by Anita Janda
The only way for me to avoid the King of Bohemia is to appoint myself Holmes’s deputy in fact as well as in fiction and do what I can to solve the Baskerville case in his absence. I know what Holmes would think of this, but facts are facts and the one inescapable fact bearing upon the present situation is this: Holmes is not here. If Sir Henry is left to his own devices much longer, he’s not going to have any devices. I have never seen such a rapid deterioration in an apparently healthy individual. Never. It must be stopped!
My resolution is made. I will leave no stone unturned in the pursuit of information that may bear upon the death of Sir Charles Baskerville last May and the consequent threat to the health and safety of his nephew and heir, Sir Henry Baskerville; and I will undertake to introduce that same Sir Henry to the charms and distractions of Dartmoor society, if it is the last thing I do.
I will begin my programme by taking my latest letter to Mary (which I will tell Sir Henry is a letter to Holmes) to the Post Office myself immediately after breakfast. It will not occur to Sir Henry in his present state to forego the solitary pleasures of wrestling with the paperwork of his inheritance in order to join me. Anyone I meet will find me gregarious in the extreme—I will assume the personality of my late brother and discover unplumbed wells of fellow-feeling in each chance-met acquaintance. I will issue invitations with a fine disregard for my status as a guest at Baskerville Hall (I can take Holmes as my model for this part) and seize upon any vague hint at reciprocity with all of the eagerness at my command. Why not? I’ll never have to see these people again. I suspect that this is one thought I would do well to bear firmly in mind for however long it is that I am to be Holmes’s deputy.
I go to bed for the first time since my arrival at the Hall well pleased with my plans for the morrow. Tonight I shall sleep the sleep of the just.
* * *
Ten days of unremitting stress here at Baskerville Hall and night after night, I slept like a top. Now that I have come to a decision as to how to manage the remainder of my stay, I’m broad awake and can’t get to sleep at all. Why is irony the very stuff and substance of life? Looking out of my window, I am reminded that when night falls in this part of the country, it takes the whole world with it except for the lights of the prison, twinkling balefully across the moor. The moon is a rumour, hidden in a thicket of clouds. No star shines on my writing. What was Sir Charles doing outside after nightfall on that soft May night, wandering down the gloominess of the Yew Alley to the summer-house, listening to the melancholy sighing of the trees?
Answer: Bachelor that he was, he had an assignation with a lady. I am sure of it.
Watson, you have outdone yourself! In the matter of hypothesis generation, you have no equal. In recognition of the superior quality of your achievement, you may broach the subject of the tears in the night with Sir Henry in the morning. The introduction of the topic of domestic strife will give his thoughts a new direction.
And now, to sleep. I will have less time for writing now than I did formerly. Or so I hope.
Chapter 7
A full day—full of doubt, aggravation and disaster, that is. First, the disaster: Heathcliff has found his Cathy.
It needed only this for the situation to become completely intolerable. Oh, why isn’t Holmes here? Practically the only advice he gave me was “Stay with young Baskerville,” and how the devil I am to do that when he has found an eligible young lady in the neighbourhood is more than I can say. It is only a matter of time before he moves from giving me a hint to telling me straight out to mind my own business and keep my distance. Sir Henry is not only Holmes’s client, he is also my host. Nor is this my only worry. As it happens, I made the acquaintance of the amiable Miss Stapleton several hours before Sir Henry did (blast that solitary walk to the Post Office!) and due to an absurd misunderstanding in which she took me, the stranger on her doorstep, for the new baronet, I know that she was, as they say, “prepared to like him” long before she met him. She was positively clinging to me—clutching my arm, whispering in my ear, rising on tiptoe to remind me how much taller I am than she is. Upon my word, it was prettily done! In a voice that sent a veritable shiver down my spine, she begged me, as the supposed Sir Henry, to leave Dartmoor behind and flee Baskerville Hall for my very life. That makes two people who want Sir Henry to leave his inheritance to the dogs (or should I say the Hound?): Miss Stapleton and Sir Henry’s mysterious London correspondent, the one who uses newspaper clippings and a glue pot to compose his anonymous warnings. Since discovering her mistake, Miss Stapleton hasn’t said one word to me, preferring to concentrate on the real Sir Henry. I don’t want to let my suspicions run away with me, but I do hope that Miss Stapleton hasn’t been in the habit of meeting Sir Henry’s late, lamented Uncle Charles by the summer-house of an evening.
