Sherlock Holmes and the Crusader's Curse - Stuart Douglas - E-Book

Sherlock Holmes and the Crusader's Curse E-Book

Stuart Douglas

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  • Herausgeber: Titan Books
  • Kategorie: Krimi
  • Sprache: Englisch
  • Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2020
Beschreibung

A new novel from the author of acclaimed Sherlock Holmes patisches The Albino's Treasure, The Counterfeit Detective and The Improbable PrisonerA CURSED LEGACYThe last Lord Thorpe, reclusive owner of Thorpe Manor, has died. Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson are invited to the auction at which the estate will be sold off, in hopes Holmes can uncover the whereabouts of the missing De Trop Diamond, a jewel-encrusted gemstone brought back from the Crusades by an earlier member of the Thorpe dynasty - and the source of a legendary curse.Making the acquaintance of the various potential bidders for the Manor, and visiting the nearby village, the two men learn local legends from the local publican, before exploring the grounds of the Manor itself.All seems well until first one of the guests, and then the publican are found dead.Trapped in the Manor by a ferocious snow storm, and cut off from his network of London assistants, Holmes must convince the remaining guests that the curse is not real, and that there is a murderer in their midst...

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Contents

Cover

Available now from Titan Books: The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes Series

Title Page

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Copyright

Dedication

Chapter One: A Ghostly Crusader

Chapter Two: A Trip to Thorpe Manor

Chapter Three: Dinner for Seven

Chapter Four: Dinner for Eight

Chapter Five: The Silent Man

Chapter Six: The Crystal Palace

Chapter Seven: Arguments

Chapter Eight: The Mausoleum

Chapter Nine: Death in the Cellar

Chapter Ten: Interviews

Chapter Eleven: Inspector Fisher

Chapter Twelve: Reilly is Suspected

Chapter Thirteen: Hopkirk is Suspected

Chapter Fourteen: Julieanne’s Confession

Chapter Fifteen: The Love Nest

Chapter Sixteen: Hopkirk is Reprieved

Chapter Seventeen: Tuesday Night and Wednesday Morning

Chapter Eighteen: A Culprit Brought Low

Chapter Nineteen: Stainforth

Chapter Twenty: Back to the Manor

Chapter Twenty-One: An Audience at the Palace

Chapter Twenty-Two: Explanations

Chapter Twenty-Three: One Final Mystery

AVAILABLE NOW FROM TITAN BOOKSTHE FURTHER ADVENTURES OF SHERLOCK HOLMES SERIES:

THE DEVIL'S PROMISEDavid Stuart Davies

THE ALBINO’S TREASUREStuart Douglas

THE WHITE WORMSam Siciliano

THE RIPPER LEGACYDavid Stuart Davies

MURDER AT SORROW’S CROWNSteven Savile & Robert Greenberger

THE COUNTERFEIT DETECTIVEStuart Douglas

THE MOONSTONE'S CURSESam Siciliano

THE HAUNTING OF TORRE ABBEYCarole Buggé

THE IMPROBABLE PRISONERStuart Douglas

THE DEVIL AND THE FOURSam Siciliano

THE INSTRUMENT OF DEATHDavid Stuart Davies

THE MARTIAN MENACEEric Brown

Stuart Douglas

TITAN BOOKS

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THE FURTHER ADVENTURES OF SHERLOCK HOLMES:THE CRUSADER’S CURSEPrint edition ISBN: 9781789091588E-book edition ISBN: 9781789091595

Published by Titan BooksA division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd144 Southwark Street, London SE1 0UP

First Titan edition: December 202010 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Names, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead (except for satirical purposes), is entirely coincidental.

© 2020 Stuart Douglas

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

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For Alex, Cameron and Matthew, love you all

Chapter One

A Ghostly Crusader

“A ghostly Crusader! Preposterous!”

The scorn in Holmes’s voice was enough to cause me to look up from my newspaper with an enquiring look.

“What was that, Holmes? Have you grown so bored that you’ve taken to reading Le Fanu to pass the time?”

My question was deliberately light-hearted in tone, but in truth I would have been happy to find my friend absorbed in a volume of Mr le Fanu’s ghost stories. Baker Street had been quiet of late, with little passing through our doors to interest Holmes. In consequence he had retreated into the dark mood that I knew from past experience often led to the needle and his preferred seven per cent solution of cocaine. Any distraction that kept him from that infernal vice was, in my opinion, to be encouraged.

