And I thought I knew what his purpose was. Mrs. Lyons had said that Stapleton wanted her to get Baskerville to go walking or riding on the moor. Which meant he wanted Baskerville on the moor at a time of Stapleton’s choosing. Thwarted by Mrs. Lyons and threatened by my knowledge of his secret—and it should have occurred to me that she would go straight to Stapleton to have it out with him—he must have been delighted to discover me out on the moor alone, for he could kill two birds with one stone. He could get rid of me and he could ensure that Sir Henry would be out on the moor tonight, looking for his lost and very stupid friend.
Stapleton brought my unconscious body out, fetched Selden, and then went back to find the perfect place to release the hell-hound on the baronet. I wondered if he’d wanted Mrs. Lyons to persuade Baskerville to leave Wiggins behind for their tryst on the moor, or if he felt a real hell-hound could make scrap metal out of a cerberus.
Possibly it could. I had no enthusiasm for the experiment.
At that point in my reasoning I had to stop to be sick. When I’d recovered, wishing mightily for clean water to rinse out my mouth, I realized that I’d done exactly the thing I’d spent days telling Baskerville not to do: I’d gone out on the moor alone and without bothering to tell a soul where I was going or what my plans were.
“Brilliant, Doyle,” I said. “What do you intend to do about it?”
That was the true question. Even if Stapleton was planning to rescue me, which I doubted, I did not want to wait for him. I found a stick and went down the hill to test the ground. One step out … two steps out … three steps out and the solid ground turned into water. I scrambled back to safety and watched my stick sink inch by inch.
If I yelled, would anyone hear me? Would it do any good if they did? Stapleton was the only one who knew the way out here, and that wouldn’t change no matter how many farmers knew there was a fool stranded in the middle of the mire.
An alternative occurred to me.
It was a bad idea. I knew it was a bad idea, and yet compared to starving to death while Baskerville was ripped to bits by Selden, it seemed like a genuine option. The sky was getting darker by the minute, and while I thought Stapleton would wait until full dark to release his Hound—just in the unlikely event Baskerville survived, or if there were witnesses—I didn’t know that and I had no way of knowing where exactly Stapleton’s trap was laid.
My idea would take care of that problem, too.
I forced myself to sit and think it through carefully, step by step, but really it came down to a perfectly simple choice: starve to death in the middle of the Great Grimpen Mire, or shift phase and deliberately become a hell-hound.
I felt like a burned child faced with a fire. The last thing I wanted was to become a hell-hound on purpose, but the hell-hound’s superior sense of smell would enable me to backtrack Stapleton and Selden out of the maze of the Grimpen Mire, and while as a human being I was twigs and tissue paper as far as a hell-hound was concerned, as a hell-hound myself, I might be able to fend off Selden’s attack if Wiggins couldn’t. Oh, it was all so perfectly logical and reasonable and I hated it.
Hated it, and did it anyway.
I knew I would need somehow to bring my clothes with me. I tore one of Selden’s awful blankets into strips and knotted two strips together, which made a strap long enough to tie my boots and clothing into a bundle, with enough left over for a loop that I would hopefully be able to pick up in my teeth. At that point, naked and starting to shiver, I realized I’d more or less committed myself to this venture, since it was either untie my careful bundle, get dressed again, and pray for rescue like the heroine of a yellow-backed novel, or shift phase and try to save Sir Henry’s life.
For several agonizing minutes, I didn’t think I was going to be able to do it. It was like trying to flex a muscle I didn’t actually have. But the hell-hound was so close—as the hell-hound was always close—that I kept trying and finally, by an accident of the “try everything” variety, I discovered that it was not that I needed to flex anything, it was that I needed to relax the (mostly metaphorical) muscles I was holding tensed against the change. I grappled with that in increasing frustration, but then I very abruptly caught the trick of it, and I was, without warning, a hell-hound.
