“I often go across the moor, you know. I have friends in Moreton-hampstead and Widdecombe, and there’s roots and things growing on that side and not this. So on a nice day when I don’t have too many animals needing my eye—my ‘patients,’ as Daniel calls them—I’ll take a sandwich and a bottle of tea and pay a call on my friends.”
Both of the places she had named were a good fifteen or twenty miles across some fairly rough countryside. “Do you do the trip in a day?” I asked in surprise. Having seen her totter about, I doubted that she could cover more than two miles in an hour, and that on even ground.
“Oh, I stop the night there, dear,” she reassured me. “Sometimes two nights, and come back the third day. One of Daniel’s children feeds the beasties.” As if that was all that might concern me. “But as I was saying, I was on the moor one day last summer when I heard the saddest little cry, it’d make your heart break to hear it. It was such a tiny noise, I had a time finding what was making it, until finally I found the poor wee thing in the shade of a standing stone. It’d been trying to dig a hole in the ground to hide itself in, but it hadn’t a chance, even if it had been whole and strong.” She seemed not far from tears at the pathos of the thing.
“A hedgehog,” I said.
“That it was, a young Tiggy, would fit into your hand. I thought for sure it would die, it was that sorely treated. I decided all I could do was make it comfortable and sing to it until it passed on. So I popped it into my coat pocket and sang while I walked, and I took it out when I got to Widdecombe, fully expecting to have to borrow a spade and bury it.
“Only, don’t you know, the little face looked up at me, so trusting, I just knew it would pull through. We gave it some milk with a drop of brandy in it, set its little leg—the back one, on the left—and wrapped it with a splint made from a nice smooth corset stay cut down to size, and I pulled together the great tear in its back with a piece of silk embroidery floss—green, it was; quite striking—and put it into a little box with some cotton wool near the fire.
“And in the morning it wrinkled its little nose at me, asking clear as it could, ‘Where’s my breakfast?’”
“Was it all right, then?” I asked. Not perhaps the most professional of investigative enquiries, and certainly not the question Holmes would have had at that point, but I did want to know.
“Not very good, you understand, but it lived. I did have to take off its little foot with a pair of sewing scissors, I’m afraid. It was too badly crushed to save, and the infection would have killed it.”
I winced at the picture of two ancient ladies bent over the kitchen table doing an amputation with a pair of scissors, and moved quickly on to the proper questions. “What had caused its injuries, do you know?”
“Now that’s just it, dear,” she said, sounding approving. “It was something moving fast—a cart-wheel, maybe, or a boot—that squashed the poor thing’s leg, but a dog had at it, too.”
The hair on the back of my neck stirred. “How do you know that?” I demanded.
“Which, the cart or the dog?”
“Both.”
“Well, dear, I know that whatever it was squashed Tiggy had to be moving quickly, because if poor little Tiggy’d had a minute’s warning he’d have curled up tight and been flattened right across, not just one stray leg. And the dog I know because any wild creature would’ve had more sense, and once tearing at Tiggy that way he’d either have stayed to finish him off or taken him home to feed his babies.”
Unlikely as it seemed, this was a witness after Holmes’ own heart, and I took my hat off to her. Literally.
“What pretty hair you have, my dear,” she exclaimed, and reached out to pat it lightly. “I had a cousin once who had strawberry blond hair just like yours, and she was bright as her hair, too.”
I had to admit that I was not feeling particularly bright, and asked her if she had seen any hoof marks or cart tracks.
“I’m afraid I didn’t, dear. The ground was dry, you know, and it takes something pretty heavy to make a dent.”
I found it hard to imagine the turf of the moor dry and hard, but I had to defer to her greater knowledge of the place. I then asked her
about the precise location of the hedgehog’s unfortunate accident. I offered her my map, but she waved it away, saying that her eyes found such fine work a difficulty, so instead she described her route subjectively—the hills and flats, a tor gone by, a stream crossed, the morning sun in her eyes—and I eventually decided on a stone circle below a rise that seemed to coincide with her description. I folded up the map and replaced it in the breast pocket of my coat. She seemed not to have finished with me, however, and sat with her head at an angle and an expectant look on her face. I thought perhaps she was waiting for my final judgement, which I did not think I could give her.
