The Addleton Tragedy and the Mystery of the Ancient British Barrow
Chapter Seven: Houses and Horses
Distance had given me a kinder impression of Addleton House. My liking for it had not been improved when our trek across Long Meadow had ended at a ha-ha, which presented us with a drop of eight feet. As surely as the sheep were kept out of the estate, so were we. Inspector Rose had then taken us on a circuitous route to the main driveway, so that we arrived tired, footsore and hot under the collar.
The building that we approached was a squat red-bricked Queen Anne-style mansion, considerably added to by previous generations. The roof seemed top-heavy, crowned by an unwieldy hipped roof and sizeable eaves, which vied for the visitor's attention with small turrets added earlier this century. A Georgian portico had been attached to the front of the house with little concern for overall appearance, so that it seemed as though a classical temple and a sturdy manor house had been cut in two and joined together to create this incongruous affront to the eye.
To add insult to injury, we were then forced to shun the main door to seek out the tradesmen's entrance, since as the Inspector explained, none but their lord and ladyship entered the house that way. When I inquired whether this applied to their friends and titled guests, he answered in the affirmative, adding that since her husband's illness, Lady Stoke had refused all visitors, so the question of where they entered never arose.
Holmes appeared to find this greatly amusing, but I found little humour in the situation, especially as I was being plagued by a pounding headache and was in sore need of a drink. Deferring to the lady's wishes, however, we skirted the side of the house and came upon the stable yard, where a young man was currying a bay gelding. A surly face watched our progress until we had drawn level, whereupon Holmes decided to stop.
"A fine beast," he remarked, gesturing to the horse.
"Aye, that he be," said the man.
"A Cleveland Bay, I'll wager."
"Aye. One of a matched pair." He jerked his head in the direction of another bay horse in one of the stables. "Them's her ladyship's carriage horses."
Holmes strode over to the stabled beast and gave its long brown nose an appreciative stroke. His attentions were met with a snuffled snort of interest and a sniff at his hands to see if he had brought a treat.
"There, there, old fellow," said he soothingly. "You have sole care of them?"
He looked expectantly at the man, who grudgingly condescended to answer. "Joseph, sir. Aye, that I do. Her ladyship takes them out once a day when she gives his lordship his daily ride round the village. They used to have free range of Long Meadow afore her ladyship sold it. I has to take them out now in the garden."
"Indeed," said Holmes. "Well, you're doing a fine job, Joseph. These horses are in excellent condition."
"Well, that's what her ladyship pays me for," grunted the fellow, turning back to continue grooming the tethered horse.
I noticed the surreptitious glance Holmes cast into the adjacent stables before he rejoined us and we continued on our way to the servants' wing. A maid in a wet apron with her sleeves rolled halfway up her arms was hanging out white sheets as we approached, and she stopped what she was doing to stare at us, wide-eyed and open-mouthed.
"You take no notice of her," said Inspector Rose. "That's just Annie, old Mrs Goodenough's granddaughter. She takes good care of the girl, though who'll look out for her when the old lady passes on is anyone's guess. Annie's a bit slow, you see. If brains were gunpowder, she'd not have enough to blow her hat off."
Annie continued to stare as we made our way to the open door beyond and into a large kitchen. A massive grate dominated one wall, and it was not hard to imagine the scullery lads of bygone days sweating before the blazing fire as they turned an iron spit large enough on which to roast an ox. Now there was only a cook, a rosy-cheeked, merry-eyed woman, introduced to us as Mrs Cox, and an elderly butler named Jennings, who had his waistcoat unbuttoned, his tie loose and his shoeless feet in a bowl of cold water.
Our arrival produced a fair amount of bustle, though not much haste. While the butler tried to retrieve his boots, Mrs Cox set about making us tea. By the time the cups were in front of us, Jennings had succeeded in finding his socks if not his left boot, which he eventually discovered in the pastry cupboard.
Suddenly the raspberry jam tarts Mrs Cox had placed on the table had become decidedly unappealing. If the butler was in the habit of keeping his boots in close proximity to the cakes, then I dreaded to think what else might have slipped in while the door was open.
Inspector Rose had no such misgivings and was in the process of devouring his third tart, watched enviously by Holmes and myself, when Jennings returned and informed us that her ladyship would see us in the Drawing Room. Holmes was up in an instant, leaving me to down the last of my tea and the Inspector to ram the remainder of his tart into his mouth. With Jennings leading at a pace that would not have been out of place in a funeral cortege, finally we were shown into the presence of Lady Maud Stoke.
