No longer lounging idly by the fire, he was convulsed with laughter. The laughter was not normal. It was explosive – maniacal. He shrieked, he giggled, he sobbed with laughter. He lolled on the ground; his arms and legs twitched.
The hunchback, seeing this fit overtake his master, ran from the clearing and returned instantly, bearing a tin cup. The gypsy gulped down its contents, which I assumed to be spirits of some sort, and grew calmer. He stood up, paced about, and mopped his brow with a colourful handkerchief. Then he approached and, stopping not ten feet away, leaned towards me.
‘You must excuse the outburst, Doctor Watson, but I’ve waited so long...’
An icy chill pierced my chest at these words. The voice caught, and stayed in my ears. It was a voice I knew, and was associated with unpleasantness.
The gypsy drew still nearer.
‘You know my voice? Come, come, Doctor, can’t you recall it? I am sure your clever friend Sherlock Holmes would remember in an instant...’
But he was taken again by a fit of laughter. Wailing, he caught at his side until it subsided. As he made a tremendous effort to control himself, I observed the unmistakable symptoms: the trembling in the extremities, the perspiring, the wild-eyed stare, the raving, convulsive laughter. It was quite apparent: the man was mad.
‘Who am I, Doctor Watson? Eh? I see by your puzzled look that you don’t recollect. Do you need some help?’
With this, he drew up to me and, in an instant, had torn off the gypsy disguise. What I saw caused things to weave and whirl about, then grow dim. I was speechless with awe: the face looking into mine had come forth from the grave.
‘Impossible!’ I gasped. ‘You are dead!’
Again, a change came over the man. The raving maniac was replaced by the cold, calculating machine I had so often observed in earlier times.
‘No, Doctor,’ he said in a voice that was barely audible, ‘no, I am not dead. Though people have thought so for some time.’
I listened spellbound, the terror growing in me.
‘My presumed death made my escape easier,’ he went on soothingly, ‘and still protects me. The only reason I shall reveal all to you is because I have the assurance – nay the certainty – that neither you nor Sherlock Holmes will live to see tomorrow’s sun.’
Eleven
THE BEAST IN HENRY’S HOLLOW
Stapleton! So you are the villain behind this nefarious scheme!’
‘Ah, but you may as well know my name: Rodger Baskerville! Though I have travelled under many different guises, that is my true name. And Baskerville Hall my true residence!’
‘That is debatable, to say the least.’
He struck me across the face. Then, as if alarmed by his lack of self-control, he caught his fist up and held it to his breast. He rocked to and fro on his haunches, his head flung back, eyes half-closed.
‘I am excitable lately,’ he groaned. ‘The strain, the strain has been intolerable. If you knew of the planning, the waiting... Ah! But it shall be over soon. Oh, Doctor Watson! Although I have reason to despise you and your foul friend, I admit that the death you are to suffer is a horrid one!’
A fluid panic overtook me and turned my limbs to water. My hair stood on end.
‘What’s this? Do I detect, the look of fear upon your face, eh?’
He rolled his head backwards and, staring straight up into the grey sky, shrieked with laughter.
‘Oh this is delicious. Truly delicious! Already the long wait is well worth it.’
The fit seized him again, and he was convulsed. Finally, he managed to calm himself, and proceeded in the soft, soothing voice that so characterized the Stapleton of my acquaintance.
‘I trust you are impressed with the planning and execution of this venture – you should be. It is the product of intense thought and firm discipline. You should know at the outset, Doctor Watson, that I have also planned your death. Your death, and the death of Sherlock Holmes. In a sense I regret killing you, since you are obviously a dupe and a simpleton, and kept by our “friend” only because you are a toy to feed his pride. However, Sherlock Holmes has wronged me deeply, and must be punished. Part of his punishment is death, but the other part–’
And here he paused for emphasis.
‘– is watching you die before him.’
‘You beast!’ I cried. ‘You are mad!’