It seemed, however, that this was not the case. With an exasperated grunt, Holmes crumpled the letter he held into a ball and threw it across to me.

“Hardly, Watson,” he growled. “Though at least that gentleman has the good sense to admit that his work is simple fiction. No, this is altogether more foolish.”

While he spoke, I smoothed the paper out on my knee, revealing it to have come from the peculiarly named Faraday Thompson. The letter was somewhat verbose but, in light of what was to follow, it is worth quoting in full.

Dear Mr Holmes,

Please forgive me for not consulting you in person, but recent events make it impossible for me to travel to London, and the task for which I wish to engage your services is one regarding which time is of the essence.

My name is Faraday Thompson and I have for the past three decades had the honour to act as solicitor to Lord Thorpe of Thorpe Manor in Yorkshire. Sadly, his Lordship passed away two months ago and it has fallen to me to handle the execution of his estate. In general, this is a relatively straightforward matter; his Lordship had no children and had named as sole heir a distant American cousin. This cousin, Mr Nathaniel Purser of Boston, Mass., has no desire to live in England and has instructed me to sell off both the manor house and grounds, and its contents.

As directed I have, therefore, arranged for the sale of his Lordship’s art collection, and invited sundry parties interested in purchasing the estate itself to stay at the manor this weekend. It is where these two areas overlap that I – or rather Mr Purser – wish to make use of your services, if you are agreeable.

First, the extent of the Thorpe art collection, for centuries renowned for its range and quality, is not at all as expected. When last catalogued by the sixth Lord Thorpe in 1784, it contained amyriad of paintings and sculptures, by some of the great masters, and was valued, in today’s terms, in the region of £10,000. Inexplicably, when my firm sent appraisers to the manor last month, only a handful of family portraits could be found. The whereabouts of the remainder is a mystery, which we hope you might be able to solve.

Secondly, I do not know if you have heard of the Thorpe Ruby? Local legend has it that the third Baron de Trop brought back a fabulous blood-red stone encased in an intricate golden setting from the Crusades. Unfortunately, it was lost soon after arrival, along with the Baron himself, who was found dead in the main hall, horribly mutilated. Allegedly, someone – or something – followed the Baron back from the Holy Land and tormented him, seeking the location of the ruby in order to return it to the heathen temple from which it was looted. They failed, but killed the Baron for his defiance and his ghost now roams the grounds, cursed to protect for ever the secret that killed him.

At least, so the legend goes.

Mr Purser informs me by telegraph that he has no truck with ghosts or legends, but if there is potentially a precious stone secreted somewhere on the estate, he feels it would be remiss not to make some attempt to locate it, before the manor and all it contains is sold to the highest bidder next week.

With that in mind, he would like to engage you for a few days, Mr Holmes. Perhaps your famous talents might be turned to the detection of lost paintings and a legendary gem, rather than a desperate criminal!

The letter concluded with directions to Thorpe-by-the-Marsh railway station and the hope that Holmes – “and your ever-present colleague, Dr Watson, of course” – would see fit to present themselves at Thorpe Manor the following day. A postscript requested that nobody should know the reason for our presence, and added the name of a gentleman who would meet us at the manor, Lawrence Buxton.

Given a choice, I should have preferred something along more criminal lines, but beggars cannot often be choosers and this was the first potential case in weeks that had raised any reaction from Holmes. It was true that the reaction had been a negative one, but still, I was determined to encourage him to become involved.

“You are too harsh, Holmes,” I said with a smile. “I think it a fascinating tale, at least. A murdered knight, missing paintings, a cursed gem and a haunted house. Mr le Fanu can scarcely have conjured up a story with more intriguing elements.”

In reply, Homes snorted in derision. “I have said it before, Watson, but your scribblings have sadly served to abrade your critical faculties.”

I allowed the insult to pass, though inwardly bridling at his use of “scribblings”. “Be that as it may, it would be good to get out of London for a while. This spell of inclement weather shows no sign of abating, and some fresh country air would be a tonic for both of us.”