The scents of my enemies, one the rancid sweetness of a rotten orange, the other like burning metal, made the island vivid, and as I had expected, their path through the mire was just as vivid. But before I followed it, there was another scent, a bad scent, that needed to be investigated.
In another of the buildings, I found the corpse of a gigantic dog—a true dog, not like me, but almost as big. His throat had been torn out, and I smelled hell-hound all over him. I nosed the corpse, whining under my breath, and smelled hunger and anger and the hot itch of an intact male. There was an old gnawed boot beside him that smelled of friend.
I left him there, stopped my own whining, and set out to track the sweetly rancid scent that was the most vivid to me. It was easy to follow, even though I had to keep my head raised to safeguard the bundle. The path through the mire twisted and turned, but my feet stayed on dry land. There was one place where I did not follow, where his scent diverged from the scent of the burning man, heading for an obvious shortcut. I didn’t need to track his scent to see what had happened, for he got maybe seven steps before he started to sink and had to scramble back. I whined again, knowing the burning man had laughed, and then pressed on, more and more eager to get to solid land.
I came out at last on a little spur of rock. I dropped my bundle and lay panting for a moment, but the sickly-sweet scent was in my nose, and I needed to follow it.
I nudged my bundle into the lee of a jumble of rocks, where hopefully it would go unnoticed until I came back for it. It was almost full dark; although it made no difference to me, I remembered that it meant something, something bad, and I remembered that I was looking for friend, that friend was in danger from the burning man and the hell-hound whose scent was cloying in my nose and mouth, the hell-hound whose scent said enemy.
I lowered my nose and followed it.
He was making no effort to hide or confuse his trail, he and the burning man. Their trail was easy to follow, and I ran along it, pausing every so often to cast for friend and finding occasional traces, old and dim, nothing more.
As I ran, the fog began to rise, a nuisance at first and then a danger, as it obscured the ground in front of me. I slowed my pace, mindful that the ground was not to be trusted. But it made me anxious not to be able to see clearly, and it got harder and harder not to bay, to call my sisters to hunt with me.
No sisters in earshot, I reminded myself, only enemy. Even with the fog, his scent was growing thicker and thicker, and then I heard a sound I recognized, the clank clunk of the metal dog who went everywhere with friend to protect him. I couldn’t tell where the sound was coming from, and I knew I couldn’t let friend see me. And enemy was somewhere nearby, his smell was too fresh for him to be far away. I froze, and in that same moment, a man yelled, “NOW!”
I heard friend cry, “Who’s there?” and then he screamed. It gave me a direction, and I ran full-out, barely noticing my bad leg. The fog eddied, and I saw my enemy smash the metal dog aside, already leaping for friend’s throat.
I finally gave tongue and hurled myself between friend and enemy. I collided with my enemy, and we went tumbling, slamming hard into the ground. We rolled. I ended up on top and would have ripped his throat out, except that he got his back legs between us and shoved me away. I snarled and rushed him again. This time he turned so that my teeth closed on his ear instead of on his jugular. It made him yelp, but it wasn’t what I wanted.
He turned his head, pulling against my grip on his ear, and tried to get his teeth in my throat. I pushed away, his blood running down my jowls. Both men were shouting. My enemy got to his feet and was backing away. In another moment he would flee the fight entirely. I couldn’t let him. There was too much sweet-reeking rottenne
ss in his scent.
I had to keep him here, so that he could not use his great advantage, which was that he had four strong legs.
I started another rush, but pulled up short with a yelp, and then began hopping awkwardly away backward, favoring one front paw. It got his attention; his body quit looking like he was going to run, and instead he began stalking me, body low to the ground.
I hopped awkwardly and carefully away until an outcropping of rock blocked my path. The instant I looked trapped, my enemy charged at me. I rolled with him as he came and heaved him into the rock behind me. He dropped to the ground dazed, and I flung myself at him. My teeth closed in his throat, and that was the end of him.
Blood gouted. I backed away, shaking my head and snorting to get his blood out of my nostrils and sinuses, and then I realized that I was visible. Both friend and the burning man could see me.
