3
The journey into East Sussex passed without incident, and by the middle of the following afternoon our cab was turning between a pair of imposing stone gateposts surmounted by weathered heraldic beasts whose features had been softened by centuries of wind and rain.
Beyond them stretched the grounds of Northleigh Manor.
The long drive wound gently through rolling parkland where ancient oaks cast broad shadows across the closely cropped grass.
Here and there I caught glimpses of grazing deer disappearing amongst the trees, while beyond them the house itself gradually revealed its full proportions.
It was an impressive building of mellow gray stone, added to and altered by successive generations until Norman solidity had yielded, in places, to later Tudor and Georgian refinements.
Yet despite these alterations there remained about the place an unmistakable air of great antiquity.
Our carriage had scarcely drawn up before the principal door when it was opened from within.
A heavily built gentleman in his late thirties descended the broad stone steps with surprising agility.
His face was broad and deeply colored by years spent in the open air, while a pair of frank blue eyes regarded us with unaffected warmth.
There was nothing in his appearance to suggest either sophistication or great learning.
Indeed, my first impression was of an honest country squire who would have felt considerably more at home discussing crops or horses than mysterious murders.
"Mr. Holmes? Dr. Watson?" he exclaimed, advancing with both hands outstretched. "I cannot tell you how grateful I am that you have come."
His words tumbled over one another in his eagerness, and I noticed that, as his excitement overcame him, a slight dribble of saliva escaped from one corner of his mouth.
He dabbed at it almost immediately with a large handkerchief, apparently so accustomed to the little embarrassment that it scarcely interrupted his flow of conversation.
"You are exceedingly kind—exceedingly kind indeed. I scarcely dared hope you would accept my invitation."
Holmes shook his hand.
"How do you do, Mr. Goode."
The owner of the estate seized my hand with equal enthusiasm before stepping aside to admit us.
"I assure you, gentlemen, I can make neither head nor tail of the dreadful business. Every blessed newspaper in England appears determined to descend upon this place. They come from morning until night, asking the same questions over and over again, and I have no answers to give them."
"I can well imagine that such attention must prove tiresome," said Holmes.
"Tiresome?" cried our host. "It has become almost unbearable. They ask what poor Professor Stratton meant by those terrible last words, whether I suspect anyone, whether there are old legends attached to the estate, whether there are ghosts and ghouls and heaven knows what else in the graveyard.
One fellow even wished to know whether I believed there to be a curse upon the family. A curse!"
He gave a short, incredulous laugh. "I scarcely know what to think anymore."
As he spoke he led us into the entrance hall.
I found myself involuntarily looking about me.
The hall itself was undeniably handsome.
Its stone floor had been worn smooth by generations of feet, while dark oak beams crossed the lofty ceiling overhead.
A broad staircase rose gracefully to the upper floor, and several portraits of long-dead members of the Goode family looked down from paneled walls.
Yet there was something oddly unsettling about the place.
It took me several moments to determine precisely what it was.
The house felt strangely bare.
Not neglected, nor impoverished in the ordinary sense, for everything which remained was spotless and well maintained.
Rather, it seemed as though many of the possessions one naturally expected to find in a house of such age and importance had quietly vanished.
Large stretches of paneling stood empty where portraits had perhaps once hung.
Alcoves appeared intended for statues which were no longer there.
The furniture, though of excellent quality, was surprisingly sparse, leaving portions of the spacious rooms with an almost echoing emptiness.
I found myself wondering whether the estate had always possessed so restrained an appearance.
Mr. Goode appeared entirely unconscious of the impression his home created.
He conducted us into a comfortable morning room overlooking the south lawn, where coffee had already been laid.
When we had all taken our seats, Holmes accepted a cup from the host before placing it carefully upon the table beside him.
"Mr. Goode," said he, "if I have understood your letter correctly, you wish me to discover two things."
Our host nodded earnestly.
"Very much so."
"First, who murdered Professor Stratton."
"Yes."
"And secondly, what he intended by the extraordinary warning he uttered before his death."
Mr. Goode sighed deeply.
"I scarcely know which mystery troubles me the more, Mr. Holmes. The poor Professor was one of the finest gentlemen I have ever known, and now he is dead. Then there are those dreadful words. I turn them over in my mind a dozen times every day,
yet they make no more sense to me now than when I first heard my gardener report them."
Holmes nodded thoughtfully.
"Then let us begin with what appears the most obvious question."
"Certainly."
"Why, exactly, was Professor Stratton staying at Northleigh Manor?"
The transformation in our host was immediate.
The anxiety which had clouded his features seemed, for the moment at least, to lift.
"Ah!" he exclaimed. "That, at least, is more easily explained. But it is best explained in a particular room of the house. We can go there after we have drunk our coffee."
"The coffee can wait," said Holmes, rising at once.
"Very well, Mr. Holmes," said Goode, also standing up. "If you will both be so good as to follow me, gentlemen, I believe I can show you far better than I can tell you."