“But… it isn’t.”
“No! Lestrade is a true friend! This race-slip is a princely gift! Mischief has been done upon an honest horse!”
“What about the murder of his trai—”
“And I am going to have a crushing gambling problem! This affront shall not go uncorrected.”
“But…”
“Tut, Watson! Tut!” He turned from me to gesture at his gathered demons, proclaiming, “These are the seers of hidden deeds, the knowers of secrets. What other way have we to gain information on this case?”
“Well… there’s the newspaper, which we have yet to read.”
“Ha! A useless trinket!”
“You think so, do you?” I swept up the paper and settled into my accustomed role: the defender of human normalcy. We would just see which might prove more useful: a gaggle of lesser demons or a good old London daily.
“Now,” said Holmes, “what do we suppose is the most likely thing to happen to this horse?”
“Had four legs!” one of the demons offered.
“Ate oats!”
“Pooped!”
If nothing else, they were eager to please, desperate for their promised fee.
I raised one eyebrow and opined, “I should think the most likely explanation would be that a rival horse-owner, or someone who stood to lose a great deal of money if Silver Blaze won, might have absconded with the beast and murdered him.”
“Yes! Excellent!” said Holmes, clapping his hands together. “Minions, bring me the fallen! I need every horse that has died upon the moor since… When was the disappearance, Watson?”
“Tuesday last.”
“Tuesday last! Now go! Fly forth and do my bidding!”
Six of the little demonettes blinked out, one by one. It was as if they were soap bubbles, gently popping—once present in splendid, iridescent strangeness, gone the next instant.
“So, Holmes, I am unclear on this point,” I said. “What exactly did you mean when you asked them to—”
But I did not finish, for Ball-Moss and Slop-Tar reappeared in the middle of my sentence and dropped a dead horse onto my coffee table, crushing it utterly. I was about to protest, when an even worse delivery came in. The second horse must have died in one of the many Dartmoor bogs, for its carcass was bloated and covered in thick, sticky peat. This second corpse was deposited right atop the first and quickly followed by a third, which must already have been sold off for scrap, since it arrived in several large chunks—midway through the process of being chopped up for dog meat. Only its head had any skin left on it, and in its cadaverous eyes I thought I detected something akin to surprise at being invited into a London sitting room.
“Is that all?” Holmes asked, staring at the pile of ex-horses with some measure of disappointment.
“Only these, Master,” confirmed Thorny-Jim.
“Hmm,” Warlock mused. “Which one is Silver Blaze, do you think?”
“According to this article, Silver Blaze is a chestnut-colored stallion, named for the distinctive silver marking that runs from his forehead, down towards the tip of his nose,” I said, adding, “Wonderful thing, the daily newspaper. Any who want one can have it for tuppence, without any need of consorting with demons or betraying the race of man.”
“So then, Silver Blaze is…”
“None of these, Holmes.”
“But…”
“Well, that’s good news, isn’t it?” I reasoned. “That means he’s likely to be still alive.”
“Likely? It means he must be, doesn’t it?”
“No. You asked for every horse that died on the moor. What if he was removed from the moor and then slain?”
“Oh! Curses!” Holmes roared, then turned to the demons and said, “Bring me—”
“Holmes, don’t you dare! There is not space in this sitting room for every horse that’s died since Tuesday, anywhere in the world!”
Holmes wilted a bit and whined, “Well, what else am I supposed to do?”
“There may be other approaches,” I said. “It occurs to me there are several inconsistencies in the official account of Straker’s death.”
“Such as?”
I scanned the article, gathering salient points. “Well, Scotland Yard has arrested a man named Fitzroy Simpson for the murder. The man is a notorious rogue in racing circles. It seems he was caught snooping around the stables earlier looking—he claims—for useful tips.”
“Somewhat suspicious,” Holmes noted.
“They set a dog on him and he ran off, it says. Now—this bit is important—he claims to have dropped his cravat as he ran.”
Holmes’s face contorted as he wondered, “Yes, but… how does one drop something that is tied around one’s neck?”
