The Hell-Hound of the Baskervilles

by G. S. Denning

  The third gentleman was… well… no gentleman. Only a simpleton would ever describe him as gentle-looking and anyone might be forgiven for doubting he was a man. His well-muscled arms hung half a foot too long, were dotted with what looked like needle marks and ended in hands that reminded one a bit too much of claws. He had an unruly shock of red hair and a fierce red moustache. His brow jutted, his jaw looked tough enough to break a cricket bat on, and the savagery of his gaze made it seem as if he were eagerly waiting for some fool to try. Without a doubt, he was the second of the tricyclists we’d seen following Violet Smith—the competent one—and perfectly matched her description of the odorous Jack Woodley.

  As we watched, Williamson shook his Bible and declared, “Bring her out, Carruthers, or by the power of the Living Jingo, we’ll have her from you!”

  Robert Carruthers laughed grimly and said, “I’ll tell you what I told your friend ‘Woodley’ there: Violet Smith is not a piece of property to be demanded or sold. Now get off my land before I set my dogs on a man of the cloth!”

  Williamson looked more than just a bit worried by that, but his companion was cut of sterner stuff. Jack Woodley roared with rage and shouted, “She belongs to me!”

  “She does not!” Carruthers replied. “She belongs to herself. Or if any man may claim her, it’s her young beau, Cyril. Or if she ever chose another, I hope it might be me. And anyway, I’m certain it isn’t you, you great tyrant! I’m not afraid of you!”

  “Then I will kill you,” Woodley decided. He turned to Williamson and said, “Priest! Grant me benediction!”

  “No! No, look here… no,” Williamson spluttered, leaping between the two men with arms outspread. “I appeal for calm, gentlemen. Let’s think this through. Mr. Woodley, I know you brought me into this matter to help you, but maybe there’s a better way to deal with Miss Smith. And Mr. Carruthers, I appreciate your position and yet… well… had you not best tread carefully? The position you are in, sir, your life is not worth—I hope it’s not too impious to say so—but it’s not worth a duck’s wet fart. Can we not find a way to work together? Think of what we might gain! Think of the profit!”

  I rather hoped Mr. Williamson might go on to discuss exactly how he planned to make three men’s fortunes off one bicycle-obsessed piano teacher, but it was not to be. As Williamson spoke, Jack Woodley began to sniff the air—first casually, but then with some vigor. Finally, his eyes went wide with anger and his head snapped in Holmes’s and my direction. We dropped down behind the wall.

  “I think we’ve seen enough, don’t you?” I asked.

  “I should say we have,” whispered Holmes as we crawled away. “I never thought I’d see a Living Jingo!”

  “What? No. Holmes, that is merely an expression.”

  “Are you sure, Watson? Because it sounds like a kind of monster. And—at the risk of being indelicate—that man looks like a kind of monster.”

  “Well, I won’t argue that,” I said. “Come on, Holmes. I want to get back to Baker Street and plan our next move.”

  * * *

  Yet time was a luxury we were not to enjoy. The next day, we had a telegram:

  WARLOCK HOLMES AND THE BAD-MOUSTACHE MAN,

  I AM LEAVING! TOMORROW WHEN I GO TO SEE MUM I AM STAYING THERE. BECAUSE MR. CARRUTHERS KEEPS TRYING TO MARRY ME. AND HE KEEPS SAYING HE LOVES ME. AND I THINK HE MEANS IT. BUT THAT MAKES IT WORSE NOT BETTER. AND NOW THERE’S AT LEAST THREE FELLOWS WITH BEARDS OR MOUSTACHES THAT KEEP PEEPING IN THE WINDOWS. AND LITTLE SYLVIA TURNS OUT TO HAVE BEEN ABLE TO PLAY BEETHOVEN’S NINTH FROM MEMORY THIS ENTIRE TIME. SO THE WHOLE THING WAS ALWAYS JUST A LIE. AND CYRIL SAYS WE CAN DO WITHOUT THE MONEY. SO IT’S ALL RIGHT IF I COME HOME. THANK YOU FOR YOUR HELP. BUT I DON’T THINK I NEED YOU ANYMORE. AFTER TOMORROW I’LL BE SAFE.

  “Maybe after tomorrow,” Holmes chuckled, “but things might get a bit hot, first. What do you think, Watson?”

