Chapter Seven

Holmes stopped dead, turning to stare at Watson with an almost comical look of surprise. "What? Don't be ridiculous, Watson, of course it will work! It's my own invention, you know."

"No, it won't, Holmes – for two very simple reasons." Watson decided not to point out that the detective was actually building on their quarry's ideas, and took the paper from his hand. " 'What was the month? The sixth from the first.' That would mean the seventh month, yes? July? And what month is it now?"

Holmes turned a sickly grey. "September..."

"Exactly. How on earth do you plan to work out where the elm's shadow would have ended if you don't know precisely where the sun would have been above the oak two months ago? A foot too far to either side, and the shadow would be the wrong length, or pointing the wrong way!" Watson put a kindly hand on the crestfallen detective's shoulder. "And even if it was the right month, that wouldn't solve the problem of our being in the wrong century!"

"I'm afraid I don't quite follow, Doctor," Musgrave ventured, though looking just as forlorn as Holmes as the truth of Watson's argument sank in.

"He's right, Musgrave," Holmes groaned, smacking himself on the forehead. "Fool that I am! That blasted ritual was written two hundred years ago... Even if the oak had stopped growing by then, how much shorter must the elm have been?! Whatever measurement we might have taken back in July, it would still have been far too long!"

"...ah. Yes, that... might be something of an obstacle..." Musgrave still looked unconvinced, however, looking thoughtfully at the stake himself, then back across the lawn to the manor. "But, then, wouldn't Brunton have had to solve the same problem? You know, I'm really starting to think he saw something that day which helped him get past this point..."

"It wasn't Jack Tar perched on the chimney, by any chance?" Watson joked.

"Watson!" Holmes gasped. "That's it! Callooh! Callay!" he chortled in joy, while the other two looked on in astonishment. The detective dug in his coat pocket for a pencil, snatched the ritual paper back from Watson and began hastily sketching a series of lines on it, using his knee as a writing desk. "Oh, Brunton, Brunton, you cunning fellow!"

"What, do you mean to say the crow...?"

"No, Watson, the house! That is to say, one specific part of the house. Look!" Holmes turned his back directly to the oak, pulled the stake from the ground, and held it straight out in front of him, pointing across the lawn. "Come stand behind me, both of you. Now, what do you see?"

"Only the old wing of the manor," Musgrave began slowly, peering along the stake.

"Exactly!" Holmes crowed, turning and brandishing the paper in front of his colleagues' faces. "That's what Brunton saw two evenings ago, Musgrave: your shadow, pointing towards the original manor. Your ancestors must have known the elm might grow taller before the secret was uncovered, of course they must! That didn't matter, because the shadow would still point in the right direction every July, no matter how long it became!"

"Good heavens..." Musgrave started to chuckle silently, shaking his head.

Growing tired of the paper flapping in his face, Watson took it from Holmes again and examined the detective's rough sketch. It didn't seem to make much sense at first: a long upwards arrow, joined at the top by a shorter one pointing right, an even shorter arrow pointing down, and a tiny arrow pointing left, almost looking like a rough spiral...

" 'How was it stepped?' " Holmes's voice murmured excitedly in the doctor's ear.

Watson re-examined the text. " 'North by ten and by ten, east by five and by five... Oh!"

Holmes grinned appreciatively at his friend's reaction. "And I don't know about you, Watson, but I can see only one thing in this vicinity with such a precisely oblong shape..."

Watson closed his eyes. "Of course," he breathed. "Musgrave, these three longer arrows may very well represent a partial outline of the old manor's northern end!" The building itself was both map and compass – fiendishly clever! "Are there any doors close to that northeast corner?"

~0~

It was the work of a minute for Holmes to count twenty paces back along the manor wall from the northwest corner, which, as he had already deduced, brought him almost directly in line with the oak and the stake. Now he knew why Brunton had hung a lantern on the stake last night: to see the vanished elm's former position in the dark and rain, and to make doubly certain of which way the tree's shadow would have fallen. Returning to the corner, he carefully paced ten steps east along the north wall, which brought him to the northeast corner. ("We've really got to hope 'by ten and by ten' did mean adding rather than multiplying," Musgrave joked, "or we'll be tripping over tree roots out in the park!" Holmes didn't deign to reply.)

Four paces to the south, and the trio were standing before an old oak door, which was locked. "Holmes, are you sure Brunton came this way?" Watson said. "I hate to say it, but this door looks as if it hasn't been opened in years."

"It hasn't," Holmes muttered half to himself, closely examining the lock side. "Look, there's a strand of spiderweb across the keyhole. But if the butler knew the house as intimately as I think he must have, he wouldn't need to force his way through here – not when he could reach the far side of the door by an alternate route."

~0~

"Why was this part of the house not searched earlier?" Holmes frowned as Musgrave unlocked the connecting door.

"We only ever use the old wing as a storehouse now. Besides, the door was locked, the servants would hardly have thought Brunton had locked himself in!"

"I suppose not," Holmes nodded reluctantly, "especially with the key on this side of the door. Hullo!" The detective darted forward and bent to examine the stone-flagged floor, holding the lantern low. "See here: a fresh smear of mud. This could easily have come from Brunton's galoshes." And now for the outer door!

But when the three men made their way to the far end of the hall, Holmes felt a cold chill of disappointment. The old, footworn stones in the passage floor were firmly cemented together, and had certainly not been moved recently. All three got down upon hands and knees, tapping the stones and examining the mortar between, but it sounded the same all over, and there was no sign of any cracks or crevices.

"It's no use, Holmes," Watson sighed, sitting back on his heels. "Brunton couldn't have been at work here!"

"No," Holmes muttered angrily. Where had he gone wrong this time? He'd been so certain 'and so under' meant they were to dig!

He didn't realise he'd been speaking aloud until Musgrave answered him: "Well, maybe it means the cellar?"

Holmes lifted his head slowly to stare at the man. "Cellar?"

"Yes, it must be right under this floor." Musgrave flashed him a sheepish grin. "The stairs are through that doorway there."

Resisting the strong impulse to say or do something he'd later regret, Holmes took a deep breath and rose to his feet, bringing the lantern with him. Sure enough, a winding stone stair lay beyond, ending in a cellar room which had lately been used to store firewood; the billets were scattered over most of the floor, except in the middle. In this space lay a large flagstone with a rusted iron ring set into the centre, to which a thick shepherd's-check muffler was attached.

"By Jove!" Musgrave cried. "That's Brunton's muffler, I could swear to it. What's the villain been doing here?"

"Well, obviously something that required both hands," Watson remarked, "judging by the lantern he left on the floor over there. Looks like it's burned itself out..." The doctor trailed off, troubled expression matching the other two as a horrible suspicion took hold: what if Brunton hadn't left it behind at all?

"...come, gentlemen," Holmes said at last, his voice sounding far too hoarse in the dusty silence for his liking. That heavy stone slab was looking more sinister and more smug every moment. "There's no good to be served by delaying."