by Zoe Sharp
“I confess I half expected you to cancel, lovey, what with this madman loose on the moor. Shocking, isn’t it? In fact, I’m in two minds about whether you should stay out here all alone, I really am.”
The last thing I wanted was for her to try to stop me from staying. The cottage was isolated and unobserved—the perfect vantage point from which to study the habits of my target, and to finalise my plans.
“If they’ve had no sign of him in three days, he’s probably long gone by now,” I said quickly. “I’m sure I’ll be fine.”
Although the accommodation was tiny it was enough for my needs. Heating and cooking were via the wood-burning stove in one corner, but the building had been well insulated, and I’d been fed already, so I didn’t feel the need to light the stove tonight.
Instead, I switched out the lamp and sat below the window, looking up at the clouds rushing past the stars in the light from a pale half moon, while I stripped, cleaned, and reassembled the 9mm pistol by touch alone.
The following morning I woke early, splashed cold water onto my face, and shrugged into my clothes knowing I had a lot of ground to cover and limited time in which to cover it.
The wind of last night had died down. As I stepped outside I was immediately aware of a faint odour of wood smoke. I stilled in the watery sunshine and heard a shrill, burbling whistle that sounded very like an old-fashioned kettle coming to the boil.
Reaching behind me, I eased the semiautomatic pistol in its rig to make sure it wouldn’t foul on my clothing, and moved softly towards the source of the sound.
Unless I was mistaken, it came from the end cottage of the little group. As I approached, I saw the door was slightly ajar, leaving a strip of internal frame visible along the leading edge.
I paused a second just outside, mind flashing through my options. Not the entry—that I could do in my sleep—but the excuse I’d need for it if the occupant turned out to be a legitimate guest.
“Don’t stand on ceremony,” called a man’s voice from within. “I’ve taken the liberty of preparing breakfast for both of us.”
He sounded friendly enough, but I’ve come across too many smiling killers not to draw the SIG first. Holding it down by my leg, I shoved the door open and slid rapidly to the side of the aperture as I went through.
A spare man with a thin face and high forehead sat with a chair pulled up close to the wood-burning stove, on the top of which he was nudging with a spatula at bacon, eggs, and tomatoes frying in a small pan. He barely glanced at me as I came in, but I got the impression there was little he didn’t see.
“Ah, a woman of caution as well as action,” he said. “Good. That makes things so much less worrisome.”
It was not the opening gambit I’d expected, causing me to ask blankly, “How so?”
“Because clearly I need not concern myself with your safety while this man Selden is still at large, and therefore you will not distract me from the task at hand,” he said as if it were obvious. He lifted the pan off the heat. “Now, there’s bread on the table, if you wouldn’t mind cutting a couple of slices? The kettle, as you no doubt heard, has just boiled. I can offer you Earl Grey or coffee—both black. No milk, I’m afraid.”
“Excuse me, but my mother always warned me never to put anything offered by a stranger into my mouth.”
He gave a bark of laughter, swapped the frying pan to his left hand and stuck out his right. “Your mother is evidently a woman of good sense and sound judgement,” he said. “Sherlock Holmes, at your service.”
I put away the SIG and shook his hand, murmuring a cautious, “I’m Charlie” as I did so.
“Well, Charlie, my thanks to you. It’s due entirely to your arrival last night that I can indulge in a hot meal this morning.”
“Ah, you mean if anyone saw the smoke”—I nodded to the wood-burner—“they would assume it was mine.”
“Absolutely. So it’s only right that I should offer to share my good fortune.”
I hesitated a moment longer, then shrugged and moved across to the table. By the time I’d sliced two chunks from the crusty loaf, he’d served the contents of the pan and laid out cutlery. Automatically, I took the chair opposite the window and we both dug in. It felt somewhat bizarre to sit down to a campfire breakfast with such a man, only seconds after we’d met.