  I pursed my lips, took a deep breath and said, “She doesn’t like my moustache?”

  “Of course she doesn’t, but that is not the issue.”

  “What’s wrong with it?”

  “Oh… Shape. Color. Placement. The concept. The execution. Really, the whole essence of the thing is corrupt to its dark, hairy core. But look here, Watson: there are other things to worry about. I can’t think it would even bother you at all, if you weren’t so smitten with her.”

  I wished to protest that Violet Smith was peculiar in the extreme. Gangly! Clueless! Those goggles? Those trousers? Yet, when I thought of the beauty of her features, her accidental honesty, the unalloyed goodness that showed through her crooked smile… All I could think to say was, “I know. What’s wrong with me?”

  “Well whatever it is, it seems to be catching,” laughed Holmes. “You, Cyril, Carruthers, Grogsson and even the Living Jingo seem to be of the same mind. Poor girl. I’d say this gaggle of suitors needs to thin itself out a bit.”

  “Right you are, Holmes. There can be only one.”

  I must have paused a bit too long, for Holmes cleared his throat and mentioned, “Er… yes… specifically Cyril, don’t you think?”

  I turned my face to the wall and grumbled something.

  “I’m glad we agree,” said Holmes. “Get some rest, Watson. Tomorrow we must be at our best.”

  * * *

  Though he was much improved, Holmes’s facial features still caused enough discomfort in the casual observer to ensure we had plenty of room to ourselves on the train. Or maybe it was my moustache. No sooner had he set his foot on the platform at Farnham station, Holmes made a beeline to the tricycle vendor, shouting, “Can we, Watson? Oh, can we?”

  “I forbid it.”

  “But consider, John: what better way to catch a tricycle-mounted villain? Set a tricycle to catch a tricycle, I always say!”

  “No. We shall hire a coach.”

  But the rental fellow gave me a sideways smirk and said, “You could do, I suppose. There is one, here in Farnham.” He turned to a well-soiled groom who stood near the end of the train platform and shouted, “Oi! Charlie! How’s the coach for today?”

  “Engaged, as you well know!”

  The vendor shrugged.

  “A bicycle, then,” I decided. “I believe their superiority has been conclusively proved by our very client, has it not?”

  The vendor smiled, savagely. “Illegal, I’m afraid.”

  “What? Illegal?”

  “Lord Charlington never much cared for ’em, see? Then again, he always did have a fondness for backing local ordinances. Took every ounce of his influence to criminalize those two-wheeled health hazards but he managed it. And sure, the constables might turn a blind eye to Miss Smith, but you ain’t half so pretty, is ya?”

  “Damn! But then, I… We could always… er…” I sputtered for a few moments, but in the end there was nothing to do but swallow my pride, reach for my wallet and groan, “Two, please.”

  “Just one,” said Holmes. “I’m still not at my best, Watson. I couldn’t possibly. I’ll just ride on the back of yours.”

  “Argh! One then! One and I hate the world!”

  Seizing the ill-rented conveyance, I turned back to Holmes only to discover that he had gone. I found him just six steps away, waiting near the next stand over, gesturing hopefully to a huge false moustache.

  “No.”

  “But, Watsooooooooon!”

  “I said no.”

  “Ah! Ah! But did you not also say that victory can hide in the smallest advantage? Perhaps it might be felicitous to conceal our identities from our client or even our friend Grogsson! I think you once told me that, in matters of crime-solving, only a fool fails to employ every advantage presented to him!”

  “I don’t remember ever saying that.”

  “But can you prove you didn’t? I think you must concede, Watson, it sounds exactly like the sort of thing you yell at me all the time.”

  “…”

  “…”

  “It does, actually.�
�

  “Ha!”

  Two moments later and two shillings lighter, I was fastening an enormous false moustache over my own while Holmes fussed delightedly with his new beard. I was certain mine was made of horsehair and equally sure it had not been washed during its brief transition between some unknown pair of equine buttocks and my own face. None of this seemed to bother Holmes, who turned to me, clasped both my shoulders and declared, “Ah! A grand improvement!”

  * * *

  Six miles of pedaling down Charlington Lane gave me ample time to regret both of the morning’s purchases, as well as the three-year chain of poor life decisions that had led up to them. I’d soaked all my clothes and my new moustache with sweat. Oh, and if I thought it had smelled poorly when I first got it, I had since learned that unwashed, sweat-soaked horsehair baking in the sun has a quality all its own.