To this, Holmes gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. There was no denying the foulness of the London air in recent days. Even now, I could see a thin rain streaking the window and, beyond that, a thick dirty fog which obscured all but the nearest buildings.

“It is true that I find the present climate dispiriting but that is hardly cause to abandon the city in pursuit of what will no doubt prove to be a combination of overly febrile imagination and a credulous local population. Although there is always the chance of a genuine case while we are on this wild goose chase. However slight that chance may be,” he concluded with a resigned sigh.

I am not proud of what I did next, but I was worried enough about Holmes’s state of mind that I assured myself that the small deception was for the greater good.

“Actually, Holmes, I was hoping that you would be willing to leave London for reasons of my own. My leg has been troubling me a great deal recently, and I believe that a period of relaxation away from the hustle of the city would be by far the best curative possible.”

I rubbed my old wound and grimaced just a little for effect. “I could go alone, of course, but I fear boredom would soon have me back in Baker Street. A short spell in the country, with good company and a small mystery to occupy the mind, would be far preferable.”

Holmes is, of course, no fool, and he looked hard at me for a moment, cocking an eyebrow at my amateur theatrics, before allowing a smile to play upon his lips.

“If it is a matter of your health, Watson… Old wounds can flare up most suddenly, I believe, and at the most unexpected moment. Your courage in never once mentioning this to me before now is to be commended, but is exactly what I would expect of an old soldier like yourself.”

Again I let the implied doubt stand uncorrected (how could I not when he had every right to question my veracity?) and, before he could change his mind, I struggled theatrically to my feet and located Bradshaw’s Guide on the shelf.

“Splendid!” I said with a smile of my own. “Perhaps you could arrange for a telegram to be sent to Mr Thompson, while I ascertain a suitable train time? Tomorrow morning would be best, I think, as for once we are in no great hurry.”

Taking Bradshaw’s and a slice of toast with me, I repaired to my room to dress, delighted at the turn of events and looking forward to a few relaxing days in the country. A change of scenery would do us both the world of good, I was sure.

As events transpired, I could not have been more wrong.

Chapter Two

A Trip to Thorpe Manor

As it happened there was no direct train on a Saturday to Thorpe-by-the-Marsh. Still, the weather improved a little as the London line made its way deeper into the countryside, and it was a relief after a few hours travel to stroll across a country platform and board the small rural train which would take us to our final destination.

The line to Thorpe-by-the-Marsh was clearly not a busy one, for the train required but a single carriage and we had that almost to ourselves, our only travelling companion an elderly man, dressed in a suit of old-fashioned cut. He sat by the window, watching the station fall away behind us, his legs crossed, and his hands resting carefully on a tall felt hat, also of forgotten vintage. As we took our seats opposite him, I noticed that he wore working men’s boots, polished but pitted with the marks of a life spent outdoors.

Perhaps he felt my eyes upon him, or saw me reflected in the window, for he turned his face towards us and, without further introduction, announced that he was returning to Thorpe-by-the-Marsh after a trip to London for a funeral. It was the first time he had left the village in his life, he said, and, having now seen London, he would be glad to be back home.

“The city is all very well for those who care only for dirt and smoke,” he told us without invitation, “but for those who prefer sunlight and green things, it’s a mite dark and unwelcoming.”

He lit what was the most pungent pipe I had ever encountered and settled back in his seat, eyeing us curiously through the thick white smoke.

Holmes returned his gaze from beneath hooded eyes, but said nothing. Feeling that someone should reply to the man, I explained that we were headed in the same direction and would be staying at Thorpe Manor for a few days.

He sniffed loudly at that, as though the fumes of his pipe were not the most noxious stench in the carriage. “You’re braver men than I then, that’s all I’ll say. I wouldn’t spend a night in the manor house for any reason, for I’m attached to my soul, I am. And my life, too, for men have died up there, in the night, struck down by the curse.”

“You believe the legend, then?” asked Holmes, making no effort to hide the amusement in his voice. “That the host of the Baron de Trop stalks the halls like Hamlet’s father?”

“Hamlet’s father?” the man replied with a frown. “I don’t know the man but I wouldn’t be surprised at anything that goes on in London. But even if this foolish fellow would, I, Simeon Forward would not. For only a simpleton does not believe what his own eyes have seen.”

