Elizabeth MacPherson 06 - Missing Susan by Sharyn McCrumb

Author:Sharyn McCrumb
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: Random House
Published: 2010-10-06T07:00:00+00:00

“There is but one step from the grotesque to the horrible.”

—ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE

CHAPTER 9

DARTMOOR

THE SUNDAY AFTERNOON drive to the next destination was a short one: seventeen miles to the edge of the Dartmoor National Park, to the Manor House Hotel, a beautiful Jacobean-style mansion nestled among the moors. Bernard maneuvered the coach up the narrow access road, past the golf course, and up to the massive stone arch that marked the entrance to the Manor House parking area. From the vantage point of a full-sized tour bus, the archway looked dangerously low and disastrously solid.

“You’ll never make it,” said Susan Cohen, surveying the obstacle from her usual seat behind the driver. “You’d have to be stupid to even try.”

Charles Warren got up and signaled for Bernard to open the coach door. He walked through the arch and, with a succession of nods and hand signals, he guided the coach through the archway with inches to spare. When he had parked in the paved lot on the side bordering the golf course, Bernard modestly acknowledged the cheers of the passengers and then climbed down to unload the suitcases.

The tour members stood in the parking lot and surveyed their new lodgings, the first of the accommodations that was not newly constructed. This one was imposing and ancient-looking, but a certain reticence on the part of the hotel literature led Rowan to suspect (aloud) that it was actually constructed in the late nineteenth century by a nouveau riche industrialist with aristocratic delusions. The Manor House was a sprawling beige stone building, or series of buildings, about the length of a city block, with formal archways, pitched roofs, and multiple chimneys, looking very much like the country estate it must have been once. The enormous mansion was set down in an expanse of well-tended lawn, surrounded by acres of wood and park land, some of which was now a golf course.

“This looks familiar,” said Maud Marsh, twisting a lock of silver hair. “I’m sure I’ve seen this place somewhere.”

“I expect you have,” said Rowan Rover. “It was the setting for the 1939 version of The Hound of the Baskervilles with Basil Rathbone.”

The others gathered around. “Oh, is this Sherlock Holmes country?” asked Susan.

“The Hound of the Baskervilles is set in this area,” Rowan replied. “Many of the place names mentioned in Conan Doyle’s story are variations of actual places nearby: Hound Tor and Black Tor. Cleft Tor can only be Cleft Rock. If you know the area well, it is possible to pinpoint the locations in the story.” He paused for two beats, and then said, as if the thought had just occurred to him, “Would you like to go for a walk on the moors? It’s an unseasonably warm day for September. Not a cloud in the sky.” He glanced at Elizabeth MacPherson. “No shops open.”

Everyone assured him that they would love to go for a walk, and they agreed to meet on the south terrace of the manor in twenty minutes.

Rowan closed

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