“Oh, Lestrade thought you might like a little help,” Holmes chirped. “Not that you needed it, eh?”
Grogsson nodded and moved past us, towards our two companions, approaching Woodley first. Towering over the fifty-something transportee, Grogsson demanded, “Who you? Good man? Or bad man?”
“Um… well… I suppose I entered into this adventure as a bad man,” Woodley stammered, “but I repented of it, you see, and I tried to do my best by Violet and I never harmed anybody, so… please don’t hurt me?”
Grogsson stared down at him for a few moments, clenching and unclenching his blood-soaked fists, before he at last decided, “M’kay.”
Woodley sighed his relief, soiled his britches, and fainted dead away. Grogsson next moved to Morton, poked him in the chest with one finger (leaving a pretty impressive smear of Jingo-juice) and asked, “Who you?”
I leapt to pull Cyril back and shouted, “He is Cyril Morton, Miss Smith’s fiancé, and you are not—under any circumstances—to murder him in hopes of courting her!”
Grogsson stared down at me as if he could not fathom what I was talking about. I harrumphed and told him, “I think it’s perfectly clear to everybody that you’re smitten with her. Why else would you spend two weeks following her about, construct a battle-trike and fight a monster on her behalf?”
He let my question roll about in his head for a few moments, before giving me one of the best two-word answers I’ve ever had. “She asked.”
I recoiled, shocked. “You’re not in love with Violet Smith?”
Grogsson, suddenly sheepish, cleared his throat and confided, “Real nice lady, sure. But… um… kinda weird.”
Even as he said it, the non-object of his affections cleared the start/finish line for the final time and coasted over to us, exhausted and triumphant.
“Yaaaaaaaaaay!” cried Holmes. “The winner!”
That is about all there was of the matter, save cleanup. Chiltern Grange served as our infirmary. Roaring Jack Woodley was quickly put to rights. Grogsson took a bit more effort. As I worked, Holmes hovered, his mood becoming ever more glum. Finally I asked him, “What’s the matter, Warlock?”
“Oh, I suppose everything turned out all right, but… we never solved the mystery!”
“Didn’t we?”
“No! Who was the solitary tricyclist?”
“Oh,” said Woodley, from his sickbed. “I was. I couldn’t let Violet go all the way to Farnham alone, could I? Not with Charlington after her.”
“Well enough, but who was the second?” Holmes pressed, determined to maintain his disappointment.
“Torg!” said Grogsson, from the next bed over.
“All right,” said Holmes, “but the identity of the third tricyclist shall ever remain—”
“That was me!” Cyril piped up. “When I got Violet’s letters, I had to come.”
“And the fourth, we all know, was Charlington,” I interjected, before Holmes could start.
“Yes, yes, yes!” tutted Holmes. “But who could it have been upon that mysterious fifth tricycle?”
“Well, that was… you and me, Holmes.”
“Ah… so it was.”
Horton Williamson, regrettably, could not be saved. The brain swelling was too severe and he languished in delirium. He died three days later, delivering half-sensible, fever-bred monologues on the subject of angels and how—if you place all your hopes and faith in them—they always let you down. With his passing, the formula for his angel-making serum was forever lost.
Or so I foolishly assumed.
THE HELL-HOUND OF THE BASKERVILLES
PART I
FROM THE JOURNAL OF DR. JOHN WATSON
1
MUCH AS I LONGED TO SAY SUMMER WAS SLOWLY giving way to the coming autumn, the truth was it had gone already. September is still a summer month in London, but this was the start of October, when each sunny day is an act of denial. The sky, more often gray than blue, had begun to offer its offensive autumn rains. Yet even those sudden deluges had not been enough to allow the leaves to keep their green. Orange and yellow death crept at their edges and a few of London’s trees lay already bare.
As I stood divesting myself of hat, coat, gloves and cane after my morning constitutional, Holmes asked me, “How was the walk, Watson?”
I could tell he cared not a whit for my answer. He was in a proper sulk and sat wreathed in smoke, puffing at that pipe of his—a comfort to which he often turned when he had nothing else to occupy his mind.