  Holmes had a delightful time. He stood behind me on the little deck between the two rear wheels the whole way, humming snippets of marching tunes and enjoying the summer air. From time to time, when we got to the uphill bits, he’d lean one leg off the back of the tricycle and give a few assistance pushes, which would have been appreciated better if… I don’t know… They seemed condescending, somehow.

  I pedaled us to the little hill beyond Charlington Hall, pushed the tricycle behind one of the yew trees, and collapsed into the grass to wait for Violet Smith. I’d taken no more than three or four breaths before Holmes said, “Up you get, Watson. Here she comes.”

  Rising to my post with some reluctance, I could just make out the black dot of Violet Smith as she pedaled down Charlington Lane. Hardly had she left the grounds of Chiltern Grange than one tricyclist burst from the hedge of that very house and another from a stand of gorse just beside it. The pair bent to their pedals and made all haste after Miss Smith, though what hope they had of overtaking her must have been slight. She looked back at them with some misgiving, I think, but did not increase her pace. Even so, the pair did not gain on her.

  “Come on!” I told Holmes. “We’d best get underway ourselves, lest we get too far behind.”

  I leapt into the saddle, laid my foot to the pedal with renewed spirit and…

  Snapped the damned thing right off.

  “What? Oh! Blast! Is there no such thing as craftsmanship any longer?”

  I leapt from my perch and began scooping tricycle parts from the dust. The wooden pedal had snapped in half and shorn away from the metal crank of the front wheel.

  “They’re getting away,” Holmes noted.

  “I know, but I can’t…”

  “There’s no time. Climb on, Watson.”

  “But… But…”

  “Miss Smith is in danger! She’s almost to Charlington Hall! Climb on.”

  I obeyed. As I climbed back to my post, I told Holmes, “All right, but let’s try to accomplish this without resorting to magic, shall we?”

  “And how do you propose we do that, Watson?”

  “The first portion is slightly downhill; that plays to our favor. You can push, Holmes, and I can put my feet on the ground and shuffle us—”

  But Holmes thrust one hand out behind us and shouted, “Forzza!” There came a sudden boom and the flash of hellfire as our tricycle heaved its front wheel skyward and shot down the hill.

  “No magiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiic!”

  “Steady on, Watson. You steer.”

  “How? The wheel’s not even touching!”

  The tiniest reduction in our speed brought the front wheel back to earth, whereupon the remaining pedal assembly spun up to speed and began battering my foot bones to dust.

  “Ow! Ow! Ow!”

  “Steer, I said!”

  “Ow! Ow!”

  “Well then… hold your feet out to the sides and steer. We’re coming up on the first fellow now, don’t hit him!”

  The rearmost tricyclist’s progress was so pathetic that not only had Violet hopelessly outdistanced him, we were quickly overtaking him, as well.

  “Who is he?” Holmes yelled to me, over the roar of the rocket-like plume of hellfire he was sending out behind us.

  “I think it must be Cyril Morton! He’s young, with the pale complexion and weak wind of an indoor worker.”

  “But why would he be here, Watson, hunting his own fiancée?”

  “He may be here to protect her. Recall that more and more riders have been showing up as the weeks go past. He likely came only after Violet’s letters let him know she was in danger.”

  “So, we can learn nothing from him?”

  “Unlikely. I think we will not know the true nature of these odd occurrences until we find the original stalker. That first, solitary tricyclist: he is the man who can tell us all.”

  “Maybe this is him,” Holmes volunteered as we neared the second rider.

  “It very well may be,” I agreed. “That’s Robert Carruthers.”

  “How can you tell? He’s got a gigantic black beard!”

  “Yes,” I said, as we rocketed past, “but his clumsily re-sewn scalp is coming loose in the breeze.”

  “Egads! So it is!” Holmes noted.

  “From which, we learn…?”

  “Erm… don’t let the Living Jingo punch you in the head?”

  “Correct! Well done, Holmes!”

  “Watson, look! What’s that?”

  I followed his outstretched finger and squinted down the lane. Far ahead of us—far ahead of even Violet Smith—a dark speck had just come into view from the direction of Farnham. I could make out a pedaling figure amidst a wild and swirling cloud of dust. At first it looked like a child, for the size of the rider matched the size of his machine. Yet, when one compared the height of the rider to the total width of the road…

  “Is that… Grogsson?” Holmes asked.

