“Look, we British have allowed some of our positions of authority to be inherited—your baronetcy is one such honor. Now, we would not have done this if we did not trust in English blood. We know—we know—that the excellence of lords is passed to their scions. The stiff upper-lippedness. The quick mind and willing courage. The fashion sense! To see someone who does not seem English advancing to such a position threatens everything we think we know about the world.”
He gave me an angry look, but I could see in his eyes that he was digesting the wisdom of my words. Finally, he sighed. “Yeah. All right. I guess I gotta work on that.”
“Thank you, Sir Henry.”
“You’ll let me know if I take a wrong step?”
“I’m not sure I could stop myself.”
“Now that that is all settled,” Mortimer said, “I wonder if we might address the matter of the day. I’m sure Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson wouldn’t mind if you joined us for a spot of tea…”
Sir Henry nodded, but asked, “Got any coffee?”
“Tea!” I cried, louder than I meant to.
“But… coffee’s better.”
“Not in your public opinion, it isn’t! The day we find an English aristocrat who does not positively worship a cup of tea is the day the empire crumbles!”
“Argh… fine… tea. But with lots o’ milk and sugar. That’s okay, isn’t it?”
“Of course it is. Don’t be silly.”
Mortimer handed him his cup of milky tea, which he accepted dutifully. As we all began to settle ourselves in the sitting-room chairs, Sir Henry wondered aloud, “So, is that why you had me meet you here, Mortimer? For this little tea intervention?”
“Oh no, Sir Henry, for a different reason entirely.”
“Which is?”
“Um… Well, how should I say it? How does one approach the subject of…” Mortimer stammered and sputtered for a few moments, but finally gave up. He shrugged, withdrew from his pocket a document that had to be at least one hundred years old, slapped it on the table and said, “Sir Henry, you are going to be killed by a demon.”
2
From the pen of Landron Baskerville
Baskerville Hall, Dartmoor, 18 August 1747
My dear boys, you are nearing that age where you must set out from this, our family seat, into the larger world. The other schoolboys will be cruel. Expect pranks, do not shy from the occasional use of fisticuffs, and be prepared to hear wicked things said. I do not doubt that the other boys will call you “cursed” and say you are “descended from blackguards and cads” and insist that you are destined to be “hunted to your death by a demonic dog”.
You are not to assume that this is merely something boys say to each other. It is particular to the two of you and, I am sorry to say, it is true.
It all begins with your great-grandfather, Sir Hugo Baskerville, who was a right bastard, and no denying. Safe in this Hall, he abused the folk all about with abandon and impunity. It is rumored he used Baskerville Hall as a center for the study of dark magic. Whatever the purpose of Sir Hugo’s midnight congregations, we must pause to consider the happenings at one such gathering on Michaelmas, the year of our lord 1643.
On that night, Sir Hugo was met here by several of his confederates, whose identities are lost to us. He was a widower—his wife Olivia having perished in a fall from the East Tower window—and was engaged in the search for a suitable replacement. One particular local woman had been the recipient of most of his attentions. We know little of her, save that she was sweet of appearance and disposition and wished nothing to do with the blackguard, Hugo. For months he courted her, but always she resisted. So, of course, he kidnapped her and locked her in the East Tower.
This dark deed was perpetrated only three days before Michaelmas. Sir Hugo was already planning to host an event of some sort on that night, and appears to have decided to “save” her for the festivities. Just after sundown, Michaelmas night, his confederates began to arrive. In short order, they were deep in their cups and arguing loudly. A topic of some merriment was the fate of the poor woman who waited in the tower. Doubtless, she could hear them in their revels. Driven by the horror of what approached, she risked the fate of Hugo’s wife, but managed what the late Lady Baskerville could not. She climbed down the ivy and safely reached the bottom of the tower, then set off across the moor, towards her family abode.
At the witching hour, Sir Hugo arrived to take her down to the party, but found the room empty. This apparently caused no end of fun at Sir Hugo’s expense amongst the assembled rabble. Hugo called for horse and hound, climbed into his saddle and set his dogs upon her.
