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“An inexperienced house guest at a shooting party was the cause of it, sir. He was following Sir Reginald out of a copse to meet the beaters and failed to unload his gun while climbing over a fence. The triggers were caught by brambles. Sir Reginald took the full charge of both barrels in the back. We thank the Good Lord that the master did not suffer. It was all done in a flash.”

“A tragedy indeed,” responded Holmes, after a pause.

“Yes, sir. His death was a great loss. He had many friends in the district – very many. It was standing room only in St Mary’s at the memorial service. He represented our district right well in Westminster, too.”

On arrival at Hurlstone we were greeted warmly by Nathaniel Musgrave, a pleasant, courtly young man of aristocratic mien. Expressing our regrets at the calamity, we were ushered into the new wing of his ancient manor.

“Hurlstone appears to generate mysteries,” remarked Holmes, as he seated himself in a proffered arm chair in Musgrave’s study. “On my previous visit, as you know, I was summoned by your cousin to look into the disappearance of two members of your staff. I come now bringing my own puzzle: it developed yesterday in London in connection with a Mr Newman, or Norman, Musgrave, who died several years ago and who may, or may not, be related to you.”

“Ah! Yes! Newman! He worked in a publishing company, did he not? He has certainly been to Hurlstone. I never met him but I know a little of him. He was a relative, but a distant one. He was an amiable churchgoer, living quietly and dedicating his spare time to the service of Rome. This prevented his taking more than a cursory interest in our estate, or indeed in the family. I am afraid we rather lost touch with him over the years. What problem has he produced?”

Holmes explained the matter, concisely summarizing Garrison Bolt’s visit, the extraordinary letter and the chain of reasoning which had led him to this return visit to Hurlstone. Nathaniel Musgrave examined the envelope carefully.

“I have no correspondents in the west of Canada,” he said. “I know no one there. I can make nothing of the letter other than to applaud your extraordinary deductions. You were clearly intended to bring the letter to Hurlstone, but what we are meant to do with it is utterly beyond me. Frankly I am amazed that you have deduced so much. My cousin told me of your extra-ordinary powers, Mr Holmes, and I can see that he was not exaggerating. As you know,” he continued, “we have the crown which you so dramatically identified for us. We have had it fully restored. Perhaps you would like to see it. Incidentally, we have learned that it graced the brows of the Tudor, as well as the Stuart, kings. It was reportedly used at every coronation from that of Henry VIII until the dispersion of the regalia following Charles I’s trial and execution in January of 1649, when it was, I understand, broken into pieces by Master Cromwell and his not-so-merry men. We have always kept the linen bag in which the Crown was retrieved from the mere, too. It seemed a sacrilege to separate them after nearly two hundred and fifty years together in solitary confinement in Brunton’s strongbox, as we call it.”

Holmes looked sharply at Musgrave, an expression of extreme alertness and concentration on his face. He paused before speaking again. “What do you infer, Mr Musgrave, from this reference to ‘coffins’, and a date of 1050, or 1100?” he asked. “It is clearly a directive we are meant to follow.”

“There at least I see no difficulty,” said the young heir. “The old part of the building, like the rest of the estate, does indeed date back to feudal times. It has always been one of the duties of the incumbent at Hurlstone to preserve the original burial sites of those who lived here before us. Some are merely marked by rude stone markers with the ancient engravings obliterated by nine hundred years of wind and storm but others, mostly wooden caskets and stone sarcophagi, have been sheltered from the elements. Those of the