“I have to admit, I don’t know enough about the habits of hedgehogs to say if I agree with your ideas,” I began. Her face instantly cleared and she began to nod in understanding.
“Then you won’t know the real question here, and that is, ‘What was Tiggy doing there?’”
“I’m sorry, you’ll have to explain that.”
“Tiggy doesn’t live out on the moor, dear. Tiggy likes the woods and the soft places.”
“And there aren’t any?”
“Not in two or three miles of where I found him.”
“What if some animal had carried it? Whatever gave it the bite, for example, or a big hawk?”
“Well, that’s possible, I suppose, dear,” she said, sounding very dubious. “But I was wondering if it wasn’t more likely that Tiggy was accidentally taking a ride on whatever it was run him down.”
13
… The reader is tripping over uncertain ground, not
knowing what is to be accepted and what rejected.
—A BOOK OF DARTMOOR
W
HEN I TOOK my leave from Elizabeth Chase, the good witch of Mary Tavy, my mind, to borrow a phrase from Baring-Gould’s memoirs, was in a ferment. It was still only midday, and Lew House little more than two hours away; I decided to take a look at the place where she had found the injured Tiggy.
I found it without difficulty—there are not so many stone circles on the moor to make for a confusion—but I was not quite sure what to make of it. The site was typical of its kind, upright hunks of granite arranged in a rough circle on a piece of relatively flat ground and surrounded by the moor’s low turf, broken here and there by stones and bracken. A double row of stones (one of Randolph Pethering’s “Druid ceremonial passages”) lay in the near distance, and a moorland track (the Abbot’s Way?) ran alongside.
As Elizabeth Chase had indicated, the most curious part of the hedgehog affair was why the animal should have been out here in the first place. The more I thought about it, the more I had to agree: The little beasts are lovers of woods and the resultant soft leaf mould under which to take cover, a far cry from this blasted heath, which even a badger would have been hard put to carve into a home.
I pulled from Red’s saddlebag the cheese and pickle sandwich and bottle of ale that I had asked for that morning at the Mary Tavy inn, and carried them over to a stone that had once, by the looks of the hollow in the ground at one end, been upright. I laid out my sandwich and opened the bottle with the bottle-opening blade of my pocket knife, and ate my lunch, enjoying the sun and my prehistoric surroundings, and most especially the delightful image of a hitchhiking hedgehog.
An almost lighthearted air of holiday had set in. After all, I had more or less completed my assignment, with an unlikely but glittering gem to carry back to Lew Trenchard and a mere handful of houses between here and the edge of the moor at which to carry out the formalities of my enquiries. My sense of taste had returned, I could very nearly breathe the air, and the sun was actually shining. I stretched out with my head on one stone and my boots on another, and rested for ten minutes before gathering my luncheon débris and swinging back up into the saddle.
“Home, Red,” I said to him, and endured a few hundred yards of his trot before pulling him back to his usual amble.
This time when he shied, I was ready for him. Unfortunately.
Given a negative stimulus of sufficient strength, one can train even the most stubborn animal to avoid a given activity. Red had trained me quite effectively: No sooner did my mind begin to drift away into its own world than it snapped back to apprehensive attention. Twice, this was unnecessary. The third time my quick reversion to full awareness came at the precise moment that Red jumped. I clung like a burr, knowing that he would calm the moment his feet set down again on solid ground. However, this time, with me on his back, he did not; instead he panicked.
I had thought the gelding capable of two gaits and no speed. I was proved wrong, over the most lethal terrain imaginable, a vicious combination of jagged boulders and the soft, almost mucky turf they were set into. We pounded furiously through two hundred yards of this before his front foot went into a shallow rivulet, and he slewed over onto his side, feet kicking furiously. At the last possible moment I flung myself out of the saddle, but one flailing hoof caught me as I went and I hit the ground, not in a balanced roll, but as any untrained person would: hard. I probably would have broken an arm had I not landed on the sodden bank of the stream. Coughing and choking, I pushed myself out of the water and perched on the edge of the bank with my boots in the frigid stream until my head stopped whirling, and fished around for my fallen spectacles when I noticed their lack was one of the things contributing to my disorientation. Very luckily, they were not smashed, only bent and scratched. I threaded them back onto my ears and looked around for Red; when I saw him, my urge to commit murder was snatched away and my heart went into my throat. He was standing with his head down and one of his front legs raised off the ground.
