The Addleton Tragedy and the Mystery of the Ancient British Barrow
Chapter Four: Wine, Witches and the Addleton Barrow
I escaped the rank atmosphere of the kitchen for the fresh air of the outdoors. The afternoon sun still shone warmly, turning the honey-coloured stone of the dilapidated cottages and workshops to gold. It was a pretty scene, but given what I had just witnessed, I could not view it now without feeling a strange sense of foreboding.
Even the very weather seemed hostile to our presence, for the humidity was enough to make my collar grab at my skin and moisten the fabric my shirt. A storm was brewing, and not only in the skies above Wiltshire.
Once outside the stifling interior of the bar, I found I was not alone. Peregrine Holmes was seated on a low stone bench beside the tavern's door. His head was sunk low and his hands were clasped loosely in his lap. He presented the very picture of abject dejection, a stark contrast to his cousin, who I had left making inquiries of the sergeant about the local area.
At the sound of my step, he glanced up and a trace of relief cast a little of the despondency from his face.
"Thank heavens," said he. "It's you, Dr Watson."
"Who did you imagine it would be?" I queried.
He gave a mirthless laugh. "That witless policeman come to arrest me. The ghost of Professor Moncrieff come to pour recriminations upon me. That woman with her foul concoctions in the kitchen. My cousin even. Where is he, by the way?"
"Interrogating the sergeant about the possibility of our going to see the barrow this afternoon."
Peregrine Holmes shuddered. "Nothing would induce me to return to that accursed place. I would not go back there for worlds. Even now, I see the Professor's body laid out on that mound like some sacrificial beast. And then, to see him left in that pantry without due care or respect. He was a great man, Doctor, the foremost scholar in his field. That he should have come to such an end fills me with revulsion and sorrow."
I said nothing, for it was evident that he wished to unburden his soul. Long experience has taught me that the need for self-expurgation frequently follows a shock or tragedy, and invariably the kindest way of dealing with it is to lend a sympathetic ear.
"No doubt they would like us all to share a similar fate," he went on. "I expect to feel the horror of this place bearing down upon me at every turn. How shall they find me? With my eyes put out and left for the carrion crows I expect. Dear heavens!"
As interesting as it was for me to observe that the severe emotive control that Holmes exercised was not a trait shared by his family in general, it was also evident that his cousin was greatly affected and troubled in mind and spirit. Unless some way could be found to distract his attention, this relentless tearing at his hair would render him bald by the time this affair reached its conclusion.
"You must place your trust in your cousin," I tried to reassure him. "If any man can shed light upon this mystery, then he can."
Peregrine Holmes cast me a doubtful look. "You have every confidence in him?"
"Absolutely," I said, a little taken aback by his question. "Don't you?"
"This morning, it seemed like a good idea. Now, I am not sure so. Granted, Sherlock is adept at solving petty little mysteries, but this, Doctor, this goes beyond the commonplace."
"Holmes has dealt with many problems of an unusual nature during the course of his career. But surely you must know that?"
"I know only what I have read in your accounts of my cousin's activities. Even those are incomplete. The Strand is somewhat hard to obtain in our little corner of the world."
I stared at him, wondering if anyone could be as genuinely guileless as he appeared to be.
"Holmes has never told you anything of his dealings himself?" I swallowed hard to force away the sudden constriction that had taken hold around my throat. "Has he never mentioned any aspect of his life at Baker Street?"
"Not a word, Doctor. To tell you the truth, we had no idea he had perished until we read your most eloquent account. An admirable piece of writing, by the way. Aunt Augusta was most impressed, although she flatly refused to believe a word of it. And as it turned out she was correct. Then again," said he, dismally, "she always is. She told me not to come here and I would not listen. Would that I had!"
"Then you have spent the summer locked away in that study of yours instead of enjoying the sturdy Wiltshire air and becoming embroiled in murder and mayhem," came Holmes's familiar tones over my shoulder.
