Below was another much shorter dedication which I glanced at only briefly. It was addressed to some assistant or other who had helped Addleton in classifying and analysing the research material.
The next two pages were taken up entirely with a list of contents under chapter headings.
I spent a desultory half-hour or so dipping into the book but found it too academic for my taste with its long lists of implements and detailed descriptions of flanged axes and barbed arrowheads, and I soon turned my attention to the evening newspaper.
However, on Holmes’ return, I was diverted from even this less taxing reading matter.
He came hurrying into the room, flourishing in one hand a large-scale Ordnance map of Bodmin Moor which he had bought at Stanford’s8 and which he spread open upon the hearthrug, inviting my assistance in finding Wheal Agnes, the abandoned mine near to which the ancient British barrow was situated.
After much searching, we discovered it at last, about fifteen miles from Bodmin and four from the nearest village of Minions.
‘It seems an isolated place,’ I said doubtfully. ‘How do you propose reaching it, Holmes? On foot?’
‘Certainly not, Watson.’
‘Then how?’
‘By some form of conveyance.’ He looked up briefly from his study of the map and I saw his eyes had a far-away look in them, as if his mind was concentrated on those distant Cornish locations. ‘While I was out, I took the precaution of sending a telegram to the Blue Boar at Bodmin, booking rooms for us and also requesting that a fast, light vehicle be placed at our disposal.’
He sounded abstracted and, not wishing to disturb his train of thought, I refrained from enquiring into the research he had undertaken that afternoon or from referring to the matter of the dates to which he attached such importance.
His preoccupied mood continued throughout the rest of the evening and it was only when I rose from my chair to wish him goodnight, adding some remark about the need to pack a valise for our visit to Cornwall, that he seemed aware of my presence.
He was sitting by the fire, plunged deep in reverie, his eyes on the flames, although I doubt if he were conscious of those either.
‘A valise?’ he enquired and then, with an obvious effort, he brought his mind back to the present. ‘Of course! And, Watson, please make sure you include your army revolver.’
He said no more, his gaze returning to the fire, and I went quietly from the room, leaving him to his silent deliberations.
II
When we set off for Cornwall the following morning, Holmes was in a more cheerful frame of mind, although he was still preoccupied and seemed disinclined to discuss the case, preferring to spend the journey reading the newspapers and idly commenting on their contents.
It was an overcast day and, by the time we reached Bodmin station and took the fly to the inn, a fine drizzle was falling from low, grey skies, casting a gloomy aspect over the small Cornish town with its steep, narrow streets and huddled houses of stone and slate.
Having arrived at the Blue Boar and deposited our luggage, we made our way downstairs to the bar parlour, from where we had a clear view of the front door of the hostelry. While we waited for the arrival of Professor Addleton and Mr Montagu Webb, Holmes took the opportunity to make a final study of the map, verifying the route we would take across the moor.
For my part, I must confess that the time passed exceedingly slowly. I was eager not only for my first glimpse of the two participants in our investigation but also for the events themselves to unfold. The mysterious circumstances surrounding the case and the threat of some unknown peril attached to it had whetted my appetite for adventure. I could feel the weight of my revolver in my topcoat pocket and from time to time I surreptitiously ran my fingers over its butt, wondering if I would need to use it and, if so, against whom.
Holmes showed no such impatience. He was sitting forward in his chair, his long, thin frame bent over the map which he held open upon his knees, totally absorbed in his task.
At last, the long wait was over. There was the sound of wheels drawing to a halt outside the inn and soon afterwards two men entered. The first, whom I took to be Montagu Webb from the manner in which he ushered his companion through the door, was a gangling, loose-limbed man in his late sixties but possessing the awkward self-consciousness of a schoolboy. Flapping an arm, he led the way towards the clerk’s desk, talking all the time in a high-pitched voice.
‘This way, my dear Professor. I am sure you will find the amenities here, though simple, are perfectly adequate. I suggest that we set off for the moor as soon as possible. I am eager to show you my little discovery before the light fades.’
