“Can you open it?”

“Yes. The professor showed me how. Save only what happened to him many years ago, I don’t believe there are any secrets between us.”

We followed Miss Calloway into the professor’s study, which was very untidy, with little piles of paper on every surface, some of which had slipped to the floor. Upon a side table by the wall stood a black lacquered chest, about eighteen inches wide and twelve inches deep, its surface adorned with yellow and pink flowers, painted in a characteristically Chinese style. “As you see,” said our guide, “some of these flowers are slightly embossed. The secret is to press this yellow one firmly, and then slide this pink one sideways.” She did as she described, and we saw a narrow gap appear between the chest and the lid, into which she inserted the tip of her finger, and thus lifted up the lid. Within the chest was a disordered litter of envelopes and loose papers, but upon the very top of the pile was a long cream envelope, addressed in a neat hand to “Miss Georgina Calloway”. She picked it up, opened it and took from within it several sheets of folded foolscap.

“I certainly think you ought to read it now,” said Holmes, “but the question is whether you or Professor Palfreyman would object to our hearing it, too.”

“This account is addressed to me,” replied Miss Calloway after a moment’s thought, “and is therefore mine to do with as I think fit. My opinion is that you should hear it, too, gentlemen; for the more information you have, the more chance you have of successfully helping both the professor and me. If you would read it aloud, then we can all hear it at the same time.”

Holmes took the papers and passed them to me. “I think Dr Watson’s sonorous tones will be best-suited to the task of narrator,” said he with a chuckle. We therefore returned to the dining room and seated ourselves round the table, where I began the following account:

You should know first, Georgina, that in those relatively far-off days – over thirty years ago – the head of our archaeological faculty was Professor Ormiston, an elderly man who was approaching retirement, with no obvious successor. Of the younger men who hoped to succeed Ormiston, there were three with a realistic chance of doing so: David Webb, John Strange and myself. Although we were therefore in this respect rivals, we were friendly rivals, and there was no acrimony between us – at least, so far as I was aware. Of the three of us, the strongest candidate – especially in his own opinion – was Strange. He was undoubtedly brilliant, but his brilliance was somewhat flashy and superficial, and was, moreover, marred by an arrogance and conceit that prevented his ever forming any real friendships among his fellow researchers. I mention these facts not because they had any direct bearing on what I am about to relate, but simply so you will understand the general background.

It was during a warm period in May that Strange and I were on an expedition in a mountainous and barren region of Western Macedonia. This is sometimes referred to as Pelagonia, although, more accurately, it was a border region between the old kingdoms of Orestis and Lynchestia. It was a wild and arid region, and, outside of a handful of small villages, was inhabited mainly – save for a few wandering shepherds and their flocks – by bears, wolves and lynx. You will understand, then, why I always travelled with a pistol in my pocket. Nor were the dangers confined only to the wild animals I mentioned. It was then only a few years after the conclusion of the Crimean War, during which time the region had seen several uprisings against the Turkish authorities. These uprisings had been suppressed, but the grievances of the people remained, and they were likely at the slightest provocation to vent their feelings not only on any figures of authority, but also upon outsiders of any sort who ventured into their territory.

What had brought us to this inhospitable corner of Europe were persistent reports we had found among ancient records that the tomb of the mysterious and largely forgotten King Pellas II was located there, somewhere in these barren, rocky hills. Pellas had ruled for a very short time during the fourth century BC – less than a year – and many histories of the period do not even mention him. It had therefore become something of a challenge to us to find out all we could about this shadowy and largely unknown figure. Where had he come from? Why was his reign so short? How did he die, and where was he buried? It was this last question to which we thought we might have a clue. In an old monastery in the Pindus Mountains, we had been shown a cache of ancient manuscripts, many of them much older than the monastery itself. My knowledge of ancient Greek was good, as was that of Strange, but many of these documents were in a variety of Greek that we could scarcely recognize, let alone understand, and translating them was very difficult. Eventually, however, we understood enough to be confident that some of the very oldest documents referred to Pellas II, the elusive figure we sought.

As far as I could make out, Pellas’s final resting place was in a cave high in the mountains, where it was said to be protected by the goddess Thesprotia. This name I recognized as one of the most ancient deities of the region, venerated in other places under a variety of different names, and whose name has been used for a small settlement by the coast, many miles away over the mountains. As we studied these ancient texts, endeavouring to work out the precise location of the cave that held the mortal remains of Pellas II, we came across a curious instruction or warning, concerning Thesprotia. “There is danger,” it said, “for he who regards the face of the goddess”; and in another place it repeated this warning: “Do not gaze upon the face of Thesprotia.” What this might mean, we had no idea. Strange dismissed it as what he described as the usual ancient superstitions, but I was not so sure: such repeated warnings were unusual, and I wondered if the meaning might become clearer should we ever find Pellas’s final resting place.

The Turkish authorities had not been particularly helpful to us, but they had provided us with a guide who was also an interpreter. Unfortunately, the man was not much use in either role, and it soon became clear to us that his chief function in our party was to act as a spy, watching everything we did and reporting it all back to the authorities. However, he did do us one very great service. We had been camped in a particularly inhospitable spot in the mountains for three days without making any significant discoveries when, on the afternoon of the fourteenth of May, our guide returned from a long ramble round the area. He was in a state of high excitement and insisted we come with him at once. What he showed us, about a mile from the camp, was a carefully executed carving on a low outcrop of rock, which had been almost hidden beneath a thick little thorn bush. This carving was of a sixteen-pointed sun, which we realized at once was of immense significance.

The sixteen-pointed sun is a symbol unique to that part of the world, although its use has varied greatly over the centuries. Sometimes it seems to have represented the royal line of Macedonia, sometimes the leader of some lesser mountain tribe, and sometimes its use is obscure and seems to refer back to yet more ancient times and the worship of the sun as a deity, in the mist-shrouded days of pre-history. Whatever its meaning might be in this case, I reasoned, the fact that someone had gone to the great trouble of carving it so carefully into this very hard rock must be of significance.

The topmost point of the carving was a little longer than the others and, as one faced the symbol, seemed to indicate some spot higher up the mountain. I suggested to Strange that we mount an expedition in that direction at first light the following morning, but he, headstrong and impulsive as always, wanted to set off at once. I was against this, for the afternoon was well advanced and I knew, from rambles in the Pennines as a boy, that, in hilly country, somewhere that appears relatively close at hand can take you three hours to reach. Strange, however, would not be dissuaded – I had never once known him take anyone else’s advice, though he was always quick enough to give his own – so, reluctantly, I agreed to go with him. Our guide returned to the camp and Strange and I set off together.