Missing Susan

have to be stupid to even try.”

Charles Warren got up and signaled for Bernard to open the coach door. He walked through the arch and, with a succession of nods and hand signals, he guided the coach through the archway with inches to spare. When he had parked in the paved lot on the side bordering the golf course, Bernard modestly acknowledged the cheers of the passengers and then climbed down to unload the suitcases.

The tour members stood in the parking lot and surveyed their new lodgings, the first of the accommodations that was not newly constructed. This one was imposing and ancient-looking, but a certain reticence on the part of the hotel literature led Rowan to suspect (aloud) that it was actually constructed in the late nineteenth century by a nouveau riche industrialist with aristocratic delusions. The Manor House was a sprawling beige stone building, or series of buildings, about the length of a city block, with formal archways, pitched roofs, and multiple chimneys, looking very much like the country estate it must have been once. The enormous mansion was set down in an expanse of well-tended lawn, surrounded by acres of wood and park land, some of which was now a golf course.

“This looks familiar,” said Maud Marsh, twisting a lock of silver hair. “I’m sure I’ve seen this place somewhere.”

“I expect you have,” said Rowan Rover. “It was the setting for the 1939 version of The Hound of the Baskervilles with Basil Rathbone.”

The others gathered around. “Oh, is this Sherlock Holmes country?” asked Susan.

“The Hound of the Baskervilles is set in this area,” Rowan replied. “Many of the place names mentioned in Conan Doyle’s story are variations of actual places nearby: Hound Tor and Black Tor. Cleft Tor can only be Cleft Rock. If you know the area well, it is possible to pinpoint the locations in the story.” He paused for two beats, and then said, as if the thought had just occurred to him, “Would you like to go for a walk on the moors? It’s an unseasonably warm day for September. Not a cloud in the sky.” He glanced at Elizabeth MacPherson. “No shops open.”

Everyone assured him that they would love to go for a walk, and they agreed to meet on the south terrace of the manor in twenty minutes.

Rowan closed his personally annotated guidebook with a smile, wondering how well any of them actually remembered the Holmes tale. He had wisely chosen not to read them the passage of his notes concerning another feature of the Baskerville story:

You see, for example, this great plain to the north here, with the queer hills breaking out of it… You notice those bright green spots scattered thickly over it? Rowan looked up from the page to scan the rolling grassland beyond the Manor House. He thought he did see such patches of green. That is the great Grimpen Mire… a false step yonder means death to man or beast.

Elizabeth MacPherson never claimed to be psychic, not even in the dimmest candlelight in an evening of ghost- storytelling, but something about Moretonhampstead made her uneasy. She had a tiny room on the top floor of the manor, with an impressive view of the rolling green moorland, but even in the full sun of a cloudless September day, she felt chilled by the atmosphere of the place. She had walked up the flights of stairs to her room, and, while all was bright and elegant on the lower landings, the higher reaches gave way to worn green carpeting and walls in need of new paint.

“Top floor,” she said aloud. “Old servants’ quarters. This is where the first Mrs. Rochester would have lived, I presume.” The fact that her room was well-kept and tidy, with a private bath and a television, did little to dispel her feelings of gloom after the long trek up the endless flight of stairs. From her casement window she could see the south lawn and the moors beyond, but the narrow walkway outside the window made her think of cat burglars and itinerant vampires. “At least it’s only for one night,” she reminded herself.

Hurriedly she changed into slacks and sensible walking shoes, glad for an excuse to leave her solitary quarters. Even a walk without shopping was better than being the madwoman in the attic.

When she arrived on the south terrace, she found the rest of the group already assembled and posing for pictures on the stone balustrade overlooking the flower beds. Susan Cohen and Charles Warren took turns playing photographer with their respective cameras. Rowan Rover had put on his tan windbreaker in anticipation of windy weather on the moors. He gravely inspected the rest of the party to see that no one proposed to mountain climb in high-heeled shoes or sundresses. Satisfied that the troops were at least impersonating competent hikers, be began the march down the wide stone steps and across the grass. There is a path through the woods at the bottom of this hill,” Rowan told them. “It eventually ends up in North Bovey, but I thought that you might prefer a nice bracing walk on the moors.”

