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“Which of Addleton’s inns was Sir Andrew’s lodging?”

Edgar stared at us blankly for a moment. “The Goat and Boots,” he said shortly and turned away.

The next morning found Holmes and me on the doorstep of the late Sir Andrew’s home. Like Edgar, the butler was disposed to believe we were journalists and drive us away, but my friend’s card gained us an introduction to Sir Andrew’s daughter.

She received us in the morning room. Lady Cynthia was a tall, fair, young woman, on whom sombre black sat well.

“Mr Holmes, Doctor”, she said. “My father would have welcomed the opportunity to meet you. He read your accounts, Doctor, of Mr Holmes’s cases, with great pleasure and approved of your application of logic.”

“It is kind of you to say so,” said Holmes, “and I could have wished to meet in happier circumstances, but it is about your father that we have called.”

“About my father?” she queried. “Surely you do not believe that there is anything suspicious about his death? Sir William Greedon believed the cause to be an old infection from his Egyptian explorations, similar to that which carried off my poor brother.”

“You must not assume that my involvement indicates a crime, Lady Cynthia. The press has linked Sir Andrew’s death with the so-called Curse of Addleton …”

“That is mere vulgar sensationalism,” she interrupted. “We experienced the same nonsense at the time of Anthony’s death.”

Holmes nodded, sympathetically. “Nevertheless,” he said, “I have reliable information that Addleton has suffered some strange infection since Sir Andrew opened the Black Barrow.”

“Surely you do not believe in the Curse, Mr Holmes!”

“No madam, not for one moment, but I have often observed that what the superstitious or the lazy-minded call supernatural or coincidental is, in fact, the occurrence of two striking events which have a common cause or share a connection. I believe that such may be the case here.”

“If it will prevent deaths such as my brother’s and my father’s,” said Lady Cynthia, “then of course I will assist your enquiries. How can I help you?”

“You might tell me what it was that occupied Sir Andrew’s mind in his last days, Lady Cynthia.”

An expression of pain passed across her features. “When he first fell sick,” she began, “he became anxious to write up his paper on Addleton. He had never published it, you know, because of the row with Edgar. But he never completed it, for he would fall into strange excitements and sudden obsessions.”

“And what form did they take?” asked Holmes.

“He began to blame himself for my brother’s death. When his own health was already failing, he insisted on travelling alone to Addleton, saying that he must ask Tony’s forgiveness. I pleaded to travel with him, if he must go, but he said that he must go alone.”

She gazed at the handsome portrait of her father which hung above the fireplace.

“After that his health deteriorated rapidly. While he was not yet confined to his bed he sat in his workshop, scribbling endlessly.”

“Do you have any of his scribblings?” asked Holmes.

“No, Mr Holmes. I looked at them after his death and they were unconnected nonsense. I destroyed them.”

“Might we see his workshop?” asked my friend.

“By all means,” she replied and rose from her chair. We followed her to the rear of the house, where she led us into a long room, lit by three tall windows that overlooked an attractive garden. Its walls were lined with bookshelves and down the middle ran a long, solid table, littered with tools and scraps of various materials. In one corner stood a writing desk.

“This was always my father’s working place,” said Lady Cynthia. “Please feel free to make any examination that you wish. If you will join me in the morning room when you have done, I shall arrange some tea,” and she withdrew.

Sherlock Holmes looked about him. “I think you had better take the books,” he said.

“How do you mean?” I queried.

“Examine the bookshelves, Watson, for anything which occurs to you as out of the ordinary.”

“But I am not sure that I know what