He leaned forward in his seat as he spoke, challenging us to doubt him.

“You have seen the ghost then, Mr Forward?” Holmes replied, unabashed.

“I did. He walked in front of me, he did, pale as a summer moon, and turned and looked me in the face. Chilled me to the bone, it did, though it were a warm night. And his eyes! Narrow, they was, but cold and filled with hatred. Hatred for everything that lives.”

“And did he say anything, this spectral visitor?”

The man shook his head and gave a sour laugh. “Say anything? How could he do such a thing, when everyone knows the old knight never utters a sound?”

He continued to chuckle to himself as he unwrapped a parcel of sandwiches he had drawn from his pocket, but said nothing more for the remainder of the journey. Holmes cast a look of amused resignation in my direction, then closed his eyes, leaving me to pass the rest of the trip watching the fields and streams, as the train slowly made its way towards Thorpe-by-the-Marsh.

* * *

The station at which we arrived some time later was small and quiet, barely more than a platform and a ticket hut, but attractive enough in the fading early evening light.

Our travelling companion having scuttled off without a word as soon as the train pulled to a stop, the sole railway employee in attendance gave us directions to the manor, but warned us that as we had just missed the cart taking the weekend’s supplies to the house, we would have to walk the half-mile distance. The weather had turned colder again but fortunately not to an unpleasant degree, and though there was little to look at in the surrounding fields, it was no hardship to stroll along a succession of short well-beaten lanes, each of us carrying a single bag packed with the essentials for a day or two in the country.

At first, we walked in companionable silence, but after a few minutes, Holmes gave a laugh and turned to me with a smile.

“As pale as a summer moon, Watson, and terrifying enough to chill our man to the bone. Clearly we are about to embark on our most dangerous case yet!”

I was pleased to see the change wrought in Holmes, no matter the cause, and joined in his laughter. Though the man had been the very epitome of the superstitious yokel, I was grateful to him for lightening my friend’s mood.

“We must be sure to remain attached to our souls, Holmes,” I replied in mock seriousness. “Otherwise the ghostly knight will be away with them and perhaps we too shall be cursed to haunt Thorpe Manor.”

Just then, the lane made a sharp turn and, as we emerged from behind the tall hedges that lined it, we had our first sight of our residence for the next few days.

* * *

Thorpe Manor was a squat, wide affair, comprised of a main building, two storeys high, with a long wing to the east, composed entirely of the local brick. A carriage stood in the drive, and a cart was just disappearing round the far corner of the building as we approached. Otherwise, everything was quiet and still.

Even to one so ignorant of architectural history as I, it was obvious that little of the crusader’s former home remained. I had half expected battlements and arrow slits, but instead it presented a plain, rather flattened aspect, with a tiled roof and sash windows of the type popular in the last century. Only as we drew nearer was it possible to make out a set of unsettling carvings surrounding the doorway – not gargoyles exactly, but something reminiscent of the demons that are often found displayed on the exterior of continental churches. Their presence was unexpected and seemed out of place, a remnant of an era long gone, and I wondered if perhaps they were all that survived of the original building.

Holmes too had noticed the carvings. He stopped before them and examined them for a minute, reaching up to run his long fingers across the distorted face of the nearest.

“Unusual,” he said, rubbing the stone dust from his hands. “But let us get inside before the sunlight disappears altogether.”

I nodded in agreement and rapped firmly on the door. There was no response at first, then footsteps could be heard approaching the door from the other side. It opened silently, revealing a short, elderly man with heavy side whiskers and small round glasses, framed by the gaslight which shone in the hallway behind him.

“Mr Holmes, Dr Watson,” he said. “Delighted to meet you. Lawrence Buxton, at your service.” He smiled shyly. “You wonder that I know your names already? That is simply explained. Knowing that I have been working on a history of the family and the manor house, Mr Thompson asked me to be here to greet you and the other visitors in his stead.” He held out an arm, inviting us inside. “I trust you had no difficulty finding the house?”

“The station guard provided us with directions,” I confirmed as we stepped inside. “I rather enjoyed the walk, in fact. Even though it is not overly warm, these country lanes make a pleasant change from traipsing around rainy London streets, and the house is quite striking.”

