No. I promise you that I am not, just as I promised you news of the good doctor, and I keep my promises.
He was so easy to track, you know, such a creature of habit with his strolls and his visits to you and his regular, ordered life. It was not hard to set one of my newly restored men on to him, no not at all, my friend, not hard at all! Of course, training the good doctor’s visitor proved much harder. Not for him the frenzy of the savage attack, the casually violent end. No, I wanted something so much more ordered and neat, as befits the author of such well-regarded and logical literature. Was he scared, do you think, upon opening his door late one night to find a dead man standing upon his doorstep? Did he freeze as the cursed thing reached for him? Perhaps he screamed, perhaps not. It may be that he was wary, armed, for the two of you must have made enemies other than me in your time as defenders of truth and justice. If so, he will have found that his weapons were useless, that the gun made no impact or that cutlass slashes did little other than open smiling mouths of flesh that dripped no blood and slowed his visitor not at all. I wish I could have been there watching, but alas, I had other tasks that required my attention. Did he fight, I wonder? I believe he may have done, struggling bravely for his life in the midnight hallway of his home. Certainly, his hands show the recent scars of a man defending himself. They are lying on my desk as I write this, two pale things whose stumps are ragged and cold. My dead servant brought them to me not 48 hours ago, along with the pen I use to write this letter. The pen came from the doctor’s desk, and you have no idea how long I had to work to train my servant to find it and bring it to me! Months of beating and explanation, of opening and closing desk drawers and cupboards, until finally he could recognise a pen and bring it here without destroying it.
The doctor’s hands look delicate but strong, the fingernails square-cut and clean. There are black hairs across the back of the hands, and liver spots because not even your companion was able to escape the ravages of age. He wore a ring on one finger and he has calluses on the tips of his right index finger and thumb. Perhaps he wrote too much! In the struggle, the littlest finger on his left hand has been broken, which annoys me. I made it clear that I wanted these most special parts of him unharmed, so that I could gaze upon the instruments which so easily removed me from your history and marvel at their power and their grace. And do you know, they are nothing special! They look, in fact, just like any other severed hands. Pale, the wrists bloody, the skin loose, mere flesh and bone.
He is, of course, only the first. I have vast armies of them, my greatest creations, entire warehouses in London and Paris and Berlin and so many other places, trained to hate, to attack, to loot, to destroy. Imagine them, looming from the darkness of the ginnels and then crashing through the doorways of homes in cities across Europe! Imagine the fear and the chaos and the mayhem! Can you hear them yet, I wonder, in the distance, reaping my revenge on a world that I have come to loath for its tolerance of you and its hatred of me? Are there screams? Shouts? The crash of glass or the roar of fires? Sit, sit. There is nothing you can do, man, nothing. I am no ham hock stage hound, to tell you of my plans before they occur. I loosed my armies as this letter was delivered to you, but I want you to be reassured: you hold a special place in my plans. Even now, within my troops, some of the dead know of you, are on their way to visit you. I have trained them long and well, and they represent the best of my work. I have spent many months upon them, teaching them their tasks most precisely and most specifically. You should be making their acquaintance soon, and they should be able to keep you occupied for many, many hours.
We shall not meet again so it remains only for me to say, all the best, dear chap! Enjoy your last few peaceful moments and be of good cheer. Your memory will live on although your flesh will, most assuredly, not.
Can you hear them? They are coming, Sherlock. They are coming.
Your affectionate friend and colleague
Professor James Moriarty
Of the Origin of the Hound of the Baskervilles
Barbara Roden
There is, on the desk before me, a half-sheet of foolscap paper. It is an unremarkable object, obviously old, for it is yellowing and much rubbed, and looks as if it will not unfold easily, as if reluctant to give up its secrets. Until two days ago I had not read it for many years, but I know the contents by heart. It is only one line in length; puzzling, even odd, the first time I read it, but it was to take on a deeper and more sinister meaning, the implications of which still strike a chill into me so many long years later. Mrs. Gardiner, my housekeeper, no longer casts a puzzled look at me at certain times of the year, when I insist on having all the curtains drawn well before sundown, and do not leave the house between sunset and sunrise.
