AS I LOOK OVER my notes for the summer of 1888, I come upon a singular adventure that is quite unlike the usual problems that came to the attention of Mr. Sherlock Holmes during this period. My inclination was to title this investigation "The English Manor Mystery," but, since virtually all of Holmes' cases took place in his homeland, the name might have seemed redundant.

The manor itself was the home of Sir Patrick Stacy White, the wellknown African explorer just recently returned from a perilous journey retracing the route of Stanley in his search for Livingston. He'd sent an urgent message to Holmes inviting him to spend a weekend at the manor house, located about an hour west of London, near Reading.

"Are you going?" I asked, when he told me about it on Friday morning.

"His message says there has been a mysterious death and he fears others will follow. He suggests a stay of at least two nights in order to fully investigate the matter. If we catch the evening train, we could be there tonight. Are you game, Watson?"

I had no plans for the weekend and the bright August days seemed to beckon us to the countryside.

"Is it all right for you to bring a guest?"

"Sir Patrick suggested it in his message. I gather several other guests are already in attendance."

It was still daylight when we left the train at the Reading station and found Sir Patrick's carriage and driver awaiting us.

"Pleasant weather," Holmes told the fairly young man.

"The best, sir," he said with a slight accent I couldn't identify.

"Have you been employed here long?" Holmes was always gathering information, filing it away for the future.

"Several years," the driver replied. "Name's Haskin. I'm just filling in with the carriage. My real job's with the animals."

Holmes was suddenly interested. "What animals would those be?"

"Sir Patrick maintains a small zoo at the manor. We bring back animals from his African safaris. Brought back a pair of fine lion cubs from his most recent journey."

Before long, we topped a hill and the manor house itself came into view. It sat alone on the plain below, a three-story brick house with a stand of oak trees on the left side and a large pond about a hundred feet from the front entrance. I could see a pair of swans gliding on the water.

"Welcome to Stacy Manor," Haskin told us, as he turned onto the long, pebbled driveway leading up to the house.

The door opened as we approached it and a butler ushered us in.

"Mrs. White will be with you in a moment."

Holmes and I waited in the front hall, with an elephant head visible through the doorway. Almost at once, we were joined by a handsome woman of about forty who carried herself with an almost regal air.

"I am Elizabeth Stacy White," she said. "And you would be Mr. Sherlock Holmes."

"Correct." He smiled and seemed almost to give a little bow. "This is my close companion, Dr. John Watson. I trust we can be of some service to your husband in this unfortunate matter."

"Has he given you the details?"

"Not as yet."

"Pray be seated and I will give you the facts as we know them. My husband is an African traveler of some little renown. After each trip, he is in the habit of bringing home creatures from the Dark Continent to stock his private zoo at the rear of the house. You will see it later. After this latest trip, he returned with two lion cubs, and he invited a small number of friends to stay with us on a summer holiday. They arrived last Sunday and will be leaving us this Sunday."

At that point, she was interrupted by a large, bearded man who strode in and immediately took command of the conversation.

"Excuse me for not greeting you upon your arrival," he said, leaving no doubt that it was his house and he was in charge. "I trust my wife kept you amused in my absence."

"She was most helpful," Holmes said. "You are Sir Patrick Stacy White?"

"The same."

He gestured with a motion meant to encompass the entire house. "Every creature you see here, whether living or stuffed, was personally caught by me."

I wondered if the remark extended to his wife, Elizabeth. He was a man who would be easy to dislike. Holmes, however, took no notice of the boast and began questioning him about the killing.

"The victim was my London publisher, Oscar Rhinebeck. He was one of six houseguests we'd invited for the week. I was planning to write a book about my recent African travels and we were discussing it Sunday evening, after the others had arrived. I left him alone in the library for a time, and when I returned, I found him dead. He'd been savagely beaten with a fireplace poker."

Elizabeth, who'd remained at his side through all this, broke in to add,

"This time, we called the police at once." "This time?" asked Holmes sharply.

