Chapter Chapter 6 · The Musgrave Ritual

. The Musgrave Ritual

An anomaly which often struck me in the character of my friend

Sherlock Holmes was that, although in his methods of thought he

was the neatest and most methodical of mankind, and although also

he affected a certain quiet primness of dress, he was none the

less in his personal habits one of the most untidy men that ever

drove a fellow-lodger to distraction. Not that I am in the least

conventional in that respect myself. The rough-and-tumble work in

Afghanistan, coming on the top of a natural Bohemianism of

disposition, has made me rather more lax than befits a medical

man. But with me there is a limit, and when I find a man who

keeps his cigars in the coal-scuttle, his tobacco in the toe end

of a Persian slipper, and his unanswered correspondence

transfixed by a jack-knife into the very centre of his wooden

mantelpiece, then I begin to give myself virtuous airs. I have

always held, too, that pistol practice should be distinctly an

open-air pastime; and when Holmes, in one of his queer humours,

would sit in an armchair with his hair-trigger and a hundred

Boxer cartridges, and proceed to adorn the opposite wall with a

patriotic V. R. done in bullet-pocks, I felt strongly that

neither the atmosphere nor the appearance of our room was

improved by it.

Our chambers were always full of chemicals and of criminal relics

which had a way of wandering into unlikely positions, and of

turning up in the butter-dish or in even less desirable places.

But his papers were my great crux. He had a horror of destroying

documents, especially those which were connected with his past

cases, and yet it was only once in every year or two that he

would muster energy to docket and arrange them; for, as I have

mentioned somewhere in these incoherent memoirs, the outbursts of

passionate energy when he performed the remarkable feats with

which his name is associated were followed by reactions of

lethargy during which he would lie about with his violin and his

books, hardly moving save from the sofa to the table. Thus month

after month his papers accumulated, until every corner of the

room was stacked with bundles of manuscript which were on no

account to be burned, and which could not be put away save by

their owner. One winter’s night, as we sat together by the fire,

I ventured to suggest to him that, as he had finished pasting

extracts into his common-place book, he might employ the next two

hours in making our room a little more habitable. He could not

deny the justice of my request, so with a rather rueful face he

went off to his bedroom, from which he returned presently pulling

a large tin box behind him. This he placed in the middle of the

floor and, squatting down upon a stool in front of it, he threw

back the lid. I could see that it was already a third full of

bundles of paper tied up with red tape into separate packages.

“There are cases enough here, Watson,” said he, looking at me

with mischievous eyes. “I think that if you knew all that I had

in this box you would ask me to pull some out instead of putting

others in.”

“These are the records of your early work, then?” I asked. “I

have often wished that I had notes of those cases.”

“Yes, my boy, these were all done prematurely before my

biographer had come to glorify me.” He lifted bundle after bundle

in a tender, caressing sort of way. “They are not all successes,

Watson,” said he. “But there are some pretty little problems

among them. Here’s the record of the Tarleton murders, and the

case of Vamberry, the wine merchant, and the adventure of the old

Russian woman, and the singular affair of the aluminium crutch,

as well as a full account of Ricoletti of the club-foot, and his

abominable wife. And here—ah, now, this really is something a

little _recherché_.”

He dived his arm down to the bottom of the chest, and brought up

a small wooden box with a sliding lid, such as children’s toys

are kept in. From within he produced a crumpled piece of paper,

an old-fashioned brass key, a peg of wood with a ball of string

attached to it, and three rusty old disks of metal.

“Well, my boy, what do you make of this lot?” he asked, smiling

at my expression.

“It is a curious collection.”

“Very curious, and the story that hangs round it will strike you

as being more curious still.”

“These relics have a history then?”

“So much so that they _are_ history.”

“What do you mean by that?”

Sherlock Holmes picked them up one by one, and laid them along

the edge of the table. Then he reseated himself in his chair and

looked them over with a gleam of satisfaction in his eyes.

“These,” said he, “are all that I have left to remind me of the

adventure of the Musgrave Ritual.”

I had heard him mention the case more than once, though I had

never been able to gather the details.

“I should be so glad,” said I, “if you would give me an account

of it.”

