Death at Dartmoor (11 page)

“
I
had no idea it was so beautiful here on Dartmoor,” Patsy said to Mr. Crossing. Nearing the end of their morning's walk across Walkhampton Common and up the river, they stood on the top of King's Tor, watching the cloud shadows drifting across the open heath. Tracings of gold marked where the gorse was beginning to bloom, and in the stream valley, the willows and hazels showed faintly green. Patsy pulled her wool cap down over her ears and faced into the west wind, sniffing.

“Is that smoke I smell?”

“The farmers are swaling on Whitchurch Common,” Mr. Crossing said, pointing with his gnarled walking stick into the distance, where a drift of lavender smoke wreathed a rocky outcrop. “They burn the furze and heather every spring. The ash enriches the soil, and the burning clears the ground for summer grass.”

Patsy turned toward the north. “That's one of those famous standing stones, isn't it?” she asked with interest, pointing toward a rough-cut stone that stood over ten feet high, thinking that she should like to photograph it. Not far from it was a stone-walled farm enclosure, where white lambs were prancing like jerky, stiff-legged marionettes, intoxicated with the sun and the joy of new life. In an adjacent enclosure, a man was turning up the rich, chocolate-covered earth with a plow pulled by a team of draft horses, two small children dancing behind and a flock of fat white seagulls dipping and swirling across the plowed earth. To Patsy, this scene of innocence and pastoral serenity cried out to be photographed.

“The stone pillar is called a menhir,” Mr. Crossing replied. “In ancient times, it may have marked a burial site, or perhaps a boundary.” Standing behind Patsy, he pointed over her shoulder. “Just to the west, there, toward the river, are what is left of several stone circles where ancient people lived, and beyond, a kistvaen. You can't see it from this distance, but it's there.”

“A kistvaen?” Patsy asked curiously. “What is that?”

“A small stone coffin, buried in the earth. There are nearly a hundred kists on the moor, all going back to very early times. The ancients placed their dead into a kist in a contracted position, or cremated the body and deposited the ashes in an urn. Unfortunately, though, the kists have been rifled. They're all empty.”

Patsy glanced at him. “People looking for treasure, I suppose.”

Mr. Crossing's brown eyes crinkled with a smile, and he nodded. “But none has been found to my knowledge, although some workers enlarging a potato cave near Brixton came on a cache of silver dishes and plate buried to keep it safe during the Civil War.” He directed Patsy's attention to the Walkham River, barely visible in the valley below them. “Down there, in the riverbank, are the remains of two small stone huts in which tin miners smelted their ore. The moor dwellers call the tin workers ‘The Old Men,' and their mines and smelters ‘Old Men's Workings.' ”

“That's not an Old Man down there, I suppose,” Patsy observed doubtfully, looking at a figure crossing the distant stream on one of the granite-slab bridges she had seen so often that day—clapper bridges, Mr. Crossing had called them. She lifted her field glasses and saw to her surprise that the figure was a woman wearing a bright red cape, the hood flung back, her dark hair flowing loose around her shoulders. She carried a stout stick, her skirts were shortened for easier walking, and she strode forward with energy and determination.

Mr. Crossing laughed. “No, Miss Marsden, the Old Men worked the moor during medieval times and later. They were beginning to go, most of them, during the age of Queen Elizabeth. That looks like another Dartmoor rambler like ourselves, enjoying the fine weather. The path she is following will take her back to Princetown.” He squinted up at the sun. “My wife expects me home for lunch, so I shall leave you here.” He pointed to the north. “You can follow the woman you see below. Or if you prefer to go by the road, simply walk straight across the moor, turn right at Tavistock Road, and right once again when you reach Rundle Stone Corner. Princetown is just above two miles.”

“Shall I see you at the séance tonight?” Patsy asked as they walked down the hill together.

He gave her a quiet smile. “There are a great many ghosts all around us here on the moor. I do not find myself much in need of being surprised by spirits summoned from elsewhere in the universe. I've already declined Lady Duncan's kind invitation.”

Patsy laughed. “I doubt very much if we will be surprised by spirits tonight,” she replied. “At the most, we may be amused.”

They had come to a moor gate, and Mr. Crossing opened it and went through. “Amused?” he repeated as he latched the gate behind him and raised his hand in farewell. “I wonder,” he said thoughtfully as he turned. A darkness had come into his eyes. “I do wonder.”

Patsy would have occasion, later, to remember Mr. Crossing's words. But for now, she was eager to set off across the moor and to catch up to the woman she had just seen. There was something in the look of her that seemed vaguely familiar, and Patsy wanted to see if the woman was someone she knew.

It took a few moments of hard walking, but Patsy caught up to the woman as they crossed the shoulder of North Hessary Tor. When the woman turned to greet her, Patsy thought once again that she seemed familiar, but she couldn't quite place her. After a moment's casual conversation, Patsy introduced herself and mentioned that she had come to the moor to take photographs.

“I'm Mattie Jenkyns,” the woman said. Her handshake was firm and resolute, her eyes—the color of a clear summer sky—were quite direct. Her loose, dark hair rippled around her shoulders, and she had a free, wild look about her. They chatted for a few moments, and Mattie mentioned that she had a great interest in archaeology and had come down from London to have a look at some of the ancient dwelling sites.

“Grimspound, especially,” Mattie added. “I'm curious to see the reconstruction work that was done a few years ago” She glanced around, smiling. “But mostly, I suppose, I just want to enjoy the moor. I find it lovely here, just on the brink of spring. Such a relief from the city.”

Patsy smiled, thinking that most of the women she knew would not find Dartmoor lovely. They would feel threatened by its wildness, diminished by its vastness. “Are you staying at the Duchy?” she asked, still trying to remember where in the world she might have seen the woman.

