by Chris Dolley
I couldn’t see any screwdrivers or chisels lying in plain sight.
“Do you keep any chisels or screwdrivers here?” I asked Morrow.
He didn’t.
I don’t think one is ever prepared for a scream — not one of those full-throated affairs that sound like an adjacent opera singer had just trapped her bunion in a mousetrap. I jumped a good foot the moment Lily screamed.
“What is it?” Emmeline shouted.
“A face in the window!” screamed Lily. “Look!”
We all looked. There was indeed a face in the window. A horrible, twisted face. With cat’s ears.
Fifteen
There was considerable panic. Even the stiffest upper lip quivers at the sight of a cannibal pulling faces outside a second floor window.
“Get the guns!” shouted Henry.
“No!” shouted Morrow. “You’ll frighten him.”
I don’t think the fear of frightening Selden figured too high on anyone else’s list of priorities. Those who hadn’t already fled to the safety of the corridor, swiftly joined the exodus. Only Morrow remained in his laboratory. “No, Harry! Don’t go. You’re safe here.” I heard him say as I beetled down the stairs.
Guns were once more handed out. Henry and Babbacombe raced back upstairs whilst the rest of the men — and an insistent Emmeline — spilled out the front door.
The swirling mist swallowed up the light from our lamps, but Reeves caught sight of a fast moving shape running towards the copse above the mire gate. T. Everett emptied both barrels at it, and we gave chase.
“Did I hit it?” asked T. Everett. “I’m sure I hit it.”
We found no evidence of Selden being wounded, but we did find evidence of his departure — a trail of misshapen footprints in the soft earth leading up to, and through, the now open mire gate. I’d never seen anything like them.
“Most disturbing, sir,” said Reeves. “Selden appears to run on all fours like a large cat, but, whereas the rear paws exhibit all the characteristics of the genus felis, the front paws appear almost human. You will, however, note that the indentation left by each ‘finger’ is somewhat pointed, indicating the strong possibility that Selden’s fingers have claws.”
“I thought Selden only had a cat’s ears and tail,” I said.
“Dr Morrow did mention that Selden’s body went through occasional transformations, sir. This would appear to be one of them.”
“I can’t see him,” said T. Everett, returning from the track outside the mire gate. “His trail peters out as soon as it hits the firmer ground of the track.”
I wandered over to the mire edge, expecting to see Selden’s tracks disappearing into the mire. But the only tracks were those of the cloven-hoofed woman. They disappeared into a bank of thick fog after little more than ten yards.
~
It was a long-faced and contemplative gathering that assembled back in the drawing room. One always finds that the murder of one’s host puts a dampener on proceedings, and we had the additional sogginess of a bothersome cannibal on the loose. Not to mention that none of us — including, hopefully, the aforementioned cannibal — had yet eaten.
“What are we going to do?” said Ida. “If Selden can climb walls that easily, no window’s safe. He could eat us in our beds!”
“I think we should all stay down here,” said Lily. “I’m not going upstairs on my own until he’s caught.”
Morrow attempted to calm things down.
“Ladies, you really have nothing to fear. Selden is, at heart, a gentle soul. He only kills when he feels threatened.”
“Or feels a bit peckish,” I said.
“No!” said Morrow. “That’s the other side of Selden, which only comes out when he’s frightened. If everyone keeps their windows locked and curtains drawn you’ll all be perfectly safe.”
“What if he bursts through the door?” asked Ida.
“That’s very unlikely to happen. And, even if it did, there’s a simple answer. Don’t run. Running might excite the cat within him, causing him to give chase. Keep calm, keep quiet and keep still. If you must move, walk away slowly. And don’t look at him.”
“You’re sure that’ll work?” asked Lily.
“I’ve been in the same room as Selden during his transformations,” said Morrow. “Several times. He can look terrifying, but ... he’s more frightened of you than you are of him. If you keep calm, he’ll calm down too.”
Neither Ida nor Lily looked that convinced.
“I think it best if I spend the night in my laboratory,” said Morrow. “With a light in every window and one of them open.”
“Are you mad?” said Henry. “You’ll put us all in danger.”
“On the contrary,” said Morrow. “You can station a man outside my door with a gun. Lock me in as well. No one else in the household will be in any danger. Harry’s seen me there once. I’m sure he’ll return. I’ll lure him in and convince him to give himself up. It’s the safest and quickest way to end this madness.”
“Are you sure he’ll listen to you?” asked Henry.
“He escaped from prison to see me. I’m sure he’ll listen.”
~
Our gathering broke up soon after that. Morrow beetled off to his laboratory. Henry left to organise the various sentries. T. Everett escorted Ida and Lily to their rooms. Only Emmeline and I remained.
“I can’t see Selden using a blowpipe,” said Emmeline. “It’s not his modus operandi, is it?”
“No, I can see him eating a blowpipe, but not using one. Talking of eating, are you feeling peckish, at all?”
“I’m famished. I didn’t like to say anything...”
I rang the bell and Reeves appeared moments later.
“Any chance of a cold collation from the kitchen, Reeves? Maybe with half a bot of something fortifying?”
Reeves returned fifteen minutes later with the needful.
