The Formula for Murder (23 page)

At the stable, I soon discover the difference between a carriage cab and a pony cart is
comfort.
The buggy has two tall, thin wheels, but no springs, so we will feel every rock and rut on the road. The seat is an unpadded board and backboard, which means after a few miles I will be very sore. And the pony is a runt, much smaller than what we would call a pony back home, though I wouldn’t call him that because he’s very cute and looks sensitive. The buggy wheels are taller than the little critter.

I pull Wells out of the pony’s hearing. “We can’t have the poor little guy pull us. That would be cruel.”

“Don’t let his size fool you. It’s a Dartmoor pony. They are strong and have stamina. And this one is lucky to be pulling a cart under sun and stars. Cruel is what happens to his fellow ponies. These small ponies have been used in tin mining and at the granite quarries here in Dartmoor since before the Romans. Unfortunately, because of their small size, they’re also used in underground mines to haul ore carts. Once they’re down there, they never see the sun again and are even buried in the mine to avoid the expense of bringing them out.”

“That’s horrible! They should have the mine owners pulling the carts and leaving them down there.”

“The cart has to be back tonight,” the stableman tells us. “Needed for milk delivery at five in the morning.” He removes two big tin milk pails from the storage rack behind the seat and then gives us a narrow look. “You’re not going to make it out and back before dark. I’m going to need an extra deposit to cover a broken wheel or pony leg.”

“I’d pull the cart myself before I’d let the pony break a leg,” I tell him.

Off we go, but not at a speed that would impress the owners of Kentucky Derby runners. And true to my previous experiences with buggies that lack springs, I feel every bump on the road.

“After hearing so many stories about the eerie moors, bogs that swallow people, and black beasts that run them to the ground and rip out their throats,” I confess to Wells between bumps that, “I do wish we’ll be able to get to the village in decent time, talk to the artist, and return to Exeter before dark.”

“Might not be a problem with this guy taking us,” he assures me, pointing out how effortlessly the pony appears to be pulling the buggy on the cobblestone street. He grins. “But we’ll have to see how bad the goat path is.”

DARTMOOR PONIES

“Have you visited Dartmoor often?”

“This will be the first time. But I have studied the geology of the area as part of my teacher’s training.”

Uh huh. Book learning.

39

The road changes from cobblestone paved, to just paved, then packed dirt, and finally to “paved” with boulders and ruts.

As we trudge along at a slow but steady pace, the hours pass and we leave behind all the remnants of mankind’s footprint except for the narrow path. The landscape transforms from city, to rural, and finally to wilderness.

Now I can understand why moorlands are not just described simply as “wilderness” as the mountains, forests, and deserts of my own country are, but seem to have their own category. With the moors there are also shapes and images that are strange to my eye—mysterious and preternatural, even fear evoking.

Craggy, wild-shaped tors, with winding, tumbling rivulets, and green fields that Wells, from his book knowledge, assures me are not the moss-covered bogs, the quaking-earth variety that suck you down, never to be found again.

No wonder this scarcely populated land off the beaten track has generated so many tales of ghosts and ghouls that are stranger than fiction.

My imagination starts to go wild and I can imagine a dinosaur peeking its head out from one of the granite mounds or Druid priests conducting a sacrifice on a moonless night within the confines of a stone circle.

Despite his estimate that we might be able to conduct our business at the village and return to the city before nightfall, it is obvious to me that we will be lucky to reach the village while the sun still shines.

“Anything out there dangerous? Other than the bogs and ghosts you’ve read about in a textbook?” Petty, but I can’t resist the jab.

He gives the landscape a look, as if he’s scanning it. “I don’t know … might be a viper or two.”

“Poisonous?”

“Yes, but the snakes tend to mind their own business unless someone provokes them.”

“Wonderful. My experience with snakes is that they tend to feel provoked when you accidentally step on them.”

A light mist is falling and haze is gathering in the distance, blurring the landscape, making it even eerier.

“We should have waited and set out at the crack of dawn,” I complain.

“Quite. My fault. For not relying upon my instincts and letting you make the decision.”

“I made the decision because I have more experience than you have.”

“Been to Dartmoor often?” he asks.

“Don’t be snide. I’ve been to the Wild West, Mr. Wells—and I’m sure your black beast offers little danger compared to dealing with boozed-up cowboys and miners shooting up a town and each other. Our snakes would make vipers run so fast, they’d shed their skins.”

This time I get a long, appraising look from him.

“Why are you staring at me?” I ask.

“I was thinking how different—pleasantly different—it is being in the hands of a woman instead of just in her arms.”

“Let me assure you that if a great black hound comes galloping at us, you will have to run very fast to be anywhere near my hands.” Ah, but again, vain as I am, I waddle in the compliment but don’t ignore the fact that he has made a reference to romance. “Do you spend much time in the arms of women?”

“Not as much as I’d like. Not having a title, money, or a handsome mug, I must reply upon a woman’s charitable disposition.”

We share a laugh at his self-debasement that is interrupted by one of our wheels rolling in and out of a large rut. I am so sore, I feel as if I’d been paddled on my seat.

Linleigh-on-the-moors is set in a flat area where a narrow river comes out of a rocky gorge and spreads out. Barns and small granary towers are visible outside the village as we top a hill and come down to the rural community. It is still daylight, but less than an hour of it is left.

Grazing sheep, a few ponies, and a few lonely farmhouses are the only signs of life we’ve seen much of the way, but as we come into town we see a large number of carts in the center of the town square and even a full-sized horse, almost all clustered around the alehouse.

