We found more than a few eligible stumps, but most were too small, I thought, to be the tree in question. The ones that still bore bark were mostly poplar and yew. At last we came upon the remains of a stump both ancient and broad. Its bark and wood had suffered too long in the elements to tell us what type of tree it might have been, but as we drew close, Musgrave gave a cry of triumph. A tiny red flag fluttered from its far side. I smiled. It seemed Brunton must have felt this was the right one. Who else could have marked the tree?
“Holmes, stand here, won’t you?” I said, pointing towards the stump. I then ran back to the oak, pulled forth Musgrave’s compass and took careful note of the bearing 296 degrees. Roughly west-north-west. The ritual must have meant the rising sun, in the eastern sky over the oak. I rejoined Holmes, who wondered, “What now?”
“Now we pace it, Holmes.”
“North by ten and by ten, east by five and by five, south by two and by two, west by one and by one, and so under,” Musgrave recited.
“Yes,” I agreed. “Or we might just go sixteen steps north, and eight steps east, since the latter two directions do nothing but cancel out part of the earlier two. Really, whoever wrote this thing… just an idiot…”
No matter if we walked the ritual as written—in a decreasing spiral—or as I figured it, the destination was the same. A featureless patch of ground.
“Er… what now?” Holmes wondered.
“Wait! ‘And so under’!” Reginald crowed. “The ritual says ‘and so under’! Should we dig?”
“I think not,” I said. “Rachel said that Brunton found ‘the secret place’. Certainly, he did not find it here or there would be a gaping hole already. No, I suspect there is a piece still missing from our understanding of the ritual— and I think I know what it is. A second shadow.”
“Eh?” Holmes wondered. “But there’s only one sun, Watson. So, the oak would have only one shadow, wouldn’t it?”
“Yes, but what about the shadow of the elm? The ritual does not say where to begin pacing. It could mean the base of the elm, but then why mention the oak and the direction of the sun and shadows in the first place? More likely, the ritual means us to begin pacing from wherever the shadow of the elm ended at the exact time of day and year when the oak’s shadow fell at the base of the elm.”
“Oh, blast,” muttered Holmes, “more maths.”
“Yes, but you needn’t fret. After all, it’s impossible maths. Even if the elm were still there, we’d have no way of knowing its height the day the ritual was penned. Really, whoever wrote this was no great philosopher.”
“So, we can’t solve the ritual?” Musgrave asked, with sagging shoulders.
“No, no. We can. I took the bearing between the oak and the elm stump, remember? We may not know the length of the elm’s shadow, but we know its direction. We have already paced the steps outlined in the ritual, therefore if we travel in a straight line from this spot, upon the proper bearing, we shall find what we seek.”
And it would have been no harder than that, if what we were seeking was an old stone wall. Not five feet along our path, we ran smack into the side of Hurlstone Manor. Holmes and Musgrave traded shrugs.
“So much for that plan, eh?” laughed Musgrave.
“No. The plan is sound,” I said. “Look, the house is only one story, here. How tall was the elm? It is very possible its shadow used to fall on the far side of the house.”
“Or even on the roof,” said Holmes.
“Oh God, let’s hope not. Now, what we need is some sort of very tall marker, which we can place here, so that when we get to the other side of the house, we can see where to start from.”
A fine plan it was, too, until we got to the other side. We found ourselves mired in the most labyrinthine section of the sprawling wreckage of Hurlstone Manor. What had possessed the previous occupants to favor so many damned add-ons, I will never know. But there they were, in their dozens, radiating from the main section in broken splendor. It seems this had at one time or another been the optimal spot to add guest rooms. Or servants’ quarters. Or pantries, stables, barns, dungeons… who could tell? Some sections were more or less intact, but some were naught but ruined, knee-high walls of stone. Even worse, there had been a fair amount of subterranean building too, and many of these chambers had since fallen in. Given that the entire area was overgrown with ivy, brambles and scrub, it was very easy to take a wrong step and find yourself up to your hip through the roof of a collapsing medieval cellar.