Sir Henry is well and truly smitten. Beryl Stapleton is “a jewel among women.” (Sir Henry is not distinguished by the originality of his expression, save on those not infrequent occasions where he is guilty of an Americanism.) He actually believes that in Miss Stapleton (excuse me, “the sweet, unspoiled Miss Stapleton,” I should say), he has found a woman who is able to content herself with the extremely limited diversions available in this locale.
Personally, I don’t know what he means by the diversions available in this locale—the view of the prison? All of his interest in the escaped convict has returned. Unless I miss my guess, Sir Henry has visions of liberating Miss Stapleton from the clutches of the evil Selden, bearing her off in triumph to the Hall and marrying her out of hand. Foolishness, all of it. Slippery Jack Selden is probably hundreds of miles away from here by now. It’s been twelve days, after all. How could a man survive alone on the barren moor for twelve days?
There is yet another consideration here. It seems to me that a young lady marooned at the edge of the Grimpen Mire by a brother as self-centered as the entomologically inclined Jack Stapleton might well be looking to the Hall for a husband wealthy enough to take her away from the diversions of Dartmoor. After all, if Mrs Barrymore can’t stick life at the Hall, what price the beautiful Beryl? It’s no use speaking to Sir Henry about this. I know, I’ve tried. He is still overwhelmed by his good fortune in the matter of his new suits, which arrived at the Hall this morning, just shortly in advance of Miss Stapleton. I don’t need Sherlock Holmes to tell me that we won’t be seeing Sir Henry’s Canadian sunset tweeds any more. Imagine a country where orange tweeds are considered normal male attire. Canada must be a colourful country.
The Stapleton connection is altogether unfortunate and yet it was the sole fruit of my morning’s expedition. I met the brother as I left the village grocery cum Post Office, he produced a sister, and every permutation since has been rife with danger.
Mr Stapleton and Dr Watson: he wonders whether my good friend Sherlock Holmes can be far behind. Surely we are looking into the matter of the Baskerville Hound for Sir Henry? It seems that Dr Mortimer shared his copy of A Study in Scarlet with just about everyone in the vicinity of Baskerville Hall previous to Sir Charles’s death. So much for arriving in the neighbourhood incognito. I can’t say I am looking forward to giving Holmes this piece of news.
Miss Stapleton and Dr Watson: she indulges herself in a fit of femininity that would have driven the real Sir Henry right over the edge. Not that his encounter with her brother can have added to his peace of mind. What must the bonehead do but insist on showing Sir Henry (“as a newcomer to our fair neighbourhood and the worthy successor to the estimable Sir Charles”) exactly where it was that the infamous Sir Hugo Baskerville, inspiration of the Baskerville family legend, met his death at the jaws of the Hound.
I’ve left one out. Oh yes, Miss Stapleton and Sir Henry: he falls at her feet. How could I forget that?
Well, so far there hasn’t been any less writing to my new approach! My first duty was to prepare my report for Holmes, and that duty, I am sorry to say, is with me yet in spite of two determined efforts to discharge it. I have given Sir
Henry notice that I must have a block of time to myself tomorrow for the purpose, and he has kindly promised me the whole of the afternoon. Sir Henry is genuinely impressed by my journalistic duties, than which nothing could be more fortunate—or stand in greater contrast to the attitude of my friend Holmes. Holmes has such rigid ideas of what constitutes a report! Try as I may, I cannot seem to catch the trick of describing (in detail and at length) everything I have observed, while at the same time vigorously suppressing any references to the thoughts, conclusions, plans, and speculations that attended those observations. Holmes does not know what a burden this interdiction of his imposes on me. It feels as unnatural as patting yourself up and down on the head with one hand while rubbing your stomach in a circular motion with the other—a trick my brother could do to perfection, but which utterly defeated me.
