Death at Dartmoor by Robin Paige Read Free Book Online Page A

up to him was tall and burly, clad in knickers, a tweed jacket, and tweed cap. “Good afternoon, sir! Good to see you!”
    â€œConan Doyle,” Charles said in surprise, as they shook hands. “What are you doing here, at the top of England?”
    Doyle grinned. “Working on a bit of a story, actually,” he replied. “I would ask you the same question, but I’ve already seen her ladyship at the Duchy. She tells me that you are here on an enterprise for the Home Office. Something to do with the prison, I take it?”
    â€œAn identification project,” Charles replied as they set off toward the hotel. “We’ve undertaken to fingerprint the prisoners.” He cast a glance at Doyle. “A business near to the heart of your Sherlock, perhaps. No doubt you’ve read Edward Henry’s recent book on the subject.”
    â€œAfraid not,” Doyle said with a dismissive laugh. “The method is scarcely reliable, I understand. In matters of identification, Sherlock and I have always preferred the techniques of Alphonse Bertillon.”
    â€œYou and Sherlock may want to reconsider,” Charles said quietly. He was not one of those who worshiped at the altar of Holmes and Watson. In fact, it was his private opinion that Doyle, who had gone to a great deal of trouble to make his detective seem scientific, should also have gone to the trouble of giving Sherlock an interest in the modern forensic sciences. Ballistics, for example, and toxicology, and dactyloscopy, which had developed so rapidly in the last decade and which Dr. Doyle should certainly know about if he kept up with any of the scientific journals or even the newspapers. Charles was still amazed, when he thought of it, by Holmes’s carelessness with fingerprints, as in “The Case of the Cardboard Box,” where he disregarded the evidence of two thumbprints; and in “The Sign of the Four,” where he simply assumed, without a shred of corroborating evidence, that the thumbprint on an envelope was the postman’s. As far as fingerprints were concerned, Holmes was no more up to date than the parochial New Scotland Yard officials whom Acting Commissioner Henry now had the difficult duty of instructing.
    His reservations about Holmes notwithstanding, however, Charles had been considerably impressed by Doyle’s most recent book, a 500-page critique of the Boer War based on observations made while serving as a field doctor in South Africa. He said so now.
    â€œThat book of yours that Smith and Elder brought out last September—The Great Boer War. I must say, Doyle, it’s quite the best thing written on the subject—far more comprehensive than those pieces by young Churchill. In my opinion, it will push the government in the direction of necessary military reform, at long last.”
    â€œDo you really think so?” Doyle asked warmly. The two of them pressed against a building as a flock of sheep, led by a belled ewe and followed by a ragged young shepherd, passed by on the street. “I would certainly be pleased by any sign of reform. What I saw when I was in South Africa last year taught me that the day of sword and lance is gone forever. Ceremonial weapons simply can’t prevail against modern weaponry.” The flock having vanished into the mist, the two men stepped back into the vacant street. “But I’m afraid that my proposals are not exactly welcome,” Doyle added with some irony. “You read Colonel Maude’s letter in the Times, I suppose?”
    â€œColonel Maude is a fool,” Charles said shortly, “as is anyone who argues that a charging cavalry armed with swords and lances is more effective than infantry troops firing magazine rifles. It’s absurd.” He shook his head. “Maude can say what he likes; your book is a rigorous piece of military scholarship. I shall advance your recommendations when and wherever I