The Moor - Laurie R. King [96]
Holmes went up to put his shaving kit and a change of linen into his bag, and I put the breakfast things back on the tray and took them into the kitchen. There I found Mrs Elliott, looking somewhat dishevelled.
"Oh bless you, my dear. I don't know what I'm going to do. Rosemary and Lettice have taken to their beds with sick headaches—from crying no doubt; they'd be better off working and keeping their minds off that silly man, but there you have it."
"I'm sorry, Mrs Elliott. Is there anything I can do to help?" I asked hesitantly. "Washing up or something?"
She looked shocked. "That will not be necessary, mum. But thank you for the kind thought." She would have to be in a sorry state indeed before she allowed a guest to plunge her ladylike hands into a pan full of dishes.
"Well, please let me know if there is something I can do. But I need to ask, can someone take Mr Holmes down to the station? He needs to catch the train to Plymouth."
She looked up at the clock over the mantelpiece and hurriedly began to dry her hands. "He'll need to step smart, then. I'll have Mr Dunstan hitch the pony to the cart."
She ducked out through the door. I eyed the stack of unwashed dishes and left them alone, going up the back stairs to tell Holmes the cart would be ready. I found him just closing his bag, and reported on the time constrictions. He nodded and sat down to change his shoes.
"What do you wish me to do while you're away?" I asked. I was half tempted to throw together a bag and join him, for the sake of movement if nothing else.
"We need to know more about Pethering," he said. One set of laces was looped and tied, and the other foot raised. "I want you to—"
"Sorry, Holmes," I said, raising one hand. "Was that the door?" We listened, hearing nothing, and I went over to the window. There was a motorcar in the drive, but the porch roof obscured my view of the door, so, feeling a bit like a fishwife, I opened the window and put my head out to call. "Hello? Is someone there?"
After a moment a hatted, overcoated man came into view, backing slowly out from the porch and craning his head to see where the voice had come from.
"Inspector Fyfe!" I said. He found me and tipped his hat uncertainly. "Do come inside and warm yourself; the door is not locked. We'll be right down." I drew in my head and latched the window.
Holmes was already out of the room, and I did not catch him up until he was shaking hands with a still-hatted Inspector Fyfe in the hall. As I seemed to be playing hostess (or rather, in the temporary absence of Mrs Elliott and her disturbed assistants, housemaid), I took his coat and hat. Not knowing quite what to do with them, I laid them across the back of a chair and joined the two men at the fire.
Fyfe rubbed his hands together briskly in front of the smouldering fire, while Holmes squatted down to coax it back to life. "What can we do for you, Inspector?" I asked.
"I have some questions to ask Mr Baring-Gould about the man Pethering."
Holmes looked up. "What do you imagine Gould would know about him?"
"Well, I hope he knows something, because we can't find a trace of where he comes from or who he is."
Holmes' eyebrows went up. "I understood that he was a Reader at one of the northern universities. York, I believe Gould said."
"They've never heard of him. Nor do they have anyone on their staff who fits his description, an archaeologist or anthropologist or what-have-you, with a wife and young family."
"You interest me, Inspector. Mrs Elliott," he said, raising his voice, and indeed, when I turned to look, there she was in the door to the drawing room. "Would you be so good as to tell Mr Dunstan that I won't be needing the cart? I shall have to take a later train. And I believe the inspector could make good use of a hot drink." He swept the maps off the bench in front of the fire, uncovering the blithely sleeping tabby, and sat down beside the animal, gesturing Fyfe towards a chair. "Tell me what you do know about him, Inspector."