“And leave the litter as it is?” he cried, mischievously. “Your

tidiness won’t bear much strain after all, Watson. But I should

be glad that you should add this case to your annals, for there

are points in it which make it quite unique in the criminal

records of this or, I believe, of any other country. A collection

of my trifling achievements would certainly be incomplete which

contained no account of this very singular business.

“You may remember how the affair of the _Gloria Scott_, and my

conversation with the unhappy man whose fate I told you of, first

turned my attention in the direction of the profession which has

become my life’s work. You see me now when my name has become

known far and wide, and when I am generally recognised both by

the public and by the official force as being a final court of

appeal in doubtful cases. Even when you knew me first, at the

time of the affair which you have commemorated in ‘A Study in

Scarlet,’ I had already established a considerable, though not a

very lucrative, connection. You can hardly realize, then, how

difficult I found it at first, and how long I had to wait before

I succeeded in making any headway.

“When I first came up to London I had rooms in Montague Street,

just round the corner from the British Museum, and there I

waited, filling in my too abundant leisure time by studying all

those branches of science which might make me more efficient. Now

and again cases came in my way, principally through the

introduction of old fellow-students, for during my last years at

the University there was a good deal of talk there about myself

and my methods. The third of these cases was that of the Musgrave

Ritual, and it is to the interest which was aroused by that

singular chain of events, and the large issues which proved to be

at stake, that I trace my first stride towards the position which

I now hold.

“Reginald Musgrave had been in the same college as myself, and I

had some slight acquaintance with him. He was not generally

popular among the undergraduates, though it always seemed to me

that what was set down as pride was really an attempt to cover

extreme natural diffidence. In appearance he was a man of

exceedingly aristocratic type, thin, high-nosed, and large-eyed,

with languid and yet courtly manners. He was indeed a scion of

one of the very oldest families in the kingdom, though his branch

was a cadet one which had separated from the northern Musgraves

some time in the sixteenth century, and had established itself in

western Sussex, where the Manor House of Hurlstone is perhaps the

oldest inhabited building in the county. Something of his

birthplace seemed to cling to the man, and I never looked at his

pale, keen face or the poise of his head without associating him

with grey archways and mullioned windows and all the venerable

wreckage of a feudal keep. Once or twice we drifted into talk,

and I can remember that more than once he expressed a keen

interest in my methods of observation and inference.

“For four years I had seen nothing of him until one morning he

walked into my room in Montague Street. He had changed little,

was dressed like a young man of fashion—he was always a bit of a

dandy—and preserved the same quiet, suave manner which had

formerly distinguished him.

“‘How has all gone with you Musgrave?’ I asked, after we had

cordially shaken hands.

“‘You probably heard of my poor father’s death,’ said he; ‘he was

carried off about two years ago. Since then I have of course had

the Hurlstone estates to manage, and as I am member for my

district as well, my life has been a busy one. But I understand,

Holmes, that you are turning to practical ends those powers with

which you used to amaze us?’

“‘Yes,’ said I, ‘I have taken to living by my wits.’

“‘I am delighted to hear it, for your advice at present would be

exceedingly valuable to me. We have had some very strange doings

at Hurlstone, and the police have been able to throw no light

upon the matter. It is really the most extraordinary and

inexplicable business.’

“You can imagine with what eagerness I listened to him, Watson,

for the very chance for which I had been panting during all those

months of inaction seemed to have come within my reach. In my

inmost heart I believed that I could succeed where others failed,

and now I had the opportunity to test myself.

“‘Pray, let me have the details,’ I cried.

“Reginald Musgrave sat down opposite to me, and lit the cigarette

which I had pushed towards him.

“‘You must know,’ said he, ‘that though I am a bachelor, I have

to keep up a considerable staff of servants at Hurlstone, for it

is a rambling old place, and takes a good deal of looking after.

I preserve, too, and in the pheasant months I usually have a

house-party, so that it would not do to be short-handed.

Altogether there are eight maids, the cook, the butler, two

footmen, and a boy. The garden and the stables of course have a

separate staff.

“‘Of these servants the one who had been longest in our service

was Brunton the butler. He was a young schoolmaster out of place

when he was first taken up by my father, but he was a man of

great energy and character, and he soon became quite invaluable

in the household. He was a well-grown, handsome man, with a

splendid forehead, and though he has been with us for twenty

years he cannot be more than forty now. With his personal

advantages and his extraordinary gifts—for he can speak several

languages and play nearly every musical instrument—it is

wonderful that he should have been satisfied so long in such a

position, but I suppose that he was comfortable, and lacked

energy to make any change. The butler of Hurlstone is always a

thing that is remembered by all who visit us.

