Sherlock Holmes: Before Baker Street by David Marcum (books to read to be successful TXT) 📗

the estate. He lives in London now, although his mother remained. She moved to the Dower House.’

“On cue, the home of Mrs. Balfour appeared on our right as we rattled through the gates. It was a grey stone building with a steep pitched roof and elaborate chimneys, rather redolent of a child’s dollhouse. Bare wisteria curled around the porch, where a small black dog was sniffing. It looked up at our approach and proceeded to yap and prance behind the fence in a spirited show of defiance.

“On the whole, I should have preferred to take my chances with the dog, for my first sight of Deverill Grange was less than encouraging. Part-Tudor, part-Jacobean, part-Georgian, and part-ruin, the varying styles clashed for dominance so that the effect was something less than harmonious. With its sagging eaves and cracked brickwork, it had seen neglect in this century, and without intervention would surely slide further into dilapidation. Zeal hastened to say repairs were already under way. Certainly they could not come soon enough.

“By contrast, the farm buildings that lay within sight of the house had been recently refurbished. The series of long, low buildings which housed Zeal’s pigs appeared sturdier than the homes we had passed. A chorus of grunts and squeals greeted us, along with the sight of several rumps and curly tails moving about in their outside pens.

“I was spared closer inspection that night, for we hastened to what passed for the manor house. The inside of Deverill Grange did not disappoint my low expectations. It appeared to have sprung from the pages of a Gothic novel, with dark wood panelling and high, smoke-blackened ceilings. Gas lighting had been anathema to previous owners, so that we were obliged to eat our meal by candlelight. What it was, I cannot say, for the gloom concealed the finer details of what I took to be overcooked meat and watery vegetables from my sight.

“I thought at least to pass a restful night, for the mattress was soft. Oliver Cromwell was said to have slept in the same bed, and if so, he must have been wearing his armour at the time, for the mattress sagged noticeably in the centre. About midnight, it began to rain heavily and a series of droplets began to drum on my head. I spent the rest of the night in the armchair and awoke at dawn feeling stiff and in less than good humour.

“The next morning, Zeal insisted that I accompany him on his daily inspection. Under different circumstances, I should have refused. However, Zeal said his foreman, John Merryweather, was a local man and I was interested to hear another opinion about the devilment in the village.

“We found him smoking a clay pipe outside the sty of a vocal boar of extraordinary size. I gathered the animal was a favourite of Zeal’s, for he reached over the wall to pat its hide. As he did, so the pig raised its head and tried to bite the offending hand. Zeal promptly withdrew.

“‘How is King Charles this morning?’ he asked.

“‘Grumbling, as usual,’ said the foreman. ‘He misses his ladies.’

“A hoary-headed, wizened man of advanced years, Merryweather had the leathery cheeks of one accustomed to spending hours outdoors. He appeared indifferent to all save his pigs, yet the hooded grey eyes that darted in my direction spoke of a keenness of intellect that missed little.

“‘You’re this London sort come to teach us the error of our ways, I’ll wager,’ he remarked, after Zeal had introduced us.

“‘Lord Zeal informs me there have been strange happenings in the village,’ I said.

“Merryweather sucked thoughtfully on his pipe. ‘Depends what you mean by strange.’

“‘I told Mr. Holmes about Mrs. Brown’s mare,’ said Zeal.

“‘T’were as old as Methuselah, that horse. It would’ve happened sooner or later.’

“‘What about the apple tree, Merryweather, where Billy Maynard had his accident?’

“The foreman shrugged. ‘If you climb enough trees, you have to expect to fall out of one every now and then.’

“I could not fault his logic. ‘What else?’

“‘A couple of dead birds in the church porch. Birds die. There’s a lot roosting there this time of year.’

“‘What about the vicar?’ said Zeal. ‘Even you’ve said how odd he was behaving, Merryweather.’

“‘Hard to tell with him,’ he replied gruffly. ‘He weren’t right in the head when he arrived here. Now he’s saying he’s hearing things and seeing Satan in his graveyard and coloured lights in his vestry.’

“‘You don’t believe in his talk of devils, then?’ I asked.

“He turned to me, his expression impassive. ‘I believe in many things, Mr. Holmes. I’ve seen things that would turn your hair to white overnight. But me and the vicar, we don’t see eye to eye over the question of devils. The Devil takes many forms, my old Ma used to say, and most of them look like you and me.’

“He straightened his back, slightly grimacing as he did so. ‘Norton Deverill has a devil all right, but you won’t find him with horns and a pitchfork. Good morning to you, sirs.’

“‘Interesting fellow,’ I observed to Zeal when he had departed.

“‘He has his faults, but he knows his pigs.’

“‘And his devils, by all accounts. I think I shall take a walk into the village, Zeal. Mr. Merryweather believes a human agency is behind your troubles and I agree with him. In which case, the solution to your mystery will not be long in coming.’

“Zeal looked relieved. ‘The sooner the better, to end these ridiculous rumours. By the by, I have asked Lady Bulmer and her daughter to join us for dinner tonight. I hope you don’t mind. As it’s Christmas Eve, it seemed the ideal opportunity for you to meet her.’

“I was not convinced this gathering was entirely for my benefit, but I let it pass. The offer was a good one, and would save me