“Now, the calculation was simple. If a rod of six feet made a shadow of nine, then a tree of sixty-four feet would make one of ninety-six. I measured the distance, almost reaching the house wall, and placed a peg. You can imagine how excited I was, Watson, when I found a depression in the ground just two inches from my peg. It was Brunton’s mark, and I knew I was on the right track.

“Starting from there, I took steps, first noting the cardinal points with my pocket compass. Ten steps in each direction along the house wall, marking each spot with a peg. Then I measured five steps to the east and two to the south, bringing me to the old door’s threshold. Two steps west led me down the stone passage, as the Ritual indicated.”

“I felt a deep disappointment, Watson. I thought I had made a big mistake in my calculations. The setting sun lit up the passage floor, showing that the old stones were firmly in place, untouched for years. Brunton hadn’t been here. I tapped the floor, but it sounded the same everywhere, no cracks or openings. Thankfully, Musgrave, now understanding my process, pointed out my error: I had missed the ‘and under’ part.”

“I thought it meant we had to dig, but then I realized I was wrong. ‘There’s a cellar under here?’ I exclaimed.

‘Yes, as old as the house. Down here, through this door.’”

“We descended a winding stone stair. My companion lit a lantern, revealing we had found the right place, recently visited by others.”

“The room, once used for wood storage, now had the wood piled to the sides, leaving a clear space. In the middle lay a large flagstone with a rusted iron ring, attached to which was Brunton’s muffler.

‘By Jove!’ exclaimed my client. ‘That’s Brunton’s muffler. I’ve seen it on him. What has he been doing here?’

At my suggestion, two county police officers were called. With their help, we moved the stone to reveal a black hole. Musgrave, kneeling, lowered the lantern.”

“We found a small chamber, seven feet deep and four feet square. In one corner was a squat, brass-bound wooden box. Its lid, with an old-fashioned key, was covered in dust and fungi. Several metal discs and old coins were scattered inside, but nothing else.”

However, at that moment, we didn’t pay attention to the old chest, because we were focused on what was next to it. It was a man dressed in black, crouched beside the chest. He was sitting with his forehead resting on the edge of the box and his arms stretched out on each side. The position had drained the blood from his face, and his distorted, pale face made it impossible to recognize him. However, his height, clothes, and hair confirmed to my client, when we lifted the body, that it was indeed his missing butler. He had been dead for several days, but there were no visible wounds to indicate how he had died. When his body was taken from the cellar, we still faced a problem almost as difficult as the one we started with.

I must admit, Watson, that until now I had been disappointed with my investigation. I had hoped to solve the case once we found the place mentioned in the ritual, but now that we were there, it seemed we were no closer to uncovering what the family had hidden with such care. While I had shed light on Brunton's fate, I now needed to discover how he had met his end and what role the missing woman had played in the matter. I sat down on a barrel in the corner and carefully considered the whole situation.

You know my methods in such situations, Watson. I try to put myself in the person's shoes and, considering their intelligence, imagine what I would do in their place. In this case, it was clear that Brunton was highly intelligent, so I didn't need to adjust for that factor. He knew something valuable was hidden and had found its location. He realized the stone covering it was too heavy to move alone. What would he do next? He couldn't get help from outside without risking exposure. It would be better to involve someone inside the house. But who could he ask? This girl had been loyal to him. A man often struggles to accept that he may have lost a woman's affection, regardless of how he treated her. Brunton would try to win over Howells with a few gestures of kindness and then enlist her help. Together, they would come to the cellar at night, and together they could move the stone. I could imagine their actions as if I had witnessed them myself.

But for two of them, and one of them a woman, it must have been hard work to lift that stone. Even a strong Sussex policeman and I found it difficult. What could they have done to help? Probably what I would have done myself. I stood up and carefully examined the various pieces of wood scattered around the floor. Almost immediately, I found what I expected. One piece, about three feet long, had a noticeable dent at one end, while several others were flattened on the sides as if they had been squashed by a heavy weight. It seemed that as they lifted the stone, they had wedged the pieces of wood into the gap until it was big enough to crawl through. Then they would hold it open with a piece of wood placed horizontally, which might have been dented at the lower end because the weight of the stone would press it down onto the edge of another slab. So far, I was still understanding what was happening.

