The Scroll of the Dead by David Stuart Davies

up at the Hall,’ chipped in another fellow at the bar, while the others nodded, all apparently warming to a favourite topic of conversation.
    ‘He was cruel, too,’ added the fellow with the yellow beard. ‘On one occasion he thrashed a groom for not saddling his horse properly. He was hurt so bad the poor fellow nearly died. His lordship’s father had the whole thing hushed up and the chap was paid handsomely not to bring charges.’
    ‘This Tobias appears to be a very unpleasant customer,’ observed Holmes darkly. ‘I begin to think that I was fortunate that he was away when I called. He sounds somewhat unstable.’
    ‘When you’ve money,’ announced a whippet-faced fellow with slurred speech, the one in the group who seemed to have consumed more beer than the rest, ‘when you’ve money, you can get away with murder.’
    There was a sudden silence and Holmes’ eyes twinkled merrily. ‘You’re not saying there was something amiss about the shooting accident, are you?’ he asked casually smiling at the men.
    They glanced at each other, apparently tongue-tied.
    ‘Well, let’s put it like this, mister,’ whippet-face announced suddenly ‘we’ve only got his lordship’s words as to what went on. He has the Devil’s own temper and I wouldn’t put it past him to have shot his friend over some argument or other.’
    ‘Shut up, now, Nathan,’ said the bearded drinker quietly, nudging his companion in the ribs.
    But Holmes was not going to let it stop there. The momentum was going nicely, and I could tell from his expression that he was aware there was more to know and that he wanted to know it. ‘But surely,’ he said in warm tones, as though he were an old friend of theirs, ‘there is the testimony of the estate worker who was with them when the accident happened.’
    Whippet-face laughed. ‘Good point, sir. Good point. Only young Alfred’s done a bunk.’
    ‘You mean he’s disappeared?’
    ‘We reckon it’s like Thompson the groom all over again. He’s been paid to go away and be quiet,’ said the landlord softly as he moved back to the bar.
    ‘He’s not been seen around the estate since the accident,’ said whippet-face.
    ‘What about at home?’ I asked.
    ‘He lives on his own, has a little cottage on the estate, down by the lake.’
    ‘Look, gentlemen, isn’t it time we changed the conversation, eh?’ said the landlord nervously. ‘Too much talk about the goings on up at the Hall and it’s likely to bring a curse on the Inn.’
    ‘The only curse I’ve got is the missus,’ moaned whippet-facemiserably; and then suddenly his face cracked into a wide beam as an infectious high-pitched whinny of merriment escaped his lips, causing his companions to laugh along with him. The tension was dispelled and they turned away from us and began to indulge in merry banter about whose turn it was to buy the next round of drinks.
    Holmes leaned over and whispered in my ear. ‘You are invaluable on a case, Watson. Your suggestion to take lunch here was a master stroke.’
    We left The Blacksmith’s Arms to the accompaniment of a series of nods and mumbled farewells from our lunch-time companions.
    ‘What those poor devils don’t know is that young Alfred hasn’t done a bunk with some loot,’ remarked Holmes once we had climbed aboard our trap. ‘He’s the corpse at Melmoth’s funeral today.’
    I felt a sudden chill at the thought of the heartless nerve required to contemplate and plan such an atrocious act, let alone carry it out.
    ‘I had deduced these facts while still in London,’ admitted my friend, ‘and although it is satisfying to have things confirmed, there is a greater purpose to our sojourn.’
    ‘Which is?’
    To test out a little theory of mine.’
    I was well aware that it was useless to enquire what this theory was. I knew my friend of old and how he loved to surprise me in his theatrical manner by revealing at the eleventh hour some remarkable development in the