He ate with the same single-minded focus I imagined he did everything. Only when he’d finished the last bite, wiped his plate clean with bread, and sat back with his mug of tea, did he turn his scrutiny in my direction.
“Tell me, Charlie, how long is it since you were in the military?”
I allowed myself a raised eyebrow. “Not everyone who knows how to handle a firearm is necessarily an ex-squaddie.”
“True. But in this country, where guns are far more uncommon than in America, it’s certainly indicative. As is the way you lace your boots.”
“Damn.” I glanced down at my hiking boots, frowning. “Old habits, I suppose.”
“Indeed.”
“I take it that Dr Watson and Sir Henry are not aware of your presence?”
“Just so,” Holmes agreed. “And I would be grateful if I could prevail upon you to keep them in ignorance of the fact. Our opponents in this case are formidable, and I thought it prudent to remain an unknown factor in the business, ready to throw in all of my weight at a critical moment.”
“They won’t hear anything from me,” I said. “But I don’t suppose you’d care to tell me what the ‘business’ you’re concerned with might be?”
He shook his head, smiling. “No more, I suspect, than you yourself would be willing to tell me what brings you to the wilds of Dartmoor.”
I took a sip of my coffee, which was thick, dark and sweet, like treacle. “I might be here on a straightforward walking holiday …”
“But then again, you might not …”
“Care to hazard a guess?”
He looked offended. “I never guess. It is a shocking habit—destructive to the logical faculty.”
“My apologies. To deduce, then?”
He put down his mug and leaned both elbows on the table top, steepling his fingers as he regarded me. I sat without fidgeting and stared right back.
“Hm. Whatever you did in the army, it was a role that was out of the ordinary,” he said at last. “And your experiences either during your period of service or since have had a profound effect on you.”
That was closer to the mark than I was expecting, even from a man with Holmes’s reputation. I resisted the urge to shift in my seat and said only a noncommittal “Oh?”
“You are too intelligent, articulate, and far too aware of your surroundings to have been merely a ‘squaddie’, as you put it,” he said. “By choosing a seat with your back to the wall, facing both doorway and window, you take great pains not to put yourself at a tactical disadvantage, despite the fact this puts me between you and any means of egress.”
“From what I’ve read about you in Dr Watson’s blog, you’re pretty handy at Bartitsu. If anyone comes through that door, they’ll have to deal with you first.”
He ignored my flip remark, gesturing instead to the mug I was clutching. “You are clearly right handed, and yet—even after you have ascertained that I am not a threat—you are careful to drink only with your left, leaving your strong hand unencumbered.”
“Perhaps it isn’t you I’m worried about.”
“Thus confirming that you have come to the moors with a purpose. One that is not without considerable dangers attached.”
Still, I hedged. “Aren’t you forgetting this prisoner on the run, Selden? My precautions could be all because of him.”
“If you were so concerned about an escaped lunatic, you would not have come at all,” Holmes said. “And he’s still hereabouts, by the way, so do watch yourself.”
“Thanks for the warning—and for breakfast,” I said, rising. “I’ll leave you to whatever it is you’re working on.” I stepped past him, pausing a
t the doorway. “Unless, of course, there’s anything else about me you’d care to add?”
“You present quite the conundrum, Charlie. You have the appearance of someone who is only too willing to resort to violence, and yet is equally determined to avoid doing so, from which I might conclude that your own reasons for being here contain that combination.” Holmes regarded me steadily, his smile no longer in evidence. “Be aware that I am dealing with an ugly, dangerous business, and if by any chance our undertakings should coincide, you will need all your skills about you.”
I walked over rutted stone tracks into the nearest village of Grimpen. It was a low-lying place of cottages huddled down against the elements, with few people in sight. The only large buildings turned out to be the local pub and the house of Dr Mortimer. As I passed, I was amused to notice an old phrenology bust in the window of his surgery.