"Given the choice, I know which I would prefer," declared his cousin. "What news, Sherlock?"
"The sergeant is rounding up your remaining colleagues and we will all travel out to the barrow together. It may prove instructive."
"If you wish, although for my own part I dread to return to that hateful place. I take it you still do not know who was responsible for the Professor's death?"
Holmes's expression remained calm enough, although I noted from the depth of the breath he released that his vexation was mounting.
"We have not been here an hour yet, Perry. I apologise heartily for my lack of success thus far, but you must realise that these things take time. I would be greatly aided in my investigations, however, if vital facts in the case were not concealed from me."
He gave his cousin a pointed look.
"You neglected to mention that the Professor was in the habit of sleeping in the vicinity of the barrow. This fact I have just learned from our insalubrious landlady, Mrs Lacey."
Peregrine Holmes's mouth opened and closed in the manner of a fish taken from water. "Oh, did I not mention that? Well, it is quite right what you said. After the first few incidents, we decided that someone should remain at the excavation site after dark to deter trespassers and looters."
"Evidently it did not."
"No," his cousin confirmed. "Last night was the Professor's watch. It was my turn to rise early and take him morning tea."
"And that is how you came to find him before any of the others." Holmes sighed. "Is there anything else you have neglected to tell me, Perry? No? Well, in that case, go inside and help Mrs Lacey. I believe she said something about a bottle of wine to fortify our flagging spirits."
Holmes busied himself with taking out his cigarette case while his cousin roused himself into action.
"Well, Watson, what do you make of it?" said he lightly, when we were alone. "A little off the beaten track, wouldn't you agree?"
"If you say so, Holmes," I replied tersely. "There again, I don't find murder and mutilation as amusing as you do."
"Intriguing rather than amusing, surely."
He hesitated and, during the long pause that followed, I felt the weight of his stare keenly upon me. I resisted the temptation to turn around.
"What is it about this case that disturbs you so, Doctor?" he asked finally, having failed to otherwise engage my attention.
"What makes you assume that?"
"You were quite ashen when you saw the corpse. I see your hands are still shaking now. Granted, this was a little unusual, but I believe we've seen our fair share of the dead before."
I shook my head, despairing that I had allowed myself to be read quite so easily.
"What we found in there, it reminded me of darker times."
"Times of conflict?"
I nodded and glanced up to where dark shapes wheeled against the blue sky. "The dead were always easy to find. You followed the smell and the birds. Look up and there they were, circling and waiting. They always got there first."
Holmes's hand appeared in the line of my vision with his open cigarette case on his palm.
"Take one," said he. "There's nothing like strong tobacco for clearing the sinuses."
I helped myself to a cigarette and lit it, letting the fumes scald the scent of death from my senses.
"I should have realised," said Holmes gravely. "My apologies, my dear fellow. But you do appreciate that it was necessary."
"Yes, I understand. Your cousin clearly needs your help, even if he places little value on it."
I made the remark expecting to garner some reaction from my saturnine companion. He, however, seemed unconcerned and instead chuckled at what I had thought would prove to be a provocative statement.
"Well, I shall ever be a 'dabbler' in Perry's eyes. He finds it hard to take my chosen profession seriously. My brother regards it as a mere hobby, so why should not the rest of the world?"
"Because you are unique in your chosen field."
Holmes flashed me the briefest of smiles. "Kind of you to say so. It probably helps that I am able to pay my way by the application of my poor skills. Were I on my uppers, I would own that the charge holds."
"Even then, I would dispute it. You may have your faults, but I'll not deny your abilities."
"Perhaps they are not as great as you perceive them to be."
"Your faults or your abilities?"
"Either, if you believe they vie for competition."
His gaze had travelled down the long stretch of road that led out of the village to where an elderly woman was making her way towards us. Clad in drab clothes that seemed to be little more than rags, she leaned heavily on a walking stick and had a worn basket over her arm, in which she had stowed her few possessions.
