The Fairy Hills Horror

by Geri Schear

Of all the cases my friend Mr. Sherlock Holmes handled, the one that caused me the greatest distress was the Addleton tragedy. For many years, I could not write about it, and I find my notes on those events singularly sparse. However, I think it will continue to haunt me until I set it down.

It was an unseasonably cold and damp August morning a few months after my friend had returned to London after his long absence. I had moved back into our Baker Street apartments and we two old campaigners had once again settled into the comfort of our former friendship. I came down to breakfast that morning to see my friend scouring the newspapers. An assortment of broadsheets lay strewn around the room with Sherlock Holmes sitting in their midst.

“You have a case, I see,” said I, recognising the symptoms.

“Just so, my dear Watson. The matter of the missing Addleton family. You have been following the account in the newspapers?”

“Yes, indeed. I think all England is fascinated by the ‘Fairy Hills Mystery’, as the press are calling it. They make much of the fact that the barrow mounds near the village are called ‘fairy hills’ by some locals.” He snorted and I added, “That a woman and four children should simply vanish in the middle of the day seems utterly bewildering. You have been consulted on the case then?”

“Yes.” He handed me a telegram.

“‘Will call upon you at eleven o’clock Re: the missing Addletons. Lestrade,’” I read. “Well, that’s to the point. It is almost that hour now.”

“Tell me what you know of the case, Watson,” Holmes said. “It will help me clarify the details in my mind.”

Like the entire country, I had been following the matter with great interest. As I sat at the table and poured a cup of coffee, I recounted the facts as they had been reported.

“On Monday last,” I said, “that is to say the 30th of July, Dr. Winston Addleton said goodbye to his wife and four children at their home on the Essex side of the village of Bartlow and took the train to the university where he is a professor of archaeology. When he returned around six o’clock that evening, the breakfast things were still on the table. The house was otherwise in perfect order, but his wife and children had vanished.

“The professor searched the area and sent telegrams to his wife’s family in Bristol, but no one had seen or heard from her. That was a week ago, and as far as I can tell, neither Mrs. Addleton nor her children have been seen since.”

No sooner had I said this than there was a knock at the door below and, moments later, Lestrade entered our chambers.

“A rum business this, Mr. Holmes,” said he. “A family doesn’t simply vanish in the middle of a summer day.”

“You have my full attention, Inspector,” my friend said. He sat in his chair with his eyes closed. Lestrade gave me a long-suffering glance and then read the details from his notebook.

“Precisely a week ago today, that is, Monday, 30th July, Dr. Winston Addleton ate breakfast with his wife of eight years, Jenny, and his four children, Michael aged six, Elizabeth aged five, Rose aged four, and Charles aged two. He kissed them goodbye a little after seven o’clock and walked the two miles to Bartlow Railway Station. The Addletons do not live in the village proper, but about two miles beyond on the Essex side of the border in a cottage called Barrow House.”

“He walked? They do not have transport?” Holmes asked.

“They own a trap, but Dr. Addleton leaves it for his wife. About an hour after the professor left, a neighbour, a retired farmer called Fairchild, saw the missing woman walking near the river - that’s the River Granta.”

“She was some distance from him, according to the newspapers,” I said.

“Not close enough to speak to, but he recognised her all right. Mrs. Addleton waved to him, but continued her walk without stopping.”

“Was she alone or were her children with her?”

“She was alone.”

“Forgive the interruption, Lestrade. Pray continue.”

“Dr. Addleton returned home a little after six o’clock that evening. He was surprised to find Barrow House empty and the breakfast things still on the table.”

“Does the family employ a servant?” Holmes said.

“A woman comes in on Tuesdays and Fridays, so she was not due on that day, it being Monday.”

“Do you know what precisely was on the table?”

Lestrade flicked through his notes. “There were a couple of glasses of milk and a half-empty cup of tea, as well as a full large pot of tea, and a loaf of bread.”

“Butter?”

“It’s not in my notes. I suppose not. Does it matter?”

“If your notes are accurate, Lestrade, it suggests, does it not, that the family had only just sat down to their meal?”

“I suppose the full pot of tea and loaf of bread do seem to indicate it,” Lestrade agreed. “But how does that help us?”

“We cannot say at present, but we would do well to remember it. The information may prove useful when we can add to the picture of that morning. Do we know when Dr. Addleton arrived at the university?”

