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tried to cover his lapse.  That is to say, Reverend Gould was telling me the
other evening how simply you and your husband live, down in Sussex.
 It s very true, I said, sounding ever-so-slightly regretful. It was only to
be expected that Ketteridge would want to prise any Sherlock Holmes gossip he
could out of Baring-Gould, but either Baring-Gould or Holmes himself had
neglected to mention that our unadorned manner of living had everything to do
with choice and nothing with necessity. I toyed for a moment with the idea of
making Ketteridge a cash offer on Baskerville Hall, then put it away.
Independent wealth did not go well with the picture Ketteridge had formed of
the Holmes household, and I decided that, for the present, I should leave the
picture undisturbed. Besides which, he might actually accept my offer, and
then where would I be?
 Tell me, Mrs Holmes, does your husband still investigate cases, or is he well
and truly retired?
Ah, I thought, Baring-Gould was not indiscreet enough to tell him everything.
 Very occasionally, when something interests him enough. For the most part he
writes and conducts his research. We live a quiet life. That Ketteridge did
not burst into wild laughter told me all I needed to know about his ignorance
of Holmes very active career.  Why do you ask?
 I thought perhaps while he was down here I might hire him to look into the
mysterious sightings of the Hound of the Baskervilles.
 Oh yes? Interesting, I thought, that everyone should be confusing the
Baskerville hound with the one accompanying Lady Howard s coach. Considering
Richard Ketteridge s enthusiasms it was not all that surprising that he should
do so, but I could only think that Conan Doyle s influence extended out here,
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twisting reality until it resembled fiction. It would not be the first time
Holmes had confronted himself in a fictional mirror.
 You have heard of them? he asked.
 The sightings? Yes, Baring-Gould mentioned them the other day. Why, have you
seen it?
 No. But I imagine they will be causing some uproar among my neighbours out on
the moor.
 I should think so, considering the last time it was seen. Actually, I was
wondering if the hound might not come here. As I remember, the Baskerville
curse was the reason for its presence, but there s nothing to say whether it s
Baskerville blood that attracts him, or merely ownership of the hall.
I studied him in all innocence, and saw a look of astonishment cross his face,
followed by a great roar of laughter.
 Oh my, he sputtered.  Mrs Holmes, I never thought of that. Maybe I d better
start wearing garlic or something.
 A pistol seems to have been effective the last time, I noted.
His laughter faded, but the humour remained in his eyes.  But the last time it
was an actual dog, painted with phosphorus, wasn t it?
 Yes, I said.  Of course you re right. How silly of me.
 Have you ever worked with your husband, Mrs Holmes?
 On a case?
 Yes.
I spread some butter on a piece of roll and ate it thoughtfully.  We did
collaborate on a case, once, involving a stolen ham.
The absurdity of the thing delighted him, as I thought it might do, and he
insisted I tell him about it. I did so, emphasising the ridiculous parts until
the story verged on the burlesque not, I admit, a difficult task. When we had
put that story to bed and been served the next course, I played the polite
guest and asked about his life.
 What about you, Mr Ketteridge? You must have had some fascinating adventures
in Alaska.
 It was quite a time.
 What was your most exciting moment?
 Exciting good or exciting terrifying?
 Either. Both.
 Exciting good was the first time I looked into my pan and saw gold.
 On your claim?
 Yes. Fifty feet of mud and rock and ice when I first staked it the stream was
frozen. I had to thaw out the ground with a fire before I could get at the
mud. But there was gold in it. Amazing stuff, gold, he mused, looking down at
the ring on his finger and rubbing it thoughtfully.  Soft and useless, but its
sparkle gets right into a man s bones.  Gold fever is a good name, because
that s what it s like, burning you and eating you up.
 And the exciting bad?
 The sheer terror. Had a handful of those, like pieces of peppercorn scattered
through a plate of tasteless stew. Most of the work in the fields was dull
slog you were uncomfortable all the time, awake or asleep, always hungry,
never clean, never warm except in summer when the mosquitos ate you alive,
your feet and hands were always wet and bruised. Lord, the boredom. And then a
charge you d set wouldn t go off and you d get the thrill of going up to it,
knowing it might decide to explode in your face. Or a tunnel you d poked into
the hillside would start to collapse, between you and daylight. But the most
exciting moment? Let s see. That would either be when the dog-sled went over a
ledge into Soda Creek, or the avalanche at the Scales.
The last name tickled a vague memory.  I ve heard of the Scales. Wasn t that
the name for a hill?
 A hill, he said with a pitying smile.  A hell more like it if you ll pardon
my French. Chilkoot Pass, four miles straight up. Seemed like it anyway, even
in summer when you could go back and forth, but in the winter, twelve hundred
steps cut into the ice, the last mile was like climbing a ladder. And you had
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a year s worth of supplies to shift to the top the Mounties checked to make
sure; they didn t want a countryside of starving men so you couldn t just
climb it once unless you could afford to pay the freight cable to take your
load up for you. There you were, in a mile-long line of freezing, exhausted
men so tight packed it was left, right, left, together all the way, your lungs
aching and your head pounding in the altitude, and just when you think you
can t lift your foot one more time, that you re going to drop in your tracks
and die, you re at the top, falling into the snow with the crate on your back.
And when you ve got your breath back you take the ropes off that crate, sit on
your shovel, and slide down the iced track to the bottom, where you put
another crate on your shoulders and line up to start again. After twenty,
twenty-five times you have your supplies at the top of the hill, and you re
ready to start on your way to the fields. Lot of men stood in Sheep Camp at
the bottom of the Scales, saw what they were up against, and their hearts just
gave up on them. Sold their supplies for ten cents on the dollar and went
home.
 But you didn t.
 Didn t have the sense to, no. It was winter, but the weather was still [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]