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dregs went out in front. Presumably he was in the habit of drinking it at his
front door, as it were, and dashing out the thick remnants in the bottom of
his cup where he stood. As you are aware, Russell, habit is the snare by which
many a criminal is caught.
 How recently was he there?
 Two or three weeks, I should say. Not more. And to anticipate your question,
the new tank was last tested seventeen days ago.
 Suggestive, I agreed.  But that does not explain five days and a trip to
London.
 Patience, counselled my husband, one of the least patient individuals I have
ever met.  I returned here late on Tuesday, spent a pleasant evening with
Gould, and on Wednesday a lad arrived with the name of the people we were
looking for.
 The London hikers?
 Not quite, although he had found the farmhouse where they stayed.
Unfortunately, being an informal hostelry, they do not keep records of their
guests, and as the two Londoners had not made advance arrangements, there was
little evidence as to whence they came. However, they were a memorable pair,
even without the tale of the ghostly carriage they brought with them down the
hill: young, the man perhaps twenty-eight, the woman a year or two younger,
who impressed the farmwife as being a  proper lady, or in other words,
wealthy. The man, on the other hand, had a heavier accent, and seemed much
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more shaken by the idea of seeing a ghostly carriage on the moor than his wife
was. He also had a bad limp and one  special shoe, and at some point during
the stay told the farmer that he was studying to become a doctor.
The limp, the nerves, and the student s advanced age gave him away as a
wounded soldier. I asked drily,  You mean to say you didn t get his regiment?
 But of course. Not from the farmer, although he did give me the name of the
village where the future doctor was injured during Second Ypres, and the War
Office could have told me his regiment and thence his identity. however, I
thought it simpler to phone around the teaching hospitals and enquire after a
young man missing part of his foot. I found him straight off, at Bart s.
 So simple, I murmured.
 Regrettably so. Do you have the maps?
 Upstairs. What is left of them. I trotted up and retrieved the pile, some of
them pristine, hardly unfolded. Those for the north quarter had seen hard use,
and I pulled open the still-damp sheets with care and laid them across the
padded bench that sat in front of the fire. There happened to be an elderly
cat upon it, but the animal did not seem to mind being covered up. No doubt,
living in the Baring-Gould household, it had seen stranger usage.
He pored over the maps for a long time, then said,  Do we have the
one-inch-to-the-mile here?
I dug through and found it. He laid it out, found Mary Tavy and the nearby
Gibbet Hill, and then took out a pencil. Using the side of a folded map as a
straight edge and pulling the map to one side to find a flat place, he began
to draw a series of short lines, fanning out from Gibbet Hill and touching the
tops of half a dozen peaks and tors to the northeast of the hill. These were,
I understood, the tors and hilltops visible from the peak.
 It was dark, and their sense of direction was sadly wanting, but they were
quite definite that whatever they saw was to the northeast, that it wrapped
around a hill, going from right to left, and after a minute or two disappeared
behind a tor probably, they thought, Great Links or Dunna Goat.
 And what exactly was it they saw?
 A pair of lights, old-style lanterns rather than the new automobile
headlamps, mounted on the upper front corners of a light-coloured square
frame. They had with them a strong pair of field glasses.
 As if two lanterns on a coach built of bones.
 As you say.
 How would you judge them as witnesses?
He shrugged.  Ramblers, he said dismissively.  The sort of young people who
would read up on the more arcane myths and legends of an area and spend a week
traipsing about, raising blisters and searching for Local Romance.
 Holmes, that sounds perilously close to what I have been doing this last
week.
He looked startled.  My dear Russell, I was certainly not drawing a comparison
between your search for information and the self-indulgent 
 Of course not, Holmes. Did they see a dog, or any person either inside or
driving?
 Not to be certain, no, although they had convinced themselves that they saw a
large black shadow moving with the horse.
 Of course they did. Was there anything else to be had in London?
 There was, but I should like to delay until you ve read something. Just
remain there, he said, getting to his feet.  I won t be a moment.
He went out and, judging by the sounds of another door opening almost
immediately he left the drawing room, I knew he was in Baring-Gould s study. A
certain amount of time passed, and several muffled thuds, before he returned
with a slim book in his hand. He tossed it in my lap and picked up his pipe
from the ashtray on the table.
 How long is it since you ve read that? he asked.
 That, to my amazement, was Conan Doyle s account of The Hound of the
Baskervilles, looking heavily read.  At least three years. I m not certain, I
replied.
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 More than that, perhaps. I should like to consult with Gould for an hour or
two; you have a look at that and see if anything within Baskerville Hall
strikes you as it did me.
 But Holmes 
 When I return, Russell. It won t take you long, and you might even find it
amusing. Though perhaps, he added as he was going out the door,  not for the
reasons Conan Doyle intended.
eighteen
Take my advice. Henceforth possess your mind with an idea, when about to
preach. Drive it home. Do not hammer it till you have struck off the head. A
final tap and that will suffice.
 Further Reminiscences
« ^ »
Actually, although I would have hesitated to admit it in Holmes hearing, I
enjoyed Conan Doyle s stories. They were not the cold, factual depictions of a
case that Holmes preferred (indeed, when some years later he found that Conan
Doyle had set a pair of stories in the first person, as if Holmes himself were
describing the action, Holmes threatened the man with everything from physical
violence to lawsuits if he dared attempt it again), but taken as Romance, they
were entertaining, and I have nothing against the occasional dose of simple
entertainment.
In any event, it was no great hardship to settle into my chair with the book
and renew my acquaintance with Dr Mortimer, the antiquarian enthusiast who
brings Holmes the curse of the Baskervilles, and with the young Canadian Sir [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]