There is also the matter of Sir Henry’s newfound romantic interest. It may take some time to decide in what words to broach the subject of a possible courtship between Baskerville Hall and Merripit House. Holmes is not inclined to look with favour upon the romantic and I do not want to do or say anything that will cost Sir Henry any least part of Holmes’s sympathy or interest. I have to write to Mary, too, who will be most interested in Beryl Stapleton, I know, and the progress of Sir Henry’s trammelled courtship. Between them, my two readers (I cannot call Holmes a correspondent) have me covering the ground pretty thoroughly.
There remains the matter of my investigation of the Baskerville family mystery: Sir Charles’s death, the spectral hound, etc. There I am on relatively solid ground, if only because no one expects me to solve the puzzle. I must see if I cannot find a way to put Barrymore in my debt. He will know, if anyone does, who it was that Sir Charles was meeting by the summer-house that evening. It will be difficult—Sir Henry did himself no good service when he taxed Barrymore after breakfast this morning for an explanation of the female sobbing that has been disturbing my sleep of nights. What possessed him to do such a thing? It’s as plain as a pikestaff that Mrs Barrymore is the weeper. There is no other female here. Along with his other failings, Barrymore must be a domestic brute.
Sir Henry has a kind heart, but I could wish that he were a bit less ingenuous than he is. Then again, I could wish that Sir Henry were less romantically susceptible than he is, too. It will go hard with him, I know, if Miss Stapleton should reject him, or her brother should find some pretext to object to his suit. Sir Henry still hasn’t gotten over Barrymore’s rejection.
I wonder if Miss Stapleton might possibly have been educated abroad? There is something not quite English about her. Her colouring, too, is darker than is usual. Those flashing eyes, that raven hair—she is much darker than her brother, for example.
More tomorrow, when I may possibly be able to keep my eyes open.
* * *
The odds on my being able to keep my eyes open lengthened last night when I discovered that the elusive Barrymore roams the corridors during the small hours and lingers longingly at the embrasure of a certain window, this being the one window of all the windows at the Hall that looks toward the moor. It is suggestive, what? I could not forbear telling Holmes in my letter that Sir Henry and I have concocted a plan to suit the occasion, but in deference to his wishes, I spared him the details. Of course, I must keep the entire incident from Mary, who would certainly worry if she knew we were planning to accost Barrymore when next he walks. There will be no sleep for the weary tonight! I must endeavour to keep my enthusiasm within bounds—take a lesson from Sir Henry, who spent his afternoon going through mountains of bills and receipts in order to unearth the name of the architect who planned the Hall and every contractor, furnisher, carpenter or plumber that has ever set foot on Baskerville family soil. Sir Henry is going to redecorate the Hall in order to make it a suitable setting for Miss Stapleton, whom he met for the first time yesterday. Take a lesson, Watson. Barrymore’s wanderings may have nothing to do with the Hound. He may have some lay of his own. He may be a backstairs Lothario. Remember Mrs Barrymore’s tears. Wouldn’t it be something if Uncle Charles’s fateful trip to the summer-house were in hot pursuit of Barrymore and his second portion?
* * *
Watson, you amaze me. You predicted today’s Stapleton debacle to a nicety, without so much as a shred of evidence to show you the way. I’d like to see Holmes do that! There was Miss Stapleton, recoiling in horror from Sir Henry, easily the most eligible bachelor in all of Devonshire, and there was her brother Jack, descending upon that same Sir Henry, furiously demanding that he “Unhand her, unhand her at once, I say!” It makes no sense.
I was not close enough to hear the rest of the conversation, but Sir Henry was and I have it all. I’d like to have seen Holmes handle that situation. A pity I can’t write Holmes now, but I can’t expect Sir Henry’s good nature to be proof against everything. In particular, I can’t expect him to sit across from me and calmly watch me report his humiliation to my friend Holmes. No doubt it is trying his temper sufficiently just to see me busy with my journal. I must keep this entry short. Just a few more lines. You see what comes of Holmes’s prohibition against sharing my speculations with him—I’ll get no credit with Holmes for a prediction recorded only in my journal.
That’s it. From now on, Holmes gets letters from me, not “reports.” If he doesn’t like it, he can damn well come to Devon himself.
I wish he would.
