safety!” I shouted. “The stables are at our back.”
With a few long strides, Holmes had seized the old military man and pulled him away, but even as he did so I saw the hoof prints begin to appear. They were puckering the soil directly ahead of Sir Henry, thundering toward him. “This is madness!” I cried. “It’s as if the very gates of Hell are opening!”
The ground spat and tore all around us, clods of earth flying in every direction as the unseen hooves smashed and crushed the turf underfoot. There was a terrible slashing in the air, and Sir Henry flinched as if struck.
Reaching the stables, we tore open the doors and thrust Sir Henry inside. He offered no resistance, and collapsed on the hay bales as we battened down the entrance once more. It was then I saw that he had been cut — not deeply, as Holmes had been able to pull him back from harm, but enough to cause a fast flow of surface blood from his arm. I tore a horse blanket into strips and quickly staunched the bleeding.
As the wind and rain hammered the walls and clattered across the tin roof, thunder smashed so loudly that we could not hear each other speak. And so we remained for half an hour, until the worst of the tempest had passed and escaped to the hills once more.
“What devilry is this?” gasped Sir Henry. “Please, Mr. Holmes, go and make sure that my daughter is safe.”
Holmes went ahead, and I brought the Major General back to the house, but he was much depleted in energy. Upon arrival, I took the liberty of pouring him a brandy, and had one myself. Then I set about properly cleaning and dressing his wound.
Feeling that we were safer in assembly, the five of us, Holmes, myself, Miss Woodham, Sir Henry and Charles Charlton gathered in the great room and waited for the clouds to clear, but by now night had fallen. Upstairs, the nurse sat with the mute stable-boy, whose dark eyes continued to stare at the ceiling as if seeing beyond into the blackest reaches of space.
A servant passed through with tapers and lit the room, dispelling some of our fears. We gathered around the fireplace, feeling stronger but no less disturbed.
“Some thirty years ago we all fought the Russians,” said Sir Henry. “I believe the souls of our dead enemies have returned, to continue their war against us from beyond the grave.”
“I think not,” Holmes replied. “I can explain in part what is happening, but there is one more piece of the puzzle still to place.”
“Please, Mr. Holmes,” entreated Miss Woodham, “shed any light you can on these terrible visitations.” As she spoke, we heard the wind begin to rise once more, and a fresh squall of rain hit the leadlight windows.
“The storm has circled and is coming back once more,” said Mr. Charlton as the candles closest to the window guttered and blew out.
Holmes ignored the noise of the tempest and continued. “It is said that the forces of nature have the power to open rifts between our world and the next. Each time the Devil’s hoof prints have appeared, it has been during a time of natural disruption. This, after all, is the season of storms. As the possessor of one of the finest rational minds in the country, I cannot condone such thinking, you understand, but I appreciate how such beliefs arise. And then there was the matter of the little curate, Reverend Horniman, who set me thinking further.” Holmes dug into his jacket pocket and held up the gold medal. “Three months ago, at the very time these attacks first started, the Reverend’s gravedigger unearthed this medallion in his churchyard. In itself it is a rare enough piece, being awarded to those who fought in the Crimean theatre of war. But this particular one, with the ornate oak leaves on the cross-bar, is given only to those who had direct engagement with the enemy.”
“I have one in my possession,” said Sir Henry. “My head groom was also in my regiment, and possessed another.”
“Indeed, sir. I took the imposition of checking. You may be aware that there are several other men from your regiment living in this village.”
“After the war, many of the men who had fought together chose to resettle in their old villages, and many recruits came from Devon.”
“But I believe there is another medal like this, with the oak leaf cross bar, held by someone in this very house.” Holmes looked at Mr. Charlton.
“The one you found in the churchyard is mine,” said Mr. Charlton in shame.
“But why, man?” cried Sir Henry. “Why would you bury such an honour?”
“Because I could not bear to look at it,” said Mr. Charlton. “For what it represents, and the way it makes me feel. I hoped never to see it again. I determined to bury it soon after receiving it.” He turned to Holmes. “The other old soldiers in the village don’t know, sir. They are not a part of this.”
“A part of what?” coaxed Holmes.
“It was a secret held by only the three of us; and I am the most to blame for I carried out the order.”
“I think you had better tell us the truth now, Mr. Charlton,” said Holmes, with urgency in his voice as the storm continued to rise.
“It sounds as if the wind is trying to tear off the roof,” said Miss Woodham, glancing to the ceiling with apprehension.
“You must understand the difficulties we faced, sir,” continued Mr. Charlton, as more candles were snuffed out, and only the fluttering flames in the fireplace lit his face. “The British army was poorly prepared to fight the Russians, and even more ill-equipped for the attack on the Crimean Peninsular. From the shore where we arrived to the battlefield was a lengthy and difficult journey by mule. Lord Cardigan and Lord Lucan were fools too busy baiting one another to take proper care of their troops. Food supplies were dropped at the dock and left to rot because we had no way of getting them to our men.
“It was I who made the decision to requisition the horses for the cavalry officers. I thought I could take them for our comrades, and the food supplies would be delivered by mule through the mountains. I did not know that most of the mules had died, and that without them there was no way of the food getting through.”
“I knew our comrades needlessly died of starvation when they should have lived to fight the enemy,” said Sir Henry, shocked. “But I did not know of the part you played, Charles.”
“I’m sorry, sir. Believe me; had I known the results of my actions, I would not have acted thus.”
“Then these are not the spirits of avenging Russians, but of our own men!”
“Are there others in the village who are privy to this knowledge?” asked Holmes. “It is vital that I am in full possession of the facts.”
“No sir,” said Mr. Charlton, “for I made sure that the requisition copies were destroyed. The secret resides solely with me, and now the deed is being punished. The dead do, indeed, return. And the lives of all those who survived in place of their fallen comrades are at risk.”
“Pish,” said Holmes. “I do not believe in ghosts. You think the spirits of the fallen have been enticed by the Devil to take revenge against you? That they ride from Hades to take your lives?”
“Sir, I know this to be the case, and you have seen the hoof prints yourself, not made by horses but by the cloven-footed devils upon whom the soldiers of the dead must ride, for you see —
“It is madness to consider such superstitious nonsense,” said Holmes, but even as he spoke the wind howled down the chimney, blasting a great inferno of cinders out into the room, extinguishing the few remaining candles. Miss Woodham and myself stamped out the burning embers, but now the far window had blown in, as if the Devil himself was leaning against the walls. The full fury of the storm was attempting to enter the house.
“I must go out there and offer myself,” said Mr. Charlton wildly. “It was I who exposed my guilt before God by burying the medal, and now I must save Sir Henry while there is still time.”
“Listen to me, Mr. Charlton,” said Holmes, “I honestly believe you blame yourself for angering the dead, but it is a storm that caused the churning of the ground, and lightning that slashed the throat of your groom, nothing more.”
“That is not true, Holmes, and you know it!” I cried. “I saw the wound for myself.”
“You are a man of science, Watson, you cannot believe this too!”
Mr. Charlton ran to the door and flung it wide. We started after him, to pull him back into the safety of the room, but we were too late. He ran out onto the lawn and shouted at the sky, where a funnel of thick black cloud was spinning down towards the earth.
We felt the ground shake beneath us as great brown clods of mud were torn in a channel that roared toward Mr. Charlton like a platoon stampeding through a valley. The ‘Phantoms of the Dead’, as the stable boy had called