“Exactly, Holmes!” I said. “Simpson is clearly lying. And it is that lie that cemented his guilt, in the eyes of the police. You see, that cravat was found in the dead man’s hand. Straker’s body was found on an abandoned stretch of moor, with the back of his head bashed in, a cut on his leg, Simpson’s cravat in one hand and a cataract knife in the other. Based on that, Inspector Gregory concluded that Simpson returned later that evening and stole Silver Blaze, but was seen by Straker, who grabbed a cataract knife and gave chase. Inspector Gregory goes on to infer that Straker caught up to Simpson out on the moor. The two of them fought, Straker received a wound in the thigh from his own knife, then was finally brought down by a single blow to the back of the head from a heavy ‘Penang lawyer’-style walking stick, which Simpson had in his possession.”
“It’s looking pretty poor for Simpson, eh?”
“So far, but listen to this: Straker’s coat was found hung on a hawthorn bush, not far from his body.”
“Minions! Get me that coat!” Holmes ordered. Mud-Splat disappeared for a quick instant, then returned bowing and proffering a battered workman’s jacket. It was well used and much worn, but basically unremarkable. In the pockets, I found a tallow candle, matches and a bill for twenty-two guineas for a lady’s dress, which had been sold to one “Mr. Derbyshire”.
“That’s an odd assortment,” I said.
“What does it mean?” Holmes asked.
“No idea. But the important thing is this: the coat was hung on a nearby bush.”
“Er… But I don’t…” Holmes was not the only confused party; several of the demons were looking perturbed as well.
“Well, it is one of five points that makes Inspector Gregory’s theory just ludicrous! First: Straker sees a thief, so he reaches for the nearest weapon—so far, so good—but he finds a cataract knife? That is a surgical tool, as the name implies. What would a cataract knife be doing in a stable? It has a small, narrow, flexible blade—ideal for surgery but something close to useless as a weapon. And I don’t think I’ve ever been to a stable that didn’t have shovels, shoeing hammers, hook knives and all manner of tools, both blunt and sharp, that would have served better.”
“Hmm… I hadn’t thought of that,” said Holmes.
“Nor has Inspector Gregory, it seems. Second point: Straker took no horse. If you saw a thief escaping on foot, having just stolen the fastest horse in England, would you simply run after him? Might you not fear the thief would simply mount up and gallop away, the instant he saw you? Straker was a horse trainer, surrounded by horses, yet he went on foot? Preposterous!”
“Ooooooooh!” Even the demons seemed impressed by that one. I got a smattering of muddish, barkish, meat-wingish applause.
“Third point,” I continued, “the positioning of the clothes. The cravat was in Straker’s hand. I don’t care how hard you pull, you don’t yank off a cravat that is tied around somebody’s throat. He’d have strangled Simpson before then, or broken his neck. And what of the coat? Do we presume Straker chased his man down, offered battle, but begged a moment before they began to carefully hang his coat upon a tree? And fourth point: no alarm was raised. No noise was reported, not so much as the dog barking. Let us keep in mind that th
e same dog had been set on Simpson earlier that evening; are you telling me he wouldn’t bark if he saw his earlier quarry returning in the dead of night? And why did Straker not seek help? His own wife and three stable lads were sleeping within earshot. Why did he not cry out as he set out after Simpson?”
“And what of the final point?” asked Holmes. I will admit, I relished those times when my deductions caught him up.
“Fifth,” I announced, “the wound is to the back of Straker’s head. If two men are involved in a physical altercation, wouldn’t they be facing each other? Why would one of them turn around long enough to allow the other fellow to land such a haymaker? Can you imagine the strength necessary to crush a skull with a walking stick? I don’t know why, but it seems to be a uniquely British failing to view a walking stick as a deadly instrument. We do it all the time.”
“Inspired! Genius!” Holmes proclaimed, then leaned towards me and asked, “So, what did happen?”
“Oh… er… well, I hadn’t gotten that far,” I admitted. “It’s hard to guess, without seeing the clues or examining the body, but…”
And then I realized what I’d said. I lunged towards Holmes crying, “Wait!”
