by Anna Lord
“Guilty of covering up a shocking accident - yes! Not guilty of killing his wife because he is secretly attracted to Lady Laura Baskerville! If every married man who coveted his neighbour’s wife bumped off his own spouse there would not be enough cells in Princeton to hold them all! And what chance does he have? He is as low born as his wife though he may play master of Lafter Hall rather better than she played mistress. You are confusing issues, relying on emotion and avoiding facts! You are thinking like a woman instead of, of, a detective!”
That sort of insult immediately got her back up. She did not like being told she was thinking like a woman even though she was a woman and could not help her biology. She pressed her lips together and did not speak for the duration of the trip.
He did not speak either. He was busy thinking how they were no longer reading from the same page; they were not even reading from the same book, and not standing in the same library either. They left the automobile by the front entrance of the castle for Fedir to put away into the carriage house and traversed the great hall still not speaking to one another. But the long silence had given them both some valuable breathing space.
“I may be thinking like a woman, but since I am a woman I don’t think I should apologise for it,” she said apologetically, “anyhow, it struck me as odd how Barrymore never referred to his wife by name. He never once called her Eliza. I don’t know why I feel that is odd, perhaps it is an English trait, but I just thought I should mention it. Goodnight, Dr Watson.”
He was about to light up a cigarette since he hadn’t had one all evening, and linger in the hall before going up to bed, but whirled on his heel and caught up to her on the stairs. They were reading from the same page once more.
“I noticed it too, not at first, but sometime later during the drive back, and it didn’t seem to stem from a stiff-upper lip or respect for the dead or even grief. I got the impression he was distancing himself from her, but not because he had murdered her. He would have been more careful to act the part of the grieving husband if he had. His choice of phrase stemmed from habit. He didn’t even know he was saying it - or not saying it.”
“There’s something else that struck me as odd. I got the impression his wife was in service but he was not. Otherwise, why wouldn’t the servants turn their noses up at him too? And her hands were badly calloused but when I shook his hand, which I did deliberately to check, I noticed that it was as smooth as silk. Anyway, his hand called to mind something the French cook said – a gentleman born and bred. I thought at the time she was trotting out a common English phrase that sounded right but wasn’t, because she was not English by birth and didn’t know any better, but now I think she knew what she was saying.”
“I got the same impression about him not being in service. His ability to play lord of the manor seems to come naturally. And even ten years ago, he struck me as being word-perfect in an unforced way, as if he’d had a decent education? I thought then that he was acting the part of the butler, not because he had been trained as a butler, but because he knew exactly how butlers behaved - as if he was playing a role.”
“It is most curious. He plays the part convincingly yet betrays himself because he tries too hard to be convincing. What can it mean?”
“I have no idea but when that telegram arrives from Tavistock we may have our answer.”
They had reached the parting of the ways at the top of the stairs.
“Oh, there was another unusual thing tonight,” she said before taking the passage leading to the east wing. “When I knelt down by the side of the bath to check the temperature of the water I noticed a pen with a fine gold nib under the dressing-table. It struck me as out of place because there was no ink and no paper amongst her perfumes and maquillage. The room was a pampering room, not a study. It is probably insignificant but I just thought I should mention it. Goodnight.”
He was skirting the gallery when her voice breached the vast canyon of stone and glass. It sounded breathless and husky as if she had been running.
“One last thing! I almost forgot. We received an invitation from Mr Roderick Lilyfield to dine at Merripit House tomorrow evening at six o’clock.”
He got all the way to the door of his room before he realized she got the name wrong.
