No good, I’m going stir-crazy. Have to get out. With nothing left to pull the car, I head off by
bike.The woods are perfect, a glittering white crust coating each filigree twig, like Narnia under White Witch’s spell. The big evergreens are shaped into the pointy triangles of a child’s drawing, branches dragged downward under the weight of snow.
Out of the woods, only a single set of footprints crosses the biggest field as a stretches over the horizon in a waste of white. So now at last I know for certain where the footpath runs. I follow the prints, Wenceslas-like.
‘Aha, a Dunlop Acifort Ribbed Size 11, if I am not mistaken, Watson. You will remember my monograph on the subject. A large man, no longer young, unused to exercise, right-handed, whose wife has very recently been murdered’
‘Remarkable, Holmes. You deduce his size and health from the depth and spacing of the footprints, of course. But right-handed?’
‘You will observe a pattern of dashes and dots to the right of the footprints, Watson. They do not appear initially, but as he tires he lowers his walking stick and uses it for support. Either that, or he has suddenly been joined by a friend on a pogo stick.’
‘And the murdered wife?’
‘Simplicity itself, Watson. We’ve just observed him murdering her’
There are other prints. Foxes and rabbits, playing life-and-death tag across the landscape. And less readily identifiable spoor.
‘My God Holmes, but surely these are the tracks some gigantic sheep!’
‘More probably a Woozle and two, as it were, Wizzles, walking in close formation, Watson. Calm yourself - the Ram of the Baskervilles remains the stuff of legend.’
There’s no sign of the animals who normally graze here. Perhaps they've been taken into the adjoining Hall, now a management college. That should up the overall IQ a bit.
Later, I find them. The sheep have been herded into a single field, where they are picking over a heap of mangle-wurzels and complaining about the catering. The cattle are penned behind a barn which is stacked solid to the high roof, Rachel Whiteread style, with rich golden hay. Must feel like living next to a sweet shop or a gingerbread house.
This reminds me. I’ve forgotten to buy supplies. But I have a tin of anchovies and a freezerful of raspberries at home still. I too shall feast tonight.
‘Aha, a Dunlop Acifort Ribbed Size 11, if I am not mistaken, Watson. You will remember my monograph on the subject. A large man, no longer young, unused to exercise, right-handed, whose wife has very recently been murdered’
‘Remarkable, Holmes. You deduce his size and health from the depth and spacing of the footprints, of course. But right-handed?’
‘You will observe a pattern of dashes and dots to the right of the footprints, Watson. They do not appear initially, but as he tires he lowers his walking stick and uses it for support. Either that, or he has suddenly been joined by a friend on a pogo stick.’
‘And the murdered wife?’
‘Simplicity itself, Watson. We’ve just observed him murdering her’
There are other prints. Foxes and rabbits, playing life-and-death tag across the landscape. And less readily identifiable spoor.
‘My God Holmes, but surely these are the tracks some gigantic sheep!’
‘More probably a Woozle and two, as it were, Wizzles, walking in close formation, Watson. Calm yourself - the Ram of the Baskervilles remains the stuff of legend.’
There’s no sign of the animals who normally graze here. Perhaps they've been taken into the adjoining Hall, now a management college. That should up the overall IQ a bit.
Later, I find them. The sheep have been herded into a single field, where they are picking over a heap of mangle-wurzels and complaining about the catering. The cattle are penned behind a barn which is stacked solid to the high roof, Rachel Whiteread style, with rich golden hay. Must feel like living next to a sweet shop or a gingerbread house.
This reminds me. I’ve forgotten to buy supplies. But I have a tin of anchovies and a freezerful of raspberries at home still. I too shall feast tonight.
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