"I have never been one for atmosphere," said Holmes after a moment had lapsed in silence, "but it strikes me that this pretty hamlet is riven with decay. I see it everywhere, in the broken windows, the toppling chimney stacks, the falling plaster. Give it another decade or so, and this place will be nigh on deserted."
"Based on what? Not a feeling, surely."
"On solid observation, Watson," said he reprovingly. "See for yourself. Where are the young people? Gone to the towns and cities, and small blame to them. What is there to interest them here, save a polluted river and parched land? Meanwhile, the old grow older, and the children will follow the example of their elders and leave in their turn. And that will be the end of Addleton."
"And no bad thing either," I muttered.
"Oh, you have no love for this place?"
"None whatsoever," I declared. "I cannot shake the impression that there is something unwholesome dogging our tracks. There is something here, something evil even that makes me… well, it makes me fearful, I don't mind admitting it."
"That I blame on your over-active imagination and the reading of too many penny dreadfuls about Gothic horrors and fair damsels in high towers beset by ghouls. You didn't believe half of that nonsense Perry spun us about ghostly Bronze Age horsemen, did you?"
"Perhaps not that so much. But what of the bloodied corn figures and the decapitated goat? That speaks of diabolism."
"No, it speaks of someone trying very hard to spread panic. A human agency is at the heart of this business, make no mistake. Ah, Perry, at last."
His cousin had returned bearing several tankards and followed by the rosy-cheeked landlady, Mrs Lacey. The brown bottle she bore had a heavy coating of dust, and the removal of its cork produced a strange sigh from the contents within as though the presence of light after so long a darkness brought much grief along with the prospect of release.
"I only gets this out on special occasions," said she, pouring a liberal quantity into each of our tankards. "Seeing as how you gents are famous, like, I thought you'd appreciate this."
"We do, Mrs Lacey," said Holmes, eyeing the foaming fluid with some misgivings. "Forgive me, but this is not a vintage I recognise. What is it exactly?"
She winked at him. "Old mother Hackett's devil brew, as she used to call it. Her cauliflower wine is legend around these parts. You be careful how you drink it, mind. That stuff has knocked grown men clean off their feet!"
The sergeant's voice called from within and she hurried away. We glanced at each other, waiting for someone to take the plunge and sate their thirst.
"Old mother Hackett," said Peregrine Holmes thoughtfully. "Wasn't she the lady who came floating out of the crypt and frightened the vicar?"
"I believe that was the name," said Holmes. "Which means this brew must be at least several years old, and, judging from the state of the bottle, I should say a great deal older than that. Well, Doctor, as a man of science, would you care to venture a prognosis on our future health should we throw caution to the wind and drink?"
In general appearance, it was unappetising to say the least. A yellow scum had formed on top of the cloudy liquid and clung stubbornly to the sides of the tankard. Unidentified matter floated in the murky depths and refused to settle with the rest of the dregs. A fierce smell of fermenting vegetation assaulted the nostrils when the tankard was agitated, and only by taking a deep breath first could I bear to bring it anywhere near my mouth.
"I should say that this is probably the most noxious brew it is has ever been my misfortune to encounter," said I. "However, in the absence of anything else, I am willing to take my chances, if you are, Holmes."
He cast me an uncertain look and together we raised our tankards, each watching the other lest one relent at the final moment. Warm, pungent liquid splashed into my mouth, coursed a fiery trail as it continued on its way down my throat and ended with a feeling as though a horse had kicked me in the stomach. I coughed and for a good minute was incapable of speech. Holmes too had been rendered silent, and it was gratifying to know that my reaction had not been unduly melodramatic.
"A very unusual texture," said he when his voice had sufficiently returned. "Perry, you really must try some."
"No, I don't think I will," said he, tipping the contents of his tankard onto the floor, where it sizzled and hissed on the hot earth.
