by David Marcum
The man’s sad face lit up somewhat. “Ah, yes, that is a fascinating story. The Earl was quite an excellent amateur archeologist. He had found the Apollo sanctuary, you know.[10] Most recently, he became convinced that a forest clearing near his home was actually the location of a Viking-era assembly place. The site in question was remarkable for the presence of a low hill, which further inspection of the soil sub-layers revealed to be artificial in nature.”[11]
“A barrow?” asked Holmes.
“Precisely. The Earl commenced the digging of tunnels and, after the span of a few weeks, he and his men penetrated to the central chamber, where they found the grave of what was obviously a great Jarl, surrounded by the bodies of four of his warriors. He had lain there, untouched, for almost a thousand years. Around him was arranged an extraordinary hoard of silver and golden objects. There were coins, ornaments, ingots, and drinking vessels, not to mention the weapons and armor of the five men.”
“A mighty treasure!” I exclaimed.
“It certainly was, Doctor,” replied Professor Sidney. “It is the first instance we have of a burial mound from the Danelaw, when the Vikings held sway over the entire eastern seaboard of England.[12] That is what made the Earl’s death all the more tragic.”
“What happened, exactly?” I asked.
The professor shook his head sadly. “I am surprised that you did not follow the case more closely, Doctor. Certainly public interest in the matter was very high. His assistant, a man by the name of Neal Scott, who had worked closely with the Earl for a dozen years, suddenly shoved him from the balcony of the Earl’s estate. At first, it was assumed that the Earl’s fall must have been accidental, but later that night, Scott took his own life. His wife found him hanging from a hook in the wall of their bedroom, a rope tied round his neck and an overturned chair beneath him. On the table was a note in which Scott admitted to committing the fatal deed, though he gave no explanation for his actions. Witnesses did not report any signs of conflict between the men, nor any recent arguments. It is a sad tale.”
“And thus, in conformity with the Earl’s will, his entire collection, both old and newly acquired, came into possession of the Fitzwilliam Museum?” said Holmes. “But why the special care in transport, Professor Sidney? Surely that was unusual for two such men as yourself and Dr. Ackroyd?”
“Everett was always fastidious about such things, especially such an important find. As I said, we have no other example of an intact Viking burial in all of England.”
“Very good, Professor. We shall return if we have any other questions for you.” Holmes turned to the inspector. “Have you looked over the weapons which Dr. Ackroyd was so concerned about on the day he met his death?”
Lestrade shrugged. “Of course, but I saw nothing of note.”
“Yes, well, I think they may be well worth another visit. We shall kill two birds with one stone and ask the janitor, Ramsey, to show us about the storeroom.”
We found the man in question huddled in a small room tucked off the main corridor of the first floor. The space was filled with brooms, mops, and other items of use in the man’s trade, but Ramsey had also transformed the area into a miniature sitting room, with two well-worn chairs gathered around a small table. On that lay a tray filled with ashes, and as Holmes gazed about the area, I could see him glancing carefully at those remnants. Ramsey himself was a small, wiry man, who appeared to be in his late sixties. Although no longer young, I could plainly see that the effects of his years of military service had not completely vanished, and he remained trim and likely quite strong. I was certain that, if he wished, he surely could have wielded the blade by which both Dr. Ackroyd and Mr. Walton had been struck down.
Ramsey looked up as we entered and shook his head morosely. “It’s no use, gentlemen.”
“What is no use, Mr. Ramsey?” asked Holmes.
“Trying to figure out who is responsible for this madness. This goes beyond the realm of man.”
Holmes smiled. “I assure you, Mr. Ramsey, that magic and charms have little role in my vocabulary. The answer will be much simpler. If you would be so kind as to show us now to the storeroom where the various items comprising the bequest of the Earl of Chesterfield are kept?”
The man sighed heavily. “Very well, follow me.”
