Sherlock Holmes and the Beast of the Stapletons

by James Lovegrove

  “But it is just conceivable that Lady Audrey was preyed upon by a large, haemophagic insect, which pierced her neck with its proboscis and imbibed her blood.”

  “As outlandish as it sounds, one cannot rule it out. I couched my words carefully on the death certificate. I listed cause of death as ‘swift and near-total exsanguination by methods unknown’, but I did add that it was not impossible that the deceased fell victim to the attentions of some predatory animal.”

  “Aside from the perforation,” said Holmes, “were there other injuries upon the body? Any signs of a struggle?”

  “None that I could discern.”

  “Nothing around the nose and mouth, perhaps?”

  “No. Why might there have been?”

  “If Lady Audrey had been subdued with chloroform, say, before her artery was pierced, there could have been bruising around the nose and mouth where a handkerchief soaked in the compound was held there.”

  “I see. No, there was nothing of the sort. I can state that categorically.”

  “It is not always the case that when chloroform is applied in that way a mark is left,” Holmes said with a shrug. “Regardless, she was overpowered somehow, and then the blood was drained out of her.”

  “That is so,” said Mortimer.

  “You told Sir Henry that her death would have been painless. You said it would have been like drifting off to sleep.”

  Mortimer dropped his gaze. “That, I will confess, was something of a lie. But my intentions were noble. I wished to spare a friend from suffering more anguish than he already was. I will admit, the thought that Lady Audrey might have been drugged immediately prior the attack never occurred to me, although now that you’ve mentioned it, Mr Holmes, it does seem a distinct possibility. At the time, I could only think that she would have been conscious for some while as she was being exsanguinated, and that, alas, she was perfectly well aware of what was happening to her. As haemorrhagic shock set in, her heart rate would have increased, pumping harder to compensate for the loss of blood pressure. This would have made her brain more active, and therefore more acutely conscious of her plight. Then, as blood flow to the organs declined, muscle asphyxia would have led to seizures, and that would not have been at all pleasant. At least a further minute would have elapsed before her brain function began to shut down and faintness overcame her, robbing her of sensation.”

  I myself concurred with this assessment. “I did wonder,” I said, “whether Sir Henry had recalled Mortimer’s words aright. Then it dawned on me that partial truth may have been involved.”

  Holmes said to Mortimer, “You are aware that Sir Henry believes Jack Stapleton is alive and is responsible for the killing?”

  “I was not, but it is, I suppose, plausible. If I recall correctly, Stapleton’s body was never found. Could it be that he has spent these past five years in hiding, plotting against Sir Henry? Could he, moreover, have spent the time breeding a variety of moth large enough to kill a person? I know nothing about the lepidopteran life cycle or about the process of rearing moths, but I fancy that in five years one might nurture numerous generations of a single species, selecting for such traits as size and rapacity, until one had created a monster of the kind that has lately made its presence felt here on the moor. I tell you what, Holmes. If Stapleton is the culprit, I would not be at all surprised. There, truly, was a scoundrel. An abuser of women, dogged by infamy wherever he went, and a cold-hearted murderer to boot. I wish you every luck in catching him. If you need anything further from me, if I can be of any assistance whatsoever, don’t hesitate to ask. How is Sir Henry, by the way? I assume, since you seem to have spoken to him at length, that he is of a more receptive frame of mind now than he has been of late.”

  “He is no longer seeing off all-comers with a shotgun, if that is any measure of his mental soundness,” said Holmes.

  “Yes. I’d heard about his aggressive behaviour and hence have been giving Baskerville Hall a wide berth. If it is safe to approach again, then perhaps I shall pay him a call in the near future. In the meantime, I must be getting on. My surgery opens in an hour. Farewell, Holmes. Delighted to see you.”

  “And you too, Doctor.”

  Mortimer emitted another of those double clucks of the tongue. Instantly, his spaniel sprang to its feet and hurried over. It proffered its master his Penang lawyer, which Mortimer took, and raising the stick aloft in a salute to Holmes, he turned and ambled away.

