“Yes, that is my take on him. Working with him, experiencing his fanatical nature, his obsession with results when conducting experiments, I felt I was dealing with a man possessed.”
“Stop,” I tell him. “My head is swirling. All this mad science is driving me crazy. I’ve dealt with more insanity in the last hour than I did spending ten days in a madhouse.”
He reaches over and takes my hand in his.
“My apologies, darling Nellie. But I have one more question to raise.”
“My head’s splitting, but go ahead, though I may run screaming out of this pub.”
He leans forward and speaks in a confidential tone. “Lovely Nellie, will you make love with me tonight?”
I was never a great amorist, though I have loved several people very deeply.
—H. G. WELLS
37
I almost knock over my chair as I leave him at the table and march to my room. He is lucky that I didn’t slap him in the face right there and have the innkeeper evict him. What nerve! What a cad! And I believed the man to be a gentleman.
“Nellie!—I must explain.”
I swing around to find him running down the corridor toward me.
“You have said quite enough.” I turn back to the door to my room. I’m so angry I fumble trying to get the key into the lock.
“Please let me explain.”
I take a deep breath and face him. “I suggest you retire to your room and sleep off whatever disgusting thoughts the alcohol has created in your mind. We will discuss in the morning our arrangements.”
“Please, you must understand, I fell under your spell.”
Oh boy, that was a showstopper with me. But it’s only a brief moment before my insecurities step in. “Under my spell as a woman of beauty and charm? Do give me some credit for intelligence. I look in the mirror each morning and I’m well aware that I am not a Helen whose beauty launched a thousand ships.”
“I was referring to your mind, your spirit, your wonderfully rational attitude.”
“Oh.” Oh damn—only my mind is beautiful.
“You are a complete woman. I’ve met only a few of them in my life. It is much more attractive than the external beauty society gives such importance to. I misunderstood, I thought because you had freed yourself of so many of the straightjackets the world puts on women, on all of us, that you had a broader, more worldly attitude about lovemaking.”
I stare at him, befuddled.
He appears to be completely remorseful. I don’t know what to say or think. I’m not a prude, I have been in a man’s arms before, held a man in my own. I am well aware that the best reason not to be promiscuous is pregnancy—like Hailey, I have no one to turn to if I become pregnant. I support and love my dear mother, as she does me, but she would be devastated if I was with child without a husband, especially when I am her sole means of support.
I know there are ways, none of them surefire, to avoid pregnancy, but I am definitely a conventional woman when it comes to a relationship with a man—which is why I found Wells’s comment offensive.
“I hesitate to ask, Wells, but what exactly is your, uh, worldly attitude toward lovemaking?”
He takes a deep breath and relaxes just a little. Pulling his kerchief out of his breast pocket, he pats his forehead.
“I must confess that I was caught up both by the moment and the ale, the moment being my admiration and amazement at meeting a woman with a free spirit.”
“Yes, you’ve mentioned that. Now tell me about your moral attitude.”
“My moral attitude … well, I guess you could say that my way of thinking is that men and women are free to do what they care to do as long as they don’t hurt others. It strikes me that most of the laws and customs in regard to whom, when, and where sex is to be conducted come from church people who either don’t have sex, don’t enjoy sex, or don’t know how to enjoy sex, and hate to see others enjoying it.”
“Are you married?”
“No, but let me assure you that when I am married, my attitude will not change. If a man and a woman are attracted to each other, a tiny wedding band shouldn’t be enough of a barrier to keep them from enjoying each other’s bodies, to keep them from touching and kissing and caressing and—”
“Go to bed.”
He stares at me.
“Go to your room and get some sleep. And don’t ever speak to me again with such lewdness or I will have you arrested. And this is not a minister speaking, it’s me. A lady.”
* * *
SLEEP IS IMPOSSIBLE. I lay in bed, angry at myself.
I am not angry at my behavior with Wells. He had been impertinent.
And it is not what I said that makes me angry.
It is my weakness that has me tossing and turning, my mind swirling with sinful thoughts.
H. G. Wells is a brilliant man; that I have come to realize. And there is another side to him, a side of passion and sensuality. He is a man hungry for love. And I am a lonely woman who at times like this, could use the arms of a man.
I am too young to be a spinster, but sometimes that’s how I feel. Most women my age are married and have children. I have stuck to work, my nose to the grindstone, my love and attention have been directed solely on the wrongs I have investigated, the stories I wrote. My desire in life is to help change the world—only unlike the Red Virgin, the fiery French feminist and revolutionary who presses her demands for social change in the streets, my pen is my sword.
I am a working woman in a man’s world.
That means sacrifices, lots of sacrifices. I’ve had to put everything aside except my dedication to my job. I have to be faster and smarter than the men around me to survive because few of them believe a woman should be doing their job.
It irks me no end that I can’t vote, I can’t sit on a jury, and that many states curtail the property rights of women, that women are barred from most jobs and paid less than what a man receives even if they do the same job, and forget about being promoted—that never happens. But I try not to think about those injustices because if I did, I would never get anything done. And as silly as this sounds, I hate that men can wear pants and women can’t. I’d like to see men ride a horse sidesaddle wearing a dress.