A thin-lipped sour-faced woman in her late sixties, Lady Maud sat straight-backed on a floral chaise longue and regarded us as one might a troop of wraggle-taggle orphans come begging on Christmas Eve. She did not offer us a chair, but preferred that we remain standing in the middle of the room with the butler lingering behind us, as though she imagined we might be tempted to slip some family heirloom in our pockets.
She was the epitome of her class, a grand old lady who possessed that rare ability to silence and disdain with a single glance, leaving us in no doubt of what she thought of us.
"Mr Sherlock Holmes and Dr John Watson," she said, squinting at our cards. "I have no need of a consulting detective, whatever that might be, and Dr Montague from Addleton attends to my husband's medical needs, so if you here on business, gentleman, I'm afraid you have made a wasted journey."
"No business, Lady Maud," said Holmes, "save that of death of Professor Moncrieff."
The lady removed her spectacles and placed them on the side table. "Oh, yes. The gentleman who was silly enough to get himself killed."
"Indeed. Most careless of him."
"Sergeant Bruce informed me it was murder this morning. Idle oaf that he is, I would not have credited the man with enough wit to call upon the services of a London 'detective'."
She peered at Holmes curiously as though her train of thought had caused her to reassess at least one member of the dubious band brought into her presence.
"I am here on account of my cousin, Mr Peregrine Holmes. He was a member of the group who were involved in the excavation of the barrow. He stands accused of the Professor's murder."
The wary eyes relaxed just a little at this news.
"I thought your face looked familiar. This cousin of yours would be the appalling man with the overly morbid interest in ancient death rituals? Well, it comes as no great revelation that his nature turned to murder."
"Mr Holmes here thinks it was an accident, ma'am," interjected Inspector Rose.
"Indeed? Perhaps you would be kind enough to explain what accident could result in a man meeting such an end."
"I fear such details of the baser designs of mankind would not bear your hearing, Lady Maud," said Holmes diplomatically.
She returned his gaze with that rare composure borne of her patrician upbringing. "You would be surprised, Mr Holmes. Death and suffering touches even our remote corner of the world."
"Nevertheless," said he. "Our visit was not with the intention to cause distress. Merely to set your mind at ease."
"My mind will never be so, Mr Holmes. As to my husband, I fear this news will only fever his brain further."
"Lord Stoke was uneasy that the barrow was being dug up," explained the Inspector.
"It was nothing short of desecration," insisted Lady Maud. "I have always adhered to the belief that the dead should be allowed to rest in peace, however long interred. It was grievous news indeed when we learnt of Mr Pearce's intention for the barrow. It was my understanding that he had wanted Long Meadow for pasture. I was ignorant of the man's motive until Professor Moncrieff and your cousin paid my husband and I a visit, wanting information on the barrow. My husband's health has never been strong, but this news caused him to suffer complete collapse as a result of this deception. In his few lucid moments he talks of nothing else."
Holmes had wandered to the window, whose wide bays gave out an impressive view over Long Meadow, the barrow and the distant prospect of Addleton, prompting me to ask the question that had occasioned our own visit.
"We did wonder why you did sell, Lady Maud, considering that it abuts onto the back of your house," said I.
She gave me a long, hard stare, the first she had spared me since I had entered the room. "A house such as this does not have a 'back', as you so inelegantly term it, Doctor. You refer of course to the garden front."
Holmes shot me an amused glance, and I was left to mumble an apology for my social ineptitude.
"However, I do take your meaning. My situation is a lamentable one, gentleman. My son is dead, my husband's line extinct. This land yields little enough and the fall in agricultural prices has further weakened its worth. The price Mr Pearce paid for Long Meadow enables me to keep this house in a state of reasonable repair. When my husband has passed away, I do not intend to remain here, but to retire to my family's estates. I would rather sell while I am able than to have that decision made by my executors."
"The people'll be sorry to see you go, Lady Maud," said Inspector Rose. "There's been Stokes at Addleton for seven hundred years."
"My son mattered," she replied coldly. "This estate ceased to have any meaning for me the day he died."
"Your son?" said Holmes, taking up a framed daguerreotype of a young lad on horseback from the side, which he in turn passed to me.
I stared at the faded face ringed with boyish curls, the noble position in the saddle and the unmistakeable shape of the Addleton barrow in the background. A moment later, the image was plucked from my hand by Jennings, who dusted my fingerprints from its surface and returned it to its former place of honour.
She nodded. "Aloysius was a captain in the Tenth, the Prince of Wales' Own Royal Regiment of Hussars. He and his men were sent to Afghanistan. On the 31st March 1879, they attempted to cross the Kabul River in the dead of night. My son was one of many who did not make it to the other side."