It is not clear how the maiden met her end. I blush to say, it is likely she was run down by Sir Hugo’s dogs, which he valued for their ferocity. Most probably, she was mauled by his pack and lost her life upon the moor. In any case, she never returned to her family or was seen by the eyes of men. Sir Hugo is universally blamed for her demise.
Yet, the more interesting occurrence that night (at least to you, my poor sons) must be the death of Sir Hugo. His guests followed him onto the moor. After a few minutes’ gallop, they came across a strange sight: one of Sir Hugo’s hounds, with all his limbs torn off, struggling to drag himself back to Baskerville Hall. In a moment more, they found themselves riding through the charnel remains of Hugo’s whole pack, each of them rent and torn, such that their innards traced the path to Sir Hugo’s fallen stallion and finally to the man himself.
You must know, my sons, that the moor has a certain reputation. It has long been assumed to be a realm where man is a guest and not the master. Dartmoor is home to many of England’s greater ley-lines and is considered more the domain of fairies than men. Here, upon the moor, wicked deeds can walk, can breathe, can kill. The local peasants say that Hugo’s evil acts, culminating with the release of the hounds upon his poor hostage, were given form by the moor and set loose to visit back upon him and his family the cruelty he had shown to others.
When Sir Hugo’s guests at last found him, he lay upon his back, on blood-soaked ground. Over him stood a creature of hell, a hound of such stature as had never been seen before—burning hackle, tooth and mane, with unholy fires. In its teeth it held the front part of Sir Hugo’s throat, which it had torn free, leaving him to scream the last of his wicked breath out in ever-lessening gurgles. Several of the guests are said to have harried the beast with blade and musket, but to no avail. As soon as Sir Hugo’s soul had fled, the beast turned and charged them, breaking through the line of terrified steeds and disappearing upon the moor.
Since that day, the members of our family have been unhappy in their demises. Well… probably most men are, I suppose. But we are less happy than most.
My father, as you know, went out alone upon the moor one night, and never returned. If you doubt the ferocity of the beast, visit the dressing room of the second bedroom from the end, third floor, west wing. It was here your grandfather Winthrop installed his mistress, according to the Baskerville tradition (wives in the east wing, mistresses in the west). Arriving early one evening to find her still at dinner, the old lecher thought to have a bath whilst he awaited her. Woe that the dressing-room window—which we believe he left open—looks out upon the moor. The beast left us very little of him, but it did have the courtesy to leave most of the corpse in the bathtub, which aided us in cleanup. The mark of the beast’s nails can still be seen upon the floorboards. The smaller ones on the walls are Sir Winthrop’s; he must have clawed awfully during that final struggle.
My sons, you may be asking yourselves: what motivation have I to tread the narrow path, to be a man of virtue, if despite all my pains, I am to be slain and dragged to hell by a demon hound? The answer, of course is: none. None at all. If you are to be punished as a blackguard, it falls to you to deserve your fate and thus keep heaven’s justice intact. You need not be overt murderers; in fact the legacy of our family is in subtle oppression. I therefore enjoin you to focus your school stud
ies on topics that facilitate personal gain by socially accepted misuse of your fellow man. Politics and law are promising, but I tell you this: the future lies in banking.
Your doting father,
Sir Landron Baskerville
We all read the letter over, a few times. Dr. Mortimer fretted—afraid, I suppose, that we should laugh at him for thinking such a thing possible. Sir Henry’s broad shoulders sagged, as if this were not an unexpected development but a fate long dreaded. Still, the fellow who most surprised me was Holmes. The joviality he’d gained upon the arrival of a fresh adventure fled from him. He returned to his sulk, huddled on one side of the sofa. Every one of the dark emotions crossed his brow. Anger. Guilt. Sadness. Resentment. Something in the tale of this blackguard and his hound seemed to shake Holmes to his very core.
I knew Holmes too well to seek the truth of it from him—he could be quite inscrutable when he tried. Instead, I turned to Sir Henry and said, “You look distraught, sir, and I do not blame you. Yet I cannot help but notice: you do not seem surprised.”
