"'Ere tha'art." Raynolds waved me through the next door on the left. "I shall tell Mr. 'Olmes where it is, as well, should I see 'im."
Habit confirmed a lock on the other side even as I glanced back. "Thank you, but don't worry too much about finding Holmes. His ability to follow a nonexistent trail gets irritating sometimes. He'll rush past soon enough."
Maybe. That depended on whether he decided he wanted my help, but Raynolds' crooked smile met my sarcasm before he tipped his cap and hurried toward the stairs. I turned to inspect our new rooms.
Of roughly the same size as our other quarters, a comfortable sitting room joined two bedrooms. A large sofa and two armchairs surrounded the sitting room's hearth, a small table in one corner served as a place to leave the incidentals everyone accumulated, and an empty desk relied on a wide window to see. Sir Walter—or Raynolds, perhaps—had assigned us rooms on the front of the house this time.
Not that it mattered. No intruder would climb sheer brick when a tunnel to the main level would better avoid capture. The chest against the wall held extra blankets. A washroom hid in a corner cutout of the sitting room. Tapestries lined every wall in both bedrooms, but a thorough check found no hint of another passageway. I would ask Holmes to check later.
Until then, I needed to find something to do while also remaining easy to find. Had I remembered to pack a novel?
Of course not. I had been far too focused on not making Holmes and Sir Walter wait on me to grab a book on our way out the door. When another slow scan of the room found nothing to hold my attention, I finally retrieved my cane and limped down the hall. Thick rugs held deep prints all the way to the elaborate door Raynolds had shown me on our way past.
"I thought tha might come back 'ere." Raynolds' amused grin peeked around a taller bookshelf, a duster in one hand though he had skipped the apron Nara had tried to force on him. "Fiction's just there, but Sir Walter's uncle collected a fair amount o' local doin's in th' back corner. Ye might find somethin' worth seein'."
I had not considered that. A quiet "thank you" sent me to the corner he indicated. Perhaps I could find something about Thrombak Manor.
Town history. A scrapbook of random news. History of the local train routes. A family lineage.
For three surnames. One of the Stuarts had apparently raised only daughters, but I replaced it in favor of the stonemason's notes on building a manor. Holmes might want that, and I would find the short hardback on local myths and legends interesting. Would Holmes want a history of York?
Too far away, as was the slightly smaller town where we had left the train. The closer settlements evidently did not have a historical record yet.
Or Sir Walter simply did not have a copy. Whatever the case, several more seconds set aside a "Weird History" of England—I would enjoy that one, even if Holmes did not—before wandering back toward where Raynolds still cleaned.
"Would Sir Walter care if I took these back to our rooms?"
"Not a bit." A glance skimmed the titles. "Keep th' legends in th' manor, though. 'Tis an old one, an' 'e'd be fair moithered if owt 'appened t'it."
Sir Walter would be…moithered? I had not heard that word before, and friendly advice became silent apology at my confusion.
"Irritated," he rephrased, clearly working to soften his accent. "Tha canna get a new copy o' that one."
Ah. "It won't go further than our rooms," I promised easily.
"Tha'art good, then."
A book tried to fall from its shelf to catch his attention, and I took the opportunity to slip through the door. Less than five minutes saw me comfortably reclining on the sofa, the stonemason's book of notes in hand. Of the three books I had borrowed, that seemed most likely to have useful information. Did anything reference the hidden passages or Thrombak Manor?
Well over a hundred pages detailed load-bearing walls, construction layouts, and the best way to ensure a solid foundation. One chapter included various window-making techniques—from narrow archer slits all the way to decorative picture windows. Another detailed the importance of roof architecture to ease the heat in summer. Several interesting pages wandered slightly into the best room layouts, but while multiple handwritten notes announced the book's age, I found no direct reference to any manor, much less the one that had called Holmes to Yorkshire. I eventually set it aside and opened the book on local myths and legends. Something here might become useful later.
Maybe. It had happened before, but this case had not yet referenced any folklore.
A prophetess named Mother Shipton had managed to accurately "predict" several true events—usually with such vague language as to apply to anything. Holmes would have scoffed at such a tale.
Medieval residents near Slingsby had contended with a dragon targeting them as prey. Villagers had detoured the road a full mile around its lair until some brave knight killed it at the cost of his own life. The legend ended with a description of a knight's headstone in the nearby church's graveyard, as well as a seventeenth century account of a statue matching the story. That one could be real, depending on how they defined "dragon."
The Wold Newton Triangle carried every fantastical tale from werewolves to ley lines, though the accounts of living dead tried to churn my stomach. What true event had contributed to that particular legend?
I rather doubted I wanted to find out. Harry had proven himself far too skilled at ghost stories for me to enjoy tales of the living dead. I finally skipped the last half.
"The Gypsey Race river" filled the next title page. Also known as "The Waters of Woe," the Gypsey Race evidently only flooded the winter before some great calamity—such as the English Civil War and both Black Death plagues. Several locals kept a close watch on the intermittent stream, ready to sound the alarm should the river flood again.
My grin widened the more I read. Every "calamity" listed had occurred generations ago. No one alive would remember whether the stream had "predicted" a problem or not, nor did this author appear to recall the influenza pandemic that had ravaged the world just two years before the book's publication. Only overly superstitious locals would place any faith in a natural "prophet" that missed such a world-wide problem. No other pandemic had spanned the world rather than confining itself to a large region, and between treating patients and trying to convince Holmes to quit avoiding me, I had often felt as if I never stepped through my own front door. That had been a long winter.
Time had rendered it but a distant memory now, however. I skimmed the final few paragraphs—mostly speculation on what else The Waters of Woe might predict in the coming years—before flipping the page.
