13 #2
The whole was placed before Mr. Goode amid general expressions of approval.
He looked down upon it with unconcealed satisfaction.
"The Professor explained to me," said he, "that such a pastry shell was never intended merely as decoration. It protected the contents throughout the lengthy process of baking and served as the proper vessel in which they were presented."
He smiled.
"I trust you will find that what lies within proves equal to the appearance."
Taking up a long carving knife, he continued.
"The filling consists of venison, game birds, mushrooms, herbs, and dried fruits, all prepared according to a medieval receipt which Professor Stratton unearthed after a considerable amount of research."
"I believe," observed Cedric Frobisher cheerfully, "that we have every confidence in Professor Stratton by now."
General laughter followed.
Mr. Goode carefully cut through the heavy lid.
As it was lifted away, a fragrant cloud of richly scented steam rose into the candlelit room.
The aroma which escaped was superb.
One could distinguish the venison immediately, mingled with spices, wine, herbs, and the unmistakable richness of slow-cooked game.
Several appreciative exclamations arose around the table.
"I believe," murmured Sir Reginald Pell, "that we are about to be rewarded."
Mr. Goode himself began serving generous portions.
A stack of warmed plates had already been placed beside him, and he worked with evident pleasure, carefully ensuring that each guest received an ample helping before passing the plate to the waiting servant, who carried it to its destination.
Mine had scarcely been placed before me when the butler quietly appeared beside our host. He bent discreetly and murmured something which none of us could hear.
Mr. Goode frowned.
"What, now?"
The butler spoke again in little more than a whisper, his grave expression unaltered.
Our host's annoyance slowly gave way to resignation.
He gave a short sigh and laid down the serving spoon.
"Very well," he said, before motioning to the butler to leave the room.
He looked apologetically around the table.
"Gentlemen, pray continue without me. I have something which apparently demands my immediate attention. I shall not be long."
There were several nods of understanding, and indeed everyone's attention had already begun returning toward the excellent pie before them.
Mr. Goode had almost reached the door when Holmes's voice rang suddenly across the room.
"I entreat everyone gathered here not to consume a single mouthful of this dish."
The effect was extraordinary.
Every movement ceased.
Forks remained suspended halfway to mouths.
Several gentlemen slowly turned in their chairs.
At the doorway Mr. Goode stopped as though rooted to the spot and turned. I shall never forget the expression upon his face.
It was not merely surprise.
For one brief instant every trace of genial hospitality disappeared, leaving something cold, watchful, and altogether unfamiliar as his eyes met those of Sherlock Holmes.
The silence became almost oppressive. There were now no servants remaining in the room, only Stanley Goode and his guests.
It was Sir Oswald Drury who at length broke the spell.
"My dear Mr. Holmes," said he in a tone of genuine bewilderment, "why ever not?"
Holmes rose slowly to his feet.
"Because," said he quietly, "it is lethal."
A sharp intake of breath seemed to pass around the table.
Sir Reginald Pell stared down at the untouched portion before him and then back at Holmes.
"Lethal?" he repeated. "But how?"
Holmes did not immediately answer.
Instead, he looked steadily toward the doorway.
"Mr. Goode," said he, "perhaps you would be so good as to rejoin us. You might even take a few mouthfuls of this dish, if you wish to prove that what I am saying is incorrect."
For the briefest instant Stanley Goode remained perfectly motionless.
Then, without uttering a word, he turned and disappeared.
A second later we heard rapid footsteps echoing through the corridor beyond.
"He is running!" cried Algernon Preece.
"Where is he going?" demanded Cedric Frobisher.
Holmes did not move.
"To the carriage waiting behind this house."
I started involuntarily.
So that was its purpose.
Holmes inclined his head.
"But Mr. Goode will not get far. Knowing that he would almost certainly wish to escape after the conclusion of what he had planned for this evening, I informed the appropriate police force beforehand."
His eyes rested upon the open door.
"The property has been surrounded for some time. They will stop anyone attempting to leave."
As I listened, my thoughts flew instantly back to our arrival. The waiting carriage. The luggage. I had imagined the dim figure which had appeared for a moment from behind the great oak before disappearing into the darkness to be some sinister observer.
Now I realized the far likelier explanation.
It had been one of the concealed police officers.