  Chapter Twelve

  A GURT BIG GODHAN

  With no Mrs Barrymore there to cook for them, the residents of Baskerville Hall were forced to prepare their own breakfast. Benjamin Grier, however, proved to be a dab hand at the stove, and soon he, Holmes, Sir Henry and little Harry were all tucking into heaped plates of bacon, sausage and scrambled egg, accompanied by grilled mushrooms and small cakes which Grier called “biscuits” but were essentially scones.

  Afterwards, Holmes announced he was going out to find local farmers to interrogate about the sheep killings. Grier asked to accompany him. “The chance to witness Sherlock Holmes exercising his much-vaunted powers?” he said. “I’d be a fool not to take it.”

  “I fear it is going to be investigative work of the most plodding, banal sort,” Holmes said, “but you are welcome to tag along nonetheless.”

  “Daddy,” said Harry, “may I go with Mr Scarecrow and Mr Chimneysweep?”

  “No, son,” replied his father. “They are doing grown-up things.”

  “But it’s not fair. I want to go outdoors. You don’t let me go outdoors.”

  “Outdoors is… not safe right now, Harry. You know that.”

  “Even the garden?”

  “Even the garden.”

  “I promise I won’t go past the gate.”

  “The answer is still no, Harry,” said Sir Henry firmly. “You must stay in the house. Why don’t you do one of your jigsaws instead?”

  “I’ve done them all,” said the youngster, pouting.

  “Including the jungle one? That’s your favourite.”

  “Three times.”

  “Then what say you and I play with your soldiers? We can have a campaign on the drawing-room rug. Cushions for hills. The Battle of Waterloo, eh? How about that? I’ll be Napoleon, you can be Wellington.”

  “I want to go outdoors,” Harry muttered sullenly. “It’s sunny.”

  “And you shall have that opportunity again. Soon. Very soon. I swear.”

  The lad brightened. “How soon?”

  Sir Henry looked to Holmes beseechingly. “I reckon in a day or two. Don’t you, Holmes?”

  Holmes was loath to make promises he could not guarantee to fulfil. Still, for the boy’s sake, he said, “I think your father has it about right, Harry. A day or two should do it. After that, you will be free to go outside and play whenever you feel like.”

  With a loud huzzah, Harry dashed out of the dining room to start setting up the Battle of Waterloo.

  “Thank you, Holmes,” said Sir Henry. He was bleary-looking and unshaven, not a little hungover, but the faint flicker of hope that had been kindled in his eyes the previous night was still there. “I realise nothing is certain, but even just the thought that there could be an end to this nightmare has lifted my spirits.”

  “You go have fun with your boy, Henry,” said Grier. “He deserves it. So do you. Leave everything to Mr Scarecrow and me.”

  “Grier,” warned Holmes, “I have told you. Harry may use those names, but we needn’t. Especially when not in his presence.”

  “I guess scarecrows just don’t have a sense of humour.”

  Holmes rose from the table. “Do you wish to come with me, Grier? Fetch your coat.”

  With a bemused shake of the head, Grier rose too. “All right, all right. Henry, are all Brits this brisk and businesslike?”

  “You’ll get used to it,” said Sir Henry. “The British do have a lighter side. It’s deeply buried, though, and you have to dig to reach it.”

  �
�So it’s not just Holmes.”

  “Sherlock Holmes is in many ways the quintessential Englishman, but he is also, in almost every regard, exceptional. You cannot judge the rest by him, and vice versa. Good luck to the two of you. Godspeed.”

  Holmes chose not to respond to these comments about him, other than to give a nod that was, as he put it, “neither acknowledgement nor dismissal, but as modest and noncommittal as a nod can be”.

  All that day, he and Grier ranged far and wide over the moor, covering – by Holmes’s estimate – some twenty miles all told. They stopped at every farm they came to, and at each they made enquiries of the farmer regarding sheep molestations and the giant moth. In several instances these rustics spoke with such an impenetrable West Country burr that Holmes could make out only one word in three and Grier none at all. The general consensus seemed to be that the moth existed and was responsible for the attacks on sheep, but nobody whom they interviewed had personally seen the creature or lost livestock to it.