He led the way along the corridor and down the stairs to the ground level. As we walked, Holmes made a few seemingly innocuous inquires, but which I presumed must be advancing his case. The most unusual request was when he told Ramsey that he needed to withdraw some funds and asked the janitor to recommend a local banking establishment. The man suggested a branch of the Capital & Counties Bank, which appeared to satisfy Holmes. I, for one, was mystified as to the purpose of this question, as I well knew that Holmes would not have departed Baker Street short of ready currency. Eventually, in the rear of the museum, we stopped at a door marked as “Private”. Ramsey took a steel hoop from his pocket which held numerous keys, but before he could use one to open it, Holmes stayed his hand.
“A minute, sir.” Holmes knelt down in front of the door and examined the lock with his glass for a moment. “You will note, Lestrade, that there is no sign of tampering of the mechanism. It has been opened with its key alone.”
The inspector frowned, but made no comment. He nodded for the janitor to proceed and the man moved forward in order to unlock the door. This opened into a musty room, without windows, such that it took Ramsey a few moments to light a sufficient number of the gas lamps so as to allow us to take it all in. What we found was a space of some ten yards square, the front occupied with several low tables, and the back filled with numerous tall shelves. From what I could ascertain, the shelves were arranged roughly chronologically, with the ones to the far left holding an Egyptian sarcophagus and several canopic jars, while the ones to our right held relatively recent Bantu artifacts from our country’s recent occupation of Whale Bay.[13]
However, the items of greatest interest were either scattered about on the tables or occupied the nearest of the shelves. This included a large pot filled with silver coins, as well as several golden armlets, neck rings, and brooches. In my mind, the highlight was the four exceptionally large round-pommeled swords which, despite their great age, remained remarkably free of rust or deterioration. It appeared that many of the items had been recently labeled. Holmes motioned for us to remain near the doorway, while he moved deeper into the room in order to fully discern all of the items it contained.
After the span of a few moments, he turned back to us. “Mr. Ramsey, I am desirous of examining that particular shield upon the top shelf.” He pointed to the item in question, which was one of five similar bulwarks lying next to what appeared to be corroded iron helmets. “Would you be so kind as to fetch it down for me?”
The man nodded. “Of course, sir.” He moved over to a corner of the room where he picked up a ladder. He set it down in front of the shelf in question and proceeded to climb the rungs.
In a heartbeat, Holmes slipped over to beneath the ladder, where he proceeded to grasp hold of it. “Let me steady this for you, Ramsey,” he said, as he looked up at the man. “We want no more blood spilt in these halls, metaphorically-speaking.”
The man grunted his appreciation and took hold of the item that Holmes had requested. Once he descended the ground, Ramsey handed it to my friend. “Is this what you needed, sir?” His tone clearly conveyed grave doubts over how this particular shield could play any role in the deaths of either his employer or his friend.
Holmes carefully took the item, which proved to be a circle of blackened wood banded in rusted steel, with great scars along the top. “Yes, I think it just may be.” He again took out his glass and scrutinized the scars closely. His face split into a smile. “Ah, yes, this is precisely what I had hoped to find.”
Lestrade could take no more. “Come now, Mr. Holmes,” prot
ested the inspector. “Dr. Ackroyd and Walton were hacked to death, not battered with a shield.”
“You might be surprised, Lestrade, but the scars on this shield explain exactly why the two men were killed.”
“What!” exclaimed Lestrade. “You are having sport with me, Mr. Holmes! This is no time for jesting.”
Holmes merely smiled and shook his head. “I speak nothing but the truth, Inspector. However, I admit to having an advantage over you.”
“And what is that?” huffed Lestrade.
“The power of imagination. You see, Lestrade, I considered all of the possible evidence and then reflected on how it could possibly tie together. The answer, while quite fantastic, is the only one that fits. I must say, Lestrade, that I am deeply in your debt for asking me to join you in this investigation. It is surely unique in the annals of crime.”
“Do you mean to say that you have solved it?” I exclaimed.
“There are one or two things that are still not clear, Watson, but yes, I think my case is essentially complete.” He turned to the janitor. “Tell me, Ramsey, is there a catalogue of what precisely comprises the Earl’s collection?”
