My dear Crow,
As I promised, I believe this letter does at last contain some answers.
To begin with, before breakfast on the 14th, I walked down the corridor to the end of the south wing and examined the room that Barrymore had chosen in the night. There was nothing remarkable about it save for the fact that the window through which he had stared so intently commands the best and nearest outlook onto the moor. There is an opening between two trees which enables one to look right down upon it, while from all the other windows, only a distant glimpse can be obtained, if that. Ergo, since he went to considerable trouble to reach this window, meaning no other window would serve his purpose, he must have been looking for something or someone on the moor. Given how dark the night was, he must have been looking for a light. I wondered if he might have had an assignation—he is certainly good-looking enough to attract that sort of attention, and if he is not behindhand in reciprocating, it would explain, perhaps, the weeping I had heard and why Mrs. Barrymore, for such a stolid woman, seems sometimes so ill at ease. It cannot be easy knowing that your husband carries on intrigues behind your back.
But whatever the meaning, it was not something I felt I could keep to myself. After breakfast, I retired with Sir Henry to his study and told him all I knew.
His eyebrows climbed higher and higher as I spoke, and when I had finished, he said, “I don’t like the sound of that at all.”
“It’s difficult to imagine an innocent explanation,” I said.
“Difficult?” said Sir Henry. “Try impossible. If there were an innocent explanation, Barrymore wouldn’t be creeping around in the middle of the night.” I waited while he considered the matter. “I should like to confront him right away, but if he denied it, we would be at an impasse. We shall stay up tonight together and catch him red-handed. That is, if you are game?”
“Of course,” I said.
“It will be something to look forward to,” he said with a sigh. “I expect Mr. Holland at any moment.”
Out of curiosity, I walked out on the moor this morning, along the line of sight from that same window, trying to figure out what Barrymore had been looking for. I saw nothing but the bleak landscape of Dartmoor, the tors rising like strange castles from the rough and rocky ground. There was certainly no house visible, nor anything that seemed to explain Barrymore’s strange pilgrimage.
I ate lunch alone; Barrymore was grimly silent. I felt as if I had fallen into Wuthering Heights. After lunch, I explored the library. I fear that none of the Baskervilles have been great readers, although I found an interesting book about the supernatural denizens of the moors, written by a past curate of St. Michael of the Rock. He says there are redcaps in most of the tors and jenny greenteeth in the Grimpen Mire, making the moor an even less pleasant place than I had previously considered it. I definitely should not have let Sir Henry go out alone. I shall have to tell him to take Jernigan. I do not think my leg will let me ride, even improved as it is, and in any event it would take a London cab horse to let me near enough to try. But Jernigan seems steady enough to be a good riding companion.
I have spent the remainder of the afternoon in writing this letter. I shall not close, as I anticipate having a good deal more to say after tonight.
October 16th
Well, at least I was not incorrect about that. I do indeed have a good deal more to say.
I entertained Sir Henry over dinner with an account of some of the things I had read in the Reverend Hubbard’s book, and it only seemed natural after the covers were cleared to take the brandy decanter up to Sir Henry’s room to continue the conversation, which by then was ranging far afield. Sir Henry told me about the buffalo spirits of the American plains, and I talked about the ghosts in Afghanistan. I then told him a carefully censored version of my childhood encounter with a jenny greenteeth. “They like irrigation ditches, and their arms are always longer than you think. I was saved purely because I was holding my pony’s reins, and she was stronger than it was. I don’t think it got a very good grip, to be honest, but I still must put it down to the grace of God that the reins didn’t break. I never told anyone, for I should only have been punished for being so stupid.”
Around midnight, we extinguished the lights and settled down to wait in silence. After about half an hour, Sir Henry whispered, “What if he doesn’t come tonight?”
“Then we try again tomorrow,” I whispered back. “But I don’t think he saw what he was looking for last night. I believe he’ll return.”
