Sherlock Holmes & the Coffin

Ben Stevens

The old family graveyard at Northleigh Manor lay some distance from the house, sheltered behind a stand of ancient yews whose dark branches had watched over the dead for centuries.

The manor itself had stood since Norman times, passing from one generation of the Goode family to the next while kingdoms rose and fell beyond its boundaries.

Time had altered the estate in countless small ways, yet this secluded corner seemed almost untouched by it.

The gardener seldom came there. The family no longer buried their dead amongst the weathered stones, preferring the parish church some distance away, and little attention was required beyond keeping the weeds from swallowing the oldest graves altogether.

With fork over one shoulder and a bundle of tools beneath his arm, the old man pushed open the rusted iron gate and made his way slowly between the leaning headstones.

The morning was remarkably still. No breeze stirred the yew branches overhead, and even the birds seemed reluctant to break the silence that rested upon the little burial ground.

Many of the gravestones had become so worn by centuries of rain that their inscriptions had vanished altogether, leaving only rounded blocks of lichen-covered stone whose occupants had long since been forgotten by everyone save God.

He had gone only a short distance when something lying upon the grass brought him abruptly to a halt.

A man.

For a moment the gardener simply stared, scarcely believing what he was seeing.

The stranger lay on his back beside one of the oldest graves, one arm twisted awkwardly beneath him.

His clothes were those of a gentleman, though now stained with damp earth.

Across the front of his coat spread a dark patch of fresh blood.

"Dear Heaven..."

The words escaped the gardener almost without thought.

He now hurried forward with surprising speed for a man of his years and dropped to one knee beside the motionless figure.

"Sir?"

There was no answer.

His hand hovered uncertainly before resting lightly upon the stranger's shoulder.

"Sir, can you hear me?"

Nothing.

The face was pale. The eyes remained closed. If not for the dreadful wound, the gardener might almost have believed the man asleep.

His own heart had begun to beat uncomfortably fast.

Someone must be told.

Mr. Goode.

The police.

A doctor.

He scarcely knew whom he ought to summon first.

He had begun to rise when the body beneath his hand suddenly drew a harsh, rattling breath.

The gardener recoiled in alarm.

Slowly—painfully—the man's eyelids opened.

His gaze wandered for an instant before fixing itself upon the old gardener. It was the look of a man already standing upon death's threshold, yet one desperate thought still compelled him to remain.

His lips moved.

The gardener bent low to catch the sound.

"Beware..."

The single word emerged little louder than a whisper.

"Yes, sir?"

The gardener instinctively took hold of the man's sleeve.

The dying man's chest rose once more with evident agony.

"Beware the... the coffin..."

The last word was scarcely audible.

The gardener frowned in bewilderment.

"The coffin?" he repeated.

But the stranger did not answer.

The faint light faded from his eyes. The muscles of his face relaxed, the terrible strain departed from it, and his head slowly turned upon the grass.

The silence returned.

Only then did the gardener realize that he was still clutching the dead man's sleeve.