We searched until lunchtime, took a break, ate, despaired, returned and stumbled about the wreckage for a few hours more. We were in real danger of losing our daylight by the time we stumbled across the door. The thing was so overhung with ivy that I think we’d been past it two or three times before it caught Holmes’s eye. He gave a cry of discovery and summoned Musgrave and me at once. To my joy, I could back-trace an increasing spiral around that particular section of ruin that exactly matched the steps of the ritual.
Yet, that was academic.
More to the point: someone had been there in the last few days. Two someones. Brushing the ivy back from the ancient doorway, we beheld a passageway down a mostly intact section of the house. Though the floor tiles were still visible, the wretched condition of the roof above them ensured that they were covered in a deep filth—the slick of ages. In this, we could clearly see the print of a man’s shoe and what could only be the mark of the most preposterously large maid’s footwear you’d ever seen. I stared, agog.
“Yes, I know,” Musgrave said. “We have to get them made, special.”
“So that’s Rachel, clearly,” said Holmes. “And… Brunton, we assume?”
“I would think so,” I said. “And look at how many prints there are. It seems he came and went a number of times. But see how there are fewer of Rachel’s prints? One set in and one set out.”
“So… Brunton found something and wanted to show Rachel what it was?” Holmes wondered aloud.
“Possibly,” I agreed. “I don’t suppose we’ll know for sure until we discover what it is he found. The last part of the clue is ‘and so under’. That must be our ‘and so under’, right there.”
A dozen feet in from the overgrown doorway, an ancient flight of stairs led down beneath the ground. The cellar it brought us to was larger than I’d imagined, and in fairly decent repair. One wall had partially collapsed, but the majority of the room was clear. In the dead center of the room lay one suspiciously large flagstone. It must have been eight foot by six and I can hardly imagine the weight. Next to this lay two crowbars and a magnificent oaken beam whose side was marked and scored from propping that stone up—or so I supposed.
“Looks like the ritual should have ended ‘and so under, and under’,” Holmes remarked.
“One more imperfection to add to the silliest ritual I think I’ve ever heard,” I said. “I think we’ve solved it, gentlemen. See where the edge of the stone is chipped? Here’s where Brunton attempted to pry up the stone. And it’s easy to see why he suddenly felt the need to engage the aid of Rachel Howls. This must weigh half a ton! Here, Holmes, grab that crowbar there and we’ll see if we can’t—”
As I spoke, the huge flagstone popped up over the lip of the stones beside, wiggled itself free and slid over to the neighboring wall.
“Damn it, Holmes!”
“Well, I’m tired, Watson! You’ve had me tracking back and forth across a ruined castle all day, searching hither and yon for who-knows-what, just because a gang of magical dolls told you to. I’m all worn out and I want some soup.”
“Be that as it may, Holmes, there’s something you’ve forgotten.” I jerked a thumb back at Reginald Musgrave, who stood at the doorway with his eyes wide and his mouth hanging open.
“Oh! Right,” said Holmes. “Well… er… doubtless there was some clever mechanical hoist system, built into the floor. Yes. That’s it, I shouldn’t wonder.”
“Are you prepared to believe that, Mr. Musgrav
e?” I asked.
Our host shook his head back and forth.
“What explanation would suit you?”
“It’s like magic!” he spluttered. “Sorcery!”
“Yes! Fine! All right! It was!” Holmes complained. “Please don’t tell anybody. Now, do you two want to see what it is we’ve discovered, or don’t you?”
I already knew the first thing we’d find. French gourmands have an expression to explain how the presentation of a meal is just as important to its enjoyment as its taste. The first bite, they say, is with the eye. With food, that is likely true. However, in forensic matters, the first bite is most often with the nose.
And it’s rarely pleasant.
I think if I were a French gourmand, I’d have to call the atmosphere of our little chamber L’air du Brunton, mort.