"Waste not, want not," came the chiding voice of the old woman we had seen making her way down the road.
Slowly, but with great determination she had been drawing ever nearer until she was stood just a few feet away. Her skin was leathery and deeply wrinkled as one who has spent many a day outdoors. Despite her considerable age, her hair still retained traces of the colour of her younger days, and the eyes that glared at us and reproved us for our wastefulness were the colour of faded bluebells.
"Ah, Mrs Goodenough," said Peregrine Holmes. "She's the local… well, I suppose you'd call her a witch."
"Wise woman," she corrected him sharply. "No one ever came to no harm on account o'me. I warned 'em I did, I warned 'em good and proper. You oughtn't to be digging in that field, I told 'em. The dead don't like being disturbed. But they wouldn't listen and now looks what's happened. They've unleashed demons, they have! They'll claim us all afore the new moon, you mark my words!"
As an adjunct to this morbid pronouncement, Sergeant Bruce backed out of the tavern's doorway, bearing the upper body of Professor Moncrieff in his burly arms. Mrs Lacey followed, carrying the unfortunate gentleman's feet, and we watched in consternation as they deposited the body with effort onto the stone bench beneath the window.
"You can't leave him out here," I protested.
"But you said he weren't to remain in the pantry," said the sergeant. "We got nowhere else to put him until the wagon arrives from Barbury way. Mrs Lacey'll sit with him to keep the flies at bay till they gets here."
"At least cover the poor fellow's face," said Holmes. "Have some respect for the dead."
Mrs Lacey vanished into the gloomy interior and returned with a white cloth, which she spread over the Professor's body. "That's my best tablecloth is that," said she. "I'd better get it back."
"Now, gents," said Sergeant Bruce, rubbing his hands together in expectation. "I'll go roust up those other fellows and we'll set out for the scene o'the crime."
"Weren't no crime," said Mrs Goodenough. "That were demons, were that."
"Be on your way," said Mrs Lacey dismissively. "Take no notice of her, sirs. She's addled in the head. Says she can cure everything from the palsy to the pox with those herbs of her and there's some folks about these here parts who'll believe her. Me, I take my troubles to old Doc Montague, when the poor man's well enough to see patients, that is."
"Ain't nothing wrong with my cures!" the old woman screeched with indignation. "Tried and tested these were my mother and her mother afore her. See this." She rooted around in her basket and produced a small jar filled with a pale unguent. "This'll sustain a man from dusk to dawn, so it will."
"Really?" said Peregrine Holmes with interest. "That might be useful for me. I find the early hours are the best time for study, but I'm always so tired after ten."
Holmes sighed. "Perry, that's not quite what she meant."
"You mean… oh, good heavens."
"And cures for curses," Mrs Goodenough went on, producing what looked like several lengths of straw from her basket. "Charms for warding off evil spirits these be."
"Holmes, look," I said, gesturing to the thing she held, a small figure of a man fashioned out of straw. "That's what was left on the barrow."
"Good heavens," said Peregrine Holmes. "So it is. But surely this old crone isn't the culprit?"
"No, sirs," chuckled Mrs Lacey. "She's harmless is old mother Goodenough. You be on your way now, good wife, and leave these gentleman in peace."
The old woman shuffled away, glaring at us over her shoulder and muttering darkly about curses and demons. Footsteps sounded from within the tavern and out from the darkness emerged three men with Sergeant Bruce following behind.
"Now you behave," said he sternly to his charges. "This here is Mr Sherlock Holmes. He's a detective come all the way from London to help us clear up this mystery. Which of 'em did it, d'you think, Mr Holmes? You tell me and I'll have him locked up again quicker than Mrs Lacey can skin a rabbit."
As potential murderers went, Peregrine Holmes's three fellow barrow-diggers were singularly unprepossessing. The youngest of the three, introduced to us as Mr Simon Bickerstaff, Professor Moncrieff's research assistant, was excessively lean and had a sickly yellow pallor that exposure to country air had done little to improve. His manner was nervous to the point of agitation, understandable under the circumstances for a suspect in a case of foul murder.
