Hawksfire House

I have recorded elsewhere, that Sherlock Holmes’ interest in a case diminished the moment it was solved. In this instance, however, he suspended his activities with his quarry still at large.

“Scotland Yard can find no trace of Mrs. McLyall,” he told me over breakfast five days later, “it is supposed that she has left London. I shall continue to consult my sources regularly for news of her, and to scour the newspapers daily. Before now, we have been put off the scent and returned to the chase later.”

I finished the last of my toast. “Indeed. What will you do now, Holmes?”

“I see that you are concerned that boredom or inactivity will drive me back to the cocaine bottle, Doctor,” he said with his usual perception. “But set your mind at rest. I have a few matters on hand that will occupy me, and you are welcome to accompany me as before.”

“I am at your disposal.”

The following day Holmes satisfied himself that all he had learned was added to the archives of Scotland Yard so that Mrs. McLyall’s record should be as complete as possible. A police guard was mounted on the four remaining jurors for a while, until interest in the affair diminished. Everything stood still, pending further discoveries or news of her whereabouts. And so, for the next six months, whenever I could arrange for my practice to be covered by a colleague or locum, I accompanied my friend on further adventures.

It was during this interval that Holmes busied himself with the Two-Tailed Tiger Affair, The Adventure of the Deserted Chapel and that of the Peculiar Cousin of Mr. Darius Blair, to give these events the titles under which I have recorded them, and other problems which are described in papers that he has barred from publication.

I see from my notes that it was a morning in early spring, with the remains of the recent severe snow storms still in evidence, when a telegram from Mr. Abel Pritchard, of Hawksfire House in the county of Dorset, arrived as we were settling ourselves before a roaring fire after breakfast as was our custom.

Holmes put the envelope to one side at first, going through his usual routine of opening and discarding most of the letters that Mrs. Hudson had brought in as she came to clear away our plates. He made a pile of the various bills and expressed little interest in what remained, from which I gathered that none of it was at all unusual, far less of the bizarre nature which invariably attracted his attention.

His first glance at the telegram, however, produced a different result. My friend stared into the flames wearing an expression which told me that he was scouring his memory.

“Watson,” he said at length, “be a good fellow and hand me my index from the shelf.”

I did so and watched him turn the pages, shaking his head until he closed the volume and placed it on the floor beside his chair.

“You did not find a reference to the telegram’s sender, then?” I ventured.

“It was not Mr. Abel Pritchard that I sought,” he replied thoughtfully, “but his residence. I knew that an event of some interest had taken place there, recently.”

“And what did you discover?”

“That the British Archaeological Society held a conference there, attended by many of its most notable members. Mr. Pritchard is apparently well-known for his collection of artefacts from ancient civilizations.”

“From which someone has stolen something which he wishes you to recover,” I deduced.

“That would be a fair assumption, from the little I have told you, but it is not so. Mr. Pritchard is desperately concerned on behalf of a guest.”

He said nothing more, but smiled at my puzzled expression.

I shook my head. “The guest is proving troublesome, violent even? A case for the local police, I would have thought.”

“Mr. Pritchard has consulted the local force, but their cursory investigation had no success. He mentions that Spicer was the Inspector in charge, so that does not surprise me. The crime here, Doctor, is the two attempts that have been made on the life of the guest, Mr. Ezekiel Conroy.”

Less than an hour later, I found myself waiting on Waterloo Station. After leaving me for the Station Master’s Office Holmes returned after a few moments, his every gesture displaying his usual impatience as a new case beckoned.

I heard the guard’s whistle and our train pulled out. A cloud of smoke blew back from the engine and engulfed our carriage but cleared quickly, and the city was left behind. Soon, we were among trees and fields, gathering speed.

“Holmes,” I said as I realised that he was not absorbed in his own thoughts as was his usual practice during a journey, “is there anything more about this case that you have yet to tell me?”

He shook his head. “I know only the meagre facts from Mr. Pritchard’s telegram. He has a guest who he believes has twice escaped death since arriving at Hawksfire House, events which the local police have dismissed as happenstance. The events are possibly connected to Mr. Pritchard’s archaeological pursuits, but at this point that is nothing more than speculation. Until we know more, there is little that can be deduced. I have advised you before, on the recklessness of theorising on insufficient data. Grave consequences have resulted, before now.”