He hadn’t been down there long enough to really go off, yet. Still, one could hardly describe him as spring-fresh. Peeping over the lip into the chamber below, we beheld the discolored remains of Musgrave’s missing butler. He lay curled in a little ball at the foot of a white marble sarcophagus. In his arms, he cradled an ancient iron crown. The three of us all cried out, but for different reasons.
Musgrave, on behalf of Brunton. Holmes, because he saw the crown. I because…
Well…
I was home.
As I stared at that sarcophagus, a feeling of belonging swept over me—perfect and powerful belonging. Can you imagine what Livingstone felt, returning from that first adventure along the Zambezi? So long away, in a land so strange, with his fate uncertain. There must have been a moment, when he first came home. When he opened his own half-forgotten front door and breathed in the smell of his own pantry, his own couch and rug, his waiting bed. When he heard the voices of those who missed and loved him, with so much longing to hear of his adventures and so much to share of what had passed in their own lives. That is what I felt, when I beheld my home—my final home. This little underground tomb was for me. The ritual was clear.
Whose is it?
Today, the diadem. Tomorrow, the thief. So, the iron crown must have been placed there before the ritual was written. Brunton’s misdeed and subsequent fate seem to have been foretold.
Whose must it be?
The doctor. The soldier. Governor. Dupe. I was a doctor. I’d been a soldier. How was I spending my days, if not as Holmes’s governor? Dupe? I liked to think not, but my recent defeats at the hands of the Woman left it difficult for me to mount any compelling rebuttal.
What shall he give for it?
All. Yes, of course. That’s what one gives, for a tomb.
Why is it given him?
Faith. Fidelity. Sacrifice. Reward. My breath caught in my throat. Tears came to my eyes. Both gratitude and humbling doubt struggled for control of my mind. Faith? I had next to none. Fidelity? Was mine worth anything? What sacrifice had I made? Honestly, almost everything I did, I did for my own sake. How could I have earned such a reward? It was remarkably well crafted. Masons long forgotten had laid it here and chiseled wreaths and bevels that endured, unspoiled. Upon the front relief, maidens wept for the body that would one day lie within that empty vessel. Carved kings and priests raised grateful hands towards the honored dead, still absent. What was it about this failed doctor, this fallen soldier, this petty and unremarkable man that generations past had seen worthy to venerate?
Holmes was pulling on my arm. He wanted me to look at the crown. See how black and ill-seeming it was? See how the iron was free of rust, despite all those years in an underground cell? Did I feel how magical it was? Even Musgrave said he could, though all I could feel was love for that little white box.
Holmes waved the crown at me—said it was a thing of powerful evil. Insisted it was whispering to him. Commanding him. Giving him thoughts. Now, Holmes was certainly strong enough to resist its influence, but what of Brunton? What had it made him say? What foolish thing had crossed his lips in his moment of triumph? That he did not love Rachel? That he had used her to a purpose and she’d been fool enough to let him? Couldn’t I see that Brunton was far too smart to make such a mistake when he stood in so vulnerable a position? And Rachel—kind Rachel—so used to absorbing the derision of her peers. Were we to believe that it was the natural action of her heart to drop the stone back into place over the man she loved? No, no, no! It was all the fault of this wicked crown, couldn’t I see?
I didn’t care.
Musgrave wanted to know about Brunton. Had he suffered? Was it slow suffocation that had done him in? Or had he starved? Or had the stone hit him and dashed him senseless?
I made no answer.
In fact, for the remainder of my time at Hurlstone Manor, I was dazed and useless. Holmes and Musgrave put everything to rights themselves. The crown was left beside the sarcophagus. Holmes didn’t want it at Baker Street and the vault had kept it safe this long, hadn’t it? Rachel was forgiven and invited back to work in the house. Holmes was adamant on that point. In the presence of such powerful and evil influence, nobody was answerable for their actions. As for explaining the death, that was easy. The fact that Brunton had been exploring the house was common knowledge amongst the staff. That he might have been injured and trapped in a disused area and subsequently perished was a well-understood hazard. Still, our later correspondence with Musgrave made it clear that Rachel never forgave herself. She never forgot that moment of anger and hurt—that horrible instant when Brunton yelled up at her, out of the pit and she let herself drop that stone.
