Free The Scroll of the Dead by David Stuart Davies Page B

accomplice.’
    ‘Yes. The pair of them now have three murders on their heads.’
    ‘Three?’
    ‘Daventry the night watchman; Sir George Faversham; and the poor devil who now lies in Melmoth’s coffin.’
    ‘You really think that they murdered Sir George because he could not or would not help them?’
    ‘Quite right, Watson. No doubt they approached him first with Setaph’s key, asking him for help in deciphering it with the promise of... well, any treasures found along with the Scroll of the Dead.’ Holmes gave a dry chuckle. ‘It was somewhat naive of them to make the approach directly; when Sir George failed to oblige them, for whatever reason, they had no option but to kill him.’
    ‘Because he knew their secret.’
    ‘Exactly.’
    I shuddered at the thought of such a cold-blooded murder and then brought to mind the pale, cruel face of Melmoth with that absurd, maniacal glitter in his eyes. There is something inhuman about that kind of calculated butchery,’ I said.
    ‘These are evil men, Watson. They delight in their sin for its own sake.’
    ‘You think we will find them at Holden Hall?’
    Holmes narrowed his eyes and blew out a thin wisp of smoke. ‘I cannot say for certain how events will fall out; but I am convinced that we shall find something to our advantage.’
    Holden Hall was some twenty miles out of the old cathedral city of Norwich, so we hired a pony and trap at the station and drove ourselves. After a pleasant spell along some country roads, we entered the village of Holden Parva and I espied the village inn, The Blacksmith’s Arms. ‘My stomach tells me it’s lunch time, Holmes,’ I said, indicating the hostelry. ‘I’ve had nothing to eat since breakfast at six this morning, and that was only a tepid cup of coffee and a piece of toast.’
    To my surprise, Holmes acquiesced to my request without objection. Tying our horse to a large iron ring fixed into the wall outside the inn, we entered. It was a rough and ready place with stone floors and simple wooden benches and stools, but all looked clean and tidy and the landlord, a short, dark-haired fellow, bade us a cheery welcome. We secured ourselves some bread, cheese and pickle, and a tankard of ale and sat at one of the benches to consume our fare. There were several other customers, men in rustic dress – moleskin trousers, gaiters, leather jerkins, and broad belts. A little knot of them leaned on the bar, deep in conversation with the landlord.
    Holmes remained silent throughout our meal, but he was observing all about him with careful scrutiny. When we had devoured the last of the cheese, the landlord came over to collect our plates.
    ‘That was just what the doctor ordered,’ said Holmes cheerily giving me a sly grin. ‘Tell me, landlord, I couldn’t help hearing you talking about the dreadful shooting accident that occurred up at the Hall a few days ago.’
    The rosy features of the innkeeper lost some of their colour. ‘You’ve heard about it then, have you sir? My ain’t it surprisin’ how news travels?’
    ‘I had business up at the Hall with Lord Felshaw’s son and I was told he was away attending a funeral. That is how I came to know of the shooting.’
    ‘Aye, it’s a wicked affair,’ cried one of the men at the bar, who boasted a full thatch of yellow hair with a matching beard that was in danger of engulfing his whole face. ‘It may be wrong of me to say so, but those two, young master Tobias and his peculiar friend, have been asking for some disaster to fall upon their heads for some time.’
    ‘I take it that the “young master” is not liked?’
    This remark provoked a chorus of guffaws.
    ‘You can say that again, sir,’ grinned the landlord. ‘Apart from anythin’ else, he ain’t natural.’ He winked grotesquely at Holmes. ‘If you get my meanin‘. Not what you’d call... a man.’
    Holmes responded with an expression of shrewd comprehension.
    ‘Always having strange parties and the like