Holmes then began a varied recital of facts about cricket, and after that about the government’s foreign policy as applied to the Indian sub-continent. When our largely one-sided conversation ended, we dozed, and soon the train was losing speed as it approached West Bay Station.

Having little luggage, we had no need of porters as we made our way from the platform onto the narrow country lane that wound its way past the station. Holmes and I glanced all around, but none of the waiting carriages had been sent for us.

“Unusually discourteous,” I remarked, “for a man who appeals for help so desperately.”

Holmes shrugged and we strode to the end of a line of waiting hansoms. He asked the driver, a rather rough-looking fellow, whether he was engaged.

“No sir,” the man replied in a broad regional accent, “I comes here most days at this time. The train always brings me some business.”

“Then let today be no exception.” Holmes threw his bag into the cab and climbed in, gesturing for me to do the same. “The Raven’s Head Inn, driver.” He turned to me. “We may be in time for a late lunch.”

He had apparently made arrangements ahead, probably while awaiting the train at Waterloo Station. I remembered that he was out of my sight for a short while. The horse took us at an unhurried pace along the tree-lined lanes where branches hung heavily in bud. We soon emerged onto a wider thoroughfare that led us to the coast road.

The cries of gulls attracted our attention, as they swooped around a returning fishing boat that made its way to port under a grey sky. I followed Holmes’ gaze across the bay, noting the few buildings scattered near the cliff edge.

At Holmes’ call, the driver reined in the horse before jumping down from his seat to present himself.

“Driver, is it possible to see Hawksfire House, from here?” my friend asked.

“Why, yes sir.” The man pointed across the bay. “The house just back from the cliff, with stone towers.”

My friend shaded his eyes and peered in the same direction. “It appears to be a ruin.”

“There was a fire, sir, a month or two ago. Took more than half the house, it did.”

We continued our journey and arrived at the inn shortly. Holmes paid the driver, who saluted smartly and set off back the way we had come. The landlord, a round jovial man, had reserved rooms for us in response to Holmes’ telegram. We overlooked the courtyard and stables at the rear of the building, and after returning to the bar-room for a delayed meal of local sausage and a pint of good ale, Holmes sought the landlord out.

The fellow was hesitant at first, but soon went into detail about the fire that had all but destroyed Hawksfire House, when he heard that we were visiting there.

“Mr. Pritchard seems a friendly sort,” he remarked. “Interested in all kinds of history, so he says. Not that we see him in here often, I don’t think he goes far from home. If you’re going there tonight, you’ll need to borrow the trap. I’ll give you directions, but the pony could find his way blindfold on account of our deliveries there. They like their fresh meat up at Hawksfire House, and the local butcher uses us to take it up with the kegs of ale we supply.”

“Have you encountered Mr. Pritchard’s guest?” Holmes enquired.

“Mr. Conroy? He’s been in here with Mr. Pritchard, a time or two. I’ve heard there was some trouble with the police in that connection, but it came to nothing in the end.”

My friend nodded his understanding. “We will take the trap then, with your permission.”

“Of course, sir,” our host gestured towards a door at the back of the bar-room. “The trap has been fitted with coach lights, so that you may return safely after dark.”

Holmes’ impatience during the short journey was evident. I am not an unskilled driver, having had much experience during my army years and since, but the tracks we followed were so like each other to cause confusion. In the end, as the landlord had predicted, it was the horse that led us there. Daylight was beginning to fade as we passed through the open gates of Hawksfire House with the moon faintly visible.

We were suddenly faced with a wide, imposing structure. I saw at once that part of the upper floors had been burned or scorched, and that the damage was extensive. Almost the entire front of the house was covered with patches of clinging ivy, so that several windows and the great entrance doors appeared as a face peering through some wild and choking bush. The left wing had also been destroyed, and the lawn that ran the length of the front of the house was long neglected. As I alighted from the trap, I noticed numerous topiary animals, made grotesque by lack of tending.

