Sherlock Holmes and the Tangled Skein by David Stuart Davies

Author:David Stuart Davies [Davies, David Stuart]
Language: eng
Format: epub, azw3
Publisher: Lume Books
Published: 2016-02-22T05:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER SIXTEEN: On the Moor

Within an hour Sherlock Holmes and I were seated in an antiquated wagonette, rumbling over the rough track which meandered its way across the moor. The request to borrow the carriage, and our sudden departure, had perplexed Gardner further. His pallid face had gazed blankly at Holmes while my friend had tried once more to reassure him that all our actions were directed at saving Miss Hunter’s life.

‘Be assured,’ said Holmes, as he climbed into the driver’s seat, ‘that Watson and I will return before evening to watch over the girl during the hours of darkness.’

Gardner nodded dumbly. We left him standing by the gate of the academy, a tall, stooping figure with nervously clenched hands.

‘I am afraid this affair has broken him,’ remarked Holmes, after we had lost sight of the academy.

‘If only we could tell him the full facts of the matter,’ I said.

‘They would not only confuse his already tired and bewildered mind, but push him over the threshold into madness. Remember, we have undergone a dreadful initiation into our belief in the undead, but we can hardly expect Gardner to share or understand this belief. Therefore we must persist with the illusion that the girl is suffering from a rare kind of disease. The truth must remain our terrible secret.’

I gave a murmur of agreement and then lapsed into silence. Holmes gently but firmly guided the horses over the rough and bumpy track. Steadily rising, we passed over a narrow bridge and skirted a noisy stream which gushed down, foaming and roaring amid the boulders. A dull greyness touched the moorland as the sparse foliage relinquished its autumn colourings to the neutral grip of winter.

It was a sharp, bitterly cold day with a cruel wind which pierced the thick folds of my coat. Holmes, however, did not seem to notice the cold. As he manoeuvred the vehicle along the increasingly difficult route, he was lost in thought, his brow drawn into two hard lines.

Soon the familiar shape of Black Tor loomed into view. Over the wide, gloomy expanse of moor there was no movement or sound except for the eerie moan of the wind. And then suddenly a curlew, disturbed by our approach, rose from the bracken and soared aloft into the slate-coloured sky, swiftly becoming a dark speck on the horizon. The departure of this solitary creature seemed to reaffirm the loneliness and enmity of the moor.

Below Black Tor’s imposing silhouette, we had to leave the wagonette and make the rest of our way on foot. Holmes tied the horses to a stunted tree and then, from the back of the carriage, took Van Helsing’s bag.

‘This will be our best route,’ he said, indicating a faint trace of a path through the bracken, leading up to the Tor. Holmes strode ahead of me up the rocky slope, his long legs clearing the rough terrain with ease.

Halfway to the summit, he waited for me to catch up with him, and for a few moments we stood together and gazed around us.

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