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“A moment later the Colonel came in, with a second man, introduced as Mr. Ferguson. He was a rather fat man with a double chin.”

“And apart from the late hour, everything seemed normal?” Holmes asked.

“Yes,” said Mr. Hatherley. “We shook hands, and apart from it being late, it was just like any other job I had done. First, meet the owner and operator of the machine, then look at the machine itself and decide how to fix it. Once we started discussing the hydraulic machinery, I completely forgot the lady’s strange warning.”

“That is understandable,” I said. “She could have been a madwoman giving warnings to anyone she met.”

“Mr. Ferguson, who was clearly English, explained that their machine had become stiff and lost some power,” Mr. Hatherley continued. “All they wanted was my professional opinion on how to fix it. Then I would be paid my fifty guineas, given a comfortable bed for the night, and return to London the next morning.”

“And then?” Holmes urged.

“I agreed,” said Mr. Hatherley. “The Colonel said we would go and see the machine that needed repairing, so we went upstairs.”

“Upstairs?” Holmes looked surprised. “That does not make sense. A machine for Fuller’s earth should be outside, in an outhouse or on the grounds, not in the house.”

“I thought the same thing,” said Mr. Hatherley. “The Colonel said the Fuller’s earth was dug outside but compressed indoors. By then I was a little worried, because even if that were true, the machine should still be on the ground floor. But having come this far, I could hardly turn back.”

“Indeed not,” I said.

“The house was very old and in poor condition,” Mr. Hatherley explained. “There was almost no furniture, and it was clear that the upper floors had not been used for many years. All except for one room, where the door and walls were quite new. The floor and ceiling were made of metal.”

“A metal floor and ceiling?” Holmes rubbed his hands together with excitement. “This is getting more and more interesting.”

“It was actually a very large press,” said Mr. Hatherley. “I recognised it immediately. The ceiling was the end of a piston, which could be slowly lowered to press down on anything placed on the metal floor. If it were switched on while someone was inside, they would be crushed to death.”

“Good heavens!” I cried.

“The Colonel told me this was where the Fuller’s earth was compressed,” Mr. Hatherley continued. “By then it was very clear this was a lie. There was no way to bring large amounts of Fuller’s earth into the house to reach this press. But I said nothing.”

“Very wise,” said Holmes.

“Did you fix it?” I asked.

“Well, I told them what the problem was,” Mr. Hatherley said. “Once the machine was turned on, it was easy to hear from the swishing sound that there was a leak. I showed them where the rubber seal had come loose and how to fix it. Then I did something very foolish.”

I leaned forward, eager to hear more. “Go on,” I said.

“By this time, I was angry about being lied to about the machine,” Mr. Hatherley explained. “Never mind that they were offering me a large sum of money. I do not like being lied to. I went back into the room, looked around, and told them angrily that I could give better advice to avoid further problems—if they would tell me what the machine was really for. It was obvious that no Fuller’s earth had ever been brought to the press.”

“What happened then?” I asked.

“Well,” Mr. Hatherley said, “the Colonel and Mr. Ferguson stepped out of the room, and before I realized what they were doing, they closed and locked the door with me inside. Then I heard the machine start, and saw the metal ceiling moving down to crush me to death.”

“Luckily,” he continued, “there was a second door on the far side of the room, meant to allow access to the press from both sides. By chance, it was not locked. I managed to get out just seconds before the ceiling came down, but in my hurry I dropped my lamp, which smashed against the door.”

“A very lucky escape,” said Holmes.

“I found myself in darkness in a corridor,” said Mr. Hatherley, “and the lady who had warned me earlier appeared with her lamp. She led me away, urging me to stay quiet. We went down two flights of stairs and were on the first floor when we heard angry footsteps running towards us. Seconds later, the Colonel appeared at the end of the corridor, holding a meat cleaver.”

“This fellow really means business,” I said.

“My only way to escape was through the window,” said Mr. Hatherley, “but it was too high to jump safely. I clambered over the window sill and lowered myself so I was hanging by my fingertips. That way, the fall would be shorter and I could land on my feet.”

“Very wise,” I said.

