by Anna Lord
“Do you have your gun?”
“Yes.”
“Take Fedir with you as well!” he called but she was already out of range.
The fox hounds came barreling around the south-west corner as the Countess was crossing the rose parterre. She could see Lysterfield in the distance, moving swiftly through the drifting fog. But the dogs weren’t running down their quarry; they were running straight for her!
Dogger and Perkins arrived, along with the two stable lads, and coming up the rear was Dr Watson, wheezing heavily. Dogger called the hounds to heel. But there was nothing he could do to get them to track Lysterfield. The scent stopped with the Countess who was blushing furiously, recalling how she had kissed the neckerchief, splashed it with her favourite scent and slept with it under pillow.
“Look!” cried one of the stable lads. “Over yonder!”
Loping across the manicured park were four sandy haired dogs.
“Bloody hell!” cursed Dogger. “My mad bitch of a mother has let loose me dingoes!”
The fox hounds were going berserk; they mistook the dingoes for foxes, wolves, or some other novel prey. Instinct trumped instruction. They took off after the wild dogs. Dogger took off after the fox hounds. Perkins took off after his brother. And the stable lads took off after the groom. In less than a minute they were all swallowed up by the fog.
Pursuit was futile. Dr Watson and the Countess returned to the castle. Antonio met them in the hall.
“What is it?” asked the doctor tensely. “Don’t tell me Mallard gave you the slip?”
Antonio shook his head gravely. “I heard a strange gurgling noise and unbolted Mallard’s door. He was hanging from a beam. Before he died he used a nail to slice open a vein and drew the symbol for the pound in blood on his wall – twice.”
“No accounting for madness and greed,” sighed the doctor, shaking his head at the cupidity of men. “Stay here in the hall and keep a lookout for Lysterfield. He’s on the run and he may doubleback.”
When Antonio was out of earshot the doctor turned to the Countess.
“You realize that Lady Laura cannot inherit the estate since her husband was not the rightful heir to begin with. A man who does not own something cannot bequeath it to his wife.”
“Ironic that Jack Stapleton was the rightful heir after all. His portrait should have told us that; especially compared to the portrait of Sir Henry which stood out like a sore thumb. But something tells me Lady Laura will be well provided for at Lafter Hall.”
They were halfway up the stairs when Dogger and Perkins burst through the front door, breathless from running.
Dr Watson feared the worst. “What’s happened? Out with it!”
“Lysterfield is dead,” the twins blurted out simultaneously.
“Drowned,” said Dogger.
“In the lake,” added Perkins.
The look that passed between the brothers made the Countess’s blood curdle.
“There’s something else – what is it?”
Dogger licked his lips. “Well, Lysterfield was in the row boat when it tipped and he went in the drink, and then the fog…”
“Yes?” she prompted.
Perkins finished the story. “And then the fog, like fingers of milky whey on the water, crept up all around him and, and, and pulled him down.”
“We both saw it,” swore Dogger.
19
The Master of Baskerville
The library clock chimed eleven when Antonio entered to announce a stranger at the door asking to speak to the Master of Baskerville.
Dr Watson, Countess Voloymyrovna and Mr Barrymore looked at each other with alarm. The doctor took charge.
“Does this stranger have a name?”
“It is Mr Saint Giles.”
Dr Watson rushed into the great hall and clasped his friend by the hand, giving it a robust shake. “Good God, man! What are you doing in this corner of the world? And at this late hour! Take off your coat and hat and follow me into the library. You can have something to drink and I believe I may have left you some Stilton! No doubt you have a tale to tell and you might as well be comfortable in the telling.”
As soon as introductions and refreshments were out of the way Jensen Saint Giles commenced his tale. He had unearthed more information regarding the history of the de Chivers family and decided to come personally when that information linked up with the name of Baskerville. He was as privy as everyone else in England to the strange death of Sir Charles Baskerville and the part Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson had played in solving it. He had also read in the newspaper of the recent death of the baronet and rightly concluded that Dr Watson was involved in a fresh mystery, possibly related to the new baronet, and deduced from the telegram that the doctor might be staying at Baskerville Castle. His tale was as unexpected as it was extraordinary:
Sir Charles Baskerville fathered a child with a gypsy girl by the name of Yanina Slivko. The child was legally begotten because he and Yanina were married at the time of conception, this was months before Sir Charles’ senior discovered his son had married without permission and in a rage burnt a Saxon church to the ground hoping to destroy the marriage certificate. To no avail; Yanina fled with the certificate and lodged the certificate with a solicitor in Tavistock. She changed her name to Nina and lived with a man called John de Chivers, though they never married. They raised the child fathered by Sir Charles as their own. The child and rightful heir to the Baskerville estate is John de Chivers.
There were no collective gasps of shock and dismay. Everyone had been intently following the tale and had reached the extraordinary conclusion moments before the name was spoken. Nevertheless, Mr Barrymore was speechless. Dr Watson broke the tranced silence.
“This is Mr John de Chivers,” he said to his friend, “also known as Mr John Barrymore.”
“Can you be sure about the facts?” Barrymore’s voice came throttled with dismay and Bessie gave a low growl in sympathy.
