The Mammoth Book of New Sherlock Holmes Adventures - Mike Ashley [240]
Holmes rubbed his hands in satisfaction. “Let us lose no time in examining these coffins. Our unknown correspondent has gone to considerable lengths to see that we do and I know of no reason why we should not oblige her. By the way, Mr Musgrave,” he added, “are the Hurlstone relics, graves and coffins arranged in any particular order, or system? Do the phrases ‘control system’ or ‘control sy’ have any meaning for you?”
“The words mean nothing to me,” replied Musgrave, “but yes, the graves are sited in chronological order. I suppose that is the way of graves. In any case it could not be otherwise at Hurlstone. Many of the stone cases are very heavy. It would be no easy matter to move them.”
The entrance to the catacombs was a sloping tunnel. Its moss-covered flagstones provided firm footing as we entered from the daylight but became treacherously slippery as we descended. The dank, fungus-covered walls dripped with moisture – a reminder of the nearby Hurlstone mere. Our host carried a flare, by whose light we picked our way down the ancient ramp of the ossuary. The odour of nitrates was unmistakable. In many places the old wooden coffins had rotted and collapsed; skeletal remains of ancient Musgraves were glimpsed as we descended – mute but eloquent testimony to our host’s ancient lineage. Nathaniel Musgrave halted at a small group of crumbling stone containers, one of which had a lid, slightly ajar.
“These are the coffins of the Norman period;” said he, “most of their occupants were recorded in the Domesday Book.”
“Please excuse my lack of ceremony, Mr Musgrave,” said Holmes, stepping forward. “I mean no disrespect but something of immediate significance, in addition to the remains of your ancestors may, I believe, be found inside these coffins. Help me to slide this lid further, will you, Watson?”
Musgrave and I turned our shoulders to the task Holmes watched closely, then thrust his arm into the half-opened casket and withdrew from its depths a linen bag, tied at the throat with twine. He regarded it thoughtfully for some moments before speaking.
“You paid me a compliment today, Mr Musgrave, when you alluded to the deductive powers I had the pleasure of bringing to the aid of Sir Reginald. These same powers will, I believe, now enable me in turn to surprise you! Before we open this bag it would please me to tell you precisely what we shall find inside it.”
I could not help laughing at this preposterous suggestion. “It seems to me,” I managed, with some difficulty, to articulate, “that only a psychic, or a thief who has had access to this chamber, could make such a prediction. Since I know that you are neither, I take the liberty of doubting you! There is no way in this world in which you could possibly foretell such a thing!”
“I must second Dr Watson’s opinion,” said Nathaniel Musgrave, also grinning broadly. “It is not possible.”
“Very well,” said Holmes. “I take up your gage!” He paused and continued, measuring his words in the manner of an orator addressing his audience: “In this bag you will find, certainly tamished, probably discoloured, possibly damaged but nevertheless recognizable, an orb – a ball of gold – and a sceptre. Unless the corrosion of three centuries prevents it, a smaller orb, surmounted by a cross on which rests a dove, will attach to the sceptre. When I add that the great orb is itself surmounted by a cross and that its weight is one pound, five and a quarter ounces, you will have no difficulty in verifying my prediction.”
And so, to our amazement, it proved! One by one Nathaniel Musgrave withdrew the contents from the bag and placed them on the lid of the sarcophagus. The pieces were indeed horribly stained but they glittered nevertheless in the light cast by Musgrave’s flare. “Rubbish they appear but rubbish I know they are not!” cried Musgrave. “They are just as you say, Mr Holmes. Whatever can they be? You astonish