disturbed by human fingers. The marks were clear.'
'I could not understand it. We were the first, or so it seemed, who had looked into that casket since it was placed under the barrow, but then I looked at the contents.'
'What were they?' I asked.
'You might have seen those, too, in the Barnard Museum,' he said. 'A pair of fine bronze mirrors, brooches, beads, knives, cups, a strange quartz pebble mounted in a bronze holder, knives and the usual bone fragments and ashes contained in two handsome pottery urns. A very satisfactory find, or so my colleagues thought it, but they were wrong.'
'Why was that?' enquired Holmes.
'Because there was nothing there that had not been seen in other excavations, nothing at all to justify those sinister decorations on the outside of the container, and thereby I knew that something had been removed.'
He drew a deep breath. 'Only Sir Andrew and I had even known of the casket's existence overnight, but someone had opened it, disturbed the leaden lining and removed something, and that someone could only have been Sir Andrew.'
He closed a slide-box with a snap. 'As I said, we came away, Sir Andrew distracted by his son's illness and the necessity to leave him at Addleton and I appalled by the looting of our excavation by the man who had been my friend and mentor. The rest you know.'
'There is really only one more question,' said my friend. 'Which of Addleton's inns was Sir Andrew's lodging?' Edgar stared at us blankly for a moment. 'The Goat and
Boots,' he said shortly and turned away.
The next morning found Holmes and me on the doorstep of the late Sir Andrew's home. Like Edgar, the butler was disposed to believe we were journalists and drive us away, but my friend's card gained us an introduction to Sir Andrew's daughter.
She received us in the morning room. Lady Cynthia was a tall, fair, young woman, on whom sombre black sat well.
'Mr Holmes, Doctor', she said. 'My father would have welcomed the opportunity to meet you. He read your accounts, Doctor, of Mr Holmes's cases, with great pleasure and approved of your application of logic.'
'It is kind of you to say so,' said Holmes, 'and I could have wished to meet in happier circumstances, but it is about your father that we have called.'
'About my father?' she queried. 'Surely you do not believe that there is anything suspicious about his death? Sir William Greedon believed the cause to be an old infection from his Egyptian explorations, similar to that which carried off my poor brother.'
'You must not assume that my involvement indicates a crime, Lady Cynthia. The press has linked Sir Andrew's death with the so-called Curse of Addleton…'
'That is mere vulgar sensationalism,' she interrupted. 'We experienced the same nonsense at the time of Anthony's death.'
Holmes nodded, sympathetically. 'Nevertheless,' he said, 'I have reliable information that Addleton has suffered some strange infection since Sir Andrew opened the Black Barrow.'
'Surely you do not believe in the Curse, Mr Holmes!'
'No madam, not for one moment, but I have often observed that what the superstitious or the lazy-minded call supernatural or coincidental is, in fact, the occurrence of two striking events which have a common cause or share a connection. I believe that such may be the case here.'
'If it will prevent deaths such as my brother's and my father's,' said Lady Cynthia, 'then of course I will assist your enquiries. How can I help you?'
'You might tell me what it was that occupied Sir Andrew's mind in his last days, Lady Cynthia.'
An expression of pain passed across her features. 'When he first fell sick,' she began, 'he became anxious to write up his paper on Addleton. He had never published it, you know, because of the row with Edgar. But he never completed it, for he would fall into strange excitements and sudden obsessions.'
'And what form did they take?' asked Holmes.
'He began to blame himself for my brother's death. When his own health was already failing, he insisted on travelling alone to Addleton, saying that he must ask Tony's forgiveness. I pleaded
to travel with him, if he must go, but he said that he must go alone.'
She gazed at the handsome portrait of her father which hung above the fireplace.
'After that his health deteriorated rapidly. While he was not yet confined to his bed he sat in his workshop, scribbling endlessly.'
'Do you have any of his scribblings?' asked Holmes.
'No, Mr Holmes. I looked at them after his death and they were unconnected nonsense. I destroyed them.'
'Might we see his workshop?' asked my friend.
'By all means,' she replied and rose from her chair. We followed her to the rear of the house, where she led us into a long room, lit by three tall windows that overlooked an attractive garden. Its walls were lined with bookshelves and down the middle ran a long, solid table, littered with tools and scraps of various materials. In one corner stood a writing desk.
'This was always my father's working place,' said Lady Cynthia. 'Please feel free to make any examination that you wish. If you will join me in the morning room when you have done, I shall arrange some tea,' and she withdrew.
Sherlock Holmes looked about him. 'I think you had better take the books,' he said.
'How do you mean?' I queried.
'Examine the bookshelves, Watson, for anything which occurs to you as out of the ordinary.'
'But I am not sure that I know what an eminent archaeologist would ordinarily read,' I protested.
He ignored me and began to pace around the big central table. I turned to the bookshelves and attempted the task that Holmes had set me. There were shelf upon shelf of archaeological journals, some in foreign languages, there were works on history, legend and folklore, but nothing that struck me as anomalous. Eventually I turned back to Holmes who was looking at some objects at one corner of the bench.
'He seems to have nothing here but professional reading,' I observed.
'Very well,' said Holmes. 'Then we must make what we can of his work-bench,' and he passed to me a small dark pad.
'Moleskin,' I said, as soon as my fingers touched it, 'A piece of moleskin folded over and stitched into a – a pin-cushion perhaps?'
'Moleskin,' confirmed my friend, 'but not a pin-cushion, I think. Smell it, Watson.'
I lifted the little pad and my nostrils wrinkled. 'Faugh!' I exclaimed, 'it reeks of rancid tallow.'
'Precisely,' said Holmes, 'and what about this?'
He picked up from the bench a curious wooden object and I took it from him. It was about eighteen inches long and rounded at one end to form a handle such as one would find on many tools, but above the handle it widened out, one side being flat and the other curved.The opposite end from the handle was cut quite flat. It was evidently a manufactured object and had been stained, though the curved and flat surfaces bore signs of impact.
'I've never seen anything like it,' I said. 'Are you sure it is complete?'
'Oh, it is quite complete,' said Holmes, 'and exactly what I expected to see. Now, I think it only remains to examine the writing desk.'
The desk yielded little. The pigeon-holes had been cleared and there were two note-pads on the desk from which the upper sheets had been removed.
'Nothing here, Holmes,' I said.
'I do not know, he replied, and slipping his lens from his pocket began an examination of the blank note pads. 'Have you a cigarette, Watson?' he asked, suddenly.
I took out my case and opened it. 'I see,' said Holmes, 'that the horses have not lived up to your expectations. You are reduced to cheap Virginias. Still, they will suffice,' and he took one and lit it.
After a few vigorous puffs he leaned over the desk and tapped his ash onto one of the note-pads, rubbing it into the paper with his forefinger. After a moment he smiled.
'See,' he said, lifting the pad, 'the ash has darkened the paper, except where it has been compressed by the
