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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
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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 of pipe. The last sentence had not depended on the
notebook.
 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
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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 laid 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 Vend�e 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 [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]