And now, how could I piece together this late-night event? Clearly, only one person could fit through the gap, and that person was Brunton. The woman must have waited above. Brunton then unlocked the box, passed up the contents presumably – since they were nowhere to be found – and then – what happened next?

What hidden anger had suddenly ignited in this fiery Celtic woman's heart when she saw the man who had harmed her – perhaps even more than we realized – at her mercy? Was it just a coincidence that the wood slipped and the stone closed Brunton inside, becoming his tomb? Had she only been silent about his fate? Or had she delivered a sudden blow that knocked away the support and sent the slab crashing down? Whatever the case, I could imagine her still clinging to her treasure and fleeing desperately up the stairs, perhaps hearing muffled screams behind her and the pounding of frantic hands against the stone that was suffocating her unfaithful lover.

This explained her pale face, her trembling nerves, her bursts of hysterical laughter the next morning. But what was in the box? What did she do with it? It must have been the old metal and stones that my client had pulled from the lake. She must have thrown them in there at the first chance to erase all evidence of her crime.

For twenty minutes, I sat still, thinking deeply. Musgrave stood nearby, his face very pale, holding his lantern and peering into the hole.

"These coins are from the time of Charles the First," he said, showing me the few coins from the box. "So, our guess about the Ritual date was correct."

"We might find more things from Charles the First," I exclaimed, as I suddenly understood the likely meaning of the first two questions in the Ritual. "Let me see what's in the bag you retrieved from the lake."

We went up to his study, and he spread out the items before me. When I looked at them, I could see why he thought they were unimportant. The metal was almost black, and the stones were dull and lacked shine. However, when I rubbed one of the stones on my sleeve, it glowed like a spark in the dark hollow of my hand. The metal was in the shape of a double ring, but it had been bent and twisted out of its original form.

"You have to remember," I explained, "that even after the king's death, the royal supporters continued their efforts in England. When they eventually fled, they likely left many of their most valuable belongings buried, planning to retrieve them when things calmed down."

"My ancestor, Sir Ralph Musgrave, was a loyal supporter of the king and a close ally of Charles the Second during his travels," my friend added.

"Ah, I see," I responded. "Well, that should give us the final piece of the puzzle we needed. I must congratulate you on acquiring, albeit in a rather sad manner, an item of great value, both financially and historically."

"What is it?" he asked, astonished.

"It's nothing less than the ancient crown of the English kings."

"The crown!"

"Yes, exactly. Think about what the Ritual implies. 'Whose was it?' 'His who is gone.' That refers to Charles's execution. Then, 'Who shall have it?' 'He who will come.' That points to Charles the Second, whose return was anticipated. It seems highly likely that this damaged and misshapen crown once adorned the heads of the Stuart monarchs."

"And how did it end up in the pond?" Musgrave asked.

"That's a question that will need some time to answer," I replied. I then explained to him the whole chain of reasoning and evidence that I had put together. By the time I finished my story, it was dark, and the moon was shining brightly in the sky.

"Why didn't Charles get his crown when he returned?" Musgrave asked, putting the relic back into its linen bag.

"That's the one point we'll probably never be able to figure out," I responded. "It's possible that the Musgrave who knew the secret died before he could pass it on, leaving this clue to his descendant without explaining its meaning. Since then, it has been passed down from generation to generation until it reached someone who unraveled its secret but lost his life in the process."

"And that's the story of the Musgrave Ritual, Watson. They have the crown at Hurlstone, although they had some legal trouble and had to pay a significant sum before they were allowed to keep it. I'm sure if you mention my name, they'd be happy to show it to you. As for the woman, she was never heard from again. It's likely she fled England and took herself and the memory of her crime to another country across the sea."