  That was until just past noon, when they arrived at a tiny, remote croft that perched in a narrow valley beside a brook whose crystal-clear waters seemed to slither over the stones of its bed. A couple of dozen sheep milled about in a pen, hemmed in by drystone walls, next to a one-room cottage, the roof slates of which bore a layer of dense, dark green moss.

  The resident was a small, stooped ancient with a well-weathered face. There was but a single tooth in his mouth, clinging on like the last knight valiantly defending a castle. At first wary of Holmes, and warier still of Grier, the crofter started out by giving only the most evasive of answers. It rapidly became clear, however, that his flock was one of those that had suffered harassment, and some good-natured goading from Holmes, along with the offer of a florin for his troubles, soon loosened his tongue.

  “Fortnight past, it were,” said the crofter. “Oi’d left they sheep out for pasturin’ overnight, loike. Them’s not apt to stray. This valley’s their ’ome, and the bellwether knows a thing or two. Good as a sheepdog, he is, for keepin’ they others where them oughter be. Anyways, come the mornin’, Oi were callin’ they in, as is moy routine. In them trotted, all nice and orderly, and blow me if the flock weren’t a head short. Missin’ a hogget, Oi were.”

  “A hogget?” said Grier.

  “I believe that is a young ewe,” said Holmes.

  “Roight you are, zurr,” said the crofter. “A ewe between ’er first and second shearings, that be a hogget. Off went Oi, a-searchin’ for she. Sheep have a reputation for bein’ none too bright, don’t them? Mostly that be a falsehood. There’s creatures far dumber than a sheep. Certain of they be smarter than zum folk as Oi know of. But this partickler hogget ’appened to be as daft as they come, and Oi wouldner been surprised if her had got ’er ’ooves stuck in a bog or wandered into a blind gully, loike, and not been able to find the way back out. Took me an ’our or so, but Oi found ’er all roight.”

  “Dead, I presume.”

  “As a doornail, zurr. Layin’ flat out on ’er flank.”

  “Where was this?”

  “On the far slope of yonder tor, ’bout a mile from ’ere as the crow flies. To begin with, Oi thought ’er had just collapsed and expired, loike ’er ’eart had given out or zummat. Bain’t be a common occurrence but it ’appens, even with an ’ealthy youngling. There weren’t a mark on she, see. Least, not as Oi could tell from first lookin’. It were only when Oi inspected the carcass proper close did Oi notice the ’ole in ’er neck.”

  “Describe this hole.”

  “’Bout as big around as moy little finger, it were, and sunk deep in ’er throat. Difficult to find on account of the flass that were coverin’ it.”

  “The fleece?” said Grier.

  “That’s roight, zurr. The flass. And there weren’t ’ardly much blood there, neither. Wound like that, you’d think the blood woulder gone here, there and everywhere. That got Oi to thinkin’, maybe ’er were dead because the blood had been removed from she. To put it to the test, Oi got out moy knife and slit open ’er belly. Won’t say it were bone-dry, not zackly, but Oi will say that scarcely a dribble of blood came out.”

  “Had you heard, by then, about the giant bloodsucking moth?” said Holmes.

  “Oi’m not one as consorts much with others,” said the crofter, shaking his head. “But it were so passing strange to me, ’ow that hogget had died, that Oi went into Clyst St Margaret that evening – which be the village nearest – and Oi took moyself to the pub there, The Turk’s Head, and asked around. Weren’t long before Oi discovered that moine weren’t the first sheep to be attacked in such a wise. Oi also learned about the gurt big godhan that were supposed to be at large and that were said to be doin’ mischief to flocks all over.”

  “A godhan being a moth, I take it.”

  “That be what folk calls they round these ’ere parts. Godhans. Seems ’ard to credit that there might be one what were of a size to kill a sheep, but then Dartmoor be a place full of oddities. There’s Kitty Jay’s grave, just north of Ashburton. She were a suicide, died in shame, but there be always fresh flowers where ’er body lies, even a ’undred years on, and nobody knows as who puts they there. The Devil himself rode into the church at Widecombe one mornin’ on a coal-black steed and made off with a young lad who’d fallen asleep during the service. Left in such a tearing ’urry, ’e did, that the church roof fell in on itself. The ghost of a fraudster called Benjie haunts Cranmere Pool, cursed with the task of emptying the water out of that place for all eternity. On some nights you can ’ear his miserable wailings over in Okehampton, close by. Giants, pixies, ’eadless ’orsemen, black dogs from Hell – there be no lack of that sorter thing on the moor, zurr. So a gurt big godhan? One that can drain a sheep of its blood, down to the last drop? Why ever not?”