“Probably market day,” Wells says. “Since the roads are rough or nonexistent and the terrain unruly, I’m sure the village gets visitors only when it’s absolutely necessary. Some of the Dartmoor villages are so isolated, they’ve developed dialects that are different than the king’s speech and almost impossible to understand even for Brits like me.”

Wonderful. If I had difficulty understanding the people in Exeter and he’s saying he’s going to have a hard time understanding the people in this rather isolated town, I’m in a pickle—as my mother would say.

The houses are built of stones gathered from the moors, with the cracks closed with mortar. They are gray, darkened by time, but appear strong enough to withstand any storm that Mother Nature sends roaring in from the sea. Most have a porch facing south and granite mullioned windows. A general store, an alehouse, and a small church—probably just a chapel because I see no residence for a minister—comprise the most prominent buildings in the village square.

“I think the general store will be our best place to find where Isaac Weekes lives.” Wells says.

“Fine. You can do all the talking.”

“Finally,” he says.

“In Linleigh,” I add.

I just smile and gladly get out of our cart.

“You’ll find him at the alehouse or he’ll be there soon,” the proprietor tells us.

“Steady customer,” Wells asks.

“Every day but Sunday and he’d be there on the Sabbath if the place was open. Old Isaac goes out with his painter’s kit and stays out in the fields the whole day, rain or shine, painting and doesn’t come back into town until the last bit of light is leaving and the alehouse has opened its door for business. He enjoys a pint or two before going home to face the dickens.”

“The dickens?” comes from me.

“That’s Isaac’s wife, a woman with a sharp tongue and a broom. She’s generous at using the hard end of that broom against man or beast or whoever else gets in her way. Old Isaac is just the opposite, living up to his biblical name as a man of laughter.”

“Is something special happening today?” I ask; so much for Wells doing the talking.

“Market day, but I do say it’s unusual to get so many strangers in town. Got a man on a full-size horse. Don’t see many of those around here. Next thing you know we’ll be getting the horse with the iron hoof.”

“The horse with the iron hoof is—”

“A steam locomotive.” I finish Wells’s attempt to explain to me as we leave the store. “That’s similar to the same name Indians use to describe a train out west. But small chance they’ll be seeing an Iron Horse in these parts during our lifetimes, unless they discover gold.”

The alehouse is dark with a black-beamed ceiling low enough for a man to reach up and touch, crowded with small tables and large people, noisy and smoky. The small amount of breathable air is saturated by the heavy perfume of stale malted beer.

Wells asks the barmaid about Isaac Weekes.

“Bellied up there.” She jerks her head in the direction of the short bar.

“Would you tell Weekes we’d like to buy him a drink?” I hand her a coin.

There is no room at the bar and no empty tables, but at the sight of hard money from out of towners, she quickly orders three men up from their table and has us take it. I tell her we are buying the men their next drink and I get grins of approval from them. A moment later, she’s back with the artist.

Weekes is a rather diminutive gentleman, pint-sized I’d say, probably not much taller than his wife’s broom. Slender and small boned, he has a thick mop of black hair, thick black eyebrows, gray eyes, and black eyelashes that any woman would envy. The wrinkles around his eyes form a delicate network, woven from gazing great distances for his paintings; ruddy cheeks hold the deeper laugh lines, while on brow and neck are the deep imprints of sun, snow, rain, frost, wind—nature’s markings.

He could use some of Dr. Lacroix’s magic mud; his age is hard for me to guess because I can’t tell if he is an old man with young features or a young man that appears older than his chronological age. My impression is between forty to sixty, but I could be off decades, especially since the storekeeper called him Old Isaac.

We introduce ourselves as lovers of the moorlands and interested in a painting; “Of one of the famous Dartmoor bogs,” I tell him, mentioning that our friend Dr. Lacroix referred us.

“Ah, good Dr. Lacroix, a gentleman, he is, and a fine one at that.”

He offers a toast to Lacroix, he and Wells with ale, me with apple cider. The artist does appear to be jolly, but I suspect some of it comes from what he drank before we got there.

The place is so crowded, we have to lean over the table to be heard and we are brushed by others standing close by as they move about.

After he gets another pint he salutes us with the mug, then takes a long swig and smacks his lips. “Yes, Dr. Lacroix is a fine gentleman. In fact, another friend referred by him been askin’ about his bog painting.”

I try to act nonchalant at the startling statement but I’m sure my face registered surprise. “Who asked? I mean, it may be a mutual friend.”

“Never got his name. Big man, from London, I’d say, though I never asked and he never offered to tell where he’s from.”

“New suit? New bowler hat?” I question.

“Might, yes, I’d say his clothes looked new, but then again, I don’t know much about the clothes worn in London. This gent a friend of yours?”

“Actually, no, he’s not. More of what you’d call a competitor. I have a confession to make. We’re newspaper reporters doing a story about Dr. Lacroix and the miracles he’s creating with his peat moss treatments.”

“He told me you’d be coming.”

“Who told you we were coming?” I glance at Wells, puzzled. He shrugs his shoulders.

“Dr. Lacroix. When he had me do the painting, he said I’d get visitors someday who would want to know where the bog is that fills his need. Said people would want to know in order to steal his secret. That’s why he came to me and didn’t hire a local artist to do the painting. He paid me well to keep my mouth shut. And I’m good at that, even after I’ve had a few.”

I always find it interesting to find out how far into his cups a man has to get before the “demon rum” loosens his tongue just enough for me to get any information I need from him.

“Have another, Mr. Weekes,” I say.

“Don’t mind if I do.”

Neither do I. I signal for another pint for him.

“You mention that there was a local artist. That was at…?”

The question remains hanging as the man reflects on something.