“‘But this paragon has one fault. He is a bit of a Don Juan, and

you can imagine that for a man like him it is not a very

difficult part to play in a quiet country district. When he was

married it was all right, but since he has been a widower we have

had no end of trouble with him. A few months ago we were in hopes

that he was about to settle down again for he became engaged to

Rachel Howells, our second housemaid; but he has thrown her over

since then and taken up with Janet Tregellis, the daughter of the

head gamekeeper. Rachel—who is a very good girl, but of an

excitable Welsh temperament—had a sharp touch of brain-fever, and

goes about the house now—or did until yesterday—like a black-eyed

shadow of her former self. That was our first drama at Hurlstone;

but a second one came to drive it from our minds, and it was

prefaced by the disgrace and dismissal of butler Brunton.

“‘This was how it came about. I have said that the man was

intelligent, and this very intelligence has caused his ruin, for

it seems to have led to an insatiable curiosity about things

which did not in the least concern him. I had no idea of the

lengths to which this would carry him, until the merest accident

opened my eyes to it.

“‘I have said that the house is a rambling one. One day last

week—on Thursday night, to be more exact—I found that I could not

sleep, having foolishly taken a cup of strong _café noir_ after

my dinner. After struggling against it until two in the morning,

I felt that it was quite hopeless, so I rose and lit the candle

with the intention of continuing a novel which I was reading. The

book, however, had been left in the billiard-room, so I pulled on

my dressing-gown and started off to get it.

“‘In order to reach the billiard-room I had to descend a flight

of stairs and then to cross the head of a passage which led to

the library and the gun-room. You can imagine my surprise when,

as I looked down this corridor, I saw a glimmer of light coming

from the open door of the library. I had myself extinguished the

lamp and closed the door before coming to bed. Naturally my first

thought was of burglars. The corridors at Hurlstone have their

walls largely decorated with trophies of old weapons. From one of

these I picked a battle-axe, and then, leaving my candle behind

me, I crept on tiptoe down the passage and peeped in at the open

door.

“‘Brunton, the butler, was in the library. He was sitting, fully

dressed, in an easy-chair, with a slip of paper which looked like

a map upon his knee, and his forehead sunk forward upon his hand

in deep thought. I stood dumb with astonishment, watching him

from the darkness. A small taper on the edge of the table shed a

feeble light which sufficed to show me that he was fully dressed.

Suddenly, as I looked, he rose from his chair, and walking over

to a bureau at the side, he unlocked it and drew out one of the

drawers. From this he took a paper, and returning to his seat he

flattened it out beside the taper on the edge of the table, and

began to study it with minute attention. My indignation at this

calm examination of our family documents overcame me so far that

I took a step forward, and Brunton, looking up, saw me standing

in the doorway. He sprang to his feet, his face turned livid with

fear, and he thrust into his breast the chart-like paper which he

had been originally studying.

“‘“So!” said I. “This is how you repay the trust which we have

reposed in you. You will leave my service to-morrow.”

“‘He bowed with the look of a man who is utterly crushed, and

slunk past me without a word. The taper was still on the table,

and by its light I glanced to see what the paper was which

Brunton had taken from the bureau. To my surprise it was nothing

of any importance at all, but simply a copy of the questions and

answers in the singular old observance called the Musgrave

Ritual. It is a sort of ceremony peculiar to our family, which

each Musgrave for centuries past has gone through on his coming

of age—a thing of private interest, and perhaps of some little

importance to the archaeologist, like our own blazonings and

charges, but of no practical use whatever.’

“‘We had better come back to the paper afterwards,’ said I.

“‘If you think it really necessary,’ he answered, with some

hesitation. ‘To continue my statement, however: I relocked the

bureau, using the key which Brunton had left, and I had turned to

go when I was surprised to find that the butler had returned, and

was standing before me.

“‘“Mr. Musgrave, sir,” he cried, in a voice which was hoarse with

emotion, “I can’t bear disgrace, sir. I’ve always been proud

above my station in life, and disgrace would kill me. My blood

will be on your head, sir—it will, indeed—if you drive me to

despair. If you cannot keep me after what has passed, then for

God’s sake let me give you notice and leave in a month, as if of

my own free will. I could stand that, Mr. Musgrave, but not to be

cast out before all the folk that I know so well.”