  Holmes and Grier made their goodbyes and left the crofter gazing sombrely at his flock as if unhappy to have been reminded that he was minus one ewe.

  Holmes had secured directions to Clyst St Margaret from the fellow, and it was towards this village that the duo’s footsteps now turned.

  “Why are we going to Clyst St Margaret?” Grier asked.

  “I don’t know about you, but I am famished,” said Holmes. “A hostelry such as The Turk’s Head will allow us to wet our whistles and fill our stomachs. Furthermore, a village public house is the centre of rural gossip. If you want to know what is going on, a pub is invariably the best place to look.”

  In the event, village was too generous a term for Clyst St Margaret. Hamlet would be more accurate. Holmes counted no more than a dozen houses, clustered around a crossroads. Aside from a tiny Methodist chapel, the only building of note was the pub.

  With pints of ale and great slabs of ham sandwich set before them, Holmes and Grier replenished themselves. Then Holmes went about endearing himself to the other patrons of The Turk’s Head, seven in number, by buying a round of drinks. He played the part of a glad-handing tourist who was passing through the region and keen to absorb a bit of local colour. It wasn’t long before he had them discussing the giant moth, and one man confessed to having seen the creature.

  “It were a month ago, no more,” said this eyewitness. “I were walkin’ home from this very pub. The hour were just gone eleven. Up in the sky, I spied movement. There it were, ’overing afore the moon. A moth as big as I am. I’d be lying if I told you I were not affrit, gents. A proper shock it gave me, seeing it up there. Swoopin’ and swirlin’, it were. And them eyes… bright red and staring down at me, all baleful like.”

  “How many pints of scrumpy had you had aforehand, Jethro?” jeered one of the other patrons. “The usual nine or ten?”

  “I knows what I saw,” Jethro shot back. “I mayn’t have been full sober, but these eyes of mine don’t never play tricks on me.”

  “Where did this encounter take place?” said Holmes.

  “On the lane leading up to my ’ouse, which runs north out of the village. A lonely road at the best of times.�
�

  “What lies on either side of the lane?”

  “Open moor one side, grazing land the other.”

  “And on which side was the moth?”

  “The moor side.”

  “It was a clear night, I presume.”

  “Aye,” said Jethro, nodding. “Clear as anything, and bright. Moon full, stars out. A mite breezy, mind.”

  “How long was the moth present?”

  “I stood there watchin’ it for a good three to four minutes, I’d say. Then downward it flew, out of sight. I rushed ’ome to my Ethel and told her all about it. She were more alarmed than even I was. Didn’t get a wink of sleep all the rest of the night, she didn’t, and neither did I.”

  As Holmes and Grier left The Turk’s Head, they were followed out by another of the patrons, a man who had maintained a steady silence throughout the conversation about the moth. He cleared his throat to get their attention, then furtively beckoned them to one side.

  “I saw the moth too,” said he in low tones. “Only, I daredn’t mention it in the pub because, well… let’s just say, at the time I saw it, I weren’t where I should’ve been.”

  Holmes studied the fellow briefly. “You are a poacher.”

  The man patted the air with both hands in a hushing motion. “I wouldn’t call myself that.”

  “No, that is true. Normally you would call yourself a farrier.”

  “You know me, sir?” the other said, startled. “Have we met? I thought you said you was a tourist.”

  “Two small injuries give away your profession. The first is an abrasion on your left palm, one among several cuts and scrapes I see on that hand. It shows the mark of a rasp, one of the principal tools of the farrier’s trade. The other injury is on your forehead, an old scar. Its curved shape matches the arc of a horse’s hoof, suggesting that one of your charges kicked you. The likeliest product of these two factors is farrier.”