fainting. This was before the barrow was opened, when there was no thought of a new sickness. Nothing I could do
for her made any difference. Soon she had spells when her mind wandered. I began to wonder about a tumour on the brain, but do you know that while others were sickening she suddenly got well? She lost all her symptoms and she's as right as rain to this day.
The other was old Mrs Henty, next door to the pub. Her daughter-in-law was the mother of one of the deformed babies, but Mrs Henty had a persistent eczema on both forearms. She'd had it all her life, she told me, but it vanished in days.'
'Astonishing,' said Holmes. 'Now, Doctor, we have taken up enough of your time. I assure you again, that I believe I am well
on the track of this thing and will let you know my conclusions.' We dined that night at our inn and had the good fortune to be waited upon by the same Mary Cummins that Dr Leary had
mentioned to us. Whatever her difficulties of ten years ago, she was now a buxom, raven-haired countrywoman in her middle twenties, vigorous and witty.
After dinner we established ourselves beside the fire in the back parlour, where Mary brought us our drinks.
'Miss Cummins,' said Holmes, 'may I ask if you know why Dr Watson and I are in Addleton?'
She smiled. ' 'Tis no business of mine,' she said, 'but I hear tell you've come about the Black Barrow.'
'Perhaps you would sit with us for a moment,' he suggested. 'You are right that we are investigating the singular disease that affected the village when the barrow was opened.'
She took a chair and he continued. 'I believe that, so far from being one of the sick, you actually recovered from an illness at that time. Would it embarrass you to tell us about it?'
'Not at all, sir,' she replied. 'I had been ill for nearly two years and getting worse all the time. First it was giddy spells, then faints, then cruel headaches and sometimes I seemed to lose my wits altogether. Dr Leary tried all sorts but it kept getting worse. He said I should have to have an operation on my head and I was rare frightened, but then, so fast as it came, it was gone, and as true as I'm sitting here I've never known a day's sickness since.'
'Remarkable,' said Holmes. 'And to what do you attribute you cure?'
'Well, they say as all the sickness came out of that old barrow, and if it did, I say as my cure came out too.'
Holmes eyed her, thoughtfully. 'You remember young Mr Lewis?' he asked.
'Indeed I do,' she said. 'Poor young man. He was all in trouble with his father and then to die like that.'
'Did you know him well?'
She blushed prettily. 'Well, sir, when he was well he would make up to me. No more than was proper, though. And I daresay I was younger then and looked after him a bit special because of it.'
'Did he ever show you, or tell you, what he had in his possession?' asked Holmes.
'How did you know about that?' she asked. 'He said as no one knew he had it and I must keep his secret.'
'You need not fear my knowing, Mary,' said Holmes. 'May I ask what it was?'
'Well, I had gone to his room one day, to tidy up, you know, and he came in. Now father's always been very strict about me not lingering in guests rooms when they're there, so I made to go, but Mr Lewis said, 'Let me show you something.' He pulled his trunk out from under his bed and he took out a great old pot, a big round earthenware pot with a lid. 'What's that?' I said, and he smiled and said, 'That's the strangest thing in the world. It'll be the making of me,' then he took my hand and put it on the pot and it was warm outside, like a brick that's been in the oven.'
'I pulled my hand away, but he turned the lamp down and says 'Look at this, Mary.' He lifted the lid off that pot and there was a beautiful blue light came out of it, all shimmering like water. It took my breath away, I tell you. 'Whatever's in there?' I said, and he smiled again and said 'My fortune, Mary. No matter what my father may do,' and he closed the lid again.'
'And what did you think it was?' enquired my friend.
'To tell the truth, I thought it was magic. I've never seen the like before or since.' She got up from her chair. 'I'll tell you something else, Mr Holmes, that I've never told nobody sometimes I think it was what he had in that funny old pot that cured my brain. Now that's daft, isn't it?'
'You may very well be right, Mary,' said Holmes. 'If we might ask one more favour – is Mr Lewis's old room occupied?' 'No, sir,' she said. 'Did you wish to change?'
'Not at all,' said Holmes, 'but I would like a glimpse of that room.'
She offered to take us up at once, and led us to a room at the end of the main landing. Holmes stood in the middle of the little, low-ceilinged bedroom, then stepped to the casement. 'You can see the Moor from here,' he observed, 'and whose is that cottage next door?'
'That's old Mrs Henry's,' said Mary. 'She had a cure too. All her skin trouble went. Poor Mr Lewis, and little Georgie the boot boy and old McSwiney, they all went and all them others was sick, but Mrs Henty and me we seemed to get the good side. Funny, isn't it?'
'It is certainly strange,' said Holmes, and led the way out of the room.
Holmes was down early in the morning, at the breakfast table before I joined him. He was in high good humour, though a cold snap in the night had brought a sprinkling of snow to Addleton.
'What next?' I asked him, having virtually abandoned any attempt to understand his enquiries.
'I told you, Watson. We have come here to view the
We had finished our breakfast when Mary informed us that Mr Swain, the village photographer, awaited us in the parlour. He greeted us cheerfully and offered the opinion that it would be pretty on the Moor in the snow.
We took the inn's pony-trap and, loading Mr Swain's equipment, set out for the Moor. Although the top of Addleton Moor lies at about 1,100 feet above sea level, a decent track winds up from the village at one corner and, even with a slight covering of snow, we had no difficulty in reaching the top.
On the exposed top the snow lay thicker, a blanket of white that glittered in the morning sun. All around us hummocks in the snow revealed the presence of burial mounds, each casting a pale lilac shadow in the white. Holmes stood up in the trap and gazed around him.
'Ah! There it is!' he exclaimed, and pointed.
Ahead of us and to our left a dark mark broke the whiteness and, as we moved towards it, we could see that it was another tumulus, bare both of snow and vegetation, exposing raw earth.
'Have you ever photographed the Black Barrow before?' Holmes asked the photographer.
'No, sir. That would be a wasted plate. Nobody hereabouts would pay for a picture of that thing,' he replied with some vehemence.
We drew to a halt close to the Black Barrow and Mr Swain set up his camera under Holmes's directions. I walked around the mound, finding it nothing more than a heap of compacted soil, unrelieved by any blade of grass. Its lower edge was ringed with flat stones and, looking closely at its surface, it was possible to see where Sir Andrew's men had cut their trench through its centre. Apart from its nakedness, there was nothing to distinguish it from any of the forty or fifty mounds round about. One did not have to be superstitious to find something disturbing in that patch of dead, dark, soil.
I stepped aside while Mr Swain exposed half a dozen plates and then we were back in the trap and returning to the village.
Holmes was still in good spirits over luncheon, so that I queried his mood. 'I have every right to be cheerful, Watson. This morning's excursion gave me the final piece of evidence. Nature has assisted my enquiry, though I made assurance doubly sure and asked Mr Swain for his photographs.'
Mr Swain joined us over coffee, rather nervous and apologetic. 'I do not know what has happened, Mr Holmes,' he said. 'The general views of the Moor are crystal clear, as they should have been with this morning's light, but all four plates of the barrow are spoiled. Look,' he said and laid the box of plates on the table.
Holmes took each plate in turn and held it up to the window, passing each to me when he had done with it. Two were fine panoramas of the snowclad Moor but each of the others was just a swirl of fog.
'But this is exactly what Edgar said happened to his plates!' I exclaimed.