“I wish you would join me, Holmes. The air might do you good.”
“It might,” he replied, evasively. Not only did he look irritated, he also spoke numbly, as one who has a terrible head cold.
“Is something the matter, Holmes?”
“I have been tyrannized by a sneeze all morning. Do you know the feeling? You need to sneeze, but no matter how long you sit and wait, it never comes. I tell you, my head is pounding with it! I can feel it in there, Watson! It is solid as a brick and long as a man’s leg.”
Being a doctor, I not only knew the feeling, but also a cure. I opened the spice drawer, from which I withdrew a bit of pepper and mixed it in my palm with a pinch of chili powder. I stepped behind Holmes and waited for him to draw his next heavy, melancholic breath. As soon as he began it, I flicked my little cloud of irritant into the air in front of him. He grasped the table in surprise, but before he could protest at the treatment, he shattered the very air with a thunderous sneeze. A three-foot-long black rod flew from his nose and clattered to the table.
“By God!” I cried.
“Owwwwwwwwwwwww!”
“What is it, Holmes?”
“Ah! Ah! My nose!”
“No—the thing that came out of your nose! What the deuce is it?”
“I can’t look,” he protested, clutching his bleeding proboscis. “You tell me.”
I leaned in over the unusual projectile. “It seems to be a walking stick.”
“Odd,” said Holmes, who had a talent for understatements at moments such as these. “What do you think it means, Watson?”
“Well, Holmes, here is what I make of it,” I began, examining it as I spoke. “It is owned by a country doctor who trained in London. He likes animals, but he has little care for impressing his fellow man.”
“How do you know?”
“Well, it helps that there’s an inscription: ‘For James Mortimer, M.R.C.S. From his friends at C.C.H.—1876.’ So we know he is a doctor, who spent time at Charing Cross Hospital, but I will promise you he no longer resides in London.”
“Er… how…?”
“From the wear. Observe that it is badly worn where he grips it—and also here, in the middle—but that the steel walking cap is practically untouched. Thus, he uses it a great deal, but not on London’s paved streets or the stones would have taken their toll on the tip. Equally certain is that he does not carry it in the presence of London doctors. They would mock him for allowing the badge of his gentility to look so battered.”
“Did you say he managed to wear away the middle of his cane?” Holmes wondered. “How did he do that?”
“He hasn’t. He relies on another to fetch and carry it for him. He has chosen his help in the typical country style—or shall I say, with the lack of style, typical in the country. In the course of serving his master, this particular aide has left tooth marks all across the middle.”
“Tooth marks?” Warlock wondered.
“He keeps a dog.”
“Bravo, Watson!” Warlock cheered. “But what do you suppose this could mean—sneezing out a walking stick?”
“That, I cannot say. Observation serves to illuminate what you have disgorged, but it fails when it comes to the concern of why. Surely this is your purview, Holmes. What does it usually mean when this sort of thing happens?”
“Dashed if I know,” Holmes shrugged. “This is the first time I have sneezed out another man’s personal effects. I don’t mind telling you that it is
an experience I hope not to repeat! Unless it is something smaller, like cufflinks or some such.”
“Then I suggest we put it in the elephant foot, beside my own.” Walking to the door, I slid it into the umbrella stand and stated, “All we can do is wait and hope for clarity to…” I did not finish my sentence, as the bell rang.
“Hey!” yelled Mrs. Hudson from outside, giving our door a kick. “Gent’man to see Mr. Holmes!”
Holmes favored me with that look of self-satisfaction he generated whenever he knew he was about to do something impressive, and loudly called out, “By all means, Dr. Mortimer, do come in and join us!”
“By Jove! However did you know me?” cried our visitor, pushing open the door. He was a man in his late thirties, with a young, eager face and an air of earnestness. His uneven whiskers and careless dress indicated he had little regard for his appearance.
Warlock, who often treated wonderment as if it were praise, smiled generously and replied, “My dear Dr. Mortimer, there are a thousand telling traits we carry on our person at all times. Observed by the trained eye, these seemingly innocuous clues can reveal all.”