I bolted.
I remembered where the bundle was, and I ran to it, splashing through every puddle and scrim of standing water I could find. It was not far—I had tracked my enemy in an arc, but could take the straight line path back. I outran the fog and only wanted to run faster.
I was damp and muddy but clean of blood when I reached the bundle. I stood, my chest heaving, and tried to think of why I should change. I knew that I had to, that it was important, but the reason made no sense, and the moor was full of scents to follow and prey to catch and a thousand thousand fabulous things that I would not be able to hear or see or smell if I changed.
Still, memory insisted that I had to do it, that I could not simply spend the hours until dawn in exploration. Memory insisted, but could not tell me why, and I was pacing along the edge of the mire, grumbling to myself, when I heard, far away but coming closer, the thud of running feet.
I knew it was the burning man, and the knowledge terrified me. He had trapped my enemy. He might trap me as well. The thought was a spur. I lowered my head and changed …
… into a person who was equally terrified of Stapleton’s approach. Fortunately, years in the Medical Corps had taught me how to dress in a tearing hurry in conditions ranging from darkness to artillery fire. I flung my clothes on, praying that I had succeeded in getting all of the blood off myself. I raked my fingers through my hair, winced at the lump Stapleton had left, although at least it might explain blood on me if no one inquired too closely. I thought suddenly, How do I explain myself? Stapleton had left me in the middle of the Grimpen Mire and there was no reasonable explanation for how I could have found my way out.
I threw myself flat on the ground at Stapleton’s approach. He had a small lantern, which lit his face into the mask of a monster, and he was raving to himself in an incandescent fury. I caught scattered syllables, enough to be sure that Baskerville was still alive and that Stapleton had not connected me with the unexpected second hell-hound—though that would change when he reached his island and found me gone. If I’d had my revolver, I would have shot him, but I had left it, quite safely, in my locked valise.
From the darkness, Baskerville cried, “Stop!”
Stapleton spun around. I noticed that he had one foot on the rock that marked the start of his Daedalian path. “Sir Henry?” he said with what almost sounded like real cheerfulness. “What can I do for you?”
“Who in God’s name are you, and what have you done with Doyle?”
Stapleton laughed—actually laughed—and said, “I suppose you can call me cousin.”
Baskerville made the connection more swiftly than I did. “Uncle Rodger got married.”
“Indeed. To a lovely German girl who died in giving birth to me. He did not marry again, remaining quite faithful to my mother’s memory. He told me often of the great estate in England where my grandfather lived—this was after my father had ‘died,’ you understand. He was infected with necrophagy and could not bear the thought that his father and brothers might learn of it. It is very easy to fake your own death in Brazil.”
“Did you kill Uncle Charles?”
“He was so scared of the family fetch that any large dog could serve to make him scare himself to death. An interesting paradox, is it not? And it gave me the idea, when you were too foolish to renounce your claim and stay away, despite being warned. Because no one would wonder if a Baskerville was killed by a hell-hound.”
“Well, that’s one question answered,” said Baskerville grimly. He had come closer, though not quite to the edge of Stapleton’s circle of light, and I saw as I looked that direction that the fog was beginning to curl close. “Now what did you do with Doyle?”
“Oh, the good doctor is safe,” said Stapleton. “Quite, quite safe.” He began to giggle, a thin note of hysteria riding the edge of his laughter. “I’ll be sure to tell him you send your kind regards.” And he whirled and started into the mire.
“Stop!” said Baskerville, and when Stapleton did not stop, Baskerville shot his lantern out of his hand—an excellent shot if that was what he had intended to do. I have never asked him.
“You can’t really think that will stop me,” called Stapleton. “I can walk this path blindfolded.” And there was just enough moonlight that I could see him bounding through the mire, as I had seen him bound after the butterfly that might or might not have been Cyclopides. Baskerville ran forward, but there was not enough light for him to take a shot.
