by George Mann
“This is the scene of the crime, Holmes,” I said as we approached the spot through the knotty grass and heather, the spur of exposed limestone confirming that we were in the right place.
Holmes took a few moments to cursorily examine the location – crouching to inspect a few blades of grass, or so it seemed – before stating, with great confidence, “This is not the scene of the crime.”
“But this is where I found Stapleton’s body,” I said, bewildered.
“Precisely, and I am afraid, Sir Henry, that you have made a most elementary mistake in presuming that this is also where the wretch died. You told me yourself that very little blood was found upon the ground surrounding the body and that most of what you did observe was soaking the villain’s clothes. As my good friend Dr Watson would tell you, if he were here, when a man’s throat is sliced open, and the jugular exposed, as in the case of Rodger Stapleton’s death, the pressure of the blood within the human body is enough to send it spurting a foot or more from the wound. And yet you can see for yourself that there is no such blood patterning here. Ergo, this is not the place where Stapleton was killed, it is only where his body was moved to, post-haste, post-mortem.”
I moved my disbelieving gaze from Holmes to what I had believed to be the scene of the crime and back again, utterly dumbfounded.
“Trelawny Hall lies this way, does it not?” the detective said, pointing north-east across Bodmin Moor, to which I could only nod dumbly in response.
* * *
As the house came into view beyond the undulations of the moor, and the dry-stone walls and raised embankments that criss-crossed it, the reluctant sun gave up the ghost and began to sink lower and lower in the sky.
The route Holmes had taken over the moor brought us to the gloomy depths of a gulley – that on Dartmoor they would call a “goyal” – and in this hidden hollow he found the evidence he had clearly been looking for.
“Look, Sir Henry,” he said, sounding almost excited by the discovery, just as I felt a mixture of shock and appalled horror. For the hollow contained the unmistakeable signs of slaughter, dried blood still visible upon the rocks and grass, there not having been any rainfall the previous night. “This is the scene of the crime.”
The ground at the bottom of the hollow was damp, and in the cloying black mud I could make out myriad footprints – both those left by a man’s boots and those of a huge feline.
Holmes looked suddenly grave. “Sir Henry, where is Miss Trelawny?”
“Back at the hall,” I replied, my pulse quickening.
“And who is with her?”
“Why, Baghinder, the houseboy, I suppose.” My heart was in the chill clutches of fear now.
“Then it pains me to inform you, Sir Henry, that she is in the most terrible danger!” the detective declared, setting off at a run. Reacting on instinct, I set off in hot pursuit, not knowing what terrible danger Loveday could be in, only that I had to do all I could to save her from it.
The prints left by the Beast were as clear as day to me now, despite the failing light, providing us with a trail to follow all the way back to Trelawny Hall, I realised with ever-deepening horror.
* * *
It could not have taken us more than a quarter of an hour to reach the house, but at the time it felt like hours. We arrived as dusk was falling and entered the house to find the place in darkness. The lamps had not yet been lit. Were we too late? Had the great danger Holmes had spoken of already come to pass?
I made for the stairs, calling for Loveday, trying to keep the fear from my voice. I was halfway up them when I heard the deep rumble of a growl only a moment before a sinuous shadow as big as a mountain lion, composed of lethal strength and predatory intent, detached itself from the darkness and struck at me with a paw, claws extended.
I cried out and stumbled backwards down the stairs, grabbing for my left arm where I felt the intense cold heat of unanticipated pain and then the warm dampness of blood.
My mind had barely registered that the Beast of Bodmin was somehow inside Trelawny Hall when the monstrous cat leapt at me, snarling in fury, and I saw a flash of white as it came down almost on top of me.
It was only later that I discovered precisely what happened next. Mr Holmes, who had already pulled a spear from a display of Indian weaponry at the foot of the stairs, hurled the weapon at the beast. The tip pierced its ribcage and found the animal’s heart, its leap becoming a death-dive as the huge cat crashed down on the stairs and lay there, motionless, the sword protruding from its body.
