Lady Cynthia’s estate was a brooding, Elizabethan mansion of dark gritstone, its multi-paned windows glowing faintly through the swirling mountain blizzard. We were admitted by an elderly butler who conducted us immediately to a vast, drafty library where a roaring log fire did little to dispel the damp chill of the ancient stone walls.
The Countess of Morcar, a stately woman whose face bore the heavy lines of recent terror, rose to greet us alongside her sister. "Mr. Holmes," she cried, clutching a lace handkerchief. "Thank heaven you have come. The police in London assured me the danger was past, but I feel an ominous presence in this house. The very walls seem to whisper."
"It is the heating system, Beatrice," Lady Cynthia interposed impatiently. "The old hypocaust flues run beneath the floorboards and through the thick stone masonry. Since the engineer arrived from Crewe to clear the ice-blocks, the pipes have made the most extraordinary vibrations."
"Where is this engineer now?" Holmes asked sharply, his eyes scanning the architectural carvings of the library ceiling.
"He is working in the lower cellars, near the central furnace," the Countess replied. "He assured us the work would be completed before the midnight bells."
Holmes did not answer. He stepped to the corner of the room, where a large brass ventilation register was set into the masonry. He knelt, pressing his ear against the metal grille. From deep within the stone spine of the house came a faint, rhythmic scratching sound, the unmistakable scrape of metal against steel.
"He is not repairing pipes, Watson," Holmes hissed, springing to his feet with that terrifying energy that signaled the final stages of a chase. "The old flues run directly behind the wall-chambers where the Countess's traveling strongbox is secured. The Blue Carbuncle was a simple theft of the hand, but this man is operating from the very marrow of the architecture! Follow me, and keep your revolver ready."
