The Addleton Tragedy

The months following Sherlock Holmes’s miraculous reappearance after his supposed death at the hands of Professor Moriarty were busy enough to keep even his questing mind at full stretch. I have seldom seen him in better spirits than in that summer of 1894. I had lately disposed of my Kensington practice for a gratifying sum, once more taking up my old familiar quarters at 221b Baker Street. With an unusually healthy balance to my name with Cox and Company. I was free to fall in with whatever whims of fancy took my friend’s attention, and I accompanied him on the majority of his cases where my presence was requested.

It was early June and we had lingered over the morning papers until Mrs. Hudson drove us from the breakfast table with clucks of disapproval at the sheets of newsprint scattered on the floor by Holmes’s chair. I was as yet unshaven, but Holmes, unpredictable as ever, was fully dressed, having already been abroad on some errand of his own which he hadn’t seen fit to confide to me. In fact, he hadn’t uttered a word since his return, and I knew better than to intrude on his silence until I received the necessary encouragement. About to retire to my room, I was stayed by him addressing me sharply.

“What do you know of Wiltshire, Watson?”

The apparent irrelevance of the query took me unawares and I paused to arrange my thoughts.

“Come, my dear fellow,” he said, a hint of amusement in his voice. “You must have heard of that pleasant county.”

“Of course I have,” I retorted impatiently. “All it means to me is Stonehenge, the Great Western Railway, and the great cathedral of Salisbury. Otherwise, it is somewhere to pass through on the way to the West Country. Is there a reason for your inquiry?”

He thrust a newspaper at me, jabbing a tobacco-stained finger at a column headed: “Gruesome Find in Ancient Burial Chamber”.

“What do you make of that?”

I ran my eyes down the page to read that a party of archaeologists engaged in excavating a historical site near Devizes had come upon five skeletons, only four of which belonged to the period of the chamber. The fifth was of more recent origin, and among the bones was a rotting sack containing a quantity of gold plate, identified as the proceeds of a robbery which had occurred four years earlier at nearby Addleton Hall.

The report continued:

Inspector Blane of the Wiltshire Constabulary is satisfied that the remains are those of Edgar Barton, who vanished at the time of the robbery and was suspected of being responsible for the crime. He was the nephew of Mr. Willis Barton, the owner of the Hall.

I looked at my companion with eyebrows raised. “It seems plain enough,” I said. “I see nothing here to excite your interest.”

“Do you not? Come, my dear fellow, you have seen sufficient criminal activity to know when a matter feels right. Why should this man commit a burglary, then hide himself to die with his booty hard by the location of his crime? No, my good Doctor, it will not do.”

I shrugged the matter aside and went to complete my toilet, and I had forgotten it completely by lunch when Mrs. Hudson announced a visitor.

“Miss Elizabeth Barton,” she said, standing aside to allow entry to a young woman.

The name didn’t at first register with me, but Holmes sprang to his feet to greet her effusively.

“My dear Miss Barton. Come in and be seated, I pray you. I trust you had a not too unpleasant journey from Wiltshire?”

She looked startled by his words, but lowered herself into the basket chair and watched Holmes take his place facing her. She was tall and slim, some twenty-five years of age, with warm brown eyes that held signs of deep sorrow. When she spoke her voice was quiet, but with a firmness that would hold the attention of those she addressed.

“I have heard of your powers of deduction, Mr. Holmes,” she said. “And this must be Dr. Watson, who acts so ably as your chronicler.” I bowed and she continued. “Yes, I have travelled from Wiltshire, but whether the journey was pleasant or otherwise I didn’t notice in my agitated state of mind. I come to beg your help, sir, to clear my brother’s name of a foul calumny, yet I can offer no concrete facts for you to build on, other than my own firm conviction of his innocence and integrity.”

She paused and looked beseechingly from one to the other of us and I, a widower of more than two years, felt a surge of compassion and chivalry at her distress. Holmes, practical as always, leaned back with hands clasped behind his head.

“Your brother being the late Edgar Barton, whose remains were unearthed in the Bronze Age burial chamber?”

She nodded sadly, her eyes dry but holding a look of fierce pride. “Then,” said Holmes, “I will hear your story, and we shall see if logic and reason can come to the aid of sisterly trust. Pray make me familiar with the events that have brought you so much distress.”

“Edgar, who was four years my senior, and I lost both parents in a typhoid epidemic ten years ago, and our uncle, Mr. Willis Barton, gave us a home at Addleton Hall, some two miles from Devizes. I should add that Uncle Willis is a very wealthy man who made his fortune in the African colonies before returning to England to enjoy the fruits of his labours. He bought the Hall on the death of the last Lord Addleton some two years before we went to live under his roof. He never married, and it was made clear to us that Edgar was to be his heir. Indeed, Uncle Willis treated us as his own flesh and blood, and in the six years that we lived there, he denied us nothing.”

Here Holmes interposed a question. “You say six years. Am I to understand that you no longer reside there?”

“That is so, but I shall explain that shortly if you will bear with me. Due to our uncle’s generosity, Edgar had no need to work, but he repaid that generosity by taking on the responsibility for the management of the estate, while from the age of sixteen, I was the virtual mistress of the Hall, taking complete charge of all domestic arrangements. It was a happy time, and the only cloud for me was the advent of an unwelcome suitor.”

“Surely,” said I, “there was no shortage of the young men of the district knocking at your door?”

“I accept the implied compliment, Doctor,” she said modestly. “I fear there is a marked lack of eligible bachelors around Addleton and I had very little company of my own age of either sex. But to continue. The suitor of whom I spoke was a Mr. Elliot Langley. He was the son of my uncle’s late partner during his Colonial days, and when he turned up at the Hall unannounced, he received a warm welcome. When he first showed an interest in me, I was flattered, despite he and Edgar having little liking one for the other.