Now or never, I thought, and called, “Baskerville? Is that you?” My voice came out in a distressingly persuasive croak.
“Doyle!” He immediately dismissed Stapleton from his attention. “My God, man, are you all right? Say something so that I can find you.”
“I think so,” I said, and asked before he could: “What happened?”
“That villain Stapleton,” said Baskerville, as he found me, a damp, muddy hand clutching my damp, muddy arm to help me up. “He set an actual hell-hound on me!”
“Good Lord,” I said. It seemed a rather weak response, but it satisfied Baskerville, who went on to tell me the whole story, including the corpse of the hell-hound turning back into George Selden in the end.
“His ‘better deal’ must have been with Stapleton,” I said.
“One devil making a deal with another,” said Baskerville. “And I fear he’s smashed poor Wiggins to pieces, although someone can come out tomorrow and collect the pieces, and maybe the company can mend him. But what happened to you? I’ve been searching the whole moor for you, and Barrymore is out searching still.”
I told him the story up to my encounter with Miss Stapleton, and there had a stroke of luck, for he said, “Good God, Miss Stapleton, we must catch her before she realizes the game is up. Come on, before the fog swallows us whole!”
I followed him willingly—though I was starting to feel the aches and pains attendant on the punishment I had given my body as a hell-hound—grateful to have gained a respite before I actually had to lie to him. We found Merripit House ablaze with lights and apparently deserted, not unlike the Mary Celeste. No trace was ever found of the servant Anthony, and we searched room after room for Miss Stapleton without success, until we came to a locked door.
“This is Stapleton’s dreadful museum,” I said.
We had found a key in the door of Miss Stapleton’s bedroom—on the outside, suggesting that that unhappy lady was not infrequently locked in—and when Baskerville tried that key in the museum door, we both heard the tumblers turn over.
The sight that met our eyes was truly one of the strangest I can recall. In the middle of the room was a beam, supporting the rafter, and to this beam, in the midst of Stapleton’s nightmare creatures, was tied a human form, so swathed in bedsheets that it was almost unrecognizable. One towel passed around the throat and was secured at the back of the pillar. Another covered the lower part of the face and over it two dark eyes—eyes full of grief and shame and, as she recognized us, amazement—stared back at us.
“Good God,” said Baskerville.
I jerked free the gag, and we rapidly unswathed the bedsheets. Miss St
apleton sank to her knees in front of us, her chest heaving as she took her first free breaths for what must have been hours. As her head dropped forward, I saw the clear red weal of a whip-lash across her neck.
Baskerville muttered something that I pretended not to hear.
“You are lucky he did not asphyxiate you,” I said.
“I know,” she said in a raspy voice. “I think he wanted me to die that way, but he couldn’t bring himself to … to make it certain. But, Sir Henry, how is it that you are safe? What happened to … what happened to the Hound?”
“It is dead,” said Baskerville, “and your husband has fled into the Grimpen Mire.”
“Oh thank God,” she said.
I said, “Are you hurt, Miss … see here, what is your name? Your real name?”
She hesitated, then nodded. “I am Beryl Garcia. I no longer accept any of his names as mine.”
“Good for you,” said Baskerville. He laughed suddenly, startling himself as much as us. “Sorry. It just occurred to me what an awful name ‘Beryl Baskerville’ would be.”
“It is not mine,” she said. “I will not touch it.”
“Are you hurt, Miss Garcia?” I said.
“Only bruises,” she said wearily. “What he has done to my soul is worse than anything he could do to my body. I have followed him for years, changing my name, colluding in his crimes, clinging always to my belief that, no matter what words he used or how he ill-treated me, that he did love me, that at least I had that—but I didn’t. It was just another of his endless, endless lies.” She broke down sobbing, and I found I could not fault her.
She regained her composure after barely a minute, and raising her head, saw through the window the fogbank that now surrounded the house. “Fog!” she said, like a child seeing snow at Christmas. “You said my husband went into the Grimpen Mire?”
The Angel of the Crows Page 35