Yet in that moment between realization and action, Holmes declared, “Bring me the body of John Straker!”
“Damn it, Holmes!” I cried as a pair of gleeful demonettes dropped Straker’s days-old corpse on top of the three unfortunate horses. “Oh, very nice! What a fantastic pile of carnage you’ve constructed, and where I take my tea, too!”
But Holmes ignored me. He had drawn himself up into an impressive stance with both hands raised. “To my left hand, I summon the walking stick of Fitzroy Simpson, thought to have claimed a life!”
With a crack and a whoosh, the walking stick materialized in mid-air, six feet or so from Holmes, speeding towards his hand. He caught it and continued, “To my right, I call the knife of John Straker, which is thought to—Ow! Agh! By the gods!”
“That was nobody’s fault but yours, Holmes.”
“Yes. Yes, I know. Remind me, Watson, if I ever summon a bladed instrument again, to call for it to arrive handle first.”
“Please don’t do it again,” I said. “I’m quite concerned about the amount of magic you’re using today and all this congress with demons…”
“Well anyway, Watson, you’ve got your clues. Now, what do you make of them?”
“Well to start with, let’s have a look at this…” I pulled the cataract knife from where it had lodged through Holmes’s right palm.
“Aaaaaarh! Damn!”
“As I guessed, this is an instrument of surgery, not a weapon. And see, if I hold it next to Straker’s right hand, the blade points right at the cut on the outside of his thigh? This is just where the blade would be if his arm were hanging naturally. Yes, I think the wound was self-inflicted and accidental.”
“And this?” Holmes asked, handing me the walking stick.
“Hmm… Let’s see if we can get Straker turned over.”
Up to that point, it had not occurred to me that the parliament of demons might follow my command, but I learned that it was indeed possible when three of the little blighters gleefully flipped Straker face down on the pile of horse chunks.
“Yes… ahem… thank you,” I mumbled.
It took me only an instant to realize what had happened. “Look here!” I said. “See how the impact site is larger than the weighted orb on the end of this stick? Far larger! And furthermore, though the base is rounded, just here, the sides are flat. What fools we’ve been, Holmes! And that Inspector Gregory fellow even more so. He laid the murder on Simpson because he thought there were only two individuals present at the scene. He overlooked an obvious third party and it is that forgotten third who did the deed.”
“Eh? Who?” asked Holmes.
“Silver Blaze. That is a horseshoe mark.”
The tiny demons chittered and cheered.
Holmes, with a scandalized look, shouted, “Oh, bad horse! Murderer! Why, I’m almost ashamed to be holding a betting slip in his name.”
“I’m not sure how much blame we can assign to the horse, Holmes.”
“But, Watson, don’t you see? He must have lured Straker out onto the moor to do him in!”
“And why would a horse do that?”
Holmes shrugged. “Hatred? Personal vendetta? Oh! What if Silver Blaze had placed a large bet on another horse—”
“Horses do not bet on horse races, Holmes.”
“Why not? They’re the ones who have to run them. And who better to tell the fitness of a particular horse, than another horse?”
“Nevertheless, it is not the custom.”
“But why not?”
“We just don’t allow it, all right?” I huffed, adding, “Horses don’t tend to pack a lot of cash around with them, anyway.”
“Fine, then. Fine,” Holmes retorted. “If you think my theory is so ridiculous, what did happen then? Eh?”
I squinted at the newspaper article, then at the pile of human and equine wreckage that lay atop the remains of my coffee table. So many clues, so many strange occurrences and questions, yet I could devise no narrative which tied them all together.
“I don’t know,” I said. “There’s still so much that remains hidden… For instance, what the devil was Straker doing with that cataract knife?”
“Oh!” Willow-Bark shouted. “I knows! I knows!”
He gestured eagerly to two of the other sprites. The three of them popped out of existence for a moment, only to return the next instant and deposit three perfectly normal-looking sheep in my sitting room. If I was a bit surprised by this, my own alarm was nothing compared to that of the sheep, who stared about wild-eyed and bleated their protest. Two of them did, anyway. The third was elderly and must have seen one or two strange things before, as the change in scenery seemed to upset her very little. She limped over to the Afghan rug, sniffed it, then turned up her nose in disdain at the rather poor grazing options on offer.
