The Moor - Laurie R. King [9]
***
I cannot deny that the old man's words brought a finger of primitive ice down my spine. A loose dog chasing sheep is a problem, but hardly reason for superstitious fears. However, the night, my fatigue, and the stark fact that this apparently sensible and undeniably intelligent old man was himself frightened, all came together to walk a goose over my grave. I shivered.
Fortunately, Holmes did not notice, because the words also had an effect on the man who had uttered them. He slumped into his chair, suddenly grey and exhausted, his eyes closed, his purplish lips slack. I stood in alarm, fearing he had suffered an attack of some kind, but Holmes went briskly out of the door, returning in a minute with the cheerful, rather stupid-looking woman who had brought our dinner. She laid a strong hand on Baring-Gould's arm, and he opened his eyes and smiled weakly.
"I'll be fine in a moment, Mrs Moore. Too much excitement."
"On top of everything else, the cold and the worry an' all. Mrs Elliott will never forgive me if I let you take ill. Best you go to bed now, Rector. I've laid a nice fire in your room, and tomorrow Mrs Elliott will be back and the heat'll be on." He began to protest, but she already had him on his feet and moving towards the door.
"Time enough tomorrow, Gould," Holmes called. We followed the sounds as the woman half-carried her easily bullied charge upstairs to his bed. A far-off door closed, and Holmes dropped back into his chair and took up his pipe.
"Twenty years ago that man could walk me into the ground," he said.
I took some split logs from the basket and tossed them onto the fire before returning to my own chair. "So I came all the way here to help you look for a dog," I said flatly.
"Don't be obtuse, Russell," he snapped. "I thought you of all people would see past the infirmities."
"To what? A superstitious old parson? A busybody who thinks the world is his parish—or rather, his manor?"
Holmes suddenly took his pipe out of his mouth, and said in pure East-End Cockney, " 'E didn't 'alf ruffle yer feathers, didn'e, missus?"
After a minute, reluctantly, I grinned back at him. "Very well, I admit I was peeved to begin with, and he didn't exactly endear himself."
"He never has been much of one for the politic untruth, and you did appear very bedraggled."
"I promise I'll behave myself when I meet him again. But only if you tell me why you brought me down here."
"Because I needed you."
Of all the clever, manipulative answers I had been braced to meet, I had not expected one of such complete simplicity. His transparent honesty made me deeply suspicious, but the real possibility that he was telling the unadorned truth swept the feet out from under my resolve to stand firm against him. My suspicions and thoughts chased each other around for a while, until eventually I simply burst out laughing.
"All right, Holmes, you win. I'm here. What do you want me to do?"
He rose and went to the sideboard to replenish his glass (not, I noticed, from the small stoneware jug that held the metheglin) and returned with a glass in his other hand as well, which he placed on the table next to my chair before moving over to stand in front of the fire. He took a deep draught from his drink, put it down on the floor beside his foot (as there was no mantelpiece), and took up his pipe. I sank down into the arms of the chair, growing more apprehensive by the minute: All of this delay meant either that he was trying to decide how best to get around the defences that I thought I had already let down, or that he was uncertain in his own mind about how to proceed. Either way, it was not a good sign.
He succeeded in getting his pipe to draw cleanly, retrieved his glass, and settled down in his chair, stretching his long legs towards the fire. Another slow draught half emptied the glass, and with his chin on his chest and his pipe in his hand, he looked into the fresh flames and began