The Moor - Laurie R. King [52]
He left. Holmes latched the door. We then made our way around the entire perimeter of the building, checking every window and door, before going upstairs to bed. I had to agree with Holmes that there was no need to stand guard: Pethering was not the sort who would actually break a window to get back in.
***
The antiquarian Pethering was not at the breakfast table the following morning, Sunday. Neither was anyone else, for that matter, nor did the room show any sign that there had been an earlier setting. We eventually ran Mrs Elliott to earth out of doors, supervising the digging up of potatoes by an elderly gardener. The morning air was still and damp and smelt richly of loam, and I breathed it in with appreciation. Bells were ringing somewhere not too far off, that evocative clamour of an English Sunday. After a minute or two Mrs Elliott turned and saw us, and her face lit up.
"There you are, then, nice and early. I didn't know when you'd be wanting your breakfast, bein' up so late and all, but it's all ready, I'll have it in a moment."
We tried to assure her that toast and tea would be adequate, but she bustled us out of her kitchen and in a very short time presented us with enough food to keep a labourer happy. This was, it seemed, by way of a reward.
"I am so grateful to you, runnin' that rascal off the place. I thought Charley—Mr Dunstan—was goin' to fetch his whip, but Mr Baring-Gould settled it by up and goin' to bed. I half expected that I'd have to step across the man to take up the Rector's tea this morning, but then I heard you come in and him go out, and I went to sleep like a baby in sheer relief."
"That's quite all right, Mrs Elliott. I only regret we were not back earlier; it might have saved some grief all around. Is he still in bed, then?"
Her dour countrywoman's face drew in and became pinched as with pain. "There's days he doesn't get up," she said. "This looks to be one of them."
"May I speak with him?"
"Oh surely, for a brief time. He doesn't sleep, he says, just thinks and prays. With his eyes shut," she added. "I'll take you up after you've had your breakfast."
Her good temper had manifested itself in lovely soft curds of scrambled eggs, fresh toast, and three kinds of jam, and we soon put away our labourers' portions, sighing with satisfaction. Our introduction to the cuisine of Lew House the week before may have been dismal, but the meals since then had been of a very different order—not fancy, but good, solid English cooking. I commented on the change to Holmes.
"Yes," he said. "Mrs Elliott was away visiting her sister. The village woman left in charge did little but stretch the remnants of the previous meals, and no one seemed capable of adjustments to the central heating when it went off. Mrs Elliott arrived back the morning after you arrived;she was not pleased at the state of the household." He sounded amused, and I could well imagine the proud housekeeper's reaction to the tough stewed rabbit we had been served. He drained his coffee cup and stood up. "Shall we go and see Gould?"
"You go, Holmes."
"Come along, Russell. You mustn't avoid your host simply because he is a rude old man. Besides which, he has quite taken to you."
"I'd hate to see how he expresses real dislike, then."
"He becomes very polite but rather inattentive," he said, holding the door open for me. "Precisely as you do, as a matter of fact."
Gould was awake, but he lay on his pillows moving little more than his eyes. His voice was clear but low, and with very little breath behind it.
"Mrs Elliott tells me you've rid me of a household pest."
"Does that sort of thing happen often?"
"Never. Only friends come here."
"You should have sent for the village constable."
"Pethering is harmless. I couldn't be bothered. Tell me what happened."
Holmes pulled up a chair and told him, making a tale