The Moor - Laurie R. King [50]
"Yes," I said brightly. "It is interesting. The—"
Holmes interrupted me loudly, no doubt fearing (with reason) my scathing response to the clean-up job the secretary had done on what was essentially a very dirty little story. "My dear," he said, all syrup and honey, "I know you undoubtedly have a strong academic interest in the tale, but the hour is late."
We faced off over the empty coffee service. Ketteridge dutifully cleared his throat, although he was no doubt conscious of how his social triumph of having Sherlock Holmes to dine in Baskerville Hall could only be capped by the marital battle he could feel brewing. I ignored him.
"As I was saying," I continued, "it is quite interesting. The squire's name might be related to the Latin for horse, caballus, or it might be a reference to a political intrigue or cabal in which the squire was involved, presumably as a Cavalier in the Civil War. But you know, the truly tantalising bit there is that his name is the same as that of King Arthur's beloved hound. The centre of Arthurian legend is somewhat to the north of here, I realise, but—"
Holmes interrupted again, with not a trace of the relief he must have felt at hearing only this nonsense. "It could also indicate that Cabell was simply his name. It is time we were gone, Mr Ketteridge."
Scheiman had been interested in what I was saying, but with the interruption I noticed that Ketteridge was looking at me oddly, so I subsided, and allowed the business of leave-taking to rise up around me.
In the car, Holmes sat back and said in a quiet voice to the back of the driver's head, "You know of course the Latin words cavillari and cave."
"Related to calvi, to sneer," I said, also too quietly for the driver to overhear, "and cave: beware."
He smiled briefly, and we sat for the rest of the drive in amicable silence.
NINE
Some have speculated that the standing stones were intended for astronomical observation, and for determining the solstices; but such fancies may be dismissed…and as for stone gate sockets, it is really marvellous that the antiquaries of the past did not suppose they were basins for sacrificial lustration.
One really wonders in reading such nonsense as this whether modern education is worth much.
—A Book of Dartmoor
It was long after midnight when the big car finished negotiating the lanes and turned through the Lew House gates, but again all the lights downstairs were burning. I could have used a relatively early night, I thought with resignation; at least this time I was dressed for an occasion.
"How on earth did I get the impression that Baring-Gould lived a solitary life?" I asked. "He seems to have an endless stream of visitors, and at all hours."
After allowing Ketteridge's chauffeur to open my door and to retrieve the fur rug in which I had been wrapped, I thanked him absently and followed Holmes into the house. There had been no vehicle standing outside, and to my surprise, the hall where I had first met Baring-Gould, and later been faced with Ketteridge, Scheiman, and the curate Arundell, was now deserted but for the cat asleep in front of the freshly fed fire.
"Hello?" Holmes called in a low voice. When no answer came, he started for the stairs, then stopped abruptly. A figure was rising up from the high-backed chair that faced the fireplace, the figure of a bony, brown man in his late thirties with sparse hair, loosened collar, and rumpled tweed suit. He had obviously been asleep, and was now blinking at us in growing alarm. He reached quickly down and came up gripping the fire poker; still, he looked more ridiculous than threatening.
"Who are you?" he demanded in an uncertain voice. "What do you want?"
"I might ask the same of you," said Holmes, and calmly set about divesting himself of his outdoor garments. He dropped his hat and gloves onto a pie-crust table and began to unbutton his overcoat. "Where is Mr Baring-Gould?"
"He's locked in his bedroom." Holmes' long fingers paused for a moment at the implications in this statement. "He said he was