While Holmes was capable of speaking extempore, I was more comfortable relying on my notes and did so, reading from them.
“The first indication of foul play could be seen in the marks around the neck. The bruising indicated that the ligature used was of a thin to medium diameter, no more than a quarter of an inch. The rope found around the neck was of twice that diameter. As my colleague, Mr. Holmes, demonstrated several years back, bodies cease to show bruising not long after death. There were no bruises corresponding to the thicker rope. The rope had caused significant lacerations and abrasions to the skin, but there was no sign of any bleeding. Furthermore, the use of the heavy, knotted noose and the drop of over twenty feet corresponds to current practices in capital punishment where the force of the drop and the knot combine to snap a prisoner’s neck so that he dies immediately and the gruesome spectacle of him kicking and twitching for several minutes, so beloved by the populace in previous centuries, is obviated. The deceased’s neck, however, had not been broken. In addition, there are numerous deep scratches on the neck to each side of the Adam’s apple, most likely made by the victim’s fingernails as he struggled to pull the ligature away from his throat. From a medical point of view, Inspector, this man was dead, strangled, well before he was pulled up and hung from the tree.”
The inspector nodded and turned to the constable.
“Constable Duncan,” he said, “kindly note that Scotland Yard has concluded, with the support of noted pathologist Dr. John Watson and the consulting detective, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, that Mr. Shaw Musgrave, sadly and tragically, took his own life, and we extend our condolences to the family. You may release the suicide note to the press. I am sure they will be eager to print it.”
I gasped in disbelief. In outrage, not pausing to care a fig how it would be received, I shouted, “Are you a complete imbecile, Lestrade? That would be a blatant falsehood and utterly irresponsible!”
My fists were clenched in anger and my muscles had tensed up like a coiled spring.
I expected a sharp reply from Lestrade, but instead he slowly turned to face me and gave me a forced, sweet smile.
“Perfect, Dr. Watson. Well done,” he gloated. “But allow me to suggest that telling the public that we have concluded that the suicide was staged to cover up a murder might not be in our interests. If I were to make that statement, then just how far away do you think our murderer would be by morning? Calais? Amsterdam? Or within a fortnight? Moscow? Or maybe the other direction and all the way to Saskatchewan. Ah, no. Winter is coming, so perhaps Burma. What is your guess?
“That would truly be imbecilic,” he continued. “So, we shall allow our villain to think that he has fooled us and in doing so, he is most likely to remain right here under our noses. All we have to do is find him. I suspect that Mr. Sherlock Holmes would approve of my decision.”
He looked directly at Holmes, who gave a quick, forced smile in return.
“Full marks on that one, Inspector. I agree.”
“Thank you, Holmes,” said Lestrade. “Now then, gentlemen, your consulting fee has vanished but, knowing you, I expect that you will want to continue your investigation all the same, and you have Scotland Yard’s permission to do so. You have your methods; we have ours; the only difference is that ours are approved by Westminster and yours -- well, who knows what you will come up with next? My only demand is that you keep me informed. Will you agree to those terms, Holmes?”
Holmes nodded his agreement, and the inspector continued.
“Right. The other immediate problem is that with father and son now both dead I shall have to find a magistrate to appoint a trustee to supervise the estate unless there are any immediate relatives that we can turn to.”
The local constable spoke up. “There is a cousin, a Mr. Reginald Musgrave, who lives at Hurlstone. It is about thirty miles away, on the way to Brighton.”
“I know this man,” said Holmes. “He is a former classmate and a client of mine, and I can vouch for the probity of his character.”
“What about,” I said, “that uncle fellow, Rochester Musgrave? Isn’t he living right here on the estate.”
“He is, doctor,” said Constable Duncan. “But I asked about him and the staff said that he had not been around since Tuesday. Gone to see some friends in Eastbourne. I’ve sent word through the police office there to tell him of what has happened and to come back here straight away. However, sir, he is a more distant relative than the chap in Hurlstone, so best we go with that one.”
“Agreed,” announced Lestrade. “That’s what we will do. And Duncan, could you call the local funeral service and have them come for the body?”
“Their wagon is already waiting by the road,” said the constable. “It’s a small village, Inspector, and news travels quickly. Looking after the funeral of the richest lad in the county is a good piece of business. I’ll let them know that they can come in now.”
Chapter Five
Going by the Book
WE ROSE AND PARTED. Once we were back outside, I came up close to Holmes.
“Not surprised that you did not want to drop the case, Holmes. But, pray tell, what happens next?”
“We are already in the cemetery, I suggest that we look into the mysterious crypt.”
“Do we know how to find it?”
“No, but I have the book with me, and I am fairly certain that if Master Shaw Musgrave could follow its instructions, so can we.”
He pulled the copy of Sedley’s Bellamira from his shoulder bag and opened the front cover.
“The first instruction,” he said, “tells us to begin at the gate and walk uphill one hundred and fifty-three paces. That is easy enough.”
We went to the gate of the graveyard and paced off along the central pathway. Those steps took us to the crest of the hill on which the cemetery had been set.