“What do you think, Reeves?” I asked as he poured the wine. “I can see how the note lured Sir Robert to the mire gate, and I can see how the cloven-footed woman hid in wait until Sir Robert came within blowpipe range. But how did the poison dart get into his pocket? It couldn’t have been planted there, could it?”
When one’s dealing with criminal masterminds one has to explore every option.
“It is possible, sir, but I can’t help but think cui bono.”
“Qui who?”
“It is a phrase Cicero was very fond of us, sir. Cui bono — it means ‘to whose benefit.’”
“Who gains, you mean?” I said.
“Precisely, sir. Planting a poison dart in your pocket would benefit the murderer by casting suspicion upon you. But planting a poison dart in the victim’s pocket appears to me a wasted opportunity and benefits no one.”
“Ah, but what if it was meant to kill?” I said. “If I’d rummaged through Sir Robert’s pockets I could have speared a digit.”
“That is a possibility, sir, but a simpler explanation is that Sir Robert placed the dart in the pocket himself.”
“Why ever would he do that?”
“I have given considerable thought to the matter, sir. I believe that Sir Robert was approaching the mire gate when he was struck on the right side of his neck by a poison dart. The killer, therefore, was hiding somewhere nearby in the copse.”
“With you so far,” I said.
“Sir Robert’s first instinct, having felt the dart strike his neck, would be to use his right hand to examine his neck. But his right hand would be holding his shotgun. Ergo he drops the shotgun where we found it, sir.”
“You don’t think he’d keep hold of the gun and use his left hand?” I asked. We consulting detectives like to be thorough.
“While that is a possibility, sir, we need to account for the shotgun being discovered some thirty yards from the body. It is clear that the gun was dropped. I posit it was dropped the moment Sir Robert was struck.”
“Why would he put the dart in his pocket though
?” asked Emmeline.
“Because upon pulling the dart from his neck, miss, he would have recognised the very strong possibility that the dart had been poisoned. He’d also know that his best hope of survival was to keep the dart so that the poison could be identified and an antidote administered.”
“So he pockets the dart,” said Emmeline.
“Precisely, miss.”
I chewed on a contemplative kidney.
“We didn’t look for footprints in the copse around where the gun was found, did we?” I said.
“No, sir.”
“And the only tracks we found belonging to the cloven-footed woman were on the path.”
“That was the only place we looked for them, sir. I don’t think we can rule out their existence elsewhere.”
“But there was someone we did observe in the copse leaving the scene barely five minutes after the murder.”
“Who?” asked Emmeline.
“Lupin.”
Sixteen
awoke the next morning uneaten. The Worcester neck was not a pincushion for poison darts, and not one of my internal organs had emigrated to the front lawn. All in all, a pretty good start to the day.
Reeves brought me my tea and drew back the curtains.
“Any more bodies, Reeves?”
“Not that I have heard, sir. According to Babbacombe, Dr Morrow’s plan to apprehend Selden did not meet with success. Selden failed to make a reappearance.”
“Bit of a long shot, I suppose. I know I’d think twice about coming back if T. Everett had taken a couple of pot-shots at me.”
“Indeed, sir. There has also been an interesting development in the search for the curare bottle.”
I sat up. “There has?”
“Yes, sir. I discovered it this morning, hidden within my room.”
“Your room, Reeves?”
“Indeed, sir. I was selecting my attire for the day when I noticed that the contents of my underlinen drawer were not as they should be. There had been a slight disturbance in the sock area, sir.”
I tutted, feeling for the poor chap. Reeves is very particular about socks.
“Upon further investigation, sir, I discovered a small bottle hidden inside one of the socks. It would appear that the person who planted the head and painting accessories in your room has now added me to their list of people to implicate.”
“Have you checked the bottle for fingerprints?”
“I have, sir. The bottle had been thoroughly wiped, which makes me believe that the person responsible may have been present when you spoke about fingerprints and their importance in the determination of guilt.”
“Or they might have already known. Criminal masterminds know all about fingerprints, Reeves.”
“Indeed, sir, but one would have thought a criminal mastermind would have taken the next step. I find it exceedingly odd that, given the effort involved to plant evidence, that no search of our rooms has yet been instigated.”
I took a contemplative sip of the oolong. Reeves was right. It was odd. Usually the discovery of planted evidence was followed swiftly by the ominous knock on the door by a set of size twelve knuckles.
“One possibility, sir, is that the person in question is not in a position to call for a search.”
“A servant, you mean?”
“Or a guest, sir.”
“I don’t know. One would think a determined servant could raise the idea of a search in the hope that Berrymore would suggest the idea to Henry. Or that a lady’s maid would have a word in the ear of Lady Julia. Has there been talk in the servants’ hall about the need to search anyone’s room?”
“No, sir.”
“There you are then. No, Reeves, I think we should regard this as a gesture.”
“Sir?”
“He’s taunting us, Reeves. Letting us know that he can plant evidence on us whenever he wishes. Fairly typical criminal mastermind behaviour. They’re all egotists.”
The question now, of course, was what to do with said bottle. It had no value as a piece of evidence any more, but it did contain poison.
