The Moor - Laurie R. King [97]
Fyfe settled onto the edge of the nearest armchair. "I'll be calling in Scotland Yard this afternoon," he said, sounding resigned about it. "We don't have the facilities here. Meantime, about all we know about Pethering, or whatever his name might be, is that he arrived at Coryton station on the Saturday afternoon, walked up to Lew Down to arrange a room at the inn, had some tea, and then came here to Lew House, where he stayed from 'round about six until you turned him out, which Miss—Mrs—which your wife says was a shade after midnight.
"He then returned to Lew Down and knocked up the innkeeper, who let him in. He came down from his room around ten o'clock Sunday morning, struck up a conversation with William Latimer, who stepped in to deliver a basket of eggs his wife had promised for Saturday but couldn't bring because one of their boys fell out of an apple tree and broke his arm, and she was away at the surgery getting it seen to. Latimer told Pethering about the sightings of the hound on the moor, Pethering got all excited and rushed upstairs to get his map. Latimer showed him where to look, and Pethering ran upstairs again, put on his heavy boots, and packed two bags—or one bag and a large rucksack. He left the bag with the innkeeper, and walked off down the high road in the direction of Okehampton.
"A farmer near Collaven saw him 'round about two o'clock, making for the moor. That's the last anyone saw of the man alive."
I retrieved the one-inch map from the floor and looked for Collaven. It lay at the foot of the moor, two miles north of Lydford and a mile from Sourton Tor, on the edge of the area so heavily marked by our pencilled lines and Xs.
"Where was he going?" Holmes asked.
"Latimer told him the hound had been seen near Watern Tor."
His elbows on his knees, Holmes gazed into the fire, fingers steepled and resting on his lips. "Why the hound?" he mused.
Before Fyfe could respond, the rattle of crockery heralded Mrs Elliott's approach. Holmes prodded the cat until it jumped down, tail twitching in disgust, allowing Mrs Elliott to put the tray on the bench. She had thoughtfully included a high pile of buttered toast and three plates, although Holmes and I had only recently eaten. Fyfe, however, ate nearly all of it, drinking three cups of coffee as well before he was through.
"What was that about the hound?" he asked, his voice rather muffled with toast.
"I was merely wondering, Inspector, why the hound should be making an appearance."
Fyfe swallowed. "I understood there'd been a number of sightings over the summer."
"Those were of Lady Howard's coach, which does indeed come complete with dog, but that does not explain why the dog should also appear sans coach."
Fyfe had suspended his toast in puzzlement. "I took it the hound referred to the Hound of the Baskervilles story."
"They are very different hounds, Inspector, separated by their time, their ghostly genesis, and their mission. It is as if Jacob were to have appeared in Isaac's tent to receive his blessing wearing Joseph's coat of many colours: not entirely impossible, one would suppose, but not terribly reasonable either."
"Different stories," I translated for the inspector, who was looking confused. "Everyone seems to be mixing up the two different hounds."
"The only question is," said Holmes, "whether or not the confusion is deliberate."
"Hardly the only question, Holmes," I objected mildly.
"No? You may be right. Tell me what the postmortem found, Inspector."
Fyfe hastily thrust the remainder of his wedge of toast into his mouth and reached into his pocket for a notebook. When the page was found and the toast was out of the way, he began to read. "A slim but adequately nourished male approximately thirty-seven years old, five feet six inches tall, distinguishing features a birthmark on his right shoulder blade the size of a shilling and an old scar on his left knee. Minor dental work—the description is being sent out—and otherwise in good health until someone cracked his skull open with a length