I scrambled over to him and bent to examine the leg, finding to my great relief that it was not broken, although the knee was bleeding, tender, and swelling rapidly. The same could be said of various parts of my own anatomy: The arms and shoulders that had automatically protected my skull from the worst of the rocks would be a mass of bruises tomorrow, my forehead seemed to be bleeding, and I was not altogether certain about one of the ribs on my right side. Still, I was conscious and walking, and so, barely, was the horse.
I led him back to the stream, pushing and pulling until he was standing in it, and I began bathing his leg and my forehead in the cold water. After a while, the cold began to work. Both of us stopped bleeding and he relaxed his bad leg farther into the water until it was actually bearing a portion of his weight.
It would not, however, bear mine as well. While I waited for him to recover some degree of mobility, I stripped him of his burdens and
changed my dangerously wet garments for the dry clothing in the bag. When I had packed them again, I retrieved the torn and sodden map from my pocket and sat with it on my knees.
I was, I decided reluctantly, too far from Lydford to lead the horse, and I was hesitant to leave an injured, elderly animal accustomed to shelter out here on its own. The healing hands of Elizabeth Chase were even farther away, perhaps four hours at a hobbling pace. I could return to the tiny, dirty farm I had stopped at between here and there. Or …
My eyes were pulled north on the map by a patch of tree markings, noteworthy in that expanse of rough grassland, and by its label: Baskerville Hall.
I had not intended to make another, unannounced, visit to Richard Ketteridge. The awareness of his curious establishment had been with me over the last days, of course, and when I had turned north the previous morning I had briefly toyed with the idea, before deciding that any further investigation of Baskerville Hall was best left to Holmes, who knew the ground.
Now, however, I was in a spot, and needed aid of the sort that Ketteridge could readily provide: food, warmth, shelter for the horse, and alternative transport. Of course, it would necessitate appearing before him a second time in a thoroughly soiled and dishevelled state, but pride could be swallowed—so long as it was washed down with a cup of hot tea. I folded the map back into its pocket and went to extricate the horse from its cold bath. Taking another look at the swollen leg, I decided that a firm wrap might make him more comfortable. One shirt did the job, tied into place with a pair of handkerchiefs, and I could then transfer the bags from the horse’s back to my own.
Together we limped across the deserted landscape towards Baskerville Hall. The afternoon light faded, but with the map and compass at hand I was in no danger of getting lost, and my boots were slowly drying out. Red’s leg seemed to improve as we went on; I, on the other hand, began to discover bruises I hadn’t known were there, and the bruised (I hoped only bruised) rib made it difficult to breathe at all deeply. The heavy bag
seemed to cut into my left shoulder, the tug of the reins yanked the right shoulder into flames, and there seemed to be something amiss with the hip below the bad rib as well. God alone knew what I looked like.
The high wall surrounding Baskerville Hall dictated that the horse at any rate should have to enter by way of the road. It was a long way around, and thoroughly dark when I found the gate, which was shut tight. Nonetheless, banging and shouts roused not only the sharp pains in shoulder and ribs, but a resident of the lodge house as well.
My appearance did not seem to inspire confidence. His wife, looking out of the window at me, was either more sensible or more near-sighted and ordered him to ring up to the house on the telephone to ask if I might be permitted entrance.
Permission was given, but the gatekeeper evidently did not bother with explanations or details. When he, the horse, and I finally emerged from the (still unlit) avenue of trees into the harsh glare of the thousand-watt Swan and Edison, both Ketteridge and Scheiman were outside the door peering in some agitation down the drive to see what could have delayed me. When we appeared, the two Americans made exclamations of surprise and hurried to take the reins and my elbow. I winced and retrieved the elbow.