10
A Dog of a Day
Five bogs had already been drained by the time the Countess and the doctor met in the eau de nil breakfast room. It wasn’t until midmorning that everyone felt a frisson of excitement. Dr Watson hurried to the scene to supervise the exhumation of some bones but they turned out to be not what he expected. They were canine bones - the bones of a gigantic hound. Dogger was called to the scene and confirmed that he had thrown the poor dead beast into the mire since it was too big to bury and it was not in his nature to leave a dog to rot on the ground to be pecked by crows and such like. The bones were collected and placed in an old apple box and taken for burial to a place outside the castle walls called Wizend Wood - a grotesque forest of stunted and deformed oaks that struggled to survive in the harsh terrain.
The doctor returned to yesterday’s copy of The Times in the library but by midday something glinted in another of the bogs. Word soon spread and reached his ears; he hastened to the scene. The find turned out to be a pair of old fashioned spurs. A short time later someone spotted a sixteenth century belt buckle. And an hour later a cavalier sword poked through the murk. There was a jumble of bones attached to the last find which everyone assumed was Hugo, killed in 1647. The bones were placed in a grander box made of mahogany and removed to the chapel for burial in the floor of the family crypt at the foot of the grand sarcophagus meant for Sir Henry. The historical accoutrements were to be put on show in the folio room in a glass display case designed for rare and precious manuscripts. Antonio was given the high honour of polishing the pieces and arranging them for display.
Dr Watson was certain they would never find Stapleton’s bones because the bones never went into the mire in the first instance, when late in the afternoon, just before the men were about to call it a day, in a bog not too far away from where the doctor first searched, they discovered more bones. And this time they were once again human. The bones was carefully removed, placed in a woven basket, cleaned, and re-assembled by Dr Watson in the study on a bed sheet that covered the large gothic desk of Sir Henry. It turned out to be the skeleton of a man who had once suffered a broken collarbone.
Antonio was consulted and recalled that whilst Jack Stapleton was a schoolmaster in East Yorkshire he had broken his collarbone demonstrating a rugby tackle. Lady Laura was also consulted and blushingly confirmed that while Jack Stapleton was seducing her with the promise of marriage if she would pen the note to lure Sir Charles to the Yew Alley he had mentioned sustaining an injury to his collarbone during a rigorous game of rugby.
Since Antonio Garcia and Lady Laura Baskerville had no reason to lie and could not possibly be in cahoots to deceive, their stories were accepted.
So, by the evening of their sixth day Dr Watson and Countess Volodymyrovna had the bones of Hugo Baskerville, the bones of a gigantic hound and the bones of Jack Stapleton. But what they didn’t have was a solution. The skeleton of Jack Stapleton forced them to drop the notion that he was behind the Baskerville curse. In fact, if not for the anonymous letters of which they had no extant copies, there would be no curse to speak of. They were back where they started before they even left Paddington.
Except for the dead bodies!
Five dead bodies to be precise - The deaths of James Desmond, Sir Henry Baskerville, Beryl Stapleton, Gaston de Garonne and Eliza Barrymore seemed unrelated and meaningless in that they did not add any understanding to the anonymous letters that disturbed Lady Laura and frightened the baronet to death.
Merripit House was the vernacular Devon cottage – undressed stone painted white under a roof of thatch with a big brick chimney hanging off one side and a rickety barn hanging off the other. Dartmoor was dotted with houses like Merr
ipit. They had names like Heath Cotage and Dingley Dell. They had been built to keep out the wind and rain and three hundred years later were still doing their job.
Roderick Lysterfield was digging in his vegetable patch as Dr Watson and Countess Volodymyrovna came up the path. Daylight was draining away but his energy seemed boundless as he planted his spade in the Devon clod and wiped his forehead with a checkered neckerchief before giving them a cheery wave.
He had some rabbit stew on the go in the oven and some apples on a tray ready to bake. The woman who came once a week from Grimpen hamlet to do his laundry and tidy up had prepared some custard. He would warm it up later to pour over the baked apples. He did not have a housekeeper or manservant. He was a man of simple tastes and needs. He had breakfast at the castle every morning and the French cook provided him with lunch which he took with him to wherever he was working that day. He spoke a little French rather badly and appreciated the chance to improve himself. He had dinner most evenings with one family or another because he considered it important to get to know the men who worked for him. The work they did was hard and dangerous and it was vital to understand capabilities and limitations, and to promote the most reliable foremen.
