Read The Mary Russell Series Books 1-4: The Beekeeper's Apprentice; A Monstrous Regiment of Women; A Letter of Mary; The Moor Online

Authors: Laurie R. King

The Mary Russell Series Books 1-4: The Beekeeper's Apprentice; A Monstrous Regiment of Women; A Letter of Mary; The Moor (123 page)

BOOK: The Mary Russell Series Books 1-4: The Beekeeper's Apprentice; A Monstrous Regiment of Women; A Letter of Mary; The Moor
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“How did you find it?”
“I smelt it.”
“You smelt … ?”
“Coffee. Whoever spent time in there brewed coffee, and threw the grounds at the roots of the whortleberry bushes growing near the entrance.”
“Good heavens.”
“Extraordinary oversight, I agree,” he said, which was not quite what I was exclaiming about, but I let it pass. “The rest of his débris he simply threw back into the shaft—eggshells, greasy paper, tins, apple cores—but the coffee dregs went out in front. Presumably he was in the habit of drinking it at his front door, as it were, and dashing out the thick remnants in the bottom of his cup where he stood. As you are aware, Russell, habit is the snare by which many a criminal is caught.”
“How recently was he there?”
“Two or three weeks, I should say. Not more. And to anticipate your question, the new tank was last tested seventeen days ago.”
“Suggestive,” I agreed. “But that does not explain five days and a trip to London.”
“Patience,” counselled my husband, one of the least patient individuals I have ever met. “I returned here late on Tuesday, spent a pleasant evening with Gould, and on Wednesday a lad arrived with the name of the people we were looking for.”
“The London hikers?”
“Not quite, although he had found the farmhouse where they stayed. Unfortunately, being an informal hostelry, they do not keep records of their guests, and as the two Londoners had not made advance arrangements, there was little evidence as to whence they came. However, they were a memorable pair, even without the tale of the ghostly carriage they brought with them down the hill: young, the man perhaps twenty-eight, the woman a year or two younger, who impressed the farmwife as being a ‘proper lady,’ or in other words, wealthy. The man, on the other hand, had a heavier accent, and seemed much more shaken by the idea of seeing a ghostly carriage on the moor than his wife was. He also had a bad limp and one ‘special shoe,’ and at some point during the stay told the farmer that he was studying to become a doctor.”
The limp, the nerves, and the student’s advanced age gave him away as a wounded soldier. I asked drily, “You mean to say you didn’t get his regiment?”
“But of course. Not from the farmer, although he did give me the name of the village where the future doctor was injured during Second Ypres, and the War Office could have told me his regiment and thence his identity. However, I thought it simpler to phone around the teaching hospitals and enquire after a young man missing part of his foot. I found him straight off, at Bart’s.”
“So simple,” I murmured.
“Regrettably so. Do you have the maps?”
“Upstairs. What is left of them.” I trotted up and retrieved the pile, some of them pristine, hardly unfolded. Those for the north quarter had seen hard use, and I pulled open the still-damp sheets with care and laid them across the padded bench that sat in front of the fire. There happened to be an elderly cat upon it, but the animal did not seem to mind being covered up. No doubt, living in the Baring-Gould household, it had seen stranger usage.
He pored over the maps for a long time, then said, “Do we have the one-inch-to-the-mile here?”
I dug through and found it. He laid it out, found Mary Tavy and the nearby Gibbet Hill, and then took out a pencil. Using the side of a folded map as a straight edge and pulling the map to one side to find a flat place, he began to draw a series of short lines, fanning out from Gibbet Hill and touching the tops of half a dozen peaks and tors to the northeast of the hill. These were, I understood, the tors and hilltops visible from the peak.
“It was dark, and their sense of direction was sadly wanting, but they were quite definite that whatever they saw was to the northeast, that it wrapped around a hill, going from right to left, and after a minute or two disappeared behind a tor—probably, they thought, Great Links or Dunna Goat.”
“And what exactly was it they saw?”
“A pair of lights, old-style lanterns rather than the new automobile headlamps, mounted on the upper front corners of a light-coloured square frame. They had with them a strong pair of field glasses.”
“As if two lanterns on a coach built of bones.”
“As you say.”
“How would you judge them as witnesses?”
He shrugged. “Ramblers,” he said dismissively. “The sort of young people who would read up on the more arcane myths and legends of an area and spend a week traipsing about, raising blisters and searching for Local Romance.”
