"Don't forget these, Russell," he said drily. I took the maps he was holding out, wedged them on top of the books, and made my way out of the crowded study and up the stairs.
***
After dinner we climbed the stairs to Baring-Gould's bedroom. We found him seated in a chair at the window, looking tired and ill and without strength. Looking what he in fact was: a man not far from his death.
Watching him, one could see the effort it cost him, but succeeded in rallying his forces, his eyes coming to life, his mind focussing again on us and the problem he had given into our hands.
"We're off tomorrow, Gould, for two days," Holmes told him. "We need to find how Lady Howard's carriage is coming up onto the moor, and I have to take a closer look at the army ranges for Mycroft."
A smile tugged at Baring-Gould's mouth. "Don't let them blow you up, Holmes."
"I shall endeavour to avoid becoming a target," Holmes assured him.
"You don't mean they're actually firing up there?" I exclaimed.
"It is a firing range, Russell."
"But—" I bit back the mouthful of protests and cautions, as there would be little point in voicing them. Besides which, I told myself, Holmes would never have reached his present age if he could not be trusted to dodge an artillery shell.
It was Gould who reassured me, or tried to. "I shouldn't think they are practising this late in the season. They normally finish in September."
"Before we go, Gould," said Holmes, "just take a look at the map for us and tell Russell if there are any points a person could take a carriage onto the moor that aren't obvious from the markings."
"A ghostly carriage doesn't need a road, Holmes," Baring-Gould said in a stern whisper. Holmes did not deign to answer, merely took a folded smaller-scale map from his pocket and shook it out, holding it up by the corners directly in front of Baring-Gould. The old man had only to pull down his spectacles from his forehead to study the map, but instead he smiled and waved Holmes away.
"No need for that; I can see it better with my eyes closed." He did actually close his eyes, and Holmes laid the map over a table for those of us whose eyes were better than our knowledge of the moor. I took out a pencil.
"I think that, as the sightings have all been in the northern quarter, we need not bother with anything south of the Princetown Road. Is this reasonable?"
"For the present," Holmes said, adding, "We may have to expand the search later."
"Very well. From the south, we begin at the point where the Prince-town Road enters Tavistock." I dutifully made a small circle on the map. "From there up to Mary Tavy the gates are all on the east side of the Tavy, and will coincide with the lanes leading down to the river. Except," he said, sitting forward and replacing his glasses onto his nose so he could take the pencil from me and circle an invisible fold in the contour lines, "except for here, a lane that appears to skirt the field. Since the map was made, however, the farmer took down a section of the old wall, and now drives his cattle up onto the moor along here." The edge of his fingernail traced a dip in the contour lines. "Here is another place, but that should be obvious." His eyes shifted sideways to take in my reaction. I nodded, and pointed to half a dozen other access points I could see. We both ignored the actual lanes and the labelled Moor Gates, looking only for the hidden places. "Along here," he said, "there is an old miner's trail. And this here; it used to be a railway line for bringing peat off the moor. And of course this path here, marginally negotiable if the driver were very good and the horses strong."
It did not take long for Baring-Gould's intimate knowledge of the moor to lay open the map to my eyes. I should begin by crossing the moor to the other side of Princetown, and from there work my way back to Lydford, while Holmes cut across the moor up to the northeastern portion and worked his way counterclockwise. We should either meet in the middle or, failing that, return here Wednesday night.
I took my leave of Baring-Gould with considerably greater warmth than I would have thought possible even a day or two earlier. Holmes played for him again that night, and although the music ended early, he did not return to our rooms until a very late hour.
TEN
I had almost written God-forsaken, but checked my pen, for God forsakes no place, though He may tarry to bless.
—A Book of Dartmoor
In the morning I put together a bag—a simple enough procedure that amounted to pushing everything I had brought with me except my frock into the rucksack, borrowing a pair of sturdy riding boots, and adding the book of Baring-Gould's memoirs and a map—and walked down to the barn.
Here I was presented with a dilemma: Baring-Gould himself had sent down an order that I be given the household's ageing Dartmoor pony, a beast with a rough coat and a gloomy eye. However, being a pony (even though not apparently interbred with the Shetland) and I passing six feet in my boots and hat, the picture I had of me on its back had a distinctly ludicrous air. I wondered if perhaps Baring-Gould could be pulling some kind of joke, and then dismissed the thought as unlikely.
"Surely there's another horse," I protested to Charles Dunstan, the household's equally ageing Dartmoor stable lad (whom I had also seen working in the garden). "What about this nice fellow here?" The cob in the adjoining box was a good hand taller and, though older even than the pony, appeared able and amiable.
"That's Red. He be th'orse what pulls the trap."
"Can he be ridden?" To have a horse dedicated entirely to draught work was common enough on a big working farm, but unlikely here.
"Well, Mr Arundell rides'n all'y time, though he don't ride to th' hunt. But, Winnie'd be better up the moor. More surefooted, like."
"It ought to be, with six feet touching the ground. Oh, never mind, Mr Dunstan," I said, waving away his puzzlement. "Red will do fine."
He was, fortunately, shod, and his saddle was soon on him, its stirrups lengthened to suit my legs and the roughness of the terrain. A leather saddlebag was found to hold my possessions and a small bag of oats, as well as a last-minute addition from Mrs Elliott's kitchen that took up as much room as all the other objects combined. I pulled my hat down over my ears and, before any further additions could be found, such as a bell tent or a butterfly net, I put my heels into Red's sides and rode away from Lew Trenchard in a light mist.
The horse was as solid and without frills as his name, capable of two gaits: a leisurely stroll and a spine-snapping trot. An experimental urge towards a canter met with a slowing of the trot and a laying back of the ears, a clear message that he was going as fast as he could, damn it, and if I didn't like it, I could just get down and run myself.
I decided that there was no great need for speed, and where we were going there was no safe expanse of unbroken turf on which to practise it anyway. I and the horse settled down to our respective tasks.
However, Red had another idiosyncrasy that I did not discover until it was far too late to do anything about it: He shied.
My first hint of it was when I found myself tumbling into a protective roll in midair and thumping down onto the hard surface of the road at his feet. All the speed he lacked in forward motion he saved up for this burst of lateral movement: Red leapt like a startled cat, straight up and ten feet to the side. He didn't then bolt, didn't kick, didn't play hard to get; he just flew to one side as if being yanked offstage by a giant hand, and then stood placidly, looking slightly puzzled as to why I had chosen to fling myself to the ground, and waited for me to catch the reins and remount.
Which I did, having first checked to make sure I was whole and then looked closely at his hoofs, legs, girth, and anyplace else I could think of for a possible reason for his extreme action. Finding none, we rode on cautiously, and when there was no repeat of this aberration, my grip gradually loosened and my attention returned to its wandering ways, and an hour or so later the same thing happened.