The Baskerville Curse (Watson & the Countess Book 1)

by Anna Lord

  “You must suspect someone?”

  “Everyone! Mallard, Jago, Dogger, Perkins, Mr Barrymore, Dr Mortimer, the squire, and I did suspect you for a time too, Dr Watson.”

  Dr Watson rolled his eyes. “Did Beryl say anything at all to give you a clue? A word or phrase? A comment no matter how veiled? A description no matter how vague? Think, man!”

  Antonio’s head fell into his hands and he shook his head miserably. “All I remember is: he was moving like the devil with the sun on his back.”

  “The sun on his back?”

  “That’s what she said.”

  “That means he was riding east before sunset.”

  Antonio looked up. “Shh, keep your voice down. Is that important?”

  “I think it might be. Drogo Station is east. If he is our murderer he started with Mr Desmond and has grown accustomed to killing and will not stop until he has what he wants.”

  The doctor sank into a library chair and didn’t say anything for some time. The names ran through his head over and over – Mallard, Jago, Dogger, Perkins, Barrymore, Mortimer and Sir Olwen. One name stood out by omission – Lysterfield. He was absent the night of the dinner party. He had absented himself by way of that note Dogger handed to Lady Laura. He could have ridden to and from Drogo while men were distracted with the rescue. If the sun was setting then the rider must have been galloping to Drogo just as they were arriving at Baskerville Castle. That eliminated the squire. Beryl must have been dressing for dinner and looked out of her oriel window. Damn! The tower faced west. If she saw someone riding east she must have seen them from the nursery window in the north wing. Yes, that fit better with the timing for the ride. That same night or some time the next day she must have let slip what she saw and sealed her fate.

  “Why did you not include Roderick Lysterfield in your list of suspects?”

  Antonio looked surprised. “He is not family.”

  “Neither are any of the others.”

  “Servants are like family – they have ties to their masters. And the gypsies have a blood feud with the Baskervilles that is connected to family honour. Mr Lysterfield has no connection – none at all.”

  “I see – do you know why Mallard goes out onto to the moor late at night?”

  Antonio dropped his gaze and shifted uncomfortably. “I prefer not to say.”

  “Out with it, this is a deadly game where there can be no secrets, anything held back now could lead to another death, and the next one could be yours!”

  There! That put the wind up him!

  “Dog fights.”

  Of course! The barking and yelping and howling noises! “In the old tin mine?”

  Antonio nodded.

  “Who runs it – Dogger?”

  “No – but he breeds the fiercest dogs.”

  “Jago?”

  “Yes.”

  “When is it held?”

  “Midnight but there’s no set night. It is held in the open air so it depends on the weather; sometimes it’s too late to cancel as it was the previous time. Jago decides. The word goes around and men turn up. Sometimes women and children come too. Mallard takes the bets and pays out the winnings.”

  “When is the next one?”

  “Tonight.”

  The doctor leapt to his feet and began pacing the little room. “You will take me there tonight. I want to see what happens and who turns up.”

  “No!” cried Antonio, forgetting himself. “It’s too dangerous! We could end up like Le Francais!”

  “Keep your voice down. Do you mean the French gardener?”

  Antonio clamped his hand over his mouth.

  “Did he go to the dog fight the night he died?”

  The swarthy complexion turned white. That was the only answer the doctor needed. Barrymore was telling the truth. Gaston de Garonne did have a secret rendez-vous out on the moor. That made the doctor even more determined to go to the dog fight. He could pass himself off as an old friend of Antonio’s from Yorkshire. The accent he could easily master but what he needed was a good disguise – he had not spent time with Sherlock for nothing - but where to get his hands on the right stuff?

  “Do the children have a dress-up box with costumes in it that I could utilize for a disguise?”

  Antonio’s lips formed a crooked grin. “That I cannot say but there are costumes for theatricals stored in one of the closets in the tower. Beryl was mad for stage plays and the baronet indulged her passion. She was planning one for Christmas. The baronet was going to play Macbeth and she was going to play his lady wife.”