Sir Patrick seemed annoyed by his wife's interruption.

"There'd been a previous incident shortly after Rhinebeck's arrival. I'd just shown him my zoo and we were walking back to the main house when a cornice fell from the roof and nearly hit him. When we mentioned it to Elizabeth, she was quite concerned and wanted the local police summoned at once. I told her that was nonsense and even went up to the roof to inspect it. The cornice had simply broken away, probably weakened by the wind." "There was no wind last Sunday," his wife insisted.

"But there had been the previous evening."

I suspected they were two who might argue as to whether the sun was shining.

"Who else was in the house at the time the cornice fell?" Holmes asked.

"All of our guests had arrived by that time. Madeline Oaks, the actress, came with her manager, my long-time friend Maxwell Park. Dr. Prouty, our family physician, arrived with his wife Dorothy and her sister Agnes."

"Dorothy and Agnes lived near here in their youth," Elizabeth explained, "and sometimes visited at Stacy Manor."

Holmes nodded. "Stacy is your middle name, Sir Patrick."

"Quite correct. The house was my mother's ancestral home, which I inherited upon her death eight years ago."

"Let us return to the murder of Oscar Rhinebeck. Were there no clues at the scene?"

"Only one. My publisher was clutching a playing card in his hand— the ten of spades. It appeared to be a dying message."

"How quaint," Holmes remarked. "Does the ten of spades have any meaning to you or your guests?"

"None whatsoever."

"Perhaps its presence was only a coincidence."

Sir Patrick shook his head. "It seems like more than that. There was a bloody trail on the carpet indicating that the dying man dragged himself to the card table and managed to select the ten from a deck of cards."

Elizabeth glanced at the room's big grandfather clock as Holmes asked, "Do the police have no suspects in mind?"

"Not really," our host told us. "They mentioned a convict recently escaped from Reading Gaol and believed he could have entered the house undetected, perhaps bent on robbery."

"What is this convict's name?"

"James Adams, serving a long term for assault and robbery. He escaped about ten days ago and has not been recaptured." Elizabeth was nervously watching the clock.

"I'm sorry you missed dinner, but our guests will be assembling in the library for brandy at nine. Perhaps you'd want to freshen up and join us."

It seemed like a good idea, and Holmes and I allowed the butler to show us to our room.

When we were alone, and I was unpacking my overnight bag, I asked Holmes, "What do you make of it? Is there a killer under our roof?"

"It would seem so, Watson. It is obvious that Sir Patrick's wife is greatly concerned, and she is probably the one who urged him to appeal for help. As for Sir Patrick, I am struck by the fact that his left boot has a thicker sole than the right one. If one leg is longer than the other, it would make walking great distances on a safari painful, if not impossible." "Perhaps he was carried in a sedan chair," I suggested.

"We shall see, Watson. I am most interested in meeting our other guests, all of whom chose to remain for their visit even after a murder was committed in the house."

We went downstairs promptly at nine o'clock and found the others gathered in the library. The men held brandy snifters, though the women were indulging in something lighter. My attention was immediately focused on the actress, Madeline Oaks, whom I'd seen recently in a London production of Ibsen's "A Doll's House." She was even more striking at close quarters, a rare beauty of the sort to take one's breath away.

It was her agent, Maxwell Park, who immediately recognized the name of Sherlock Holmes. He was a slender man, with glasses and mutton chop whiskers, and he shook my friend's hand vigorously when introduced.

"The popular press has been filled with your exploits, Mr. Holmes. This is indeed a pleasure!"

I was interested in meeting Dr. Prouty, a small, quiet country doctor who sipped his brandy with a bit of uncertainty.

"Do you have a practice in London, Dr. Watson?" he asked.

"A small one, very limited. I assist my friend Holmes in his work, and I do a bit of writing."

His wife Dorothy was a plain-looking woman with large bones and an athletic appearance. She sat on a red plush sofa with her sister, who was introduced as Agnes Baxter. Miss Baxter, more comely in appearance than her older sister, was probably still in her mid-twenties.

