“There is something wrong on the moor,” he said bluntly. “I want you to discover what it is, and stop it.”
I looked sideways at Holmes, in time to see his automatic twitch of impatience slide into an expression of quiet amusement.
“Details, Gould,” he murmured. The old man scowled at him, and then, to my surprise, there was a brief twinkle in the back of his keen eyes before he dropped his gaze to the fire, assembling his thoughts.
“You remember the problem we had with Stapleton and the hound? Perhaps I should explain,” he interrupted himself, recalling my presence, and proceeded to retell the story known to most of the English-speaking world, and probably most of the non-English-speaking world as well.
“Some thirty years ago a young Canadian inherited a title and its manor up on the edge of the moor. The previous holder, old Sir Charles, had died of apparently natural causes (he had a bad heart) but under odd circumstances, circumstances that gave rise to a lot of rumours concerning an old family curse that involved a spectral black dog.”
“The Hound of the Baskervilles.”
“Yes, that’s it, although the family name is not actually Baskerville. As I remember, Baskerville was the driver your friend Doyle used when he came up here, was it not?” he asked Holmes.
“I believe so,” said Holmes drily, although friend was not the word I might have chosen to describe his relationship with Dr Watson’s literary agent and collaborator. Baring-Gould went on.
“The moor is poor ground agriculturally, but rich in songs and stories and haunts aplenty: the jacky-twoad with his glowing head and the long-legged Old Stripe, the church grims and bahr-ghests that creep over the moor, seeking out the lone traveller, the troublesome pixies that lead one astray, and the dogs: the solitary black animals with glowing eyes or the pack of coal-black, fire-breathing hounds leading the dark huntsman and his silent mount. Of course, any student of folklore could tell you of a hundred sources of devil dogs, with or without glowing eyes. Heavens, I could fill a volume on spectral hounds alone—the dark huntsman, the Pad-foot, the wisht-hounds. In fact, in my youth I came across a particularly interesting Icelandic variation—”
“Perhaps another time, Gould,” Holmes suggested firmly.
“What? Oh yes. The family curse of the Baskervilles. At any rate, old Sir Charles died, young Sir Henry came, and the mysterious happenings escalated. Holmes came out here to look things over, and he soon discovered that one of the Baskerville neighbours on the moor was an illegitimate descendant who had his eye on inheriting, and made use of the ghost stories, frightening the old man to death and attempting to harass the young baronet into a fatal accident. Stapleton was his name, a real throwback to the wicked seventeenth-century Baskerville who was the original source of the curse, for his maltreatment of a young girl. Stapleton even resembled the painting of old Baskerville, didn’t he, Holmes? In fact, I meant to send you a chapter of my Old Country Life where I discuss inherited characteristics and atavistic traits.”
“You did.”
“Did I? Oh good.”
“So what has the Stapleton case to do with Dartmoor now?” Holmes prodded.
“I do not know except—” He dropped his voice, as if someone, or something, might be listening at the window. “They tell me the Hound has been seen again, running free on the moor.”
I CANNOT DENY that the old man’s words brought a finger of primitive ice down my spine. A loose dog chasing sheep is a problem, but hardly reason for superstitious fears. However, the night, my fatigue, and the stark fact that this apparently sensible and undeniably intelligent old man was himself frightened, all came together to walk a goose over my grave. I shivered.
Fortunately, Holmes did not notice, because the words also had an effect on the man who had uttered them. He slumped into his chair, suddenly grey and exhausted, his eyes closed, his purplish lips slack. I stood in alarm, fearing he had suffered an attack of some kind, but Holmes went briskly out of the door, returning in a minute with the cheerful, rather stupid-looking woman who had brought our dinner. She laid a strong hand on Baring-Gould’s arm, and he opened his eyes and smiled weakly.
“I’ll be fine in a moment, Mrs Moore. Too much excitement.”
“On top of everything else, the cold and the worry an’ all. Mrs Elliott will never forgive me if I let you take ill. Best you go to bed now, Rector. I’ve laid a nice fire in your room, and tomorrow Mrs Elliott will be back and the heat’ll be on.” He began to protest, but she already had him on his feet and moving towards the door.
“Time enough tomorrow, Gould,” Holmes called. We followed the sounds as the woman half-carried her easily bullied charge upstairs to his bed. A far-off door closed, and Holmes dropped back into his chair and took up his pipe.
“Twenty years ago that man could walk me into the ground,” he said.
I took some split logs from the basket and tossed them onto the fire before returning to my own chair. “So I came all the way here to help you look for a dog,” I said flatly.
“Don’t be obtuse, Russell,” he snapped. “I thought you of all people would see past the infirmities.”
“To what? A superstitious old parson? A busybody who thinks the world is his parish—or rather, his manor?”
Holmes suddenly took his pipe out of his mouth, and said in pure East-End Cockney, “’E didn’t ’alf ruffle yer feathers, didn’e, missus?”
After a minute, reluctantly, I grinned back at him. “Very well, I admit I was peeved to begin with, and he didn’t exactly endear himself.”
“He never has been much of one for the politic untruth, and you did appear very bedraggled.”