“But suddenly I felt a sharp pain and started to fall,” Mr. Hatherley continued, staring into the distance. “I hit the ground hard, but managed to roll so that no bones were broken. The Colonel appeared at the window, waving the lamp across the lawn. I ran into the bushes, out of the light, and ran as fast as I could. It was only then that I realised my thumb had been chopped off and I was losing blood.”

“Better to lose your thumb than your life,” I said.

Mr. Hatherley managed a weak smile. “Indeed, doctor. I wrapped my thumb as best I could with my handkerchief, and kept running until I passed out. When I woke, it was bright daylight, and I made my way to the station and back to Paddington,” he said.

“How long did it take you to get back to Eyford station?” Holmes asked.

“That’s the strange part, Mr. Holmes,” said Mr. Hatherley. “I don’t know how I managed to run so many miles during the night before I passed out. But when I woke, I was just a few minutes from the station. I got the next train back to London, and the rest you know.”

“We do indeed,” said Holmes. “And it is all very interesting. Now, Mr. Hatherley, if you feel strong enough, I would like us to go back to Eyford at once, accompanied by a police inspector I know.”

Inspector Broadstreet of Scotland Yard met us at Paddington. The four of us took the next train to Reading, changed trains, and soon we were close to Eyford. Holmes explained the chain of events during the journey, so by the time we arrived, the Inspector knew everything we did.

Inspector Broadstreet had brought a map of the area and spread it out on the train seat.

“You said the carriage journey from the station took about an hour,” he said to Mr. Hatherley. “That would be roughly ten miles, so the house we are looking for should be somewhere within this area.” The Inspector drew a circle around Eyford station, using the map’s scale.

“That is a big area to search,” I said. “There are three main roads from the station – north, south, and west. But which way did they go?”

“Neither,” said Holmes, pressing his finger on a specific point on the map. “The house we are looking for is right here, very close to the station.”

“Impossible!” said Mr. Hatherley. “The ride took a full hour.”

“Indeed it did,” said Holmes, “but they were driving around in circles to make you think the journey was longer.”

I stared at Holmes. “How can you know that?”

“You remember,” said Holmes with a smile, “I asked you about the horse that picked you up from the station.”

“I remember,” I said. “And he said the horse was fresh and shiny. But how does that help?”

“My dear Watson,” said Holmes, “even the fittest horse would be tired and dusty after an hour of steady travel. So it was clear the horse had not really traveled far at all.”

“By Jove!” I said. “Of course!”

“Clearly these men are coin forgers,” said Holmes. “They must be using this press to make fake half-crown coins, the same as those we have read about in the newspapers. And no doubt they have done well until now.”

“But not for long,” said Inspector Broadstreet excitedly. “I shall have them all in handcuffs before the day is over.”

“But when the train arrived at Eyford,” Holmes continued, “we saw smoke rising from behind the trees, not far from the station. I fear we may be too late. Remember you said you smashed the lamp when you escaped the press? Most likely, that lamp started a fire that spread through the house while the men were out searching for you.”

As soon as the train stopped, we jumped out onto the platform. Inspector Broadstreet ran ahead to speak to the station guard.

“Where is the fire?” the Inspector asked sharply. “Colonel Stark’s house?”

“I don’t know any Colonel Stark,” the guard replied, “but the fire is at Dr. Becher’s house.”

“Is he a tall, thin man with a German accent?” the Inspector asked.

“No, he is not,” said the guard, “but he has a guest staying with him who matches that description. Dr. Becher himself is quite fat, with a double chin.”

“That sounds like our Mr. Ferguson and Colonel Stark,” I said. “And I think you are right, Holmes. They are probably long gone by now.”

And that was true. The fire engines had arrived, but it was too late to save anything from the house. The Inspector learned that two men had been seen going towards Reading with a cart full of machinery, but he could not catch them.

Holmes might have been able to track them, but he had no further interest in the case, as it had become just a regular police matter.

To this day, nobody knows for certain what happened to the mysterious Colonel Lysander Stark and the mysterious Mr. Ferguson, who may or may not really have been Dr. Becher.

But if someone ever gives you a half-crown coin, be careful and check it closely. It might be one of the Colonel’s fakes.