The Exploits of Sherlock Holmes

evidence. It appears to implicate Sir Reginald Lavington himself. Colonel Daley was well known in sporting circles, but with none too good a reputation. This is crime in high life, Mr. Holmes, and there is no room for mistakes.'

'Lavington—Lavington?'.   mused   Holmes.   'Surely, Watson, when we drove last week to visit the Bodiam Ruins, did we not pass through a village of that name? I seem to recall a house lying in a hollow.'

I nodded. In my mind rose the memory of a moated manor-house, almost stifled amid yew trees, from which a sense of oppressiveness had seemed to weigh upon me.

'That's right, Mr. Holmes,' agreed Gregson. 'A house in a hollow. My guide-book says that at Lavington the past is more real than the present. Will you come with me?'

My friend leapt from his chair. 'By all means,' he cried. 'No, Watson, not a word!'

The excellent establishment of Mr. John Hoath again supplied us with a carriage in which for two hours we were driven through the narrow, deep-rutted Sussex lanes. By the time that we had crossed the Kent border, the chill in the air made us glad of our rugs. We had turned off the main road, and were descending a steep lane when the coachman pointed with his whip at a moat-girdled house spread out below us in the grey dusk.

'Lavington Court,' said he.

A few minutes later we had alighted from our carriage. As we crossed the causeway to the front door, I had a sombre impression of dead leaves on dark, sullen water and a great battlemented tower looming through the twilight. Holmes struck a match and stooped over the gravelled surface of the causeway.

'H'm, ha! Four sets of footprints. Hullo, what's this? The hoof-marks of a horse, and furiously ridden, to judge by their depth. Probably the first summons to the police. Well, Gregson, there's not much to be gained here. Let us hope that the scene of the crime may yield more inter­esting results.'

As Holmes finished speaking, the door was opened. I must confess to reassurance at the sight of the stolid, and red-faced butler who ushered us into a stone-flagged hall, mellow and beautiful in the light of old-fashioned, many-branched candlesticks. At the far end a stairway led up to an oaken gallery on the floor above.

A thin, ginger-haired man, who had been warming his coat-tails before the fire, hurried towards us.

'Inspector Gregson?' he asked. 'Thank the Lord you've come, sir!'

'I take it that you are Sergeant Bassett of the Kent County Constabulary?'

The ginger-haired man nodded. 'That will do, Gillings. We'll ring when we need you. This is a dreadful business, sir, dreadful!' he went on, as the butler departed. 'And now it's worse than ever. Here's a famous gambler stabbed when he was drinking a toast to his best racehorse, and Sir Reginald claims to have been absent at the time, and yet the knife—' The local detective broke off and looked at us. 'Who are these gentlemen?'

'They are Mr. Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson. You may speak freely.'

'Well, Mr. Holmes, I've heard of your clever reputa­tion,' remarked Sergeant Bassett doubtfully. 'But there's not much mystery about this affair, and I hope the police will receive the credit.'

'Gregson can tell you that I play the game for the game's sake,' my friend replied. 'Officially, I prefer not to appear in this case.'

'Very fair, I'm sure, Mr. Holmes. Then, gentlemen, please to come this way.'

He picked up a four-branched candlestick,  and we were following him across the hall when there came a most unexpected interruption.

I have had considerable experience of women in many parts of the world, but never have I beheld a more queen­ly presence than the woman now descending the stairs. As she paused with her hand on the banister, the candle­light falling warmly on her soft copper-coloured hair and her heavy-lidded green eyes, I gained an impression of a beauty once radiant but now pale under the stress of some dreadful event which she could not understand.

'I heard your name in the hall, Mr. Holmes,' she cried. 'I know very little, but of one thing I am certain. My husband is innocent! I beg that you will think of that first.'

For a moment Holmes looked at her intently, as though that melodious voice had struck some chord in his memory.

'I will bear your suggestion in mind, Lady Lavington. But surely your marriage has deprived the stage of —'

'Then you recognize Margaret Montpensier?' For the first time a touch of colour came into her face. 'Yes, that was when I first met Colonel Daley. But my husband had no reason for jealousy—!' She paused in conster­ nation.

'How's this, my lady?' exclaimed Gregson. 'Jealousy?'

The two detectives exchanged glances.

'We hadn't got a motive before,' muttered Bassett.

Lady Lavington, formerly that great actress Margaret Montpensier, had said what she had never intended to say. Holmes bowed gravely, and we followed the sergeant towards an arched door.

Though the room we entered was in complete darkness, I had a sense of height and size.

'There are no lights here except from this candlestick, gentlemen,' came Bassett's voice. 'Stand in the door for a moment, please.'

As he moved forward, the reflection of four candle-flames followed him along the surface of a great refectory table, with its narrow side towards the door. At the far end the light flashed back from a tall silver goblet with a human hand lying motionless on either side. Bassett thrust forward the candelabrum.

'Look at this, Inspector Gregson!' he cried.

Seated at the head of the table, his cheek resting upon the surface, a man lay sprawled forward with his arms outflung on either side of the cup. Against a welter of blood and wine his fair hair shone under the candle- flames.

'His throat's been cut,' snapped Bassett. 'And here,' he cried, darting to the wall, 'was the dagger that did it!'

We hastened forward to where he was holding up his light against the old wainscotting. Amid a trophy of arms, two small metal hooks showed where some weapon had hung.

'How do you know that it was a dagger?' asked Gregson.

Bassett pointed to a slight scratch on the woodwork some six inches below. Holmes nodded approvingly.

'Good, Sergeant!' said he. 'But you have other proof besides the scratch on the panelling?'

'Yes! Ask that butler, Gillings! It's an old hunting-dagger: hung there for years. Now look at the wound in Colonel Daley's throat.'

Inured though I was to scenes of violence, I stepped back. Bassett, laying hold of that yellow hair which was tinged with grey at the temples, raised the dead man's head. Even in death it was an eagle face, with a great curving nose above a remorseless mouth.

'The dagger, yes,' said Holmes. 'But surely an odd direction for the blow? It appears to strike upwards from beneath.'

The local detective smiled grimly. 'Not so odd, Mr. Holmes, if the murderer struck when his victim raised that heavy cup to drink. Colonel Daley would have had to use both hands. We know already that he and Sir Reginald were drinking in here to the success of the colonel's horse at Leopardstown next week.'

We all looked at the great wine-vessel, fully twelve inches high. It was of ancient silver, richly embossed and chased, girded below the lip with a circlet of garnets.

As it stood there amid the crimson stains and the scratches of finger-nails on that dreadful table-top, I noticed the twin silver figures carved like owls that decorated the tops of the handles on either side.

'The Luck of Lavington,' said Bassett with a short laugh. 'You can see those owls in the family arms. Well, it brought no luck to Colonel Daley. Somebody stabbed him when he raised it to drink.'

'Somebody?' said a voice in the background.

Holmes had lifted the cup  and, after examining it closely, was looking at the scratches and wine-stains which had seeped beneath it, when the shock of this interruption made us all turn towards the far end of the banqueting- hall.

A man was standing near the door. The light of a single taper which he had raised above his head illumined a pair of dark, brooding eyes that glowered at us from a face as black-browed and swarthy as that of some Andalusian gipsy. There was an impression of formidable strength in the spread of his shoulders, and in his bull neck above an old-fashioned black satin stock.