“Well, yes,” said Mortimer, “but you hadn’t observed me yet. I was outside.”
“Oh… damn…”
“And I feel I should mention: I am only a practitioner. He with his MRCS has not earned the right to the title ‘doctor’.”
“Tosh!” I scoffed. “I’m a doctor myself and can tell you: that is a useless distinction. Why a man who has spent eight years studying paintings should be called doctor, while a man who has helped hundreds keep their health may not, I will never know.”
Mortimer seemed much pleased by this and gave me a nod of thanks. I reached out to shake his hand and declared myself, “Dr. John Watson, at your service. Waste no time in wondering how Warlock Holmes comes by his deductions, Dr. Mortimer, but take heart. What does it prove except that he is without peer at the very skills you doubtlessly came to engage him for?”
Mortimer appeared ready to agree, but paused. It seemed he was one of those rare men on whom the burden of truth rests heavily, for he said, “Well, except Alphonse Bertillon, of course. I mean, if we are to discuss the number of subjects apprehended, or contributions to the field…”
“Hey!” protested Holmes.
Yet, Mortimer had a point I could not deny. I confess that I bore—and still do—a great respect for the French savant. “Always excepting Monsieur Bertillon,” I conceded.
“Hey!” said Holmes, again.
“In most matters, I mean! Most matters,” Mortimer said, to placate Holmes. “I’m sure for the question of the day, you are the only man.”
“How unfortunate for you,” Holmes groused.
Yet Mortimer seemed already lost in his own confusion; he said, “I confess, I am quite out of my depth. I come to you with a great question—a mystery I cannot fathom. And also, this very morning, I have experienced a second mystery. I am sure it is of little importance, yet it confounds my understanding. Mr. Holmes, I need your help.”
“Only with the small matter, I assume,” said Holmes. “The large one is probably better left to the impressive Monsieur Bertillon…”
“Holmes, stop it,” I said.
“Both matters may be solved by you, I hope,” said Mortimer, still oblivious to Holmes’s sarcasm.
“Let us begin with the lesser matter,” I suggested.
“Oh… well… it’s of no import, I think, but much strangeness. I am waiting for a gentleman who is to arrive by train today, as we shall discuss in a moment. This morning, I went to the station to check the schedule and what do you think happened? My walking stick! It disappeared!”
I began to formulate an explanation, but Holmes’s eyes twinkled with mischief and he held up a hand to silence me. When I say that, I do not refer to the widely understood social convention of indicating with a hand or finger that you wish for somebody to remain silent. No. Holmes waved a hand at me and I suddenly found myself gripped by a terrible, invisible force. My chest was constricted so violently, I thought my ribs would break. I could neither inhale, nor exhale and certainly not speak. I struggled against it, in vain, hardly able to move my body at all.
“Whatever can you mean, Mortimer?” asked Holmes. “Has something convinced you that you misplaced your walking stick?”
“Not misplaced,” Mortimer insisted. “It disappeared! As I was leaning on it! I almost fell in front of the train.”
“Poppycock!” Holmes declared. “You walked in with it in your hand, just a moment ago.”
“I did no such thing.”
“Excuse me, you did. You walked in, greeted us and placed it in that elephant-foot umbrella stand by the door.”
“What are you talking about?” Mortimer wondered. “If that were true then it would be… right…” his words trailed off as he turned to behold his familiar walking stick, jutting its handle helpfully towards him. All the breath rushed out of him and he stood agape, helpless, trusting nevermore in his own powers of reason.
“Oh dear…” said Holmes. “Doctor, what does it indicate when somebody perceives things which are not actual? Does it not suggest insanity?”
Mortimer gave a pained look and admitted, “Yes… I suppose it does.”
“Excuse me, but I was addressing Watson,” Holmes said. “He is, after all, an actual doctor.”
Warlock turned to smile at me and suddenly I felt the hellish grip fall away. My breath returned in a sudden gasp, which I used to form the words, “Holmes! Really! That was offside!”
