Sherlock Holmes and the Beast of the Stapletons

by James Lovegrove

  Slowly and very deliberately, Holmes shuffled his foot across the bare, unsanded floorboards.

  The man pivoted in the direction of the noise. “You there!” he barked. “I see you! Don’t you dare move, you rascal. Not a muscle! Or I’ll give it to you with both barrels.”

  “Sir Henry…” Holmes began, for the voice and profile were unmistakably those of the baronet.

  “Silence!” Sir Henry Baskerville hissed. “Come here to rob me, eh? You picked the wrong house, let me tell you. Or is it something worse? First Audrey, now it’s me you’re after. Me and my Harry. Well, by God, you won’t get either of us, I swear. Whether you be man or monster, this gun will take your head clean off. I don’t see anything surviving that, not even a creature spawned in the lowest circle of Hell.”

  The words ran together, more spat than spoken, in such a way that they were only just intelligible. What was clear, beyond a shadow of a doubt, was that the threat they expressed was no idle one. The shotgun was trained straight at Holmes, at point-blank range, and Sir Henry’s tone and stance betokened someone at the very limit of his reason. In that moment, it occurred to Holmes that he had gravely miscalculated.

  Chapter Eight

  MR SCARECROW AND MR CHIMNEYSWEEP

  I shook my head despairingly at my friend. “Sometimes,” I said, “I have to ask myself if your reputation as one of the cleverest men in England is really warranted. It sounds as though Sir Henry came within a hair’s breadth of killing you.”

  “It was, I will allow, a high-stakes gambit,” Holmes said, with an insouciant little shrug. “Rest assured, I had taken precautions.”

  Said precautions manifested as a large shadow, which loomed up silently behind Sir Henry. A hand seized the shotgun, wresting it from the baronet’s grasp and hurling it aside. At the same time, an arm snaked around his neck. The other arm came to join it, while a leg hooked itself about Sir Henry’s ankles and swept his feet from under him.

  By this means, Sir Henry was brought precipitately to the floor, prone. His assailant bore down on him, maintaining the two-armed chokehold around his neck. Sir Henry strained furiously, but the other’s strength and bulk were too great. For all his efforts, he might as well have been fending off a grizzly bear. Soon the baronet was gasping for breath, his resistance growing ever more feeble. A few seconds further and he would lapse into unconsciousness.

  At that point, Holmes said, “He is subdued, Grier. You may slacken your grip.”

  Corporal Grier did as bidden. Air wheezed into Sir Henry’s lungs.

  “Let him up.”

  The American clambered off, enabling Sir Henry to rise to all fours. The baronet remained in that position for the best part of a minute, panting hard, dazed, with Grier hulking over him. In the meantime, Holmes relit his lantern.

  Blinking in its light, Sir Henry looked around. “Sherlock Holmes,” he said in a hoarse, quavering voice. “And it’s you again, Benjamin. I see it now. This was all a ruse to lure me out of the house.”

  “Just so,” said Holmes.

  “But are you mad? I nearly shot you, Holmes. I had my finger around both triggers.”

  “Come, come.” Holmes plucked the shotgun off the floor, thumbed the latch that operated the break action, and ejected the two cartridges, secreting them in his pocket. “It was not nearly so bad as that. My guardian angel was there all along, poised to intervene. Weren’t you, Grier?”

  “More or less,” said Grier. “I must say it wasn’t as easy as I’d thought, climbing through a rear window. I am not built for furtive movement. I feared the creak of a floorboard might give me away at any moment.”

  “Well, you have the advantage over me,” said Sir Henry, a touch ruefully. “But in doing so, you have most likely damned yourselves. This place is not safe.”

  “It is too late for any of that, Sir Henry,” said Holmes. “We are here now and we are going nowhere. You may as well accustom yourself to the idea. If you insist on proving recalcitrant, I shall simply ask Grier to overpower you with a chokehold again, and this time he will not relent until you are out cold. Alternatively, you can invite us to the Hall and we shall walk there together. Which is it to be? The three of us ambling up the drive side by side, companionably, or Grier carrying your insensible form? The choice is yours.”

