The Formula for Murder (34 page)

That brings chuckles from the man and his companions.

“Isn’t that the truth,” another man says. “But we’ve heard sightings of the black beast and a sheep’s been killed.”

“Some say it’s a wild dog,” a third companion pipes in, “but others claim what they’ve seen is
too
big to be an ordinary dog.”

“How close have they gotten to what they’ve seen?” Wells asks the men.

“Far enough away to still be alive,” brings a laugh all around.

We are no more than a couple hours or so from the Okehampton area, so I ask, “Could it be Lady Howard that’s being spotted?”

“No,” comes from all of them along with shaking of their heads.

“Her ladyship, or at least her ghost, generally stays nearby the castle,” one of the locals says. “Besides, Lady Howard is a collector of souls for the devil, she’s no sheep killer.”

“Can you tell us anything about the castle?” Wells asks them.

The men shake their heads as one and say, “It’s too far away.”

The answer doesn’t surprise me. It is something we have run into all along—despite the closeness of these men to Okehampton, none of them have been to the castle. It’s part of the narrow, provincial nature of rural England—in America a hundred miles is not a great distance and there are places where you’d find little in between. A hundred miles in England covers thousands of years of history and while the language is all called English, people not only speak differently than those dozens of miles away, but often think of themselves as different.

“Wells,” I whisper in his ear, “I’m weary…”

“Do you mind going up by yourself? I’d like to go over the map with the men.”

“Of course…” I get up. “Gentlemen, I shall say good night. It’s been a pleasure talking with you.”

I head for the cottage in back while Wells stays behind.

Next to a work shack I spot a woodpile. Perfect. I’m excited. My mother always said little things thrill me. What thrills me right now is the thought that I’ll get enough extra wood to keep our fireplace going hopefully throughout the night. When I stoop down to grab some logs I hear footsteps.

Thinking it is Wells, I turn around to tell him what I’m doing.

Instead, a dark beastly figure is coming at me.

“
Aughhhhh!
” escapes my mouth and I grab a piece of wood, ready to strike the great furred monster.

58

“Good lord, Nellie-girl, that scream will wake up
all
the ghosts for miles.”

I don’t swoon out, but I drop the wood and collapse against Oscar’s black fur coat.

“We’ve come to storm the castle with you,” Oscar proudly announces.

And he didn’t just bring himself, but his friend, Dr. Conan Doyle.

Oscar’s fur coat answers the rumors about a black beast that is roaming the moors—his coat is big enough to wrap around me, head to toe, at least twice.

Knowing Oscar loves being the center of attention, as we make our way to the pub, I tell him the rumor about a big beast roaming the countryside.

“Oh my!” Oscar unconsciously covers his teeth as he giggles. I can see the mischievous person in him coming out.

Not to my disappointment he insists on walking into the inn first with Doyle and I in tow.

Oscar creates the sort of sensation only Oscar’s mere presence can ignite.

Surrounded by the locals, Wells, our two new arrivals, and I sit at a table with a big platter of beef, another of the ever-present mutton, plus bowls of potatoes, vegetables, and bread. Oscar is in heaven. The whole place is glued to his every word.

“As we were making our way through the moors I kept thinking about life and how it is a terrible thing for a man to suddenly realize that all his life he has been speaking nothing but the truth,” he says in a melodious voice.

The whole place goes up in laughter and for the first time in a long while my spirits are up because as we close in on the enemy—I hope—we are now twice as many.

However, it does occur to me that the only weapons the four of us have against these cold-blooded killers are our words and our brains, but I’m certain empires have been conquered with no more—though I can’t think of any at the moment.

“I became concerned after that boorish man showed up at my door,” Dr. Doyle explains after we got Oscar to sit down and stop talking, which quickly dispersed the crowd. “I assumed you had already started across the moors before he showed up, but I went ahead and tried several of the inns in the area to find the two of you, but came up blank.”

“We were at an inn near Ashburton,” Wells says.

“I discovered that the next morning when my housekeeper arrived bursting with the singular news that a murder had been committed with an ice pick. A check with the police revealed that it was in fact that Archer fellow.”