"Your son was among those lost in the river disaster?" I said, recalling the incident. "Over forty men died that night, yet only nineteen bodies were ever recovered."
"My son's was not," said Lady Maud. "The one comfort of an empty grave is the certainty that his bones will never be disturbed, unlike the unfortunate in the barrow. You served in that campaign, Doctor?"
"Yes. In fact, one of my first duties was to treat several members of the Tenth for minor injuries."
"You met my son?" the lady asked, her face alive with unaccustomed emotion.
"Forgive me, Lady Maud, it was a long time ago. It is possible, but I cannot be certain."
"A long time ago, as you say, Doctor," said she, transferring her gaze to Inspector Rose. "People forget."
"Well, we have taken up enough of your valuable time," said Holmes decisively. "We will impose no further, Lady Maud. Good day."
Whether he had lost interest in the interview or something had passed in our conversation that had given him cause for concern, I could not say. Certainly, his haste in leaving took all parties by surprise, so that the aged butler had scarcely had time to open the door than Holmes was through it.
The Inspector and I hurried to catch up with him, doing so only when he paused for a moment in the kitchen yard. Annie had finished the laundry and had been joined by her grandmother, Mrs Goodenough, who sat with a cup of Mrs Cox's tea in her hand. Our appearance caused little enough stir, save that one regarded us with curiosity, the other blankly.
"Are you returning to Addleton with us?" Holmes asked Inspector Rose.
"No, sir. I'll be accompanying the Professor's body back to Barbury. You'll be staying at the Dog and Duck? You'll not go far wrong there, Mr Holmes. That Mrs Lacey is a fine cook."
"I dare say she is. What of my cousin, Inspector?"
"Well, sir, seeing how you've explained it, I don't see how the charge can hold. Still, I'll have to ask him and his friends to remain in Addleton until we clear up this business about the desecration of the corpse."
"Murder will out," spoke up Mrs Goodenough, extending a gnarled finger in our direction. "You stay here long enough, you'll see the dead come back to life!"
"And on that note, we will bid you good day," said Holmes. "Come, Watson, we have a fair walk before us and the dusk is rapidly approaching."
Holmes had already started away and it was left to me to make our farewells. I finally fell in step beside him and was about to question him about the purpose of our visit when he put a finger to his lips to indicate that silence had much to recommend it. Only when we were out of the carriage way and on the road back to Addleton did he relax his guard enough to permit my curiosity.
"Those walls have ears and Lady Stoke's servants are very loyal," he said, glancing back at the house. "What did you make it, Watson?"
"Well, it seemed to me that you were inordinately interested in those stables. Were there any shaggy ponies hiding in the corners?"
Holmes gave a snort of laughter. "No, Doctor, although I am gratified to see that you took the meaning of my interest. That groom would have made an excellent candidate for your Bronze Age rider."
I considered. "My impression was too vague, Holmes. It could have been him. Or it might not. I'm sorry I cannot be more definite."
"Ah, no matter."
He knocked a loose stone from our path with his cane and watched it roll into the grass verge.
"Do you remember her son?"
"It was over fifteen years ago," I replied. "I've treated many since. I cannot recall all their names and faces."
"She had such hope," he mused. "That the prospect of a mention of her son from a stranger should affect her in such a way puzzles me."
His bemusement came as no great revelation to me. That so cold-blooded a creature as Holmes should have trouble understanding the sentiments of his fellow man was the price he paid for emotional detachment. No doubt no great loss to him, but a grievous one to those forced into his close acquaintance.
One may admire such objectivity, but it has always seemed to me a flaw rather than a virtue. I have always wondered if he truly did not understand, or if it simply suited him not to have to engage with those feelings that grieve and elate his fellow man.
If the former, then its limitations when faced with motives of a bereaved mother who wished for news, however slight, of the son she would never see again, were readily evident. To be so deficient in human sympathy, whether by fate or design, must surely be as great a hindrance as possession of those emotions in excess. It helped explain how he could fail to see why I had taken umbrage at manipulation and perpetuated deceit, but it did not excuse. And I was not in particularly forgiving mood.
"It's called grief, Holmes," I said testily. "If you had ever lost someone dear, you would understand."
"I have, but I do not," he replied succinctly. "It must be rationalised for what it is, not indulged."
"Ah, so that is where I have been going wrong all these years."
He cast me a dull look. "Sarcasm doesn't suit you, Watson. I was of course referring to Lady Stoke."
"Which is even worse," I said reprovingly. "I do not mind telling you, Holmes, that this case has been a trial, both because of the business at hand and your attitude."