  Sir Henry wisely plumped for the former, and soon he, Holmes and Grier were shaking the rain off their clothes in the Hall’s main vestibule, surrounded by stained-glass windows and oak-panelled walls that were adorned with portraits, coats of arms and stags’ heads. Holmes noted that Sir Henry had made sure, upon entering, to lock and bar the door behind them. He noted, too, that a revolver lay on a shelf beside the door, a bullet visible in every chamber.

  “A high shelf, I hope,” said I. “What about his son? To leave a loaded weapon within easy reach of a three-year-old child would be the acme of irresponsibility.”

  “You will be relieved to hear that it was a high shelf, yes, Watson. Sir Henry might have been at his wits’ end but he was not wholly bereft of common sense.”

  Nevertheless it was apparent that the baronet was taking no chances. To him, Baskerville Hall was in a state of siege, and it was towards guarding his home that he was directing all his energies. No log fire crackled in the hearth, as one had, welcomingly, when I myself had first come to the Hall five years before. The air indoors was as frigid as the air without. Sir Henry was plainly too preoccupied to give thought to such comforts, and no servants remained in the house to do so on his behalf.

  Holmes, recalling that the Barrymores had accused their master of defacing portraits, swiftly scanned those in the vestibule. It seemed, however, that they had exaggerated, because he found only one that had been damaged.

  “It may not astonish you to learn, Watson,” said he, “that the recipient of Sir Henry’s violent attentions was Hugo Baskerville.”

  “I do not follow. Why Hugo?”

  “Is it really so perplexing? Perhaps it is. You seem to forget that the author of Sir Henry’s woes last time was Jack Stapleton, and out of all of their common ancestors represented at Baskerville Hall it was Hugo, more than any other, to whom Stapleton bore such a marked likeness.”

  The face on the portrait had been slashed with a blade, Holmes said. The image of Hugo Baskerville was now so savagely, vindictively disfigured that not a trace of it remained from the neck up, only a jagged hole in the canvas. I asked what this act of vandalism might signify, since Stapleton, being dead, could in no way be held accountable for the current state of affairs.

  “It is not inconceivable that Sir Henry, having no concrete enemy to lash out against, felt the need to vent his anger upon a painting that reminded him of an erstwhile source of vexation,” Holmes replied. “Or could it be that some deeper motivation compelled him?”

  Whether or not this last question was rhetorical, he continued his narrative without expounding further upon it, at least not straight away.

  As his gaze roved around the vestibule, it fell upon a face staring at him from the first-floor gallery above – a living one rather than a long-dead one represented in oils. A pair of solemn blue eyes looked down from between the spindles of the banister, much like a prisoner through the bars of his cell. These eyes were set amid youthful, rather winsome features, below a mop of dark hair. Their owner was dressed in a nightgown and sat cross-legged on the gallery floor, the tip of one finger in his mouth.

  “Ah-ha,” said Holmes genially to this watcher. “Is that young master Harry Baskerville I spy up there?”

  Sir Henry directed his gaze, as did Grier, towards the object of Holmes’s scrutiny.

  “Harry,” said the lad’s father. “It’s late. Why aren’t you in bed?”

  “I heard voices, Daddy,” lisped the little thing. “I thought it might be Bammow and Mrs Bammow. I thought they had come back.”

  “No, it is not the Barrymores, son. These two gentlemen are friends of mine. This is Mr Holmes and this is Corporal Grier. Yo
u may have heard me mention both of them more than once in the past.”

  Harry looked noncommittal. “Is that man a chimney-sweep?” he said, pointing at Grier.

  “Me?” said Grier. He smiled. “No, youngster, I am not, but I can understand why you might think so.” He rubbed the skin of his face and showed Harry the palm of his hand. “See? If I were a chimneysweep, the dark would come off. This isn’t soot. It’s my own skin colour, as natural to me as the pinkish-white colour of yours is to you.”

  “Oh,” said the boy, taking this in. “And are you a scarecrow?”

  Now he was addressing Holmes, who put a hand to his chest, mock-offended. “I? A scarecrow?”

  “You look like one.”