She very nearly threw the paper away. It had, unbeknownst to me, fallen on the floor when I had occasion to open my private diary from the year 1899, and her eyes, keener than mine, spotted it. She picked it up and glanced at it, then asked if it was to be thrown out. I was shocked, for a moment, at how casually she treated the paper, holding it carelessly in one hand, as if it were an old receipt or piece of blotting paper. She cannot know what memories it evokes, and what terrible secrets it hides.
When she had gone I gave in to the temptation to unfold the paper, and was transported back across more than three decades. Strangely, perhaps, I did not immediately recall the occasion when Holmes and I had first seen it, but was instead reminded of the last time the four of us were together, and the paper was once again the focus of our attention. It lay on the table beside Sir Henry’s chair, where it had fallen from his hand. He was, Dr. Mortimer assured us, recovered from his ordeal, but I still found him greatly changed from the man I had first met more than a year earlier. The air of assurance was gone, replaced by a wariness bordering on nervousness, and the face that had been tanned and healthy was now pale, heightening the darkness of the shadows under his eyes. He would be dead within the decade, from the same heart disease which had claimed his uncle.
Sir Henry had asked if he could see the note, and I had acceded to his request, but only after Mortimer had given me a short nod. The baronet read the ragged line of words on the paper, then stared at it for some time, as if seeking the answer to a question. At last he dropped the note on the table, and returned to the subject which we had been discussing.
“Of course I can’t say I’m completely happy about the prospect, Doctor,” he said. “But I guess I’d rather have you write it up than anyone else … if it needs to be written, that is.”
“I believe it does, Sir Henry,” said Dr. Mortimer, his head bobbing up and down. “We have only been back in England for a month, and already I have had several enquiries from journalists. The circumstances of your inheritance, the events which occurred within weeks of your arrival, and then your abrupt departure from Baskerville Hall have not been forgotten. If we do not allow Dr. Watson to record the case, it will only be a matter of time before someone else does, and … well, there is still a good deal of superstitious talk among the country folk. It could be that whatever someone else writes will be far worse than the truth; and that is ghastly enough.”
“What do you say, Mr. Holmes?” asked the baronet, turning towards my friend. “Should the Doctor here write it up, or should we let sleeping dogs…” At which his voice trailed off, into silence.
“I think, Sir Henry,” said my friend slowly, his keen grey eyes surveying each one of us in turn, “that allowing Watson to write up the case for publication in The Strand, and letting news of its forthcoming publication be known, is the surest and safest course. That should prove sufficient to dissuade even the most diligent of Fleet Street journalists from pursuing the matter. I am not unaware that the good doctor’s accounts of my cases are eagerly awaited by the reading public, and that this tale would be the more welcome because of the long gap since the appearance of the last one.”
“But what of your embargo, Holmes?” I asked. “Since your return from the Reichenbach
you have forbidden me to publish details of any of your cases.”
“I have my reasons for that decision, as well you know, but I think” —here he paused, and glanced at Sir Henry’s anxious face—” that an exception can, and should, be made in this instance.”
“But with — certain amendments,” said Dr. Mortimer, also looking at the young baronet, who had been his charge for the past year.
“Of course,” said my friend. “Watson and I discussed this soon after we received your letter.”
“It will be easily done,” I assured them. “There are certain details of public record which cannot, of course, be altered; for the rest, I will be talking of events which were, in the main, witnessed only by the people in this room. You may certainly trust my discretion.”
“But what of Inspector Lestrade?” asked Sir Henry, his voice still troubled. “He was there, at — at the end. He will know.”
“Do not worry about Lestrade,” said Holmes, his voice firm. “It is in his interest to see that the true facts of the case are not revealed. Should his name be attached in any way to such a statement, it would mean the end of a long and, in many ways, distinguished career.”