“Do they believe we did it?” I’m almost afraid to ask.

“They found out from the innkeeper that the two of you had left in quite a hurry just before the discovery of the body. And since they had already been on the lookout for an American woman and British gent who had left a previous location on the heels of a similar crime, yes, let me assure you that the police are most interested in talking to you. However, I have related to them much of what you told me and I believe their interest in you will be focused more on your failure to stay and inform them of what you know.”

“My fault entirely,” I confess, “because to delay is to fail and return to America without my friend’s murder being solved.”

“I’m certain that a good result in their investigation from information supplied by you will greatly temper their attitude toward you. Naturally, I told them about the cowboy boots and the probable connection to the Whitechapel gang. The innkeeper did in fact notice a man with very narrow-toed boots but unfortunately remembered more about the footwear than the man’s face. The police are seeking patrons who were in the pub that night to see if anyone else saw the killer.”

“A wire from Conan after you left his house that said you were knee-deep in some very serious difficulties was my cue to enter stage left,” Oscar says, with all the modesty of a prince of the blood.

“As it happens,” he goes on, “I found myself under some stress arising from a romantic issue in London as the Marquis of Queensbury, a rather socially inept and disagreeable chap, became rather incensed over the attention I was paying to one of his offspring.”

Wells has a puzzled look. “I thought the marquis had three sons.”

I notice Dr. Doyle doesn’t bat an eye.

Oscar waves away the triviality. “Whatever. I immediately left London for Buckfastleigh to offer my sword in the battle to come.”

“Did you by chance bring the sword?” Wells inquires. “For we could certainly use one.”

“Guns and blades are for barbarians. My weapons are the righteousness of my cause and the power of my spirit.”

If someone could be talked to death, Oscar would be a prime suspect. But I have doubts as to its effectiveness against an ice pick.

“We weren’t completely certain that you knew about the killing near Ashburton,” Dr. Doyle intercedes, “though your hasty departure had convinced the local constable that you were indeed involved. This second murder, however, threw out any possibility that the Linleigh-on-the-moor death was not connected to your investigation. With Oscar arriving on the heels of news of Archer’s grisly death, we hired a buggy and set out immediately to find you.”

“I must hope, my dear Nellie,” Oscar says, “that the next time I set out to rescue you, it will be in a coach with a more comfortable seat than one of these carts they call a buggy in Dartmoor.”

Amen to that.

The conversation shifts to the subject of how we can go about finding Lacroix’s laboratory. Dr. Doyle had devised an investigatory approach as he and Oscar set out to find us.

“I don’t believe Lacroix’s laboratory is at Okehampton Castle itself,” Dr. Doyle tells us. “I suspect it is in the vicinity, but I don’t think we’ll find it at the castle despite the fact that it’s abandoned and generally avoided because of its reputation. However, it’s only locals who shy away from the place. In the summer an occasional hiker would venture by, so the risk of exposure would be high.”

“The castle, the magic mud bog, and the laboratory are all in the same vicinity,” I inject, “but that could cover a lot of territory. Is there anything about Weekes that would give us a clue as to where the laboratory might be located? He had gone to the area solely to do the painting and probably wasn’t that familiar with the terrain himself. Even though we were told he spent most of his time outside, he didn’t strike me as someone who would hike far.”

“I agree,” Wells says. “He seemed like a man who limited his physical activities. I suspect he headed each day for one of those natural granite caves that form … or maybe he visited a farmer’s widow, but whatever he did, he wouldn’t spend the day on his feet.”

“What would you say his excursion on foot to be?” Dr. Doyle asks. “An hour … two hours?”

“Two hours at the most,” Wells answers.

“At the very most,” I add. “I suspect more like an hour.”

“Then let’s split the difference and make it an hour and a half at best. Now a person normally walks perhaps three or four miles per hour on a flat surface. So let’s assume that because of the roughness of the terrain, Weekes would have walked at best about two miles per hour. An hour and a half walk would take him three miles.”

“So the bog is probably within three miles of the castle,” I exclaim.