“‘“You don’t deserve much consideration, Brunton,” I answered.

“Your conduct has been most infamous. However, as you have been a

long time in the family, I have no wish to bring public disgrace

upon you. A month, however is too long. Take yourself away in a

week, and give what reason you like for going.”

“‘“Only a week, sir?” he cried, in a despairing voice. “A

fortnight—say at least a fortnight!”

“‘“A week,” I repeated, “and you may consider yourself to have

been very leniently dealt with.”

“‘He crept away, his face sunk upon his breast, like a broken

man, while I put out the light and returned to my room.

“‘For two days after this Brunton was most assiduous in his

attention to his duties. I made no allusion to what had passed,

and waited with some curiosity to see how he would cover his

disgrace. On the third morning, however he did not appear, as was

his custom, after breakfast to receive my instructions for the

day. As I left the dining-room I happened to meet Rachel Howells,

the maid. I have told you that she had only recently recovered

from an illness, and was looking so wretchedly pale and wan that

I remonstrated with her for being at work.

“‘“You should be in bed,” I said. “Come back to your duties when

you are stronger.”

“‘She looked at me with so strange an expression that I began to

suspect that her brain was affected.

“‘“I am strong enough, Mr. Musgrave,” said she.

“‘“We will see what the doctor says,” I answered. “You must stop

work now, and when you go downstairs just say that I wish to see

Brunton.”

“‘“The butler is gone,” said she.

“‘“Gone! Gone where?”

“‘“He is gone. No one has seen him. He is not in his room. Oh,

yes, he is gone, he is gone!” She fell back against the wall with

shriek after shriek of laughter, while I, horrified at this

sudden hysterical attack, rushed to the bell to summon help. The

girl was taken to her room, still screaming and sobbing, while I

made inquiries about Brunton. There was no doubt about it that he

had disappeared. His bed had not been slept in, he had been seen

by no one since he had retired to his room the night before, and

yet it was difficult to see how he could have left the house, as

both windows and doors were found to be fastened in the morning.

His clothes, his watch, and even his money were in his room, but

the black suit which he usually wore was missing. His slippers,

too, were gone, but his boots were left behind. Where then could

butler Brunton have gone in the night, and what could have become

of him now?

“‘Of course we searched the house from cellar to garret, but

there was no trace of him. It is, as I have said, a labyrinth of

an old house, especially the original wing, which is now

practically uninhabited; but we ransacked every room and cellar

without discovering the least sign of the missing man. It was

incredible to me that he could have gone away leaving all his

property behind him, and yet where could he be? I called in the

local police, but without success. Rain had fallen on the night

before and we examined the lawn and the paths all round the

house, but in vain. Matters were in this state, when a new

development quite drew our attention away from the original

mystery.

“‘For two days Rachel Howells had been so ill, sometimes

delirious, sometimes hysterical, that a nurse had been employed

to sit up with her at night. On the third night after Brunton’s

disappearance, the nurse, finding her patient sleeping nicely,

had dropped into a nap in the armchair, when she woke in the

early morning to find the bed empty, the window open, and no

signs of the invalid. I was instantly aroused, and, with the two

footmen, started off at once in search of the missing girl. It

was not difficult to tell the direction which she had taken, for,

starting from under her window, we could follow her footmarks

easily across the lawn to the edge of the mere, where they

vanished close to the gravel path which leads out of the grounds.

The lake there is eight feet deep, and you can imagine our

feelings when we saw that the trail of the poor demented girl

came to an end at the edge of it.

“‘Of course, we had the drags at once, and set to work to recover

the remains, but no trace of the body could we find. On the other

hand, we brought to the surface an object of a most unexpected

kind. It was a linen bag which contained within it a mass of old

rusted and discoloured metal and several dull-coloured pieces of

pebble or glass. This strange find was all that we could get from

the mere, and, although we made every possible search and inquiry

yesterday, we know nothing of the fate either of Rachel Howells

or of Richard Brunton. The county police are at their wits’ end,

and I have come up to you as a last resource.’