“His usual hour, which is a little before nine, I believe. He worked in his office for some time and then he began his first class at eleven o’clock.”

Holmes sat up suddenly. “Bah!” he cried. “Why did you wait a week before consulting me? By now all the evidence will be washed away, particularly in light of this wretched summer we have not been enjoying.”

“The husband kept insisting his family would show up. He persuaded himself that his wife and children had gone to visit relatives and forgotten to mention it, or that he himself had forgotten that they had told him. He is a rather scatter-brained gentleman, more interested in his books than in people, so it did seem perfectly possible.”

“And you thought it likely that five people would suddenly rush away from the breakfast table to call upon distant relatives?” Holmes scoffed.

“Is there any suggestion Mrs. Addleton might have a paramour?” I asked, quickly changing the subject.

“There is no evidence of it, Doctor,” Lestrade replied. “Given the isolation of the house, I cannot imagine where she would encounter any gentlemen other than her husband. She was, by all accounts, a devoted wife and mother. Still, I could understand why she would be tempted to look elsewhere. Dr. Addleton is not what you might call an ideal spouse.”

“How so?”

“Well, he is obsessed with his work, by all accounts. One of those academics who assumes everyone must be as fascinated by his subject as he is. He is a professor of archaeology at one of the smaller Cambridge universities. I gather he is respected, if not particularly admired, by his colleagues. I suppose it’s a difficult subject, and not many people share his passion for it, if passion is the word. Frankly, Mr. Holmes, I’m surprised Dr. Addleton even noticed that his wife and children were missing.”

“Is there any indication that he has formed a dalliance with another woman?”

“I think it highly unlikely. This is a very self-absorbed gentleman - small, shabby, and hardly speaks above a whisper. He seems to have no conversation beyond his work. Why do you ask?”

“If a man is a professor, it is reasonable to suppose he is earning a decent salary, is it not? He lives in an area not known for a high cost of living, and yet he cannot afford a servant more than twice a week. Where is his money going?”

“Probably to his archaeology,” Lestrade replied. “He certainly has a lot of books and instruments related to his profession. Still, it’s a good point and I’ll be sure to look into it. I need to go back to Bartlow this afternoon. Will you and the Doctor join me?”

“I think we had better,” Holmes said.

On the train a couple of hours later, I asked Lestrade his own theory. “What do you think happened to the missing Addletons?”

“Now I’ve had a chance to think about it, I believe Mr. Holmes must be right. The woman must have a fancy man and ran off with him.”

“And took the children?” my friend said. “And left the breakfast things on the table? Is the wife a poor housekeeper?”

“I think not,” Lestrade said. “Everything was very neat, if rather plain and poor. Her husband seemed surprised that she would have gone out without putting the breakfast things away. He seemed quite cross about the waste.”

* * *

We were met at Bartlow Station by the local constable, a tow-haired man called Lewis. He shook our hands and greeted Holmes with awe, much to Lestrade’s irritation.

“Enough of that now,” the inspector said. “Let us head to Barrow House.”

“Take us by the river, if you please, Constable,” said my friend. “I should like to speak to Mr. Fairchild first.”

The weather was dry but overcast and unseasonably chilly as the carriage rumbled through the delightful country lanes. In the distance, I beheld the woods that surround the ancient barrows and I hoped we might have an opportunity to visit those strange ancient structures. We passed the so-called River Granta. This was little more than a swift moving stream. The banks on either side were steep, covered with long grasses and brambles. An odd place for a woman to take a stroll, I thought.

Mr. Fairchild’s cottage sat back from the river. Tall beech trees surrounded the building, and it presented an appealing picture. The occupant was, I thought, in his mid-seventies, but still mentally alert. His eyes were intensely blue, and only the clouds in their depths revealed his age.

He welcomed us into his home and offered us tea. We sat in the front parlour which faced the river. It was from this window that Fairchild had seen Mrs. Addleton.

“A charming lady,” he said. “I see her from time to time with the children. Such a devoted mother. They pass by on their way to the village and she always waves. Sometimes she stops and asks if there’s anything I need. A very kind lady.”

“Do you live alone here, Mr. Fairchild?” I asked.

“Hmm? What’s that? Live alone? No, indeed. My son lives with me. He’s a good boy, is Leonard. I think we both enjoy the company.”

“Is he friendly with Mrs. Addleton?”

“He knows her slightly, but he’d be at work most of the day. He tends farm, like. Still, he’d know her by sight. We all know her by her hair.”