I don’t know about the afterlife. I have not a clue as to what I will find in heaven or hell or whether I’ll get sent anywhere after I’ve given up the ghost, but I do know that I have one chance to go around, one chance to do exciting things, one chance to accomplish the impossible and to climb mountains only men have been permitted to scale.
And I am not going to pass it up because I am, by society’s terms, “a woman.”
I can already see the writing on my tombstone: HERE LIES NELLIE BLY, WHO WAS HUNGRY FOR LOVE BUT TOO AFRAID TO EXPERIENCE IT BECAUSE IT WOULD HAVE KEPT HER FROM CLIMBING MOUNTAINS.
38
The next day we had an unspoken truce between us and we went along as if nothing had happened. We had to return to Exeter in an attempt to locate the artist. While there, I sent off a telegram to Oscar asking him if he had ever heard of any connection between Dr. Lacroix and the hounds of the moors.
“I am certain that most of the gossip in London society passes by Oscar Wilde at some point,” I tell Wells.
“I’ve never heard of the gentleman.”
“Oscar would be mortified if he heard that. He wrote a book you might find interesting, The Picture of Dorian Gray. As a matter of fact Oscar believes Dr. Lacroix got some of his ideas about eternal youth from his book.”
“Interesting … I must take a peek at it when I return to London.”
We have no luck at the post office locating the artist and go into a shop that sells painting and art supplies.
I inquire of the proprietor whether he knows a painter named Isaac Weekes and get a positive response.
“Yes, yes, Weekes is noted for his Dartmoor scenes. I have several. Here, let me show you.”
He takes us to three paintings, each of which
is a broad, picturesque view of the moorlands, its rolling hills and tors topped with exploding granite crags.
“I’m looking for a particular painting … it’s of a bog,” I tell the man.
“I’m sorry, I don’t have one. I can query Weekes about preparing one. It would take a few months to obtain, knowing Weekes. Does what he wants, when he wants.” The store owner laughs and throws up his hands.
“Are you familiar with a Weekes painting of a bog? It was commissioned by a friend of ours, a Dr. Lacroix.”
“No, I’m sorry. I have no knowledge of such a piece or your friend. Weekes doesn’t display all of his artwork here. He has the majority of his paintings displayed in London. More money there.”
“Do you know where Mr. Weekes lives?” This time the question comes from Wells.
“Yes, in a small Dartmoor village called Linleigh-on-the-moors, about ten miles west of here. You’d have to rent a pony cart to get there.”
“Perhaps a taxi,” I suggest.
“Won’t find one to take you out there. Road is too rough for a regular carriage. I wouldn’t even call it a road, most of the way. It’s more for sheep and goats. The stable will rent you a cart that can do it. Better get an early start in the mornin’ though to return before dark. I don’t recall the village having comfortable accommodations though the pub might have a room or two.”
* * *
“POOR, QUIET, AND REMOTE,” Wells says later, after consulting a map at the rail station. “The sort of small village where people raise sheep, grow their own food, and there probably hasn’t been a new house built since the Norman conquest. The only daunting thing is there is only a dirt road to the village, a common trait to most of the small villages scattered around Dartmoor. By dirt road I am of course referring to what the art gallery proprietor called a goat path.”
At the telegraph office we find a reply from my missive to Oscar.
“He says that the expert on hell hounds is the author, Arthur Conan Doyle, the man who writes about the detective called Sherlock Holmes. He says that Doyle is in Dartmoor at present.”
“I read The Sign of the Four excerpts in The Strand,” Wells says. “An excellent mystery tale. From what you’ve said about your friend Oscar Wilde, detective stories would not exactly be his cup of tea.”
“They’ve met because they have the same publisher. Anyway, he says Doyle is in a place called Buckfastleigh researching a book.”
“Buckfastleigh is about twenty-five miles or so from here.” Wells looks at his pocket watch. “I believe we can get there by train by noon, if we go now, so we better get to the station if that’s your plan.”
“Any chance the train can drop us near the village artist?”
“No, it’s in a different direction. And it’s already too late to get out and be certain we can make it back to Exeter before dark.”
“We’ll just have to chance it. If we meet up with a black beast of a hound, I shall simply tell it that it’s not permitted to eat an American.”
At the stable, I soon discover the difference between a carriage cab and a pony cart is comfort. The buggy has two tall, thin wheels, but no springs, so we will feel every rock and rut on the road. The seat is an unpadded board and backboard, which means after a few miles I will be very sore. And the pony is a runt, much smaller than what we would call a pony back home, though I wouldn’t call him that because he’s very cute and looks sensitive. The buggy wheels are taller than the little critter.
I pull Wells out of the pony’s hearing. “We can’t have the poor little guy pull us. That would be cruel.”
“Don’t let his size fool you. It’s a Dartmoor pony. They are strong and have stamina. And this one is lucky to be pulling a cart under sun and stars. Cruel is what happens to his fellow ponies. These small ponies have been used in tin mining and at the granite quarries here in Dartmoor since before the Romans. Unfortunately, because of their small size, they’re also used in underground mines to haul ore carts. Once they’re down there, they never see the sun again and are even buried in the mine to avoid the expense of bringing them out.”