There was an open-all-hours village store, combining Post Office and greengrocer as well as a couple of café tables. They had Wi-Fi, though, and I was able to pick up my emails, including an attached folder of jpeg images that provided me with added motivation, if that were needed, to complete my task. I sent a brief response saying I was in position and had begun to recce for my opportunity to act.
I bought a few supplies, stowed them in my rucksack, and set off walking back. The day was clear, and the sun had solidified the turning colours of the moorland into shades of russet and gold. All-in-all, a lot cheerier looking than it had appeared last night.
According to my GPS unit it was about a 5.4km hike, and although the rough ground meant I had to take care where I put my feet, it was easy enough to give me thinking time. I would guess I was about halfway back to the cottage when someone shouted my name.
I turned quickly, to see two men approaching. One of them I knew already—Dr John Watson. The other I recognised, although we had not yet met, and for a moment I wished heartily that I had been either quicker or slower along the track.
“This is Jack Stapleton,” Watson said when they’d caught up to me. “He lives at Merripit House. You may have seen it—or at least the smoke from the chimney—if you’ve had a chance to do any walking yet.”
“Only into the village,” I said, shaking Stapleton’s hand. He had an expensive looking Nikon camera on a strap over his shoulder. I tried not to let the possible range of the telephoto lens bother me. “That’s a serious piece of kit.”
“I’m a naturalist,” the man said. He was a little shorter than the doctor, clean-shaven, with fair hair showing beneath a battered straw hat. He lifted a shoulder to indicate the Nikon. “We don’t catch butterflies in a net and pin them to a board anymore.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” I said, but photos of a different kind were printed large in my mind’s eye. Photos of bruised and swollen flesh, and of long-term misery. I couldn’t quite prevent myself adding in an entirely neutral tone, “The moor must be an ideal place for you to indulge in your passion.”
He stilled, cocked an eyebrow. “Oh?”
“All this undisturbed flora and fauna for you to study.” I gave him a bland smile. “Do your family enjoy living out in the wilds, also?”
“Of course.”
I caught the flash of a frown pass across Watson’s features, then it was gone.
“Yes,” Stapleton went on. “I’ve been here long enough to know these moors like the back of my hand. But I would not advise you to wander too far from the marked trails, if you value your health.”
I tried not to bristle. “Meaning?”
Watson turned to point. “My dear, do you see the patches of bright green scattered across this great plain? Stapleton was just telling me that’s the Grimpen Mire,” He suppressed a shudder. “I’ve just seen for myself what happens even to large animals which find themselves stuck in it.”
“Certain death.” Stapleton’s pale eyes were fixed on mine for a second. Then they shifted to a point over my shoulder and he darted to the side, unslinging the camera as he went. “Excuse me an instant,” he called over his shoulder. “It is another Cyclopides.”
Watson and I stood and watched him pursue the butterfly, leaping from tuft to tuft with camera poised.
Not knowing how long he would be occupied, I turned to Watson and said bluntly, “Something about meeting Stapleton’s family that worried you, doctor?”
He looked surprised, then shook his head and frowned again. “A misunderstanding, I think, between myself and his sister,” he said. “She lives at Merripit House with Stapleton. At first, she mistook me for Sir Henry and was most insistent that I—or, rather, he—should leave the moor and never return.”
His sister? Ah…
“Did she say why?”
“No. But afterwards she definitely did not want her brother to know she had said such a thing… It was most strange. Perhaps she, too, is worried about strangers becoming engulfed in the Mire.”
“Or it could be that living here was more his choice than hers,” I ventured. “And she’s giving every newcomer the benefit of her unfortunate experience.”
“Indeed. She claimed to be happy, but her voice didn’t quite match her words.”
And there’s a damn good reason for that…
Stapleton was returning, eyes fixed on the view screen on the back of the Nikon as he checked his shots.
“I think I have him that time,” he told us, gaze flicking from one to the other. “Ah, yes.” He turned the camera around and showed us a sharp close-up of a fairly ordinary looking brown and yellow butterfly. “Really quite beautiful, isn’t he?”