“He had been with us for some two months when he showed himself in his true colours and – ” Here Miss Barton averted her eyes and spoke in a barely audible voice. “He behaved towards me as no gentleman should.”

“Did you tell your uncle or brother of his conduct?” asked Holmes.

“There was no need. Uncle came upon us as I struggled with him in a corridor and at once ordered him to leave the house. There was an angry scene of which I heard but part as I fled to my room, and I never set eyes on the wretch again.”

My friend shot me a glance and, satisfied that my pencil was busy, he turned back to our client. “When did this disgraceful incident occur?”

“A month before Edgar’s disappearance, four years ago this week, so Mr. Langley departed in the May. When my brother heard of it, he was for going after him to chastise him, but he allowed my uncle to placate him – although Edgar vowed that if he ever set eyes on the man again, nothing would stop him.”

“This Langley,” asked Holmes. “What was his physical appearance??

“Tall, well-set up, and of a similar cast of countenance to my brother – so much so that on more than one occasion they had been taken for brothers or cousins, much to Edgar’s chagrin.”

“Thank you, Miss Barton. Now proceed to the night of the burglary.”

“It was discovered by George, my uncle’s personal servant, but neither I nor Uncle Willis heard anything unusual during the night. George had cause to go to the large drawing room to find the cabinet in which the plate was kept open and empty. He rushed to inform my uncle, who sent him to fetch Edgar, but my brother wasn’t in his room. This gave no immediate concern, as he as often out and about the estate at the crack of dawn, but after the groom had fetched the police from Devizes and he was still absent, the inspector seized on the obvious and suggested that Edgar was the culprit.”

Holmes frowned as the lady paused, and I ventured a query of my own. “You told us, Miss Barton, that your uncle had treated you both very generously, and your brother was his appointed heir. Did no one think it unlikely that he would sacrifice his future for a relatively small amount of gold plate?”

“Hardly a small amount, Doctor. The plate was worth more than three-thousand pounds and consists of five very fine pieces. However, I take your point. I think the police had it fixed firmly in their minds that such a sum would tempt anyone, and didn’t see it in relative terms.”

“And your uncle’s view?” asked Holmes sharply.

“To give him his due, he resisted the idea most strongly until he was persuaded that with Edgar’s sustained absence there was no other answer, and only then did he accept it with the deepest sorrow.”

“But you did not.” It was a statement rather than a question, and the lady at once concurred.

“No. At no time did I harbour the slightest doubt of my brother’s innocence, and even this latest discovery does nothing to shake my belief. Let me say at once that I hold no animosity towards my uncle for his attitude, for there is no reason other than my stubbornness to think otherwise. “

Holmes got up and walked to the window where he stood looking down at the traffic below. Then he turned to face Miss Barton.

“Did Mr. Willis Barton ask you to leave Addleton Hall after this sad occurrence?”

“Indeed, he did not. He showed the utmost compassion for me, but with my feelings such as they were, I felt my position to be intolerable and was unable to be under any further obligation to him. I went to Marlborough and secured a post as companion to a widowed lady, hoping vainly to clear my brother’s name. For four long years I have prayed for Edgar to return with a credible explanation, but the events of this week have plunged me into the depths of despair.” Her eyes filled with tears, and she began to sob. “Am I foolish to still believe in him even after his death?”

I went to fetch her a glass of water while Holmes allowed her time to recover before going on.

“Pray forgive me if some of my questions are painful, but I am anxious to do what I can, and must have all the facts at my disposal. Who identified these bones as being your brother’s? Was it you or your uncle?”

She looked at him blankly for several seconds.

“I don’t understand, Mr. Holmes. Can a skeleton be recognized?”

“That is my point. Dr. Watson will tell you that without a precise medical and dental history, it is only possible to say that the remains are male or female and fall within approximate limits of height and age at the time of death. Again I ask: Who made the identification?”

“Are you saying that these remains aren’t my brother’s?”

My companion raised a cautionary hand. “I wouldn’t have you delude yourself with false hopes, Madam. All I suggest is that those concerned have taken the obvious view that your brother vanished at the time of the robbery and now a skeleton has been found with the proceeds of the crime, so it follows therefore that the remains are those of Mr. Edgar Barton. That assumption would be tenable if there was one scrap of supporting evidence, but thus far I have heard nothing to point in that direction. I keep an open mind. Have the police spoken to you since the discovery?”

She shook her head. “There has scarcely been time. I saw the account in this morning’s paper and knew it was my last chance to clear Edgar’s name. I spoke to my employer, Mrs. Widgeon, and she readily gave me leave to come to London. Can you – will you help me, Mr. Holmes?”

“The matter intrigues me,” he said. “Watson, the Bradshaw. We shall accompany Miss Barton back to Marlborough and then proceed to Devizes. I must warn you, young lady: I promise nothing, and it may well be that the truth will not be to your liking. Can you accept that?”

She lifted her chin bravely. “I am in your hands, sir, and will abide by your findings. You have my complete confidence.”

During the journey Holmes remained deep in thought, often ignoring or not hearing words addressed to him. It was early evening when we alighted at Marlborough and, having sent the lady off in the station fly to her place of employment, we sought rooms at the Western Hotel.

“Nothing is to be gained by unseemly haste,” my friend observed. “This is one case where a few hours makes little difference to our investigations, so I let us enjoy a good dinner and a night’s sleep before proceeding further.”

