2
Upon entering our sitting room one fine autumn morning, I found Sherlock Holmes standing before the fire with a letter already opened in his hand.
He had evidently read it through at least once, yet his eyes still rested thoughtfully upon the final page, while the long, thin fingers of his other hand absently toyed with his pipe.
Without raising his head, he said quietly,
"Have you happened to read of the recent affair at Northleigh Manor, Watson?"
"The murder of Professor Cecil Stratton?"
I replied, laying aside my hat and gloves.
"Certainly. One could scarcely avoid it. The newspapers have devoted columns to the business. Professor Stratton's body was discovered in the old family graveyard attached to the estate of—oh, but what is the name of the place?—Northleigh Manor."
Holmes slowly lowered the letter.
"His body was discovered there," he observed. "That is not necessarily to say that the murder itself occurred there."
"I thank you for the distinction, Holmes."
I fear my gratitude was less than heartfelt.
The corner of his mouth twitched almost imperceptibly.
"Nevertheless, my dear Watson, you are quite right. The affair has received an unusual amount of publicity. That is due in no small measure to Professor Stratton's final utterance."
"'Beware the coffin,'" I said.
"Precisely. Those three words have been extensively reported in every article concerning the murder."
"It is certainly an extraordinary warning. Every newspaper appears convinced that it must refer to one of the coffins in the old cemetery, and it is hard to think of any other interpretation of the words, yet no one seems able to explain what danger such a coffin could possibly present."
Holmes laid the letter upon the mantelpiece.
"Indeed."
"'Beware the coffin'," I repeated. "It is difficult to imagine words better calculated to bewilder everyone who heard them."
Holmes picked up the letter once more.
"My correspondent," said he, "finds himself confronted by precisely the same difficulty."
He handed me the sheet.
It was a courteous letter, written in a bold, straightforward hand, the writer introducing himself as Stanley Goode, owner of Northleigh Manor.
Having briefly outlined the tragic circumstances of Professor Stratton's death—though we well knew the circumstances already—he freely admitted himself unable to make any sense of the deceased gentleman's extraordinary warning,
and concluded by asking whether Sherlock Holmes would consent to investigate the affair.
I returned the letter.
"So it is Mr. Goode who has written."
"Yes."
"And the mystery of the warning, rather than the murder itself, is what interests you?"
Holmes smiled.
"Very much so, Watson. Murders, however regrettable, generally arise from motives that are sadly familiar. A dying man who uses his final breath to warn the world to 'beware the coffin' presents a far rarer problem."
He folded the letter with deliberate care and slipped it back into its envelope.
"I have already decided that Mr. Goode shall receive a favorable reply."
He glanced across at me.
"Tell me, Watson—would you care to accompany me to Northleigh Manor?"
"I should be delighted," I replied. "Indeed, I was hoping you would ask."
Holmes gave a satisfied nod.
"I thought as much."