The Scroll of the Dead by David Stuart Davies Page A

investigation. He would explain it all at the time it suited him and not before, despite any pleas from me. If I had learned anything from my years with Sherlock Holmes, it was patience.
    We continued our journey to Holden Hall, leaving all signs of habitation behind. We became enveloped in a green world of rustling, budding greenery, birdsong and animal calls – a natural world far removed from the greed and cruelty of mankind. I had slipped into areverie about man’s inhumanity to man when Holmes nudged my elbow and pointed. Through the trees, I observed in the distance a great house, with a large stretch of water beyond.
    ‘There lies our destination.’
    ‘The lake?’
    My companion smiled. ‘Not quite. Alfred’s cottage. Remember our loquacious friend back at the inn informed us that his cottage was down by the lake. Now, in order to make our visit less public, we’ll slip over the wall yonder and follow the line of trees, using it as a screen, until we reach the water.’
    ‘What if we’re spotted – apprehended? There must be a game-keeper on patrol.’
    ‘I will think of something, never fear.’
    ‘We may not be given the opportunity to explain ourselves.’
    ‘You always look on the black side, Watson. You have your revolver with you, haven’t you? Good. Now do come on.’
    Leaving the horse and trap off the road behind a thicket, we clambered over the low wall and entered the grounds of Holden Hall.
    By now it was two in the afternoon and the early promise of a fine spring day was dwindling. Amorphous grey clouds were forming in the sky, gradually but relentlessly blocking out any trace of the pale eggshell blue. The breeze had also stiffened, rattling the branches above our heads, shaking the new green shoots wildly.
    There was no given path and so we aimed ourselves in the direction of the lake and set off. After travelling some three hundred yards through the wood, the thick, green undergrowth pressing in on us from both sides, Holmes stopped and pulled an eyeglass from his coat. Then he passed it to me, indicating where I should look. I moved the eyeglass slowly across the terrain beyond the trees, scanning the grey choppy waters of the lake, then shifted my gaze to the greensward on shore andup towards the bank of trees on the horizon. It was then that I observed it: a little cottage perched on the edge of the wood above the lake. It was a small, ramshackle building of honey-coloured stone. The garden appeared to be overgrown and the windows were bleared with dirt. ‘Alfred’s cottage,’ I whispered.
    ‘It must be. Observe how the wood curves around behind it. We can make our way to the rear of the building by continuing to use the trees as a screen,’ he said, pocketing his telescope. ‘Come along, Watson, the game’s afoot.’ And with this utterance, he was off at great speed through the undergrowth.
    As we moved through the trees in line with the sweep of the lake, we heard a gunshot echo in the woods behind us. We dropped to the ground and listened. Moments later there was another sharp crack of gunfire.
    ‘There is a gamekeeper about,’ I whispered harshly.
    And going about his appointed task, by the sound of it,’ remarked Holmes with a tight smile. ‘Those shots were a fair distance away. Provided we keep our senses alert, we should have no difficulty escaping his notice.’
    We waited in silence for some little time but heard no further noise of gunfire, and so we recommenced our trek through the undergrowth. As we moved, I strained my ears to pick up any unusual sound, anything to signal that danger was near, but apart from the wind through the trees and the occasional animal noise, I heard nothing of significance.
    Within ten minutes we had reached the section of the wood directly behind the cottage. The building appeared still and empty. There was no smoke spiralling from its drunken chimney pot and no sight nor sound to suggest that it was occupied.
    ‘I hope we are doing