Free Death at Dartmoor by Robin Paige

Crossing lectured on Dartmoor folktales last night in Yelverton. I shouldn’t be surprised if he knew every inch of the moor and all its history besides.”
    â€œThen I’m sure I shall learn a great deal.” Patsy tilted her head curiously as she watched the three men, who had been joined by Mr. Robinson. “I wonder what Charles is finding so sardonically amusing,” she murmured. “And why Dr. Doyle looks so completely out of sorts.”
    Â 
    Charles was trying to hide his smile, for he had just seen Conan Doyle put in his place by a man half his size and with a much softer voice. Doyle had remarked, as he had to Charles earlier that afternoon, that the moor’s “savage wildness” and the “foul slime of its huge morasses” made it the perfect setting for the story he was writing.
    But while Doyle was going on in this manner, growing ever more enthusiastic about the terrible dangers of the moor, Mr. William Crossing was watching him with what seemed to be mounting alarm. Finally, as if he could contain himself no longer, Crossing burst out, “But sir, what you describe is not the real moor! It may make a fine fictional setting, but those of us who live here and love the moor know it very differently.”
    Doyle pulled his brows together. “Are you telling me that there is no danger in the treacherous mires out there?” he demanded. Holding his champagne glass in one hand, he flung the other wide around him, as if to take in all four directions. “Why, I have been touring this district in Mr. Robinson’s coach for several days. He has shown me landscapes where a misstep means death to man and beast, and has assured me that—”
    â€œOne has to watch one’s step on the moor, of course,” Mr. Crossing interrupted quietly, “especially in wet weather, when the bogs are full and the old turf-tie tracts make for a treacherous crossing. But that should not deter visitors from leaving the beaten track and wandering freely, especially in the areas that have not been touched by the hand of man. I respectfully suggest, Dr. Doyle, that you abandon your friend’s coach and walk across the moor, acquainting yourself with its beauties. You will find it far more hospitable than you imagine.”
    Doyle frowned. “Leave the coach? But would that be safe?”
    â€œIt would indeed, sir,” Crossing replied with assurance. “There is no place you should fear to go, except perhaps for the Army’s artillery range, directly to the west of Thornworthy. Between the months of May and October, you would very likely be shot at with live ammunition or stumble over an explosive shell that has failed to detonate.” He made a little moue of regret. “I am sorry to say that one is far more likely to blow oneself up on the moor than to drown in a mire.”
    â€œYou can’t be serious, sir!” Doyle exclaimed.
    â€œOh, but I am.” Crossing paused and added, rather more diffidently, “I am writing a guidebook to Dartmoor just now and should be glad to escort you wherever you wish to go.” He shifted uncomfortably. “I venture to extend this offer because I very much fear that a writer who employs such terms as ‘savage wildness’ and ‘foul slime’ without regard for their factuality would give much the wrong impression to his readers.”
    Fletcher Robinson had joined the group in time to hear this exchange. “Oh, I say, Crossing,” he objected, “don’t you think that some allowances ought to be made for the creative imagination?” He was speaking to Crossing, but his glance, an enigmatic one, was clearly meant for Doyle. “Our story is a fiction, after all, with elements of the supernatural. We are surely entitled to take a few liberties with the setting.”
    Charles could not read Robinson’s glance at Doyle, but the emphasis upon “our story” was