“You can imagine, Watson, with what eagerness I listened to this

extraordinary sequence of events, and endeavoured to piece them

together, and to devise some common thread upon which they might

all hang. The butler was gone. The maid was gone. The maid had

loved the butler, but had afterwards had cause to hate him. She

was of Welsh blood, fiery and passionate. She had been terribly

excited immediately after his disappearance. She had flung into

the lake a bag containing some curious contents. These were all

factors which had to be taken into consideration, and yet none of

them got quite to the heart of the matter. What was the

starting-point of this chain of events? There lay the end of this

tangled line.

“‘I must see that paper, Musgrave,’ said I, ‘which this butler of

yours thought it worth his while to consult, even at the risk of

the loss of his place.’

“‘It is rather an absurd business, this ritual of ours,’ he

answered. ‘But it has at least the saving grace of antiquity to

excuse it. I have a copy of the questions and answers here if you

care to run your eye over them.’

“He handed me the very paper which I have here, Watson, and this

is the strange catechism to which each Musgrave had to submit

when he came to man’s estate. I will read you the questions and

answers as they stand.

“‘Whose was it?’

“‘His who is gone.’

“‘Who shall have it?’

“‘He who will come.’

“‘Where was the sun?’

“‘Over the oak.’

“‘Where was the shadow?’

“‘Under the elm.’

“How was it stepped?’

“‘North by ten and by ten, east by five and by five, south by two

and by two, west by one and by one, and so under.’

“‘What shall we give for it?’

“‘All that is ours.’

“‘Why should we give it?’

“‘For the sake of the trust.’

“‘The original has no date, but is in the spelling of the middle

of the seventeenth century,’ remarked Musgrave. ‘I am afraid,

however, that it can be of little help to you in solving this

mystery.’

“‘At least,’ said I, ‘it gives us another mystery, and one which

is even more interesting than the first. It may be that the

solution of the one may prove to be the solution of the other.

You will excuse me, Musgrave, if I say that your butler appears

to me to have been a very clever man, and to have had a clearer

insight than ten generations of his masters.’

“‘I hardly follow you,’ said Musgrave. ‘The paper seems to me to

be of no practical importance.’

“‘But to me it seems immensely practical, and I fancy that

Brunton took the same view. He had probably seen it before that

night on which you caught him.’

“‘It is very possible. We took no pains to hide it.’

“‘He simply wished, I should imagine, to refresh his memory upon

that last occasion. He had, as I understand, some sort of map or

chart which he was comparing with the manuscript, and which he

thrust into his pocket when you appeared.’

“‘That is true. But what could he have to do with this old family

custom of ours, and what does this rigmarole mean?’

“‘I don’t think that we should have much difficulty in

determining that,’ said I; ‘with your permission we will take the

first train down to Sussex, and go a little more deeply into the

matter upon the spot.’

“The same afternoon saw us both at Hurlstone. Possibly you have

seen pictures and read descriptions of the famous old building,

so I will confine my account of it to saying that it is built in

the shape of an L, the long arm being the more modern portion,

and the shorter the ancient nucleus, from which the other had

developed. Over the low, heavily-lintelled door, in the centre of

this old part, is chiseled the date, 1607, but experts are agreed

that the beams and stonework are really much older than this. The

enormously thick walls and tiny windows of this part had in the

last century driven the family into building the new wing, and

the old one was used now as a storehouse and a cellar, when it

was used at all. A splendid park with fine old timber surrounds

the house, and the lake, to which my client had referred, lay

close to the avenue, about two hundred yards from the building.

“I was already firmly convinced, Watson, that there were not

three separate mysteries here, but one only, and that if I could

read the Musgrave Ritual aright I should hold in my hand the clue

which would lead me to the truth concerning both the butler

Brunton and the maid Howells. To that then I turned all my

energies. Why should this servant be so anxious to master this

old formula? Evidently because he saw something in it which had

escaped all those generations of country squires, and from which

he expected some personal advantage. What was it then, and how

had it affected his fate?

“It was perfectly obvious to me, on reading the Ritual, that the

measurements must refer to some spot to which the rest of the

document alluded, and that if we could find that spot, we should

be in a fair way towards finding what the secret was which the

old Musgraves had thought it necessary to embalm in so curious a

fashion. There were two guides given us to start with, an oak and

an elm. As to the oak there could be no question at all. Right in

front of the house, upon the left-hand side of the drive, there

stood a patriarch among oaks, one of the most magnificent trees

that I have ever seen.