Eight o’clock next morning found us bowling along in trap with Holmes at the reins. Addleton Hall was located on the Marlborough side of Devizes beyond the village of Bishop Cannings. The house was approached through an impressive set of wrought-iron gates, with a broad drive curving expansively to the main entrance. It was evident that the owner of this magnificent pile had spared no expense in its upkeep. A tug on the bell-pull brought immediate response from a butler, who took the card presented by Holmes before standing aside to permit us entry.

“If you will be so good as to wait here, gentlemen,” this august personage intoned, “I shall ascertain if Mr. Barton is free.”

As we stood there, I gazed round the spacious entrance hall, noting the innumerable trophies of the chase adorning the walls, the most eye-catching of which was a mummified crocodile all of fourteen feet in length staring malevolently at us from a glass case. I was still looking askance at the fearsome memento when the sound of footsteps drew our attention to the man approaching us with a look of surprised welcome on his deeply tanned features.

“Mr. Holmes!” he cried. “This is indeed an unexpected pleasure, but I confess I am at a loss as to the reason for your visit. Nevertheless, you are welcome, and your reputation is well known to me.”

Holmes introduced me, and soon we were sitting in deep leather chairs puffing appreciatively at the excellent cigars that our host pressed on us. Willis Barton was some sixty years of age, as tall as Holmes but of much heavier build, his muscular frame and shock of dark hair conceding nothing to his years. His eyes were bright and keen, giving the impression of gazing into far distances.

Dispensing with any small-talk, Holmes came straight to the point.

“My visit is occasioned as the direct result of an appeal made to me by your niece, Miss Elizabeth Barton, who is intent on removing the stigma attached to the name of her brother. I realize that the subject must be distasteful to you, sir, but the lady will not accept the general opinion that your nephew was the perpetrator of the theft that took place four years ago. To ease her mind, I have undertaken to review the matter while warning her that my findings may be disagreeable to her, but such is her faith in her brother that she discounts the risk.”

A look of ineffable sadness came over Barton’s bluff features and he drew deeply on his cigar.

“I will not pretend that I welcome further probing into this old wound, but recent events have made it inevitable. I admire Elizabeth for her loyalty, and it was with the greatest reluctance that I came to believe the Edgar had betrayed my trust. Even that reluctance worked against me, for had I thought from the start that he had stolen the property, I would never have made the matter public.”

“You would have condoned the offence?”

“I would have pardoned him freely. Edgar was as a son to me, as Elizabeth was and still is a daughter, but there was never any need for him to steal from me. Had he been in any sort of trouble, I would have given him such help as he needed and asked no questions.”

“Then you were persuaded of his guilt against your own instincts and your knowledge of his character?” Holmes asked keenly.

“I resisted the thought as long as possible, but the police presented an incontrovertible case, and at last I yielded to the evidence. Poor Elizabeth was distraught, and although she bore me no ill-will, she saw it as unfitting that she should remain under my roof.” Willis Barton lowered his voice confidentially. “Between these four walls, I made an arrangement with the lady with whom she stays as a companion to pay her a more generous salary than is usual, but that isn’t for her ears.”

Holmes nodded absently. Then with an abrupt switch of direction asked, “I believe you spent much of your early life in Africa, Mr. Barton. Your entrance hall hold many trophies of your sojourn there.”

“Thirty years I lived and worked there, from my eighteenth birthday until I returned to the Old Country in ‘82 following the death of my partner, Bob Langley. I made my pile and looked after it, but Bob died as broke as when he went out. Money ran through his hands like water, and every time we hit town after a few months in the bush, he threw his share around with both hands.”

“What business were you in, Mr. Barton?”

The man chuckled reminiscently as he replied. “Nothing shameful by the standards out there, even if we did sail a bit close to the wind at times. Ivory, skins, and the odd bit of gold. Sometimes a diamond or two, but we always gave the Kaffirs a fair deal. A rusty rifle or an iron pot meant more to them than the occasional gold nugget they turned up with.”

Once again Holmes changed tack. “Your late partner had a son who stayed with you for a while, I believe?”

Willis Barton nodded reluctantly. “That is so. Elliot called on me when he came to England and found himself down on his luck. Naturally I made him welcome, but we had a disagreement and he left.”

“Due to his behaviour towards your niece,” Holmes murmured, then went on without waiting for confirmation. “Had he no mother living?”

“She died at his birth, but I fail to see why that is pertinent.”

“You haven’t heard from him since his departure?” Holmes pressed.

“The last I heard of him he was in Chippenham, and that was a few weeks after he left here.” Barton made it plain that the subject of Elliot Langley wasn’t to his taste and Holmes appeared to drop it.

“What a magnificent set of fire-irons,” he remarked, nodding towards the huge grate. “Such a pity the poker should be missing. That quite destroys its value. No doubt you are relieved to have your collection of plate restored to you at last.”

The older man seemed bewildered by my friends’ apparent inconsequential manner, but he managed a bitter laugh at the last sentence.

“I would give ten times its worth if that would restore my nephew and niece to my hearth, and without bragging that would still leave me a very wealthy man. I shall not keep those trinkets, Mr. Holmes, for they would serve as a constant reminder of what I have really lost.”

There was a slight pause before Holmes spoke again. “This burial chamber – is it on your property?”

“Yes, two fields away towards Devizes. The excavations have been suspended while the police make their inquiries, but poor Edgar’s remains have been removed to the mortuary at Trowbridge.”

At that point a discreet tap on the door was followed by the butler entering to whisper a few words in his master’s ear. The latter threw a hesitant glance at us and spoke apologetically.

“It seems that Inspector Blane is wanting a word with me. Would it embarrass you to be present, gentlemen?”

“Not in the slightest!” Holmes cried heartily. “I welcome the chance to meet the inspector and hear what he has to say. It will save us the time of seeking him out elsewhere.”