"I understand you lived near here when you were growing up," I said to Agnes.

"Indeed we did. Dorothy and I played here as children, though, of course, there was no zoo at the time. The Stacy family was very nice and this is a wonderful house. We moved into the city when I was ten and I so missed it!"

"Will you be riding with us in the morning?" her sister Dorothy asked.

The thought appalled me. "I doubt it. I believe Sir Patrick wants to show us his animals."

"And that I do!" our host said, coming over to join us.

"It's quite an animal collection," Dorothy Prouty admitted. "The best

I've seen outside of London."

Later, trying to fall asleep in a strange bed, I was reminded of her words when I heard the chilling laugh of a hyena.

I awakened to find Holmes' hand upon my shoulder, and I was surprised to find him fully dressed.

"What time is it?" I asked sleepily.

"Seven-thirty. Sir Patrick's wife is assembling her guests to go riding.

Perhaps we should dress and go down to breakfast."

I grumbled something and strode over to the window. On the gravel drive below, I could see Elizabeth White in riding costume, just mounting a grey mare, while their man Haskin held the reins for her. Madeline Oaks and her manager were already mounted, as were Dr. and Mrs. Prouty. There was no sign of Mrs. Prouty's younger sister. As the five of them prepared to ride off, I washed and dressed quickly.

Sir Patrick was awaiting us in the dining room, lingering over a cup of morning tea.

"Ah, there you are! I was beginning to fear that our country air had lulled you into a bit of extra slumber."

"No, no," Holmes assured him. "Both Watson and I are anxious to see your collection."

We ate sparingly and then followed our host through the large kitchen to the rear of the house.

"I'm pleased you could come," he said, "though this whole matter has upset Elizabeth more than myself. Naturally I am disturbed by the death of my publisher, but the idea that one of our house guests could be a murderer seems preposterous to me. I am perfectly willing to accept the police theory of an escaped convict."

Haskin was waiting for us at the backdoor, wearing the same dark pants and work shirt he'd had on the previous day.

"They were a bit restless during the night," he said. "Could have been a prowler, though I saw no one."

Our host made no comment until we reached the first of a dozen cages set within the grove of trees at the side and rear of the house. Inside were two small lion cubs, rolling over and playing with each other like a pair of kittens.

"These came from my latest trip," he said. "You'll see a fully grown one a bit later."

Our next stop was the large and ugly hyena that had kept me awake. It had a massive head and red coat covered with brown oval spots.

"This is the fellow I heard in the night," I remarked.

"He was restless," Haskin remarked again.

We went on down the line to some monkeys and a glass cage that held a pair of small pythons that seemed to be asleep. Then there was a large pen with a fully-grown zebra, an animal that always fascinated me. It was followed by more monkeys and finally another large cage, where an adult lion paced back and forth.

"This one needs more space," Sir Patrick told us.

While we were studying the lion, I noticed that Dorothy Prouty had returned alone on her horse. She dismounted and strode toward the front of the manor.

"All of these animals need more space," Holmes was saying. "But, on my rare visits to the London Zoo, I have found conditions to be little better than this. Our large elephant, Jumbo, was sold to an American circus partly because of space problems."

Sir Patrick nodded. "Before his untimely death, my publisher expressed much the same view. He wanted me to set aside several acres of land for the zoo, to enlarge it, hire a professional staff and actually charge admission. He felt my reputation as a big game hunter and collector would attract the public."

"Is this lion contented?" Holmes asked Haskin.

"Hardly, sir. He's a dangerous..."

The words were interrupted by a sudden scream from the house. Sir Patrick stood frozen in his tracks, but Holmes broke into a run. I followed as fast as I could. When we reached the rear door, we saw that the butler and the cook had heard the scream too and headed up the back stairs. We found Dorothy Prouty passed out on the floor of the upper hallway. She was by an open bedroom door and, when I looked in, I saw the terrible sight that had confronted her. Agnes Baxter, her younger sister, was sprawled across the bloody bed, a kitchen knife buried in her chest. In her hand, she held a playing card, the jack of spades.

