The Moor - Laurie R. King [98]
"Why pipe?" Holmes asked sharply. "Did the pathologist find traces?"
"No, I just said pipe to indicate the size and hardness. Could have been a walking stick of some dashed hard wood, or the barrel of a rifle, if the killer didn't mind mistreating his gun that way. 'Course, it'd make more sense than the other way around. I once had a gunshot that we thought was murder until we had the victim's hand-print off the end of the barrel—a shotgun it was, and he'd swung it at another man, and when the stock hit the other man, the gun discharged and took off the head of the man holding it. But that's neither here nor there," he said, recalling himself to the matter at hand. "Some blunt instrument a little thicker than your thumb, most likely from behind by a right-handed man. Went at a slight angle, up to the front." He drew a line just above his own hairline, clearing the ear and ending at his right temple. It could have been a blow delivered by a left-handed individual standing above the victim, if Pethering had been on his knees, for example, but Fyfe's simpler explanation was the more likely.
"When was death?"
"Very soon after he was hit—there was not much bleeding into the brain, and external blood loss the doctor estimated at less than a pint. Rigor had come and gone, putrefaction had begun in spite of the cold. Doctor said all in all he was probably killed late Tuesday or early Wednesday, but he'd only been in the water a few hours. Less than a day, certainly."
"Stomach contents?" Holmes asked. Fyfe looked sideways at me and put the next piece of toast down onto the edge of his plate.
"Been a long time since he'd eaten, just traces of what the doctor thought might be egg and bread."
Which helped not at all, as that combination might be eaten at any time of the day, from breakfast to tea, particularly on a hike into the moor.
Holmes jumped to his feet and held out his hand to Inspector Fyfe, who, after a quick pass at his trouser knee, shook it.
"Thank you, Inspector. That is all very interesting. You have taken the fingerprints of the body?"
"Yes, we raised some good prints, in spite of the puffiness from the water. Nothing yet, but we've sent them to London."
"Good. Let us know what else you find. We'll be in touch."
NINETEEN
In La Vendée we saw men with bare legs wading in the shallow channels that intersect the low marshy fields. After a moment of immersion out was flung one leg and then another, to each of which clung several leeches…
The women do not go in after them; and they are more rubicund, and indeed more lively. Leech-catching is not conducive to hilarity.
—Early Reminiscences
Neither Fyfe nor I was quite sure how Holmes had come to assume apparent control of the investigation, but the arrangement seemed to have at least tacit understanding on all sides. Fyfe took his somewhat bemused leave, having been reassured that Baring-Gould would be questioned when he woke as to his past communication with the man he knew as Randolph Pethering, and that information passed on to Fyfe.
Holmes closed the door behind Fyfe and leant back against it for a moment as if trying to bar any further complications from entering.
"That is a poser, is it not, Holmes?" I remarked.
He did not bother to answer, but pushed himself upright and walked back into the hall, where he stood looking oddly indecisive.
"Have you missed the train?" I asked. He waved it away as unimportant, then drew a crumpled packet of cigarettes from his pocket, pulled one out, lit it, and stood smoking while I put the maps and the second breakfast tray of the day in order.
"Let us go look at the bag Pethering left with the innkeeper," he said decisively. He threw the half-smoked cigarette onto the logs, and swept out the door.
***
It was a paltry offering that Pethering had left behind at the inn, comprising for the most part the "good" clothes he would not have needed while clambering over the moor. Holmes set aside the carefully folded