“Not really,” I said. “I’ll confess I didn’t realize how a defrocked clergyman came into the story, but now I think I’ve deduced it. Woodley has enlisted Williamson to legally wed him to Miss Smith, against her will. A pathetic plan—almost pitiable. One cannot ambush-marry an unwilling girl. That’s simply not how marriage works.”
Carruthers gave me a sideways glance and muttered, “That’s not his plan. You’ve got it wrong.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
He paused his maze-running and gazed at Holmes and me appraisingly. “Are you gentlemen with the police?” he asked.
“I am often called upon to supply their deficiencies,” said Holmes, “but happily Watson and I operate outside the law. Quite outside. Watson, for example, frequently kills people.”
“What? No I don’t!”
“You killed Grimesby Roylott.”
“By accident!”
“Killed me once.”
“Yet here you stand.”
“Shut up! Both of you!” Carruthers howled. “Look, there’s every chance I don’t make it through this alive and—so long as you’re not coppers—I’m happy for someone to know the whole story. To start with, that thing in there is not Jack Woodley; I am Jack Woodley!”
“Eh?” said Holmes.
“Used to be a bit rough, in my youth. They called me Roaring Jack and it wasn’t long before I got myself sentenced to transportation for life. But I was one of the last and Australia’s not the prison it once was—wasn’t hard to adopt the name Robert Carruthers and slip onto a steamer to South Africa with the hope of making my fortune. Which I did not. But I did meet Ralph Smith who seemed to have found just about every diamond in South Africa the De Beer brothers missed. Worked for him. Became friends. Rather thought he might remember me in his will. Imagine how I felt when I learned everything went to a niece he barely knew! So yes, Watson, you guessed that part right. I risked discovery and death to come try to marry the fortune that slipped through my fingers.”
The part I’d guessed made perfect sense to me, yet other details seemed incongruous. “What I don’t understand, Mr. Carruthers—or rather, Mr. Woodley—is why another man would wish to steal your name? Why would anybody want to adopt the persona of a transported criminal under sentence of death if he returned to England?”
“To unsettle me!” Woodley grunted. “You’ve seen that beast in there! Can you imagine anybody who knew me in my youth looking at him and mistaking it for me? No. He’s safe. But I’m not. He took the name just so word would spread through town that Jack Woodley was back—to make it harder for me to operate here. And it has! I hardly dare show my face outside my home without a false beard on. He lied about his name and his history. He’s never been to South Africa. Oh, and he didn’t bring the clergyman just to marry Violet Smith!”
“But then, who is he and why would—”
My words were arrested by a monstrous voice, which bellowed, “Priest! Grant me benediction!”
“Here,” replied the nervous voice of Horton Williamson. “Do it yourself!”
We must have been very near the exit to the maze, for the voices to be so clear. There was the sound of shuffling feet, followed by a beastly roar of pain and triumph and the voice of not-actually-Jack-Woodley (and yes, I purposely refuse to call him the Living Jingo) calling, “There! Done! Say your words, priest!”
“I keep telling you: I’m not a pr—”
“Say the words!”
“Very well. On your marks…”
“On your marks?” I wondered aloud, but as we turned the final corner of the maze, the scene that revealed itself to my eyes answered all my questions. There stood Horton Williamson, with a revolver and a nervous expression. Behind him, mounted on a tricycle, was the grotesque form of (oh, very well) the Living Jingo. He was removing Williamson’s “benediction”—which took the form of a brass syringe—from his chest. It seems he’d just finished injecting the contents directly into his heart. He crushed the syringe in his fist and threw it to the ground as Williamson reluctantly called, “Get set…”
The grounds behind Charlington Hall had been built into a large, oval obstacle course. On the close side, the Living Jingo sat ready on his tricycle. On the far side, with half a lap’s head start, sat Violet Smith, with her hands and feet tied to her beloved bicycle. She was leaning, motionless, against a tree, with only thirty feet of clear track ahead of her before she got to the earthen-bumps challenge, followed by the sand pit, the mud-slicked corner, a brief straight, the bricks-all-over-it corner and a quick run to the finish line. As soon as I saw it, I realized, “Wait! So the Living Jingo is… Lord Charlington?”