“I ain’t,” he sighed. “My dad and Uncle Charlie… they took it pretty serious. I learned to shoot, firing at hound-shaped targets. They never let me have a dog. When they were drinkin’ they’d take bets on which of them the hound would get first. It was good fun, but you could tell there was a hint of fear in it.”
Mortimer leaned in and told Holmes and me, “Sir Henry’s father never inherited the title or the Hall, for Sir Charles was the elder. Now that he is gone, all the estate passes to Sir Henry and I could not bear to let him go there—not before consulting Mr. Holmes. He is an expert in such matters, Sir Henry, the only one I could find. Please, Mr. Holmes, won’t you tell us what to do?”
But Holmes did not. He was in a sulk—sunk in sullen silence. Thus, it fell to me to ask, “Sir Charles’s death was recent, I take it?” Mortimer and Sir Henry nodded. “And you believe he was slain by this demon hound?”
Sir Henry gave a snort and said, “Naw. Bum ticker. Poor Uncle Charlie had a weak heart—finally gave out on him.”
“Well! There you have it!” snapped Holmes, from the corner of the sofa. “If a man’s heart should choose to neglect its duty and cease to beat, that is its own business, isn’t it? It’s not my fault! Not anyone’s! A more time-honored and traditional mode of dying does not exist. Happens to lots of people. No hell-hound required. Case closed. Good day, sirs; Watson can show you out and if—”
But Mortimer cut him off, pleading, “Yes, but… don’t you see… Why should Sir Charles’s heart have chosen that particular moment to fail him? The situation is mystifying! Sir Charles had gone to the yew alley—alone, exposed to the moor he feared—and he must have done so in the dead of night. I’ve no idea what circumstance could drive him there, but I can well understand why his heart gave out.”
“Nonsense! One time is as good as another for a heart attack, don’t you think? You ought to think a little more, sir, before you speak!” said Holmes, who often dispensed advice when he’d do better to follow it.
“Not necessarily, Warlock,” said I. “Though it is true that the human heart can fail at any time, such episodes are more common in moments of exertion, surprise, fear or excitement. I think what Dr. Mortimer is implying is that Sir Charles saw the hound he’d feared since youth and that the strain was too much for his heart to bear.”
“Just so! Just so!” Mortimer agreed. “Dr. Watson, you have seen men who died of heart attacks, I suppose?”
“Of course.”
“So you know that they often clutch at their arm or chest?”
“As is only natural. They feel the thing going wrong inside them.”
Mortimer leaned in excitedly and whispered, “Sir Charles did not grasp his chest. He clawed the ground! I think he was trying to drag himself away from the thing he saw! Even in those final moments—even as he felt his own heart bursting within him—he did not fear death as much as he feared the beast upon the moor!”
“You had occasion to examine his body, then?” I asked.
“Of course. I am the only medical practitioner in the parish. As soon as Sir Charles’s body was discovered, the local constable and I were immediately sent for. I was amongst the first upon the scene.”
“Then I think you must tell us everything. When was he discovered? By whom? Tell us all you can remember of the location and situation.”
Mortimer took a breath and began. “Sir Charles kept very little staff at Baskerville Hall—just a groom, a gardener, a scullery maid, the butler Mr. Barrymore, and his wife who serves as housekeeper and cook. On the morning of 27 July, the Barrymores missed Sir Charles at breakfast. They went to look in on him and found his bed unslept in. Frantically, the staff searched the house, then the grounds; that’s where they found him. Behind Baskerville Hall, there is a yew alley which stretches out across the moor, to the guesthouse. Sir Charles had gone out for a walk, quite late at night—we know because Barrymore looked in at nine-thirty the previous evening to see if his master wanted anything before he retired. Sir Charles must have dressed himself and gone out sometime after that.”
“Which, you say, was quite out of the ordinary for him?” I said.
“Unaccountable! His fear of the hound was palpable, Dr. Watson. He did not like to go alone upon the moor, even in daylight. Why he should brave it at night, alone, unbeknownst to his staff is quite beyond my wit.”