  “I am a trifle scrawny, I suppose. Well then, perhaps a scarecrow is what I am, Harry. But if so, rather than frighten off birds, I frighten off evildoers; and in that endeavour I am, even if I say so myself, quite successful.”

  “Is that why you have a gun? To scare bad men with?”

  Holmes was holding Sir Henry’s shotgun in the crook of his elbow, having carried it up from the lodge. “As a last resort, yes. More often, my greatest weapon is my brain.”

  “Daddy, are the Bammows coming back?” Harry, as with any child his age, moved from thought to thought like a squirrel hopping from branch to branch.

  His father sighed sadly. “Not as far as I know.”

  “Is it like Mummy? Have they gone away to Heaven?”

  Sir Henry trembled. Holmes could tell he was having great trouble keeping his emotions in check.

  “No,” he croaked. “Not like your mother. The Barrymores have merely… left. Now then, son, you really must go back to bed. Run along, there’s a good boy. I will be up shortly to tuck you in.”

  Harry stood. “Goodnight, Mr Scarecrow. Goodnight, Mr Chimneysweep.”

  Holmes lofted a hand in farewell, while Grier saluted.

  As the lad scampered off, Sir Henry shepherded his guests through to the drawing room. Here, as in the vestibule, no fire blazed. A few candles provided fitful illumination. Sir Henry busied himself pulling the curtains, which had the effect of making the room seem marginally cosier, but the atmosphere remained dull and dank. At the final window he paused to peer out into the night through the rain-speckled panes, as though searching apprehensively for something, before at last, with a show of relief, he swept the curtains shut.

  “A drink, gentlemen?”

  “That would be most welcome,” said Holmes, and Grier similarly assented.

  Their host poured out three generous measures of whisky from a decanter, and while he did so, Holmes took the opportunity to study him. The baronet was gaunt and haggard, with dark rings around his eyes and hair unkempt. Two of the buttons on his waistcoat were undone and his shirt collar was awry. His every gesture was quick and uneasy. A goodly proportion of the whisky, for instance, did not make it into the tumblers.

  “A man quite so near the end of his tether, Watson,” said Holmes, “I have yet to meet. His nerves were so close to the surface, you could practically see them.”

  Passing a tumbler each to Holmes and Grier, Sir Henry raised his own and wished them good health. He drank the contents of his glass in a single gulp and refilled it immediately. It was a rather fine single malt, and Holmes and Grier elected to sip and savour it.

  “I would like to apologise,” Sir Henry said. “First of all, for nearly shooting you both. I am…” He faltered, fingering the black crêpe band that encircled his left upper arm, the traditional token of mourning. “Life is difficult. My thoughts – they keep running away from me, like wild horses. I am not the master of my own mind.”

  “Corporal Grier and I remain intact,” Holmes said. “It is the best outcome either of us might hope for.”

  “Second of all, I would like to apologise for Harry’s remarks just now. Holmes, there is scant similarity between you and a scarecrow. As for you, Benjamin, all I can say is that my son has led a rather sheltered life and has never before seen anyone with your complexion. Forgive him for not understanding.”

  “I am not offended,” said Grier. “Children say whatever comes into their heads. Their judgements contain no rancour or prejudice. He did not condemn me for my race, merely made an observation about me based upon the only comparison he knew. Besides, now Holmes and I have nicknames for each other. Don’t we, Mr Scarecrow?”

  “I would consider it a great honour if you refrained from ever calling me that again, Grier,” Holmes rebuked him, with a modicum of levity. “In return, I shall refrain from ever calling you Mr Chimneysweep.”

  “Oh, don’t be a spoilsport, Mr Scarecrow.”

  “Really, it is one thing coming from a child, quite another from a grown man.”

  Grier was not to be deterred. “I’ll have you using it before we’re done,” said he jauntily. “You see if I don’t.”

  “You will be waiting a long while.” Turning back to Sir Henry, Holmes said, “Since the spirit of reconciliation is moving us, I feel apologies are necessary on Grier’s and my behalf, too. Our treatment of you at the lodge, manhandling you as we did, might seem unduly harsh. Please understand that I would not have resorted to such a course of action if I had thought there was any other way.”

  “No, no, it’s quite all right,” said Sir Henry. “I realise I am not at my most hospitable at present. I would not have let you into the house willingly, so you forced the issue.”

