The case-book of Sherlock Holmes
joyous cry it dashed forward to the carriage and sprang upon the step.
Then in a moment its eager greeting changed to furious rage, and it
snapped at the black skirt above it.
"Drive on! Drive on!" shrieked a harsh voice. The coachman lashed the
horses, and we were left standing in the roadway.
"Well, Watson, that's done it," said Holmes, as he fastened the lead to
the neck of the excited spaniel. "He thought it was his mistress and
he found it was a stranger. Dogs don't make mistakes."
"But it was the voice of a man!" I cried.
"Exactly! We have added one card to our hand, Watson, but it needs
careful playing, all the same."
My companion seemed to have no further plans for the day, and we did
actually use our fishing tackle in the mill-stream, with the result
that we had a dish of trout for our supper. It was only after that
meal that Holmes showed signs of renewed activity. Once more we found
ourselves upon the same road as in the morning, which led us to the
park gates. A tall, dark figure was awaiting us there, who proved to
be our London acquaintance, Mr. John Mason, the trainer.
"Good evening, gentlemen," said he. "I got your note, Mr. Holmes. Sir
Robert has not returned yet, but I hear that he is expected to-night."
"How far is this crypt from the house?" asked Holmes.
"A good quarter of a mile."
"Then I think we can disregard him altogether."
"I can't afford to do that, Mr. Holmes. The moment he arrives he will
want to see me to get the last news of Shoscombe Prince."
"I see! In that case we must work without you, Mr. Mason. You can
show us the crypt and then leave us."
It was pitch-dark and without a moon, but Mason led us over the
grass-lands until a dark mass loomed up in front of us which proved to
be the ancient chapel. We entered the broken gap which was once the
porch and our guide, stumbling among heaps of loose masonry, picked his
way to the corner of the building, where a steep stair led down into
the crypt. Striking a match, he illuminated the melancholy
place--dismal and evil-smelling, with ancient crumbling walls of
rough-hewn stone, and piles of coffins, some of lead and some of stone,
extending upon one side right up to the arched and groined roof which
lost itself in the shadows above our heads. Holmes had lit his
lantern, which shot a tiny tunnel of vivid yellow light upon the
mournful scene. Its rays were reflected back from the coffin-plates,
many of them adorned with the griffin and coronet of this old family
which carried its honours even to the gate of Death.
"You spoke of some bones, Mr. Mason. Could you show them before you
go?"
"They are here in this corner." The trainer strode across and then
stood in silent surprise as our light was turned upon the place. "They
are gone," said he.
"So I expected," said Holmes, chuckling. "I fancy the ashes of them
might even now be found in that oven which had already consumed a part."
"But why in the world would anyone want to burn the bones of a man who
has been dead a thousand years?" asked John Mason.
"That is what we are here to find out," said Holmes. "It may mean a
long search, and we need not detain you. I fancy that we shall get our
solution before morning."
When John Mason had left us, Holmes set to work making a very careful
examination of the graves, ranging from a very ancient one, which
appeared to be Saxon, in the centre, through a long line of Norman
Hugos and Odos, until we reached the Sir William and Sir Denis Falder
of the eighteenth century. It was an hour or more before Holmes came
to a leaden coffin standing on end before the entrance to the vault. I
heard his little cry of satisfaction, and was aware from his hurried
but purposeful movements that he had reached a goal. With his lens he
was eagerly examining the edges of the heavy lid. Then he drew from
his pocket a short jemmy, a box-opener, which he thrust into a chink,
levering back the whole front, which seemed to be secured by only a
couple of clamps. There was a rending, tearing sound as it gave way,
but it had hardly hinged back and partly revealed the contents before
we had an unforeseen interruption.
Someone was walking in the chapel above. It was the firm, rapid step
of one who came with a definite purpose and knew well the ground upon
which he walked. A light streamed down the stairs, and an instant
later the man who bore it was framed in the Gothic archway. He was a
terrible figure, huge in stature and fierce in manner. A large
stable-lantern which he held in front of him shone upwards upon a
strong, heavily-moustached face and angry eyes, which glared round him
into every recess of the vault, finally fixing themselves with a deadly
stare upon my companion and myself.
"Who the devil are you?" he thundered. "And what are you doing upon my
property?" Then, as Holmes returned no answer, he took a couple of
steps forward and raised a heavy stick which he carried. "Do you hear
me?" he cried. "Who are you? What are you doing here?" His cudgel
quivered in the air.
But instead of shrinking, Holmes advanced to meet him.
"I also have a question to ask you, Sir Robert," he said in his
sternest tone. "Who is this? And what is it doing here?"
He turned and tore open the coffin-lid behind him. In the glare of the
lantern I saw a body swathed in a sheet from head to foot, with
dreadful, witch-like features, all nose and chin, projecting at one
end, the dim, glazed eyes staring from a discoloured and crumbling face.
The Baronet had staggered back with a cry and supported himself against
a stone sarcophagus.
"How came you to know of this?" he cried. And then, with some return
of his truculent manner: "What business is it of yours?"