“Hmmm… Mysterious already…”
“And it only gets more so,” Mortimer said. “For most of the length of the yew alley, the moor is obscured by hedges. Yet Sir Charles stood at the one spot where the moor he feared was most visible and where he was most exposed: at the single gate that leads out from the alley upon the moor.”
“And how do you know this?”
“From his footprints, Dr. Watson. The gravel near the gate shows that he must have waited there, pacing, for quite some time. The butts of two of Sir Charles’s cigars were there, with corresponding piles of ash upon the stone wall near the gate.”
I recoiled slightly. Holmes had formidable mystic powers. Some of our friends were monsters in their own right. Myself, I only had the powers of deduction and logic I’d learned for medicine and repurposed for crime. Now here was another doctor, demonstrating to me he’d already been over the scene and produced deductions that were at least the equal of any I might have made. I blushed and the feeling that I might not have much to offer began to creep into my mind.
Mortimer continued, “And here is another peculiar fact: just before he expired, Sir Charles was running. One can easily tell, for the footprints were deeper, more widely spaced and made with only the toes of his feet. To run for help might be expected, whether he were fleeing a thing that frightened him, or if he felt the onset of a heart attack. Yet, his footsteps led not back towards Baskerville Hall, but away down the yew alley! How do you account for it, Dr. Watson?”
“Only two possibilities suggest themselves,” I said. “Either something prevented his flight back to the Hall, or else he was scared beyond the capacity to make a sound decision.”
“Yes! Yes, I thought so too! And of course, the heart attack would seem to be the most likely cause of his fright, but there is evidence of another! I cannot prove that the hound was present that night, but I can show you where it came through the wall, if it were.”
“The gate, one presumes.”
“No, sir, the wall just next to the gate.”
“It jumped over?”
“Ha! It melted through! Beside the gate is a blackened gap in the wall. The stone is quite melted, yet there is no trace of damage upon the gravel path, or on the moor beyond the wall.”
“But such a quantity of heat must have left some mark,” I insisted. “It must have come from a potent source. Surely the vegetation of the moor and the wood of the gate must have succumbed long before the stone wall, eh?”
“One would think,” Mortimer shrugged. “I cannot explain the thing, merely recount what I
saw. You can see it yourself, if you please.”
I could not fathom the source of these phenomena and Holmes still had not offered any help. I therefore elected the most direct course and asked, “What do you make of this case, Holmes?”
“What do I make of it? Only that this story is not credible! It is incredible! Incongruous! Ludicrous! Risible!”
I stared at my friend with growing suspicion. Those who were not well acquainted with Holmes might have let the tirade pass, but I knew of one verbal peculiarity that most men did not: when Holmes lied, he had the tendency to sound like a thesaurus. It was as if, in running through all available synonyms for his lie, he might stumble upon one that was somehow more believable than the rest. What his reasons for discrediting Mortimer’s story might be, I could not guess, but I grew evermore certain that Holmes knew more about the matter than he was letting on.
Mortimer, of course, sprung to the defense of his theory. “Now I do not say that it is the Hound of the Baskervilles who has done this thing—not with certainty. But what else could it be? The legend is pernicious, Mr. Holmes. And over the last three years, it has only grown. Ask any of the local shepherds! Most all of them claim to have heard the baying of the hound by night, and a few of them claim to have seen it! Once this legend had faded to near obscurity, but nowadays the taverns are buzzing with talk of it.”
“And so, what began as a centuries-old myth has devolved into a tavern tale,” Holmes scoffed. “Your story is ridiculous, sir! Preposterous! Absurd! Unbelievable! Far-fetched! Outlandish! Er… have I tried ‘risible’ yet?”
“You have,” I said. “Yet, there are elements to Mortimer’s account that are most perplexing, don’t you think? I should say this bears looking into.”
Holmes gave me an angry glance and I could just detect a whiff of smoke escaping from under his collar. No sooner had it slipped out than Sir Henry screwed up his nose and asked, “What’s that smell?”
The Hell-Hound of the Baskervilles Page 14