“Excellent,” said Holmes. “Now, right for sixty-six.”
That sent us along a row of stones and monuments that had been placed at the top of the hill. These were among the oldest of the markers in the graveyard. Some had broken off and been restored and, in passing I could see dates inscribed on them from the late seventeenth century.
“And now,” Holmes, said, “walk around the old tree stump and then another twelve.” He moved on as he spoke.
“And finally, ten to the left and three right.”
We were standing dead in front of one of the several mausoleums, more like a small stone building. It was weathered, but the name of Dacre was clearly readable across the lintel.
“That was rather easy,” I said.
“Yes, said Holmes. “Absurdly easy. Whoever wrote these directions did not want the reader to have any chance of not understanding them. I suspect that inside this edifice there is a grave marker to Baron Dacre, and if we lift the stone we shall find steps leading to a crypt. Shall we go?”
“It is,” I observed with a smile, “broad daylight, so no ghosts are about. Lead on.”
We entered the mausoleum and in the corner, as expected, was a flat stone marker bearing the inscription, Thomas Lennard, Baron Dacre and Earl of Sussex. 13 May 1654 – 30 October 1715.
“This is it,” said Holmes. “And it appears to have been moved recently. Come, Watson, take the far end, and we can see what lies underneath.”
The slab of granite measured about four feet by two feet and, while heavy, was not difficult to lift a few inches and then push to the side. Below was an open space and a steep set of stairs cut out of limestone.
“We’ll need a torch,” I said.
“Perhaps,” said Holmes. “But the light from the morning sun is strong, and we can take a look around. We can return with a torch if necessary.”
First, he descended the stairs and I followed. The room, if you could call it that, was cramped, not more than five feet in height and about ten feet square. Once my eyes had become accustomed to the darkness, I could see enough to make out about a dozen large wood and metal cases, each rough
ly the size of a steamer trunk, stacked up one on top of the other against the walls. Holmes hunched over and walked to the closest pile. He placed his hands on the nearest corners and gave a bit of a lift.
“This is not overly heavy, Watson. Come, give me a hand and we can lift it up the stairs and out.”
It was awkward to move it in the cramped space, but it was not, as Holmes had noted, particularly heavy. Without too much effort we were able to lift and push it up the stairs and then carry it out into the open sunlight. Holmes bent over and examined it. He took out his handkerchief and dusted off the top. Though faded, the coat of arms of the King of England could be seen. The lion on the left, the unicorn on the right, and the lion perched on top of the crown were all easily discerned. Around the shield were the famous words, first uttered by King Edward III:
HONI SOIT QUI MAL Y PENSE
and on the scroll beneath the shield, the familiar
DIEU ET MON DROIT.
“This once belonged to the King,” observed Holmes. “And, if I am not mistaken, it has been opened quite recently. So, let us see what the King left behind.”
With little effort, he pulled back the latch and opened the top of the case.
It was completely empty.
“Ah, Watson, we did not discover a buried treasure. So, shall we try again? It was not too great a task to get that one out. What say, are you game to hoist the rest of them?”
I muttered my agreement and for the next hour we shuffled and pushed and hoisted until all of the cases were out of the crypt and sitting on the grass in the sunlight. Then, one by one, we opened them. Every last one of them was empty.
With the interiors being lit up by the mid-day sun, Holmes looked them over thoroughly.
“These have been empty for eons,” he said. “The dust on the bottom has not been disturbed. Not a single diamond, or a sovereign. Not even a farthing. But what is this?”
He was looking closely at the inside of the top of one of the cases. I bent over behind him and read the words, scratched into the wood:
lector, si fortunae requires circumspice
“These words,” I said, “are vaguely familiar. Where have I seen them before?”
“Good heavens, Watson, of course they are familiar. Except for one word they are the famous tribute to Christopher Wren in St. Paul’s.”
“Ah yes, ‘Reader, if you seek his monument, look around.’ Yes, of course. Except that ‘monument’ has been replaced by ‘fortune’ and it is in the genitive case. So, it would be ‘Reader, if you seek my fortune, look around.’ Something like that, right, Holmes?”
“Exactly like that, Watson.”
Holmes stood up and slowly looked around at the hills and forests, the old castle, and the great manor house that could all be seen from the top of the cemetery hill. A smile slowly formed on his face.
“So where,” I asked, “is the King’s fortune? What happened to it?”
“It is yet another piece of data,” he said, “for which I have yet to formulate a comprehensive theory. That will just have to wait. So, come, Watson. Let us place these crates back in the building so that they are protected from the elements. Under some sort of law or regulation, such historical artifacts must be turned over to the Crown by way of a museum. So, no need to return them to the crypt. And then we shall look into the library.”
The cases were moved back, and we next found ourselves in a large and very impressive library. The walls, every one of them lined with bookshelves, were at least twenty feet in height, and along them were leaned several ladders, each attached to a rail at the top and with a set of locking casters on the base.
“My word,” I said. “There must be ten thousand books in here. What are you looking for, Holmes?”
