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“Admirable! Your revolver, Watson, and a packet of cartridges in your luggage, if you please. We have no time to lose!”

3

It was a bitterly cold day with a fine drizzle when we left London the following morning and after several changes we found ourselves on the Somerset and Dorset Railway, in a small and uncomfortable carriage which seemed to be carrying us into a bleak and inhospitable landscape. We had the compartment to ourselves and our client, evidently exhausted from his trials of past days, sat huddled in deep sleep in a far corner. Holmes sat smoking furiously next to me, the fragrant emissions from his pipe seeming to emulate the black smoke our funny little engine was shovelling over its shoulder as we wound our interminable way into the gathering dusk.

“Well, what do you make of it, Watson?”

I shrugged.

“Pointless, Holmes. An old cottage ransacked, ghostly manifestations and then a murderous attack.”

“But it adds up to a definite pattern, my dear fellow.”

“If Mr Smedhurst has the only key to the cottage, how could a marauder gain entrance without breaking a window or something of that sort?”

“Ah, you have taken that point, have you. There must obviously be another. Or someone must have manufactured one.”

“But for what purpose, Holmes?”

“That remains to be seen,” said he, his sharp, feral face alive with interest.

“What I cannot understand,” I went on, “is why, if someone has a key, they have not been back.”

Holmes gave a dry chuckle.

“That is simple enough. He has satisfied himself that the object of his search will not be easily discernible. He may wait for the owner himself to discover it.”

“Or scare him away.”

Holmes nodded approvingly.

“Excellent, Watson. You have hit the nail on the head.”

And he said not another word until we had reached our destination. This proved to be a somewhat ramshackle halt with a plank platform and I thought I had seldom seen a more desolate spot. Several oil lanterns beneath the station canopy were already alight and cast grotesque shadows as they swayed to and fro in the rising wind. But a closed carriage, which Smedhurst had already ordered from the hotel, was waiting and once our client had shaken off the torpor which had overtaken him on the train, he quickly took charge of the situation and we were speedily rocking through the approaching dusk to our journey’s end.

I was surprised to find that Parvise Magna was not really a village but a small town composed of a broad main street, long lines of stone-built cottages and larger houses; no less than two inns; an ancient church; and a covered market.

“Things are looking up, Holmes,” I said, as the cheering lights of our substantial hostelry, The George and Dragon, came into view.

It was indeed a comfortable-looking inn, with blazing log fires, and when we had quickly registered and deposited our baggage with the manager, Holmes looked inquiringly at our client.

“There should be an hour or so of daylight left. Would that be sufficient time for me to visit your cottage?”

“Oh, indeed, Mr Holmes. It would take only twenty minutes to get there, providing we can retain the carriage.”

After a brief word with the manager Smedhurst led the way round to a side yard where the equipage was still waiting, and then we were driving swiftly out of the town and up into the winding fastnesses of the blunt-nosed hills. Presently we stopped at a place where an oak finger-post pointed up the hillside.

“I think we can walk back,” said Holmes, giving the driver a half guinea for his trouble, much to that worthy’s surprise and gratitude.

“It will give us an appetite for dinner,” Holmes added.

We followed Smedhurst up a broad, zig-zag path, just wide enough for a horse and cart, that eventually wound between large boulders. It was an eerie and desolate place and I should not have cared to have spent one night there, let alone made it my permanent abode. I whispered as much to Holmes and he gave me a wry smile. There was still light enough