The gentleness in his voice almost made me shiver. I left it to Watson to make the right noises.
“I must be getting on, if you’ll excuse me, gentlemen?”
“Of course,” Watson said. “Oh, just one last thing before you go, Miss Fox. A few minutes before we met, you didn’t happen to hear a loud, well, howling sound, did you?”
“A howling?” I repeated. “As in a wolf, or a dog?”
“Yes.” Watson seemed almost embarrassed to ask. “It was the weirdest, strangest thing I’ve ever heard in my life.”
I shook my head.
“I told you, Dr Watson, I should not be surprised to learn that what we heard was the cry of a bittern,” Stapleton said. “At one time they were practically extinct in England, but the population has boomed in recent years.”
I had never knowingly heard the sound made by a bittern, but I was not convinced. And if the look on his face was anything to go by, neither was Dr Watson.
Stapleton invited me to join the pair of them for lunch at Merripit, but I declined—much, I suspect, to his relief. Instead, I continued on the track leading me towards the holiday cottages, not breaking stride until I was out of their sight.
Then I ducked off the trail and left the rucksack marked by a small pile of stones, turning back without it. I employed every stealth technique I’d ever been taught to cover the ground between me and the Stapletons’ without being seen. That telephoto lens of his was a hazard I could have done without. I had no choice but to work around it.
I managed to creep into position nearby, and lay waiting while Watson no doubt enjoyed a pleasant lunch with Jack Stapleton. I’d been told he could be charming company when he set his mind to it.
And downright bloody nasty when he was thwarted.
Watson left Merripit House sooner than I expected and started out in the direction of Baskerville Hall. I debated on going after him, hesitating long enough over the decision for it to be taken out of my hands.
A slim, dark-haired woman slipped out of a doorway at the side of the house and hurried across the moor on an intercept course with the doctor. Knowing I wouldn’t reach her beforehand—not without risk of exposing us both—I stayed put.
It wasn’t long before I saw her returning, and this time was able to emerge from my hiding place and stop her before she got back to the house. Her stride faltered when she saw me waiting for her by the path, glancing sideways at Mer
ripit as if to satisfy herself that we were not going to be seen.
“Beryl Stapleton?”
I hardly needed her tentative nod of reply. She wore a pair of jeans with a polo-necked sweater, and hugged thin arms around her body, though it was hardly cold.
“When?” she asked.
“As soon as you’re ready,” I said. “Pack a bag and I’ll have you out of here this afternoon.”
A cloud passed across her face, stricken with indecision. She glanced behind her again, over towards the house. Or it might have been cast further, in the direction Watson had taken.
“I–I need another day,” she said, her voice broken but still with the lilting South American accent of her birthplace. “Two at the most. I—”
She broke off as I stepped forwards, took her wrist and pushed back her sleeve. The bruises on her forearm were livid, and fresh.
“Why, when he does this to you?”
She wrenched her arm loose with more force than it needed. “I cannot explain. I know only that he plans a great wrong, and I must stop him—”
“If you tell me, I’ll stop him for you,” I said. I thought of Holmes hiding on the moor, and of Watson staying nearby. “Help may be closer to hand than you realise.”
“It would be my word against his, and what’s the use in that?” she cried. “He has doctors lined up to swear I am incapable of knowing my own mind, that I am delusional. All you will succeed in doing is making him more devious and more cruel than he is already.”
I sighed, pulling together a patience I didn’t feel. “Beryl, you asked for help to get away from this man. That’s why I’m here. Why risk your safety any more than you have to—any more than you have already?”
She hunched down into herself, wouldn’t meet my eyes. “Because this is partly my fault,” she whispered. “And because it is not only my safety that is at stake.”
And with that she whirled away and ran back towards the house, her dark hair streaming out behind her like a pennant.