I could barely make any of this out at the time, the details, along with the truth, only being revealed to me when Holmes found an oil lamp and lit it using a box of matches he carried about his person. As the flickering lamplight danced over the prone body of the Beast, I saw the orange and black stripes for the first time, along with the white fur covering its belly, now stained crimson with the creature’s blood.
Not once, not even in all my wildest imaginings, had I imagined the Beast of Bodmin Moor to be a Bengal tiger.
“I would hazard that this was another part of Lord Trelawny’s Indian legacy,” Holmes said, as if reading my mind.
“Loveday!” I gasped, as I slowly began to put the pieces of the puzzle together, realising that the tiger had been coming down the stairs; I feared what I would find if I continued to make my way up. But continue I did, taking the oil lamp from Holmes to light the way, my own injury put from my mind by the horrible realisation, while Holmes pulled a sword from the same display that had held the spear and followed me upstairs.
Approaching Loveday’s chamber, my heart thumping in my chest, I opened the door and found the room beyond bathed in light. My fiancée was sitting on top of her bedcovers, her knees pulled up to her chest, a wild look in her eyes, patently terrified.
“Loveday,” I began, but as I moved towards the bed I was suddenly aware of noise and movement behind me, and I turned to see Baghinder appear from behind the bedroom door.
As shocked as I was by his sudden appearance, I was just as shocked to see him dressed, not in his normal servant’s attire, but in the exotic garb of a Sikh warrior, his talwar blade raised above his head. And he doubtless would have brought it down upon mine if it hadn’t been for Mr Holmes, who saved my life once again, coming in through the door as he did at that moment, fending off the blow with the sword he held in his own hand.
Having lost the element of surprise, Baghinder was forced to retreat as Holmes pressed home his newly gained advantage, forcing the Sikh back into the room.
The two men duelled, and in one unfortunate moment – that is, a moment more unfortunate than all those that had passed already – Holmes stumbled into me as he took a step back to avoid the warrior’s sweeping blade, and the oil lamp was sent flying from my hand. It landed on the carpeted floor, before rolling to a stop at the foot of the drapes that had been pulled shut across the window against the approaching night.
The drapes caught light with a whoomp of flame that momentarily distracted Holmes from the Sikh, who saw an opportunity and took it, bearing down on the detective, and it was in that moment that the revolver barked in my hand.
It had been an instinctive reaction more than a premeditated one, but with the sharp report of the gun still ringing in my ears, Baghinder dropped to the floor, my shot having found its mark in the middle of his forehead.
Screaming like a banshee, Loveday threw herself at me. She was like a woman possessed, attacking me as if she were some rabid beast, tearing at my face with fingers knotted into talons. That is until Holmes knocked her senseless with an open-handed blow to the back of her neck.
By now flames had climbed the drapes and were crawling across both the ceiling and the floor, the room filling with smoke. There was no way Holmes and I could hope to put the fire out now, and so our priority became to evacuate the house as quickly as we could. With Holmes leading the way, I bundled the senseless Loveday up in my arms and carried her downstairs and out
through the entrance hall as the blaze took hold in earnest behind us.
I fell to my knees on the lawn outside the house, laying Loveday down on the damp ground, coughing the smoke from my lungs, my emotions in turmoil as I gazed down at the woman I loved, through watering eyes. She looked as if she were only sleeping, the innocent I had once believed her to be. In my heightened emotional state, I tried to reconcile how my heart ached for her still with how she had reacted to my method of dealing with Baghinder.
And then, my mind and my body overwhelmed, I collapsed on the ground beside Loveday as fire consumed the Trelawny family home, the flames lighting up the Bodmin Moor night.
“Why?” I cried, momentarily losing control of my inherited British reserve. “Why?”