Holmes wanted to talk about it on the train back to London. Yet my thoughts and, it seems, my words kept veering back to the little tomb. Holmes’s vexation was plain.
“Look here, Watson. It’s more than a little disturbing how attached you are to the place. Aren’t men supposed to be horrified by the idea of their own mortality?”
“I suppose. But I’m not your average man, Holmes. I was a soldier in a losing fight. More than that: I’m a doctor. Of course I understand I’m going to die. I just… Well, it never occurred to me I might die for a reason. That I might accomplish something worthy of that kind of remembrance. Oh, I hope it’s true! Can’t you understand?”
“Even if I can, that doesn’t mean I have to like it,” Holmes complained. “You’re not allowed to die, Watson!”
My feelings towards that perfect white sarcophagus were in no way morbid. In the story of my own life, nothing—nothing—had ever been more welcome. Even now, as I sit to write this, as the final reckoning nears and the world of man begins to crumble, I reflect that I have yet to deserve such thanks. Perhaps I have one card left to play—one deed left in me that will at last earn that final reward. Even now, it gives me hope.
In fact, it’s the only thing that can.
THE ADVENTURE OF THE COPPER’S SCREECHES
FATE IS A FUNNY THING. OUR NEXT TWO ADVENTURES were unrelated, except in one aspect: hair. The next six months of my life would be spent either in action, or in bed with shattered health and broken bones, all for the sake of other people’s hair.
One Tuesday, I returned to our Baker Street rooms just before lunchtime, in some vexation. I’d been investigating a man who had supposedly served as potion-maker to Moriarty. Sadly, he’d been naught but a charlatan. His primary claim to magical brilliance was that he’d concocted an elixir to regrow hair and combat ague. My analysis revealed it to be nothing but Yorkshire ditchwater, morphine, vanilla and just a pinch of cinnamon. Needless to say, the man was in high demand. Lines of sufferers flocked to his little stand by day and night, because really: vanilla? And cinnamon? Any of the thousand cures available in London’s druggists might feature ditchwater and they all featured morphine, but had anybody thought to make them palatable?
Genius hides in plain sight, they say.
I was just preparing to vent my failure to Holmes when he said, “Watson, we have a guest.”
“Eh? A guest? Who is it?”
“She says her name is Violet,” said Holmes, indicat
ing, with some trepidation, the dark corner we’d set aside to store our food. Sure enough, a young girl bustled back and forth, straightening this and rearranging that. She had an air of propriety about her. Not the haughty propriety of one who practices it to prove their superiority to the lower classes, but the I-know-my-place-and-could-teach-your-children-how-completely-they-outrank-me propriety that had become so important in our modern economy. At first glance, I could discern it. Our guest was a governess; she could be nothing else.
Which was a pity. There was something about her…
She was very small. She had a head of vibrant copper locks and a smattering of freckles to match. These were present in such numbers that an ungenerous observer might label them grotesque, but to me it just seemed as if nature had looked upon her face and deemed that it was worthy to be decorated. She had soft blue eyes, which bespoke not only intelligence and liveliness, but a depth of consideration utterly wasted in a life of domestic servitude. She was a governess. She might have been… well… who knows? In a world unlike our own—not governed so rigidly by societal rules and expectations—who can say what she might accomplish, or how far she might rise?
Oh, and speaking of societal expectations…
“Holmes! Why have you set our ‘guest’ to cleaning?”
“I didn’t! She did it! She made me!”
“Oh, did she now?”
“I did, actually,” she said. “I am Miss Violet Hunter, at your service, sir. You must be Dr. Watson?”
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