“Whatever could have left so many hoof prints?” I asked, but no answer came.
“We have found them here before, sir, regularly for the last three months, sometimes numbering in their hundreds, cutting across the fields in a single flight.”
“There are no herds of wild horses in the area?”
“Not to my knowledge, sir, not since the grazing lands were fenced.”
“When was the last time the prints appeared?” asked Holmes.
“Two weeks ago to the day, sir.”
“And before that?”
“The Saturday previous, just after dark.”
“That is suggestive,” Holmes replied, but I could not see how.
Later that evening we joined Sir Henry and his daughter in the candlelit retiring room after dinner. Usually by this stage Holmes had a rough idea of what he was up against, but this time he remained uncharacteristically silent on the cause.
“Did your groom have any enemies?” he asked, stroking his thin nose thoughtfully. It was the kind of elementary question he usually had no need of raising.
“None at all,” said Sir Henry, pouring brandies. “He was also a Crimean veteran. Military men form allegiances that last a lifetime.”
“Men without enemies are rarely found with their throats cut,” muttered Holmes, sinking into his armchair. “I think I should hear more about this local legend of yours.”
“Then you should speak to Reverend Horniman,” said Sir Henry. “I understand he is something of an expert on the subject.”
As we retired for bed, Miss Woodham stopped Holmes on the landing, anxious to speak to him beyond the hearing of Sir Henry.
“Mr. Holmes, I do believe the Devil is at work here,” she whispered. “My father is in fear of his life, and even Mr. Charlton — usually the most stoic of gentlemen — seems to have taken fright. Something terrible is haunting this house, and you are our last hope.”
“I will do what I can, Miss Woodham, I promise you that.” Holmes laid a reassuring hand on her arm, but would say no more.
The next morning dawned bare and bitter, but dry at least. We walked to the parish church, planning to have a word with the reverend after his first service.
“We are honoured to have encouraged the attention of London’s famous consulting detective,” said Rev. Horniman, welcoming us into the now emptied church, “but this is a terrible business.”
“I was hoping you could enlighten us about your village’s strange superstition,” said Holmes.
“I can show you something that has lately come to light concerning the legend, if that would help,” the Reverend offered. He returned from the sacristy bearing a parcel of oilskin cloth and carefully unwrapped it. “This was found buried in the parish grounds. Our gravedigger was turning sod in preparation for a new grave when his spade struck something hard.”
Inside the cloth was a glistening medal with an ornate clasp, being in the form of an oak leaf with an acorn at each extremity.
“But why would anyone bury such a thing?” I asked, looking up at Holmes. My companion seemed thunderstruck, and with barely another word set off in the direction of the village. It was all I could do to keep up with him.
“Really, Holmes,” I exclaimed, “I think you might have been a little more civil to the Reverend, he was only trying to help.”
“Civility has no importance when lives are at stake,” came the reply. “Come, my friend, we must head back to the Barley Mow.”
“Are we to view the corpse once more?” I ventured.
“No,” said Holmes, “we must speak with the farmers who drink there.”
We found a surly group of red-faced men in dirty smocks seated around the bar. Holmes had realized that the best way to win them over was to stand a round of drinks, and soon had them talking. I had assumed he would want to prise gossip from them about the stable boy or the head groom, or perhaps about Sir Henry and his treatment of his tenants, but instead Holmes wanted to know about the patterns of the weather.
“This land is dipped between three hills,” said one of the farmers. “The rain clouds come a-sweeping over the trees and the air gets trapped, see, so we get more’an our fair share of storms — they start by swirling around in the vale and can’t break back out.”
Holmes turned to nudge me. “It is as I suspected,” he said. “And can you stout fellows recall the most recent sequence of storms?”
We came away with a full record of recent bad weather attested to by the farmers. I could not see the relevance of this information, and as Holmes hurried us away in the direction of the grange I asked him what he hoped to find.
“I have a part of the puzzle but no more than that,” he admitted. “To reach the true solution I begin to wonder if I must think the unthinkable. Let us catch up with Sir Henry, for I fear there is another storm coming in that could place him in great danger.”
“A storm?” I cried. “I realize we are in the countryside where there is a greater risk in such meteorological events, but surely the Major General has nothing to fear from bad weather.”
“It is not the storm Sir Henry has to fear,” replied Holmes, “but what hides inside it. Tell me, Watson, do you believe Our Majesty when she says that God has chosen the English people to lead the world?”
“Well, I believe she was elected by God to lead our nation, and as she is the head of the most powerful empire on Earth I imagine that gives us great strength.”
“Yes, but is it truly divine right? What if our belief is wrong?”
“It is something I cannot think about, save for the fact that, as a doctor, I believe that all peoples of the earth are created equal, and are just in different stages of development.”
“Hm. Wise words, my friend, but there are some who would find your opinions heresy. Come, we must find Sir Henry before another crime is enacted.”
“Surely you cannot think he is the culprit!” I interrupted.
“No, Watson, but I think the ghosts of his past are unleashing an unstoppable evil upon this estate.”
We reached the hall just as a fresh storm broke overhead. Divesting ourselves of our wet topcoats, we went to find the Major General, but were halted by Miss Woodham.
“There you are,” she said. “My father was quite unseated by the rising storm and has gone out to await your arrival — did you not pass him? He was going to the top of the drive.”
Holmes uttered an epithet not suited for female ears and turned on his heel. I followed, running to keep pace. We crossed the torn-up lawn and searched right and left. Sir Henry was standing between the lines of darkening beeches, but it was hard for me to keep sight of him. The rising gale was tearing leaves and even branches across our path.
“Can you hear that?” called Holmes. “It sounds like voices.”
Indeed, I fancied I heard in the blast of wind that caught my ear the sound of crying voices, in great pain, terror and yes — anger. The sky was bruised in roiling shades of black and brown. “We must get Sir Henry to safety!” I shouted. “The stables are at our back.”
With a few long strides, Holmes had seized the old military man and pulled him away, but even as he did so I saw the hoof prints begin to appear. They were puckering the soil directly ahead of Sir Henry, thundering toward him. “This is madness!” I cried. “It’s as if the very gates of Hell are opening!”
The ground spat and tore all around us, clods of earth flying in every direction as the unseen hooves smashed and crushed the turf underfoot. There was a terrible slashing in the air, and Sir Henry flinched as if struck.
Reaching the stables, we tore open the doors and thrust Sir Henry inside. He offered no resistance, and collapsed on the hay bales as we battened down the entrance once more. It was then I saw that he had been cut — not deeply, as Holmes had been able to pull him back from harm, but enough to cause a fast flow of surface blood from his arm. I tore a horse blanket into strips and quickly staunched the bleeding.