A groom appeared from beneath an arch that adjoined the house. He greeted us and touched his cap, before leading the pony away. No sooner had he disappeared from sight than the entrance doors opened to reveal an aged butler, tall and grey-haired, who bowed and bade us follow him.

We entered a long corridor with regularly spaced stone pillars, full of echoes and a slightly musty odour. Our guide came to a halt and knocked upon one of the doors, opening it for us and bowing again as he ushered us into the room in answer to a call from within.

Holmes and I entered, as the butler had taken our hats and coats. The room was cavernous, the glow from the lamps leaving the ceiling in shadow. In many ways, it was similar to others I have found myself in while accompanying my friend in his investigations: the walls adorned with ancestral portraits and stag’s heads, looking down on an array of dark furniture.

Mr. Pritchard stood near a wide fireplace, warming his hands as flames licked hungrily at the pile of twigs and logs. He turned to face us and we greeted each other. He struck me as an amiable man, if a little distracted.

We seated ourselves a short distance from the fire, for the heat it threw out was becoming fierce. Mr. Pritchard, I noted, was a man of average height, probably in his sixties. His hair was uncommonly dark for a man of that age, and he was without either moustache or beard, but had grown his side-whiskers so that they very nearly met about the centre of his chin. His clothes I judged to have seen some years of service, but they were well-pressed.

“I am surprised, gentlemen, to discover that you have taken rooms at the inn,” he said as he poured sherry from a decanter, “we have plenty of room here, and you would have been most welcome.” He saw Holmes’ enquiring look and explained. “I saw the pony and trap that brought you. It is well-known in the district.”

“We were unsure of the situation here,” I answered.

“No matter, no matter.” He discontinued the subject abruptly. “As you may know, I am an archaeologist by profession. This room is what has been described as the most normal in the house. Almost every other is crammed with artefacts from my expeditions. The Egyptian, Greek and Roman civilizations are all well-represented.”

“I am most interested.” Holmes remarked. “I would welcome the opportunity to view your exhibition.”

“And so you shall. It will be my great pleasure to show it to you.”

“But first,” said my friend, “to the matter at hand. I understand that you have a guest who is apparently in some danger?”

Mr. Pritchard’s expression immediately became grave. “Indeed. My friend Mr. Ezekiel Conroy has twice come close to death. I summoned the police on the second occasion, for I do not believe in coincidence.”

“Nor do I, to any great extent,” Holmes agreed.

“However, I was dissatisfied with their investigation.”

“Perhaps we can improve upon it.”

“I am confident that you will.” Mr. Pritchard leaned back in his chair and called for the maid. After a few moments, an elderly woman appeared. “Molly,” he said, “Please ask Mr. Conroy to join us.”

She drew close and spoke in a whisper that was hardly audible.

Mr. Pritchard listened closely, nodded and dismissed her. “She has taken tea to his room, but there was no reply to her knock. She was about to come to tell me as I called her.”

“Is the room locked?” Holmes asked.

“I would imagine so. Ezekiel once worked at the Bank of England, and the ingrained habit of locking everything around him has persisted. He is probably asleep.”

“Nevertheless, it would be as well to be sure. I suggest we repair to his room now. Is there a spare key?”

“I will get it.” Our host stood up and we put down our sherry glasses. He left the room and a drawer or cupboard door slammed nearby, causing echoes that became lost in the vast corridor. He soon reappeared with a large keyring. “This way, gentlemen.”

We took the stairs quickly, the aged timber creaking under us. Mr. Pritchard led the way along a passage full of shadows that danced as the light from his oil lamp swept along the walls. He stopped outside a door of polished dark wood and knocked vigorously. “Ezekiel! Ezekiel! Are you all right? Answer me!”

No reply came, and we could hear no sound within the room. Mr. Pritchard looked uncertainly at Holmes, who took the keys from him and opened the door.

The hinges squealed and I swear that I will never forget the sight that was revealed to us. A short elderly man, dressed in evening clothes, stood with his shirt covered in blood. His tongue protruded from a mouth distorted by hideous anguish, and his body was held erect by thick rope binding his neck to the carved bed-post. The blood, I saw, had spread from a sabre wound in his chest.

