"Except when they wish to practice in foul-weather conditions."
"I'd have thought the summer months here would suffice, but pray continue."
"Night manoeuvres are planned, in moonlight, on Thursday night. The day after tomorrow. And the schedule has been posted on the moor notice boards."
"Now, why should—wait," I said, beginning to see what he was suggesting. "We're past the usual season when one might reasonably count on the occasional thunderstorm, and yet Scheiman and Ketteridge have been making preparations for another blast."
"The occasional natural thunderstorm, certainly, but would not an artificial storm suffice to conceal their activities, with the thunder of guns instead of that from the sky? A man standing in the entranceway to the old adit could easily see when the soldiers were away from the immediate area, but could also see the flash from the firing that would conceal the blast of the black powder."
Another thought came to me. "And the moon is nearly full as well. By God, one way or another, we may be able to catch them at it!"
Holmes smiled slowly, but merely said, "I should be interested to see the references you found in Gould's books."
We moved upstairs to our room, where I showed him the places and left him, stretched out shoeless on the bed with one book in his hands and one on either side of him on the counterpane. When I put my head in an hour later, he was asleep. I went quietly away.
TWENTY-FOUR
Where the one-inch fails recourse must be had to the six-inch map.
—A Book of the West: Devon
Wednesday morning the frost had departed and the sky was dull with cloud, but inside Lew House there was a feeling of sunshine and relief, because the squire of Lew Trenchard was on his feet again.
Holmes and I had a great deal to discuss and some complicated arrangements to make before the army's scheduled firing on Thursday night; however, the topic being mooted over the breakfast table was honey. The painted Virtues looked on in approval and Holmes seemed more than willing to indulge his old friend, so I could only throw up my hands and give myself over to the game.
"I gave you some of the metheglin the other night," Baring-Gould was saying. "Now have a taste of the honey it was made from."
Holmes obediently thrust his teaspoon into the pot of thick stuff before him on the table, twirled the spoon to keep its burden intact, and put it into his mouth. Baring-Gould and I watched, and even Rosemary stopped in the act of taking the coffeepot to be refilled and waited for the judgement.
"Remarkable," said Holmes stickily. He reached for his coffee cup.
Baring-Gould nodded vigorously. "Didn't I tell you? It is produced from furze blossoms, a most superb and aromatic variety. Keeping bees on the moor is no easy thing, as you know, because of the perpetual wind, but there is a monk down at the Buckfast Abbey who has succeeded. Brother Adam, his name is—a young man, but already the head beekeeper." (Was head beekeeper so hard-fought a position, I wondered idly, that only a monk of high seniority would be likely to win it?) "He has some very sound ideas about breeding—you ought to get down there and talk with him."
"Yes," said Holmes, "I have corresponded with Brother Adam. He consulted me recently on the acarine problem. I suggested he look to Italy, which I believe is free from the disease."
"You don't say. He's a German, of course, which hasn't made it easy for him the last few years, but he's an original—a true character. Perhaps a bit over enthusiastic, I admit, but all the more appealing for it in this age when detachment rules and cool indifference is the standard of behaviour. Do you know," he said, warming to his new topic, "in the old times there were men and women who stood out; now there seems to be a plague of homogeneity, spread by the machinations of the press and the ease of railway travel. Why, I am sure you have heard of this crystal wireless set which seems certain to achieve popularity; I imagine that the resultant instant communication will complete what modern education and quick travel have begun, and we will soon see the death of regionalism and individuality. Haven't you found this, Holmes? The world is becoming filled with sameness, with men and women as like as marbles. Not a true eccentric in sight." I looked at him carefully, waiting for the twinkle that would tell me he was making a jest, but he was frowning as he drizzled furze honey over his toast. I glanced over at Holmes, who was nodding in solemn agreement over the tragic loss of eccentricity in the modern world, and I had to get up and go to the kitchen for a moment to ask Mrs Elliott if we might have another few slices of brown bread toasted. When I returned, Baring-Gould was telling a story, apparently concerning one of his late lamented characters.