“And Miss — I mean, Mrs. Stapleton. What of her?” The pain in Sir Henry’s voice was palpable as he spoke her name, and I knew that, however well his bodily injuries had healed, he still carried deep scars which would be with him until the grave.
“She will say nothing,” said Dr. Mortimer. “At the last interview I had with her, before she returned to Costa Rica, she made it plain that she had no wish for the true state of affairs to be revealed. Dr. Watson’s account will forestall any enterprising journalist who might be inclined to try to contact her. I shall write and explain this.”
Sir Henry was silent for some moments. Then he nodded his head, and for a moment there was present before us again the steady, solid, decisive man whom we had first met in October 1899. When he spoke once more it was in the tone of one who has decided upon a course of action and banished all doubt.
“I guess you’re both right, gentlemen. The story has to be told, and I can’t think of a finer man to tell it than Dr. Watson.” Sir Henry turned to me, and the glimmer of a smile tugged at his lips. “There won’t be a more eager reader of your tale than I, Doctor. I’ll look forward to seeing how the story turns out. It’s not often that a fellow gets to be surprised by events that he has already lived through.”
That conversation took place in late December of 1900, and I did not waste any time in informing The Strand Magazine that, should they desire it, a new story describing one of Sherlock Holmes’ most sensational cases would soon be forthcoming. The response was gratifyingly swift and positive, so I applied myself to the task. This proved more difficult than I had anticipated, due in no small part to the changes which, of necessity, had to be made to disguise the true events. At long last, however, the story was complete and, under the title The Hound of the Baskervilles, began appearing in August of 1901, to considerable acclaim and no small enthusiasm on the part of the reading public. Sir Henry and Dr. Mortimer were both pleased with the result, which did indeed put an end to enquiries about the matter; Lestrade maintained a dignified silence; we heard nothing from Mrs. Stapleton; and Holmes contented himself by saying that while he did not normally agree with my manner of presenting his cases before the public, in this instance it served a greater purpose. “For after reading the narrative you have set before them, Doctor, no one will be inclined to suspect that it hides even darker secrets.”
Thus the matter has stood for three decades; and I wonder why I feel compelled to revisit it, and recall events which have lost none of their power to horrify me. Compelled I am, however; not only to remember, but to write it down. I am an old man now, the last survivor of that small group which bore witness to the events which occurred in Devonshire in October of 1899. If I do not commit the details — the true details — to paper, then the story will be lost forever. The now-worn piece of foolscap which Mrs. Gardiner wanted to throw away is, to my mind, the key to the entire tale. Had we understood its warning from the start, a terrible tragedy could have been averted. But we did not understand; and there is a part of me that cannot help thinking I wish I still did not.
I hope I do not sound unduly boastful when I say that of all the cases I have chronicled, the story of the Baskerville family and the hound that cursed it has proven far and away the most popular, and has taken on a life of its own, even providing the basis for more than one moving picture (Mr. Norwood’s portrayal of my friend was masterful, but I could not quite reconcile myself to Mr. Willis’s interpretation of me). The story itself is well enough known that I do not feel the need to recount it here. I will therefore confine myself to relating those events which I did not include in the original narrative, merely noting when they took place. I am aided in this by my diary, in which I kept full notes, and by one of the letters I wrote to Holmes. In the case, as I originally presented it, I noted that one page of the first letter from which I quoted was missing. This was a deliberate error on two counts, for it was several pages, not one, and they were not missing. However, I see that I must go back slightly, in order to make sense of what is to come.
From the moment Dr. Mortimer first came to see us in Baker Street to present the details of Sir Charles Baskerville’s death, and the mystery surrounding it, it became apparent that he was inclined to favour a solution which bordered on the fantastic. He appeared to give credence to the veracity of events detailed in the legend of the Baskerville. “There is a realm in which the most acute and most experienced of detectives is helpless,” he averred, his keen grey eyes darting from one of us to the other, as if hoping for encouragement. When none was forthcoming he continued, his tone almost pleading, “There have come to my ears several incidents which are hard to reconcile with the settled order of Nature.”