“Was your son here that day when you saw her by the river?”

“Nay, he were out yonder in field,” he said, nodding towards the land behind the house.

“Do you often see Mrs. Addleton without the children?” I continued.

“Not as a rule, no. They’re too little to be left on their own, see, though on days when housekeeper is there, Mrs. Addleton goes into the village on her own from time to time. Not much of a life, being stuck in a house all day with four little ones. That husband of hers isn’t my idea of a man. He works in town, you know, and he leaves that woman home for days at a time with no one but children to talk to, not even a servant. Ruddy disgrace.”

I glanced at Holmes. He stirred himself from his reverie and said, “You are a good hundred yards from the river, Mr. Fairchild. I wonder how clearly did you see Mrs. Addleton last Monday?”

“Well, she was a distance away, but I knew it was her right enough.”

“How so? How were you able to see her features from such a distance, and with your glaucoma?”

“Glaucoma’s not so bad, not yet. But, no, I didn’t see her features. I saw her hair, her bright red hair, for it hung loose down her back, as it always did. She wore her pretty yellow bonnet, and her blue dress. She waved at me.”

“What time was this?”

“Around eight, I’d say. Yes, perhaps a minute or two after eight.”

“Well, Mr. Holmes?” the constable said as we climbed back in the carriage. “That confirms it, does it not, that Mrs. Addleton was still in Bartlow on Monday morning?”

“It raises more questions than it answers. Why would a woman known to be tidy in her habits suddenly leave the breakfast table and take a walk? And where did she leave her children?” For a moment Holmes was silent. Then he looked up and said, “Tell me, Constable Lewis, how was the weather here last Monday?”

“It was quite dreadful. It poured rain all day.”

“And yet we are to believe that a woman wore a yellow bonnet and a blue dress - no overcoat, mind - and took a stroll beside the stream. And with her hair loose, too. Does that not strike you as highly improbable?”

“But those are the facts, Mr. Holmes,” Lestrade exclaimed. “You cannot argue away the facts.”

“I am sure you are right, Lestrade. Well, let us see what the Addleton house can tell us.”

We were very surprised to find that the professor was not at home. “Where can he have gone?” Lestrade cried in consternation. “Don’t tell me he’s gone missing, too!”

“I am sure there is some reasonable explanation,” I said. “Perhaps he has gone out searching for his missing family.”

“That must be it, of course,” Lestrade conceded.

We looked around the grounds. The area was spacious enough and the view picturesque, but I found the isolation oppressive. If Mrs. Addleton had simply bundled her children up and left, I could hardly blame her.

“Constable Lewis,” Holmes said. “You were the first officer on the scene when Dr. Addleton reported his wife missing, I believe.”

“That’s right, sir. The local minister, Reverend Bullard, called me over from the village of Linton to investigate. I cover both villages, you see. It was dark when I came into the house. Dr. Addleton was sitting by the fire, huddled into himself. I asked the minister to initiate a search, though there was little enough we could do in the dark, and it was still raining.”

“And did the professor participate in the search?”

“He was grievously distressed, Mr. Holmes. I told him to stay put in case the woman and the children should return. I inquired at the railway station, but the missing people had not been seen there.”

“And the trap? I believe Mrs. Addleton had use of it?”

“Yes. She does the family shopping, very difficult with four little ones in tow, I should think, and uses the trap for that and to take the oldest child to school. It was still in the barn out yonder. The mud on the wheels was dry, so I did not think it had been used for at least a couple of days.”

“Well done, Constable. That was an astute observation. Let us take a look at this trap.”

The young policeman led us to an outbuilding. “Barn” was really too elaborate a word for it. A run-down shed seemed a more accurate description. Lestrade, the constable, and I stood in silence as Holmes examined the vehicle. He began by scraping some of the dried earth from the wheel, which he then studied it under a glass. Next, he turned his attention to the trap itself. Something at the footrest made him chuckle.

“What have you found?” Lestrade asked.

“A footprint,” Holmes said. “See here.”

We gathered and looked at the clear outline of a boot.

“A man’s footprint,” Lestrade said, “What of it?”

“We are told that Mrs. Addleton is the only one to use this trap. Why, then, should we find a man’s print here? It suggests, does it not, that a man was the last to drive this vehicle?”

“Holmes...” I said, my mouth dry with fear, “Are you suggesting...?”