"—begging, dressed as a seaman who had been shipwrecked, or a farmer whose land was under water in Kent. He would watch the newspapers, you see, for word of the latest disaster, and take on whatever disguise that might call for. One day he might be a householder burnt out of his house, taking up a position on the pavement wearing little more than a charred blanket; the next day he would appear as an impoverished soldier. He had letters of verification from magistrates and noblemen—forged, of course. The gipsies eventually claimed him, and elected him King of the Beggars. You could learn from him, Holmes." He chuckled at the idea.
"Still, Gould," said Holmes, "there have always been degrees of rogue. One may feel a grudging admiration for Bamfylde-Moore Carew because of his sheer effrontery, but then there are men like the Scamp."
"Oh yes," Baring-Gould said, allowing his knife and fork to come to a brief pause. "The Scamp was indeed a bad lot." He resumed his meal, and spoke in my direction. " 'The Scamp,' is my family's name for one of the eighteenth-century Goulds, Captain Edward—his portrait is on the stairway. He nearly lost us this estate, and certainly lost a great deal else. He killed a man, one of his gambling partners, and at his trial was defended by one John Dunning, to whom he also owed a great deal of money. An eyewitness to the shooting testified that he saw Edward Gould by moonlight, but at the trial Dunning produced a calendar proving there had been no moon that night. Gould was acquitted, though by that time he was so in debt to Dunning that he had to make over nearly everything he owned to the man, which would have lost us Lew Trenchard had it not been under his mother's name. And the funny thing was, the calendar John Dunning produced? It was a fake."
It did not seem terribly amusing to me, and even Baring-Gould merely shook his head at the iniquity. Holmes did not even seem to be listening. His attention was on the door to the kitchen, and when Rosemary came through it his eye was on her right hand and the yellow envelope she carried.
"Yes, Rosemary?" said Baring-Gould. "What is it?"
"Telegram, sir, for Mr Holmes."
Holmes had the point of his knife through it before the door had swung shut, and his eyes dashed back and forth over the lines before coming up to mine. He nodded, then folded the square away into an inner pocket and turned to Baring-Gould with a brief and genial explanation and a deft change of subject.
After breakfast Baring-Gould went off to write some letters and take a rest, and Holmes handed me the yellow envelope. The author of this telegram had taken Holmes' concern for circumspection to heart, and the wording of his message was cautious indeed:
PRIMARY SUBJECT KNOWN TO US REGARDING ACTIVITIES INVOLVING SALE OF REAL PROPERTIES FOLLOWING UNVERIFIABLE MISREPRESENTATION OF MINERALS CONTAINED THEREIN. SUGGEST FURTHER ENQUIRIES COLORADO NEVADA SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA. SECOND SUBJECT UNKNOWN HERE. APOLOGIES FOR EXPORT TAINTED GOODS. LETTER FOLLOWS.
HARRISON
"Ketteridge is known for fraudulently selling land, claiming it had 'minerals'—I assume gold—when it did not," I interpreted the paper in my hand. "Harrison is with the Alaska police?"
"The Mounties, actually. The Canadians were largely responsible for policing the Territories during the gold rush. I would say by the tone of his apology and the fact that he has been following Ketteridge's career, he knows the man to have been guilty of gold fraud but could not pin it on him." He paused and looked up, gazing through
me more than at me. "What was it Ketteridge said about his childhood? He let slip some description about the land, when he was talking to you at Baskerville Hall."
"Red stone," I said. "Something about the hills where he grew up having tors, only they were dry and red."
The far-off look on his face told of a search of that prodigious memory of his, as full of jumble as a lumber room. After a few minutes he suddenly came across the bit of lumber he had been seeking, and his eyes gleamed with satisfaction.
"San Diego," he said. "Late 1860s, perhaps 1870."
"Sorry?" I prompted when he said no more. His gaze focussed.
"There was a gold rush in the red hills outside San Diego, California, in the late 1860s. It was an actual discovery, but as was the case with most such finds, it was soon overwhelmed by the influx of swindlers, claim jumpers, and speculators."
"And Ketteridge's accent comes from the southern part of California. But he couldn't have had anything to do with that; he's barely your age."