Woodley gave a grim nod. “Bent on revenge against the woman who nearly killed him and on achieving the final victory of the tricycle over the bicycle.”
Horton Williamson leveled his pistol at us and demanded, “Stay back! The race is about to begin!”
I paid him little mind. I turned the new facts over and over in my mind and muttered, “So then… the clergyman…”
“From what I gather, Lord Charlington’s heart gave out on him, following his showdown with Violet,” said Woodley. “Halfway to his country retreat, they were forced to halt and call for a clergyman to perform final rites. What they got was an ex-clergyman who was certain he’d discovered a formula that could turn a man into an angel. Since Lord Charlington was dying, they agreed to let him administer it, as a last resort.”
“So, that’s supposed to be an angel, is it?” I asked.
“It’s a Living Jingo,” said Holmes, affectionately.
Horton Williamson’s eyes filled with tears and he whispered to us, “I’d meant it to be an angel, but… with every dose… he’s stronger, but he’s less human, less reasonable, more… red-headed.”
Lord Charlington gave a roar of impatience and Williamson spluttered, “Oh! Yes! What I’d meant to say was: go!”
He then discharged his pistol, right through Woodley’s left leg.
“Oh!” Williamson cried. “I’m sorry! I didn’t… I’m sorry!”
As he crumpled to the ground, Roaring Jack Woodley gave Williamson the kind of look that is intended to convey that any recent apologies the bearer has received have not been accepted as adequate. At the instant of discharge, both Lord Charlington and Violet Smith sprang to action. As we’d seen on our last visit, Lord Charlington was a right terror with a tricycle. His angel-juice-enhanced legs pumped away with grand effect. He was the picture of strength and grace, his reflexes perfect. But Violet… she was…
Wonderful.
I’d deemed her athletic the moment I’d met her and I’d read of her accomplishments in the contest that won her that bike, but I just hadn’t realized the extent of her talent. She shot down the straight and onto the bumps, holding herself up off the seat as the cycle bucked beneath her until she ploughed into the power-sapping sand. When she got to the mud, she just let the rear wheel slide where it would, powering through with all her weight on the front wheel and her steely eyes already locked on the corner. She pushed her cycle to its very limits, flirting with the ragged edge of possibility.
Also to her advantage was that Lord Charlington’s obstacle course was—like all forms of terrain—much easier for a bicycle than a tricycle. When she came to the bricks-all-over-it corner, Violet needed a clear path only one wheel’s width across. When Lord Charlington got there his front wheel was easy to guide through, but his right wheel might catch a brick and jerk his machine off course. Or if not that, then the left. He roared at his own lack of cleverness. Only when he got to the straights or the sandpit did his enormous advantage in strength come to the fore, overwhelming the deficiencies of his machine.
“Ah, I love a good race,” said Holmes, stepping over the fallen form of Jack Woodley. “Tell me, Williamson, what am I looking at?”
As Holmes approached, Williamson gave the pistol a feeble wave of warning. Holmes disregarded it and threw a jovial arm about Williamson
’s shoulder. The ex-clergyman stared at him in shock and muttered, “Well… it’s a four-lap race. Miss Smith gets a half-lap head start. But if Lord Charlington catches her… um…” Here Williamson paused to look miserable and apologetic. “He’s allowed to kill her.”
“Hang on!” said Holmes. “That’s a bit outside the realm of fair sport, don’t you think? No, no, no. I can’t allow it. I’m stopping the race.”
“You can’t! I have a gun!”
“I see that, and it’s very scary,” said Holmes, giving Williamson’s shoulder a reassuring pat, “but in just one moment, I’m about to have a Grogsson.”
He was right. Above the clamor of Charlington’s death-race, a new sound arose. Screek, screek, screek. Smash! Screek, screek, screek. Smash! From the sound of things, Grogsson had elected to take the direct route through Charlington’s maze.
“Aaaaaaaaaaaah! Everybody get clear!” I screamed. I ran to Woodley and grabbed his jacket, thinking to drag him to safety. But where might safety be found?
“What’s a Grogsson?” Williamson wondered and no sooner had the words come out of his mouth than he found out.