Sir Henry had a good fire; there was nothing unpleasant about sitting silently next to it. I reminded myself to let him hear Barrymore “first” unless there was no choice. I didn’t want to rouse any suspicions about my unusually good hearing. Although I think Sir Henry might refuse to entertain such suspicions, I do not want to put him—or myself—in the position of having to find out.
As it turned out, I didn’t need to worry. At two o’clock, we both heard Barrymore on the stairs. Sir Henry gripped my wrist, and we waited, holding our breaths, as Barrymore crept down the hall. When he had reached the gallery, we got up and crept after him.
Barrymore led us to the same room, and as we watched, he unshielded his lantern and raised it to the window.
All at once, it was too much for Sir Henry. He strode into the room, saying sharply, “What in blazes is going on?”
Barrymore whipped around, blank horror on his face. “Sir Henry!”
“What are you doing here, Barrymore?”
“Nothing, sir.” His agitation was so great that he could hardly speak, and the lantern threw great shuddering shadows on the walls. “It was the window, sir. I go round at night to see that they are fastened.”
“On the second floor?” Sir Henry said, almost derisively.
“Yes, sir, all the windows.”
“You choose an odd time to do it.”
“I…” Barrymore is clearly not one of Nature’s liars. He had no idea how to answer that, and after a moment Sir Henry took pity on him and said, “Suppose you just tell us the truth.”
“I was doing no harm, sir. I was holding a lantern to the window.”
“And why were you holding a lantern to the window?” said Sir Henry, very much in the manner of my father.
Barrymore drew himself up and said, “I cannot tell you.”
Sir Henry seemed dumbfounded, and Barrymore said in a rush, “I cannot tell you. It is not my secret. I would not—if it involved only myself, I would not try to keep it from you.”
Sir Henry said, “But who else can it involve that has you creeping around my house in the middle of the night?”
I remembered my idea about an assignation, and stepped up to the window to peer out. Nothing but the black shapes of the trees against the blackness of the moor met my eyes.
“You’ll see nothing out there, Dr. Doyle,” said Barrymore.
“But then what are you doing?” Sir Henry demanded. “What confederates are you signaling to?”
Barrymore’s face became defiant. “I will not tell you.”
“Then you leave my service at once,” said Sir Henry. “Whatever you are plotting against me, you shall not do it in the comfort of my home!”
“Not against you, sir! I swear no harm is meant to you or Dr. Doyle!”
It was only a minor vow, but I did feel the pricking of it for a moment. And it wasn’t Barrymore’s voice.
We all three turned in startlement. Mrs. Barrymore, paler and more horror-struck than her husband, was standing at the door.
“Eliza,” said Barrymore, warning in his voice.
But she would not be silenced. “My God, have I brought you to this? It is my doing, Sir Henry, my doing and my secret. He has done nothing except for my sake, and because I asked him.”
“All right,” said Sir Henry. “Speak out then. What does it all mean?”
“My unfortunate brother,” Mrs. Barrymore began, broke off as she choked back a sob, and began again: “My maiden name is Selden.”
/> It took me five thunderous seconds. “As in George Selden?”
“Yes, sir. He is my younger brother—the youngest of us. We spoiled him when he was a little boy and gave him his own way in everything, and he grew up believing that the world was a toy for his pleasure and that he could do whatever he liked with no consequences. I suppose a boy like that was bound to fall into bad company, and George certainly did. It was almost like a demon had entered into him—although indeed his lawyers hired a practitioner and it was not possession—until he broke my mother’s heart and dragged our name in the dirt. He grew worse and worse, seeming to seek always the worst thing that he could do, until finally it is only something—the grace of God? The luck of the Devil?—that has kept him from the scaffold. I know he has done atrocious things that no one, wolf or man, can forgive, but when I look at him, I still see Georgie, the curly-headed little boy who always ran to me when he was in trouble, and I just could not—” She broke off again, and this time seemed unable to go on.