“Holmes, that sounds perilously close to what I have been doing this last week.”
He looked startled. “My dear Russell, I was certainly not drawing a comparison between your search for information and the selfindulgent—”
“Of course not, Holmes. Did they see a dog, or any person either inside or driving?”
“Not to be certain, no, although they had convinced themselves that they saw a large black shadow moving with the horse.”
“Of course they did. Was there anything else to be had in London?”
“There was, but I should like to delay until you’ve read something. Just remain there,” he said, getting to his feet. “I won’t be a moment.”
He went out and, judging by the sounds of another door opening almost immediately he left the drawing room, I knew he was in Baring-Gould’s study. A certain amount of time passed, and several muffled thuds, before he returned with a slim book in his hand. He tossed it in my lap and picked up his pipe from the ashtray on the table.
“How long is it since you’ve read that?” he asked.
“That,” to my amazement, was Conan Doyle’s account of
The Hound of the Baskervilles
, looking heavily read. “At least three years. I’m not certain,” I replied.
“More than that, perhaps. I should like to consult with Gould for an hour or two; you have a look at that and see if anything within Baskerville Hall strikes you as it did me.”
“But Holmes—”
“When I return, Russell. It won’t take you long, and you might even find it amusing. Though perhaps,” he added as he was going out the door, “not for the reasons Conan Doyle intended.”
18
Take my advice. Henceforth possess your mind
with an idea, when about to preach. Drive it home. Do not
hammer it till you have struck off the head. A final
tap and that will suffice.
—FURTHER REMINISCENCES
A
CTUALLY, ALTHOUGH I would have hesitated to admit it in Holmes’ hearing, I enjoyed Conan Doyle’s stories. They were not the cold, factual depictions of a case that Holmes preferred (indeed, when some years later he found that Conan Doyle had set a pair of stories in the first person, as if Holmes himself were describing the action, Holmes threatened the man with everything from physical violence to lawsuits if he dared attempt it again), but taken as Romance, they were entertaining, and I have nothing against the occasional dose of simple entertainment.
In any event, it was no great hardship to settle into my chair with the book and renew my acquaintance with Dr Mortimer, the antiquarian enthusiast who brings Holmes the curse of the Baskervilles, and with the young Canadian Sir Henry Baskerville, come to the moor to
claim his title and his heritage. I met again the ex-headmaster Stapleton and the woman introduced as his sister, and the mysterious Barrymores, servants to old Sir Charles. The moor across which I had so recently wandered came alive in all its dour magnificence, and I was very glad this book had not been among my reading the previous weekend, leaving me to ride out on the moor with the image of the hound freshly imprinted on my mind. I could well imagine the terror raised by hearing the rhythm of four huge running paws (or the “thin, crisp, continuous patter from somewhere in the heart of that crawling bank” of fog that Dr Watson described), the hoarse panting from between those massive jaws even without the eerie glow of phosphorus on its coat to render it otherworldly:
A hound it was, an enormous coal-black hound, but not such a hound as mortal eyes have ever seen. Fire burst from its open mouth, its eyes glowed with a smouldering glare, its muzzle and hackles and dewlap were outlined in flickering flame.
So engrossed was I that I completely missed the reference Holmes had wanted me to see. Only when the Hound was dead did I recall the point of the exercise, and thumbed back to the previous chapter that described the evening when Holmes first saw the interior of Baskerville Hall. The reference startled me, and I sat deep in thought for twenty minutes or so, contemplating the “straight severe face” which was “prim, hard, and stern, with a firm-set, thin-lipped mouth, and a coldly intolerant eye” until I heard the door behind me open.
I said over my shoulder, “You think Scheiman may be a Baskerville? Stapleton’s son, even?”
“Stapleton’s body was never found,” Holmes pointed out unnecessarily as he resumed his chair on the other side of the fire. “I was never happy with Scotland Yard’s conclusion, and always felt it possible that he had prepared an escape route and slipped through it while we were occupied elsewhere, but he was never seen, and after two weeks, Scotland
Yard was satisfied with his fate in the mire and took their watch from the ports.”
“I have to agree that the description of the Cavalier painting, wicked Sir Hugo himself with his prim lips and his flaxen hair, does fit Scheiman.”