“Should we return the bottle to Dr Morrow for safekeeping, Reeves?”
“Questions will be asked as to how the bottle came into your possession, sir. I would suggest we hide the bottle with Pasco’s head for the moment. You can then suggest a search of the Hall to Sir Henry when you meet him at breakfast.”
Reeves went off to hide the bottle while I sipped tea and pondered my next move. When Reeves returned I could tell by his eyebrows that all was not well.
“Pasco’s head is missing, sir.”
“Are you sure?” I asked.
“Positive, sir. The tin of paint and brush are where we left them. The head, however, is not. I believe you are correct in your assertion that we are being toyed with.”
Rummier and rummier, as Alice would say. Why take the head and leave the paint? This had all the portents of being a five cocktail problem.
“It also suggests, sir, that the person responsible resides at the Hall. They must be able to move freely about the house and not attract suspicion.”
“Rather rules out Selden and the woman with the cloven feet.”
“Indeed, sir.”
“But not Lupin. Lupin has the run of the house and one only has to look at him to know that ‘low cunning’ is his middle name.”
“An imaginative suggestion, sir, but I do not see Lupin bothering to wipe fingerprints from a bottle of curare.”
“That’s because you underestimate him, Reeves. I don’t. Sherlock Holmes wouldn’t. And neither should you.”
“Shall I lay out your clothes for breakfast, sir?”
~
I decided it was time for boldness. Reeves’ suggestion of hiding the curare bottle and calling for a search after breakfast was all very well — ten out of ten for sensibleness, but where was the panache? And how would it advance the case? All it would do is tell the murderer that we’d rumbled what he was up to, and could defend against it. To break the case we needed to attack, not defend.
Which is why I slipped the bottle of curare in my pocket and toddled down to breakfast.
Everyone was already there, dressed in mourning black and digging into their kippers or, in Lupin’s case, playing with a bowl of fruit. Berrymore was there too, along with Babbacombe.
I hovered in the doorway contemplating my next move. I wanted to see everyone’s face when I produced the curare bottle. Lady Agatha MacTweedie swears by the practice. ‘The face is the window to guilt,’ she says. According to Lady A., even the most inscrutable types can be temporarily unmanned if one whips out something incriminating at an unexpected moment.
I took a few steps over to the near corner to get a better angle.
“What is he doing?” said Lady Julia. “I did warn you, Henry. The boy’s touched. You don’t have to stand in the corner, dear. There are chairs over here.”
A lesser man — or, at any rate, one less used to the acerbic tongue of aunts — may have quailed, but I shrugged off Lady Julia’s comments and busied myself by opening a drawer in the corner table and pretending to look within.
“Don’t mind me,” I said. “I’m just completing my search.”
“The breakfast sideboard is behind you, dear,” boomed Lady Julia. “Berrymore, would you be so good as to wave in case Mister Roderick gets lost on the way over?”
I gritted the Worcester teeth and turned. Lady Agatha never had to put up with hecklers. But, looking on the brightish side, perhaps now was the just the moment to spring my surprise. People were relaxed. No one was expecting Reginald Worcester to whip out a bottle of curare from his pocket.
So I did. And as I did, I took a careful note of everyone’s face.
“The missing bottle of curare,” I said.
Everyone looked surprised except Lady Julia and Lupin. Lady Julia looked confused, and Lupin sucked on a grape in a disdainful manner.
Morrow jumped to his feet. “Where did you f
ind it?”
“Precisely where I expected to. It was a simple matter of deduction really.”
I watched for a reaction. If the murderer was in the room — and I had a sneaking suspicion they were — then he, she, or it, would be wondering what on earth I was playing at. Had I perhaps deduced their identity, and was about to say I’d found it in their room? This would be just the moment that such a person might crack and run for the door. Or possibly the pelmet.
Disappointingly, no one attempted to flee, so I continued.
“The murderer had to hide the bottle in a place it would not be readily found. A place, furthermore, that would not incriminate them. What better place than...” I paused for effect. Lady Agatha would have spread both arms out to enable her dresser to effect a swift costume change, but I made do with a steely gaze and the most pregnant of pauses. “What better place than one of the unoccupied bedrooms. And that’s where I found it. Along with a tin of RadioGlo paint.”
“You mentioned that paint last night,” said Henry.
“Indeed I did. It is my belief that Sir Robert’s murder, Pasco’s murder, and the ghost were all part of the same diabolical plan.”
“Selden couldn’t have played any part in that ghost incident,” said Morrow. “He’d only just escaped. He couldn’t have crossed the moor from Princetown to here in time. Not at night.”
“He’s right,” said Henry. “There are no paths and there are mires everywhere.”
“I doubt very much that Selden is the murderer,” I said. “The murderer has to be able to move freely about Baskerville Hall. How else could they steal the curare and the paint and hide them later? Selden couldn’t do that. He’d be noticed.”
“Are you saying it’s someone living here?” said Henry.
“Not one of us, surely?” said Ida.
“This is ridiculous,” said Lady Julia. “Everyone knows that Selden is a murderer. We cannot have two murderers in the parish. This isn’t Whitechapel.”
“I am merely following where the evidence leads, Lady Julia.”