‘Yes, yes,’ Professor Addleton said testily. He seemed exasperated by Montagu Webb’s over-zealous attentions.
He was a tall, trim figure, dressed in well-cut tweeds; of countenance austerely dignified, of bearing confident and erect. A small grey moustache, neatly clipped, gave him a military rather than a scholarly appearance. But for all his self-assurance, there was an air of unease about him, evident in the set of his shoulders and the manner in which he glanced suspiciously about him.
Before his gaze had encountered ours, Holmes quietly folded up his map and, slipping it into the pocket of his ulster, rose to his feet.
‘Come, Watson,’ said he. ‘It is time to go.’
We left by a rear door which led directly out into the inn-yard where the dog-cart, which Holmes had taken the precaution of hiring the previous day, was waiting for us, the horse already between the shafts.
As Holmes took up the reins, he remarked, ‘I estimate we have at least a quarter of an hour’s start on them.’
‘A quarter of an hour, Holmes?’
‘Time for Professor Addleton to leave his luggage in his room and change his boots. Did you not notice them? They were of expensive, highly polished leather, not the type of footwear for tramping about on Bodmin Moor. I have no doubt he will replace them with a more serviceable pair.
‘In the meantime, we must make sure that we arrive with enough time in hand to explore the lie of the land and find a suitable hiding-place not only for ourselves but for our conveyance. On such open terrain, a dog-cart will look as conspicuous as a London omnibus.’
We set off at a brisk pace, taking the route which led northwest out of Bodmin across the moor to Launceston. It was a narrow but hard-surfaced road and we made good progress. However, before reaching the village of Bolventor, we turned off to the right down a stony track into a wild and barren landscape. Its atmosphere of brooding desolation was made even more melancholy by the slate-coloured sky which hung so low that the clouds themselves seemed to have descended to the horizon where they had dissolved into a grey mist. It clung about the summits of the tors which I could dimly discern in the distance thrusting up from the plain like the crude forms of prehistoric beasts, crouching there and keeping watch over that vast wilderness.
Everything, the rock outcrops, the coarse grass, the occasional wind-bent tree, was coated with a thin rime of moisture. There was no sign of life apart from a few rough-haired wild ponies grazing by the track until, startled by the sound of our wheels over the stones, they threw up their heads and galloped away.
About a mile further on, we came to the ruined engine-house of Wheal Agnes, its roof long since decayed and fallen in, but its walls and chimney, built of stout granite blocks, still standing.
‘Ah!’ cried Holmes, his eyes lighting up as he reined in the horse. ‘We must thank whatever ancient gods who rule over this domain, Watson, for they are kind to us. Here is the perfect place to conceal the dog-cart. Now, be quick, my dear fellow. We have not a moment to lose.’
We both jumped down and Holmes, taking the horse by the bridle, led it into the engine-house where he tethered it to one of the fallen roof timbers which littered the interior.
That done, we emerged from the building to take stock of our surroundings.
Behind the engine-house, the m
oor rose by degrees to ascend finally in a steep escarpment of granite slabs, their deep fissures filled with stunted bushes or low vegetation. The track swung round the base of this rocky outcrop to disappear from sight in the direction of the village of Minions.
To our left and at a distance of about a hundred yards stood a ring of standing stones which, Holmes had informed me, was known locally as the Coven. Centuries ago, or so the legend tells, twelve witches were surprised one night as they celebrated their ungodly sabbath by a holy man who, horrified by their wickedness, had turned them all to stone, including the warlock who was conducting the ceremony. His was the thirteenth and largest stone which stood in the centre of the circle.
In that lowering light, the huge weatherworn block might indeed be taken for a human figure standing there, larger than life-size, its head sunk between its shoulders and the two long cracks which ran down over the surface marking the position of the arms.