The man looked puzzled. “I don’t rightly know, Mr. Holmes.”
“Would you do me the favor of inquiring of Professor Sidney, and if possible, bring the catalogue back for me to peruse?”
The man nodded and silently departed.
Holmes turned to me and Lestrade. “Now, gentlemen, what do you observe in this room?”
Lestrade and I glanced at each other. The inspector merely shrugged, so I proceeded to describe the various pieces of armor and the weapons to the best of my ability.
When I was complete, Holmes shook his head, as if disappointed that I failed to notice something of importance. “That’s it?” he asked.
“Yes, Holmes,” I replied. “Wait, do you think one of these swords could have been used to strike down Dr. Ackroyd and Mr. Walton?” I leaned in to inspect the blades, hoping to find some glimpse of residual blood upon one of them.
Lestrade stroked his chin thoughtfully. “It would take a mighty man to wield such a blade. They must be thrice the weight of a modern sabre.”
However, from the look upon his face, it was clear that neither Lestrade nor I understood Holmes’s point. “Tell me, Watson, how many weapons do you count?”
I studied the contents of the shelves to see if I was missing anything. “I see just these four swords, Holmes.”
“Precisely. But there were five men in that tomb. So where, pray tell, is the weapon of the Jarl?”
“Of course!” I exclaimed. “The missing weapon was used to kill the two men.”
“I expect it will prove to be an axe,” said Holmes mildly.
“That is excellent, Mr. Holmes,” said Lestrade excitedly. “I see it now. The burglar, a strong man, broke into the store-room, and stole the missing axe. To his eternal misfortune, Dr. Ackroyd must have decided to return and re-inspect some item or another. The curator discovered the burglar and ran for help, but the burglar chased him down, axe in hand, and killed him.”
“Very good, Lestrade,” said my friend, nodding. “That is a most interesting hypothesis. But then how do you explain the murder of Walton?”
Lestrade waved his hand. “Who knows, Mr. Holmes? Perhaps he developed a taste for violence? But it is of little matter. We can ask the man once we catch him. The axe will prove to be his undoing. It is far too valuable to simply discard. He will attempt to sell it, and once he does, we will have our murderer.”
Holmes shrugged. “Unfortunately, Inspector, I do not believe that there was ever a burglar. As I showed you earlier, the lock shows no sign that it was ever opened in any fashion other than with its intended key.”
“You know as well as I, Mr. Holmes, that a very skilled lock-pick can leave no mark. Do you have some other reason to doubt the existence of the burglar?” Lestrade scowled.
“Only that the murderer of Mr. Walton was no more than five-foot-six inches tall.”
The inspector stared at my friend incredulously. “How can you make such a claim?”
“All in good time, Lestrade.” He glanced over the inspector’s shoulder. “Ah, Ramsey, excellent. What do you have for me?” The janitor returned holding a large ledger, which he promptly handed over to my friend. “Thank you, my good man.” Holmes flipped through it for a moment. “Ah, here we are: ‘a large antique two-handed battle-axe, with a head of steel, and a handle of chased silver wrapped with golden bands.’ I think we have our murder-weapon, gentlemen.” He gazed at the janitor. “Do you recall seeing this particular item during the un-loading process?”
The man frowned. “No, sir.”
“Come now, man,” interjected Lestrade angrily. “There is no sense in lying! Out with it!”
“Wait,” Holmes forestalled the inspector’s wrath. “He is not lying, Lestrade. I apologize for failing to read the rest of the description. This particular battle-axe was, per our catalogue here: ‘preserved within a fine silver casket, itself covered in runic inscriptions, whose meanings have yet to be deciphered.’” Holmes paused to look around for a moment, and then pointed. “Like that casket, right there.”
