The Moor - Laurie R. King [41]
EIGHT
With every wish to promote the well-being and emancipation of the working classes, I should be sorry to see—what is approaching—the extinction of the old squirearchy, or rather being supplanted by the nouveaux riches.
—Early Reminiscences
As we began to thread our way through the narrow, deep-cut lanes that led upwards onto the moor itself, I became aware of something odd in the attitude of the man at my side. The light outside was fading, but it was still bright enough in the car for me to study him. He was slumped down into the comfortable seat, his arms crossed over his chest, and his face had a sour look on it that I had seen any number of times before.
"Holmes, what is it?"
"What is what, Russell?" he said irritably, not taking his eyes from the passing stone walls crowned with hedgerows. "I do wish you would refrain from asking me questions that contain no grammatical antecedent."
"An antecedent is unnecessary if both parties are aware of the topic under consideration, and you know full well what I'm talking about. Your physical language is positively shouting your displeasure, but since this evening's social event was not my idea, I cannot assume that you are resenting my coercion. You are peeved at something; what is it?"
"Am I not to be allowed the privacy of my own thoughts without being subjected to an analysis of my 'physical language'?"
"Not if you insist on indulging in those thoughts around me, no. If you wanted privacy, Holmes, you should not have married me."
Bridling, he removed his gaze from the limited view outside the car windows and glared at me for a long moment before his good sense reasserted itself. His arms unknotted themselves and dropped to his lap, and he looked, if anything, almost sheepish. He lowered his voice, although the glass between us and the driver was thick and the whine of the climbing engine loud.
"I discovered only this evening that Ketteridge's house is Baskerville Hall," he said.
I saw immediately what he dreaded: not, as I had feared, the feeling of a case taking a disastrously wrong turn, but rather the sort of fulsome praise he loathed. Holmes was fond enough of applause for those of his actions that he himself considered deserving, but he abhorred the popular notoriety that Watson's narratives had spawned.
"Holmes, it's been, what? Twenty years since that story was published. Surely—"
"Ketteridge's secretary was reciting whole swaths of it last night, to his master's amusement. And Gould was playing along, curse him."
"We could turn back to Lew Trenchard," I suggested. "I could take ill, if you like." One of the unexpected benefits of marriage, I had found, was that it gave a convenient scapegoat upon which public blame could be heaped.
"Generous of you to offer, Russell, but no. Tribulation is good for the soul, or so I hear. Although I admit that had I known last night, I might have avoided the invitation to dinner. Which may be why neither Ketteridge nor Gould happened to mention it."
"Well, I shall reserve the option of a ladylike attack of the vapours if the reminiscences become too nauseating."
"Thank you."
"Think nothing of it. How did Ketteridge come to own Baskerville Hall? If he inherited, why didn't he take the name?"
"He bought the place—lock, stock, and family portraits. Two years ago, according to Gould, he was on the final stages of a world tour when he passed through England and happened to hear about it from an acquaintance in a weekend shooting party up in Scotland.