But it was the area immediately behind the engine-house which engaged Holmes’ attention. It was covered with spoil-tips, great heaps of waste stone and earth which had been dug from the mine when it was in operation and dumped there upon the surface. Now overgrown with grass and brambles, they resembled to my imagination the graves of some long-extinct race of giants.
As a fancy, it was not far from the truth.
Beckoning me to follow him, Holmes set off up the slope towards the furthest of these heaps where his keen eyesight had observed a patch of freshly turned, blackish soil, roughly covered with grass and debris.
‘I believe we have found our ancient British barrow, Watson,’ said he.
At first sight, the mound was no different from the others which lay all about us, except part of it had collapsed forward, the soil and stones of which it was composed having been partially washed away by rain-water draining down from the escarpment which towered above it.
Hardly had we reached it and were bending down in order to examine the exposed section, when Holmes lifted his head and listened intently.
‘Someone is coming!’ he said in a low, urgent voice.
‘The professor and his companion?’ I asked, turning to look back along the track in the direction from which we had come.
But the road was empty and there was no sign of life save for two ravens which had risen with startled cries and a clatter of their great, black wings from the granite cliff above us and were circling above our heads.
‘No; from the other side of the escarpment. Come, Watson! We must hide at once.’
He set off at a run down the slope, leaping like a stag from mound to mound, making not for the engine-house as I had supposed but for the Coven and in particular for the large standing stone in its centre.
As I dropped down beside him on the wet grass, I could see the purpose behind his choice. As a hiding-place it was ideal, for it was not only broad enough to conceal us both but it also afforded us a clear view of the track leading to Wheal Agnes as well as the crag and the ancient British barrow which lay at its foot.
‘And now we wait, my dear fellow,’ Holmes murmured in my ear. ‘I fear, however, that some devilish business is afoot.’
With that, he took his revolver from the pocket of his ulster, at the same time laying one finger against his lips to indicate silence. I followed his example, taking out my own army pistol which I held ready in my hand.
Although the vigil lasted only a few minutes, rarely have I known time pass so slowly. The utter desolation of the landscape stretching out for mile after empty mile in every direction, combined with the proximity of those ancient stones crowding close upon us, gave me the unnerving sensation that some primordial and terrifying force was gathering up its power in readiness to unleash itself in one great cataclysmic outburst.
It seemed to fill the very air, curdling the light and turning it more dense and opaque, as if charged with some unspecified danger. I felt the skin on the back of my neck stiffen and an involuntary shudder of both fear and excitement ran through my frame.
Glancing sideways at Holmes, I saw that he, too, was tense with nervous strain, his jaw rigid and his eyes hooded over with their lids, giving him the watchful profile of a hawk poised to strike.
At last the silence was broken by the rattle of wheels over stones and a light gig containing two men came into view along the track. As it drew nearer, I perceived they were Professor Addleton and Mr Montagu Webb, the latter holding a whip which he was flourishing in the direction of the abandoned mine.
Even before the gig drew to a halt, I could hear his high, foolish voice carrying clearly through the still air.
‘Here we are, Professor Addleton. The barrow is a mere few minutes’ walk away.’
The two men climbed down, Mr Montagu Webb tethering the horse to a stunted bush which grew at the side of the track where he left it to browse along the verge. They then set off up the slope, picking their way through the spoil-heaps, Mr Webb still talking in his eager, excitable manner, his companion silent. From time to time, however, the professor halted momentarily to survey his surroundings with the same distrust I had observed on his arrival at the inn. In turn, the ruined engine-house, the escarpment, even the circle of menhirs where Holmes and I were concealed, came under his scrutiny. To my relief, the huge warlock stone appeared to offer us ample protection, for his gaze passed over it.
In the meantime, his companion urged him on. ‘Just a few more yards, Professor! There! Now you may see the barrow straight ahead of you. As you will observe, I have obeyed your instructions and have covered up my own small attempts at excavating the site.’
