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“So we went up there, that summer ten years ago, to see what we could find. The weather was fair and Addleton is a pretty village, but I tell you Mr Holmes, before we’d been there long I could have believed in the curse.”

“Why was that?” asked Holmes.

Edgar indicated his slides. “One of my functions”, he said, “was to take photographs for Sir Andrew. I had no difficulty taking pictures of the Moor, of the other tumuli upon it or anything except the Black Barrow. On the first day I took a group of all the party standing by the barrow. It did not come out. I thought it to be merely a faulty plate, as all my other pictures that day were successful, but, as the excavation progressed, I found that every single plate of the barrow failed.”

“In what way?” asked Holmes.

“They were all fogged, Mr Holmes. Every one. I could have a bright, sunny day, an exposure timed to the second, and the picture would come out looking as if it had been taken in a London pea-souper.”

“Have you any idea of the cause?” Holmes enquired.

“None whatsoever. It went on for days and then it ended as mysteriously as it began.”

“It ended!” exclaimed Holmes.

“Oh yes,” said Edgar. “I have pictures of the barrow. Suddenly the fogging was gone and everything was all right. I never knew what caused it.”

“You hinted,” said Holmes, “that there were other difficulties.”

“There were indeed,” said Edgar. “In the early stages Sir Andrew and several other members of the party became ill.”

“With what?” I asked.

“Nothing the village doctor could put a name to. There was sickness and itchiness. At first we tended to blame the beds or the food at the inns, but they were two different pubs at opposite ends of Addleton. Then people started saying it was some disease of the local cows or sheep, but that was madness, just the irritability of fellows who were not up to par. Then that passed off, just like my photographic problem.”

“And was there anything else?” said Holmes.

“There were Sir Andrew’s personal problems. His son arrived from London. He was in the army, you know, and the young idiot had got himself cashiered for debt. His father was furious at the disgrace and there was his son bothering him for money. He was a wretched nuisance, hanging about the inn where his father stayed and, when Sir Andrew wouldn’t give him his time, he’d turn up at the digging and hang about pestering his father. It was all very distracting for Sir Andrew.”

He paused. “Then he fell ill,” he said. “Not like the rest of us, something really serious. We were just finishing up and Sir Andrew had to come back to London, leaving his son sick in Addleton. He sent the best doctors up from London, but they did no good. The lad was dead in weeks. Do you wonder that I said it was easy to believe in the Curse?”

“No,” agreed Holmes, “and when you returned there was the row in the papers.”

“I hope you do not blame me,” said Edgar, sharply, “though I blame myself for the timing of it. But I thought about it for weeks before I wrote my letter. I could not believe my own thoughts, but in the end, in all conscience, I had to say what I thought, and it appeared just as Sir Andrew’s son died. I felt wretched, attacking at such a time a man I had admired and looked up to. It was all pointless, anyway. There was a wave of sympathy for him, the profession closed ranks and nobody gave any serious attention to what I was saying. They say I destroyed his profession.” He gave a mirthless laugh and waved a hand around him. “It didn’t exactly do mine much good.”

“What was it about?” I ventured, for I had not completely understood Holmes’s remarks on this aspect of the matter.

“Have you seen the Addleton casket?” Edgar asked. “It was in the Barnard Museum, though they withdrew it from display when the row started, to avoid attracting vulgar sensation-seekers.”

I shook my head and he continued.

“It was at the heart of the barrow, at ground level. Now usually you find a small stone chamber with ashes, or pots with ashes, bits of burned bones, a few funeral