Oh God…
That tricycle…
It must have weighed three hundred pounds. It was constructed entirely of welded steel and looked capable of withstanding three or four direct artillery hits. He must have gone through all the metal he’d taken from Scotland Yard, for the cycle included one park bench and a municipal street lamp. It was gigantic—ample for even Grogsson’s frame. Where had he found tires to fit tricycle rims of such size? He hadn’t. The wheels were just hoops of steel, clad in jagged bits of scrap-metal that had been welded on at all angles. These rings of rolling shrapnel clawed the ground with such effectiveness that even Grogsson’s mighty pedal-pumps did not cause them to slide or skid. The hedge walls didn’t slow him; he smashed through with perfect impunity.
He wore his familiar bowler, jacket and tie, but had matched them (poorly) to the most immense pair of schoolboy shorts I had ever seen and a pair of gigantic hobnail boots. Oh, and he had a little pair of brass goggles, just like Violet Smith’s. Other than that, the only thing he wore was the grim visage of somebody who knows he’s about to enter into a fight to the death, but that’s all right because he’s rather good at that sort of thing. He tore through the final hedge less than a dozen feet from me. Five feet closer and he’d have sawed Jack Woodley’s legs right off.
As soon as he cleared the maze, Grogsson made straight for the racecourse, howling his battle cry. He entered just ahead of Charlington and tried to ram him. But Charlington was nimbler. Far nimbler. He easily swerved away and kept after Violet Smith. Despite her efforts, Charlington was gaining. Grogsson set off after them, but what could he do? It was clear he didn’t have the speed to catch Charlington.
So, he simply turned his machine around and set off the other way. He met them head-on as they cleared the boulders-swinging-about-on-the-end-of-ropes section and entered the angry-dogs-on-short-leads hazard. Again, Grogsson tried to ram Charlington. Again, Charlington dodged him easily. He even gave a laugh of triumph as he pedaled past.
Grogsson howled in frustration, but nevertheless adapted admirably. He pedaled straight across to the other side of the oval, dismounted and waited. As Smith and Charlington cleared the corner and sped towards him, Grogsson reached down and scooped up a few of the jagged rocks that had been strewn about as obstacles. He flung one at Charlington. Violet gave a squeal of terror as it whizzed past her, but Charlington merely swerved to one side. Grogsson loosed the second stone; Charlington dodged again.
Now, I know I may have spoken archly of Grogsson’s intelligence, but I will grant him this: in battle, his creative impulses are absolutely inspired. When he next reached for a projectile, Grogsson chose not a stone, but a magnificent log, twenty-five feet long and as thick as a man’s torso. He waited for Violet to come past him, then whipped it lengthwise, across the track and hurled it forward. The thing was longer than the track was wide; Charlington had nowhere to go. He leapt clear of his saddle, just as the log smashed his beloved tricycle to scrap. He landed behind Grogsson, who turned to face him with a gloating smile.
“Again, Charlington dodged him easily.”
Perhaps he should not have been so smug. True, Charlington could not equal Grogsson for strength or toughness, because… honestly… what can? Yet Charlington possessed such an abundance of agility as to render those advantages moot. As the two set at one another, it grew rapidly apparent that Grogsson was overmatched. Though his punches would have cracked brick walls and his kicks could have felled rhinoceri, they struck nothing but empty air. Charlington gleefully dodged them all, ducking in from time to time to slash at Grogsson with his claws. Most of Charlington’s attacks glanced off Grogsson’s hairy hide, but a few found purchase. Twenty seconds into the fight, Grogsson was amassing an impressive collection of little wounds.
Violet was coming round towards us, so I left Woodley to the clumsy, mechanical ministrations of Cyril Morton and ran to the edge of the track, shouting, “Miss Smith! This way! We’ll save you!”
Though I’m sure she had better uses for her breath, she spared me just enough to yell, “There’s two laps left!”
“But… What?” I spluttered. “The race doesn’t matter! Or look: there’s a monster fight on the track. Surely that cancels the race, doesn’t it?”
Yet Horton Williamson approached, waving his pistol imperiously and shouting, “No! This man has no say in the matter! He is not a race official!”