He had studied Barts Drivers Road Atlas to Britain and discovered to his annoyance that the Great Grimpen Bog was not among the topographical landmarks featured in that August volume. Still, his annotated Sherlock Holmes had mentioned it, coyly noting that Conan Doyle had merely changed the name Great Grimpen Bog to Great Grimpen Mire in order to avoid the use of the schoolboy’s word for toilet. My plan will be in the bog without any paper if there isn’t any mud, Rowan thought, reverting to the juvenile use of the word. He had wanted to ask the hotel people about rainfall in recent months, but someone might remember the question later, so he decided not to risk it. The editors of The Annotated Holmes had put the Grimpen Mire west of Moretonhampstead, about three miles north of the village of Widecombe in the Moor, fabled in the folksong for its fair. And I’m going to get them stuck, thought Rowan sardonically. Uncle Tom Cobleigh and all.

As he marched the group past brilliantly sunlit flower beds and the lush greenery of the golf course, he found himself wishing for more suitable moorland weather. It should be a windy autumn night, with a sliver of pale moon occasionally visible through shrouds of rolling fog. Their steps across the steep fold of hills should have been punctuated by the baying of a gigantic hound. Instead he had to cany out his dark deed against a backdrop of green hills and blazing blue sky that suggested the opening scenes of The Sound of Music.

At the bottom of the sloping lawn was a wide walkway that encircled the manor. Leading off from it, a narrow trail wound its way into the woods. The group set off on the woodland trace, chattering happily about plans for tea and comparing room descriptions.

“There’s a fallen tree across the path!” Alice MacKenzie announced indignantly.

They were still within sight of the golf course.

“It probably fell during the windstorms last winter and no one’s bothered to clear it yet,” said Rowan. “It shouldn’t trouble us. I’ll climb over and help each of you across.”

With varying degrees of agility, each member of the party clambered over the trunk of the felled oak, assisted by the ever-patient Rowan Rover, who knew that he had to keep them busy and happy for another three miles at least before he could expect to find any dangerous patches of mire. As they trotted along the well-worn path beside a sparkling brook, Rowan pointed out wildflowers and marveled at the wonderfully summeriike weather they were enjoying. Privately, he considered a thermometer reading approaching body temperature an appalling condition for an uphill hike, but he reminded himself that Americans were accustomed to warmer weather.

“Don’t you think it’s a bit hot for a long walk?” panted Elizabeth MacPherson, echoing his thoughts. By this time the path had forked and they had chosen to follow the route that became a steep incline, angling toward the open moors. “I was just worried about Maud on account of her age, you know.”

With great deliberation, Rowan stopped and looked back at the rest of the party. Maud Marsh, a few yards behind them, was striding briskly along at the head of the pack, without even breathing heavily. The others were grouped together, a bit red-faced, and talking less than usual. Far in the rear, Susan Cohen glistened with sweat, her shoulders heaving as she breathed. “What is this?” she yelled out. “The Devonshire Death March?”

Rowan pretended not to have heard. “Walking the moors is one of my hobbies!” he called out encouragingly. “It’s good exercise and it clears the mind wonderfully.”

“Mine is certainly clear,” gasped Elizabeth. “I can think of nothing except the pain in my calf muscles.”

“Perhaps it would help if we put price tags on the fence posts,” snapped Rowan.

They tramped into a narrow dirt lane lined by blackberry thickets. Rowan graciously invited the group to stop for a moment, catch their breath, and sample the wild berries. He walked a few yards on to the top of a slope and scanned the grassy plain for the telltale bright green spots that signified patches of bog. He thought he spotted a few likely candidates to the northwest. Now would be a good time to leave the path and strike out across open