'Because', Holmes replied, 'the combination of Stamford and Sir William Greedon has failed to save Lewis. His obituary appears this morning,' and he passed me his newspaper.
The article recited the dead man's academic honours and titles, described some of his more famous archaeological explorations and listed the many museums which displayed items that he had discovered. It referred to the controversy which had clouded his career and caused him to withdraw from public life in recent years.
'Good Heavens!' I exclaimed as I drew towards the end of the article, 'Perhaps he was the victim of a course.'
'Why do you say so?' asked Holmes, raising one eyebrow. 'Because it is suggested here,' I said, 'Listen,' and I read him the relevant passage:
The accusation concerned his conduct during the excavation of an allegedly cursed barrow at Addleton, and must have been the more painful for coming at the time of his son's death. Sir Andrew made no defence against his attacker, save to state that he acted honourably at Addleton. Fellow archaeologists were unanimous in decrying the attack, but Sir Andrew evidently felt it very deeply, for he took no further part in any excavation, confining himself to writing a definitive series of papers and presenting occasional lectures. The shadow which he at least, perceived as clouding his career now followed by his death from a condition which has defeated the best medical brains in Britain might perhaps encourage the villagers of Addleton to believe that their barrow was truly cursed. Sir Andrew leaves one unmarried daughter.
'That', said Holmes, emphatically, 'is journalism of a kind that one would hope not to find in an allegedly responsible paper. As to the accusation against Lewis, it was brought by his assistant on the Addleton excavation, one Edgar. He published a letter which raised what he claimed was a mysterious difference between the curious decorations on a sealed container found in the barrow and its contents which, though valuable, were in no way unusual. He contrived to imply, without saying so, that a valuable item had been removed from the container overnight, after it had been discovered and before it had been taken from the excavation.'
'As you have read,' he continued, 'the academic world was outraged and supported Lewis to a man. Edgar's own career certainly suffered. He was well thought of until the Addleton affair but is now, I believe, a lecturer at a suburban institute.' We returned to our newspapers. Holmes was now into the more popular papers, which he read closely for their reports of crimes and accounts of Police Court proceedings. As he finished one he passed it to me and I was turning to the racing page when a heading caught my eye:
the addleton curse death of eminent archaeologist
I started the article out of idle curiosity, but as I read on I became more engrossed.
'Stamford should read this,' I said, when I had done.
'Really,' said Holmes, in a voice that suggested a total lack of interest.
'Yes,' I persisted. 'Do you know what it says here?'
My friend sighed and laid down the
'This article', I said, 'states that the Addleton barrow had been the subject of evil legends as long as anyone can recall. It stood on Addleton Moor, surrounded by many smaller burial mounds. It seems that light falls of snow never covered it and even in the hardest winter the snow always melted on that barrow first. The locals called it the 'Black Barrow' because the grass would not grow on it.'
'Watson,' interrupted Holmes, 'the grave on which the snow melts soonest and where the grass will not grow is a
commonplace of rural legend. Half the country churchyards in Britain claim such a grave.'
'I know,' I said, 'but that's not the interesting part. They say here that after Sir Andrew Lewis opened the barrow the village of Addleton was struck by a strange disease. It's symptoms were similar to Sir Andrew's but it was not always fatal. Since then the area has suffered many stillborn children and numbers of deformities. The villagers insist that it resulted from Lewis tampering with the Black Barrow. What do you say to that Holmes?'
He looked thoughtful for a moment. 'Sadly, that is not the most reliable of our public prints, but if its report is true then the matter is a singular one. What is your medical opinion, Watson?'
'Perhaps Greedon was right. Maybe Sir Andrew picked up something peculiar during his years in Egypt and passed it on to the people at Addleton. Maybe it's hereditary. Lewis's son died of it. It could be that his father acquired the infection before his son's birth. Perhaps it's one of those unpleasant diseases that can lie dormant for years and then become active.'
'Perhaps so,' he said. 'Watson, be a good fellow and pass me my writing case will you?'
He busied himself with a letter and I believed that the Addleton affair had passed from his mind until he reverted to it at breakfast a couple of days later.
'Do you recall our conversation about the death of Sir Andrew Lewis?' he asked.
'Certainly,' I replied.
Holmes lifted a letter from beside his plate. 'The press accounts of the affair excited my curiosity,' he said, 'to the extent that I dropped a line to the County Officer of Health.'
'Did you indeed? And what does he have to say?'
Holmes referred to the letter. 'While deploring any attempt to suggest that a curse is at work, he confirms that, in the year following Sir Andrew's excavation of the Black Barrow, the village of Addleton suffered a number of deaths from what appeared to be an obscure form of anaemia and a number of stillbirths and deformed births. He suggests that there is no connection between these misfortunes and the archaeological expedition and that the source of the problem may be some effect of the local water supply.'
'And what do you believe?' I asked.
'My disbelief in curses is only matched by my disbelief in coincidences. Those who have most occasion to be concerned – the people of Addleton – associate their tragedies with Sir Andrew's excavation. They may be wrong in believing that one is the cause of the other, but that does not mean that there is not a link between the two phenomena. As to the water supply, Addleton stands in a valley surrounded by hills of limestone. In such areas the water is famously pure. One recalls that the villages of south Derbyshire hold ceremonies every summer to celebrate the purity of their limestone streams which, they believe, saved them from the Great Plague.'
'And have you any alternative explanation?' I enquired.
'It is far too early for that,' he replied. 'It would be a serious error to attempt an explanation when we have so little data. Our next effort must be to acquire further information so that the full pattern of these curious events reveals itself.'
It was the afternoon of the following day when he enquired, 'Have you any engagement this evening, Watson?' When I replied in the negative he said 'I thought we might take in this evening's lecture at the Aldridge Institute. Mr Edgar, of Addleton fame, is lecturing on 'The Stones and the Stars', apparently a dissertation on Sir Norman Lockyer's theory that ancient religious monuments were constructed in relation to the movements of heavenly bodies.'
The Institute turned out to be in a remote part of south London and Mr Edgar's lecture was not well attended. Nevertheless it was an interesting evening. Edgar was a man of about forty, with the long hair of a scholar and owlish spectacles that imparted a solemn aspect to his face though his lecture revealed a ready wit. His lantern slides, from photographs which he himself had taken, were not only informative but in some cases strikingly attractive. I recall particularly a picture of the great trilithon at Stonehenge lit from behind by the rising sun of midwinter. His arguments in favour of Lockyer's theory, though complex, were lucidly explained for a lay audience and convincing.
As the small audience trickled out at the lecture's end Holmes rose and approached Edgar who was giving some instruction to the lantern operator.
'We have enjoyed your talk,' said Holmes,
'Thankyou, gentlemen,' said the lecturer, 'but I hope you are not journalists.'
'Why should you think so?' asked Holmes.
'Because I have received a deal of attention from that profession since the death of Sir Andrew Lewis, and I have nothing to say to the press.'
'You may be assured that we are not journalists,' said my friend. 'I am Sherlock Holmes, and this is my colleague, Dr Watson.'
The lecturer's eyes widened behind his round spectacles. 'The consulting detective!' he exclaimed, 'What, may I ask, is your interest in archaeology?'