“My God, Ezekiel!” Mr. Pritchard cried, and made to step into the room.

“Watson!” Holmes spoke sharply, and I knew what I had to do.

I took Mr. Pritchard by the arm and guided him away. “Come, we will go downstairs for some brandy. You have had an awful shock.”

“But how was this done? Has someone broken in? Oh, poor Ezekiel!” He leaned on me heavily, staggering as if an enormous weight had been placed upon him.

When we reached the sitting-room, he slumped into his chair, horrified by what he had just witnessed. I poured him a brandy from the crystal decanter on the sideboard, and he drank it like a man in a dream. I did what I could to calm him, and presently left him with his head in his hands.

It seemed as though nothing had changed in Mr. Conroy’s bedroom, but I knew that Holmes, once left alone there, would have already have begun his investigation.

“The sword,” he said, “came from there.” He held the lamp that he had taken from Mr. Pritchard’s trembling fingers, so that I could see that only one of a pair of crossed sabres remained above the fireplace.

I crossed the room with him to a half-open window that was hidden by a screen. We leaned out into the night and the glow from the lamp revealed clumps of thick ivy that would have provided an easy descent, leading from the window of an adjacent room. Dimly, I could perceive a disturbance in the loose soil below.

“So,” Holmes observed, “we know at once that our murderer is one who plans carefully, and that he has been watching this house.”

“I can see that he is careful, for the ivy has clearly been tested, pulled out of place piece by piece, to ensure that it would hold his weight as he climbed. But how have you deduced that he has been watching?”

“That much is clear from the fact that he knew which room Mr. Conroy occupied. Also, he was aware of a place where his entry would pass unnoticed. I do not think it was coincidence that the murder should take place now, on the day that we arrived here.”

“Because he acted before you could begin an investigation of the previous attempts?”

“Either that or it is a taunt, a challenge.”

“From someone unknown to us?”

He shrugged. “It may be that he is acquainted with my reputation.”

“Perhaps.” As always when Holmes lapsed into vanity, I felt a tinge of embarrassment.

“I have examined the body,” he said, “and learned little except that Mr. Conroy was a frequent smoker of Turkish tobacco, suffered from persistent indigestion and dressed immaculately. He was strangled first, and then the sabre driven into his chest and right through his body. His murderer must have been enraged, to have used such force.”

I looked around us, noticing the pungent smell and the medicine bottle on the side-table which, no doubt, were the source of Holmes’ deductions. “This room will be easier to examine in daylight.”

“Indeed, I expect to learn more then. The murderer appears to have entered and departed from the next room in the same manner. However, there is this to be considered.”

I leaned into the lamplight to see the grey powder in his hand. “What is it?”

“Dust,” my friend replied.

“From the floor?”

“From a human body.”

“How can you tell, Holmes?”

“I have seen the like before. The texture is quite distinctive.”

“Has someone cremated human remains here?”

In the shadows, I saw him shake his head. “No, Watson, this is what time has left of a man or woman who lived long ago. Our killer entered this room with these traces stuck to his clothes or his boots. Tomorrow we will examine the room next door.”

With that he wrapped the powder in a piece of note-paper from his pocket, then turned and left the room. I held the lamp in the dark passage while he locked the door, ensured that the adjacent chamber was locked also, and took the keys from the ring to retain on his person. In the sitting room Mr. Pritchard had not moved from his chair, but now the maid, who seemed also to be the housekeeper, stood over him accompanied by the butler who had first admitted us.

Mr. Pritchard looked up, as we approached. “Forgive me, gentlemen,” he said in a voice that shook. “I fear that our discovery has affected me badly. Ezekiel was an old and dear friend.”

“Please do not distress yourself on our account,” Holmes replied. “You have sustained a cruel shock. I suggest that you repair to your bedroom and get as much sleep as you can. Doctor Watson will prescribe something that will help.”

“My thanks to you sir, and to the good doctor, but we cannot leave things as they are. I will send Anders here, to the village. The police must know of this immediately.”

“I beg that you do not do that,” Holmes said in his gentlest tone. “To invite the official force here at this time would seriously impede my investigation, which I have already begun. We will leave you now, but will return first thing in the morning. After my inspection, the local plainclothes branch can be summoned. Inspector Spicer is known to me.”