Barrymore said grimly, “When he escaped, he came straight to us, as straight as a homing pigeon.”
“He was cold and hungry and scared to death,” said Mrs. Barrymore, “and I could not turn him away. I could not. I am the oldest, you see, and Georgie was like my own child, the child I cannot have.”
“We took him in,” said Barrymore, and I could see how that decision had eaten at him. “We hid him for a week, but then word came of your arrival, Sir Henry, and—”
“You hid him,” I said. “In the south wing?”
“Yes, sir,” said Barrymore.
“Then did Selden leave those footprints in the flower bed?” I didn’t wait for an answer, because I already knew the truth. “The Notting Hill murderer is a hell-hound?”
“It was that filthy prison infected him!” cried Mrs. Barrymore.
“Where is he now?” Sir Henry asked pragmatically.
“I don’t know!” Barrymore said. “He hasn’t answered my signal for four days.”
“He promised,” said Mrs. Barrymore distraughtly. “He promised he wouldn’t bother anyone, not the farmers and not the gentry, but would wait on the moor until we could arrange passage to South America.”
“Which we have done,” said Barrymore. “The ship sails in three days.”
“And I know we should turn him in,” said Mrs. Barrymore, “but I cannot do it. That is the whole truth, sir, as I am an honest Christian woman, and you will see that if there is blame in the matter it does not lie with my husband, but with me, for whose sake he has done all that he has.”
“Is this true, Barrymore?” said Sir Henry.
“Yes, sir. It is the truth of the matter.”
“Well, I cannot blame you for standing by your own wife. Forget what I have said. Let us all go to bed, and we can talk further in the morning.”
When the Barrymores had gone, we looked out the window again. Sir Henry had flung it open, and the cold night wind beat in upon our faces. And as we stared out into the darkness, looking for God knows what, there rose suddenly out of the vast gloom of the moor that strange cry which I had already heard upon the borders of the Great Grimpen Mire. It came with the wind through the silence of the night, a long deep mutter, then a rising howl, and then the sad moan in which it died away. Again and again it sounded, the whole air throbbing with it, strident, wild, and menacing. Sir Henry caught my sleeve, and his face was white as bone in the lantern’s light.
“What in the name of God is that?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “It’s apparently a sound they have here on the moor. I heard it once before.”
It died away, and an absolute silence closed in upon us. We stood straining our ears, but nothing came.
“Doyle,” said Sir Henry, “that was the cry of a hound. It cannot be anything else.”
“Stapleton says it is a bittern booming.”
“Oh, nonsense,” said Sir Henry. “What do locals call it?”
“Well, of course, they say it’s the Hound of the Baskervilles.”
“Of course,” said Sir Henry with a hollow laugh.
“Let us follow the Barrymores and go to bed,” I said, shutting the window. “We can do nothing useful right now.”
“How like a doctor,” Sir Henry said, but he was only half grumbling. “Very well. But in the morning…”
“In the morning, everything will look more manageable,” I said firmly, and pushed him ahead of me out of the room.
With the help of another tot of brandy, I got Sir Henry in bed and asleep, but I myself am wide awake. I have occupied myself in finishing this letter. The sun is coming up, and I shall close here, so that it can go out in the first post.
At least the mystery of the Barrymores is solved.
Yours sincerely,
J. H. Doyle
* * *
From Mr. Crow to Dr. J. H. Doyle
Baker Street, October 18th
My dear Doyle,
For a change, it is I who have information to impart to you, for I am too impatient to wait until I should see you again in person.
I had a most peculiar set of visitors today: three men, distinctly of the petit bourgeoisie, and frightened almost out of their wits. They had heard of me through some torturous connection of employers and aunts and brothers-in-law, and they had a matter on which they wished my advice.
They put the matter on the table. A small box, addressed to GEORGE LUSK (Mr. Lusk being one of my three visitors), and reeking vilely.