“‘That was there when your Ritual was drawn up,’ said I, as we

drove past it.

“‘It was there at the Norman Conquest in all probability,’ he

answered. ‘It has a girth of twenty-three feet.’

“‘Have you any old elms?’ I asked.

“‘There used to be a very old one over yonder but it was struck

by lightning ten years ago, and we cut down the stump.’

“‘You can see where it used to be?’

“‘Oh, yes.’

“‘There are no other elms?’

“‘No old ones, but plenty of beeches.’

“‘I should like to see where it grew.’

“We had driven up in a dog-cart, and my client led me away at

once, without our entering the house, to the scar on the lawn

where the elm had stood. It was nearly midway between the oak and

the house. My investigation seemed to be progressing.

“‘I suppose it is impossible to find out how high the elm was?’ I

asked.

“‘I can give you it at once. It was sixty-four feet.’

“‘How do you come to know it?’ I asked, in surprise.

“‘When my old tutor used to give me an exercise in trigonometry,

it always took the shape of measuring heights. When I was a lad I

worked out every tree and building in the estate.’

“This was an unexpected piece of luck. My data were coming more

quickly than I could have reasonably hoped.

“‘Tell me,’ I asked, ‘did your butler ever ask you such a

question?’

“Reginald Musgrave looked at me in astonishment. ‘Now that you

call it to my mind,’ he answered, ‘Brunton _did_ ask me about the

height of the tree some months ago, in connection with some

little argument with the groom.’

“This was excellent news, Watson, for it showed me that I was on

the right road. I looked up at the sun. It was low in the

heavens, and I calculated that in less than an hour it would lie

just above the topmost branches of the old oak. One condition

mentioned in the Ritual would then be fulfilled. And the shadow

of the elm must mean the farther end of the shadow, otherwise the

trunk would have been chosen as the guide. I had, then, to find

where the far end of the shadow would fall when the sun was just

clear of the oak.”

“That must have been difficult, Holmes, when the elm was no

longer there.”

“Well, at least I knew that if Brunton could do it, I could also.

Besides, there was no real difficulty. I went with Musgrave to

his study and whittled myself this peg, to which I tied this long

string with a knot at each yard. Then I took two lengths of a

fishing-rod, which came to just six feet, and I went back with my

client to where the elm had been. The sun was just grazing the

top of the oak. I fastened the rod on end, marked out the

direction of the shadow, and measured it. It was nine feet in

length.

“Of course the calculation now was a simple one. If a rod of six

feet threw a shadow of nine, a tree of sixty-four feet would

throw one of ninety-six, and the line of the one would of course

be the line of the other. I measured out the distance, which

brought me almost to the wall of the house, and I thrust a peg

into the spot. You can imagine my exultation, Watson, when within

two inches of my peg I saw a conical depression in the ground. I

knew that it was the mark made by Brunton in his measurements,

and that I was still upon his trail.

“From this starting-point I proceeded to step, having first taken

the cardinal points by my pocket-compass. Ten steps with each

foot took me along parallel with the wall of the house, and again

I marked my spot with a peg. Then I carefully paced off five to

the east and two to the south. It brought me to the very

threshold of the old door. Two steps to the west meant now that I

was to go two paces down the stone-flagged passage, and this was

the place indicated by the Ritual.

“Never have I felt such a cold chill of disappointment, Watson.

For a moment it seemed to me that there must be some radical

mistake in my calculations. The setting sun shone full upon the

passage floor, and I could see that the old, foot-worn grey

stones with which it was paved were firmly cemented together, and

had certainly not been moved for many a long year. Brunton had

not been at work here. I tapped upon the floor, but it sounded

the same all over, and there was no sign of any crack or crevice.

But, fortunately, Musgrave, who had begun to appreciate the

meaning of my proceedings, and who was now as excited as myself,

took out his manuscript to check my calculation.

“‘And under,’ he cried. ‘You have omitted the “and under.”’

“I had thought that it meant that we were to dig, but now, of

course, I saw at once that I was wrong. ‘There is a cellar under

this then?’ I cried.

“‘Yes, and as old as the house. Down here, through this door.’

“We went down a winding stone stair, and my companion, striking a

match, lit a large lantern which stood on a barrel in the corner.