Mr. Pritchard looked uncertainly at us. “Very well, although this seems very irregular.” His concern deepened. “But what of Ezekiel? We cannot leave him like that.”

“He can feel no pain now, and his remaining there will greatly assist me. I have taken the liberty of retaining the keys, to ensure that the chamber and the one adjacent to it are secure. In the event of the killer’s return, though I think that is unlikely, have you any means of protection?”

“Anders spent many years in the service of our Queen. He is a skilled swordsman and pistol shot.”

“You have weapons?”

“Arms are kept in a locked cabinet, in the library. They have not been used since my grandfather’s time, but they are oiled regularly.”

“Excellent! Your own care will be supervised by your housekeeper?”

“Of course. Molly has been with me for many years. She has refused my offers to take on an under-maid, such is her devotion.”

“Now,” I intervened, “I think you should retire.”

I always carry a small supply of laudanum for emergencies and I gave Anders, the butler, a sufficient dose to ensure that Mr. Pritchard slept until morning.

Holmes and I then took our leave of the place and drove back through the night. He was silent throughout the short journey, and only the crashing of waves on the beach disturbed the dark and peaceful scene. Long after we had retired at the Raven’s Head, I heard him pacing his room restlessly.

The next morning was calm, with the sun spreading a harsh light. After we had breakfasted on eggs from the hens that were kept at the rear of the inn and some fine rashers of local bacon, Holmes asked the landlord for the use of the trap once more.

“I don’t see why not, sir,” the fellow replied. “There are no deliveries today, so old Betsy would be in the stable for most of the time, otherwise.”

“Capital!” said Holmes. “Landlord, I take it that you recall our conversation of yesterday, about Hawksfield House?”

“That I do, sir.”

“About the fire that almost destroyed the place?”

“A terrible thing, it was.”

“And we spoke of Mr. Pritchard’s friend, Mr. Conroy?”

“We did indeed, sir.”

Holmes sat back in his chair, his keen eyes searching the man’s face. “I would be greatly obliged if you would cast your mind back to the fire. Can you recall whether Mr. Conroy was a guest at the house at that precise time?”

The landlord straightened his posture and put a hand to his brow. “Give me a moment, sir.” His expression became thoughtful, then his face brightened. “You know, sir, I believe he was. As I remember, Mr. Conroy himself called in here for a bottle of Napoleon brandy, which they’d run out of up there, so they had none to drink after dinner. On his way back to the house a wheel came off the cart. Mr. Pritchard swore afterwards that someone had knocked out the pin. Mr. Conroy wasn’t hurt, apart from a few bruises, but they never got to the bottom of it.”

Holmes’ eyes glittered, his face full of enthusiasm. This meant, I knew, that the landlord’s words had confirmed whatever theory he had formed.

“Thank you landlord,” he said cheerfully. “You have been most helpful. Now we will return to the house to see how Mr. Pritchard is faring.”

“Is he ill then, sir?” The landlord enquired.

“A little off-colour, perhaps.”

“Do give him my best wishes.”

“I most certainly will.”

The horse had got into her stride, leaving the inn behind, before my friend spoke next.

“You know, Watson, in these villages they have little need of the telegraph service. Word seems to spread rapidly from person to person.”

“That is part of country life,” I agreed. “But news of Mr. Conroy’s death has not reached the inn. I saw you watching the landlord’s expression as you spoke of him.”

“That man is an honest, uncomplicated type. I would have known if he had held anything back. Apart from ourselves then, only Mr. Pritchard and his household are aware of the tragedy. This means that we are unlikely to be disturbed by the official force, until our investigation here is completed.”

“You will wish to examine the room again, of course?”

“Together with the other, and the ground beneath. It is always best to confirm what facts you can. It may be that other indications will reveal themselves in the light of day.”

He said no more, but rode beside me watching our surroundings until we reached Hawksfire House. The charred skeleton that was all that was left of much of the structure looked even more precarious, when revealed by daylight. The same groom took charge of the horse and Anders took us at once to the sitting-room, where Mr. Pritchard awaited us in a calmer state, but still noticeably grieved.