“That’s horrible! They should have the mine owners pulling the carts and leaving them down there.”
“The cart has to be back tonight,” the stableman tells us. “Needed for milk delivery at five in the morning.” He removes two big tin milk pails from the storage rack behind the seat and then gives us a narrow look. “You’re not going to make it out and back before dark. I’m going to need an extra deposit to cover a broken wheel or pony leg.”
“I’d pull the cart myself before I’d let the pony break a leg,” I tell him.
Off we go, but not at a speed that would impress the owners of Kentucky Derby runners. And true to my previous experiences with buggies that lack springs, I feel every bump on the road.
“After hearing so many stories about the eerie moors, bogs that swallow people, and black beasts that run them to the ground and rip out their throats,” I confess to Wells between bumps that, “I do wish we’ll be able to get to the village in decent time, talk to the artist, and return to Exeter before dark.”
“Might not be a problem with this guy taking us,” he assures me, pointing out how effortlessly the pony appears to be pulling the buggy on the cobblestone street. He grins. “But we’ll have to see how bad the goat path is.”
DARTMOOR PONIES
“Have you visited Dartmoor often?”
“This will be the first time. But I have studied the geology of the area as part of my teacher’s training.”
Uh huh. Book learning.
39
The road changes from cobblestone paved, to just paved, then packed dirt, and finally to “paved” with boulders and ruts.
As we trudge along at a slow but steady pace, the hours pass and we leave behind all the remnants of mankind’s footprint except for the narrow path. The landscape transforms from city, to rural, and finally to wilderness.
Now I can understand why moorlands are not just described simply as “wilderness” as the mountains, forests, and deserts of my own country are, but seem to have their own category. With the moors there are also shapes and images that are strange to my eye—mysterious and preternatural, even fear evoking.
Craggy, wild-shaped tors, with winding, tumbling rivulets, and green fields that Wells, from his book knowledge, assures me are not the moss-covered bogs, the quaking-earth variety that suck you down, never to be found again.
No wonder this scarcely populated land off the beaten track has generated so many tales of ghosts and ghouls that are stranger than fiction.
My imagination starts to go wild and I can imagine a dinosaur peeking its head out from one of the granite mounds or Druid priests conducting a sacrifice on a moonless night within the confines of a stone circle.
Despite his estimate that we might be able to conduct our business at the village and return to the city before nightfall, it is obvious to me that we will be lucky to reach the village while the sun still shines.
“Anything out there dangerous? Other than the bogs and ghosts you’ve read about in a textbook?” Petty, but I can’t resist the jab.
He gives the landscape a look, as if he’s scanning it. “I don’t know … might be a viper or two.”
“Poisonous?”
“Yes, but the snakes tend to mind their own business unless someone provokes them.”
“Wonderful. My experience with snakes is that they tend to feel provoked when you accidentally step on them.”
A light mist is falling and haze is gathering in the distance, blurring the landscape, making it even eerier.
“We should have waited and set out at the crack of dawn,” I complain.
“Quite. My fault. For not relying upon my instincts and letting you make the decision.”
“I made the decision because I have more experience than you have.”
“Been to Dartmoor often?” he asks.
“Don’t be snide. I’ve been to the
Wild West, Mr. Wells—and I’m sure your black beast offers little danger compared to dealing with boozed-up cowboys and miners shooting up a town and each other. Our snakes would make vipers run so fast, they’d shed their skins.”
This time I get a long, appraising look from him.
“Why are you staring at me?” I ask.
“I was thinking how different—pleasantly different—it is being in the hands of a woman instead of just in her arms.”
“Let me assure you that if a great black hound comes galloping at us, you will have to run very fast to be anywhere near my hands.” Ah, but again, vain as I am, I waddle in the compliment but don’t ignore the fact that he has made a reference to romance. “Do you spend much time in the arms of women?”
“Not as much as I’d like. Not having a title, money, or a handsome mug, I must reply upon a woman’s charitable disposition.”
We share a laugh at his self-debasement that is interrupted by one of our wheels rolling in and out of a large rut. I am so sore, I feel as if I’d been paddled on my seat.
Linleigh-on-the-moors is set in a flat area where a narrow river comes out of a rocky gorge and spreads out. Barns and small granary towers are visible outside the village as we top a hill and come down to the rural community. It is still daylight, but less than an hour of it is left.
Grazing sheep, a few ponies, and a few lonely farmhouses are the only signs of life we’ve seen much of the way, but as we come into town we see a large number of carts in the center of the town square and even a full-sized horse, almost all clustered around the alehouse.
“Probably market day,” Wells says. “Since the roads are rough or nonexistent and the terrain unruly, I’m sure the village gets visitors only when it’s absolutely necessary. Some of the Dartmoor villages are so isolated, they’ve developed dialects that are different than the king’s speech and almost impossible to understand even for Brits like me.”
The Formula for Murder Page 17