Inspector Blane was young to be holding the rank that he did, but his eyes were alert beneath sandy eyebrows that matched his close-cropped hair. I put his age at a year or two either side of thirty-five, and he was plainly a man who knew his business and wasn’t to be trifled with. He paused when he saw that Barton already had visitors, but was waved in to be introduced to us.

“Of course I know of you, Mr. Holmes, and Dr. Watson also, but what is there to interest you in this matter?”

Holmes gave a succinct account of our reason for being at Addleton Hall, and Blane spread his hands expressively.

“You’re welcome to make any inquiries you wish, sir. It will be a great pleasure to see you at work, and you may call on me for anything you may wish to know. Alas, I fear your labours will be in vain, much as I would desire otherwise.” He turned to the owner of the house. “I called on you, Mr. Barton, to let you know that the inquest on your nephew will be held tomorrow, and you will be required to attend to identify the remains. Eleven o’clock at the Golden Hind in Devizes. I would spare you, but the law must be observed.”

Willis Barton’s shoulders sagged despondently. Then his head jerked up as Holmes intervened.

“Can you state definitely that this collection of bones was once Edgar Barton, Inspector?”

“Who else can they belong to?” asked Blane. “All the evidence points that way.”

“Then it doesn’t need Mr. Barton to state the fact. You or I or Dr. Watson could say so with equal truth.”

Blane stared incredulously. “Are you suggesting otherwise, sir?”

“Not at all. All I say is that the evidence is purely circumstantial, and these remains could be those of any male person of similar age and build to the young man in question.”

“Then where is my nephew if that is not he?” Barton cried urgently. “Who else could have perished in that horrible tomb, and why has he not been seen these four years past?”

Holmes made no reply to this, addressing himself to Blane instead. “Is it possible to view this burial chamber, Inspector? I assume that your investigations there are complete.”

“I’ll take you there myself, but don’t expect too much of it. It is very insignificant compared with the great barrow at West Kennet, and was only uncovered by chance. We can go at once if you’re ready.”

Accepting Willis Barton’s fulsome invitation to return for luncheon, we followed Inspector Blane over the fields until we came to the site of the excavations. It was indeed insignificant by any standards, a low hump some three feet high, almost covered in bushy scrub, and with a raw scar where the explorers had entered by way of a low tunnel sloping down to the interior. Holmes halted some yards short, his keen eyes darting hither and thither before he began to circle the mound, scrutinising it intently until he arrived back at his starting point.

“Who was responsible for opening the chamber?” he asked Blane who had watched his every move.

“Members of the local Historical Society. They had been interested in it for years, and had tried to attract the attention of professional archaeologists without success. I heard they even went so far as to write to Professor Challenger and had a very dusty answer from him.”

Holmes chuckled. “They would. Challenger wouldn’t see enough fame or notoriety in this to tempt him. Unfortunately, these well-intentioned people were more enthusiastic than expert. However, one must not be too critical of them if they had tried to arouse interest and failed. May we go inside?”

“You will find candles just inside if you think it worthwhile. I’ve seen enough of the dismal place, so I shall await you here.”

“Come then, Watson. You’ll not refuse to bear me company, will you?”

Bent almost double, we ducked into the gloomy hole, our candles guttering. To my inexpert eye there was little to excite the interest, and apart from a jumble of old bones at which the rawest medical student would have turned up his nose and a few bronze artefacts, it was to me no more than a dank hole in the ground. My companion shuffled forward then squatted on his haunches, his neck twisted to inspect the roof, moving his candle in all directions. A muttered exclamation escaped his lips, but although my eyes followed his, I saw nothing to take my attention.

We retraced our steps and took in deep gulps of the sweet air without. Then Holmes shot off to scramble in the scrub growing on the mound, returning with twigs and grass stains on his trouser-knees and a look of smug satisfaction on his face.

He approached Blane and laid a hand on his arm. “Inspector, have you sufficient influence to have tomorrow’s inquest adjourned for a week?”

“I shall need a reason,” the inspector frowned. “Can you offer me one? I don’t relish being kept in the dark.”

“Well said!” cried Holmes, clapping him on the shoulder. “Let me speak to Mr. Barton over luncheon, then I promise to tell you what I propose. Can you be at the Hall at two o’clock?”

“I shall be there, Mr. Holmes, and if by throwing a different light on this sorry affair you can bring happiness to Miss Barton, I’m your man.” He coloured to the roots of his sandy hair as he uttered these last words.

We ate a simple but satisfying meal, and as soon as the cloth had been drawn, Holmes got straight down to business.

“Mr. Barton,” he began, “if I can clear your nephew of this shadow hanging over you all, how far are you prepared to go to help me?”

“I would go to Hades itself or perjure myself in any court in the land. Do that and I will meet any account that you see fit to render.”

“The first two are quite unnecessary, and for the third my professional charges aren’t such as to damage your credit. All I ask is that if I am to bring this matter to a successful conclusion, you will answer truthfully any questions I may put to you, with my word on absolute confidentiality.”

“You have my hand on it, sir,” said Barton.

“Then listen to what I have to say,” and without more ado my friend proposed a plan so audacious that even I, used to his ways, was astounded.

Our client heard him in silence, consternation written all over his bluff features, but at the end he blew out his cheeks in hearty laughter.

“By George, sir! You ain’t one for half-measures, are you? I’ll go along with it gladly if it will clear Edgar’s name and restore Elizabeth to my hearth.”

“Then it only remains to secure Inspector Blane’s agreement, and we may go ahead. Ah, I believe that is his hand on the bell now.”

“Leave Blane to me,” said Barton. “Nothing would suit him better than to have a hand in clearing my nephew’s name. It would stand him in good stead with Elizabeth, if you take my meaning.”