  “It was done with the best of intentions,” said Grier.

  “I know.” The baronet tenderly rubbed his neck, which was doubtless sore after his partial strangulation. “I can only thank the Lord you didn’t use your full strength on me, Brother Benjamin. As it was, it felt like my head was about to pop clean off like a champagne cork.”

  “But let us get down to business, Sir Henry, if we may,” said Holmes. “Grier has apprised me of your circumstances. With regard to the loss of your wife, you have my deepest sympathies.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Sir Henry, with unsteady hand, helped himself to a third shot of whisky.

  “I know, too, about the giant moth which is alleged to have been haunting the moor of late and which may or may not have some connection with your calamity. I appreciate that the subject is not easy to discuss, but discuss it we must. I noticed how you looked out of the window just as you were closing the curtains. It was the creature you were checking for, was it not?”

  “It was.”

  “Have you yourself seen this apparition?”

  “I have not.”

  “Yet you do not query its existence.”

  “Neither would you, Holmes, had you seen how Audrey…” The sentence trailed off, Sir Henry’s eyes all of a sudden brimming. A loud sob escaped him, and for a time he buried his face in his hands, his shoulders heaving. Grier moved to his side and laid a consoling arm around him. At last the baronet collected himself, straightening up and mopping his tear-soaked cheeks with his sleeve.

  “It would be a tremendous help,” said Holmes, “if you were able to describe in full the circumstances of your wife’s death and furnish any other details you might feel relevant.”

  “To what end, Holmes?” came the rejoinder. “What good will it do? Will it bring Audrey back? No. Can you prevent this murderous beast from attacking again? I doubt it.”

  “I beg to differ. Not only may I be able to avenge your wife, I may be able to ensure that you and Harry go on to live long, prosperous lives.”

  Sir Henry looked up, and Holmes descried a faint glimmer of hope in his eyes. “You mean it?”

  “I make it my solemn oath to you that I shall do everything in my power to resolve this matter to everyone’s advantage.”

  “As do I,” Grier chimed in.

  “But in order to facilitate that, Sir Henry, you must take your courage in both hands. Tell me what happened on the night of your wife’s death.”

  Chapter Nine

  MORE OF SHERLOCK HOLMES’S “THREE-PIPE RECITATION”


  Fortifying himself with yet another tot of whisky, Sir Henry Baskerville recounted his wife’s final hours and tragic end.

  “Audrey had had a trying day,” said he. “Harry was fractious. Everything he did, from dawn to dusk, was in opposition to her wishes. Nothing was good enough for him, nothing would placate him. You know how children can be at that age. Contrary. Even with Mrs Barrymore to help her, by the time Harry went to bed Audrey was quite wrung out. The Barrymores, incidentally, are now my only household staff – or rather were, since I appear to have driven them away. There used to be a scullery maid, but she left to marry the postmaster’s son, and old Perkins the groom was getting rather long in the tooth and retired last year. I can afford to employ as many servants as I wish, but I am not a demanding man and like to keep things simple. I have a gardener, who comes and goes pretty much as he pleases. Aside from him, it has been just Mr and Mrs Barrymore, who between them were quite capable of fulfilling all my domestic requirements, and willingly did so. And when Harry came along, they proved to be like a second set of parents to the lad. Having no offspring of their own, they treated him much like a surrogate son. They indulged him. Spoiled him rotten, in point of fact. Barrymore, in spite of chronic lumbago, would give Harry a piggyback ride whenever asked, while Mrs Barrymore invariably let him lick the spoon when she was making cakes. Harry has been fortunate in that regard. He has grown up in a household where he is universally beloved.”

  “The Barrymores themselves were fortunate,” Holmes said. “After all that happened with Mrs Barrymore’s brother, you would have been quite within your rights to sack them, and for that matter to turn them over to the police. In the event, you showed remarkable forbearance in not only absolving them but keeping them on.”

  “Well, their motives in aiding Selden were honourable, even if their deeds broke the law. I don’t have a brother myself, but if I did, I reckon I would try to protect him, come what may. Blood is thicker than water, and all that.”