  Using the pigeonnier as a guide, the Countess negotiated the treacherous terrain with great care and eventually made her way to the place where feather beds abounded and where the headless horseman must have veered. She searched for nearly an hour before a stunted oak caught her eye. Tied to one of its tortured limbs was a red and white check neckerchief, the sort workmen wear to mop their sweat. She shoved it inside her pocket and began walking briskly back to the castle. She was halfway home when clouds began to bank up and the sky began to darken. She hoped to make it back before rain set in when a saviour appeared in the form of a golden eagle.

  “Give me your hand. I’ll return you to the castle before the rainstorm. I presume that is where you are hurrying?”

  “Yes,” she croaked as he scooped her up onto his lap and galloped away.

  Her heart was thumping fast and it had nothing to do with the speed at which he was travelling. He was a superb horseman and that short ride was one of the most exhilarating experiences of her life. When they reached the front doors of the castle and she realized the journey had come to an end she almost wept.

  “Are you any closer to solving the mystery of the anonymous letters?” he asked as he lifted her down and she could feel the sinewy strength in his arm.

  “Not really.”

  “Good!” he laughed. “That means you won’t be rushing back to London. Come to dinner tomorrow – dinner a deux. I promise not to serve rabbit stew!”

  “It is Mrs Barrymore’s funeral tomorrow afternoon.”

  “It won’t go all night, surely?”

  “There will be afternoon tea at Lafter Hall to follow and since there will hardly be anyone present my absence will be noticed. I cannot slip away early.”

  “The next night, then, and don’t tell me you have another funeral. Merripit House. Six o’clock. A bientot, Countess Volodymyrovna!”

  18

  The Dogs of Death

  A pock-marked moon was stippling the moorland grass with brush-strokes of silver and purple by the time Dr Watson and Antonio reached the old tin mine. Tin mining had become unprofitable more than a century ago and all that was left of the Scarvil Mine was a grid of stones choked with weeds that had once marked the foundations of the chimney stack, the engine house and the water wheel. The disused mine sat in a broad scoop in the moor, out of the wind and low enough to be hidden from nosy ramblers.

  Huddled around charcoal burners, rubbing calloused hands, were groups of men rugged up against the cold night; women; shawled and slovenly; wandered about selling currant buns, beer, whiskey or whatever took their fancy. Mallard was standing beside a brazier, taking bets. Business was brisk.

  “Haven’t seen you out here for a while,” he called out to Antonio. “I thought you didn’t have the balls for it?”

  Antonio scowled, shrugged his shoulders, and walked on.

  Jago was holding court, provoking the dogs on chains which snarled and growled in anticipation of the sport to come.

  “Who’s the newcomer?” he directed at Antonio.

  “An old friend from Yorkshire,” Antonio called back without stopping.

  Jago said something and the men around him all laughed uproariously.

  Dr Watson steered Antonio away from the fiery braziers into the shadows. “Is my disguise all right?” he whispered fretfully, tugging at the tartan cloak that kept slipping off his shoulders.

  Antonio eyed the
black beard, the black curly locks, the leather breeches and the leather bootees. “Your own mother wouldn’t recognize you,” he returned dryly. “It’s lucky for you Beryl wasn’t doing Othello – that was her favourite!”

  The doctor ignored the quip. “Why such heavy chains around the dog’s necks?”

  “Jago says it builds strength and makes the dogs stronger fighters.”

  “Idiot! What’s in the twitching sacks?”

  “Live bait – rats, rabbits, kittens. The dogs smell the fear and the terror of the helpless creatures and it drives them wild, they go mad; it spurs them with blood lust and the urge to kill. If they survive their fights they get them as a treat.”

  The doctor gave a shudder. “The Animal Cruelty Act came into effect in 1835 yet this barbaric sport persists.”

  “Can I interest you in something sweet, luvvie – one shilling?”

  A slatternly woman with frowzy red hair and garishly rouged cheeks was addressing him. He shook his head, unable to trust his Yorkshire brogue from sounding squeamish.

  “I’ve got a couple of nice warm currant buns,” she laughed, cupping some large breasts. “And a nice hot pastie down here,” she added, cupping her crotch.”

  “Piss off!” lisped Antonio. “My Yorkshire friend is not interested in catching the pox from a Devon harlot.”