The policeman’s first reaction to Holmes’s extraordinary proposal was to mount a vigorous protest, but under pressure from the uncle of the two young people he at last capitulated, albeit with deep misgivings.

“If this goes awry,” he said gloomily, “I can throw my career out of the window. The Chief Constable will demand my head on a plate.”

“Then come, Watson!” cried Holmes clapping his hands. “The game’s afoot!”

***

We made our best speed back to Marlborough, where I was set to packing our bags while Holmes busied himself by sending several telegrams to London and a note to Miss Barton which he had delivered by hand before hustling me willy-nilly to the railway station.

We caught the London Express by the skin of our teeth, and by half-past seven a hansom had deposited us at the door of our Baker Street rooms. I snatched an evening paper from a passing news-boy and trailed Holmes up to our sitting room where I thrust the paper at him. The black headlines shouted their message at us:

Arrest Likely in Wiltshire Skeleton Mystery

“It worked! They swallowed it!” I exclaimed gleefully.

He took the paper from me and began to read aloud:

It is learned by our correspondent that it is probable that Mr. Willis Barton of Addleton Hall in the county of Wiltshire will shortly be arrested in connection with the murder of his nephew, Edgar Barton, whose remains were discovered earlier this week.

He perused the remainder of the paragraph in silence before throwing himself into his chair, where he began stuffing tobacco into the bowl of an amber-stemmed briar.

“The morning papers will make more of it, you may be sure,” he opined as the blue smoke wreathed around his head. “We must bestir ourselves early tomorrow. It would never do for us to be in disarray if we have a caller at the crack of dawn, as I hope we shall if my ploy bears fruit.”

So it was that well before seven next morning our sitting room presented an unaccustomed aspect, our breakfast-table cleared, and even the newspapers folded neatly after we had read each in turn. They all carried similarly sensational stories as the one we had read the previous evening, although much amplified by speculation as to the course of events. Each one treated the matter in its own style, but all made a big play of the fact that the local police were acting on the advice of Mr. Sherlock Holmes, the renowned consulting detective of Baker Street.

For upwards of an hour we waited in silence, Holmes consuming pipe after pipe of tobacco and evincing signs of mounting impatience. I tried once to divert him, only to be quelled by a withering look. Then soon after eight o’clock a furious ringing of the doorbell brought him to his feet.

Heavy footsteps on the stairs preceded the violent bursting open of the door with the indignant protests of Mrs. Hudson pursuing the dishevelled figure that confronted us brandishing a copy of The Daily News in a shaking hand. Holmes strode across to placate our outraged landlady before turning to face the agitated intruder who was a young man of about thirty years, whose eyes blazed hotly in a face that in other circumstances could fairly have been described as good-humoured if not handsome.

“Sit dawn and compose yourself, Mr. Edgar Barton,” commanded Holmes ere the man could recover his breath from his precipitate rush up the stairs. “I have been expecting you this past hour or more.”

Our visitor appeared stunned by Holmes’s words and the latter gently took his arm to propel him towards the basket chair and ease him dawn into it. “The brandy, Watson, if you will be so goad. Our guest seems to be somewhat confused. Here, my dear fellow, drink it down, then together we may unravel this four-year-old mystery. A cigarette, perhaps?”

With the brandy gone and a cigarette held in trembling fingers, the man had regained same measure of control. He thrust the newspaper forward, his eyes still wild and furious.

“Mr. Sherlock Holmes, for you must be he, what terrible thing is this that you have brought about? By what right do you scheme and connive with the police to place in jeopardy the life of a good and honourable man?” He half rose, and for a moment I thought he was about to launch himself in an assault on my friend.

Holmes fixed him with a compelling stare, and he subsided back into his chair, still white and shaking.

“Calm yourself, sir,” Holmes admonished him. “Your uncle is in no peril from me or the police. Moreover, I suspect that your fears for your own liberty are quite unfounded, but until you tell me frankly of the sequence of events on that night four years ago, I shall reserve judgement.”

“Then what is the source of these infamous stories in the newspapers?” demanded the man Holmes had addressed as Edgar Barton, and who hadn’t denied the appellation.

“Merely a ruse on my part to bring you forward so that this whole sorry business may be resolved. Have you no care for the grief and heartbreak suffered by those who love you best? The uncle who was your benefactor was ever willing to accept you back into his house, while your faithful sister has never wavered in her belief of your innocence of any crime. Do you not owe it to them to stand forth and let the truth be known?”

Edgar Barton turned a haggard face towards us before dropping his head into his hands in a gesture of despair.

“Alas, Mr. Holmes,” he groaned, “I fear I should give even greater sorrow to those of whom you speak, for although I am guilty of no great crime, the very course of events points an accusing finger. If you would spare them, let me return to the limbo from whence I came and say nothing of my continued existence.”

“Pull yourself together, man,” Holmes said sternly. “I already have a fair grasp of what happened on the night of the robbery. If my deductions aren’t at fault, you may walk out of here to rejoin your family with a lighter heart than you have known these past years. Tell me your story, remembering that I am not a minion of the law but a seeker after truth and justice. There are no policemen lurking behind the curtains with handcuffs at the ready, so I implore you, trust me and all will be well. If you choose silence, I shall consider it my duty to tell the world of the facts and let things fall as they may.”

The unhappy man looked at Holmes for a long minute, gnawing his lip in an agony of indecision. Then, with a resigned gesture, he nodded his head.

“So be it,” he almost whispered, “I see I must needs trust you, but how did you arrive at the conclusion that I was still alive?”