While I determined that the young woman had died instantly, Holmes was busy loosening Mrs. Prouty's riding habit and trying to revive her. When Sir Patrick arrived and found him thus, Holmes was rubbing her hands and cheeks.

"Do not concern yourself, Sir Patrick. I am trying to help her breathe. I fear the shock of finding her sister's body was too much for the woman."

"Another killing!" our host gasped, clinging to the door frame. For an instant, I feared he might pass out, too.

"And another playing card," Sherlock Holmes remarked. "I suggest you dispatch a servant to summon the local authorities."

When Dorothy Prouty was at last revived, she told her story in a tearful, breaking voice.

"I...she was going to ride out and catch up with us. Sh...she had her riding costume on. When she didn't turn up, I came back to the house, worried she might be ill. I found her like this. Who could have done such a terrible thing?"

The local constable, when he arrived, asked the same question. Scotland Yard men came out from London later in the day and suggested a search of the entire manor. There was always the possibility that the missing convict was concealed somewhere on the premises. While the search went on, Holmes took no part in it.

"It's a waste of time, Watson. If this convict was the killer, why would he leave playing cards in his victims' hands? No. We are dealing with something much more sinister here."

"In this peaceful country setting?"

"I have said before that the vilest alleys in London are nothing compared to the beautiful countryside. In the city, the machinery of justice is swift to act. Out here, deeds of hellish cruelty can go unpunished."

He was right about the convict, of course. There was no trace of him in the manor house or anywhere on the grounds. It was established that the knife had come from the kitchen, but anyone could have taken it. And Agnes Baxter might well have been killed before the other guests set out on their ride. Sir Patrick's wife Elizabeth was especially upset as the summer house party seemed to collapse about her. Dr. Prouty and his wife had departed with Agnes' body, to complete the necessary funeral arrangements. I had thought the others might leave too, but, at Elizabeth's urging, the actress and her agent stayed on.

Dinner that night was a somber affair. The six of us tried to speak of other things, but it was Madeline Oaks who brought the subject back to the killings.

"That's two of them in six days," she said. "Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson can be ruled out, because they were not present when Rhinebeck died. But the other four of us are all suspects."

"That's nonsense!" Sir Patrick burst out. "Why would I kill my own book publisher and that poor young woman? Why would any of us, for that matter?"

"What could be the meaning of those playing cards?" Maxwell Park asked. "The ten and jack of spades!"

The events at Stacy Manor were indeed baffling, and I could see that Holmes was greatly troubled.

"I fear the killings are not over," he confided to me, as we went up to our room later. "There is a pattern here which has yet to reveal itself."

"Then none of us is safe."

"Have you brought your revolver, Watson?"

"It is in my bag."

"Good! We may have need of it before the night is over."

I took it out and made certain it was loaded, then laid it on the table between our beds. Neither of us donned our nightclothes, though I, for one, quickly drifted into a deep sleep. I gather Holmes was sleeping, too, when we were both awakened toward dawn by human screams and a lion's deepthroated growl.

"Quick, Watson, your revolver! I never thought of the animals!"

We hurried downstairs and already some of the others had appeared in their doorways, awakened by the sounds. Holmes was first out the door, heading toward the cages we'd inspected the previous day.

When we reached the large lion's cage and heard again the savage growls of the beast, Holmes grabbed the revolver from my hands and thrust it between the bars. The lion turned from its grisly task and, by now, there was enough morning twilight for us to recognize Haskin's limp and bloody figure. Holmes fired three shots, carefully aimed at the beast's head, and the lion went down in a heap.

He pulled on the door of the cage, but it was padlocked from the outside. By this time, Sir Patrick and his wife had joined us, with the actress, her agent and the servants bringing up the rear.