  The woman shrugged and moved along, trying her luck with the next gent who looked like he might be able to spare a shilling.

  “My God!” spluttered the doctor; panic rising. “It’s Barrymore!”

  “Don’t worry,” reassured Antonio, “he’ll never recognize you. Just grunt if he says something. This is no gentleman’s club. You won’t be booted out for bad manners.”

  But the doctor needn’t have worked up a sweat. The first act was about to start and Barrymore went to place a bet. Dog lover indeed! Indignation rose up the doctor’s throat and the hypocrytic bile almost choked him.

  Shallow pits had been dug out of the earth. The sides of the pits were lined with sheets of tin that glinted in the bruising moonlight. It prevented the mad beasts from leaping out or the terrified bait from scaling the walls. Men were jostling for the best vantage spot. It reminded the doctor of the unrolling party at Lady Felicity Fanshawe’s but with less preening and primping.

  The first act was simply a warm up to get men’s blood running hot. In the largest of the pits were three Jack Russells. A man tipped sack full of live rats into the pit and the trio of little dogs hunted the frantic vermin down one by one, scurrying back and forth, piling them up until there were none left to chase. The tiny dogs were surprisingly efficient killers. The dog with the biggest pile of dead rats was declared the winner. Men cheered and raced off to collect their winnings or drown their sorrows.

  Events moved quickly. The next spectacle started in another pit. Two vicious pit bulls were unleashed and egged on to fight to the death. The dogs were well-versed in the art of killing. They did not bother circling, snarling or growling. They immediately lunged and tore at each other’s face, legs or hind quarters. The one who managed to sink some fangs into his opponent’s throat first came out on top; the losing dog, bleeding from his wounds, unable to stand, was now useless. He was dragged away and tortured with knives and burning sticks until he succumbed.

  Dr Watson had witnessed the brutality of warfare but he was sickened by what he saw. It was hard to stomach the cruelty inflicted on the dogs but hardest of all to stomach was the enjoyment such senseless cruelty provided the on-lookers. Barrymore went to collect his winnings accompanied by a man the doctor recalled as the trusty groom with the thatch of red hair. It took all the willpower he possessed not to punch the hypocrite and his underling in the face! And the only thing that prevented him was the fact he would blow his disguise.

  Another gladiatorial match was about to begin in an adjoining pit. The doctor forced himself to follow the feral crowd. In the pit were two dingoes, hackles raised, fangs barred, prowling the perimeter. They were not lunging at each other’s throats but waiting for something. Dogger was grinning proudly, enjoying his moment of glory. Men were baying for blood, cajoling the wild dogs. Jago arrived carrying a twitching sack. He held it aloft, working the crowd into a frenzy of rabid anticipation. Survival instincts on high alert, the dingoes stopped prowling and tried to leap out of the pit. They scratched at the tin walls with their claws and howled hellishly. Jago emptied the sack into the pit and out tumbled a small white dog. The doctor uttered a horrified cry that was thankfully drowned out by the bloated crowd.

  Terriers are not a timid breed. They are bred for hunting stoats, ferrets, hares and vermin. Jock snarled and growled and snapped ferociously as his two wily attackers circled and took turns to bite his legs and back, but the broken leg hampered his movements and he was neither as fast nor as agile as he could have been. The more the hunting instinct of the two dingoes kicked in the more furiously they lunged and bit, but they were in no hurry to kill their prey and the drooling crowd loved it. Jock dragged his bleeding haunches across the bloody ground, refusing to lie down and die. He was crawling on his two front legs, spinning back awkwardly to fend off the gnashing jaws, when one of the dingoes picked him up by the scruff of the neck and tossed him in the air like a rag doll. He landed with a sickening crunch. There was no pitiful moan of pain, no whine, no whimper. He lay motionless but still breathing, his barrel chest rising and falling with each desperate inhalation, while the two lithe hunters stood over him, panting and slavering, and the crown went wild, stamping their feet and screaming ecstatically.

  “Death! Death! Death!”

  “Kill! Kill! Kill!”