"Fifty-seven, unless he lied about being twenty-one when the Klondike rush began. No, he is too young, but he may have learnt the techniques as a child—at his father's knee, perhaps, or merely seeing the activities around him as he was growing up. I shall look forward to receiving Harrison's following letter, which may allow us to pin the man down with his crimes where the police forces of two other countries have failed."
It was only then that the full picture of what we were facing, mad as it seemed, hit me: the very real possibility of a gold rush on Dartmoor. The mediaeval tin seekers with their prodding and digging and dark, shallow tunnels in the earth would be nothing to the catastrophe set off by the whisper of that spellbinding word, gold. It would be over in weeks, of course, as soon as the blasted hillsides gave forth nothing heavier than tin and the diverted streams washed away everything but flecks of base metals from the flumes, but the devastation wrought by tens of thousands of hobnailed boots and spades and sticks of dynamite, the ruin they would leave behind across the ravaged face of the moor—it did not bear thinking.
I shook my head, more to clear it than in denial. "Surely we wouldn't see an actual gold rush here. It's…preposterous."
"You think the English immune to gold fever?"
"We've got to stop it."
"I wonder," said Holmes contemplatively, and stopped.
"About the possibility of a gold rush?" I prodded.
"No, that is clearly possible. Rather, I was reflecting on the care with which they have set up the elaborate mechanism of rumours. The hound and the carriage may be both a diversion while they are salting the ground as well as an essential part of the plot itself. A deeper layer of deception, as it were, to encourage potential speculators to reason along the lines of, 'A: The rich American gold baron has been buying up land on the quiet and trying to frighten people away; B: The gold baron is a clever and successful investor; therefore C: The value of the gold at Black Tor must be considerable, and we ought to buy in now, without hesitation.' I should think it would also make for an interesting legal conundrum," he commented, "if one were to sell pieces of land without actually making fraudulent claims as to its content, relying only on rumours."
"Surely it would have to be illegal," I said, although I was not at all certain.
"Ultimately, yes, it would be declared fraud, but only after lengthy consideration. However, one would assume that his plans include a hasty departure from the scene the moment the cheques from the auction are deposited."
"And the house," I added suddenly. "Ketteridge even has a buyer for the house."
"That was a surprise," said Holmes thoughtfully. "I should have thought Scheiman's goal was as much the restoration of his side of the Baskerville family to its place in the Hall as it was mere money, but he is far too close to the centre of things to hope to claim ignorance.
"Still, we haven't time to dig into that now, not with the deadline of tomorrow night. I can only hope," he said, scowling out the window at the dark sky, "the weather is not so inclement as to force postponement of the army's manoeuvres."
"They did wish for realistic battle conditions," I said to encourage him, deliberately overlooking the fact that with any luck, we should be out in the downpour, with the additional spice of twenty charges of black powder threatening to go off around our feet.
With the large-scale maps of the area, six inches to the mile, we began our campaign. Pausing only for lunch and whenever Rosemary came to the drawing-room door with coffee, we laid our plans.
The assumption we were working on was that Ketteridge and Scheiman would be in Black Tor Copse when the firing of the artillery guns began at ten o'clock on Thursday night, using the flash and noise of the guns to provide cover for the salting operation they had prepared. Furthermore, because we were nearing the full moon, it was possible that they would also take advantage of the moonlight to cause another appearance of Lady Howard's coach. Holmes and I would be in Black Tor Copse, waiting for the two men, but to keep track of them properly we were going to need the assistance of a band of competent Irregulars. I began to make a list as Holmes talked.
"Two to watch Baskerville Hall itself, so we know how and when they set off. If Mrs Elliott can find a young man with a motorcycle, that would be ideal, but a bicycle would suffice. Not a pony—they are difficult to hide beneath a bush." I wrote down Bville Hall-2-cycle. "They will need to know precisely who we are looking for, and where the nearest telephone kiosk is, to put a call through to the inn in Sourton."
By teatime we had the mechanism of our trap smoothly oiled and functioning—or at least the plan for it. When Ketteridge and Scheiman left Baskerville Hall on Thursday night, whether by road or over the moor, they would be seen. The witness would then go to the telephone kiosk, place a call to another member of our Devonshire Irregulars waiting at the Sourton inn, who would then bring us the message—or, if something interfered with the generous time allowance, there was even a convenient hill above Sourton Common, visible from where Holmes and I would be hidden, for a simple, brief signal from a lamp or torch, in case the imminent arrival of the two men made approaching the copse itself inadvisable.