‘Stop it! Stop it, Doctor!’ he screamed. ‘Now we’ll have no more of such talk, do you hear?’
He stared down at me in a fit of rage. I remained silent, and after another pause, he continued in a low voice.
‘I am excitable, true. But who wouldn’t be as he sees the genius of his plan unfolding? Who wouldn’t be agitated as the hour of sweet revenge draws closer?’
He paused to light a cigarette. The hollow was entirely silent save for the splashing of the tiny waterfall behind me.
‘Ah, I bask in the euphoria of it! At this very moment Sherlock Holmes, supposedly the finest mind in Europe, gropes his way through the fog, unaware that he comes to meet his death! And as the lamb strays towards the wolf, I shall tell you a story. Would you like that? Yes, of course you would! We have almost an hour, and no doubt you are anxious to hear of my brilliant evasion from the Grimpen mire...’
It is a mark of the madman to indulge in fantasies and grandiose delusions. So Baskerville regarded his every thought and action as divinely inspired. But I noticed his eyes wander and glaze slightly as he fell into his narrative. The liquor was taking effect – aided, no doubt, by the nervous exhaustion that was clearly overtaking him. It is ennervating to rave and shriek. Also, now that the battle was won, the passion that had kept him going at fever pitch for the past weeks was quickly fading. My only hope of escape, however faint, was to keep him talking – to feed his delusions. In this way, I hoped, he would be enfeebled by the time Holmes arrived. What would happen then was in the hands of fate.
‘Yes, I’d be delighted to hear your story. And pray, don’t leave out a word. I must admit you’ve won, Baskerville. You are a devilishly clever chap –’
‘Indeed I am! And so, let’s have no more talk of...’
He looked furtively sideways and continued in a whisper.
‘... madness...’
‘It was sheer genius the way you eluded capture on the moors. Everyone thought you’d perished in the mire –’
‘Idiot! Did it never occur to you that I had an escape route planned well beforehand? Hah! Holmes was fortunate enough to see through my little scheme, but even he was too muddle-headed to foresee the possibility that I had prepared for everything. Well! As to what happened –’
Drawing yet closer, he sat cross-legged, facing me, on the dank earth – the mist swirling in spirals about him. A languid expression on his face, he began his tale. Seeing that he sat nearby, I made one supreme effort to break free my shackles with the hope of swinging my arm round and catching him on the temple with the chain.
‘Don’t waste your energy, Doctor. It’s useless, I assure you. Those chains can hold a Shire horse – now, ah yes, the flight from the moor...’
‘We found Sir Henry’s boot at the edge of the path. We assumed you dropped it in flight, then sank into the bog –’
‘You assumed that because I wished you to assume it; I planned for it. When I heard the pistol shots through the fog, I knew the hound was dead and my plan had been discovered. I left my house and ran to the old tin mine at the centre of the bog, dropping the boot on the way deliberately. Once at the mine, however, I picked up a haversack I had hidden there for just such an eventuality – for as loutish as your friend Sherlock Holmes is, I had respect for his tenacity.’
‘How decent of you –’ I interjected sarcastically, then winced in expectation of another blow. But engrossed in the tale that extolled his prowess, he ignored my comment.
‘The haversack contained a blanket and tins of food, enough for several days. Now the brilliance of my planning, Doctor Watson, was in the forging
of another path, unknown even to my wife, which led from the tin mine out on to the moor in the opposite direction. Had your friend been more careful, less flushed with his apparent success, he would have noticed it. But as fate would have it, he did not, and assumed I was dead.
‘By the time you arrived at the abandoned mine, I was miles away. Tramping the countryside by night and sleeping in rocky crevices during the day, I made good progress. On the third day, I took a chance and entered a small village. I bought a newspaper and was delighted to discover that I was dead. You’ve no idea, Doctor Watson, how easy it is to get away when it’s widely supposed that you are lying at the bottom of a bog. I made my way northward, heading for Yorkshire since I know that country well. But on the way I entered the valley of the Severn, and there I fell in with old King Zoltan and his gypsy tribe. They were a generous people, and asked no questions. I adopted their dress and habits, and joined their caravan as it wound its way through the hillsides and forests. Having been raised in Costa Rica and the son of a native mother, I was naturally congenial to their fiery temperament and romantic ways. King Zoltan adopted me as his son, and so my disguise was complete; my escape from England assured.’
