The Moor - Laurie R. King [45]
I went through into the dining room, followed by Holmes. Once inside, I stepped to one side, paused while Holmes walked past me into the room, and then turned on my heel to come face to face with Ketteridge, who necessarily jerked to a halt. I drew myself up, put a hand out to his sleeve, and, looking at him eye to eye (actually, I was a fraction taller than he), I spoke in a slow, clear, ironclad voice.
"My husband does not really enjoy talking about his old cases, Mr Ketteridge. It makes him uncomfortable."
Most men, and certainly forceful men like Ketteridge, tend to overlook women unless they be unattached and attractive. I usually allow this because I often find it either amusing or convenient to be invisible. Such had been the case with Ketteridge, between my self-effacement and his fascination with Holmes, but now he reared back on his heels in astonishment. I merely held his eyes for a moment longer, then smiled, let go of his arm, and left him to gather his wits and scurry around to seat us at the long, gleaming table that was set with four places and lit only by candlelight. The dim light was a great relief.
A distraction arrived in the form of Ketteridge's secretary, David Scheiman, adjusting his tie as he entered hurriedly and slipped into the fourth chair.
"Sorry I'm late," he said. "I got involved in my work and lost track of the time."
"All you missed was a drink and some pleasant conversation, David," his employer said. "Both of which you can catch up with. Wine, Mrs Holmes?"
I am not certain why I did not correct his form of address to the surname I normally use, the one I was born with. Men do not change their names with marriage, and it had always struck me as odd that women were expected to do so. Perhaps I did not correct him because I did not wish to underscore the impression of unexpected strength I had just made on him, or perhaps it was for some other reason, but after a tiny hesitation, I merely nodded and allowed Tuptree to pour a dark red wine into my glass. Holmes did not remark on the incident, not even nonverbally, but I knew he had not missed it.
"What sort of work were you doing, Mr Scheiman, that so occupied you?" I asked, more to set the conversational ball rolling than from any real interest. What I could see of him in the uncertain light confirmed that he was a pleasant if unprepossessing young man, fair-haired, prim, with a blond beard trimmed neatly low on his cheeks and a moustache that nearly obscured his thin lips. His hands, like those of his employer's, were large and callused, and the skin of his face was browned to an agreeable semblance of rude good health.
"Some old manuscripts," he said unexpectedly. "It's very interesting, the number of myths and legends that can be found about the moor. You wouldn't believe the diversity, even when the stories are basically the same. Take the myth of the black hound, for example—"
Holmes, across from me, winced perceptibly, but before he could slump into resignation, Ketteridge spoke up.
"Very interesting, I'm sure, David. Perhaps you could tell us a story after dinner." Scheiman frowned in what appeared to be confusion, a sharp line appearing low on his forehead, but he did not press the matter. Ketteridge continued, "You know of course, Mrs Holmes, that your host at Lew Trenchard is a great collector of stories, but perhaps he has not mentioned that he travelled to Iceland when he was a young man?"
"He hasn't said anything about it, no," I replied, a literally true statement, although because of my day's reading I was aware of his voyage.
"A great traveller he was, like his father. Of course, he was practically born on the road, so I guess you could say it's in his blood. His father got itchy feet when the boy was about three or four, bundled his family up, popped them in a carriage, and took off for the Continent. That's how Baring-Gould