Death at Dartmoor (6 page)

But desperate men are not always reasonable, and the prisoner was aware that there had been far more attempts at escape than the warders would admit—several successful ones, too, which had never been publicly acknowledged. During dry weather, it was quite possible to navigate the mires—in fact, it was done all the time by ramblers and botanical enthusiasts on holiday—and the increasing numbers of these visitors to the moor meant that the natives no longer paid particular attention to those they did not recognize. Furthermore, the moor itself was not as extensive as might be imagined, for while the vacant land might seem to stretch endlessly to the horizon, the port of Plymouth was only twelve miles to the south, and the town of Okehampton a similar distance to the north, while the moor at its widest was no more than seventeen miles. An escapee might not know exactly where he was going, but if he persevered steadily in any direction, he would reach civilization in a matter of hours, not days. Truth be told, the climate probably presented the worst obstacle, for the very best chance of escape was not in the summer, but during the winter or early spring, under cover of mist and long nights but in the face of icy rain, sleet, or snow and bitter winds that sliced to the bone. Of course, it wasn't to the authorities' advantage to concede that anyone had ever managed to defeat the obstacles and get clean away, so the difficulties of escape continued to be exaggerated in the hope that the idea would be defeated before it could take root.

But still, there were tense moments like this one, when an impenetrable mist descended while the prisoners were outside the walls. The warders moved closer, holding their carbines tightly, eyes wary as they waited for the fog to lift. But when it was so thick that it was impossible to see more than twenty paces in any direction, the chief warder spoke.

“That'll do it fer today,” he said in a resigned tone. “Let's be off, boys. Eyes front and lockstep. Move smart, now.”

They made a column again, but this time they were wedged together, the man behind pressing closely against the one in front, compacting the line and making observation easier. Rifles at the ready, the warders watched closely, preventing any effort to talk and immediately closing any gap in the ranks. Shortly, the men were back in the prison, where they spent the rest of the afternoon in the stone sheds, using iron hammers to smash granite into pebbles the size of half-crowns, suitable for road repair. They did not stop until it grew dark and the cease-labor bell ended their monotonous task.

After the prisoner returned to his cell to eat his lonely evening meal, it was far too dark and he was much too weary to do anything more than open his Bible, sniff it in the hope of catching the woman's scent, and riffle, unseeing, through the pages. Then he put it under his thin pillow, covered himself with a blanket, and went to sleep.

L
ord Charles Sheridan had gone out of his way to view the church of Saint Michael and All Angels, in the southwest quadrant of town. The gray stone building with its three-story bell tower had been built largely by French and American prisoners of war, using granite quarried from North Hessory Tor. Still shrouded in the sad hopelessness of its builders, the church seemed now to brood over the town, a graceful companion to the squat, ugly prison not far away. Charles stopped for a moment to enjoy a spreading patch of cheerful yellow daffodils beside the cemetery wall, the only color in an otherwise gray scene. Above them was a stone tablet, inscribed to the memory of Sir Thomas Tyrwhitt, “whose name and memory are inseparable from all great works in Dartmoor.”

Charles shook his head, half amused. Tyrwhitt, secretary to that foolish, profligate Prince of Wales who later became King George IV, had dreamed of transforming Dartmoor's barren upland wastes into rich farmland. But he foolishly failed to take into account the harsh realities of climate and terrain, and the village he named in honor of his benefactor had failed to prosper until he came up with a scheme to build a war depot there and convinced the Crown to house prisoners of war in his “great work.” Happily or sadly, Princetown was the progeny of a prison, and most of its citizens, in one way or another, owed their livelihoods to its forbidding presence.

Thinking that it must be nearly time for tea, Charles went through the iron gates and down the hill in the direction of the Duchy Hotel, where he and Kate had rooms for the next few days. But he had gone only a few paces when a man hailed him out of the mist.

“Lord Sheridan!” The man who came hurrying up to him was tall and burly, clad in knickers, a tweed jacket, and tweed cap. “Good afternoon, sir! Good to see you!”

“Conan Doyle,” Charles said in surprise, as they shook hands. “What are you doing here, at the top of England?”

Doyle grinned. “Working on a bit of a story, actually,” he replied. “I would ask you the same question, but I've already seen her ladyship at the Duchy. She tells me that you are here on an enterprise for the Home Office. Something to do with the prison, I take it?”

“An identification project,” Charles replied as they set off toward the hotel. “We've undertaken to fingerprint the prisoners.” He cast a glance at Doyle. “A business near to the heart of your Sherlock, perhaps. No doubt you've read Edward Henry's recent book on the subject.”

“Afraid not,” Doyle said with a dismissive laugh. “The method is scarcely reliable, I understand. In matters of identification, Sherlock and I have always preferred the techniques of Alphonse Bertillon.”

“You and Sherlock may want to reconsider,” Charles said quietly. He was not one of those who worshiped at the altar of Holmes and Watson. In fact, it was his private opinion that Doyle, who had gone to a great deal of trouble to make his detective seem scientific, should also have gone to the trouble of giving Sherlock an interest in the modern forensic sciences. Ballistics, for example, and toxicology, and dactyloscopy, which had developed so rapidly in the last decade and which Dr. Doyle should certainly know about if he kept up with any of the scientific journals or even the newspapers. Charles was still amazed, when he thought of it, by Holmes's carelessness with fingerprints, as in “The Case of the Cardboard Box,” where he disregarded the evidence of two thumbprints; and in “The Sign of the Four,” where he simply assumed, without a shred of corroborating evidence, that the thumbprint on an envelope was the postman's. As far as fingerprints were concerned, Holmes was no more up to date than the parochial New Scotland Yard officials whom Acting Commissioner Henry now had the difficult duty of instructing.

