I thought about it for a long minute, dissatisfied, but there was no more to be done with the question at the moment. "Have you been up on the moor all this time, then?"
"More or less. After interviewing the farmer I determined that there was, indeed, a place where a motorcar had pulled off the road two or three days before. Dunlops," he said, before I could ask. "Relatively new, such as Ketteridge's motor runs on."
"Thank God for that. I was beginning to think he was as ghostly as Lady Howard."
"Though it's not much use as proof in a court of law."
"True."
"I then went to visit the army garrison near Okehampton."
"Good heavens."
"I had to be sure that what appeared to be shelling was in fact not."
"Of course."
"Major-General Nicholas Wyke-Murchington gave me a cup of tea."
"How nice."
"Not terribly. It was nine o'clock this morning and I could have done with strong coffee and a full breakfast."
"Where did you stop the night yesterday?"
"In the farmer's barn."
I had half expected him to say, In the abandoned mine. At least the barn would have been dry and, with any luck, warm.
"So you had a nice tea with the major-general."
"And, with Mycroft's cachet in hand, he showed me his tank."
"A singular honour."
"Any self-respecting spy would have died laughing at the sight of it, although I can well believe it would not have sunk into the mire of Passchendaele. It distinctly resembles a duck perched atop a half-inflated balloon, and it moves—trundles is perhaps the word—at the pace of an arthritic old woman."
"A truly revolutionary design."
"He also gave me another piece of information that I think you will not mock so freely."
"A radical model submarine boat with wings?"
"No, the schedule for firing."
"But, didn't Baring-Gould say they only used the ranges in the summer?"
"Except when they wish to practice in foul-weather conditions."
"I'd have thought the summer months here would suffice, but pray continue."
"Night manoeuvres are planned, in moonlight, on Thursday night. The day after tomorrow. And the schedule has been posted on the moor notice boards."
"Now, why should—wait," I said, beginning to see what he was suggesting. "We're past the usual season when one might reasonably count on the occasional thunderstorm, and yet Scheiman and Ketteridge have been making preparations for another blast."
"The occasional natural thunderstorm, certainly, but would not an artificial storm suffice to conceal their activities, with the thunder of guns instead of that from the sky? A man standing in the entranceway to the old adit could easily see when the soldiers were away from the immediate area, but could also see the flash from the firing that would conceal the blast of the black powder."
Another thought came to me. "And the moon is nearly full as well. By God, one way or another, we may be able to catch them at it!"
Holmes smiled slowly, but merely said, "I should be interested to see the references you found in Gould's books."
We moved upstairs to our room, where I showed him the places and left him, stretched out shoeless on the bed with one book in his hands and one on either side of him on the counterpane. When I put my head in an hour later, he was asleep. I went quietly away.
TWENTY-FOUR
Where the one-inch fails recourse must be had to the six-inch map.
—A Book of the West: Devon
Wednesday morning the frost had departed and the sky was dull with cloud, but inside Lew House there was a feeling of sunshine and relief, because the squire of Lew Trenchard was on his feet again.
Holmes and I had a great deal to discuss and some complicated arrangements to make before the army's scheduled firing on Thursday night; however, the topic being mooted over the breakfast table was honey. The painted Virtues looked on in approval and Holmes seemed more than willing to indulge his old friend, so I could only throw up my hands and give myself over to the game.
"I gave you some of the metheglin the other night," Baring-Gould was saying. "Now have a taste of the honey it was made from."
Holmes obediently thrust his teaspoon into the pot of thick stuff before him on the table, twirled the spoon to keep its burden intact, and put it into his mouth. Baring-Gould and I watched, and even Rosemary stopped in the act of taking the coffeepot to be refilled and waited for the judgement.
"Remarkable," said Holmes stickily. He reached for his coffee cup.
Baring-Gould nodded vigorously. "Didn't I tell you? It is produced from furze blossoms, a most superb and aromatic variety. Keeping bees on the moor is no easy thing, as you know, because of the perpetual wind, but there is a monk down at the Buckfast Abbey who has succeeded. Brother Adam, his name is—a young man, but already the head beekeeper." (Was head beekeeper so hard-fought a position, I wondered idly, that only a monk of high seniority would be likely to win it?) "He has some very sound ideas about breeding—you ought to get down there and talk with him."
"Yes," said Holmes, "I have corresponded with Brother Adam. He consulted me recently on the acarine problem. I suggested he look to Italy, which I believe is free from the disease."
"You don't say. He's a German, of course, which hasn't made it easy for him the last few years, but he's an original—a true character. Perhaps a bit over enthusiastic, I admit, but all the more appealing for it in this age when detachment rules and cool indifference is the standard of behaviour. Do you know," he said, warming to his new topic, "in the old times there were men and women who stood out; now there seems to be a plague of homogeneity, spread by the machinations of the press and the ease of railway travel. Why, I am sure you have heard of this crystal wireless set which seems certain to achieve popularity; I imagine that the resultant instant communication will complete what modern education and quick travel have begun, and we will soon see the death of regionalism and individuality. Haven't you found this, Holmes? The world is becoming filled with sameness, with men and women as like as marbles. Not a true eccentric in sight." I looked at him carefully, waiting for the twinkle that would tell me he was making a jest, but he was frowning as he drizzled furze honey over his toast. I glanced over at Holmes, who was nodding in solemn agreement over the tragic loss of eccentricity in the modern world, and I had to get up and go to the kitchen for a moment to ask Mrs Elliott if we might have another few slices of brown bread toasted. When I returned, Baring-Gould was telling a story, apparently concerning one of his late lamented characters.
"—begging, dressed as a seaman who had been shipwrecked, or a farmer whose land was under water in Kent. He would watch the newspapers, you see, for word of the latest disaster, and take on whatever disguise that might call for. One day he might be a householder burnt out of his house, taking up a position on the pavement wearing little more than a charred blanket; the next day he would appear as an impoverished soldier. He had letters of verification from magistrates and noblemen—forged, of course. The gipsies eventually claimed him, and elected him King of the Beggars. You could learn from him, Holmes." He chuckled at the idea.
"Still, Gould," said Holmes, "there have always been degrees of rogue. One may feel a grudging admiration for Bamfylde-Moore Carew because of his sheer effrontery, but then there are men like the Scamp."
"Oh yes," Baring-Gould said, allowing his knife and fork to come to a brief pause. "The Scamp was indeed a bad lot." He resumed his meal, and spoke in my direction. " 'The Scamp,' is my family's name for one of the eighteenth-century Goulds, Captain Edward—his portrait is on the stairway. He nearly lost us this estate, and certainly lost a great deal else. He killed a man, one of his gambling partners, and at his trial was defended by one John Dunning, to whom he also owed a great deal of money. An eyewitness to the shooting testified that he saw Edward Gould by moonlight, but at the trial Dunning produced a calendar proving there had been no moon that night. Gould was acquitted, though by that time he was so in debt to Dunning that he had to make over nearly everything he owned to the man, which would have lost us Lew Trenchard had it not been under his mother's name. And the funny thing was, the calendar John Dunning produced? It was a fake."