"Mr Holmes, thank heavens," said he, clasping my friend's hand almost desperately. "When we heard that someone was arrived from London, we didn't dare to hope, sir, especially as we knew Mr Peregrine Holmes was your cousin. We are innocent of this crime!"
"Calm yourself," said Holmes. "There is still much to learn about this business before a judgement as to guilt can be reached. Will you accompany us to the barrow?"
Bickerstaff nodded, and we proceeded in the direction of the church. Peregrine Holmes fell into deep conversation with his two colleagues, Mr Peter Travers of Shrewsbury and Mr Joseph Malpas from Birmingham, who expressed their delight at seeing him safe and alive, and thanked him profusely for his good foresight in engaging his cousin on the case.
From what I could gather, they too were amateur historians with a similar interest in the period, also present at the invitation of Professor Moncrieff. Along with Bickerstaff, they had breakfasted together and had arrived at the barrow a little after nine that morning ready to begin the dig whereupon they had stumbled across the body. They had heard nothing, seen nothing and had spent their time since confined to their rooms.
Up ahead, I could hear Bickerstaff confirming this story to Holmes, who listened in grave and thoughtful silence. I would have been interested to hear what he had made of their story, as for myself I had already dismissed them as suspects long before we had rounded the church and started over the stile into the field beyond.
Holmes's attention had wandered, however, and he seemed more interested in our surroundings than in our companions.
"Presumably this barrow has been known about for some time," said he. "Why the interest in it now?"
"As I understand it, the landowner, Mr Enoch Pearce, had only recently come into possession of Long Meadow, where the barrow is located. It was he who invited Professor Moncrieff to investigate its contents. It was a rare opportunity, for most of these mounds are torn apart by treasure hunters, hoping to find gold and jewels."
Holmes smiled. "And Mr Pearce's interest?"
Bickerstaff looked uneasy. "As first we thought it was out of genuine historical curiosity, but the Professor came to believe that he hoped we would find objects of value. He was impatient, you see, and our lack of progress frustrated him."
"If that was his motive, why turn the barrow over to you?"
"Authenticated finds fetch higher prices. Museums and private collectors will pay a premium. It's the provenance, you understand."
"A very shrewd man, your Mr Enoch Pearce. I should like to meet him. I take it he and Professor did not see eye to eye?"
"Indeed they did not. The Professor had a fiery temper at the best of times. He was not a man I should have liked to cross. Ah, there's the barrow."
In a landscape sculpted and furrowed by the hand of ancient man, a round tumulus stood proud and alone, an island in sea of cut grass. Its sides were scarred by the recent activity of the barrow-diggers and a shovel had been implanted into its highest point.
A tent and the remains of a fire could be seen on the leeward side, sheltering from the sharp breeze that rushed across the meadow and ruffled our hair. It was a bleak and desolate place, and it was not the chill air alone that made me shiver inside my coat.
Holmes gestured for us to stop while he investigated the immediate area. His exclamation of dismay was much as I had expected for the ground was as solid as a rock and provided scant evidence of footprints.
The disturbed earth on the westward side of the barrow had a little more to offer, for the indentations and stains where a body had recently lain were clear enough. The footprints impressed around it must surely come from the feet of the sergeant and the men who had helped manhandle the body onto the cart, the wheels of which had left faint ruts in the earth and had flattened the stubble.
"Nothing," said Holmes, when he indicated it was safe for us to approach. "There has been too much activity since for this place to tell us anything. I had hoped for so much more. Ah, but what is this?"
His eye had lit on something half-buried in a patch of discoloured soil. A brush used by the diggers was at hand and he used it to dust away the clots of earth until the object was revealed. He pulled it free and held it up for inspection. A straw man, its head missing and its body stained and broken, lay on his palm.