“No, I'm at Mrs. Victor's boardinghouse,” Mattie replied as they fell in step together. She added in a matter-of-fact tone, “It's much cheaper than the hotel, and I can have my meals in my room. I must keep an eye on expenses.”

Patsy could certainly understand that, and she liked Mattie the more for her candor. “I was planning to hire a pony cart and drive out to Grimspound myself,” she said. “It would be less expensive if we went together and shared the cost—and a friend might join us, too. What do you say?”

“That would be wonderful!” Mattie exclaimed, her blue eyes sparkling. “But I'm afraid it will have to be soon. My brother is walking in Cornwall and is to join me here in a few days. And then we're off for a tramp abroad.”

“Oh? Where are you going?” Patsy asked.

A slight frown crossed Mattie's face. “We haven't decided yet” she said vaguely. “Switzerland, perhaps.”

Patsy had the idea that Mattie did not want to discuss her trip, but no matter, it was none of her concern. “Tomorrow would be fine for the Grimspound expedition,” she declared, and so it was decided.

 

Since arriving at his decision on the previous evening, Doyle had given a great deal of thought to precisely how he was going to tell Fletcher Robinson that he had decided to work alone on the Baskerville story. The two had agreed to drive out that morning to have a look at the bogs near Fox Tor, about three miles south of Princetown, where there was also an ancient grave site—a kistvaen inside a stone circle—called Childe's Tomb. Bertie had told him the story of a man named Childe, who, overtaken by a snowstorm, had killed and disemboweled his horse, hoping to save himself by sheltering in the animal's carcass. But he had frozen to death anyway and was said to be buried nearby. Doyle had thought he might somehow weave this grisly little story into the book and had suggested that they look at the site. But he had no enthusiasm for their expedition now that he'd decided to bring the collaboration to an end. To curtail any possible disagreements, he had decided he would tell Bertie his decision in a public place, where they should have to keep their voices down.

And so it was that Doyle was sitting in the Duchy dining room that morning, awaiting the arrival of his friend.

“Ah, there you are, Sherlock,” Robinson said, with that wide, ingenuous smile of his. “Baskerville is outside with the coach, if you're ready. On the way, I saw that the gorse is blooming, so spring will soon be here. It's going to be a pretty day for an outing.”

“Good morning, Bertie,” Doyle said, looking up from his newspaper. “Sit down and have a cup of tea, won't you? I'd like a bit of a chat.”

Without preamble, he launched into his prepared argument, emphasizing his decision to incorporate Holmes into the story, which needed a strong central figure to hold the plot together. If Holmes appeared, there would be no reason for a collaborator; in fact, readers would be confused by a Sherlockian tale which bore the names of two authors, and Greenhough Smith, the editor at The Strand, would very likely refuse to run it as a coauthored story.

“Of course,” Doyle concluded, in an easy tone, as if this were an inconsequential matter, “I shall be glad to provide a notice that the story was originally your idea. A footnote, I was thinking, if that would suit you.”

Bertie put down the teapot with a thud. “I must say, I'm disappointed, old chap.” He looked straight at Doyle. “After all our talking and plotting, to be turned out like this—it's quite a shocker.”

“Turned out?” Doyle managed an uncomfortable chuckle. “I shouldn't put it that way, Bertie, not at all! You've been of enormous help to me, and I fully intend to recognize your valuable contributions.” At Robinson's darkening look, he added, “And make up for the substantial amount of time you've devoted to the project, of course.”

“To our project,” Robinson said pointedly. He spooned sugar into his tea, staring at Doyle over the tops of his spectacles. “However, I'm not the sort to thrust myself in where I'm not wanted. And it appears that you've made up your mind.” He stirred his tea. “How much?”

Here it came, Doyle thought. “How much?” he repeated.

“For my time. Of course,” he added with evident bitterness, “it may not be worth as much as yours, but it's worth something. The idea, too—you've said over and over that it's quite a valuable one. Never been done, classic tale of psychological suspense, all that. You do remember saying that, don't you?”

“How much did you have in mind?” Doyle asked carefully. Now he should find out what this transient venture was going to cost him.

Bertie frowned. “I've never been very good at vulgar fractions, but I think I ought to get at least twenty-five percent. And an acknowledgment, of course, that I provided the inspiration: the setting, the major plot idea, all of that.” His mouth was set in a thin line. “I should certainly hope for more than a footnote, but I suppose you will do as you like.”

Doyle had already considered the matter and knew that if he did not agree to some sort of recompense, the matter was going to end in court, and that would be embarrassing. Ridding himself of Robinson was worth whatever it cost. But still—

“I should be glad to give you twenty-five percent of the initial profits,” he said, with an assumed heartiness. “You've certainly earned it.” That would cut Bertie out of the reprint rights, when the installments were gathered together in book form, not to mention the American rights.

“Oh, very well,” Bertie said. His handshake was brief and not, Doyle thought, cordial. But at least the thing was done.

Bertie pushed back his chair and rose. “Since you've no more need of me,” he said, “I shall be off.” He looked coldly down at Doyle. “Do you do this sort of thing often, old man? Reneging on your agreements, I mean. Breaking your promises. Betraying those who have been loyal to you.” He shook his head with pitying scorn. “Not exactly a comfortable state of conscience for you, I should think.” And with that, he stalked off.

Doyle stared after him. He should have been congratulating himself at having got out of a potentially damaging arrangement at so little cost. Instead, he was hearing the echo of Robinson's accusing words:
“Do you do this sort of
thing
often? Reneging on your agreements,
breaking
your promises, betraying those who have been loyal to you?”
But it wasn't Robinson's voice that rang in his ears; it was that of his dear, dying Touie. His wife, who had never in her life spoken a reproachful word to him, even though he had betrayed her—if not in the flesh, then in his deepest and most passionate soul.