The mist was thinning, and more of the clearing was now visible. At its far end, beyond the shallow pool, was a wall of rock. In this wall was a small cave, the entrance of which was a dark crevice. From this narrow fissure I saw the Malay emerge. He hobbled from it on his stunted legs and made his way to the fire, which he built up. This task completed, he scurried back to the burrow in the cliffside, gathering the folds of his filthy robe about him. I watched as Baskerville stretched his legs, and, leaning casually back on one elbow, continued.
‘Perhaps you already know that this ring of oaks, and the hollow within, is a favourite stopping place for gypsies. Into this very place our caravan entered in the early winter of ’89, just a few weeks after my flight from the moors. We camped here for the winter, living off the game we shot or captured in these forests. During our stay we frequently saw shooting parties as they ventured forth from Strathcombe. I was impressed with the wealth of the estate. When I heard that the owner was none other than Peter Allistair, I was shocked to the core, and overjoyed too, for I had long sought to repay him for his insolence –’
‘Lord Allistair? What did –’
‘Never mind,’ said Baskerville with a wave of the wrist, ‘it happened long ago, before even the hound, but I could never forgive him for ruining me. I had planned to kill him some dark night, but realized the risk was great, and the punishment too swift...’
I sadly recalled the ten weeks of anguish suffered by Lord Allistair, and was only too well aware of the effectiveness of Baskerville’s torture. But what had Lord Allistair done to deserve this? Clearly it was not in his character deliberately to wrong any man. My thoughts were interrupted as the man before me continued his gruesome tale.
‘But as fate would have it, I had no time for vengeance. In the spring, the old king died. His people carried the body to the bottom of one of these grisly caves and buried him. When I learned that the band was to head south, I decided to depart. With a purse full of gold, a gift from King Zoltan, I continued northwards until I came to Liverpool. There I signed on a ship bound for America.
‘It was during the voyage to America, Doctor Watson, that the memories of my frustration crept to the foreground. For weeks, I could think of nothing save the humiliating defeat I suffered at the hands of Sherlock Holmes. Such a brilliant plan, and foiled by an amateur meddler! It was then that the seed of my hatred germinated and began to grow. It grew with each passing day. And as weeks flowed into months, it became –’
‘A passion,’ I interjected. He glanced at me nervously.
‘You could call it that,’ he admitted, ‘and why not! What normal man, deprived of his rightful inheritance after months of careful planning, wouldn’t seek revenge? However, I knew it was best to stay out of England for several years to give added credence to my death, and to let events fade into the past.
‘After landing in America I worked my way across that continent, finally arriving in San Francisco. There I signed aboard a Russian sealer, and spent the next fifteen months in the Bering Sea. In that frozen waste, there was little to think about save my hatred for Sherlock Holmes and the revenge I sought. My next ship took me to Santiago, where I met the man who is now carrying Alice Allistair to –’
His tale was interrupted by a sound. It came from the crevice in the rock wall. It was a sound I had never heard before, and it froze the very blood in my veins. It was an animal sound, and began in a series of snuffling grunts, then rose to a deep growl. Finally, it resolved itself into a piercing squeal that echoed off the craggy walls of the ravine in hideous cacphony.
‘Good God!’
Looking back, I can scarcely remember saying those words, for my entire soul was seized with a fear so intense that speech was difficult, and thinking almost impossible. The memories swam in my tormented mind: the mutilated body of Captain McGuinness – the gory remains of Compson –
I struggled frantically to escape the bonds. I lunged my body forward a half-dozen times until my limbs ached, my wrists bled. My heart thumped madly, so that my entire chest shook. My stomach had the formless, quivering sensation that comes only with the deepest dread.