“That I decided very early on. I became involved as the result of a plea by your sister, who has remained steadfast in her loyalty to you. Even before she approached me, I found it hard to believe that even had you been guilty of the theft as the newspapers suggested, it was against all reason to find your remains together with the booty so close to the scene of the crime. When Miss Barton told me her story, I asked myself who was likely to have been mistaken for you, and one name came to mind. Do I need to speak it?”

Edgar Barton shook his head and his cheeks flushed in anger. “No, you have the rights of it, but I am no felon, as you will see if you believe the story I tell.”

“Then let us have some refreshment before we commence. Watson, pray ask Mrs. Hudson for coffee and some of her excellent plum cake.”

A quarter-of-an-hour later the room was filled with the fragrant aroma of coffee, and we settled back to hear young Barton’s narrative.

“You will have heard that on the death of our parents, Elizabeth and I were taken in by our uncle. He is a year or two my father’s elder, and a finer man never set foot on earth. We were treated as his own, and we in turn did what we could to repay him, although that was little enough. The only discordant note came with the advent of Elliot Langley, the son of Uncle’s late trading partner. He turned up with a story of being down on his luck, and our uncle’s generous nature impelled him to offer the fellow a roof. It soon became obvious to me that he was no more than a parasite, his only goal being to extract as much as he could from Uncle Willis. He was selfish and lazy, and when I remonstrated with him about his conduct, he laughed in my face and told me to keep my nose out of his business, hinting that my uncle had swindled old Bob Langley out of his share of the partnership. I was patently untrue, and I was hard pressed to keep my hands off him.”

Young Barton drained his cup, controlling his anger with an effort. “You gave no credit to the allegation?” Holmes interjected.

“None whatsoever. I knew my uncle well enough by this time to know that hard-headed business-man though he was, he was no swindler. After that, barely a civil word passed between Langley and me, but Elizabeth seemed to have a certain kindness towards him, despite my disapproval. However, a month or so after Easter, I returned one tea-time from a business trip to Trowbridge to find Langley gone, sent packing by my uncle. Both Uncle Willis and my sister were angry and distressed, but their wrath was nothing beside mine when I learned the reason for his dismissal.”

“Miss Barton has apprised us of the incident,” I said grimly.

“Well, gentlemen, you will also know that I was dissuaded from seeking him out with a horse-whip, but I vowed to exact retribution if he ever crossed my path again. After that, life settled down to what it had been before his arrival, but I detected a certain reserve in my uncle’s demeanour. Reports reached me that Langley had been leading a life of debauchery in Chippenham before absconding with a trail of debts in his wake. I heard rumours that my uncle had made himself responsible for those debts, which was well in keeping with his generous nature.

“But to get on to the night of the burglary – that dreadful night forever stamped on my memory. I was working late in the library, preparing the accounts for the coming quarter-day, and finding myself drowsy, I thought to make myself ready for bed. It was my invariable habit to go round to ensure that all was secure for the night, and this I began to do. Imagine my surprise when I saw a moving light reflected on the terrace outside the large drawing room! I was still in the library and, seizing the poker from the grate, I stepped cautiously out on to the terrace in time to see a dark shape emerge from the drawing room. I must have been heard, for the figure turned to look in my direction. There was enough moonlight for me to recognize the features of Elliot Langley, and on seeing me, he at once took to his heels and with me in pursuit ran across the lawn and into the rough fields beyond.”

“You made no outcry?” asked my colleague.

“I saved my breath. Besides,” added the young man, “I wanted the satisfaction of dealing with him myself. He had a good start, but was hampered by a bulky sack slung over his shoulder, and I caught him as we crossed the second field. I grabbed his coattails and hurled him to the ground. I threw myself on him, expecting a desperate struggle, but to my total astonishment I met with no resistance. I sat astride him with my knees planted in his chest, but he made no move. Then it was I saw his face was suffused and his eyes wide open in a ghastly stare. I realised I was kneeling on a corpse, and I sprang to my feet in horror. Imagine if you can the scene there in the pale light of the moon, with me standing over a dead man on whom I had sworn vengeance for his insult to my sister and a poker in my hand. What interpretation would be put on it? For ten minutes I wrestled with my conscience before making a decision that I now know to be cowardly and foolish. I resolved to dispose of the body and vanish.”

“Your reasoning was at fault,” observed Holmes, stuffing tobacco into the bowl of his largest pipe. “Even if you were afraid of the truth not being accepted, you could have gone to your bed as if nothing had happened and be there when the burglary was discovered in the morning.”

“That did occur to me, but I am no hand at dissembling, and most surely would have given myself away.”

“Then you could have told your uncle the facts and relied on his trust.”

“Oh, that’s easy enough to say now,” Edgar Barton retorted hotly. “Then I was in a state of terror and panic, and my thoughts weren’t so logical.”

“Logical enough to cast it into that hole,” Holmes said severely. “Did you have any notion what it was?”

“No. It wasn’t until I read of the discovery of the bones that I knew it to be an ancient burial chamber. The hole was covered by scrub, so I put a large flat stone over it, hoping it would never be found. The clothes I stuffed into a convenient rabbit-hole, together with the poker, and to the best of my knowledge they remain there still. Taking to my heels, I made my way by devious means to London, having enough money in my possession to maintain me until I obtained employment in a counting-house which paid sufficient to keep body and soul together. Oh, how often have I mourned my foolish and impulsive actions! I wanted to make a clean breast of it, but the more I procrastinated, the less likely it was that I would be believed. It was only this hare you started that brings me here now.” He sat up and faced Holmes squarely. “Well, there you have it, Mr. Detective. What do you propose to do now?”

