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machines.
He got a faraway look on his face, which after several seconds relaxed into
one of delight. I had forgotten about that. Oh yes. Very clever, that. He
chuckled. Of necessarily limited duration, however.
Most frauds are. But what I need to know is, are there any other references
to gold on the moor in your books, either speculations as to its presence or
descriptions of fraud?
A long minute ticked past as the old man put his head down and thought. When
he raised it, my heart fell.
I cannot think of any. Why do you need to know?
Rector, I d really prefer not to go into that just now.
Does it have to do with Richard Ketteridge?
It may, I said reluctantly. To my surprise, he reached forward and patted my
hand.
Don t worry, Mary, I won t press you. I ll hear about it when the story is
complete. Much better that way.
Er& if Ketteridge comes to visit, do you wish me to have Mrs Elliott say you
are not receiving visitors?
Heavens no. I certainly possess enough duplicity for that degree of
deception.
I got up from the bed. Good night, sir.
Good night, Mary. I wish you luck.
Thank you. I turned to go.
There was, he said thoughtfully, another sort of fraud.
I stopped and waited.
It involved tin, though, he said.
I came back to his side and sat down again. What happened?
I don t recall the details. Something to do with blowing bits of tin into the
hillside to make the area look rich in the metal. Salting, don t they call it?
I wonder what it has to do with salt?
I was rocked back on my heels by the galvanic shock of his words, shooting
down my spine like a bolt of electricity that set all the pieces of my puzzle
shuddering as they danced across the table and began to bond together in front
of me.
Salting, don t they call it?
Gold flakes in a spoonful of leafy sand. Josiah Gorton, killed for wandering
the moor on a stormy night, and Randolph Pethering after him, for the same
reason. A remote cottage in which the thunder knocked a plate from the hutch.
God, I had it. I had it.
Thank you, I said calmly. I paused on the way to the door. Do you remember
which book you wrote about that in?
Which one? My dear, there were so many. It might have been in Curiosities of
Olden Times, or perhaps Dartmoor Idylls, or even Old Country Life. Does it
matter?
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I shouldn t think so. Good night.
Mrs Elliott was coming back in with the gurgling water bottle in her hand, and
her appearance made me think of something else.
Mrs Elliott, that family that was here today. Where were they from?
I don t know, and I don t care.
What family was that? Baring-Gould demanded.
Mrs Elliott shot me a dark look. Samuel and Livy Taylor came by here, and the
doctor is giving them a place for a few days until they can arrange transport
to her brother s place in Dorset.
Baring-Gould answered immediately, without pausing for thought. Their farm is
near the West Okemont, just below Higher Bowden.
And old Sally Harper and her husband had just moved from their farm a mile or
two away. And what of the ancient woman wrapped in rugs, who had arrived here
the other day? I would ask Mrs Elliott later, I thought. Thank you again, and
good night, I said with finality, and went back down to Baring-Gould s study.
It took me until four o clock to find the reference, but find it I did, in a
book entitled An Old English Home and Its Dependencies, a portion of a chapter
on mineral rights. It told the story of a fraud committed, as Baring-Gould had
said, by blowing pieces of tin into soil to create the appearance of a rich
source.
If tin, why not gold?
I fell into bed and slept for three hours, and then rose and dressed and went
down to ask Rosemary for directions to the doctor s surgery. I had to reassure
her mightily that I was not ill, that I did not require her granny s tincture
or a hot brick for my feet, only directions to the surgery. Reluctantly, she
gave them.
The frost was thick on the lawns and the fallen leaves, but although I walked
quickly, the doctor was already away, attending a difficult birth up on the
moor. The doctor s wife, who ran the surgery, saw my disappointment and
offered to help. When I told her I was looking for the evicted Taylors, she
said with some asperity that she knew precisely where they were, and whose
victuals they were eating as well. She pointed me down the road.
My own house, that is; my sister lived in it until she died in the spring,
and if that woman allows her brood to damage my mother s furniture, I ll not
be responsible for my actions.
The household, however, was not as chaotic as I had expected. Taking the upset
and the number of children into account, it was actually almost controlled. I
did, nonetheless, ask Samuel Taylor to step outside for our conversation.
I asked him who owned the house from which he had been evicted. He scratched
his head and set himself to the achievement of thought.
Wall, it were the judge up by Ockington, but now that were the problem, baint
it? Because he soldy, didn t he, just three months gone now, and sayed as soon
as t crops were in, we d have to go.
I don t suppose you know who the buyer was? I asked without much hope, but
he surprised me.
Mr Oscar Richfield, he said, in Lunnon. I dunno what a Lunnon man wants with
me zmall farm, but it be is now, and I hope it brings he joy.
He was not being bitter; he truly hoped his spot of river bottom would bring
pleasure to its next owner. I myself very much doubted that joy would enter
into the equation.
On my way back through Lew Down I stopped to use the public telephone. Mycroft
had not yet left his Pall Mall digs for the office where he laboured, and I
spoke briefly with him, explaining nothing, asking him merely to have discreet
enquiries made about a Mr Oscar Richfield and his ownership of a tiny farm on
the edge of Dartmoor.
When I returned to Lew House, I sought out Mrs Elliott to enquire about the
old woman who had arrived the other day while I was working in Baring-Gould s
study, and had since disappeared.
You mean dear little Mrs Pengelly? Poor thing, had to leave the cottage her
husband built with his own two hands, and go to distant family far away in
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Exeter. Still, she now has a bit of a nest egg to show for it, and that ll
make her last years more cosy.
Where did Mrs Pengelly come from?
Oh, she s Cornish, I m sure.
I mean to say, where was the cottage her husband built for her up on the
moor?
Where? Oh my dear, I can t remember just where it was, but I m sure it was
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