‘There, there, Doctor Watson! You’ll injure yourself! You shall be injured, I can assure you,’ he added darkly, ‘but all in good time. Now you must sit and listen to my story – there’s a good chap. Wangi!’
The heathen shuffled from the mouth of the cave and approached. He held a strange object in his hand. It was a wooden rod with an iron hook fixed to its end. I recognized the object: it was a mahout’s goad, used to drive elephant. The hook was red at the tip.
‘So our friend is misbehaving? He is impatient, eh, Wangi?’
The wretch grinned and babbled, revealing a loathsome mouth of broken and stained teeth. He struck the goad against the ground repeatedly, convulsed with guttural laughter.
‘Ah, he is hungry, no doubt! Here Wangi – see how our poor hostage trembles in every limb. No, Doctor, the beast is entirely captive until we release it. He shan’t emerge from his lair until Mr Holmes arrives to take his place beside you...’
The misshapen servant hobbled back into the cave. Almost immediately there came a dull thumping sound, and then another animal scream – this one yet longer and louder than the previous one. Though entirely strange (and therefore, all the more terrifying) to my ears, it resembled elements of other animal sounds: the snuffling which began the eerie cries resembled the snorting of a horse; the growling was deep and pervasive, like that of a tiger. The grotesque squeal that terminated the cry resembled the sound a pig makes as its throat is cut. It was made still more fearsome by the fact that it issued from a tunnel of rock, which amplified it – then resounded from the cliff walls in a shattering cadence.
As the sound faded from the hollow, so my sight and senses drifted away. I was propelled into a sea of swirling darkness.
In my swoon, which was short-lived, I dreamed I was drowning. This was no doubt due to the fact that, upon waking, I could scarcely breathe for all the spirits Baskerville had poured down my throat in efforts to revive his victim. I gagged and choked on the harsh rum. Nevertheless, it brought me round.
‘There now, Doctor. Your friend approaches and time grows short. How am I to complete my marvellous tale if you won’t stay awake?’
I nodded my head in weak resignation and he continued.
‘It was early in ’93 when I met Jones in Santiago. He had jumped ship from the Meeradler, a Prussian nitrate barque, and they were scouring the docks for him. Accustomed to pursuit, I helped him elude the officers. We struck up an immediate friendship, and consequently decided to sign on the Dunmore bound for Bombay. As I have mentioned previously, Doctor Watson, my desire for revenge was beginning to occupy a large portion of my thoughts. The long journey to India was no exception. It wa
s my original plan to sail from India aboard a ship bound for London. Once in port, I could easily arrange a way to kill your friend and disappear, as I had so successfully done before. But as fate would have it, another opportunity presented itself in Bombay in the person of Alice Allistair, who was on a holiday there – no doubt you know all this – with her companion. Quite naturally, the local newspapers reserved ample space on their pages for coverage of her visit to Delhi and Bombay. It was thus through the newspapers, and gossip at fashionable tea rooms, that Jones and I were kept abreast of her every appointment and destination.
‘I related to Jones my exploits with Zoltan’s gypsy band, and my first-hand knowledge of the Allistair fortune. Together, we planned a daring and brilliant abduction of the Allistair girl which you no doubt read about –’
‘All England read about it. It has been one of the most infamous crimes in recent years.’
‘As I stated previously, I had a personal reason for wanting to abduct this particular girl: Peter Allistair had wronged me long ago. And so, by kidnapping his daughter, I could extract not only a fortune from him... but pain as well...’
Here he lost himself in a maniacal chuckle, and I reflected upon Lord Allistair’s earlier suspicion that the terrible suffering inflicted upon him and his wife was deliberate and personal.
‘What has he done to you?’ I cried. ‘What could he have possibly done that would warrant such atrocious behaviour on your part?’
The Giant Rat of Sumatra Page 18