  “Grogsson,” I nodded.

  “What’s he riding?”

  “Recall that he absconded with several hundred pounds of steel tubing and one of Scotland Yard’s engineers,” I said. “My guess is he’s built himself a battle-trike.”

  “It does sound like him,” Holmes admitted. “By the twelve gods, look at him go!”

  Yet my mind was on more pressing matters. We were still a good way behind Violet Smith, but quickly gaining. For a moment I hoped that with Holmes and me by her side and Grogsson holding the road ahead, all would be well. But no. The ill-kept hedge maze of Charlington Hall grew so close to the lane in places as to nearly overhang its edge, and as Violet neared one such spot, a monstrous arm shot out and grasped the front wheel of her bicycle. The cycle halted instantly, pitching Miss Smith over the bars. She never hit the ground. With preternatural speed, Jack Woodley burst from the foliage, caught her by the waist with one claw-like hand and dragged her into the hedge maze, bicycle and all. Holmes and I barely had time to shout our dismay before he appeared again. He was wearing a devil’s grin and holding one of the more time-ravaged specimens from Lord Charlington’s tricycle collection. This, he flung at us with such power and accuracy that I could not help but admire the deed, even though it held rather dire portents for my future health.

  “Every man for himself!” Holmes declared, then jumped off our speeding tricycle.

  What could I do? The much-abused pedal assembly was still spinning fast enough to liquefy my feet if I were so foolish as to try and stop myself. I could try to turn out of the way, but at this speed… My deliberations were cut short as Woodley’s tricycle crashed into the front of my own, upended me, and sent me bouncing down Charlington Lane. As I tumbled to a halt, Holmes hovered gracefully back to earth beside me.

  “Holmes! Did you just magic yourself to safety and allow me to crash?”

  “I did say ‘every man for himself’,” he huffed.

  I tried to stand up to berate him, but lost my balance and toppled down again. Was I injured? Exactly how many times had I bounced before I’d come to rest? As I gave myself a quick roadside triage, Robert Carruthers pedaled up behind us, leapt off his
machine and yelled, “Don’t just sit there, checking yourself for broken bones! We’ve got to save her!”

  “Ah,” said Holmes pleasantly. “So you wish no harm upon Violet Smith?”

  “No, by God! I may not have entered into this thing with the purest of intentions, but she’s a good girl—a wonderful girl—and I’ll leave my carcass in Charlington Wood before I let that beast have his way!”

  “We call him the Living Jingo,” said Holmes.

  “No we don’t,” I protested. “We do know his actual name, after all.”

  “Hm. Yes. But Living Jingo’s better.”

  Carruthers stamped and shouted, “We have to save her! Now, are you with me?”

  “I don’t see why not,” said Holmes. “Oh, except that it’s a bit unseemly to team up with creepy old men who constantly propose marriage to the young women in their employ.”

  Carruthers colored with that special combination of rage and embarrassment. I laughed and said, “You know, Holmes, I wouldn’t be surprised if that was the plan all along.”

  “What do you mean, Watson?”

  “It occurred to me yesterday, when you pointed out the unusual quantity of suitors Violet Smith had suddenly accumulated. It all seems to have begun when some occurrence in South Africa caused half the Englishmen who reside there to speed home with the goal of marrying her. Now, do you remember the uncle she mentioned—the one who was supposed to have renewed the family fortune in the diamond mines of South Africa? Carruthers here came and reported that he died poor. But what if that is only half the truth? What if he died rich and childless with Violet as his heir? Might that not explain why everyone is suddenly so keen to wed her?”

  “That is not why all of us wish to wed her,” said Cyril Morton, as he coasted up to join us. His tone was as haughty as a sweat-soaked, choking, gasping mechanical engineering student could manage. “Though I do admit it doesn’t… hurt matters.”

  Now that our little group was met, we plunged into the maze in pursuit of Violet Smith. Our progress was ponderous. We knew not which of the overgrown paths to take, the whole mess was strewn with disused tricycles, I was shaken from my fall and Cyril was just a wheezy and out-of-breath sort of fellow. Our delay frustrated Carruthers, who shouted, “Come on! Violet is in danger!”