"My name is Sherlock Holmes," said my companion. "Possibly it is
familiar to you. In any case, my business is that of every other good
citizen--to uphold the law. It seems to me that you have much to
answer for."
Sir Robert glared for a moment, but Holmes's quiet voice and cool,
assured manner had their effect.
"'Fore God, Mr. Holmes, it's all right," said he. "Appearances are
against me, I'll admit, but I could act no otherwise."
"I should be happy to think so, but I fear your explanations must be
for the police."
Sir Robert shrugged his broad shoulders.
"Well, if it must be, it must. Come up to the house and you can judge
for yourself how the matter stands."
Quarter of an hour later we found ourselves in what I judge, from the
lines of polished barrels behind glass covers, to be the gun-room of
the old house. It was comfortably furnished, and here Sir Robert left
us for a few moments. When he returned he had two companions with him;
the one, the florid young woman whom we had seen in the carriage; the
other, a small rat-faced man with a disagreeably furtive manner. These
two wore an appearance of utter bewilderment, which showed that the
Baronet had not yet had time to explain to them the turn events had
taken.
"There," said Sir Robert, with a wave of his hand, "are Mr. and Mrs.
Norlett. Mrs. Norlett, under her maiden name of Evans, has for some
years been my sister's confidential maid. I have brought them here
because I feel that my best course is to explain the true position to
you, and they are the two people upon earth who can substantiate what I
say."
"Is this necessary, Sir Robert? Have you thought what you are doing?"
cried the woman.
"As to me, I entirely disclaim all responsibility," said her husband.
Sir Robert gave him a glance of contempt. "I will take all
responsibility," said he. "Now, Mr. Holmes, listen to a plain
statement of the facts.
"You have clearly gone pretty deeply into my affairs or I should not
have found you where I did. Therefore, you know already, in all
probability, that I am running a dark horse for the Derby and that
everything depends upon my success. If I win, all is easy. If I
lose--well, I dare not think of that!"
"I understand the position," said Holmes.
"I am dependent upon my sister, Lady Beatrice, for everything. But it
is well known that her interest in the estate is for her own life only.
For myself, I am deeply in the hands of the Jews. I have always known
that if my sister were to die my creditors would be on to my estate
like a flock of vultures. Everything would be seized; my stables, my
horses--everything. Well, Mr. Holmes, my sister _did_ die just a week
ago."
"And you told no one!"
"What could I do? Absolute ruin faced me. If I could stave things off
for three weeks all would be well. Her maid's husband--this man
here--is an actor. It came into our heads--it came into my head--that
he could for that short period personate my sister. It was but a case
of appearing daily in the carriage, for no one need enter her room save
the maid. It was not difficult to arrange. My sister died of the
dropsy which had long afflicted her."
"That will be for a coroner to decide."
"Her doctor would certify that for months her symptoms have threatened
such an end."
"Well, what did you do?"
"The body could not remain there. On the first night Norlett and I
carried it out to the old well-house, which is now never used. We were
followed, however, by her pet spaniel, which yapped continually at the
door, so I felt some safer place was needed. I got rid of the spaniel
and we carried the body to the crypt of the church. There was no
indignity or irreverence, Mr. Holmes. I do not feel that I have
wronged the dead."
"Your conduct seems to me inexcusable, Sir Robert."
The Baronet shook his head impatiently. "It is easy to preach," said
he. "Perhaps you would have felt differently if you had been in my
position. One cannot see all one's hopes and all one's plans shattered
at the last moment and make no effort to save them. It seemed to me
that it would be no unworthy resting-place if we put her for the time
in one of the coffins of her husband's ancestors lying in what is still
consecrated ground. We opened such a coffin, removed the contents, and
placed her as you have seen her. As to the old relics which we took
out, we could not leave them on the floor of the crypt. Norlett and I
removed them, and he descended at night and burned them in the central
furnace. There is my story, Mr. Holmes, though how you forced my hand
so that I have to tell it is more than I can say."
Holmes sat for some time lost in thought.
"There is one flaw in your narrative, Sir Robert," he said at last.
"Your bets on the race, and therefore your hopes for the future, would
hold good even if your creditors seized your estate."
"The horse would be part of the estate. What do they care for my bets?
As likely as not they would not run him at all. My chief creditor is,
unhappily, my most bitter enemy--a rascally fellow, Sam Brewer, whom I
was once compelled to horsewhip on Newmarket Heath. Do you suppose
that he would try to save me?"
"Well, Sir Robert," said Holmes, rising, "this matter must, of course,
be referred to the police. It was my duty to bring the facts to light
and there I must leave it. As to the morality or decency of your own
conduct, it is not for me to express an opinion. It is nearly
midnight, Watson, and I think we may make our way back to our humble
abode."
It is generally known now that this singular episode ended upon a
happier note than Sir Robert's actions deserved. Shoscombe Prince did
win the Derby, the sporting owner did net eighty thousand pounds in
bets, and the creditors did hold their hand until the race was over,
when they were paid in full, and enough was left to re-establish Sir
Robert in a fair position in life. Both police and coroner took a