"Where is the key to this?" Holmes demanded.

"There's an extra in the kitchen," Sir Patrick said, sending the butler for it. They were all in their nightclothes and robes, with Sir Patrick limping badly without his special shoes.

In a moment, we had the key and Holmes entered first, holding the revolver ready. I was right behind him, reaching the body to turn it over and reveal a face so torn and bloody as to be unrecognizable. It was Holmes who found the playing card—a queen of spades—beneath the body.

The local police and Scotland Yard were back on the scene within hours. What might have been a tranquil Sunday morning had been shattered by a third murder, and even our host was deeply shaken as he spoke to authorities. Elizabeth sat by his side, clasping his hand.

The officer in charge had his notebook open.

"I understand the deceased was an employee of yours. Could you give me his full name and position?"

Sir Patrick moistened his lips, his face ashen. "His name was Haskin Zehn. He was a German gypsy with a great affinity for wild animals. He accompanied me on my African journeys and, because of my bad leg, he did much of the actual capturing. He was a fine worker, unmarried, about thirty-five years of age. He lived here at the house."

"Could this have been an accident? He seems to have been dressed in his normal work clothes."

Holmes spoke up then. "The cage had been padlocked from the outside. It appears he was knocked unconscious and then locked inside with the lion."

"He wouldn't have gone into the cage before dawn," Sir Patrick agreed. "This was murder."

Holmes nodded. "When we turned over the body, hoping he was still alive, there was another playing card beneath the body."

The officer, whose name was Wegand, nodded. "The ten, jack and queen of spades, Mr. Holmes. What does that tell us?"

"That there will be more murders unless we put a stop to this."

Elizabeth White seemed confused. "But what could it mean? Why was the jack of spades left with a female victim and the queen with a male? Is the next to be the king?"

"The king of beasts," Sir Patrick speculated. "But my lion is dead."

Finally, when things had calmed down a bit, the cook served a light breakfast. When he'd finished, I noticed Holmes checking the schedule of trains back to London. A closed wagon had arrived for the removal of the latest victim and, when he saw it, he hurried outside. Curious, I followed him.

"What is it, Holmes?"

He was bent over Haskin's body, examining the man's belt and shoes.

"Interesting," he said. "All right, you can take him away now."

He straightened up and smiled at me. "I believe we must return to London, Watson, on the first available train."

"You are abandoning the investigation?"

"Merely trying a new course to the truth."

We went back inside while he explained to Sir Patrick that he must continue the investigation in London.

He turned to the officer who had questioned us. "Sergeant Wegand, we have only forty-five minutes to catch the next train. If you are going back, could you give us a ride to the station?"

Sir Patrick protested. "My butler could take you."

"No, no. The sergeant is going our way."

Wegand grumbled a bit, but Holmes spoke to him in a soft voice and he agreed. We quickly packed our bags and said goodbye to all. The actress, Madeline Oaks, seemed sorry to see me go, and I promised to attend her next London opening.

On our journey to Reading Station, a thought occurred to me.

"Dr. Prouty and his wife departed yesterday. Is it possible one of them might have returned to kill Haskin?"

"Anything is possible, Watson. Let us see what we find at our destination."

We arrived at Reading Station with only minutes to spare. Already in possession of our return tickets, we hastened to the platform. I was a bit surprised to see Sergeant Wegand coming with us and wondered what Holmes had said to him.

The three of us boarded the train together, avoiding the first-class carriages and going directly to the coaches. Holmes strode down the aisle quickly, eyes straight ahead, and it was not until we'd passed through to the second coach that he suddenly pounced, reaching across an empty seat to fasten upon an unshaven man in dirty clothes who sat staring out the window at the platform.

"Here, Sergeant!" Holmes announced. "Arrest this man! He is the triple killer you are seeking."

The officer was taken by surprise. "My God! The escaped convict?"

"No, no. Let me introduce you to Mr. Haskin Zehn, returned from the dead, but no less dangerous for that."

