nights in caves or shelters or the barns of farmers.
'I met Gorton once, in fact, many years ago, and thought him a harmless enough character even then. He affected the dress of a gipsy, with a red kerchief around his throat, although when I met him he looked more like a pirate, with dark, oiled locks and a heavy frock coat too large for him. He was a colourful figure, proud of his freedom, and he had a goodly store of traditional songs tucked into the back of his head, which he would happily bring forth for the cost of a pint or a meal. He was a last relic of the old moor 'songmen,' although his voice was giving way, and with more than three pints under his belt he tended to forget the words to some of the longer ballads. Still, he was tolerated with affection by the innkeepers and farmers, as a part of the scenery, and in particular by Gould, for whom Gorton had a special significance.
'You need to understand that with all the work he has done in a wide variety of fields, Gould regards his greatest achievement in life to have been the collecting of west country songs and melodies, a task begun more than thirty years ago and only reluctantly dropped when he became too old to take to the moor for days at a time. Josiah Gorton was one of his more important songmen. I suppose it could be said, by those of a psychologically analytical bent, that Gorton represents to Gould the fate of the moor, overcome by progress and forgotten in the shiny, shallow attractions of modernity.' Holmes' fastidious expression served to make it clear that he was merely acknowledging the possible explanation given by another discipline. He continued, 'Whatever the explanation, there is no doubt that Gould is deeply troubled not only by the fact of Gorton's death, but by the manner it came about.
'On the night of Saturday, the fifteenth of September, Gorton was seen walking north past Watern Tor. You did study those maps you brought down, I presume?'
'Not studied, no. I glanced at a couple of them.'
'You didn't?' He sounded amazed and more than a bit disapproving. 'What on earth were you doing all that time on the train?'
'Reading,' I said evenly. I actually had deliberately buried myself in the most arcane piece of theological history I could lay my hands upon, as a protest and counterbalance to the forces pulling me to Devonshire. In retrospect, it seemed a bit childish, but I bristled when Holmes gave me that look of his.
'Reading,' he repeated in a flat voice. 'Wasting your time, Russell, with theological speculation and airy-fairy philosophising when there is work to be done.'
'The work is yours, Holmes, not mine—I only agreed to bring you the maps. And the speculation of Jewish philosophers is as empirical as any of your conclusions.'
His only reply was a scornful examination of his pipe-bowl.
'Admit it, Holmes,' I pressed. 'The only reason you so denigrate Talmudic studies is sheer envy over the fact that others perfected the art of deductive reasoning centuries before you were even born.'
He did not deign to answer, which meant that the point was irrefutably mine, so I drove home my advantage: 'And besides that, Holmes, what I was reading does actually have some bearing on this case—or at least on its setting. Were you aware that in the seventeenth century Moorish raiders came as far as the coasts of Devon and Cornwall, taking slaves? Why, Baring-Gould might have relatives in Spain today.'
He did not admit defeat, but merely applied another match to his pipe and resumed the previous topic. 'You must study the maps at the earliest opportunity. Watern Tor, since you do not know, is in a remote area in the northern portion of the moor. Gorton was seen there, heading west, on a Saturday evening, yet on the following Monday morning, thirty-six hours later, he was found miles away in the opposite direction, passed out in a drunken stupor in a rain-swollen leat on the southern reaches. He had a great lump on the back of his head and bog weeds in his hair, although there are no bogs in the part of the moor where he was found. He died a few hours later of his injuries and a fever, muttering all the while about his long, silent ride in Lady Howard's carriage. He also said,' Holmes added in the driest of voices, 'that Lady Howard had a huge black dog.'
'Huh,' I grunted. 'And did the dog have glowing eyes?'
'Gorton neglected to say, and he was in no condition to respond to questions. There was one further and quite singular piece of testimony, however.'
I eyed him warily, mistrusting the sudden jauntiness of his manner. 'Oh yes?'
'Yes. The farmer who found Gorton, and the farmer's strapping son who helped carry the old miner to the house and fetched a doctor, both swear that in the soft ground beside the body, there were clear marks pressed firmly into the earth.' I was hit by a cold jolt of apprehension. 'The two men have become fixtures in the Saracen's Head, telling and retelling the story of how they found Gorton's body surrounded by—'
'No! Oh no, Holmes, please.' I put up my hand to stop his words, unable to bear what I could hear coming, a thundering evocation of one of the most extravagant phrases Conan Doyle ever employed. 'Please, please don't tell me that 'on the ground beside the body, Mr Holmes, there were the footprints of a gigantic hound.' '
He removed his pipe from his mouth and stared at me. 'What on earth are you talking about, Russell? I admit that I occasionally indulge in a touch of the dramatic, but surely you can't believe me as melodramatic as that.'
I drew a relieved breath and settled back in my chair. 'No, I suppose not. Forgive me, Holmes. Do continue.'
'No,' he continued, putting the stem of his pipe back into place. 'I do not believe it would be possible to distinguish a hound's spoor from that of an ordinary dog—not without a stretch of ground showing the animal's loping stride. These were simply a confusion of prints.'
'Do you mean to tell me…' I began slowly.
'Yes, Russell. There on the ground beside the body of Josiah Gorton were found'—he paused to hold out his pipe and gaze in at the bowl, which seemed to me to be drawing just fine, before finishing the phrase—'the footprints of a very large dog.'
I dropped my head into my hands and left it there for a long time while my husband sucked in quiet satisfaction at his pipe.
'Holmes,' I said.
'Yes, Russell.'
'I am going to bed.'
