The Scroll of the Dead by David Stuart Davies Page B

the right thing, Holmes. What if it belongs to some other estate worker?’
    Holmes ignored my remark and motioned me to follow him out of thewood, down towards the cottage. With some misgivings, I followed.
    There was a low wall and some outbuildings at the rear of the property, and a pen which at one time had obviously contained chickens. Holmes instructed me to stay by the wall while he, crouching low, crept up to the window and peered over the sill. He turned to me and shook his head. ‘You stay there and keep out of sight,’ he hissed, ‘and I will take a look around the front.’
    Before I had the opportunity to reply, my companion had disappeared down the side of the house. With a resigned shrug of the shoulders, I knelt down in the damp grass by the wall and waited. Time ticked by with no signs of movement in the house. A fine drizzle now began to fall and I tensed at every small noise: the creaking and rustle of the trees behind me, the unrecognisable cry of some woodland creature, and the wail of the wind as it swept around the corners of the cottage. The old cottage stared back at me blankly, the dirty windows and the begrimed door revealing none of its secrets.
    After a time, impatience overcame all other considerations. I rose to my feet, intent on following Holmes around to the front of the cottage, when suddenly the rear door began to move. I dropped to my knees again and watched. At first the handle trembled indignantly and then started to turn with a rusty creak. I held my breath as the door juddered away from the warped frame and began to open, reluctantly, an inch at a time. Automatically, my hand reached into my coat pocket for my revolver as a dark figure, its face in shadow, was revealed in the doorway.
    ‘Sorry to have kept you waiting,’ came a voice, obviously addressing me. ‘Do come in.’

Eight

T HE S ECRET O F T HE C OTTAGE
    T he dark figure emerged from the doorway into the daylight. It was Sherlock Holmes.
    ‘Come out, Watson,’ he said. ‘There is no further need to remain in hiding.’
    My friend ushered me into the cottage, pushing the door back into its weather-warped frame so that it closed behind us. He must have read the concern in my face, for he patted me on the back reassuringly. ‘Don’t look so worried, Watson. There is no one here other than us.’
    ‘A wasted journey, then.’
    ‘On the contrary,’ beamed Holmes, ‘this place is a real treasure house. Come, let me show you.’
    Taking my arm, he led me into a small kitchen. In the centre stood a rough wooden table on which lay a mouldy chunk of bread, three dirty tin plates, and some crockery. Over the grate hung a large greasy pot which contained the congealed dregs of some foul concoction.
    ‘Rather a lot of dirty dishes for one estate worker, don’t you think?’ Holmes said, pointedly.
    ‘A lazy estate worker. It is obvious that he has not washed up for some time.’
    ‘Not quite. Scrutiny of these plates reveals that they contain the remains of the same meal.’
    ‘What are you suggesting?’
    ‘On examining the debris here,’ he said, picking up what looked like the bones of a rabbit from one of the plates, ‘it seems clear that two people have partaken of this rabbit stew. Two plates, two mugs, and two sets of cutlery.’ He dropped the bone and it clattered noisily onto the plate.
    ‘Two people. But who?’
    ‘Come, Watson. Use your brain. Who has need to hide out here?’
    ‘I suppose you mean Melmoth. Alfred gets the coffin, and Melmoth inherits the cottage where he can lie low for a while.’
    Holmes nodded. And...?’
    ‘It can’t be Tobias Felshaw. He was in London yesterday and he will be at the funeral today.’
    ‘Indeed. So who is the other character in this puzzle who remains missing?’
    I thought for a moment, and then the answer came to me in a blinding flash. ‘You can’t mean Miss Andrews’ father, Sir Alistair?’ I cried.
    ‘Bull’s eye,’ he cried, rubbing his hands