“Oh, no doubt at all,” replied Mr Saint Giles confidently. “I have interviewed dozens of people who were connected with your family and the incident I just described. Plus there is the marriage certificate and birth certificate. And on the day of your baptism your mother wrote a full account of her story, witnessed by her priest and her solicitor, a man who recently passed away but who I trusted implicitly, outlining everything you just heard - no doubt at all.”
The doctor called for a celebratory toast but fell short of congratulating himself – not such a bumbler after all. He’d done it! Solved a case without the help of Sherlock!
They were drinking to the health of the rightful Master of Baskerville when the Countess pushed abruptly to her feet. Something wasn’t right. Something niggled. Something propelled her to the bedroom of Lady Laura.
The lady was sitting at her dressing table, smiling smugly at herself in the oval glass; a bejewelled finger was twirling a pretty auburn ringlet; soft candlelight highlighted a sparkling sea of costly brilliants scattered amongst the silver hair brushes and ivory combs.
“Neckerchief!”
Lady Laura was startled by the untimely intrusion. “Oh, it’s you, Countess.”
“You knew it was a neckerchief.”
“What are you raving about? Have you gone mad?” Lady Laura had decided to adopt an air of innocent hauteur but the Countess was not fooled.
“When I said ‘his neckerchief’ you knew what I meant. The pronoun could only have referred to a man’s accoutrement yet you passed me the perfumed cloth handed to you by a woman – the red and white check neckerchief!”
“The other was a handkerchief – I could see that.”
“A neckchief and a man’s handerkerchief are the same size. There is no way of telling the difference. In fact, that’s what labourers do with their handkerchiefs – they fasten them around their necks to soak up the sweat; they mop their brows and blow their noses on them. You said you had never met Lysterfield and yet you recognized his neckerchief
.”
“Neckerchief; handkerchief; what’s in a name?” the lady shrugged, twirling a ringlet. “If that is all, Countess, I must ask you to leave. I am feeling weary. I need my rest. In fact you are making me quite dizzy.” She stood up and appeared to sway but the appeal to sympathy was lost on the Countess.
“LL – the two letters of the alphabet that look like pound symbols. Mallard wrote your initials in blood just before he died. You were the imaginative brains behind the letters. You manipulated Mallard and Lysterfield. They could not have done what they did without you. I bet there is a jib door in your dressing room that allows you to come and go unseen. You instructed Lysterfield to push Beryl Stapleton down the stairs! You ordered him to murder your own father! What a smug conceit to swoon with shock at the sight of Lysterfield on the day of your husband’s funeral!”
Lady Laura opened the drawer of her dressing table and used her palm to sweep the jewels into it then snatched up a pistol and pointed it at the Countess. Her genteel voice turned hostile and malevolent. “Yes! Yes, I had them both killed! The Costa Rican strumpet thought she could blackmail Robert and I couldn’t risk my father blurting out that he’d seen Robert on the stairs. My father loved that stupid dog more than le loved me! He cut me off without a penny when I ran off with Robert. Robert was easy to twist around my finger. I would have murdered him too and married Jack Stapleton but that meddling detective ruined everything. I married Sir Henry instead eventhough Robert and I were never divorced. Robert was a much better lover so I made use of him when he came crawling back, skint and desperate. Then along came Mallard with proof that Sir Henry was an imposter. What joy! Mallard was easy to control. He was in love with me too. So was old Charles Baskerville. I played on Sir Henry’s nerves and his fear of being found out. It was only a matter of time before he killed himself. I wanted Dr Watson to be here to witness it all. I am free to marry the real baronet now. Another fool for love!”
“How did you know Barrymore was the rightful hier? We only just discovered the truth tonight.”
She gave a scornful toss of her head. “I saw a letter on my husband’s desk from that stupid priest in Cumbria saying an old lawyer from Tavistock had contacted him with news pertaining to the true and rightful Baskerville heir. He was coming to Devon to discuss it. Imagine Sir Henry’s shock when he read the name Barrymore! I think that’s what pushed him over the edge. Imagine my delight! And now that you know the truth, well, it’s too late. I will tell everyone you entered my bedroom in the dark and I feared for my life. No one will doubt me; not even the witless Dr Watson.”
The door flew open and something leapt at Lady Laura’s throat. She fired her gun. There was a terrible howl as the beast dropped like a stone.
“Bessie! Bessie! My darling girl!” Barrymore burst in and fell to his knees.
Another shot rang out, but from a different gun. The Countess had whipped out her muff pistol and shot Lady Laura through the heart, sparing Barrymore from the next bullet and herself from the one after that.
Victoria Weyland was first on the scene. Hardy and sensible, she took one look at the dead body, decided there was nothing she could do for it then promptly knelt beside the bleeding dog. “It’s only a flesh wound,” she said, patting the whimpering beast. “The bullet took off part of the ear and grazed the rump. Fetch some towels,” she directed at the man kneeling over the dog. “We’ll staunch the blood and this dog will live. Who’s that lady?”
“It’s a long story,” sighed the Countess before turning to Barrymore. “How long were you listening at the door?”
“Long enough,” he said bitterly. “Long enough!”