The Moor

'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.

'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 Henry Baskerville, come to the moor to claim his title and his heritage. I met again the ex-headmaster Stapleton and the woman introduced as his sister, and the mysterious Barrymores, servants to old Sir Charles. The moor across which I had so recently wandered came alive in all its dour magnificence, and I was very glad this book had not been among my reading the previous weekend, leaving me to ride out on the moor with the image of the hound freshly imprinted on my mind. I could well imagine the terror raised by hearing the rhythm of four huge running paws (or the 'thin, crisp, continuous patter from somewhere in the heart of that crawling bank' of fog that Dr Watson described), the hoarse panting from between those massive jaws, even without the eerie glow of phosphorus on its coat to render it otherworldly:

A hound it was, an enormous coal-black hound, but not such a hound as mortal eyes have ever seen. Fire burst from its open mouth, its eyes glowed with a smouldering glare, its muzzle and hackles and dewlap were outlined in flickering flame.

So engrossed was I that I completely missed the reference Holmes had wanted me to see. Only when the Hound was dead did I recall the point of the exercise, and thumbed back to the previous chapter that described the evening when Holmes first saw the interior of Baskerville Hall. The reference startled me, and I sat deep in thought for twenty minutes or so, contemplating the 'straight severe face' which was 'prim, hard, and stern, with a firm- set, thin-lipped mouth, and a coldly intolerant eye' until I heard the door behind me open.

I said over my shoulder, 'You think Scheiman may be a Baskerville? Stapleton's son, even?'

'Stapleton's body was never found,' Holmes pointed out unnecessarily as he resumed his chair on the other side of the fire. 'I was never happy with Scotland Yard's conclusion, and always felt it possible that he had prepared an escape route and slipped through it while we were occupied elsewhere, but he was never seen, and after two weeks, Scotland Yard was satisfied with his fate in the mire and took their watch from the ports.'

'I have to agree that the description of the Cavalier painting, wicked Sir Hugo himself with his prim lips and his flaxen hair, does fit Scheiman.'

'Scheiman is by no means so clear a case, else I should have noticed it when first I laid eyes on him. If Stapleton married in America —although legal marriage it could not have been, nor indeed would Sir Henry's have been to Beryl Stapleton, the supposed widow—the woman contributed a great deal more to her son's looks than did the father. Ears, eyes, cheekbones, and hands are all hers; only the mouth (which you will have noticed he takes care to conceal beneath a beard) and the stature are his father's.'

'You wondered when the portrait of Sir Hugo had gone: If the surviving Baskerville took it with her rather than sell it with the others to Ketteridge, for the dubious privilege of preserving a memento of the family history perhaps, then its absence is innocent, whereas if it was removed after the sale, by Ketteridge or Scheiman—'

'Then the why is obvious: that Scheiman's family resemblance might not be seen by visitors to the house.'

'Visitors such as Sherlock Holmes. I don't think I told you, by the way, that Ketteridge was interested in hiring you to investigate the hound sightings.'

That brought a laugh, as I had thought it might do, albeit a brief one.

'What brought the resemblance to your mind?' I asked. Surely he hadn't picked up The Hound of the Baskervilles to read on the train?

'A number of things. Scheiman's interest in the antiquities of the moor, the dim lighting of the dining hall, how he spent the least amount of time possible with us—with me, who had known Stapleton. But, I have to admit, the actual possibility was got through hindsight.

'As I told you, the Ketteridge establishment interests me. It interested me when first I saw the man helping himself to Gould's liquor cabinet. He does not fit in Dartmoor, and does not seem eccentric enough to justify the oddity of his presence here.

'So while I was in town, I initiated some enquiries about Ketteridge and his secretary. The responses to my telegrams will take days, even weeks, but I did come across one thing of interest: The two men were not together when they boarded the ship coming over here. Ketteridge began his journey in San Francisco, but Scheiman joined the ship in New York.'

'There could be an explanation for that.'

'There could be any number of explanations. However, Ketteridge told us he came over in the summer, yet his passage was in early March.'

I had to agree that although the oddity was hardly evidence of criminal activity, it did call for a closer examination of the two men.

'You've sent wires to New York and San Francisco?'

'And Portland and Alaska.'

'So you think Ketteridge is involved.'

'He may or may not be. Scheiman is definitely up to something.'

The generality of the word something was unlike Holmes; after a moment's thought, and particularly when he would not look at me, I knew why.

'You believe that Scheiman is after Mycroft's tank,' I said in disgust.

'It does not do to theorise in advance of one's facts,' he said primly.

I made a rude remark about his facts, and went on. 'If this is deteriorating into a spy hunt, Holmes, you don't need me. It's been a truly invigorating holiday from my books, but perhaps I may be allowed to take my leave.'

'Two murders now, Russell. I should have thought that sufficient to overcome your distaste for the War Office.'

I dropped my head back onto the chair and closed my eyes. 'You really need me, Holmes?'

'I could ask Watson.'

Dr Watson was only five years older than Holmes, but his heavy frame had aged as Holmes' wiry build and