“Scheiman is by no means so clear a case, else I should have noticed it when first I laid eyes on him. If Stapleton married in America—although legal marriage it could not have been, nor indeed would Sir Henry’s have been to Beryl Stapleton, the supposed widow—the woman contributed a great deal more to her son’s looks than did the father. Ears, eyes, cheekbones, and hands are all hers; only the mouth (which you will have noticed he takes care to conceal beneath a beard) and the stature are his father’s.”
“You wondered when the portrait of Sir Hugo had gone: If the surviving Baskerville took it with her rather than sell it with the others to Ketteridge, for the dubious privilege of preserving a memento of the family history perhaps, then its absence is innocent, whereas if it was removed after the sale, by Ketteridge or Scheiman—”
“Then the why is obvious: that Scheiman’s family resemblance might not be seen by visitors to the house.”
“Visitors such as Sherlock Holmes. I don’t think I told you, by the way, that Ketteridge was interested in hiring you to investigate the hound sightings.”
That brought a laugh, as I had thought it might do, albeit a brief one.
“What brought the resemblance to your mind?” I asked. Surely he hadn’t picked up
The Hound of the Baskervilles
to read on the train?
“A number of things. Scheiman’s interest in the antiquities of the moor, the dim lighting of the dining hall, how he spent the least amount of time possible with us—with me, who had known Stapleton. But, I have to admit, the actual possibility was got through hindsight.
“As I told you, the Ketteridge establishment interests me. It interested me when first I saw the man helping himself to Gould’s liquor
cabinet. He does not fit in Dartmoor, and does not seem eccentric enough to justify the oddity of his presence here.
“So while I was in town, I initiated some enquiries about Ketteridge and his secretary. The responses to my telegrams will take days, even weeks, but I did come across one thing of interest: The two men were not together when they boarded the ship coming over here. Ketteridge began his journey in San Francisco, but Scheiman joined the ship in New York.”
“There could be an explanation for that.”
“There could be any number of explanations. However, Ketteridge told us he came over in the summer, yet his passage was in early March.”
I had to agree that although the oddity was hardly evidence of criminal activity, it did call for a closer examination of the two men.
“You’ve sent wires to New York and San Francisco?”
“And Portland and Alaska.”
“So you think Ketteridge is involved.”
“He may or may not be. Scheiman is definitely up to something.”
The generality of the word
something
was unlike Holmes; after a moment’s thought, and particularly when he would not look at me, I knew why.
“You believe that Scheiman is after Mycroft’s tank,” I said in disgust.
“It does not do to theorise in advance of one’s facts,” he said primly.
I made a rude remark about his facts, and went on. “If this is deteriorating into a spy hunt, Holmes, you don’t need me. It’s been a truly invigorating holiday from my books, but perhaps I may be allowed to take my leave.”
“Two murders now, Russell. I should have thought that sufficient to overcome your distaste for the War Office.”
I dropped my head back onto the chair and closed my eyes. “You really need me, Holmes?”
“I could ask Watson.”
Dr Watson was only five years older than Holmes, but his heavy frame had aged as Holmes’ wiry build and whip-hard constitution had
not. I dismissed his halfhearted suggestion. “A cold day on the moor would cripple him.” That Holmes might rely on police help or Mycroft’s men was so improbable as to be unworthy of mention. “I’ll stay and see it through. Although I can’t promise that I won’t blow up that flipping tank myself at the end of it.”
“That’s my Russell.” He smiled. I scowled.
“Will you go down to see Miss Baskerville yourself, to ask about the painting?” I asked him.
“I should like to know as well some of the particulars concerning the sale of the Hall. Yes, I shall go myself. Now, you have yet to tell me about Elizabeth Chase’s hedgehogs.”
“One hedgehog, and it does not belong to her. It now resides in the garden of a friend of Miss Chase’s in Widdecombe-in-the-Moor, where Miss Chase carried it to nurse it back to health after finding it on the twenty-eighth of July, its leg crushed by a fast-moving wheel and its back bitten by large teeth.”
“Aha!”
“Indeed. Moreover, she goes on to offer us one large and spectral dog with a glowing eye and a taste for scones.” To my great pleasure, this statement actually startled Holmes.