In an instant it was obvious that we had at last come upon the

true place, and that we had not been the only people to visit the

spot recently.

“It had been used for the storage of wood, but the billets, which

had evidently been littered over the floor, were now piled at the

sides, so as to leave a clear space in the middle. In this space

lay a large and heavy flagstone with a rusted iron ring in the

centre to which a thick shepherd’s-check muffler was attached.

“‘By Jove!’ cried my client. ‘That’s Brunton’s muffler. I have

seen it on him, and could swear to it. What has the villain been

doing here?’

“At my suggestion a couple of the county police were summoned to

be present, and I then endeavoured to raise the stone by pulling

on the cravat. I could only move it slightly, and it was with the

aid of one of the constables that I succeeded at last in carrying

it to one side. A black hole yawned beneath into which we all

peered, while Musgrave, kneeling at the side, pushed down the

lantern.

“A small chamber about seven feet deep and four feet square lay

open to us. At one side of this was a squat, brass-bound wooden

box, the lid of which was hinged upwards, with this curious

old-fashioned key projecting from the lock. It was furred outside

by a thick layer of dust, and damp and worms had eaten through

the wood, so that a crop of livid fungi was growing on the inside

of it. Several discs of metal, old coins apparently, such as I

hold here, were scattered over the bottom of the box, but it

contained nothing else.

“At the moment, however, we had no thought for the old chest, for

our eyes were riveted upon that which crouched beside it. It was

the figure of a man, clad in a suit of black, who squatted down

upon his hams with his forehead sunk upon the edge of the box and

his two arms thrown out on each side of it. The attitude had

drawn all the stagnant blood to the face, and no man could have

recognised that distorted liver-coloured countenance; but his

height, his dress, and his hair were all sufficient to show my

client, when we had drawn the body up, that it was indeed his

missing butler. He had been dead some days, but there was no

wound or bruise upon his person to show how he had met his

dreadful end. When his body had been carried from the cellar we

found ourselves still confronted with a problem which was almost

as formidable as that with which we had started.

“I confess that so far, Watson, I had been disappointed in my

investigation. I had reckoned upon solving the matter when once I

had found the place referred to in the Ritual; but now I was

there, and was apparently as far as ever from knowing what it was

which the family had concealed with such elaborate precautions.

It is true that I had thrown a light upon the fate of Brunton,

but now I had to ascertain how that fate had come upon him, and

what part had been played in the matter by the woman who had

disappeared. I sat down upon a keg in the corner and thought the

whole matter carefully over.

“You know my methods in such cases, Watson. I put myself in the

man’s place and, having first gauged his intelligence, I try to

imagine how I should myself have proceeded under the same

circumstances. In this case the matter was simplified by

Brunton’s intelligence being quite first-rate, so that it was

unnecessary to make any allowance for the personal equation, as

the astronomers have dubbed it. He knew that something valuable

was concealed. He had spotted the place. He found that the stone

which covered it was just too heavy for a man to move unaided.

What would he do next? He could not get help from outside, even

if he had some one whom he could trust, without the unbarring of

doors and considerable risk of detection. It was better, if he

could, to have his helpmate inside the house. But whom could he

ask? This girl had been devoted to him. A man always finds it

hard to realize that he may have finally lost a woman’s love,

however badly he may have treated her. He would try by a few

attentions to make his peace with the girl Howells, and then

would engage her as his accomplice. Together they would come at

night to the cellar, and their united force would suffice to

raise the stone. So far I could follow their actions as if I had

actually seen them.

“But for two of them, and one a woman, it must have been heavy

work the raising of that stone. A burly Sussex policeman and I

had found it no light job. What would they do to assist them?

Probably what I should have done myself. I rose and examined

carefully the different billets of wood which were scattered

round the floor. Almost at once I came upon what I expected. One

piece, about three feet in length, had a very marked indentation

at one end, while several were flattened at the sides as if they

had been compressed by some considerable weight. Evidently, as

they had dragged the stone up they had thrust the chunks of wood

into the chink, until at last, when the opening was large enough

to crawl through, they would hold it open by a billet placed

lengthwise, which might very well become indented at the lower

end, since the whole weight of the stone would press it down on

to the edge of this other slab. So far I was still on safe

ground.