“Mrs Holmes, what on earth happened here?” Ketteridge demanded.
“I’m really quite all right, Mr Ketteridge, although I know I must look as if I’d been set upon by thieves. The horse fell coming across a litter of rocks.”
“Your head—”
“Just a cut, I didn’t even pass out. I’m afraid the poor old boy is out of the running for a few days, though, and as you were not too far off I thought I might beg of you a stable for him and a ride for me to Lew House.”
The agitation returned briefly, before Ketteridge took command of the situation and himself. “David, show Mrs Holmes to the upstairs bath next to the stairway, and ask Mrs McIverney to rustle up some spare clothes for her. Jansen, take the horse down to the stables and
have Williams feed and water him and look to his leg. Mrs Holmes, when you’ve had a chance to tidy up I hope you’ll join me for supper—I’m afraid the car isn’t here at the moment, but it shouldn’t be away too long. Houseguests, who went back to Exeter this afternoon. I’ll have the driver run you down to Lew when we’ve eaten. All right?”
I could not very well argue with my benefactor, although I should almost have preferred to borrow a horse and return to Lew Trenchard on my own rather than cool my heels over an evening of stilted conversation in borrowed clothing. Still, the appeal of a deep, hot bath was undeniable, and Ketteridge did not seem in a mood to be contradicted. I surrendered the horse and my burden, and meekly followed the secretary into the house.
There remained, though, discomfort in the air, which seemed actually to increase as we penetrated the house. Scheiman called perfunctorily for Mrs McIverney, for a bath to be drawn, and for clothing to be brought, ignoring my (admittedly feeble) protestations that none of this was necessary with a great deal more brusqueness than I should have expected in a mere secretary.
His almost audible sigh of relief when the door to the bath was shutting behind me confirmed the feeling I had received, that my arrival had interrupted something of importance and I was being got out of the way while it was tidied offstage.
A normal uninvited guest would have assumed an attitude of conspicuous blithe ignorance and been careful to remain unseeing. Being no normal guest, I put on the air of innocence but tightened my scrutiny. Giving Scheiman and the maid two minutes to retreat, I opened the door quietly and put my head out into the hallway.
The maid rose hastily from her seat on a hard chair and greeted me expectantly.
“I, er … I’m going to need to wash my hair,” I improvised. “Do you think you could warm some bath towels to help dry it?”
“Yes, mum. It’s being done.” She was cheerful and helpful, and had
quite obviously been told not to leave her post outside my door. I might as well have been locked in. I thanked her, and closed the door.
The window was small and high and closed. I balanced on a chair and tugged it open, but there was nothing to be seen or heard, only the feeling of cold air sucking out the room’s warm steam. This small, spartan, slightly grubby bathroom, a bath of the sort one might set aside for the use of poor relations rather than the gracious rescue of an honoured acquaintance’s wife, was on the north end of the east wing, away from the main guest rooms, overlooking nothing but fields and moorland, far from any sound of voices coming up the main stairs. Far, too, I realised, from the front drive, the coach house, and the stables.
Much as I should have liked to sink into oblivion in the long, hot depths of the bath, I knew I could not submit to my imprisonment without at least trying to confirm my suspicions. Leaving the chair in place and the window wide open, I stripped one of the laces from my boots, tied it around a face flannel, and dropped the flannel in the water, swishing it around vigorously to give the maid the picture of my getting into the bath. I then resumed my perch with the other end of the bootlace wrapped around one toe. From time to time I pulled the flannel about, to evoke the sounds of languid bathing, all the while growing ever more stiff and uncomfortable with my head resting on the windowsill, waiting for a sound that would probably never come.
In the end, though, some ten or fifteen minutes after my vigil began, I was granted not only a sound, but a visual confirmation as well. The engine noise of Ketteridge’s big touring car purred softly over the rooftops, and then a brief flare of the headlamps illuminated the tops of some trees that were at the very edge of my field of vision. The motor faded, going down the drive and away from the house. I did not know what it meant, but it was with satisfaction that I pulled down the window, replaced the chair and the laces, and slipped silently into the cooling bath.