Fire burst from its open maw, eyes glowing with the same flickering flames that outlined its muzzle and hackles. Horror froze me in place, but the monster bounded through the fog, murderous intent following our friend.
No. Conscious effort shoved the image aside. No, that had been years ago. The startling sketch merely announced the inspiration for the Baskerville legend. That frightful creature leered at me from ink and paper, just as hellish as it had been that night on the moor.
A moor very much like the one on which we currently resided. When another shiver tried to thread its way down my spine, I skipped the Gytrash's legend as well. Nightmares of that horrendous case would only interfere with finding Lord Thrombak.
"The Flooding of Semerwater. One cold, stormy night, a lone beggar man wandered the small town on the banks of Semerwater, seeking hospitality. House after house turned him away until he reached a small, ramshackle cottage on the edge of town. There, an elderly couple only a few years older than him finally displayed compassion. Sharing their own meager meal, they offered him a roof for the night, but come the next sunrise, their mysterious guest had vanished, and the rest of the town lay hidden beneath a deep lake. Several long minutes stared in awe and surprise at the sudden change, for the beggar they had sheltered had not been a beggar at all, but angel, passing through on the Lord's work. So be not forgetful to entertain strangers, my friend. Strangers do not always remain so, and some prove themselves far more than simply a traveler passing through. You just might entertain an angel unawares."
Much better. Local storytellers had probably adapted that one from the similar tale in Greek myth, but I still preferred it over the one I had encountered far too personally. I reread the account three times—until I could picture the lake's rippling waters—before focusing on the final story.
"Many years ago, centuries before humans had migrated to these shores, giants roamed the land. Upwards of thirty feet tall—"
"Ha!"
A familiar voice distracted me from the page. Rapid footsteps nearly skidded to a stop on the other side of the door, then Holmes barreled into the room, pleasure at finding me trying to hide beneath faint concern.
"Do you plan to eat supper?"
Eat…supper? I raised an eyebrow but dug for my pocket watch. The persistent cloud light prevented an accurate judge of time, but I had thought it only a couple of hours after noon. Had the second half of the day slipped away already?
It had. My watch read ten minutes past Sir Walter's mentioned suppertime. Searching that stonemason book had taken longer than I had realized.
"I lost track of time," I replied as relief announced his deduction. "You might enjoy pieces of that book on stonemasonry, but I found nothing specific to this case."
His darting glance noted the cover even as he matched my pace toward the door. "What does it discuss?"
"The general building process for every manor in the region." A half-shrug joined the short reply, most of my attention on locking the door behind us. "One chapter explores solid foundations," I added when I noted the interest in his gaze. "Another, how to layer the stones to support the floors above. I had hoped for something referencing passageways and escape routes, but those must have been at the whim of either the owner or the individual builders. Even the notes in the margins neglected to mention it."
"Did it have anything about how to support the roof?"
Why would he care about that? "The author devoted an entire chapter to a roof architecture that eased the heat in the summer without freezing the house in the winter."
"Excellent. I should have thought to check the library for myself."
For himself? A slightly too large stride had prevented me from seeing his face, but the simple praise prompted such shock that I nearly halted mid step. Glancing up at him found earnest pleasure mixed with renewed concern.
"Sir Walter intimated that he did not own many useful reference books," he continued rather than commenting, "and I have no need for sensational romance. Did you find anything else among the shelves?"
"Just a couple of unusual history books." A nod thanked him for opening the door. "One contains a collection of the local folklore, including a tale that might be the inspiration for the Baskerville legend."
"Interesting. The description matches?"
"Down to the glowing fangs," I confirmed, once more suppressing a shiver. That case had rattled both of us. "I found a flooding lake far more interesting."
As he would have expected, though the flicker of confusion suggested he would read the account for himself later. We reached the dining room before he could voice the question still bothering him.
"There you are, Doctor!" Sir Walter waved me to the nearest seat. "Raynolds just shared your appraisal of Mr. Holmes' tracking skills. I am glad to see you were not exaggerating."
"About his ability to find someone or my opinion of that ability?"
"Th' ability, of course," he replied, hearty laughter noting Holmes go from debating an uncomfortable topic to scowling at whatever he believed I had said. "Any book you found in that old library would well explain the opinion. Were you still reading?"
"I was." Filling a plate ignored Holmes' silent query. "Someone mixed your folklore with the history books. Should probably fix that."
"I see nowt as needs fixin'." A moment's hesitation acknowledged the slip and ensured I had understood before he added, "The local myths are 'istory, too, in their way."
"So you believe an angel cursed Semerwater to cover that town?"
"No more'n I believe a hellhound roams th' moor," he shot back, completely missing my flinch and Holmes' frown. "Art interestin' stories, is all. Did tha find a favorite?"
A bite let me consider the question. "Probably Semerwater. I thought the similarities with the Greek myth amusing."
"Aye, I noticed that as well, though the tale o' the Gypsey Race caught my eye. I wonder if anyone ever told that author about the influenza pandemic a couple years before they published?"
"It predicted that, too."
Nara's comment interrupted my smirking retort, and both of us turned to stare at her. I had nearly forgotten everyone else in the room.
"The author never mentioned the pandemic."
"Probably because they finished writin' th' book 'fore it started," she told me, "but my holiday finished near there. The Gypsey Race River flooded that winter. Filled Burton Fleming wi' near two foot o' water."
Well, then. That did not change my opinion of a prophetic body of water, but it did remove the largest barrier to the tale being true.
Not that I had the chance to say as much. Raynolds' comment set the conversation on a debate as to whether the locals took a foolish risk swimming near where the water dove back underground, and I settled into my chair to listen. If I could not spend the afternoon helping with Holmes' case, at least I did not lack for company.
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