“Welcome, gentlemen,” he said, adding at once, “I must apologise again for my unseemly conduct of last night. I do not usually display my feelings in such a manner.”

“We are all but human, Mr. Pritchard,” replied Holmes. “I trust the rooms are undisturbed, as I requested?”

“No one has been near.”

“Thank you. We will proceed at once with our examination of them, and of the ground beneath the window. When those things are completed, I may seek confirmation of certain facts. Then, if you will summon the local force, I will share my findings with them before departing.”

Mr. Pritchard nodded. “And when will you return, after that?”

“I do not anticipate having to do so.”

“You think the murderer of Ezekiel will be so quickly apprehended?”

“I think the trail will take us away from here.”

My friend began with the displaced earth beneath the window of the room next to that of Mr. Conroy’s death.

“This was someone of light stature,” he said with his lens in his hand. “The first impressions, those of his approach before climbing, are very shallow. The ones made later, at the end of his descent, are deeper, because he jumped the last few feet.”

He looked up at the window once or twice, and scrutinised the ivy. With a final glance at the footprints he walked away until he reached the gravel path, where he paraded up and down thoughtfully, stroking his chin and staring into the distance. During a further short visit to the murder-room I remained in the passage-way at Holmes’ request, until he emerged looking satisfied with his discoveries. “Come, Watson. The time when we can delay notifying the official force is getting short. We must speak to Mr. Pritchard.”

We found him in his usual chair in the sitting-room, giving instructions to Molly and Anders. He dismissed them as we approached.

“Have you discovered anything more, Mr. Holmes?” he asked eagerly.

“I have found several helpful pointers,” my friend said as we all sat down, “and with some assistance from yourself, I hope to know a great deal more.”

“I have told Anders to hold himself ready to take the brougham to the local police station, when we have concluded our discussion.”

“Excellent.” Holmes studied Mr. Pritchard carefully, perhaps considering his state of recovery in the face of the questions to come. “To begin then, can you identify this substance?”

Mr. Pritchard leaned forward to peer at the scrap of paper that Holmes held out towards him. “Wherever did you get that?” he asked in surprise. “It could only have been in the Relic Room.”

“The room next to that of Mr. Conroy?”

He nodded. “Where many of my artefacts are stored. You hold in your hand part of the earthly remains of an ancient Egyptian, a pharaoh or official of high standing.”

“If we visit this room, perhaps we will learn something more.”

“Then pray follow me.”

Our host got to his feet and we took the stairs together. He then led us down the corridor past the room where the murder had taken place. Further ahead, we could now see that some of the doors were blocked off by stout boarding, where the fire had ravaged its way through this part of the building. Holmes produced the key from his waistcoat pocket, and moments later we found ourselves in a room full of exhibits from the most ancient times.

Lining the dusty aisles were small obelisks, clay tablets with cuneiform script, death masks, rusting weaponry and specimens of parchment that had somehow been preserved. At the end of the room stood several Egyptian mummy cases on trestles.

“It is from here,” said Mr Pritchard, “that the dust must have been taken.”

Holmes inspected the caskets for a full five minutes, not touching them but scrutinizing their exteriors thoughtfully. Finally, he pressed his hands gently against the painted lid of the first, and shook his head. As he moved to the second, Mr. Pritchard wore an agonised expression at seeing his beloved artefacts so handled. This time, the lid lifted at Holmes touch.

“Pray, be careful,” Mr. Pritchard gasped.

“It is empty,” said Holmes.

Our host peered in, aghast. “But how...? What has happened here?”

“You will notice that the lid had already been forced off. Our murderer used the casket as a place to conceal himself before choosing his time to strike, after disposing of its contents by tipping them into the waste-paper basket that I see half-hidden in the corner. Some of the remaining dust from within the casket adhered itself to his clothing or boots, either as he emptied it or while he lay hidden inside. There is more dust in the corridor, a trail that he left as he made his way to Mr. Conroy’s room.”

I made to make some remark, but was distracted by Mr. Pritchard’s dash to the corner. He picked up the basket and became distraught at the sight of the pile of ancient bones and dust that filled it.

