6
Leaving the dining room behind, Mr. Goode conducted us out through a side door and into the open air.
"We may as well visit the cemetery while we are about it," said he. "It is only a short walk."
A narrow gravel path led us through a pleasant stretch of gardens before the cultivated grounds gradually yielded to a more secluded part of the estate. Ancient yews gathered thickly ahead, their dark branches casting a cool shade despite the brightness of the afternoon.
Presently an old iron gate came into view.
Beyond it lay the family burial ground.
It was much smaller than I had expected.
Weathered headstones stood at irregular angles amongst the grass, while here and there crumbling stone tombs had settled perceptibly into the earth over the course of centuries.
The entire place possessed the melancholy tranquility common to those ancient cemeteries which have long since ceased to receive the dead.
Mr. Goode pushed open the gate.
"We no longer use this place," he explained as we entered. "My own father and mother both lie in the parish church a mile or so from here."
He glanced affectionately about the little enclosure.
"I suppose there comes a time when every family churchyard must itself become history."
Holmes made no reply.
His keen gray eyes were already moving quietly from grave to grave.
Mr. Goode led us some twenty yards into the cemetery before stopping beside one of the oldest monuments.
"It was here," he said softly.
I looked down.
There was, of course, no visible trace of the tragedy now. The grass had recovered, and nature had already begun erasing the marks of violence with her customary indifference.
"It was just there," Mr. Goode continued, indicating a patch of ground beside the stone. "Poor Professor Stratton was lying exactly where you now stand, Dr. Watson."
For a few moments none of us spoke.
Then Mr. Goode raised a hand toward an elderly man who was working methodically amongst the graves some distance away.
"Thomas!"
The old gardener straightened slowly, removed a clump of weeds from his gloves, and made his way towards us.
He touched his cloth cap respectfully.
"You wished to see me, sir?"
"Mr. Holmes would like to ask you one or two questions."
The gardener turned at once to Holmes.
"I'll answer as best I can, sir."
Holmes smiled reassuringly.
"I have no doubt you shall."
He paused before continuing.
"You were the gentleman who discovered Professor Stratton?"
"Yes, sir."
The old fellow shifted his weight uneasily.
"I came to clear the weeds, same as always, and there he was, lying upon the grass."
His eyes drifted briefly toward the spot beside us.
"I thought he were dead at first."
"You examined him?"
"I knelt beside him, sir. I weren't rightly sure what to do."
His weathered face seemed to pale slightly at the memory.
"I'd just about made up my mind to fetch Mr. Goode when... when he opened his eyes."
"And spoke?"
"Yes, sir."
"What precisely did he say?"
The gardener frowned in concentration.
"It were something about a coffin."
"'Beware the coffin'?"
"Yes, sir."
He nodded slowly.
"That was what was said, as near as I could make it out."
He hesitated.
"I wouldn't rightly swear to every single word, mind you. He were very weak by then, and his voice... well, it were hardly more than a whisper."
Holmes inclined his head.
"Quite understandable."
The gardener seemed relieved.
"I've wondered about it often since, sir."
"I dare say you have."
Mr. Goode smiled kindly.
"Thank you, Thomas. That will be all."
"Very good, sir."
Again the old man touched his cap before quietly returning to his work.
I found myself watching him as he stooped once more amongst the graves.
There was something about the easy courtesy with which Mr. Goode addressed even so humble a servant that impressed me favorably. Nothing in his manner suggested condescension. Indeed, he appeared genuinely grateful for the old fellow's efforts.
Holmes, meanwhile, had wandered a little farther into the cemetery.
The headstones were of great antiquity.
Many had become so worn beneath centuries of wind and rain that scarcely a single inscription remained legible.
Lichen spread unchecked across their surfaces, while several had settled into such pronounced angles that they seemed only a few winters away from disappearing beneath the earth altogether.
Mr. Goode looked thoughtfully across them.
"I cannot imagine," he murmured, "what poor Professor Stratton intended by those words."
He slowly shook his head.
"'Beware the coffin.'"
His eyes moved from one ancient grave to another.
"What on earth could he have meant?"
Holmes did not immediately answer.
Instead, he asked quietly,
"Are there any local legends attached to this cemetery, Mr. Goode?"
"Our family burial ground?"
"Yes."
Mr. Goode smiled faintly.
"None worth repeating."
"No tales of hidden treasure? Secret passages? Restless spirits?"
"Oh, as a boy I frightened my friends who visited the estate to play with stories of ghosts wandering amongst the graves."
He gave a small laugh.
"But nothing more substantial?" said Holmes, his expression remaining serious.
"No."
He answered without hesitation.
"I have lived here all my life, Mr. Holmes, and never heard anything that could seriously explain Professor Stratton's warning."
Holmes nodded.
"Did Professor Stratton himself ever show any particular interest in this cemetery?"