“What?” Lestrade demanded. “What are you suggesting, Mr. Holmes?”

“We do not have enough evidence yet,” my friend replied. “All I can say with any certainty at this stage is a man was the last to drive this carriage.”

“Hullo?” a voice called from outside the barn.

We went out into the courtyard and were greeted by a small, shrivelled-looking fellow, aged, I suppose, about forty, but who could easily pass for a man some twenty years older. His coat looked ancient and very well worn. His hair was thinning. He was, as Lestrade said, an exceedingly unlikely candidate for a paramour.

“Dr. Addleton, I presume?” Holmes said.

Lestrade made the introductions. The little man’s eyes burned when he heard Holmes’s name. “Oh, I cannot tell you how glad I am that you are here, Mr. Holmes,” he cried. “I am so worried about my family. If only you can find them, I would be very much in your debt.”

“I will do my best, though you should not raise your hopes too high. So many days have passed since their mysterious disappearance, even Sherlock Holmes may have difficulty reading the traces.”

“Anything you can do, Mr. Holmes. My neighbours and the constable have taken pains to find them. I was out just now, searching the fields and the river. My wife was last seen walking by the Granta, you know.”

“I see you brought your archaeological implements with you.”

“Did I?” He looked in surprise at the kitbag on his shoulder. “Force of habit, I fear. I take them everywhere I go.”

The professor led us into the house and we sat in a cramped and dark parlour.

“Can you tell us what happened the last time you saw your family, Dr. Addleton?” Holmes said.

“I will do my best, but it has been a week, and memory fades.”

“Anything you recall may be of use. I am sure as a man of science you have better powers of observation than most.”

“Thank you. It is a compliment, but I believe it is justified. The difficulty lies in the ordinariness of it all. I have played it in my mind so many times, but it was such a usual day. I was running a little late because I had overslept. The youngest boy had a restless night, and my wife let him come into our bed to try to settle him. My wife was always so indulgent with the children. In any event, my sleep was disturbed and I ended by coming down here to the settee, and so overslept. I was in such a rush to get the train on time that I really wasn’t paying close attention to what was happening in the house.”

“But you had breakfast together?”

“Yes. That is to say, the rest of the family did. I had a mouthful of tea and my wife made me a hard-boiled egg, which I put in my pocket to eat on the train. I left the house and cut through the fields to try to get to the station on time.”

“And were you?” Holmes said. “On time, I mean.”

“Yes. I just made it. The rush made me poorly, however, and I was still feeling exhausted from my broken night’s sleep.”

“Could you not have taken a later train? I understand your first class was not until eleven o’clock.”

“That is true, and I might have done so, but I had a meeting with one of my students, a bright lad called Lexington. As it happened, the boy never turned up.”

“Did he offer an explanation?”

“He said our meeting was for five o’clock that evening, not nine a.m. as I had written in my diary. I cannot imagine why I would have agreed to a meeting so late in the day. It would have meant rushing for my train. I can only assume I misheard the five for a nine.”

“And the boy’s integrity is in no doubt?” Holmes asked.

“No, not at all. He is a very sound student. I must confess, sir, I am a bit scatter-brained. I have my own ideas and they dominate my thoughts to the point where I completely forget everything else. That is why I was not initially too alarmed to find my family were not at home. I was unsettled, of course, but I convinced myself I had made another of my foolish blunders. I’m afraid my wife was always scolding me for my forgetfulness.”

“Yes,” Holmes said. “A common problem for brilliant academics, I believe.” The professor bowed slightly. “I wonder, Dr. Addleton, if you can talk me through the events of Monday evening. Start with your meeting with Lexington, if you would.”

“Very well, I shall do my best. Lexington arrived in my office at five o’clock, perhaps a few minutes before. He realised I needed to catch the train and I suppose he felt guilty about our earlier misunderstanding. The examinations were due to start, well, today, in fact, and there were a number of issues upon which he needed clarification. We talked for some time and in the end he walked with me to the train station. We continued our conversation as we went. I only just reached the station in time to catch my train.

“The weather was quite dreadful and I faced a long walk home. Ordinarily, I do not mind. I find a long walk helps me clear my thoughts. On that evening, however, the weather was so wretched I longed for my supper and the warmth of my hearth. You can imagine my surprise when I arrived at my home to find it utterly deserted. No one came to greet me as I came in. I called for my wife and children, but no one answered my call. I searched the whole house. I was alarmed to find the table still set for breakfast. There was the teapot and the bread. I confess I rather panicked and rushed to the minister’s house to see if he had heard of any incident that might have stolen my family away from me.”