“I received it through the post,” said Mr. Lusk. “There was a letter with it.” And he put the letter on the table.
Dreadful handwriting and worse spelling.
From hell
Mr Lusk
Sor
I send you half the Kidne I took from one woman praeserved it for you tother piece I fried and ate it was very nise I may send you the bloody knif that took it out if you only wate a whil longer
signed Catch me when
you can
Mishter Lusk
I looked again at the reeking box. “Is that…”
“It looks like half a kidney,” said Mr. Aarons. “Human kidney, I don’t know.”
“You should probably take it to someone who can find that out,” I said. “If it is the kidney of the Mitre Square victim, it’s important evidence.”
“But what about the letter?” implored Mr. Lusk. “Why is this madman sending things to me?”
“You were in the papers,” I said, for I had recognized his name, “as the chairman of the Mile End Vigilance Committee. Perhaps he thought you were the most proper person with whom to communicate.”
The third man, Mr. Harris, turned a laugh into a cough, not very well.
“It’s also possible,” I said, “that this is just a very ugly prank. Do you have any enemies, Mr. Lusk? Anyone who would want to frighten and offend you like this?”
“I … I don’t think so,” said Mr. Lusk, clearly bewildered by the mere question—which suggests, in fact, that he has no such enemies at all.
“There are a lot of very peculiar folks in London,” offered Mr. Harris.
“That’s true enough,” said Mr. Aarons.
“I don’t think there’s anything the police can do with it, even if it is Mrs. Eddowes’s kidney,” I said. I could not, of course, tell them that it could not be Mrs. Eddowes’s kidney because that kidney had been thrown in the Thames, but just because the fellow sending half a kidney through the post is not the Whitechapel murderer does not mean he is not a nasty piece of work. “But you should take it to them, nonetheless. I promise they will take it seriously.”
“I don’t know,�
� said Mr. Lusk. “I don’t want to cause any trouble, and surely it’s not anything.…”
“Suppose it happens again,” I said. “If he writes to you once, it’s worth considering the possibility that he will write to you twice.”
“Oh dear God,” said Mr. Lusk.
“Who should we take it to, to find out if it’s a human kidney?” said Mr. Harris ungrammatically but practically.
“Well, I can look at it first,” I said, “although I’m only an amateur anatomist.”
“Please,” they said in a chorus. I had gathered, as they told the story, that I was a compromise position between ignoring the half a kidney entirely and going straight to the police, and I could appreciate that what they all most dearly wanted was to be rid of the vile thing.
Thus, I looked at the half a kidney.
It had been divided longitudinally, trimmed up, and preserved in spirits. “It’s definitely human,” I said. “And I should say it was the left kidney of an adult. Which would fit with it being Mrs. Eddowes’s kidney, as it was the left one which was removed.”
“Oh God,” said Mr. Lusk.
“It doesn’t look healthy,” I said. “Pale, bloodless, rather congested at the base of the pyramids. Which also fits with it being Mrs. Eddowes’s kidney, according to the inquest testimony. But that’s hardly conclusive. Take it to Inspector Lestrade and tell him I advised you to do so. He will listen to you.”
“Oh God,” said Mr. Lusk again.
“Come on, Lusk,” said Aarons. “You want to do the right thing.”
“Yes, of course,” said Mr. Lusk. I closed the box and found some fresh paper for them to wrap it in. “But. Do you think my family is in danger?”
It was not an unreasonable question.
“As far as we know, the Whitechapel murderer, if this is indeed his work, has only preyed upon the prostitutes of the East End. He hasn’t gone after men or children, and no respectable woman seems to be in danger from him. I don’t think at this point you need fear for your family or yourself. If he continues to write to you, I might change my mind.”
Mr. Lusk did not look comforted.
“Send them to the country for a spell, if you’re worried,” I said. “There’s nothing wrong with getting them out of this poisonous cloud of fear, whether this particular man is a danger to them or not.”
The Angel of the Crows Page 33