I told him about Elizabeth Chase’s wounded hedgehog and about Samuel’s encounter with the Hound, and after telling him I sat forward and pulled the map to me, marking with an X the spot between the stone row and the hut circles where she had heard the piteous cry of poor wee Tiggy and the place where Samuel had seen the dog. Holmes took the pencil and drew in the probable route of the coach as seen from Gibbet Hill, added a star shape to mark the adit in which he had found signs of life, and we studied the result: my X, his line, two Xs for the sightings of the coach in July, and a circle to show where Josiah Gorton had last been seen. All of them together formed a jagged line running diagonally across the face of the moor from Sourton Tor in the northwest to Cut Lane in the southeast, roughly six miles from one end to the other. The imaginary line’s nearest point to Baskerville Hall was
three miles, although the closest sighting, that of the courting couple, was more than four miles away.
I sat for a time in contemplation of the enigmatic line while Holmes slumped back into his chair, eyes closed and fingers steepled. When he spoke, his remark seemed at first oblique.
“I find I cannot get the phial of gold dust from my mind.”
“Did you give it over for analysis?”
“I looked at it myself in the laboratory. Small granules of pure gold—not ore—with a pinch of some high-acid humus and a scraping of deteriorated granitic sand.”
“Peat is highly acidic,” I suggested.
“Peat, yes, but there was a tiny flat fragment that looked as if it might have been a decomposed leaf of some tough plant such as holly or oak.”
“Wistman’s Wood is oak.”
“So are a number of other places around the moor. I shall ring the laboratory later today, to see if their more time-consuming chemical analyses have given them any more than I found. In the meanwhile, I think I can just catch the train to Plymouth, although it may mean stopping there the night. Perhaps you could go and ask Mrs Elliott if Gould’s old dog cart is available.”
“And if the pony can pull it.” Red was still in residence at Baskerville Hall.
Holmes went up to put his shaving kit and a change of linen into his bag, and I put the breakfast things back on the tray and took them into the kitchen. There I found Mrs Elliott, looking somewhat dishevelled.
“Oh bless you, my dear. I don’t know what I’m going to do. Rosemary and Lettice have taken to their beds with sick headaches—from crying no doubt; they’d be better off working and keeping their minds off that silly man, but there you have it.”
“I’m sorry, Mrs Elliott. Is there anything I can do to help?” I asked hesitantly. “Washing up or something?”
She looked shocked. “That will not be necessary, mum. But thank
you for the kind thought.” She would have to be in a sorry state indeed before she allowed a guest to plunge her ladylike hands into a pan full of dishes.
“Well, please let me know if there is something I can do. But I need to ask, can someone take Mr Holmes down to the station? He needs to catch the train to Plymouth.”
She looked up at the clock over the mantelpiece and hurriedly began to dry her hands. “He’ll need to step smart, then. I’ll have Mr Dunstan hitch the pony to the cart.”
She ducked out through the door. I eyed the stack of unwashed dishes and left them alone, going up the back stairs to tell Holmes the cart would be ready. I found him just closing his bag, and reported on the time constrictions. He nodded and sat down to change his shoes.
“What do you wish me to do while you’re away?” I asked. I was half tempted to throw together a bag and join him, for the sake of movement if nothing else.
“We need to know more about Pethering,” he said. One set of laces was looped and tied, and the other foot raised. “I want you to—”
“Sorry, Holmes,” I said, raising one hand. “Was that the door?” We listened, hearing nothing, and I went over to the window. There was a motorcar in the drive, but the porch roof obscured my view of the door, so, feeling a bit like a fishwife, I opened the window and put my head out to call. “Hello? Is someone there?”
After a moment a hatted, overcoated man came into view, backing slowly out from the porch and craning his head to see where the voice had come from.
“Inspector Fyfe!” I said. He found me and tipped his hat uncertainly. “Do come inside and warm yourself; the door is not locked. We’ll be right down.” I drew in my head and latched the window.
Holmes was already out of the room, and I did not catch him up until he was shaking hands with a still-hatted Inspector Fyfe in the hall. As I seemed to be playing hostess (or rather, in the temporary absence of Mrs Elliott and her disturbed assistants, housemaid), I took his coat
and hat. Not knowing quite what to do with them, I laid them across the back of a chair and joined the two men at the fire.
Fyfe rubbed his hands together briskly in front of the smouldering fire, while Holmes squatted down to coax it back to life. “What can we do for you, Inspector?” I asked.
“I have some questions to ask Mr Baring-Gould about the man Pethering.”
Holmes looked up. “What do you imagine Gould would know about him?”
BOOK: The Mary Russell Series Books 1-4: The Beekeeper's Apprentice; A Monstrous Regiment of Women; A Letter of Mary; The Moor
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