“And now how was I to proceed to reconstruct this midnight drama?

Clearly, only one could fit into the hole, and that one was

Brunton. The girl must have waited above. Brunton then unlocked

the box, handed up the contents presumably—since they were not to

be found—and then—and then what happened?

“What smouldering fire of vengeance had suddenly sprung into

flame in this passionate Celtic woman’s soul when she saw the man

who had wronged her—wronged her, perhaps, far more than we

suspected—in her power? Was it a chance that the wood had

slipped, and that the stone had shut Brunton into what had become

his sepulchre? Had she only been guilty of silence as to his

fate? Or had some sudden blow from her hand dashed the support

away and sent the slab crashing down into its place? Be that as

it might, I seemed to see that woman’s figure still clutching at

her treasure trove and flying wildly up the winding stair, with

her ears ringing perhaps with the muffled screams from behind her

and with the drumming of frenzied hands against the slab of stone

which was choking her faithless lover’s life out.

“Here was the secret of her blanched face, her shaken nerves, her

peals of hysterical laughter on the next morning. But what had

been in the box? What had she done with that? Of course, it must

have been the old metal and pebbles which my client had dragged

from the mere. She had thrown them in there at the first

opportunity to remove the last trace of her crime.

“For twenty minutes I had sat motionless, thinking the matter

out. Musgrave still stood with a very pale face, swinging his

lantern and peering down into the hole.

“‘These are coins of Charles the First,’ said he, holding out the

few which had been in the box; ‘you see we were right in fixing

our date for the Ritual.’

“‘We may find something else of Charles the First,’ I cried, as

the probable meaning of the first two questions of the Ritual

broke suddenly upon me. ‘Let me see the contents of the bag which

you fished from the mere.’

“We ascended to his study, and he laid the _débris_ before me. I

could understand his regarding it as of small importance when I

looked at it, for the metal was almost black and the stones

lustreless and dull. I rubbed one of them on my sleeve, however,

and it glowed afterwards like a spark in the dark hollow of my

hand. The metal work was in the form of a double ring, but it had

been bent and twisted out of its original shape.

“‘You must bear in mind,’ said I, ‘that the Royal party made head

in England even after the death of the King, and that when they

at last fled they probably left many of their most precious

possessions buried behind them, with the intention of returning

for them in more peaceful times.’

“‘My ancestor, Sir Ralph Musgrave, was a prominent Cavalier and

the right-hand man of Charles the Second in his wanderings,’ said

my friend.

“‘Ah, indeed!’ I answered. ‘Well now, I think that really should

give us the last link that we wanted. I must congratulate you on

coming into the possession, though in rather a tragic manner of a

relic which is of great intrinsic value, but of even greater

importance as an historical curiosity.’

“‘What is it, then?’ he gasped in astonishment.

“‘It is nothing less than the ancient crown of the Kings of

England.’

“‘The crown!’

“‘Precisely. Consider what the Ritual says: How does it run?

“Whose was it?” “His who is gone.” That was after the execution

of Charles. Then, “Who shall have it?” “He who will come.” That

was Charles the Second, whose advent was already foreseen. There

can, I think, be no doubt that this battered and shapeless diadem

once encircled the brows of the royal Stuarts.’

“‘And how came it in the pond?’

“‘Ah, that is a question that will take some time to answer.’ And

with that I sketched out to him the whole long chain of surmise

and of proof which I had constructed. The twilight had closed in

and the moon was shining brightly in the sky before my narrative

was finished.

“‘And how was it then that Charles did not get his crown when he

returned?’ asked Musgrave, pushing back the relic into its linen

bag.

“‘Ah, there you lay your finger upon the one point which we shall

probably never be able to clear up. It is likely that the

Musgrave who held the secret died in the interval, and by some

oversight left this guide to his descendant without explaining

the meaning of it. From that day to this it has been handed down

from father to son, until at last it came within reach of a man

who tore its secret out of it and lost his life in the venture.’

“And that’s the story of the Musgrave Ritual, Watson. They have

the crown down at Hurlstone—though they had some legal bother and

a considerable sum to pay before they were allowed to retain it.

I am sure that if you mentioned my name they would be happy to

show it to you. Of the woman nothing was ever heard, and the

probability is that she got away out of England and carried

herself and the memory of her crime to some land beyond the

seas.”

VII.