“Very distressing, I’m sure,” Holmes said in a calm voice. “Can you tell me what your wife and children were wearing the last time you saw them?”

The man frowned, trying to remember. “Uh, I’m afraid I am not very observant about clothing. Let me see, my wife was wearing a black gown with a woollen shawl around her shoulders. The children were still in their nightclothes. Yes, I am sure they were. I was concerned about them catching cold.”

“You are doing splendidly,” I said. “It is a very difficult situation, to be sure.”

The man nodded and hugged himself with thin hands.

Holmes said, “Doctor Watson is correct, you really are doing very well. Now, I wonder if I could ask you to go back a step and describe as accurately as you can the contents of the table.”

Addleton stopped and thought. “It was just the breakfast things. There was the pot of tea, stone cold. The remnants of tea in one cup. Uh... the bread.”

“A whole loaf?”

“Yes, that’s right. It might help my recollection if I could follow your reasoning, Mr. Holmes,” the professor said.

“I am trying to determine when your wife and children left the table. From what you say, it appears it must have been very shortly after you left for the train station.”

“Yes, I suppose so, but where could they have gone? They certainly were not on the train. I would have seen them at the platform.”

“And you only just caught your train, so it does seem very unlikely that they would have been able to get there so quickly.”

“They could have taken the trap,” Lestrade said. “That would have enabled them to get to the station before the professor.”

“Then how did the vehicle get back here, Inspector?” Holmes said. “Besides, Mrs. Addleton was observed by the river some hours later.”

“If they had been on the train, surely they would have found me,” Addleton said.

“It is reasonable to assume so. I suppose relations between you and your wife were cordial?”

“Of course. Never a cross word between us.”

“And what of the neighbours? Has your wife ever spoken about anyone who alarmed her or caused her anxiety?”

The professor considered. “She spoke of Mr. Fairchild as a kind gentleman, and I think she knew his son to say hello to. There were some people in the village, mostly tradesmen, and the minister. She mentioned all of them from time to time, but no one in particular. Well, there was the schoolteacher.”

“The schoolteacher?”

“Mr. Nithercott. Only our oldest boy was in school, but Mr. Nithercott spoke highly about him. My wife seemed to like the teacher very much.”

“Is he a married man?” I asked.

Addleton said, “No, he is single. Of course, he’s only in his twenties, I think. You understand, I don’t really know him myself, but my wife always spoke of him as ‘young Mr. Nithercott’, so that was the impression I formed.”

“Thank you, Dr. Addleton,” Holmes said. “You have been exceedingly helpful. I wonder if I might look at the rest of the house? I doubt there is anything left to find after so long a delay-” He gave Lestrade a disapproving look. “But I would be negligent in my duty if I did not try. No, please do not disturb yourself. I can manage perfectly well on my own.”

Lestrade, the constable, and I sat together with the professor. We could hear Holmes painstakingly making his way through the cramped and ancient cottage. The professor entertained us with tales of the barrow mounds that stood just outside the village. “My particular interest is the Neolithic period,” he said, “So you can imagine how fascinated I am by these strange mounds. Of course, some of them are Bronze Age or even Roman, but they are all worthy of study. Amazing to think of primitive man walking these very fields thousands of years ago, is it not? These mounds close at hand are called by some the Bartlow Pyramids. Of course, these ones are fairly modern, comparatively speaking, being from the first or second century of the Common Era. These ones are conical, which is why they are compared with pyramids. A misnomer, of course, but such things intrigue the uneducated. Even less useful is the term ‘fairy hills’, which I have heard some use.”

“I suppose anything that attracts people to archaeology is of use,” I said, seeing both policemen looking exceedingly bored.

The professor continued to discourse on the ‘tumuli’, as he called the barrow mounds. “Yes,” he said, “We have a Roman tumuli right here in Bartlow. There were seven at one time but, alas, only three remain. They were gravesites, originally.”

“Have you been inside them?” I asked.

“Oh, no, not I. They were excavated about fifty years ago. Wooden chests, glass, and pottery were discovered inside, I believe. Even an iron folding chair, can you imagine?” He became quite animated as he spoke.

“Were they built by the Romans?” Lewis asked, trying to take an interest.