As Violet Smith tore past, she gave me a little shrug that said, “What can I do? You’re not a race official.”
She continued round to where Grogsson and Charlington battled. Grogsson scooped up his opponent’s wrecked tricycle and tried to smash him with it, but Charlington danced away, then back in, slashing at Torg’s eyes. Grogsson recoiled, howling. Charlington could not help but laugh at his stricken foe, which was just the opportunity Violet Smith needed to dart her bicycle between them, neatly clearing the most hazardous hazard of the day.
Charlington seemed rather surprised to see her flash past. Yet this was sufficient to remind him that—regardless of any monster duels he might be engaged in—he was losing the race. He took a page from Grogsson’s book and charged straight across the track to intercept Violet near the start/finish line. Grogsson stayed on his heels, which would have been comforting if it didn’t mean there was a monster battle planned for where Holmes, Williamson and I were standing.
As I scrambled to safety, Charlington stopped in the middle of the track and Grogsson nearly ploughed into him. Again, Charlington leapt aside, but you could see he was rather tired of Grogsson’s interference. He’d inflicted significant damage while suffering none himself, yet if Charlington were ever going to have some nice, uninterrupted time to murder Violet Smith, it was clear Grogsson must be dealt with first. Stepping under a mighty left-handed swing, Charlington came up behind Grogsson’s flailing fist and struck. He buried the claws of his right hand wrist-deep in Grogsson’s side.
Grogsson smiled.
Charlington twisted his fingers in Grogsson’s guts, staring up at the big detective, no doubt hoping to see him cry out. Grogsson did not. With practiced calm he reached his left hand down, grabbed Charlington’s wrist and plucked the talons out of his side. Then…
And this is the key bit…
He didn’t let go.
There would be no more dodging about for Lord Charlington. From that point on, it was no longer a fight, simply… well… how to put it? Ah!
Fist-murder.
Holmes, Woodley, Williamson, Morton and I watched with varying expressions of wonder and horror.
“Way to go, old chap!” Holmes cheered, as the blows rained down. “That will show him!”
“Er… yes… um… quite right,” I agreed, glad for the victory but more than a bit put off by the treatment Charlington was receiving. He was a lord, after all. Woodley and Williamson star
ed, mouths agape. Cyril Morton began to cry.
“Get him again!” Holmes shouted. “Again! One more! Oh look, Watson: Grogsson’s pulled the Jingo’s false moustache off! I suppose we might remove ours as well.”
“You seem to be half-right, Holmes,” I said.
“Eh?”
“It appears Lord Charlington was the only one present whose grandiose facial hair was genuine. Yes, Grogsson has removed it, but note that the upper lip has come away as well.”
Woodley, who had regained his feet with Cyril’s help, went positively green and declared, “By God! I don’t think I shall ever be able to eat again.”
“You’d have an easier time of it than Lord Charlington, I’ll bet,” Holmes noted.
Grogsson whipped what was left of Charlington up over his head and smashed him down onto the ground. Then up again and down on the other side. Then back to the first side again. Then he flung the pulpy mess away into the trees.
“No! My angel!” Williamson cried. “What have you done?” With tears in his eyes, he pointed his pistol at Grogsson’s back and pulled back the hammer. This proved to be a deadly mistake. The click alerted Grogsson, who spun around and smote Williamson with the only weapon he had to hand: the disembodied leg of the until-so-recently-Living Jingo. The blow was so savage that two of the Jingo’s talon-like toes poked through Williamson’s temple and into his brain. He fell, twitching and writhing.
“Well,” I said, gazing from Williamson, to the leg-shot Woodley, to the well-lacerated Grogsson. “Looks like I’ve got a bit of work to do, eh?”
Having at last negotiated the slower section of the track, Violet Smith rattled up to us.
Aaaaand right on past, causing me to stammer, “What is she…? Oh… No, of course… One more lap.”
Grogsson stalked up, wiping his nose with the back of his blood-soaked forearm. As he neared, Holmes and I at last divested ourselves of our false facial hair—an act that caused Grogsson to jump back and cry, “Warlock? Watson? What you doing here?”
The Hell-Hound of the Baskervilles Page 12