We all turned to follow the aim of his finger which was directed at an unusually-shaped coffer. It was some four-feet long, two feet deep, and perhaps one-foot high, with a somewhat lopped-off pyramidal lid fastened by a solid clasp. The silver had clearly been recently polished, removing the tarnish of the centuries and allowing us to appreciate its elaborate chasing and engravings.
“You think that the murder weapon is within?” said I in a low voice.
“I do,” Holmes replied calmly.
“Well, let’s find out,” snapped Lestrade, who stepped towards the silver casket.
“Hold a minute, Lestrade. We must do this properly. Professor Sidney should be here when we open it, don’t you think?”
The inspector scowled. “If you insist.”
“It will only take a moment.”
Lestrade waved at the janitor, instructing him to fetch the museum’s assistant director, but Holmes pre-empted him again. “No, let us go to him. Watson, Ramsey, if each of you gentlemen would deign to take one end, we can surely manage to carry it up to the Professor’s office.”
Over Lestrade’s protests, the two of us lugged the surprisingly heavy coffer up the stairs and back to the locale requested by Holmes. When we entered, Professor Sidney looked up from his work. For a moment, simple puzzlement shone on his pale features, but when he saw what we carried, he shrank back in a paroxysm of terror. “What are you doing?” he exclaimed. He pointed at the coffer convulsively with an emaciated hand. “Don’t touch that!”
So strident was the fear in his voice that Ramsey and I quickly deposited the box upon the man’s desk and backed away. The professor pushed his chair against the far wall, as if to put as much space between him and the casket as possible.
“Why not, Professor?” asked Holmes mildly.
“It is cursed,” replied the man, his tone husky.
“So you have interpreted the runes?”
“Of course. I am the foremost authority in all of England on such inscriptions,” said he, some measure of pride creeping into his voice. “They warn of a great horror which will befall any who opens it.”
Holmes nodded. “I would be most obliged if you would provide an exact translation.”
The professor closed his eyes and shook his head, his face ashen. “It says: ‘He who opens this box will deal in grief. Midnight will shade his eyes. His hands will run red with the blood of foe and friend alike.’”
“If you knew what the runes said, Professor, then I wonder why you ever dared to open it?”
The man threw his hands to his face. “How did you know?” he cried. “It was
the most terrible mistake of my life. Would that I had never seen it! Yes, I admit it. I can take it no longer. I would ease my soul of the weight of these terrible crimes. It was I who killed my old friend.” He seemed utterly prostrated with grief.
“What did you say!” exclaimed Lestrade, flabbergasted at this sudden confession. “You committed the murder of Dr. Ackroyd? Why would you do such a thing?”
“I know not!” the professor wailed. “I was consumed with such a rage, it could not be satiated until I felt blood running over my hands. Under such an unnatural passion, I chased after my dearest friend and struck him down. I can only repeat that the runes do not lie. There is a curse upon that blade.”
Lestrade looked much discombobulated. “Surely, Professor, you are distraught with grief,” said he sternly. “You couldn’t possibly wield such an axe.”
However, in response the man silently collapsed onto a chair and sobbed piteously into his hands.
Holmes looked at the professor for a moment and then shrugged. “It is indisputably unlikely, Lestrade, but not entirely impossible. Nevertheless, I am afraid that Professor Sidney is also responsible for the murder of Mr. Walton.”
“What?” cried the inspector. “How can you be certain?”
“Although I had not formed any conclusions with the meager amount of information in the papers, I suspected from the minute that I heard Walton was dead that the deed must have been committed by either Professor Sidney or Mr. Ramsey here. When we arrived at the scene of Walton’s murder, I found a single heel-print of a distinctive nature. It had a divot in it which was quite unique.”
“That could have belonged to anyone,” spluttered Lestrade.
“True enough, Inspector. However, I soon observed the same print again in the snow that had recently been tracked in the front door of the museum. Hence my ruse which allowed me to inspect the bottom of Mr. Ramsey’s boots as he climbed the ladder. His heels did not possess that particular divot. Thus, Professor Sidney became my primary suspect. Of course, Ramsey was always the less-likely of the pair.”