Buxton smiled with pleasure. “I’m so glad you like it. It has, of course, been extensively renovated over the years and in the process lost some of its charm, but one can yet make out some of the more interesting original features.”

“The carvings over the doorway, for example?”

We had by now passed through the main hallway, and into a large reception room, but Buxton stopped to consider Holmes’s remark.

“Actually no, those date to the fourteenth century, and the core of the house is much older than that. Built to the specifications of the fifth baron, they represent spirits and demons from the pantheon of certain Far East religions, and are echoed by exact duplicates in the grounds’ mausoleum to the north of the house. Their identities have been lost to us, but I am currently working on a short monograph in which I suggest potential sources. I would be happy to send you a copy once it is complete.”

Buxton was an academic to his fingertips, obviously willing to provide a short lecture on anything touching his area of expertise, no matter how abstruse it might be. I was polite, however, and said I would be honoured to read his paper, which seemed to please him.

“Then I shall be sure to send you a copy in due course. But I am being remiss in my duties. All but one of the other guests have already arrived and are upstairs, settling in. Captain Hopkirk has been in touch to say that he has been delayed, however, and will not be here before eight.

“But perhaps I can show you to your rooms, and you can refresh yourselves before dinner? Or would you prefer a more liquid form of refreshment?” He smiled at his own small joke, and gestured towards a nearby doorway, through which I could see a long room stretching to a magnificent fireplace. “The main hall is much admired by visitors,” he concluded, “and offers rather a splendid view of the grounds.”

The walk from the station had not been taxing, but it had been warm and suddenly the idea of a refreshing drink seemed a capital notion. I said as much to Buxton and he, with a tiny bow, gestured that we should precede him through the doorway.

* * *

The main hall was sparsely furnished and, while grand in size, obviously little used. The only decorations were a map of the estate on one wall and a large painting hung above the imposing fireplace. It showed what I assumed was the Thorpe family, or a previous generation of them at least, for the style of dress they wore was that of the previous century.

Buxton noticed me looking. “Painted by George Hayter,” he said, then added conspiratorially, “It is the last truly valuable painting in the collection. Or at least the last which can still be accounted for.”

There was no fire lit, but the unseasonal warmth of the day had heated the room to a comfortable temperature, and as Holmes and I relaxed into the two armchairs in front of the hearth, I was pleased once more by the thought of a few days in pleasant surroundings.

Our host brought us each a drink and took a seat between us, facing the fireplace. I pulled my pipe and tobacco from my pocket and began to fill the bowl, content to listen as Holmes and Buxton talked.

“I assume that Mr Thompson informed you why we have come to Thorpe Manor?” Holmes began as soon as he had lit one of his own gaspers.

“Only in the most general terms. You are not one of the bidders for the estate, I know, but are…’interested parties’ was the term Mr Thompson employed. Beyond that, however…”

He fell silent, waiting for one of us to provide an answer to his unspoken question. Holmes, however, replied with a question of his own.

“You are an expert on the manor, I believe, Mr Buxton?”

“I flatter myself that I know as much about the house as any man. In part – specifically, this central section of the dining room, the library, the main hall and the rooms directly upstairs – it is an ancient building, however, with a great deal of history attached to it, and it would take longer than the few years I have spent here to claim genuine expertise.” He gave a small, self-deprecating smile.

“What of the legends which surround it?” Holmes asked.

The look of dismay that crossed Buxton’s face was unmistakable. “I know a little of those, too. I wish that it were not so; the house has enough legitimate history in its bricks that it has no need of the cheap showmanship of the haunted house.”

He gave the last words such a weight of loathing that there could be no doubt as to his own views on the subject. Even so, it was best to be certain.

“You do not give the story of the ghost any credence, Mr Buxton?” I asked, in what I hoped was a neutral tone. “We met a fellow on the train who was quite convinced of the truth of the matter.”

“On the train, you say? That would be Simeon Forward, I imagine. There are no other villagers away that I know of. Like all of them, he is a slave to superstition. I, however, am not. The historical record concerning the late Edouard de Trop is remarkably complete, and full of both fascination and horror. There is no need for foolish embellishment of the sort propagated by credulous villagers and circulation-hungry reporters. The former at least have the lack of education as an excuse, but the latter…” He tailed off with a sniff of disdain.