“I believe I can explain,” Holmes said, having recovered from the effects of smoke inhalation far quicker than I. “But first I feel I must explain how I came to arrive here last night, before your letter had even left Cornwall.”
My mind returned then to that moment, barely twenty-four hours previously, and the surprise I had felt at his sudden arrival.
“I began my investigation long before you were even aware of the danger you were in, when I read the announcement of your engagement to Miss Loveday Trelawny in The Times. Considering what happened last time, and how you were so cruelly duped by Mr and Mrs Stapleton, I decided it wise to conduct an investigation into Miss Loveday Trelawny’s background, to make sure you weren’t being duped again. I discovered, as you already knew, that she was indeed the daughter of Lord Tiernen Trelawny, who had spent some time in India. Indeed India was where Loveday spent her formative years, in the care of her native nursemaid – that is until she was sent to boarding school in England. However, as well as being the place where Loveday was born, it was also where her mother passed away. When Trelawny eventually returned to England, he did so accompanied by Loveday’s ayah and the nursemaid’s son, Baghinder.”
Holmes paused in his recount then, his brow furrowing. “The tiger troubles me though.”
“Could it not be that it was brought back to England as a cub, as a family pet perhaps?” I suggested.
“I’m afraid not,” Holmes replied. “The animal that attacked you was a young male. Besides, even if Lord Trelawny had returned from India with a pet tiger, the species does not live long enough for it to have been the same animal.”
“But how does the death of Rodger Stapleton link to what happened to us tonight, and Baghinder’s crazed attack?” I asked, still trying to make sense of everything.
“I surmised that Baghinder was actually Lord Trelawny’s son; when Trelawny returned to England, he did so accompanied by Loveday’s ayah and her son, Baghinder. But why bring this woman to England when Loveday had no further need of a nursemaid? I deduced that there was some understanding between Trelawny and the ayah, one which was clarified when I arrived last night and saw the signet ring Baghinder was wearing on the little finger of his left hand. A signet ring is given from father to son, and is a British, not a Sikh practice, therefore Baghinder’s father must be British. Given the circumstances, Trelawny was the logical candidate, and Baghinder might want to press his own claim to inherit his father’s estate above that of his half-sister and her future husband. I wanted to determine that you and your fiancée were safe, but without making the rogue aware of my intentions, fearing that with Lord Trelawny dead, his son might try to do away with you both and claim Trelawny Hall as his own.
“I took the first train I could from London Paddington and arrived at Bodmin Road station just as your letter was about to be taken to the capital. Fortunately the stationmaster, who as you doubtless know also doubles as the postmaster, recognised me from my appearance in the paper following the Baskerville case and passed the letter to me directly. I cogitated upon the contents of your letter as I made my way to Trelawny Hall, but…”
The detective broke off, and by the light of the burning house I could see that he looked troubled.
“What is it, Holmes?” I pressed.
“It is just that Miss Trelawny’s reaction to the houseboy’s death has caused me to reconsider my initial assessment.”
The sound of sobbing, and Holmes’s mention of Loveday, had me turning to look at her once more, and I saw that she was conscious again, tears running down her face.
“How did you expect me to react to the cold-blooded murder of the man I loved?” she sobbed.
“It’s alright, I’m here,” I began before I realised what my fiancée meant, and it was a truth too horrible to countenance.
“You mean you had an incestuous relationship with your half-brother?” Holmes said. For my own part I was made mute by the horror of it all.
“You might call it that,” she riled, “but we shared a bond few others have ever known.”
I could not hide my disgust, and it was all I could do not to strike her across the face. The revelation that I had been betrayed once again, and in such a sordid fashion, became a very real knot of sickness in my gut. When once I would have happily gazed upon her beauty all day and all night, now I could not bring myself to even look at her.
“You don’t understand! We loved each other!” she spat. “My father didn’t understand either! That’s why he had me committed to the Hospital of St Lawrence” – I knew of the place by its other name, the Cornwall County Asylum – “and Baghinder sent back to India, but not before beating him within an inch of his life.”