My friend’s tone and comments indicated his disbelief. “I see that you have quite gone over to the supernaturalists,” he replied at last, and I noted that Dr. Mortimer shrugged his shoulders and sighed, as one who has tried his best and yet must admit failure. I had said little during the conversation, and I noticed our visitor’s appraising eyes turned on me more than once. I kept my own counsel, however, as I did throughout our meetings with Sir Henry Baskerville, whose bluff and direct demeanour admitted no acceptance of the supernatural as an explanation of the strange events in which he found himself enmeshed.
This attitude was bolstered by the mysterious note which was delivered to him at the Northumberland Hotel. There was much that was puzzling about it, to be sure. Who had sent it? Was it a warning, from a friend, or a threat, from someone who wished Sir Henry harm? How had the writer known where Sir Henry would be staying in London? Yet its mere physicality seemed oddly reassuring, when set against the tale we had lately heard about a hound from hell cursing the Baskerville family across the centuries. “You must allow that there is nothing supernatural about this,” said Holmes to Mortimer, and I expected that the doctor would be chastened by this seeming rebuttal of whatever fantastic theories he had. In this I was surprised, however. Far from being downcast, the doctor’s eyes glittered with something which seemed almost to border on excitement, tinged with fear. At more than one point he seemed on the verge of saying something, but held his tongue, and allowed my friend to theorize about the meaning of the note, and who might have sent it. Only in retrospect did I understand the full import of one of the few comments he allowed himself: “It might very well have come from someone who was convinced that the business is supernatural.”
The next two days were a whirlwind of activity, as I prepared for the visit to Dartmoor. There was little opportunity to consult with our new friends on the matter which was perplexing us, and Holmes was pursuing his own inquiries. The information he gleaned was scant enough, but seemed to indicate that he was confining his investigations to the purely material level. This was reassuring to me, for I could not help casting my mind back o
ver the strange and terrible story of the Baskerville legend, and the recent mysterious events on Dartmoor. Both seemed to point to something beyond the powers of my friend to unravel, and my unease was not, I admit, helped by Holmes’ parting words, when he saw us off from Paddington. He looked thoughtfully at us all before saying quietly, “Bear in mind, Sir Henry, one of the phrases in that queer old legend which Dr. Mortimer has read to us, and avoid the moor in those hours of darkness when the powers of evil are exalted.” There was no opportunity for questions, however, for the train was already pulling away from the platform, and soon my friend disappeared from view.
During the course of the journey Mortimer looked, more than once, as if he would have a private word with me, but Sir Henry was bubbling with questions and comments, and the trip passed in a blur. When we arrived on Dartmoor, our journey from the station to Baskerville Hall was occupied by a discussion of the escape of Selden, the Notting Hill murderer, from the prison at Princetown, and Dr. Mortimer busily pointing out the features of the area to the new squire of the Hall, who gazed over all with a look half-proud, half-fearful, as if the magnitude of his new position was only now sinking in. He invited Mortimer to stay to dinner, but the doctor excused himself on the grounds that his wife would be expecting him, and there would be work waiting. Only as he was leaving, and Sir Henry was momentarily occupied with a question for Barrymore the butler, was Mortimer able to say to me quietly, “I would be glad of a word with you, Dr. Watson, when time permits. No, there is no immediate need; but before many days have passed.” He glanced over his shoulder through the open door. Night had closed in, rendering everything beyond the immediate circle of light, spilling through the opening, to an inky blackness. “When the powers of darkness are exalted,” I heard him murmur, before Sir Henry turned to us to say his goodnight to our companion.
Gaslight Grotesque: Nightmare Tales of Sherlock Holmes Page 26