“Irreplaceable,” he murmured repeatedly. “Irreplaceable.”

Holmes’ eyes widened as he glanced at me, no doubt thinking, as I was, that this was a trivial matter compared to poor Mr. Conroy’s death. The moment of incredulity passed. We had both encountered eccentrics before now.

We left Mr. Pritchard in a state of outrage, while Holmes took careful note of the room. I watched him, always amazed at his attention to the smallest things that often proved so significant.

“There is nothing more to be learned here,” he said at last. “With your permission, Mr. Pritchard, we will repair to the sitting-room for a further exchange before summoning the local force.

When the three of us were seated once more, before a newly made-up fire, Holmes lapsed into a silence lasting for so long that Mr. Pritchard began to give me questioning glances. Before he could speak, I shook my head. I knew from of old that Holmes would assimilate the facts of the case to his satisfaction, before any questioning began.

“Mr. Pritchard,” Holmes said suddenly, into the silent room. “Pray tell us of the previous attempts, or what you perceive as such, on the life of your unfortunate friend.”

Our host shifted in his chair still troubled, I fancied, not only by Mr Conroy’s murder but because of Holmes’ insistence on delaying informing the official force.

“Ezekiel arrived by arrangement, about two months ago,” Mr. Pritchard began in a voice that still trembled slightly. “It was intended that he should be here during the Archaeological Conference, and remain for some time after. We had known each other all our lives, and had much in common.”

“You shared an interest in archaeology?”

“Very much so, ever since our college days. Shortly after he began his stay fire broke out, the results of which are evident. It began, as far as we can tell, in an anteroom of the kitchen where Molly was undoubtedly careless while lighting the fire.” He gave a deep sigh. “I could not remonstrate with her. She has grown old in my service, and I also am not as astute as I once was. Naturally, she denied being at fault, but there is no one else here other than Anders and Maggs, the groom. I have always kept a small staff. Thankfully, no lives were lost to the flames.”

“Was anything else of note lost, keys perhaps?”

“Why, yes.” Mr. Pritchard said, astonished. “A bunch of internal keys, including the spare key to the Relic Room, disappeared from its place in the kitchen. We assumed it had been mislaid, during the fire. However did you know?”

“Our murderer gained entry through the Relic Room window,” Holmes said. “That much is revealed by the state of the ivy. The door is kept locked, so he had to have the means of getting from there to Mr. Conroy’s room, where he probably entered under some sort of pretence.”

“How could it be, that nothing was heard as Ezekiel was killed?”

“A skilled assassin works silently.”

“He made no sound when breaking in, also.” Mr. Pritchard observed.

“How did it come about,” Holmes asked after a moment’s silence, “that you sought our help?”

“It was suggested to me.”

“May I ask by whom?”

“By an acquaintance, Miss Charlotte Breakthorpe.”

“A neighbour?”

Our host shook his head. “No, I believe she lives in the next village, though I have not seen her of late. I should explain that I preside over meetings of our local archaeological group, as well as being active in the British Society. Miss Breakthorpe has been a member for these past few months.”

“Did she say how she came to hear of my work as a consulting detective?”

“No, I did not ask.”

“It seems that my reputation is spreading. How long after the first attempts on Mr. Conroy’s life did she propose this?”

“Quite soon after, I think. I did not at the time take note of the date, but I would say no more than a week later. At the time of that first incident he and I were returning from an afternoon walk through the grounds, deep in discussion, when he drew my attention to a bird that chanced to land in one of the oaks near the back of the house. Birdwatching was another of Ezekiel’s hobbies, though not of mine, so I left him to his observations and went ahead into the kitchen to ask Molly to prepare tea for us. I heard a heavy crash and a startled yell, and on running back outside found Ezekiel near the doorway with a block of masonry embedded in the gravel nearby. I took him to the sitting-room at once, of course, and gave him brandy, but he was soon laughing the matter off and chiding me for living in an old ruin.”

“I understand that Inspector Spicer later examined the roof?”

“That was after the second incident. We did not realise that the first occurrence was anything but an accident at the time, and the groom and Anders had been up there to see if there was any further danger. I imagine they rather spoiled things for the inspector.”

