have learned that it graced the brows of the Tudor, as well as the Stuart, kings. It was reportedly used at every coronation from that of Henry VIII until the dispersion of the regalia following Charles I’s trial and execution in January of 1649, when it was, I understand, broken into pieces by Master Cromwell and his not-so-merry men. We have always kept the linen bag in which the Crown was retrieved from the mere, too. It seemed a sacrilege to separate them after nearly two hundred and fifty years together in solitary confinement in Brunton’s strongbox, as we call it.”

Holmes looked sharply at Musgrave, an expression of extreme alertness and concentration on his face. He paused before speaking again. “What do you infer, Mr Musgrave, from this reference to ‘coffins’, and a date of 1050, or 1100?” he asked. “It is clearly a directive we are meant to follow.”

“There at least I see no difficulty,” said the young heir. “The old part of the building, like the rest of the estate, does indeed date back to feudal times. It has always been one of the duties of the incumbent at Hurlstone to preserve the original burial sites of those who lived here before us. Some are merely marked by rude stone markers with the ancient engravings obliterated by nine hundred years of wind and storm but others, mostly wooden caskets and stone sarcophagi, have been sheltered from the elements. Those of the Norman period you mention are situated in an ancient catacomb abutting, as it happens, on the very cellar in which you and my cousin found the body of our unfortunate butler.”

Holmes rubbed his hands in satisfaction. “Let us lose no time in examining these coffins. Our unknown correspondent has gone to considerable lengths to see that we do and I know of no reason why we should not oblige her. By the way, Mr Musgrave,” he added, “are the Hurlstone relics, graves and coffins arranged in any particular order, or system? Do the phrases ‘control system’ or ‘control sy’ have any meaning for you?”

“The words mean nothing to me,” replied Musgrave, “but yes, the graves are sited in chronological order. I suppose that is the way of graves. In any case it could not be otherwise at Hurlstone. Many of the stone cases are very heavy. It would be no easy matter to move them.”

The entrance to the catacombs was a sloping tunnel. Its moss-covered flagstones provided firm footing as we entered from the daylight but became treacherously slippery as we descended. The dank, fungus-covered walls dripped with moisture – a reminder of the nearby Hurlstone mere. Our host carried a flare, by whose light we picked our way down the ancient ramp of the ossuary. The odour of nitrates was unmistakable. In many places the old wooden coffins had rotted and collapsed; skeletal remains of ancient Musgraves were glimpsed as we descended – mute but eloquent testimony to our host’s ancient lineage. Nathaniel Musgrave halted at a small group of crumbling stone containers, one of which had a lid, slightly ajar.

“These are the coffins of the Norman period;” said he, “most of their occupants were recorded in the Domesday Book.”

“Please excuse my lack of ceremony, Mr Musgrave,” said Holmes, stepping forward. “I mean no disrespect but something of immediate significance, in addition to the remains of your ancestors may, I believe, be found inside these coffins. Help me to slide this lid further, will you, Watson?”

Musgrave and I turned our shoulders to the task Holmes watched closely, then thrust his arm into the half-opened casket and withdrew from its depths a linen bag, tied at the throat with twine. He regarded it thoughtfully for some moments before speaking.

“You paid me a compliment today, Mr Musgrave, when you alluded to the deductive powers I had the pleasure of bringing to the aid of Sir Reginald. These same powers will, I believe, now enable me in turn to surprise you! Before we open this bag it would please me to tell you precisely what we shall find inside it.”

I could not help laughing at this preposterous suggestion. “It seems to me,” I managed, with some difficulty, to articulate, “that only a psychic, or a thief who has had access to this chamber, could make such a prediction. Since I know that you are neither, I take the liberty of doubting you! There is no way in this world in which you could possibly foretell such a thing!”

“I must second Dr Watson’s opinion,” said Nathaniel Musgrave, also grinning broadly. “It is not possible.”

“Very well,” said Holmes. “I take up your gage!” He paused and continued, measuring his words in the manner of an orator addressing his audience: “In this bag you will find, certainly tamished, probably discoloured, possibly damaged but nevertheless recognizable, an orb – a ball of gold – and a sceptre. Unless the corrosion of three centuries prevents it, a smaller orb, surmounted by a cross on which rests a dove, will attach to the sceptre. When I add that the great orb is itself surmounted by a cross and that its weight is one pound, five and a quarter ounces, you will have no difficulty in verifying my prediction.”