The Countess thought this spoke volumes about his popularity and intelligence. The doctor thought it proved what an ingratiating freeloader he was.
There were no vegetables to accompany the rabbit stew because he didn’t like to go empty-handed when invited to dinner. But the French cook had provided him with a crusty baguette so that they could mop up the tasty juices. The Countess praised the simple fayre. The doctor thought the rabbit was chewy and under-cooked. The Countess decided the garden herbs added to the piquant flavor. The doctor thought too much salt had been added to compensate for the blandness. The Countess described the cottage as delightful. The doctor thought it was poky and twee. The Countess dismissed the lack of electricity as a blessing in disguise and declared candlelight to be romantic. The doctor thought it was backward and far too sombre. The Countess described the inglenook fire as quaintly rustic. The doctor thought it was smoky and suffocating. The Countess admired the little jug of pink heath on the kitchen table. The doctor thought it smacked of affectation.
Half way through dinner Dr Watson realized the Countess and the engineer had met twice before, not once as he had supposed. He wondered where that first meeting had taken place and why she had not mentioned it.
“I didn’t realize you two had met more than once,” he managed casually as the dinner plates were being cleared by their affable host.
She appeared embarrassed at being caught out and he could have sworn her cheeks flushed to match the pink heath. “Oh, yes, I forgot to tell you.”
The engineer appeared to come to her rescue. “We met by chance on the Grimpen road the other day. The Countess’ carriage was stopped by the side and her coachman was checking the horse to see if it had a stone lodged in its shoe. I happened to be passing and asked if everything was all right. Since the moor was cloaked in fog I offered to provide an escort to the gates of the castle. It was the briefest of meetings,” he said, smiling from one to the other of his guests as he topped up their glasses with some Spanish wine that the French cook had given him.
The Countess smiled back, but the doctor got the distinct impression the smile was one of undying gratitude and relief.
“That was the day you went to Coombe Tracey?” he continued conversationally, wondering if the Spanish wine was the same vintage used to drown the hapless bunny who probably died of relief when it finally passed out.
She nodded, still smiling, toying with her wine glass to avoid his gaze.
“The day after the death of Sir Henry and Beryl Stapleton?” he pursued in a laconic monotone – deciding that the cheap plonk was indeed the same sour vinegar used to marinate the chewy lapin du jour.
She nodded again, shifting uncomfortably in her uncomfortable wooden chair.
The engineer served baked apples to his guests in mismatched bowls. “The death of the baronet is a shocking thing. I understand you have been trying to get to the bottom of it, Dr Watson.”
“A tragic suicide,” dismissed the doctor curtly. “There is nothing to get to the bottom of.”
“But there is unease among the servants and workmen,” persisted the other, “regarding those letters.”
“You know about the letters?”
“Everyone does. What do you make of them?”
“I can make nothing of them because I have not seen any with my own eyes.”
The Countess began to say something when the doctor shoved the jug of custard at her and shot her a warning look.
“You have not seen any?” said their host incredulously. “I was led to believe there existed scores of them.”
“That may be so but the baronet burnt them all. None remain. Not even a tiny scrap.”
“Perhaps that is for the best for all concerned,” said their host with a relieved smile, passing the jug from the countess to the doctor. “Still, if there is anything I can do to help you clear up this mysterious business, do not hesitate to ask.”
“That is very decent of you,” replied Dr Watson in a patently false tone, drowning his over-cooked apple in lumpy custard in order to kill the taste and facilitate the crunchier bits in their journey down his gullet to his stomach which was still coping with the indigestible combination of devilled kidneys, dead bunny, and senseless brutality.
“I must admit my offer is not entirely altruistic.”