Holmes leaned back, his fingers stroking his long nose. “I believe your account, Mr. Barton, but you acted rashly and precipitately. As I see it, the only offences you have committed are failing to report a death and concealment of a body. Reprehensible as it is, I don’t think the law will demand great retribution of you, but in my eyes the greater crime is the pain given to those who love you. Are you prepared to be guided by me in order to bring about a felicitous conclusion?”

“It seems that I am in your hands,” said young Barton with a bitter laugh. “What have I to lose now? My own stupidity landed me in this muddle, and all I desire now is to have it over and done with. Have I your word that my uncle is in no danger and that the only purpose of the newspaper story was to induce me to reveal myself?”

“You have. Are you able to travel with us immediately to Wiltshire?”

“The sooner the better.” He stood up. Now that a decision had been made it, was a different man now facing us from the wild figure that had burst into our chambers not an hour ago. His jaw was set in a firm line and his eyes were bright with a hope that had been lacking before. Holmes eyed him steadily, then gave him an encouraging nod.

“Good. Watson, do you run downstairs and secure a four-wheeler while I compose a couple of telegrams to prepare the ground ahead of us. I believe there is an excellent train at eleven o’clock”

So it was that we again found ourselves stepping from the train at Marlborough, making our way at once to the Western Hotel, where the manager greeted us warmly.

“The sitting room for which you wired is ready, Mr. Holmes,” he said. “The young lady arrived not ten minutes since and awaits you there. Will you go straight up?”

“Not I,” my friend replied. “Be so good as to conduct this gentleman to her at once. Is the dog-cart at hand? Good. Then the doctor and I will be on our way.” He slapped the young man on the back. “Go on up, sir. I have one theory still to confirm, but we shall rejoin you later.”

We never knew what took place between brother and sister, for five minutes later we were clip-clopping along the road to Addleton Hall. Holmes was in a blithe mood and refused to discuss the case, saying that if I hadn’t grasped the situation yet, then I must wait upon events. We were met on the steps of the Hall by an excited Willis Barton, whose face fell when he saw but the two of us step down from the wagon.

“Where is Edgar, Mr. Holmes? Your telegram led me to look for him to be with you. Has something gone amiss?”

Holmes freed his arm from the other’s importunate grip. “Curb your impatience, sir, I beg you. All is well, and your nephew is at this very moment with his sister. They are in Marlborough, but they will join you ere long. Before they do so, there is a matter that I would resolve between us – not only for my own edification, but to enable the good Watson to tie up the loose ends when he records the case in his chronicles.”

“Ask what you will, and I shall answer if it is within my power to do so.” He led us into the library, producing cigars and whisky before giving us his full attention. “Now, gentlemen, what would you know?”

“We have established that the skeleton in the barrow isn’t that of your nephew,” Holmes began blandly. “The question remains as to whose it is. Do you have any thoughts on that, sir?”

Willis Barton’s eyes flickered, and he shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “Why, I assume it to be that of the burglar, but I can only surmise how it came to be there.”

“I have the advantage of knowing that,” said Holmes. “Let me tell you at once that the remains are those of Elliot Langley, buried in panic by your nephew.”

Our host’s face was ashen, and his big frame appeared to shrink before our very eyes. He took a huge gulp of whisky and immediately refilled his glass with a shaking hand.

“Tell me all, Mr. Holmes,” he said when he had recovered somewhat. “Is Edgar still in peril?”

“I doubt it. He acted unthinkingly, but I think his offence will be looked on with compassion.”

Holmes went on to relate the course of events as told by young Barton while the older man listened in silence. As the story drew to a close, he stared down at his hands with an expression between relief and sadness.

“So Elliot Langley is dead,” he whispered. “God rest his soul, and God forgive me. I began to suspect as much when you displayed such confidence that it wasn’t Edgar, but I feared to speak. What led you so quickly to the truth?”

My companion smiled. “The first hint came when Miss Barton told me that her brother and Langley were often mistaken for close relatives, and your tolerant attitude to his abuse of your hospitality confirmed my suspicion that he had Barton blood in his veins. Am I correct?”

Barton squared his shoulders and gave us a defiant look. “You are, Mr. Holmes. There is no point in denying it, as I am the only concerned party still living, but I would ask your discretion, Doctor, if you set this story down on paper.”

“Be easy, sir,” I replied. “I am adept at disguising places and people when preparing my stories for publication. I merely try to place before the public my colleague’s unique powers, and I defy anyone to identify the players in these little dramas.”

“Say on, Mr. Willis Barton,” Holmes encouraged him. “Our discretion is absolute.”

“Very well.” Barton’s eyes held a faraway look as he embarked on a tale that had its beginnings on the Dark Continent thirty years ago. “You will recall that I told you of my time in Africa and how my partner, Bob Langley, would go through his money as fast as he made it. We worked well together, but our temperaments were as chalk and cheese. I was ever a sober and prudent man, and it fell out that while we were in the Transvaal – Pretoria to be precise – disposing of our goods and laying in supplies for the next trek I met a lady with whom I fell deeply in love. My love was returned in full until I introduced her to Bob. You can imagine that I suffered by comparison with him – he with his zest for life and me so staid and careful. The upshot was that he couldn’t tear himself away from her, and I couldn’t bear to see them so happy together, so by mutual agreement between Bob and myself I went up-country alone. I returned four months later to find them married. You can picture my feelings, but I put the best face on it and wished them all the luck in the world.”

Here he stopped to blow his nose on an outsize handkerchief.