"My attitude is as it has ever been," he remarked. "Have you considered that the fault may lie on your part?"
"Fault?" I echoed with annoyance.
"Yes, indeed, my dear fellow. You have been most irascible ever since we set foot upon the outward train. Since the only factor that makes this case a little out of the ordinary is my cousin, I can only assume that your current disposition is attributable to him."
The arrogance of the man was outrageous.
"If the presence of your cousin has done anything, it is to open my eyes. Your ability to treat a member of your family so callously I fear bodes ill for me. But then I already know that, don't I?"
Holmes sighed. "Watson, must we have this tiresome discussion yet again? What do I have to do to convince you that my disappearance was the only way? Not one of two ways, or ten ways. You do understand the meaning of 'only', I take it?"
"Don't bandy words with me over semantics, Holmes. I know what 'only' means. At least I know what it means to you. What it means to the rest of the world is quite another matter."
"Then this conversation is pointless, since we have both adopted conflicting positions and can never reach agreement. Shall we let the matter lie?"
Whether that was my wish or not, he had effectively called an end to the discussion. I would get nowhere pursuing the issue against his will, and in the growing humidity of evening I would be wasting breath that I did not have to spare.
We had come to the end of the lane and turned into the main street of Addleton. In the half-light of dusk, the village had taken on a more sinister aspect, and the lights glimpsed behind tattered curtains gave the impression of eyes glinting beneath hooded lids. In the sky above, dark clouds were gathering to the west, and the air carried that weight that heralds the coming of a thunderstorm. The hairs rose on the back of my neck and despite the temperature I shivered.
"I am beginning to take your meaning about the horror of these secluded country places," I grumbled. "Personally, nothing will make me happier than to leave Addleton for good and never return. I have yet to encounter any place more conducive to resurrecting unhappy memories of the past than here."
"A good night's sleep may improve your impression of the place," said Holmes. "However, you are unlikely to get it at the Dog and Duck. The sleeping arrangements are hardly congenial."
I discovered what he meant soon enough. The inn had but three habitable rooms for guests, and it transpired that the members of the excavation had been sparing what little space there was between them. At one time, they had been sleeping three to a room when the team had comprised of ten diggers, and I imagined it was the lesser of two evils for the Professor to have made the decision that a night in Long Meadow was preferable to the inn.
As it was, we faced the prospect of sharing with Peregrine Holmes, who after the departure of the others, had enjoyed a room all to himself. I was soon to discover why.
"I am something of a restless sleeper," he had explained over our meagre dinner of salt beef sandwiches and cider. His joie de vivre had returned somewhat after Holmes had grudgingly told him that the charge against him would not stand. Compared with an arrest for murder, being informed that his continued presence was required in Addleton until the investigation was complete was a minor inconvenience.
"You suffer from nightmares?" I had asked.
"No," Holmes had said tersely. "He sleepwalks. Perry was once found slumbering halfway up the inside of a chimney and a devil of a job they had to get him down."
"Ah, but it is not so bad as once it was," his cousin had asserted. "I visited a specialist in London, who gave me special salts to be taken in a pint of water before bedtime. I am virtually cured, although I am occasionally given to expressing my thoughts in the most vocal of terms. More distressingly, I have developed a most unfortunate compulsion to relieve myself several times during the night. I do hope I do not disturb you too much."
Considering the amount of fluid he was consuming before retiring, this did not surprise me in the slightest. By one o'clock, having been awoken thrice by his wanderings and a raucous chorus of John Peel, I was starting to despair of ever managing to close my eyes for longer than five minutes. While I was inclined to live in hopes, Holmes had taken more direct action. When the squeaking floorboards and creak of the rusty door hinges had awakened us yet again, he had leapt from his cot, declaring that he was away to find his peace elsewhere.
I, however, was too tired to follow his lead. To my relief, the night proved to be a good deal quieter when Peregrine Holmes returned, and I finally fell asleep to the soft strains of The Vicar of Bray.
This happy state lasted until first light when something made me stir. I sat bolt upright, aware that something had caused my wakefulness but unsure as to its cause. In the bed opposite, Peregrine Holmes was snoring softly, so whatever had disturbed me had not come from his direction. Then, in the silence, to my straining ears, came the sound of hoof beats from the road outside.
I hurried to the window and glanced out. And there, making its way along the main street, was a shaggy black pony.
Ooo-er, it's that pony again. I get this nasty feeling Dr Watson is about to do something very foolish indeed…
Continued in Chapter Eight: The Crypt of St Mary's
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