‘Not very adequately, in my opinion,’ Professor Addleton replied curtly. ‘There are still signs that the soil has been disturbed.’
Nevertheless, despite his obvious displeasure at Webb’s amateurish methods, he leant forward over the barrow, studying its surface with great attention, his earlier suspicion quite forgotten.
Montagu Webb gave a loud, neighing laugh. ‘My dear sir, no one ever comes near the place. Look about you! It is utterly deserted! It was only by the greatest good fortune that I myself discovered the barrow. Now, Professor, is it your intention to begin your own excavations immediately? Or would you prefer to wait until tomorrow? The light will be gone in less than an hour.’
Hardly had he finished speaking than a piercing cry rang out, so inhuman in its pitch and intensity that it might have been the shriek of some savage creature of the moors.
‘Vengeance!’ it screamed.
It was impossible to tell from whence the voice came for it seemed to resound from every direction, from the walls of the ruined engine-house to the distant, mist-shrouded tors.
I felt it reverberate even amongst the standing-stones which encircled us so that, for one confused moment, I fancied that it was those ancient monoliths which had cried out and my blood ran chill at the very thought.
The sound frightened Montagu Webb’s horse which reared up, its terrified neighs echoed by our own pony.
As for the two men, they had stopped dead in their tracks and, like me, were glancing fearfully all about them.
Holmes clutched at my sleeve.
‘There, Watson!’ he whispered urgently, pointing to the escarpment.
A figure had suddenly appeared on its summit as if conjured out of the misty air. Even now, I find it difficult to describe that apparition and the effect it had upon me.
It wore a long black cloak and seemed taller and thinner than any mortal man. For a few seconds, it stood there immobile, silhouetted against the lowering sky, the very embodiment, or so it seemed to me, of the malignant power which earlier I had felt ruled over that desolate landscape.
The next instant, it lifted its right arm and I saw the dull gleam of something metallic in its hand.
Beside me, I was aware that Holmes had grasped his revolver and had raised his own hand, one finger tight upon the trigger, the barrel pointing at that figure looming against the skyline.
But before I coul
d aim my own weapon, events came crowding upon us so rapidly that I could make no sense of their sequence.
There was a double report, the one following so close upon the other that I took it at first to be a single explosion. I saw a spurt of flame burst out from the crest of the ridge. Almost simultaneously, Professor Addleton spun about and then collapsed forward, spreadeagled across the ancient British barrow which, only a few moments before, he had been examining with such eager attention.
As he fell, there came the second flash from the escarpment and the sinister figure gave a scream, as blood-curdling as its first awful cry, before toppling headlong, its arms outstretched, its cloak billowing about it so that it resembled some huge bird of prey, swooping down from its granite eyrie to crash on to the rocks below.
Before I had time to collect my wits, Holmes was on his feet and was sprinting across the grass to the scene of that double tragedy.
I ran after him, making first for Professor Addleton who was sprawled face upwards across the burial mound, thrusting aside Montagu Webb, to join Holmes who was already kneeling beside the inert body.
As I felt for the carotid artery in the neck, I was aware of the dreadful wound in the professor’s abdomen which I could do nothing to relieve and which would need immediate surgery if his life were to be saved.
Behind me, I could hear Montagu Webb’s voice, shrill with shock and horror, repeating over and over again, ‘He told me it was a hoax! Nothing more than a hoax!’
‘Is he dead?’ Holmes asked me.
He had risen to his feet and was standing over Professor Addleton’s recumbent form, his arms folded and an expression of such sombre melancholy on his face that I quickly averted my own gaze, feeling I was intruding on his private wretchedness.
‘Just alive,’ I told him. ‘But I dare not move him, Holmes. He is bleeding internally. It would be the finish of him.’
There was a short silence and then Holmes burst out with sudden vehemence, ‘I blame myself entirely, Watson! I should have acted more swiftly!’
The Secret Journals of Sherlock Holmes (A&B Crime) Page 9