“During the Roman period, certainly, but they were built by Celtic chiefs. There are any number of mounds dotted around these islands. A man could spend his life investigating all of them. The highest is around forty feet. Very impressive. Of course, there are tumuli scattered around the rest of the world, too, but the ones here in the British Isles are among the finest. The Hill of Tara in Ireland seems especially promising, as is Brú na Bóinne in County Meath. Some Irish sites are older than the pyramids. Extraordinary. I should dearly love to conduct a dig there. It would be the opportunity of a lifetime, but my wife would not hear of it. She reminded me of my parental duties. ‘Children before science, Winston,’ she said. I am sure she was right.”

For an hour, the professor droned on and in the background we could hear the creaking of floorboards and the occasional “A-ha!” as Holmes continued his investigation of the house.

At last he reappeared. “Yes,” he said, chuckling. “Not quite as useless as I had feared. Someone made a very careless error. Very careless indeed. Thank you for your time, Dr. Addleton. I think I know where to find your wife Jenny and your four little ones.”

“What - ?” the professor began but Holmes refused to reply.

“It is too soon to say more just yet, but I believe I know where they are. Yes, indeed. Inspector, I think we should return to London tonight, and in the morning we will make an early start. Good afternoon, Professor. Courage! All is not lost.”

We rode away in the constable’s carriage, but before we were too far along, Holmes said, “Tell me, Constable, is there an inn close at hand?”

“Yes, sir. The Three Hills is not far from here.”

“Excellent. Let us go and have supper. We have a long night ahead of us.”

“I thought we were going back to London,” Lestrade asked.

“No, indeed, Inspector.”

Over a splendid supper, the constable said, “Please, Mr. Holmes, you have obviously seen far more than we. What was it you found during your search of Barrow House?”

“Porridge oats.”

“Porridge?” I exclaimed. “You speak in riddles, Holmes.”

He chuckled. “Consider the facts, gentlemen,” he said. “A man returns home on a Monday evening to find his family missing. The table is laid out with tea and bread. Monday last was a cold, wet day. Mrs. Addleton, who is widely acknowledged as a devoted mother, serves breakfast to her children. Tea and bread, though there is a half-full bag of porridge oats in the cupboard. Surely a far more likely meal for children on a cold morning?”

“And who would serve bread without butter?” I added.

“And there were only two glasses of milk, though there were four children,” the constable added. “So the breakfast table was staged for the professor’s benefit? But why?”

“Could Mrs. Addleton have staged it herself?” Lestrade asked. “After all, she was seen on her own... Oh, dear heavens, could she have gone mad and murdered her children?”

“Drowned them and then herself like Ophelia?” I said. “It was odd that she went walking along the riverbank wearing such inappropriate clothing. Madness would explain it.”

“Oh, really,” Holmes scoffed. “What nonsense. Mrs. Addleton did not go mad and she did not harm her children.”

“Wait,” I said, “So someone dressed as Mrs. Addleton to make it look like she was still in Bartlow. A family member? Her hair was very distinctive. It is how Mr. Fairchild recognised her, that and her outfit.”

“That is significant. He did not see her face, only her familiar clothing and that red hair.”

“But what does it mean, Mr. Holmes?” Constable Lewis asked.

“Something unspeakable.”

After we had eaten, my friend said, “We must return to Barrow House, gentlemen. Lestrade, you and the constable take the north side of the house. Keep watch on the back door. Doctor Watson and I shall remain to the south and watch the front. Be careful, gentlemen. This fellow has no scruples nor does he value human life. Follow him, but keep a very careful distance. We must not let him know he is being watched. I implore you, be as still as statues and silent as those barrows yonder. We have an ugly business ahead of us.”

The sky was cloudy and the moon, such as it was, failed to appear. Around eleven o’clock, the light went off in Barrow House and a few minutes later, a figure emerged. He headed east towards the barrows. Holmes and I followed at some distance. On the edge of the wooded area, Lestrade and Lewis caught up with us. Silently, we followed our prey towards the mounds.

Once he was under the cover of the trees, the man lit a lantern which helped us to follow him. After some minutes, the light stopped moving.

“Softly, softly,” Holmes said.

We crept forward and found the professor with a shovel at the base of the mound. He had dug an opening. That is to say, he had opened a doorway that had already existed. The man screamed when he saw us.

“Hold him!” Holmes cried as the man swung the shovel at us.

The young policeman leaped upon the villain and brought him to his knees with a sound right hook. He placed cuffs on him, though Addleton was hardly moving.

