The Institute turned out to be in a remote part of south London and Mr Edgar's lecture was not well attended. Nevertheless it was an interesting evening. Edgar was a man of about forty, with the long hair of a scholar and owlish spectacles that imparted a solemn aspect to his face though his lecture revealed a ready wit. His lantern slides, from photographs which he himself had taken, were not only informative but in some cases strikingly attractive. I recall particularly a picture of the great trilithon at Stonehenge lit from behind by the rising sun of midwinter. His arguments in favour of Lockyer's theory, though complex, were lucidly explained for a lay audience and convincing.
As the small audience trickled out at the lecture's end Holmes rose and approached Edgar who was giving some instruction to the lantern operator.
"We have enjoyed your talk," said Holmes,
"Thankyou, gentlemen," said the lecturer, "but I hope you are not journalists."
"Why should you think so?" asked Holmes.
"Because I have received a deal of attention from that profession since the death of Sir Andrew Lewis, and I have nothing to say to the press."
"You may be assured that we are not journalists," said my friend. "I am Sherlock Holmes, and this is my colleague, Dr Watson."
The lecturer's eyes widened behind his round spectacles. "The consulting detective!" he exclaimed, "What, may I ask, is your interest in archaeology?"
"You may have read", said Holmes, "my papers on 'Logical Deductions from Strata' and 'Early English Charters as a Guide to the Keltic Principalities', though they were not published under my own name, but it is not those that bring us here. I would welcome your assistance in my enquiries into the death of Sir Andrew Lewis."
"The death of Sir Andrew!" repeated Edgar. "Surely it is not thought that…"
Holmes raised a hand. "No, Mr Edgar. This is not a matter of murder. Sir Andrew, so far as anyone can tell, died naturally, but the manner of his death bears a strange similarity to the deaths and sicknesses that struck Addleton after the opening of the 'Black Barrow'."
"You believe in the so-called Curse of Addleton, then?" asked Edgar.
"Certainly not," said Holmes, "but I have reliable information that the village has suffered a strange disease since the excavation and it would be in the interest of Addleton's people to determine the cause."
"I know nothing of medicine, Mr Holmes. How can I help you?"
"Simply by telling me what you recall of the excavation at Addleton Moor," said Holmes.
The archaeologist began packing his lantern-slides away in their long wooden cases, while he spoke.
"It was a favourite project of Sir Andrew's," he began. "As a student he had been on Addleton Moor and seen that snow did not lie on the Black Barrow and grass did not grow upon it. He did not, of course, believe in the Curse, but he did believe that there was something unique about that barrow."
"So we went up there, that summer ten years ago, to see what we could find. The weather was fair and Addleton is a pretty village, but I tell you Mr Holmes, before we'd been there long I could have believed in the curse."
"Why was that?" asked Holmes.
Edgar indicated his slides. "One of my functions", he said, "was to take photographs for Sir Andrew. I had no difficulty taking pictures of the Moor, of the other tumuli upon it or anything except the Black Barrow. On the first day I took a group of all the party standing by the barrow. It did not come out. I thought it to be merely a faulty plate, as all my other pictures that day were successful, but, as the excavation progressed, I found that every single plate of the barrow failed."
"In what way?" asked Holmes.
"They were all fogged, Mr Holmes. Every one. I could have a bright, sunny day, an exposure timed to the second, and the picture would come out looking as if it had been taken in a London pea-souper."
"Have you any idea of the cause?" Holmes enquired.
"None whatsoever. It went on for days and then it ended as mysteriously as it began."
"It ended!" exclaimed Holmes.
"Oh yes," said Edgar. "I have pictures of the barrow. Suddenly the fogging was gone and everything was all right. I never knew what caused it."
"You hinted," said Holmes, "that there were other difficulties." "There were indeed," said Edgar. "In the early stages Sir
Andrew and several other members of the party became ill." "With what?" I asked.
"Nothing the village doctor could put a name to. There was sickness and itchiness. At first we tended to blame the beds or the food at the inns, but they were two different pubs at opposite ends of Addleton. Then people started saying it was some disease of the local cows or sheep, but that was madness, just the irritability of fellows who were not up to par. Then that passed off, just like my photographic problem."
"And was there anything else?" said Holmes.
"There were Sir Andrew's personal problems. His son arrived from London. He was in the army, you know, and the young idiot had got himself cashiered for debt. His father was furious at the disgrace and there was his son bothering him for money. He was a wretched nuisance, hanging about the inn where his father stayed and, when Sir Andrew wouldn't give him his time, he'd turn up at the digging and hang about pestering his father. It was all very distracting for Sir Andrew."
He paused. "Then he fell ill," he said. "Not like the rest of us, something really serious. We were just finishing up and Sir Andrew had to come back to London, leaving his son sick in Addleton. He sent the best doctors up from London, but they did no good. The lad was dead in weeks. Do you wonder that I said it was easy to believe in the Curse?"
"No," agreed Holmes, "and when you returned there was the row in the papers."
"I hope you do not blame me," said Edgar, sharply, "though I blame myself for the timing of it. But I thought about it for weeks before I wrote my letter. I could not believe my own thoughts, but in the end, in all conscience, I had to say what I thought, and it appeared just as Sir Andrew's son died. I felt wretched, attacking at such a time a man I had admired and looked up to. It was all pointless, anyway. There was a wave of sympathy for him, the profession closed ranks and nobody gave any serious attention to what I was saying. They say I destroyed his profession." He gave a mirthless laugh and waved a hand around him. "It didn't exactly do mine much good."
"What was it about?" I ventured, for I had not completely understood Holmes's remarks on this aspect of the matter.
"Have you seen the Addleton casket?" Edgar asked. "It was in the Barnard Museum, though they withdrew it from display when the row started, to avoid attracting vulgar sensation-seekers."
I shook my head and he continued.
"It was at the heart of the barrow, at ground level. Now usually you find a small stone chamber with ashes, or pots with ashes, bits of burned bones, a few funeral artefacts, that kind of thing. When we reached the bottom and uncovered the top of the casket we were delighted. We knew we'd found something utterly unique. We had come to the usual box of stone slabs and, when we removed the top slab, there was this magnificent casket. It was oval, made in bronze, with silver and enamelled decoration all over it, the finest work of its kind I've ever seen."
He paused and his eyes turned beyond us. "There was just Sir Andrew and myself that evening. The sickness was at its
height and the other fellows had gone down from the Moor at tea-time, but sick or not you couldn't keep Sir Andrew from his work. I stayed on with him because I didn't like the idea of him up on the Moor alone. It's a creepy sort of place, you know."
"Well, it was late, almost dark when we uncovered the casket. We went to lift it, but it was infernally heavy and in the end Sir