It was a very pretty little mechanism, complex enough to be interesting but with safety nets in case of the unexpected. And, as even the best-designed machine is apt to fail, the absolutely essential part of the procedure—in this case, witnessing the crime and laying hands on the criminals—was dependent only on Holmes and myself. All the rest was a means of providing testimony in an airtight court case, when the time came. For that reason I suggested that for the overall witness atop Gibbet Hill we draft Andrew Budd, for his calm self-assurance (other than when he was faced with a cow in his garden) that would ride well through the witness box.
Mrs Elliott would be called on to ensure that Budd and our other Irregulars were brought to Lew House the following morning, so we might explain what we needed, but until then the best use of our time was to take a good dinner and make an early night of it.
Just before we sat down at the table, a pair of telegrams arrived. One of them was from Birmingham, and cleared up a minor facet of our mystery:
RANDOLPH PETHERING ALIAS RANDOLPH PARKER IS JOB APPLICANT NOT LECTURER AT YORK. CURRENTLY EMPLOYED COUNCIL SCHOOL BEDFORD NOT TEACHERS COLLEGE BIRMINGHAM BUT POSSESSES LONGTIME MONOMANIA CONCERNING HIGH JOB POSSIBILITIES IF ONLY DRUID BOOK PUBLISHED. CONSIDERED QUOTE HARMLESS LUNATIC END QUOTE.
The other telegram was from Holmes' brother in London:
PSEUDONYM CONCEALING LANDHOLDER GOLDSMITH ENTERPRISES MAIN OFFICES LOS ANGELES MANY HOLDINGS VICINITY OKEHAMPTON GOOD HUNTING.
MYCROFT
"Oscar Richfield is a false front hiding a Californian corporation that is buying up that part of Dartmoor," I translated.
"And behind the doors of the corporation, I have no doubt, stands Richard Ketteridge," said Holmes. "Is that goose I smell?"
Baring-Gould was present at dinner, looking less tired than he had been. Again the two of
them set off on a meandering peregrination of topics and tales, but I was well used to it by now, and rather enjoyed it.
We were nearly finished with the goose course when Holmes abruptly broke off what he had been saying and froze, head up and intently listening. His raised hand demanded silence, but after half a minute, during which I heard nothing, I asked tentatively, "Holmes?"
In answer he whirled to his feet and tore the curtains back from the window. Again we all waited; again he held us in silence.
Three minutes passed, four, before it came: the briefest flicker lit up the heavy clouds.
No matter it was past the season; a thunderstorm was on its way to Dartmoor.
TWENTY-FIVE
All at once I uttered a cry of "Help me!" and sank to my armpits. It was instantaneous. I was in water, not on moss; and in sinking all I could do was to catch at some particles of floating moss, slime, half-rotten weed and water weed…
I felt as if I were striving against a gigantic octopus that was endeavouring with boneless fleshy arms to drag me under water.
—Further Reminiscences
You don't think—" I started to say. The entire day's long and elaborate plans had all rested on the assumption that the two Americans planned to use the following evening's artillery fire to cover their noise, that they were unlikely to wait for a natural thunderstorm. Probably, they would remain snug at home tonight. Still —
"We cannot take the chance," he snapped. "I will bring the dog cart up; you fetch the waterproofs and put on your boots, find two torches. And, Russell? My revolver is in the drawer. Bring it."
Without another word he dashed out of the door, leaving me to soothe the affronted Baring-Gould. I could only tell him that the case was coming into its final stages, and we would explain it all very soon; with any luck, tomorrow. As I left him, I heard him declare in a querulous voice, "He always was a headstrong boy."
I diverted through the kitchen to ask Mrs Elliott to throw together a packet of sandwiches, as it looked to be a long night, and ran upstairs to pull every warm and watertight garment we possessed out of the drawers and wardrobes. Holmes' revolver, with its box of bullets, was in the drawer beside the bed. I loaded it and put it in my pocket.
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