“But six miles to us,” Wells says, and Dr. Doyle nods in agreement. “Weekes could have set out in any direction. To cover all of them, we’d have to draw a circle with a radius of three miles, which would leave us with a diameter of six miles to cover.”

I get the idea even if I don’t understand the terminology. “Once we find the castle, the bog would be three miles from it in any direction.”

“Or the laboratory,” Oscar states. “He might have started from either location.”

It never occurred to me that Weekes could have been at the laboratory. But it is not out of the question. Lacroix may have been more tolerant of having a discreet visitor at his laboratory because the painting was done before Lady Winsworth died.

“This, of course, assumes our assumptions about Weekes’s energy level are correct. And while covering a three-mile radius from the castle does not seem a daunting task, it won’t be an easy one, either. The castle is in an area that has rough terrain and is heavily forested, not to mention the threat of bogs. It makes a search time consuming.”

“We need a hot air balloon.”

There is a stunned silence as the three men stare at me.

Finally, Oscar explodes with a great laugh. “Nellie-girl, the gods on Olympus could not have come up with a better idea.”

“Unfortunately, I don’t believe we’ll find aeronauts and a fleet of balloons at Okehampton,” Dr. Doyle states grimly.

“It’s not impossible.” Wells looks at us somewhat excited. “I have an interest in aeronautics because I believe that someday man will conquer the sky with more efficient airships than what we have constructed to date. I read recently that since there are no large cities in the region, it’s attracted some balloon enthusiasts.”

“Wait.” Dr. Doyle sits up. “I have a friend in Okehampton who I attended medical studies with. If there is such activity there, he’ll know about it.”

Pleased with their revelation, Dr. Doyle leans back in his chair and lights his pipe while Oscar offers Wells one of his cigars.

“Gentlemen, if you’ll excuse me, I shall leave you to your brandy and cigars. I am going to step out onto the porch for some fresh air.”

Oscar and Dr. Doyle nod their heads in approval and Wells courteously rises to go with me.

I motion for him to sit back down. “I’ll be fine. It’s enclosed and others are about.”

59

The porch has a chilly edge to it despite the windows, but the air is refreshing and the oxygen necessary for my brain to continue functioning.

A young couple are down at the other end of the deck. They are watching the stars and sneaking kisses and an occasional bit of petting comes from the young man’s roaming hands.

They catch me watching and I quickly turn away. I don’t want to spoil their fun. From the corner of my eye I see them coming toward me to leave and I turn around to address them.

“Please, don’t leave, I’m going back in.”

“It’s no problem. We’re going in anyway,” the young man says. “It’s too cold out here.”

He seems embarrassed that I saw them necking, but the young girl is blushing and excited. “We’re newlyweds,” she giggles, then looks lovingly at him.

“Congratulations! I wish you the best.”

“Thank you,” is said in unison as they leave.

I’m a little sad as I watch them leave, not for them, but because I am feeling sorry for myself. Truth be told, I’m envious of their happiness. I can’t help but wonder if I will ever find that blissful happiness they are sharing right now.

Right now I can’t even find contentment with my job. I’ve tried, but I can’t seem to get settled after my return from dashing around the world. My resentment of Pulitzer for not being fair with me is a thorn in my claw. He tried to keep me from going and wanted to send a man instead, but because of my determination he let me go and rang the cash register for his papers as I sent circulations soaring. Yet he still hasn’t acknowledged it with a “thank you” in person.

Because of a contract to write mystery novels and endorse certain products I can risk leaving my reporting job, but I will miss it. It’s in my blood. If only I could do everything I want to do.

I take a deep breath and leave the porch. I’m tired of thinking. Soon, I presume, Wells will be returning to our cottage and I’d like to freshen up beforehand.

I am certain Oscar will have a clever aside for me when he discovers that Wells and I have become lovers. Trying to deceive Oscar will be impossible—if there is any mortal who knows more about love than those gods of Olympus he cited earlier, it is he. Having been married, fathered children, carried on affairs with men, and associated with lesbians, I am certain there is little about love—or lovemaking—that Oscar couldn’t write a book about.