I physically withdrew from her at the confession of her madness. But now that Loveday had started talking she seemed unable to stop. It was as if the floodgates had been opened. “Baghinder never forgot me and planned to return for me as soon as he could.”
“But having been disinherited by your father, and not having the financial wherewithal to simply pay for his passage back to England, he had to find another way to achieve the desired end,” Holmes interjected.
“He joined a circus in India where he studied under a big cat tamer. It took years, but we both knew that the wait would be worth it, knowing that one day we would be reunited again. And at last the circus came to England.”
“So I presume he absconded with one of his charges and made his way back to Cornwall.”
“With Baghinder half the world away, or so my father believed, in a fit of compassion he had me released from the asylum but kept me here instead, within sight at all times and under virtual house arrest.”
“So the two of you plotted your revenge. Whose idea was it to set the tiger on Lord Trelawny when he was out walking on the moor?” Holmes asked, his tone becoming that of an interrogator.
“We did everything together,” Loveday hissed, her venomous green eyes blazing. “Everything!”
“So why embroil poor Sir Henry in your schemes?”
“Upon claiming my inheritance, only then did I discover that there was no inheritance. We were poor. Our father had left us destitute. All we had left of any worth was the house.”
“And so you hatched a plan to entrap my friend here,” Holmes said with a sneer of disdain, “motivated by pure greed. And I suppose, having arranged one man’s death already, it was even easier to countenance arranging another. By making much of your family’s so-called curse you hoped to hurry the wedding, so that you might rid yourself of your cursed family name. But things were made even harder for you and your half-brother when Stapleton turned up.”
Mention of Stapleton shook me from my horrified stupor. “What do you mean, Holmes?” I gasped. “Stapleton came here on purpose?”
“Yes, Sir Henry, and all because of you. He had maintained as keen an interest in your comings and goings as I had. Having escaped the Grimpen Mire, and discovering that he was believed to be dead, he had the perfect cover, which allowed him to spy on you and work out how to bring his original plan to fruition. I imagine he also looked into Miss Trelawny’s background and discovered that she had enjoyed a prolonged stay at the asylum. With such information in his possession, I suspect he blackma
iled her into letting him in on the plan,” he turned to the weeping Loveday then. “Isn’t that right?”
This provoked more heart-wrenching sobs from my duplicitous fiancée. “He said I should marry Henry, and then, in due course, my husband would meet with an accident. I would marry Stapleton and we would share the Baskerville fortune between us.”
“Stapleton having first assumed a new, false identity, no doubt, considering he was still a wanted criminal. But he was unaware of the precise nature of your relationship with your half-brother.”
“Baghinder had no intention of letting that happen. Stapleton came to the hall again, just after you had all set out on your futile hunt. I don’t know why.”
“I don’t suppose you gave yourself the chance to find out. Perhaps it was arrogance on his part,” Holmes suggested, “proving to himself how clever he was to be within yards of you, Sir Henry, without you having any idea. Or maybe it was just to remind you, Miss Trelawny, that there was no escaping the abominable pact you had made.”
“Baghinder set the tiger on him. He wasn’t expecting that.” She giggled then, her laughter chilling me to the bone more than her heartfelt howls ever could.
“But Baghinder joined us on the hunt,” I pointed out, recalling the houseboy’s presence among the hunters gathered at the front of the house.
“Did you actually see him when you were out on the moor?” Holmes asked.
“No,” I admitted. “I confess I did not.” Clearly the scoundrel had done everything to give the impression that he was joining us, before doubling back.
“Where do you keep the tiger hidden?” Holmes asked. “In the stable block? In the old kennels? And I suppose Baghinder let it out from time to time to hunt the local farmers’ livestock. It would have been cheaper than paying the local butcher in order to feed the animal and in turn would have avoided any awkward questions.”
