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 country.
“How is everyone?” Rowan asked genially, surveying the party. “Enjoying your walk?”
“Nancy and I enjoy walks,” said Charles Warren, looking as fit as ever. “We do about seven miles a week.”
“Not uphill,” his wife retorted, fanning herself.
“Of course, nurses are used to doing a lot of walking, too. I just wish I’d brought proper running shoes,” said Kate Conway, looking sadly down at her espadrilles.
“Where’s the village?” Susan demanded. She was beginning to sag under the weight of her camera. “I thought you said the village was a mile away. We must be damn close to Scotland by now.”
The guide feigned surprise. “The village is in the other direction,” he informed her. “We veered off from that path shortly after we passed the fallen tree. I thought you wanted to take a walk up here on the moors. The views are breathtaking, aren’t they?”
“All I see is a bunch of pasture without any cows,” Susan grumbled. “You’ve seen one blade of grass, you’ve seen ’em all.”
“Tell you what,” said Rowan to the group. “Let’s get up out of this lane and walk across the moors. I’ll bet you can see for miles from that tor off to the right.” He took a short running start and scrambled up the bank, motioning for the others to follow him.