Later, after we'd returned to Stacy Manor for the explanations Holmes felt they deserved, we sat once again in the library with Sir Patrick and his wife. Their other guests had departed soon after we did, perhaps fearing more violence. But Holmes assured them it was over.

"I can't believe that Haskin would do such a thing," Elizabeth White said. "What could possibly have been his motive?"

"His original motive involved only the publisher, Oscar Rhinebeck. You told me, Sir Patrick, that Rhinebeck had suggested greatly enlarging your zoo, hiring a professional staff and opening it to the public. Haskin feared his beloved animals would be taken away from him and, in a moment of anger, he struck Rhinebeck with a poker, inflicting a fatal wound."

"What about the playing cards and the other killings?" Sir Patrick asked.

Holmes, relaxing at last, had taken out his pipe as he spoke.

"The business with the playing cards was meant merely to confuse us, and it did just that. I overlooked one crucial clue for too long—it might even be called the clue of the clue. The bloody trail showed that the first victim, Rhinebeck, had dragged himself to the card table and used his final moments of life to choose that ten of spades as a clue to his killer's identity. But consider the later killings and you'll note some vastly different circumstances. Agnes Baxter was stabbed in the chest in her bedroom, killed instantly. The third victim died in a locked lion's cage. Certainly neither of these was in a position to choose a playing card in their final seconds of life."

"Of course not!" Sir Patrick agreed. "The murderer left them!"

"Obviously. And yet the first card, that ten of spades, had been chosen by the victim. The bloody trail told us so. Conclusion? After that first, legitimate clue, the killer left more playing cards in sequence to confuse us. Instead of looking back at the first clue, the ten of spades, we looked ahead, speculating on where the series was going, seeking an overall pattern that didn't exist."

"What could the ten of spades have meant?" Elizabeth wondered.

"The spade was simply the first ten he came to. It was the ten that was important. The Germanic Rhinebeck was trying to tell us his killer's name was Haskin Zehn...the number ten in German!"

"Of course!" Sir Patrick slapped his knee with an open palm. "I'm afraid I've forgotten too much of my public school German."

"But Agnes Baxter hadn't. She accused him, perhaps threatened him, and she had to die, too. By that time, it must have been obvious he was in deep trouble. My presence, if I may say so, must have added to his growing concern. Then, last evening, a solution presented itself, virtually out of the blue. The escaped convict, for whom the police were searching, appeared at your zoo...perhaps trying to steal some of the animals' food. Haskin came upon him and realized at once that the man was his own size and weight, with the same hair coloring. His escape had presented itself. The convict was knocked unconscious and hidden for a time. I believe Haskin wounded him and disfigured his face with a sharp garden tool. Then he changed clothes with the man and pushed his body into the lion's cage with an appropriate playing card. I fear I was too quick in killing the lion for a death he only partly caused."

"How did you know Haskin would be on the London train?"

"He could not afford to remain in this area where he might be recognized, and the schedule showed that on Sunday, the London train was the next one out. I knew he couldn't have caught an earlier train because he had to walk all the way to Reading Station."

"You were so sure that the body wasn't Haskin Zehn?"

Holmes nodded. "When I finally heard his last name for the first time, I was virtually certain of the truth. I examined the body, especially the belt and shoes, and found confirmation. The belt buckle was one hole tighter than it had ordinarily been worn, and the shoes fit a bit too loosely on the feet. That was all the proof I needed."

It was the following week at the Diogenes Club when I met Sherlock's older brother Mycroft for the first time. Early in the conversation, Mycroft asked about the Manor House Case.

"It was Adams, of course?"

"Yes, it was Adams," Sherlock agreed.

"I was sure of it from the first."

Later, when we were alone, I asked why he had told Mycroft that the convict was the killer.

Sherlock Holmes smiled slightly. "It was just a bit of brotherly rivalry, Watson. He will learn the truth soon enough, and realize that he was wrong for once."