“Bear with me, my friend, for a few minutes. This might not be as daunting a task as it looks.”
He then walked around the room, stopping numerous times to pull a volume off a shelf and quickly looking inside it before replacing it. He worked his way around the room doing so and returned to me with a smile on his face.
“As I suspected. The only logical way to organize a library that has been collected over two centuries is chronologically. Each owner of the house, beginning with the First Earl of Sussex, added his books. He was followed by the next owner and the next. The earliest books are immediately to the right of the doorway, the latest to the left. The shelves are numbered accordingly. Do you recall at what shelf Master Shaw said he was reading when he came upon the book with the directions to the crypt?”
“The hundred and second.”
“Yes, that was it. Thank you, Watson. That would indicate that our man was interested in more recent additions, those added during our current Queen’s reign, perhaps. And therein is another reason to conclude that the volume of Restoration Comedies that he came upon was planted there with the intent that he find it. We, on the other hand, are looking for a volume left behind by a much earlier resident. And, as he was also the one to have built this house it is to be expected that it is among the earliest books placed on the shelves.”
He turned to his right and began systematically to remove each book from its place on those shelves where the oldest volumes were held. He took a full minute with each book, turning the front and back sections over carefully before returning it to its place. I sensed that this search could go on for a long time and consequently turned left and looked for something more recently published with which to amuse myself. I was delighted to find the latest from Rider Haggard, She. I settled into a chair and was soon engrossed in the quest to find She-Who-Must-Be-Obeyed. Just as my characters were shipwrecked and in peril for their lives off the coast of Africa, I was rudely interrupted.
“Ah ha!” Holmes cried out. “Here it is.”
“Here is what?”
“The volume in which the original instructions to the crypt are to be found.”
He walked quickly over to where I was sitting and inconsiderately grabbed She from out my hands and replaced it with another book, this one much older—The Pilgrim’s Progress.
“Our dear departed earl,” said Holmes, “had a touch of irony. The Pilgrim’s Progress, indeed. Now look on the front flyleaf of this book.”
I did, written in an unsteady hand and in lettering that was of many years ago, I read the following:
Dear Pilgrim, written in my blood, are the steps to the celestial city. Follow them faithfully to find your eternal fortune.
Enter the Temple at Beautiful and to Zion go a step for each of the Miraculous Fishes caught upon the other side. Turn to the Sheep and Measure a step for each of the Books in the Bible. Here you will encounter Knowledge of Good and Evil. To the Sheep again by the Churches of Asia Minor; to the Goats by the Times around Jericho; Again, to the Goats by the Years of the Tribulation, and Life shall be Behind you. Now move Forward by the Tribes and then to the Goats by the Cubits within the Sanctus Sanctorum in the Temple. Advance by the Trinity and Harrow Hell.
“Good heavens, Holmes,” I exclaimed. “This is utterly obscure. I would have to find a biblical scholar to decipher it.”
“Or,” said he, “you could look in the first book that master Musgrave gave to us and find that someone had already deciphered it. And, in truth, Watson, it is not all that difficult if you will simply recall your Sunday School lessons. I assume you attended as a child.”
“Of course, I did. But I have forgotten almost all of what I learned, haven’t you?”
“Frankly, no, my dear doctor. Shall I decipher the code for you? It will not take more than a few minutes.”
“Go ahead.”
“Beautiful is a name given to one of the gates of the Temple, therefore start at the cemetery gate. Zion is the holy mount to which the children of Israel ascended in worship; therefore, climb the hill. The miraculous draught of fishes brought in one hundred and fifty-three, the number of steps we took from the gate to the top of the hill. The sheep in Scripture are placed on the Lord’s right, the
goats on the left. Therefore, turn right and walk sixty-six steps, one for each of the books in the Protestant Bible. There is a tree in the way, here referred to as the one of the Knowledge of Good and Evil and you are instructed to walk around it and return to your path. Seven to the right for the churches in Asia Minor as recorded in the Apocalypse, seven to the right for the number of days Joshua led the Children of Israel around the walls of Jericho, and seven again to the right for the years of the Great Tribulation. The Holiest of Holies is not, as you have placed it in your writings, in Westminster but in the Temple and it measured twenty cubits by twenty cubits. Are you following me?”
“Right. What’s a cubit?”
“The distance of an average man’s forearm, roughly a foot and a half. So, two cubits is equivalent to about one yard. And I trust you do not need any explanation of the Harrowing of Hell?”
“That would be the stairs down into the crypt.”
“Precisely.”
“Splendid, Holmes. And how does this help us find a murderer?”
“It gives us me more data.”
“That’s all?”
“For now, yes. The day, however, is over, and I suggest we return to the inn before the sun sets and have our tea and then our supper. Shall we go?”
One of the staff was requested to drive us back and, subject to being given a few shillings for his time, obliged. As we entered the Horseshoe Inn, the innkeeper caught us just beyond the door.
Sherlock Holmes Never Dies - Collection Five: New Sherlock Holmes Mysteries - Second Edition Page 20