The Scroll of the Dead (9 page)

Holmes was far from taken aback by the sight of the apparition that lay before us. In fact he gave a murmur of satisfaction. A hunting accident, eh? Well it would have taken at least two cartridges to create this effect. It has been very nicely done, Watson. Very nicely done indeed.’ So
saying he leaned over the corpse and examined the hands closely; then, shining the lamp on to what had once been a face, he scrutinised the teeth protruding from the ghastly mask of raw flesh.

‘Well, I am quite convinced that whoever this fellow is, he is certainly not Sebastian Melmoth.’

‘How can you be so certain?’

‘The evidence here merely proves what I already suspected. Look at the hands...’ He lifted one up and shone the lamp on to it. ‘Observe the callouses, the dirt-ingrained fingernails. These are not the hands of an aesthete and dandy; they are the hands of a labourer.’ Dropping the arm, he leaned further over the corpse and pulled back the shreds of flesh around the mouth. ‘Similarly the teeth have not had the benefit of the expensive dental care that the rich can afford. Those brown and black stumps speak of an unhealthy diet and neglect. No, my friend, this poor devil is merely a substitute, a decoy, if you like, to disguise the fact that Sebastian Melmoth is still very much alive.’

‘But what is the purpose behind this deception?’

‘I may flatter myself, but I believe it has been done mainly for my benefit, to put me off the scent. If the major suspect is dead, then the detective has to look elsewhere for another...’

‘Meanwhile, he carries on with his nefarious plans with impunity.’

‘Exactly.’

‘But who then is this wretch in the coffin?’

I was destined not to receive the answer to my query for, as Holmes was about to reply, there came a noise from the upper part of the house. It was the sound of voices. My heart sank. Someone had heard us.

Immediately Holmes extinguished the lantern. ‘Quickly,’ he whispered harshly, ‘help me close the coffin.’

Like blind men we wrestled with the coffin lid, slotting it back in place in the cloistered darkness. As we completed our macabre task, I heard
footsteps coming down the stairs. I virtually froze to the spot, but Holmes dragged me over to the window and pulled me behind the heavy black drapes. As he did so the room was bathed in electric light.

Someone entered. From the sound of the heavy tread and the lengthy strides I took it to be a man. I heard him move to the coffin, cocking a pistol as he did so. His measured tread grew nearer and I could sense him coming closer to our hiding place. Holmes held his finger to his lip.

And then the drapes stirred as though a hand had been placed on them – a hand which at any second would expose us. The inside of my mouth suddenly became very dry and my heart began to race.

Just as I was fearing the worst, there came the muffled cry of a woman from one of the other rooms.

‘What is it, Julia?’ cried the fellow, less than two feet away from us.

‘Someone has broken in, Brandon: the window in the dining-room has been forced open.’

Holmes mouthed the word ‘Butler’ to me.

‘I’m coming,’ said the man, the curtains shuddering as he released his grasp. We heard him leave.

‘Now is the time for us to make
our
exit,’ muttered Holmes and, wielding the chisel with dexterous aplomb, he forced up the window behind us. With as much speed as we could muster, we climbed over the window-sill and slipped out once again into the cold night air. Noiselessly Holmes drew the window down, and within seconds we were on the pavement walking steadily in the direction of Baker Street with all the casual nonchalance of two late night revellers making their way home.

‘Well,’ remarked Holmes, as we turned the corner into Baker Street, ‘we must away to our beds as quickly as possible. We shall have to be up betimes: a long train journey lies ahead of us tomorrow.’

I groaned. ‘Where to?’

‘Norfolk,’ came the reply.

D
awn 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.’