“Quite so,” Holmes murmured with obvious approval. “Though my question pertained to the legend of the lost Thorpe Ruby rather than to the ghostly presence which is rumoured to guard it. And I believe,” he concluded, “that we have found exactly the sort of person to help us achieve that end.”

Buxton had grimaced throughout his description of the supernatural but he brightened at Holmes’s closing words, and after that could not have been more affable. He insisted on replenishing our drinks then resumed his seat and busied himself with lighting a pipe. Only after we were all comfortably smoking did he proceed to explain further his own opinion on the subject of the de Trop ghost.

“You must understand, Mr Holmes, that I have carried out considerable – and though I say it myself, quite important – work on the history of the local area in the past two years. My forthcoming essay on the practices of worship in rural Yorkshire in the eleventh century, will, I am confident, prove revolutionary once published. And yet, the only thing that seems to be of any interest to the wider world is the, in my opinion, distinctly unchristian local belief in ghosts and ghouls.

“Twice I have had to refuse an interview to reporters from the yellow press, you know, after discovering they had no intention of printing my views on the increased use of candles in the latter Middle Ages, but wished only to know if I had ever seen the ghost!”

Buxton had become rather red in the face as he spoke but now he stopped, and apologised if he had seemed to be hectoring us. With a contrite smile he invited Holmes to ask any question, and he would do his very best to give a satisfactory reply.

“If you could tell us exactly what happened to the unfortunate Edouard de Trop, that would be of great assistance. We have, of course, been given the rough outline of the story, but the devil is in the detail, I’m sure you would agree.”

Buxton gave a short barking laugh. “Literally, if the villagers are to be believed, Mr Holmes. But I would be more than happy to provide the verifiable historical facts. They will serve, I hope, as a counterweight to the… more superstitious accounts you will undoubtedly hear in the village.”

He puffed on his pipe for a second, considering where to begin.

“You are aware, I assume, that de Trop was accused of stealing a valuable native gem and returning with it to England? That he was accused is certainly true; it is mentioned in two distinct contemporary documents. The gem – interestingly, it has no fanciful nickname – is also potentially mentioned in the writings of a Saracen philosopher of the time, who notes that its loss to an enemy knight was a grave insult, which must be avenged at all costs. However, he appears to be referring to a wholly corporeal form of vengeance, rather than by means of a curse. There is, I must admit, some controversy among scholars over this point, with particular weight placed upon a possible mistranslation of certain key phrases in the account. In any case, what is generally agreed is that, whether a supernatural influence is intended or not, Saladin, the ruler of the Saracen, also ordered a group of his fabled assassins to follow the knight to England, in order to kill the thief and retrieve the gem.”

He paused and gestured expansively with his pipe. “It is at this point that events lose some of their historical certainty. We know that de Trop arrived back at what is now Thorpe Manor in the winter of 1188, and there is a single reference by a local chronicler to ‘a jewel of great beauty, gripped in talons of gold’, which was in his possession. But beyond that we have no definitive means of proving that de Trop acquired this jewel by underhand means, or indeed that the jewel in question is the self-same gem mentioned by the Arabic scholar. What we do know is that the knight was to die in quite horrific circumstances before the year was out, and that ‘dark-skinned men’ were involved in his death.”

“Dark-skinned men?”

“That is the phrase used. Let me see, the exact line is…yes, ‘And at the feast of St Lucius was seen the Lord Edouard to return and great was the rejoicing, though all was turned to ash by the dark-skinned men who followed him like dogs to the hare, and slew him in silence and in blood.’”

Buxton had a fine speaking voice and the ancient words rolled from his tongue with a pleasing richness. But I felt a shiver run along my back, and though it was by no means dark outside yet, the sunlight was beginning to fade and shadows in the hall seemed to encroach upon our little group as he completed his recital. I was suddenly terribly tired and in need of sleep.

Holmes’s interest had been kindled, however, and I knew that he would be content to stay up all night, teasing out everything he could from the elderly historian.

“Fascinating,” he said, leaning forward in his chair, pipe and whisky forgotten. “‘In silence and in blood’? An odd way of phrasing it. But then, I have never had an ear for poetry.”