  Dr Watson had stomached enough. This was beyond sport, beyond spectacle, beyond what any civilised man could stand. Heart pounding, blood boiling, he made a move to leap into the pit, when Antonio manacled his arm in a vice-like grip.

  “No! You will end up like the Frenchie,” he lisped into his ear, restraining him with considerable force before shoving him away, fist in his back, just as Dogger gave the word and the dingoes finished off the terrier, tearing him to pieces, and the barbaric cheering of so-called civilized men drowned out of two thousand years of enlightenment, reasoning and Darwinian evolution.

  “You mean,” said the doctor when they were a safe distance from his repulsive countrymen, his voice ragged with disbelief, “Monsieur de Garonne jumped into the pit?”

  Antonio nodded. “He tried to rescue the bait dog just as I thought you might. He managed to scoop it up but he slipped in a pool of blood. As soon as he went down the dingoes ripped into him. It was Jago’s decision to move the body to Cleft Tor. He couldn’t risk it being found here. A mutilated pony and the legend of the Dartmoor Beast stop anyone asking too many questions or calling in the police if any such accident does happen or if any ramblers stumble across blood and guts and gore. The dead animals are thrown down the disused mine shafts. They’re mostly flooded now and the carcasses soon rot. Jago doesn’t want to lose this patch. It’s perfect for staging dog fights.”

  “The Gallic milquetoast was a better and braver man than I,” mumbled the doctor.

  “What?” said Antonio.

  “Nothing,” replied the other, stroking his fake beard and pulling himself together with an effort. “Does Barrymore come here often?”

  “This is the first time I’ve seen him, but I stopped coming a few months ago.”

  “Do the dog fights run all year?”

  “They will finish up at All Hallow’s Eve and not start again until after Lent.”

  “Did Sir Henry know about the dog fighting?”

  “I once asked Beryl that same question and she said something in Italian – quidproquo. I think it meant mind your own business. So I concluded that he did know but turned a blind eye for reasons best known to himself.”

  “Let’s go. I’ve seen enough. By the way, quid pro quo is Latin.”

  The doctor turned to go when he caught sight of a handsome man moving through the cr
owd like a blond god, slapping men on the back, congratulating them on their winnings, commiserating with others. He shared a joke with Mallard and gave a hearty laugh then exchanged a few words with Jago and shook his hand. He appeared to be on good terms with everyone. The doctor didn’t know why that should annoy him so much but it did. Just when he was beginning to like Roderick Lysterfield his stomach somersaulted back the other way. He felt disgusted with any man who could remain immune to such brutality and depravity.

  Several things happened in rapid succession the next morning. The Countess received a telegram from Plymouth. It was delivered by the post-master’s son who had come on his mother’s bicycle all the way from Coombe Tracey. It told her Fedir and Xenia had tracked down the sister of Sebastian Weyland. They were returning this evening and bringing the lady with them. Miss Victoria Weyland earned a living as a portraitist and she had painted a miniature of her brother just before he went away to Canada fifteen years ago. Fedir thought the Countess ought to see it.

  Next, Lady Laura requested to speak to Dr Watson. She was mindful that the funeral for Eliza Barrymore would be poorly attended and gave permission for Antonio and Clotilde to go as representatives of the servants and asked the doctor to arrange transport. Mallard was also mentioned but he was in bed with a high fever and a violent headache and since he was at a loss to explain how he got a dog bite on his hand during the night he was instructed by Dr Watson to remain in his room until rabies could be discounted.

  Dr Watson, unable to get Mr Lilies-in-the-field out of his mind and wanting to get to know him better, suggested that the engineer be allowed to take the butler’s place. He explained to his hostess the high esteem the workforce held him in and pointed out how his presence would surely be welcomed by Mr Barrymore. Lady Laura appeared to shrink back into her pillows at the mention of the name but the doctor was unsure if it was the name Lysterfield or Barrymore that caused the shrinking.

  Mr Lysterfield was finishing his herb omelette in the kitchen when Dr Watson broke the news. He seemed honoured to be included in proceedings and hastened home to change into suitable clothes. The Countess was delighted when she heard the news and agreed it was high time Dr Watson drop his stupid suspicion.