The Moor - Laurie R. King [105]
"Oh, perhaps not all that soon. Just before the summer equinox, I believe it was. The moor is at its loveliest then, and the nights so short—I walked up after dinner to the nearest tor and sat watching the sun set, and when I went back down it was nearly midnight and the decision had been made."
And yet Ketteridge had told us he first heard about the Hall in Scotland shooting—something one did not do in the spring or midsummer. A coorius sarcumstance, indeed.
"So he first came to Baskerville Hall in April of 1921, and suggested that you sell to him, and you decided to do so two months later, in June. Is that correct?"
"Yes," she said, and then the frown line was back as it occurred to her that it was odd I should be interested.
"Mr Baring-Gould," I hastily reminded her. "He gets so upset when he can't recall precise details." That she did not object to this statement told me how little she knew him.
"Of course, the poor old man."
"Ketteridge would then have taken possession in the autumn?"
"I believe we signed the final documents on the first day of September. He moved in just after that."
"So he probably would have met Baring-Gould around that time, August or September," I said, as if an important question had been decided.
"I suppose so. If it matters, why don't you ask Mr Ketteridge himself?"
"I hate to bother him, and I was coming to Plymouth anyway. Besides, Mr Baring-Gould wanted to see how you were doing in your new home. It was nice of Mr Ketteridge to bring you the painting of Sir Hugo so soon after you had moved in," I added negligently. "A sort of housewarming present, I suppose he considered it."
"Yes," she agreed, offering me more coffee, which I refused. "He and David—Mr Scheiman—showed up at my door before the furniture was in place, to hang Sir Hugo for me."
I froze in the very act of bracing myself to begin the leave-taking process, seized by an awful premonition.
"Mr Scheiman," I repeated slowly. "Tell me, do you see much of David Scheiman?"
The pretty blush returned, and I felt a thud of confirmation, the physical kick of an absolutely vital piece of information so nearly missed, as she said, "Oh yes, he has been very attentive to my needs. He is the one," she added, quite unnecessarily. "We are to be married in the summer."
TWENTY-ONE
I think it not improbable that both the Archbishop of York and Claughton of Rochester had inserted my name into the Episcopal "Black Book," for I had shown precious little deference to either. But, so far from this injuring me, it has availed in limiting my energies to my own parish.
—Further Reminiscences
I had no idea what it might mean, that Ketteridge's secretary, a man with the mouth of old Sir Hugo, had proposed marriage to the only living child of Sir Henry Baskerville, but I did not need the kick in my vital organs to tell me it meant something.
For the life of me, however, I could think of nothing else to ask Miss Baskerville. I made polite noises, extracted from her an amorphous invitation for a return visit, and, with a final glance at the Cavalier over the fireplace, left her house. I went up the street and turned the corner, and there I stood, gazing into a row of severely pruned rose bushes, until the gentleman of the house came out and asked me with matching severity whether or not he could help me.
I moved on obediently, allowing my feet to drift me back to the hotel where I had stopped the previous night. There I retrieved my small bag, and took a taxi to the train station, only to find that I had several hours to wait before I could catch a train to Lydford.
I had nearly memorised portions of Dartmoor by the time I climbed up into the train, into a compartment even colder than had been the one on the way down. I made no attempt to read, but sat, my scarf and collar raised around my ears, my hands thrust up into my sleeves, staring at a button on the upholstered seat back across from me, thinking.
I felt certain that