Rupert Blaine rose abruptly.
"Mr. Holmes," said he sharply, "will you kindly explain what all this means?"
"Absolutely," added Edmund Thane. "We are entitled to some explanation."
Holmes gave a slight inclination of the head.
"Yes," he said almost mildly. "I believe you are."
He rested one hand upon the back of his chair.
"You are all aware, gentlemen, of the unfortunate gentleman who was recently found stabbed in the cemetery attached to this estate."
There was general assent.
"It was Professor Stratton."
"The very man who assisted in planning this evening."
"And you will have read of his final words," Holmes continued, "'Beware the coffin.'"
Again the company nodded as Holmes extended one hand toward the great pie standing before us.
"But the warning did not, as at first seemed likely, concern a burial coffin at all."
Puzzled expressions met this assertion.
"In medieval cookery," Holmes continued, "the substantial pastry case surrounding such a pie was itself commonly known as the coffin. Or commonly c-o-f-y-n, to use the spelling of the time. But the sound of the word was the same. Professor Stratton had devoted decades to the study of medieval life.
During the preparations for this banquet he had immersed himself still more deeply in its language and customs. In his final moments, it was therefore the medieval term for the pastry case, rather than the modern one such as 'crust,' or even more plainly 'pie,' which instinctively came to his lips."
A murmur of astonishment passed around the table.
"The coffin?" repeated Sir Oswald.
Holmes nodded.
"Precisely."
Cedric Frobisher looked from the pie to Holmes in evident bewilderment.
"And how on earth did you discover that?"
"By recently conducting a somewhat exhaustive course of research into medieval life."
At that moment my thoughts flew back to the mountain of volumes which had occupied every available surface in Baker Street.
The treatises upon medieval customs.
Domestic life.
Language.
Cookery.
Heraldry.
What had appeared little more than scholarly obsession suddenly assumed complete significance.
"It then appeared to me," Holmes continued, "that such a coffin could be dangerous in only one obvious fashion."
He looked quietly around the table.
"If, together with the filling, it contained some form of lethal poison."
Needless to say, no one touched the food before him. Every plate remained exactly where it had been placed.
"Once I believed I understood the warning," Holmes went on, "there remained only one essential question."
He paused.
"Motive."
His voice remained calm and measured.
"I therefore sought assistance from someone capable of obtaining information infinitely more rapidly than I could hope to gather it myself."
I knew immediately that he referred to Mycroft.
"I supplied him with the names Mr. Goode had already informed me would be attending this dinner."
Holmes looked from face to face.
"It was not a complete list."
"Was it not?" murmured Sir Reginald, who appeared almost to be in a state of shock.
"But I requested that he discover whether those names possessed anything whatever in common."
Holmes allowed the words to settle before continuing.
"He found only one point of connection—but one that was none the less most telling. You were all involved, in one capacity or another, in the affairs of Sir Matthew Goode."
Several gentlemen visibly stiffened.
"The former owner of Northleigh Manor invested much of his fortune in a proposed railway extension across his estates and the neighboring counties. When the company collapsed amid accusations that its directors had knowingly exaggerated the value of the undertaking,
thousands of investors lost their savings. Although Sir Matthew had been merely a non-executive director rather than an active manager, his social standing caused him to become the public face of the entire scandal. A civil action found him jointly liable for substantial losses.
His bank immediately called in its loans. Creditors forced the sale of a large portion of his estate, while a sustained campaign in the newspapers branded him a swindler. He maintained until his dying day that he himself had been no less a victim than those who had invested.
He died within a few years—financially ruined and publicly disgraced."
Holmes looked slowly around the table.
"The principal gentlemen involved in his downfall are gathered before me this evening."
His eyes rested first upon the elderly judge.
"Sir Reginald Pell presided over the civil action."
He turned slightly.
"Mr. Rupert Blaine appeared for the shareholders.
"Mr. Edmund Thane's banking company forced him to sell off some land.
"Mr. Cedric Frobisher's newspapers relentlessly portrayed Sir Matthew as the architect of the fraud.
"Sir Oswald Drury chaired the Board of Trade inquiry whose report condemned his conduct.
"Mr. Algernon Preece administered the bankruptcy and generally oversaw the sale of the part of the estate demanded by the bank."
Holmes paused briefly.