“Worse was to follow,” he resumed. “I hadn’t been back in town many days when Mrs. Langley called on me at my hotel, and what she told me turned my world inside out. Marriage hadn’t changed Bob in any respect, and he was out of funds and deeply in debt. He had approached me to get another safari under way, but I had no idea just how desperate he was for money until his wife told me. I wasn’t reluctant to leave, as it wasn’t the easiest situation for me to see the woman I still loved with my partner, although I bore them no grudge. As I mentally began to plan how I could stake Bob until we had made few sovereigns, and that without giving it the appearance of charity, she began to sob hysterically and upbraid me for going off on my own.

“I pointed out that as she and Bob were so wrapped up in each other, I felt my absence to be the wisest course, and the fact that I had returned to find them married confirmed it. ‘You fool?’ she cried. ‘Why do you think I married him? Was I to wait indefinitely for you to come back and have my shame revealed to all?’ At first, I didn’t grasp her meaning, but eventually she made me understand that I was the father of the child she was expecting. I was stunned and ashamed, even though she convinced me that Bob had no inkling of the truth, and she wouldn’t have come to me now if they weren’t in desperate straits for money.”

Holmes made no comment when the other paused, but I sensed disapproval in his somewhat Puritan nature.

Willis Barton began to speak again. “To cut a long story short, Bob and I went off, with me making him an advance on our expected profits and leaving his wife enough to support her. We were gone about six months and returned to find her dead and her baby son being cared for by a kindly old missionary and his wife. That was in ‘64, and four years later Bob got himself killed by a mad rogue tusker when his gun misfired. As you may guess, he left nothing and I made myself responsible for the boy’s upbringing and education, but there was a fatal flaw in his character, and by the time he was seventeen, he had been in all kinds of trouble. I’ll not go into any details, but he eventually went up-country on his own, and all I heard of him were a few discreditable stories that filtered down.

“I came back to the Old Country in ‘82 a disappointed man, for I had hoped that Elliot would become the son I had always wanted, but I had never had the courage to reveal the truth of our relationship.”

“He must have learned it somehow,” I hazarded. “His behaviour indicated that he had some hold over you.”

“That is so. He came to England some four-and-a-half years ago and sought me out. By then my brother and his wife were dead and their children were living with me. When Elliot made himself known, I was unable to turn him away, and it wasn’t long ere he saw Edgar’s remarkable resemblance to him and put two and two together. When he confronted me with it, I couldn’t in all conscience deny the truth, but surprisingly enough he wasn’t interested in having the facts made known. Instead, as the price of his silence, he prevailed on me to make a larger allowance – much more than Edgar received. His conduct grew more and more intolerable until the incident with Elizabeth came as the final straw. I told him to leave my house and never show his face again, defying him to do what he would about our relationship.” Willis Barton sighed. “Can you conceive of the pain and agony that decision caused me?”

Neither Holmes nor I replied, and the older man continued.

“Strangely enough, he went with nothing more than veiled threats, and for the next month I waited for his next move, but except for regular demands for money I was left in peace. Then came the burglary and my mind was on Edgar’s apparent betrayal of my trust to the exclusion of all else. After that I heard no more of Elliot, other than he had left Chippenham with a trail of debts behind him which I felt honour-bound to settle.”

Holmes rose to his feet, and I closed my notebook and followed suit.

“I don’t think we need pry more,” said my companion. “I think I hear the sound of wheels on the gravel, so we will leave you in peace with your loved ones. I believe you have sufficient influence in the county to have your nephew’s impulsive actions dealt with sympathetically, but I see no reason for the distant past to be raked over. Is there an anteroom where Watson and I may wait until the two young people are safely in here with you and we can depart unobserved?”

We drove to Devizes, Holmes concerned that Blane’s mind should be put at rest with a judicially edited story of events. We found the inspector at the police station, and between us we concocted the fiction that Holmes had been in the district on an entirely different matter and that the papers had wrongly made a connection with the four-year-old crime, leading to their false assumption that Willis Barton would soon be arrested.

“It’s your case, Mr. Blane,” my friend said. “Take what credit you can from it, but I would beseech you to spare the Bartons as much unpleasantness as you can.

“Rely on me, sir, and it has been an education to me to see your methods. One thing I would ask, though: What first put you on the track of the real truth?”

“Oh, that was the roof of the burial chamber,” Holmes answered vaguely. “There was an obvious difference in the soil immediately over the skeleton indicating that it had been disturbed much later than the Bronze Age.”

On our return journey to Paddington, Holmes sat huddled in a corner of the compartment, humming quietly to himself. It wasn’t until we approached Newbury that I ventured a question.

“One small point: How will you account for the telegrams to the newspapers that hinted of Willis Barton’s imminent arrest? Will not your reputation be damaged now that events have turned out differently?”

He turned a bland smile in my direction. “My dear Watson, those wires must have been sent by some malicious person using my name. They cannot be laid at my door. If newspaper editors are so gullible as to print that kind of thing without verifying the facts, it is their misfortune. I shall issue a firm denial and demand that they publish a retraction and apology immediately and prominently.”

“Really, Holmes, you are incorrigible.” I laughed. “Have you no shame?”

Thus, what started as a tragedy came to a happy conclusion, with Holmes opening a letter a week later to find a cheque enclosed, the amount of which caused me to whistle when he showed it to me. It was signed “Willis Barton”.

Three months had elapsed when an item in The Morning Chronicle came to our attention. It announced the engagement of Chief Inspector Blane of the Wiltshire Constabulary to Miss Elizabeth Barton of Addleton Hall in that county, and in the next day’s mail came invitations for Holmes and myself to be guests at the forthcoming nuptials.

“Blane has taken another step on the ladder of promotion,” Holmes remarked. “A wife such as Miss Barton will be invaluable in his career.”

However, events intervened which took us to Paris on the case of Huret, the Boulevard Assassin, in consequence of which we were forced to miss that joyful occasion, much to my regret.