“I promise I’ll behave myself when I meet him again. But only if you tell me why you brought me down here.”
“Because I needed you.”
Of all the clever, manipulative answers I had been braced to meet, I had not expected one of such complete simplicity. His transparent honesty made me deeply suspicious, but the real possibility that he was telling the unadorned truth swept the feet out from under my resolve to stand firm against him. My suspicions and thoughts chased each other around for a while, until eventually I simply burst out laughing.
“All right, Holmes, you win. I’m here. What do you want me to do?”
He rose and went to the sideboard to replenish his glass (not, I noticed, from the small stoneware jug that held the metheglin) and returned with a glass in his other hand as well, which he placed on the table next to my chair before moving over to stand in front of the fire. He took a deep draught from his drink, put it down on the floor beside his foot (as there was no mantelpiece), and took up his pipe. I sank down into the arms of the chair, growing more apprehensive by the minute: All of this delay meant either that he was trying to decide how best to get around the defences that I thought I had already let down, or that he was uncertain in his own mind about how to proceed. Either way, it was not a good sign.
He succeeded in getting his pipe to draw cleanly, retrieved his glass, and settled down in his chair, stretching his long legs towards the fire. Another slow draught half emptied the glass, and with his chin on his chest and his pipe in his hand, he looked into the fresh flames and began to speak.
“As Gould intimated, Dartmoor is a most peculiar place,” he began. “Physically it comprises a high, wide bowl of granite, some three hundred and fifty square miles covered with a thin, peaty soil and scattered with outcrops of stone. It functions as a huge sponge, the peat storing its rain all winter to feed the Teign, the Dart, the Tavy, and all the other streams and rivers that are born here. The floor of the moor is a thousand feet above the surrounding Devonshire countryside, from which it rises abruptly. It is a thing apart, a place unconnected with the rest of the world, and it is not inappropriate that a very harsh prison was set in its midst. Indeed, to many, Dartmoor is synonymous with the prison, although that facility is but a bump on the broad face of the moor.”
“I have seen the Yorkshire moors
,” I said.
“Then you’ve a very rough idea of the ground here, but not of Dartmoor’s special character. It is much more of a hortus conclusus, although this walled garden is no warm and fruitful paradise, but a rocky place of gorse and bracken. As Gould said, it does not generously part with its wealth. It is a land of great strength—men have broken their health and their fortunes trying to beat it down and shape it to their ends, but the moor wins out in the end. The men who chose to build a prison here set great value on breaking the spirits of the men they were guarding. The moor will not be farmed, nor made to grow any but the simplest crops. Tin miners have been the only men to draw much money from the place, and even they had to work hard for it. On a basic level, however, it has provided spare sustenance to its inhabitants for thousands of years: One finds mediaeval stone crosses mingling with neolithic ruins and early Victorian engine houses.
“Most of the moor is a chase or forest, which as I’m sure you know does not necessarily mean trees, and here most emphatically does not. In this sense, a forest denotes a wild reserve for the crown to hunt, although I imagine the Prince of Wales must find the game somewhat limited on the moor itself, unless he is fond of rabbits. Much of it is a common, grazed by the adjoining parishes with fees collected at a yearly gathering up of the animals, called the ‘drift.’ Other parts of it are privately held, with an interesting legal right of a holder’s survivors to claim an additional eight acres upon the death of each subsequent holder. These ‘new-takes’ at one time ate into the duchy’s holdings, but are not often claimed now, because the traditional moor men are dying off, and their sons are moving to the cities. Do you know, when I was here thirty years ago it was not impossible to find a child of the moor who had never seen a coin of the realm? Now—” He gave out a brief cough of laughter. “The other day in the Saracen’s Head pub, right out in the middle of the moor, one of the natives was singing an Al Jolson song.”
“You’ve been up on the moor, then? Recently?” I asked.
“I travelled across it from Exeter, yes.”
A hike like that might account for his heavier use of brandy than normal, I thought, as well as his position in front of the hottest part of the fire. He went on before I could ask after his rheumatism.
“The people of the moor are what one might expect: hard as granite, with low expectations of what life has to give, often nearly illiterate but with a superb verbal memory and possessed of the occasional flare of poetry and imagination. They are, in fact, like the tors they live among, those odd piles of fantastically weathered granite that grace the tops of a number of hills: rock hard, well worn, and decidedly quirky.”
“A description which could also apply to our host,” I murmured, and took a sip of the surprisingly good and undoubtedly old brandy in my glass.
“Indeed. He may not have been born on the moor itself, but it is in him now. It is not paternalism speaking in him—or not only paternalism. He is truly and deeply concerned about the stirs and currents abroad on the moor. I wouldn’t be surprised if he can feel them from here.”
“So you agree there’s something wrong up there?” I heard the last two words come out of my mouth with a definite emphasis, and thought with irritation that this habit of referring to a deserted bit of landscape as if it were another planet seemed to be contagious.
“There’s certainly something stirring, though truth to tell I cannot read the currents well enough to see if it be for ill or not. I will say I received a faint impression that the moor was readying itself for a convulsion of some sort, though whether an eruption or a sudden flowering I couldn’t say.”