"Well, Watson, what do you make of that?" said he with satisfaction. "Now this does tell us something."
"My word," said Sergeant Bruce. "However did you find that, Mr Holmes?"
He passed the effigy across for inspection. "Because I was looking for it."
"Buried beneath the body, was it? Some sort of ritual thing, d'you think?"
"Not necessarily." Holmes's attention had moved to the tent and he dipped inside to emerge a moment later carrying a coat. "As I recall, the Professor was in his shirtsleeves. Evidently he came out of here in something of a hurry to have left his coat behind."
"Hauled out I'll wager," said the sergeant assuredly.
"A man of six feet five and strong as an ox?" said Holmes. "No, it will not do. He left this tent under his own power and before he had a chance to retire. Watson, at what time would you estimate death to have occurred?"
"Hard to say given the weather conditions. Sometime around midnight I should guess."
"Could it have been earlier?"
"Possibly."
"When was the last time anyone saw him?" said he, directing his question at the others.
"We left him at eight," said Bickerstaff. "We had worked all day and into the evening to make the most of the light. We returned to the tavern and left the Professor to his meal."
"Which he never ate," said Holmes, indicating the overturned cooking pot, which had a congealed mess coating its insides. "Ah!"
With this cry, he fairly fell upon a large stone which had been used with several others to create an impromptu hearth for the fire. He turned it over and held it aloft, revealing a rust-coloured stain.
"Blood," said he. "The Professor's blood, unless I am much mistaken. This is the stone which dealt him the fatal blow to the head."
"You mean that his killer turned it upside down so that we wouldn't know this was the murder weapon?" said Sergeant Bruce. "Well, I never. How did you know that, Mr Holmes?"
"Because it did not fit snugly in the gap. See how the earth has been disturbed by someone forcing it onto place." He rose to his feet and gazed out across the field, shielding his eyes from the glare of the sun with his hand. "And there are the bales," said he, pointing to several heaps in the distance. "I believe we will find several that are missing lengths of twine. Come, sergeant!"
He strode out across the meadow, trailing the others in his wake. I had no doubt that he would be proved correct and remained at the barrow, inspecting the area where the diggers had been at work. A small piece of terracotta pottery protruded from the earth and I stooped to retrieve it. Once the clinging earth was brushed away, a lacework pattern of dots and lines was revealed, fashioned by the hand of a long dead potter.
Despite the horror that had marred this place, there was something moving about coming into contact with the physical remains of history. I knew not this man's name or the age in which he lived, yet our lives had crossed, and I knew him now by the beauty of his work that had lain buried for so many years within the soil.
Clambering to the top of the mound and glancing around, I tried to imagine what other secrets this field contained. That man had made this place his home for many years was evidenced by the mansion I could see to the west, whose red-brick walls had doubtless witnessed the passing of many years.
To the south, Holmes and the others were investigating the bales, and beyond sheep lay panting heavily from the cloying heat of the afternoon. My gaze turned northwards and as my sight adjusted to the change in light, I made out the shape of a rider on a horse, watching me from the ridge of an earthwork.
The beast was no bigger than a pony and excessively shaggy, matching the wildness of his rider's appearance and long, straggly beard. In his hand, he held a long spear, its sharp tip shining in the afternoon light.
I stared, feeling my jaw grow slack. My mind reeled with tales of ghosts upon this plain, of a Bronze Age horseman seen by the locals, come to defend his grave from desecration.
Still I stared until dust began to blur my vision and I was forced to blink. When I opened my eyes again, horse and rider were gone.
Hmm, anyone believe in ghosts? Is Dr Watson seeing things or is it that cauliflower wine? Or is it those demons Mrs Goodenough was talking about? And what happened to the Professor? Has anyone got any idea what's going on here!
Continued in Chapter Five: Suspects and Arrests
Reviews welcome and greatly appreciated!