“Doubtlessly,” said Holmes. “But what of the second attempt?”

“That took place no more than two days before I sent Anders to telegraph to you. Ezekiel and I were about to set out for a drive in the brougham, when he suddenly clapped a hand to his face and cried out. Red spots covered his cheeks like some contagious malady, but it was soon apparent that he had been stung by brick dust. The small explosion that left a gouge in one of the door pillars proved to be caused by a shot from a firearm. Inspector Spicer discovered the bullet a short distance away. It struck less than a foot from Ezekiel’s head.”

“And what conclusions did the inspector reach?”

“He could find no evidence. Grouse shooters often come too near the house, despite the notices that I have had put up, and he attributed the probable cause to one of those. When I recounted the previous incident he went up to the roof as I have said, but nothing came of it.”

“If only you had called upon me immediately.”

Mr. Pritchard shrugged. “It is true that we thought the inspector was less than thorough, but he said there was nothing more to be done, and Ezekiel was content with that. I saw at once that a pattern was forming and as I have said, I am reluctant to believe in coincidence, so I persuaded him that to seek additional help would be the best course.”

“You recalled the suggestion of Miss Breakthorpe?”

“That is so.”

“Did she and Mr. Conroy ever meet?”

“I can say with certainty that they did not. I did, in fact, invite her to dine with us one evening, but she declined because of a previous engagement. As I recall, that was just before the threats to Ezekiel’s life began.”

Holmes studied his hands for a moment. “He was fortunate to survive three attempts. Sooner or later he was bound to fall victim as, in fact, he did.”

“Three attempts?” I questioned. “Two, surely.”

“Possibly four. You cannot believe the convenient fire or the timely shedding of one of the brougham’s wheels to have been an accident. I would lay odds that Molly should be vindicated.”

“What a fool I have been,” Mr. Pritchard said in a dull voice. “But why would anyone try repeatedly to kill Edward? He was the most inoffensive and warm-hearted of men.”

There was no reply from Holmes, but I saw that his whole body had become rigid. His eyes had taken on that gleam that meant he was hot on the scent, and I wondered what had occurred to him.

“Mr Pritchard.” I said, “You meant Ezekiel, surely, not Edward?”

For a moment he looked totally bemused, then his expression brightened.

“Ah, I see what you mean, Doctor. Actually, my friend was known by both names. “Edward” is the name he was given at birth, while “Ezekiel” is one that he acquired during our college years. It came about when he began to help the college chaplain with the Sunday service, by sometimes reading the lesson. Always of a religious turn of mind, he must have been given the choice of subjects because, more often than not, it was from the book of Ezekiel that he chose his theme. This was soon noticed by his classmates and the name was conferred on him as a rather silly joke. As you noticed, it has remained.”

“I think,” said Holmes, “that the time has come to notify the official force of Mr. Conroy’s death. I strongly advise, for all our sakes, that you make no reference to his being discovered last night. If they are allowed to believe that he was found this morning, it will make no difference to their investigation, whereas it will greatly aid me in mine.”

Our host seemed puzzled by this request but nodded and called Anders, to whom he gave instructions to that effect. The butler replied that he would tell the groom to prepare the brougham at once.

“Within the hour,” said Mr. Pritchard, “the local police will arrive. Before then, have you any more questions, Mr. Holmes?”

“One only, and that is to ask if you, yourself, have any theory of your own to explain this matter. There may be events or people unknown to me that you are aware of and that could have some bearing on an explanation.”

He considered, then shook his head. “I regret, I can think of nothing. But now, if you gentlemen will excuse me, I fear that I am still feeling the effects of the shock of losing my friend. When the police arrive I will be found resting in my room, and Molly will call me. Until then, I wish you good day.”

With that he left us. For the next hour or so Holmes and I talked over the case, exchanging views and observations. All the while I was aware of something in his manner that, because of our long association, I was able to identify as an indication that he had seen or deduced something that I had missed entirely. I was about to enquire about this when the bell clanged loudly, and we heard Molly rush to answer the front door.

“That will be my old acquaintance, Inspector Spicer, I think,” said Holmes.