“Nicely done, Constable. Now, let us see what our friend is hiding.” He paused and turned to us. “I fear this will be distressing, gentlemen.”

Just a few feet inside the maw of the barrow we saw them. Even now, my gorge rises at the memory. There, side by side upon the heartless earth, lay the woman and her four babies, stone dead, already foul with decay.

“How could he do such a thing?” the constable asked. His face was red with fury and tears filled his anguished eyes.

The distasteful task of examining the dead fell to me. The bodies of the children were too decayed for me to say with certainty, but I suspected they had been suffocated. Mrs. Addleton had been strangled - the ligature was still around her neck. Further, the woman’s hair, her bright red hair, had been hacked off close to the scalp.

Much later, back at the police station in the nearby village of Linton, Holmes explained.

“It was a matter of a man trying to be clever, but having insufficient wits to carry it off. Each of the clues seemed compelling on their own, and yet they did not form a coherent picture. Therefore, it was reasonable to assume that some or all of the clues had been manufactured.”

“The breakfast table,” Lestrade said. “You kept asking about that, but even now I do not see the significance.”

“The professor wanted to us to believe his family had vanished sometime in the middle of Monday morning. He set the breakfast things in place, but he did a poor job. There was a full pot of tea, a large pot such as one would make for a family, but only one teacup. There was a loaf of bread, but no butter or marmalade. What mother would serve dry bread to her children when there was porridge in the cupboard? The professor’s indifference to his family told against him when he tried to present the image of a normal morning.”

“That seems plain enough,” the constable said. “And I wondered about the egg, too.”

“The egg?” Lestrade asked.

“You remember,” Lewis said. “The professor said he didn’t have time to eat breakfast, and yet his wife was able to make a hard-boiled egg for him. That’s a good six or seven minutes. Would a man in a rush have waited so long when there was bread right there?”

“Well done, Constable. You are perfectly correct. There was also Fairchild’s report of seeing Mrs. Addleton by the river. This was to make sure the professor had an alibi for when she supposedly vanished.”

“Who did Fairchild see, Holmes?” I asked.

“Addleton himself. He dressed in his wife’s garb and cut off her hair to fashion a make-shift wig, so the old man would identify the dead woman for a time when the professor was apparently at the university. Addleton caught the train at the usual time, but got off at the next stop and doubled back.”

“How dreadful,” I said. Something about the hacking off of his wife’s hair seemed chilling.

“The professor made an error when I asked what his wife had been wearing the last time he saw her. The question took him by surprise and he told the truth. She was wearing a black dress. That is what she was wearing when we found her. But why would she have changed into a different gown to go walking by the river?”

“And she wouldn’t have gone walking without her children in any case,” Lewis added. “Yes, he made a hash of it, all right, but we still wouldn’t have found the bodies without your help, Mr. Holmes.”

“I had to let Addleton believe he had made some mistake or other so he would go back to check on the bodies. He saved us an infinite number of pains by leading us right to them.”

“What of Lexington?” Lestrade asked. “The student who made the mistake about the meeting. Was that a genuine mistake, do you think?”

“I spoke with Lexington myself last week,” the constable said. “He confirmed that the appointment had been scheduled weeks ago.”

“It was part of the professor’s plan,” Holmes said, “Furthermore, it proves the murders were premeditated.

“I believe the professor murdered his family on Friday night. There is evidence of a struggle in the couple’s bedroom and in the children’s beds. He then had a whole weekend to haul away the bodies, which left dried mud on the wheels of the trap. You did very well to spot that, Constable. I congratulate you. The fact that the mud had dried suggested some time had passed between the moving of the bodies and when you were called to the scene.”

“But I don’t understand why, Holmes,” I said. “What sort of a man murders his wife and children?”

“Since Addleton continues to assert his innocence, we can only surmise. However, I suspect he already gave us the motive. He wanted to go to Ireland to study the mounds there. His wife reminded him of his obligations as a father. The fact that the murders coincided with the end of term suggests he had hoped to have the whole summer to indulge his passion for archaeology without any family obligations to trouble him. Once you look into his background, Lestrade, I believe you will find his money has been saved to pay for that expedition.”

So it proved. Dr. Addleton protested his innocence to the last, but the jury found Sherlock Holmes’s testimony compelling and he was hanged.

There. I have set down the tragedy. Perhaps now I will forget.