“And yet we find the smaller matter solved.” He smiled and, as I had come to know him well, I could tell his petty vengeance had run its course. “Perhaps we ought to turn our attentions to the larger concern?”
“No, no. We mustn’t. Not yet,” said Mortimer. “The gentleman it regards has agreed to meet me here. He is in grave danger, Mr. Holmes, and he knows nothing of it. I did not know how to tell him without seeming a fool. I thought, perhaps, if you could hear it as well and offer your opinion… He should be along at any moment.”
“As you wish,” said Holmes, shrugging and turning back to reclaim his still-smoking pipe.
“Dr. Mortimer, would you care for a cup of tea while you wait? I find it has a great power to soothe the nerves.”
“Thank you, I would.”
I settled him in a chair by the fire, wrapped his shaking shoulders in a blanket and set about making the tea. The water had scarce reached a boil when the bell rang once more.
“Another gentleman—a real gentleman—to see Mr. Holmes,” Mrs. Hudson announced. From her tone, I presumed Mrs. Hudson preferred this new visitor to the last. Sure enough, as I opened the door, I found her leaning upon his arm, staring up at him with wide dewy eyes which declared, “Hello, I am a little lost puppy dog. Wouldn’t you like to take me home?”
Yet such behaviors were expected from our remarkably sub-standard landlady. No, it was not she that drew my shocked gasp, but the man who accompanied her. He was short—he could not have stood more than five foot three. He was stocky, muscular and—though his youth would almost disqualify the description—grizzled. His dark hair swept up into two points just above either ear and his unkempt sideburns made a second set, just below. He wore a flannel shirt, dungarees, boots and braces: absolutely no single article of clothing fit for civilized company. The stumpy cigar he clenched in his teeth gave forth an aromatic bouquet, which declared that it was of a lordly quality and no small cost. This did little to dispel the impression that a wayward lumberjack had just been dumped upon my threshold and that I was expected to allow the filthy fellow into my house.
“By God!” I cried, staggering back. “A Canadian!”
True, my adventures with Holmes had brought me into contact with more than a few Americans, but this was my first Canadian. They may seem similar, but I assure you, they are an entirely different breed. The Americans had at least possessed the decency to rebel—to meet us upon the f
ield of blood and fire and to assert their right to self-govern with honor. The fact that they beat us indicates that they are not without their merits.
The Canadians can make no such claim. They remain within our empire and, as such, have a closer claim to our love. Yet, it seems to me, nothing ever comes from that place but beaver pelts and disreputable behavior.
“No, no, no, Dr. Watson,” Mortimer cried, flinging himself between us. “This gentleman has spent many years abroad, to be sure, but he is a British baronet, by right of birth. This is Sir Henry Baskerville.”
A Canadian with hereditary rank? My worst nightmare!
Our guest extended his hand towards me and said, “You c’n just call me Hank.”
“The devil I will, sir! I would sooner nail both my feet to a charging rhinoceros than call a member of the British aristocracy ‘Hank’!”
The impropriety of the situation was entirely lost on Holmes, who chose that moment to breeze past me, shake the outstretched hand and say, “It is an honor to meet you, Hank. Won’t you step inside?”
“Thanks, Mr…?”
“My name is Warlock Holmes. This is my friend, Dr. John Watson. James Mortimer I think you know already.”
“Just by correspondence,” the gruff baronet said, then shook Mortimer’s hand. “Good to meet you in person, Jim.”
“No,” I protested. “You must address him as James. Or better still, as Mortimer.”
Sir Henry slowly turned back to me and grunted, “You seem to have some kind of problem with me, eh, Doc?”
“Well… no, sir… I…” I had to take a moment to collect my thoughts. “I think I have a problem with our system of governance and social order.”
“Well, why are you takin’ it out on me?”
“Because you have wounded us, sir! You have hit us right in one of our ancient injuries—one of those chinks in the venerable armor every true Englishman loves so well.”
He stared at me, waiting for me to make some sense, I suppose.
The Hell-Hound of the Baskervilles Page 13