She limped.
“Wait…” I mumbled. A strange idea had just begun to intrude itself upon me. I jumped at the other two sheep and shouted, “Ha!” The two of them recoiled in alarm and limped away as fast as they could. “All three lame,” I said. “All three. This is beginning to come together, Holmes. Ah! The candle! Oh! Ah! The dressmaker’s bill!”
I leapt to the coat and again emptied Straker’s pockets. After unfolding and checking the bill, I told Holmes, “Luck is with us. This is a London address; I shall take a cab around and speak to the man. If my guess is correct, he holds the final clue.”
“If he does,” Holmes replied, “then there is no time for cab rides.”
There was a flash and loud cracking noise and suddenly a confused dressmaker stood in front of me. He had the most magnificent bush of graying sideburns and an expression of deepest befuddlement.
I turned to my friend and shouted, “Holmes! Magic!” But he just gave me a little shrug and smiled.
The dressmaker was staring about, left and right, sputtering his confusion. I approached him, showed him the bill and said, “You are Mr. Alfred Hill?”
“Why, yes I am.”
“I wonder if you could help me identify this man.”
I gestured back to Straker’s earthly remains, which were instantly seized by three or four tiny demons and flipped face up with just as much zest as they’d flipped him down.
“Good Lord!” the dressmaker cried. “Whatever have you done to Mr. Derbyshire? And, are those… horse corpses? What are all these little creatures?”
“Disregard them,” I suggested and, realizing it was time to do some damage control, asked, “But do tell me, Mr. Hill, is there any chance you might be sleeping right now? Might this all be a disturbing dream?”
“No, sir, it is the middle of my working day. I was speaking with Mrs. Handswaddle a moment before, I am sure of it…”
“Did you perhaps have a drink or two, at lunch?” I
asked.
“I would never!”
“Hmm… Are you taking any medications right now?”
Alfred Hill touched the side of his face and admitted, “A bit of laudanum, for this toothache.”
“Ah-ha! I am, of course, a figment of your imagination,” I told him, “but I am also a certified medical doctor and I can state with confidence that laudanum is more than capable of causing just such a hallucination. I would urge you to be judicious in its application in future.”
“Oh… er… thank you,” Mr. Hill stammered.
I turned to Holmes and suggested through clenched teeth and with raised eyebrows, “I think he can go now.”
There was a second flash and crack. Mr. Alfred Hill was gone.
“And do we still feel we aren’t overusing magic today, Holmes?”
“No!” he cried, and his voice was deep and rumbling. “I will have the truth! Truth! Triumph! Gambling addiction!”
“Easy, Holmes, easy! I think I’ve almost got it solved. I still don’t know where Silver Blaze is, but I’m sure he can’t have gone far. He must still be on Dartmoor.”
“Very well,” Holmes rumbled. “To my side, I summon—”
“Don’t you do it! There’s no room here for every horse on Dartmoor, not even all the race horses.”
Holmes nodded in concession, but not the one I was hoping for. He waved one hand and two walls of our sitting room tore away. Beyond them lay an open expanse of gray, blasted dust. The sky above was an infinity of swirling black clouds, intermingled with tendrils of red mist—a sky of vaporized obsidian.
“Oh, very good, Holmes. Very nice. Well done, indeed.”
“Now there is room. To my side, I summon all the race horses who dwell on Dartmoor.”
From the swirling mists, they emerged, frightened hooves stirring up puffs of ash. White ones, gray ones, black, chestnut, dappled and paint—there must have been more than three dozen.
“Which of you is Silver Blaze?” Holmes demanded in his otherworldly baritone.
A note to horse trainers: your average steed does not respond well to demonic threat-questions, especially if they’ve just been teleported out of their comfy stalls to an unfamiliar hellscape. They whickered their fear and ran about. One stumbled, two reared and one flicked his ears forwards.
The Hell-Hound of the Baskervilles Page 5