His reservations about Holmes notwithstanding, however, Charles had been considerably impressed by Doyle's most recent book, a 500-page critique of the Boer War based on observations made while serving as a field doctor in South Africa. He said so now.

“That book of yours that Smith and Elder brought out last September—The
Great Boer War.
I must say, Doyle, it's quite the best thing written on the subject—far more comprehensive than those pieces by young Churchill. In my opinion, it will push the government in the direction of necessary military reform, at long last.”

“Do you really think so?” Doyle asked warmly. The two of them pressed against a building as a flock of sheep, led by a belled ewe and followed by a ragged young shepherd, passed by on the street. “I would certainly be pleased by any sign of reform. What I saw when I was in South Africa last year taught me that the day of sword and lance is gone forever. Ceremonial weapons simply can't prevail against modern weaponry.” The flock having vanished into the mist, the two men stepped back into the vacant street. “But I'm afraid that my proposals are not exactly welcome,” Doyle added with some irony. “You read Colonel Maude's letter in the Times, I suppose?”

“Colonel Maude is a fool,” Charles said shortly, “as is anyone who argues that a charging cavalry armed with swords and lances is more effective than infantry troops firing magazine rifles. It's absurd.” He shook his head. “Maude can say what he likes; your book is a rigorous piece of military scholarship. I shall advance your recommendations when and wherever I can.”

“Thank you,” Doyle said simply. “Given your distinguished service in the Sudan, I dare say your opinion might hold considerable weight in certain quarters.” Charles gave him an inquiring look, and he added, “I was told about it by Rudyard Kipling, when I was visiting him in Vermont. You know how storytellers love to share heroic tales.”

Charles colored. He rarely spoke of his career as an officer and in fact would have preferred that his military exploits not be known, for he was still deeply troubled by the fact that he had survived and been awarded a knighthood for bravery when all his men had died. But the Empire was a small world, paradoxically, and it was not possible to entirely ignore one's past, especially when others were acquainted with it.
³

Doyle went on in his blustery tone, “By the way, I've extended an invitation to you and your ladyship, and to Miss Marsden as well, to attend a séance tonight, not far distant across the moor, in the direction of Chagford. Lady Sheridan has agreed, but please don't feel obliged to do so, if it doesn't suit you.”

“A séance?” Charles asked, somewhat surprised. He had known Doyle for some years, and this was something new. “I wasn't aware that you had an interest in spiritualism.”

“Since my days in Southsea nearly fifteen years ago,” Doyle said in a careless tone, “when I made rather a scientific study of it.” They were nearing the hotel, and the shapes of several Dartmoor ponies, wandering down the street, came at them out of the fog. The ponies, which ran wild on the moor, were a common sight in the town and a favorite of people on holiday. “I have been for some time a member of the Society for Psychical Research. My interest is entirely scientific, of course. Most mediums are out-and-out frauds, but I am told that Nigel Westcott, the man conductingtonight's séance, is quite extraordinary in his ability to contact the spirits.”

“The evening might be... interesting,” Charles said cautiously. The previous June, he had watched, spellbound, as Harry Houdini escaped from the handcuffs that locked him to a pillar in front of New Scotland Yard—good, solid cuffs fastened on him by the incorruptible Superintendent Melville. Charles was intrigued with the way Houdini had managed it, and his interest in mediums was of the same order. As far as he was concerned, both magicians and mediums manipulated their audience's perceptions in quite skillful ways, playing on their desire to see what did not exist. On the whole, he would have preferred to remain by the fire with a book, but if Kate were going...

“Must I accept on the spot, or may I consider it?” he asked.

“Oh, by all means, take your time in considering it,” Doyle said. He coughed and added, somewhat diffidently, “I am here to do some writing. A new Sherlock Holmes adventure, set here on the moor, and with quite a Gothic flavor.”

Charles raised his eyebrows. “A
new
adventure? But I thought Holmes was dead.” In fact, it was his distinct impression that Doyle had sent his detective over Reichenbach Falls some years before because he had come to see Holmes almost as a monster, a Frankenstein—as Oscar Wilde had once observed—of whom he could not rid himself and who got into the way of his more serious writing.

“Holmes remains dead,” Doyle said firmly, “no doubt about it. This is to be a previously untold tale, taken out of Watson's dispatch box.”

“Indeed,” Charles said politely. “Does the tale have a name?”

“It does,” Doyle replied. “I am calling it
The Hound of the Baskervilles.”

“I see,” said Charles. “Well, if Dartmoor Prison figures in your story, I should be glad to arrange an introduction to the governor and a visit to the prison itself.”

“Thank you, but I think that's not necessary,” Doyle said, with a look of distaste. “I doubt that the prison itself will play any substantial role in the plot. There may be something about an escaped convict, but I haven't yet worked it all out. Actually, atmosphere is the main thing in this story.” He waved a hand toward North Hessory Tor, its dark bulk looming out of the mist behind them. “The moors, you see. Their vastness, their savage wildness, the danger of being hopelessly lost or swallowed up by the immense bogs.”