“Is that so?” said the doctor encouragingly, giving the man enough rope to hang himself.
“Yes, you see, my career is just starting to take off in this country. This is my first big commission and I am very keen for it to go well. My next commission is likely to come from recommendation. Word of mouth is important in my field. Patronage is paramount. An inexplicable death, or even a tragic suicide, or even a strange curse, in fact, especially a strange curse, no matter how fanciful, could destroy my future prospects and ruin my reputation. Once a man’s reputation is tainted by such things there is no coming back from it.”
“I think that is hardly the case here,” supplied the doctor somewhat blithely.
“I daresay you are right, Dr Watson. All those years of working with Sherlock Holmes on baffling crimes, mysterious cases, and occult investigations must have honed your instincts regarding such things. Still, if there is anything I can do to help. ”
“No help is required since there is no investigation. The baronet was suffering from a medical condition stemming from insomnia.”
“And the other death?”
“Which one?”
“The governess.”
“An accident.”
“And the French gardener?”
“A hazard of walking alone on the moor late at night.”
“You do not think it was the Dartmoor Beast?”
“Do you?”
“Of course not, but superstition is rife in these parts and the men won’t work certain tracts of the moor for any amount of money.”
“Are there any tracts of the moor that you avoid, Mr Lysterfield?”
“None.”
“You are not a superstitious man?”
“No, sir, I am American.”
“So you carry no talismans or good luck charms?”
“None at all.”
“You are not wary of black cats or Friday the thirteenth?”
“Indeed not.”
“You have not witnessed any headless horsemen, hairy hands or gigantic phosphorescent hounds while working on the moor?”
Roderick laughed richly. “Superstition is the opium of the uneducated!”
“I quite agree but an unscrupulous man might use it to pervert the thinking of others.”
“In what way?”
“To make them believe whatever he wants them to believe.”
“Such as?”
“To frighten them away from Dog Hole Gorge, Cleft Tor, or
the old tin mine.”
“For what purpose?”
“For the purpose of doing evil.”
“Now you are talking human evil as opposed to supernatural evil.”
“In my experience, there is only human evil.”
“I agree with you there, doctor. One time, back in America, when I was working as a lumberjack, I noticed that none of the trees near a particular part of the creek were being felled. When I mentioned it to the boss I was told the place was haunted. A young Indian woman called White Cloud had drowned attempting to escape her pursuers, and ever since that time pulled any man who entered the water to his death. Many men swore they had seen her ghostly white hands rising up. It turned out later, that one of the lumberjacks had raped and killed a young Indian woman and dumped her body in the river, weighing her down with rocks, and that he had noticed some shiny gold nuggets in the water. It was he who had invented the ghost story to frighten everyone away until the workmen moved on and he could return and pan for the gold.”
The Countess could see Dr Watson cooking up a ludicrous fairy tale to trump the American ghost story but she was fed up with him rabbiting on about superstition and trying to bait their charming host. Perhaps he thought if he badgered the man into confessing he was superstitious he could also bamboozle him into confessing to killing Sir Henry, Beryl Stapleton and Gaston de Garonne – solving all his problems at once! Why not James Desmond too! And why stop there! Why not add Eliza Barrymore to the list! Any minute now he would leap to his feet, ruddy with triumph, and accuse Roderick Lysterfield of murdering half of Devon and command her to go at once to Coombe Tracey to telegraph for Inspector Lestrade!
“Speaking of ghosts,” she intervened before the doctor had a chance to dream up a ridiculous refrain, “even Mr Frankland who is an eminently educated man believed he saw a ghost on the tower stairs - so we are all of us susceptible. Thank you for an excellent dinner and a pleasant evening. We must be off as it is a long walk home with only the moonlight to guide us and we do not want to meet any headless hounds or gigantic phosphorescent hands along the way! Especially as I have not brought my rabbit’s foot with me! Good night to you, Mr Lysterfield.”