* * *
We have gotten the truth out of Barrymore at last and it sent us out on the darkling moor for a couple of hours of petty convict-baiting. The sky was clear, the rain had stopped, and Miss Stapleton must be protected. That’s what we told each other, at any rate. I had my pistol, Sir Henry his hunting-crop (silly weapon, but I wasn’t about to take the chance of Sir Henry’s potting me), and the only difficult moment came at the height of the chase, when Sir Henry decided to ask me what my friend Holmes would say if he could see us now. That froze my blood, all right. I had completely forgotten that we were supposed to be avoiding the moor by night.
Which brings me to our discovery. There were two men out on the moor tonight (besides Sir Henry and myself, I mean) and one of them was not Selden. The stranger’s form rose in the west and was outlined against the fitful moon scant seconds after Selden vanished in the opposite direction. Unless the world has gotten a lot smaller since I arrived in Devon, this was a different man. I saw his silhouette distinctly: taller than Stapleton, thinner than Lassiter, with better posture than Dr Mortimer if less presence than the artful Barrymore—it is a rare man who has a better demeanour than a good servant. I was ready to give chase to this second apparition (which I feel in my heart is of London manufacture) when Sir Henry was unmanned by the cry of the Hound—or the boom of the bittern. That’s Jack Stapleton’s theory about this sound: it’s the last of the bitterns (some kind of crane, I think he said), bellowing across the moor in order to attract a mate. I have to admit, it sounded like a hound to me. And, of course, nothing can persuade Sir Henry that it is not The Hound, searching for the last of the Baskervilles. That was the end of our hunting and tracking for this night.
I trust Miss Stapleton will be impressed.
* * *
A dull grey morning, as weary of the world as I am, and I seem to have dozed in spite of myself and the cold ashes in the grate. My letter to Holmes is done and all I want now is breakfast and a couple of hours’ sleep in a bed instead of a chair. I don’t know how Holmes does it—sitting up with an intellectual problem is infinitely more tiring than sitting up with a sick patient. The last of the bitterns and the last of the Baskervilles: it is all a bit too romantic/nostalgic for the likes of plain Dr Watson. I miss my wife and the last of the bacon. I’m tired of burnt toast and blackened mushrooms.
That glimpse I caught of the stranger on the moor has had me sweating over my notes all over again, trying to decide how many words of my 9,000 word allotment I can afford to spend on the matter of the escaped convict. On the one hand, the convict probably has
nothing whatever to do with the central problem of the Hound. On the other, Slippery Jack Selden is undoubtedly real. Small wonder we set off after the poor bastard last night. A man can only take so much sitting around and thinking before it becomes time to do something. What we did was chase Jack Selden up and down the moor for the best part of an hour, until we found ourselves caught between the convict and the stranger, and the Hound (or was it the bittern?) made its spectral presence known. There is something about a disembodied bawling in the near-dark of a deserted place recently determined not to be deserted after all, that is unnerving to the spirits. I feel sure I could capture that sensation with my pen.
I can tell you one thing: Mr Lassiter of Franklin Hall is going to be a problem. Dr Mortimer will be easy enough, the Stapletons will be manageable within limits (I shall, for example, have to exercise discretion in the matter of the description of my passionate introduction to Miss Stapleton, that goes without saying), and Sir Henry will be all that is agreeable, I’m sure. Mr Lassiter, however, is going to be a problem. Unless—no, I can’t think it likely that he will oblige me by proving to be the villain of the piece. He is too portly, for one thing, and too well-established in years for another. Crime is a young man’s game. I can’t see Mr Lassiter scrabbling over the tors, baying like a hound in the moonlight. Then, too, Mr Lassiter is litigious to a fault.
If Mr Lassiter had a grievance against Sir Henry or an interest in the Hall, he would be bringing suit for a certainty. Every man of violence has his weapon; the poisoner does not think to reach for the axe. If Mr Lassiter were the culprit, he would be setting the law on Sir Henry, not a spectral hound.
Ordinarily, I’d say this was a problem with a simple solution: leave Lassiter out of it. With any luck at all, he’ll be a minor character, no great loss to the plot, dead wood eminently suitable for pruning. If anything is clear about this case at all, it is that I am going to have to leave something out if I am to be left with a 9,000 word adventure. Lassiter is so litigious, however, that he is capable of anything. In particular, it seems to me that he is capable of bringing suit against me for leaving him out of the piece. You should have heard him on the subject of property rights!