He stopped abruptly and looked askance at the empty glass balanced on the arm of his chair, and I had to agree, it was very unusual to hear him wax quite so poetic. He picked up the glass and put it firmly away from him onto the nearby table, then settled back with his pipe, not meeting my eyes.
“As with any isolated setting, the moor seethes with stories of the supernatural. Unsophisticated minds are apt to see corpse lights or ‘jacky-twoads’ where the scientist would see swamp gas, and long and lonely nights encourage the mind to wander down paths poorly illuminated by the light of reason. The people firmly believe in ghostly dogs and wraiths of the dying, in omen-bearing ravens and standing stones that walk in the dark of the moon. And pixies—the pixies, or pygsies, are everywhere, waiting to lead the unsuspecting traveller astray. The author of a respectable guidebook, published just a few years ago, recommends that the lost walker turn his coat out so as to avoid being ’pygsie-led’—and he’s only half joking.”
“What does Baring-Gould make of all that? He’s an educated man, after all.”
“Gould?” Holmes laughed. “He’s the most gullible of the lot, full of the most awful balderdash. He’ll tell you how a neighbour’s horse panicked one night at the precise spot where a man would be killed some hours later, how another man carried on a conversation with his wife who was dying ten miles away, how—. Revelations, visitations, spooks, you name it—he’s worse than Conan Doyle, with his fairies and his spiritualism.”
All this made the purported friendship sound less and less likely. Sherlock Holmes was not one to suffer fools even under coercion, yet he was apparently here under his own free will, and without resentment. There was undoubtedly something in the situation that I had thus far failed to grasp.
“I was here for some weeks during the Stapleton case,” he was saying, “and since then once or twice for shorter periods of time, so I have a basic working knowledge of the moor dweller and his sense of the universe. The stories he tells are a rich mixture that ranges from the humorous to the macabre. They may be violent and occasionally, shall I say, earthy, but they are rarely brutal and have thus far appeared free of those terrors of the urban dweller, the two-legged monster and the plagues of foreign diseases.
“This time it is different. In two days, nursing my beer in the corners of three moorland public houses, the stories I heard could as easily have come from Whitechapel or Limehouse. Oh, there are the standard stories too, the everyday fare of the moor dwellers, although the recent preoccupation with ghostly carriages and spectral dogs that has Gould worried does, I agree, seem unusually vivid and worth investigating. Still, they are a far way from the other stories I heard, which were along the lines of a dark man with a razor-sharp blade sacrificing a ram on top of a tor and drinking its blood, and a young girl found ravished and dismembered, and an old woman drowned in a stream.”
“Have these things happened?” I asked sharply.
“They have not.”
“None of them?”
“As far as I can discover, they are not even patched-together exaggerations of actual incidents. They seem to be rumours made up of whole cloth.”
I could think of no proper response, but as I took another swallow from my glass, I was aware for the first time of a feeling of uneasiness.
“Yes,” I said. “I see.”
“Except,” he added, “for one.”
“Ah.”
“Ah indeed. The death of Josiah Gorton is both undeniable and mysterious. It happened three weeks ago, just after I left for Berlin. Gould’s letter took a week to find me, and by the time I got here the trail was both cold and confused.”
“A common enough state of affairs for your cases,” I commented.
“True, but regrettable nonetheless. Josiah Gorton was a tin miner—although that may be a deceptive description. Tin seeker might be more accurate, one of a breed who wanders the moor, putting their noses into every rivulet and valley, poring over every stone pile in hopes of discovering small nuggets of tin that the more energetic miners of the past left behind. He spent his days fossicking through the deep-cut streambeds and his nights in caves or shelters or the barns of farmers.
“I met Gorton once, in fact, many years ago, and thought him a harmless enough character even then. He affected the dress of a gipsy, with a red kerchief around his throat, although when I met him he l
ooked more like a pirate, with dark, oiled locks and a heavy frock coat too large for him. He was a colourful figure, proud of his freedom, and he had a goodly store of traditional songs tucked into the back of his head, which he would happily bring forth for the cost of a pint or a meal. He was a last relic of the old moor ‘songmen,’ although his voice was giving way, and with more than three pints under his belt he tended to forget the words to some of the longer ballads. Still, he was tolerated with affection by the innkeepers and farmers, as a part of the scenery, and in particular by Gould, for whom Gorton had a special significance.
“You need to understand that with all the work he has done in a wide variety of fields, Gould regards his greatest achievement in life to have been the collecting of west country songs and melodies, a task begun more than thirty years ago and only reluctantly dropped when he became too old to take to the moor for days at a time. Josiah Gorton was one of his more important songmen. I suppose it could be said, by those of a psychologically analytical bent, that Gorton represents to Gould the fate of the moor, overcome by progress and forgotten in the shiny, shallow attractions of modernity.” Holmes’ fastidious expression served to make it clear that he was merely acknowledging the possible explanation given by another discipline. He continued, “Whatever the explanation, there is no doubt that Gould is deeply troubled not only by the fact of Gorton’s death, but by the manner it came about.
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