The Hell-Hound of the Baskervilles

by G. S. Denning

  He gave me the sort of look toddlers give Brussels sprouts, hesitated a few moments, then mumbled, “How long would you need it?”

  “I would think… three or four hours.”

  He shifted uncomfortably, then said, “I have security, you know. If you tried to make off with the coronet, Mary Holder would suffer.”

  “You cad!”

  “Yes… well… most spies are.”

  Damn. If it were true he could hurt Mary—and I had every reason to assume he could—then this whole affair was on a very different footing. Common sense might suggest that I should just bow out. Let Pinkerton take the coronet, with its thirty-two remaining stones. Let Moriarty’s henchmen get their three used beryls and vent their rage. Let Holder reap the fruits of his own incompetence.

  Then again, if I could get both parts of that coronet in my hands for a few hours, I could…

  What?

  Resurrect Holmes?

  Probably not. I didn’t know how to use the coronet, after all. But I could try. Moreover, I could claim I tried. Then I could cut him up. I could say, “Look here, Holmes, I used conventional medicine. When that failed, I went and got you King Arthur’s resurrection crown. If this is not enough to please you, I really don’t know what else I can do. I am going to chop you up, now. I don’t care if you’re still breathing. I’m going to cut you up and dump the pieces and just be done with this whole affair.”

  “You have my word,” I told Burnwell. “The coronet must leave these shores. Lend me your piece and I will bring you the whole.”

  “I am leaving by carriage at two this morning,” he said. “If the entire coronet is not in my possession, first Mary Holder and then you will suffer for it. Is that clear?”

  I nodded.

  “Wait here,” he said.

  * * *

  Fifteen minutes later, I was ravaging 221B. I didn’t know precisely what I was looking for. Some form of solder, I supposed. Tin? I set the two pieces of the coronet on my evil-tome-side-table and set about ransacking Holmes’s miniature alchemical laboratory. I didn’t know how to fix jewelry. Much less: crown jewels. Much less: King Arthur’s crown.

  By God, if I was coming to believe these far-fetched, fairytale notions Holmes and all his clients kept saying to me, then I was all but forced to accept the fact that this was Bloody King Bloody Arthur’s Bloody Crown! The idea was insane. But also invigorating. I had the sudden urge to try it on, to behold myself in the looking glass wearing the very badge of Arthur’s majesty.

  No. Inadvisable. Allowing myself to toy with powerful magics was as wise as letting a five-year-old play with a loaded pistol. I resumed my quest to find something to bond the broken pieces together.

  Ah-ha! From the back of one of Holmes’s drawers, I withdrew a small cube of gold.

  Hmmm…

  That might have helped with the rent. Perhaps I should have ransacked his room sooner. In any case, I had what I needed. Now I just had to find a way to melt it…

  An hour later, I held the Beryl Coronet. The clumsiness of my welds proclaimed my lack of skill as a jeweler, but still, it was whole. Well… wholeish. I turned to Holmes’s corpse and said, “This is it, Warlock. This is your last chance.”

  I placed the coronet upon his brow.

  Nothing.

  “Um… Yes… Go crown!”

  Still nothing.

  “By the right of Arthur and the will of the fey, I command you to imbue this body with life!”

  Yet more nothing.

  “Er… abracadabra?”

  Silence. I slouched in my book-throne and looked out the window in my room across the hall. Darkness was gathering. I supposed I must bring the coronet to Burnwell and figure out a way to save Holder. I’d done my best. I’d tried.

  Suddenly, there was a flash of light and the sensation of a terrible force. It almost knocked me over, but it disturbed none of the papers scattered about the room. With an audible crackle, all thirty-two green beryls singed themselves black. Lazy tendrils of acrid smoke drifted up from the blackened stones. I leapt to my feet and hovered over Holmes, waiting to see a change.

  Nothing.

  I just didn’t understand. But what more could I do? I sighed, placed the still-smoking coronet back in my bag and prepared to leave. A sudden idea struck me and I threw in a few medical supplies, hoping they might help me save the Holders from Moriarty’s gang.

  * * *

  George Burnwell was not well pleased by the state of the coronet he’d stolen.

  “What the hell’s wrong with it? Why are the stones all black?”

  “Because the coronet was broken, then rejoined, I think,” I told him. I had no intention of informing him I’d tried to use it.

  “But… this strange color change… what does it mean?”

  If he didn’t know, I was in no mood to tell him. “I am not a magic-user,” I said. “You may need to ask your boss. Ahem… I shouldn’t let him know it was you who broke the coronet, by the way.”

  * * *

  The night was well along by the time I returned to Alexander Holder’s house. I found him on the threshold, pacing back and forth.

  “Have you done it?” he cried. “Have you found the Beryl Coronet?”

  “Yes, but I do not have it. Nor would it help you, if I did. The magic is spent. All thirty-nine gems are gone black.”

  His face went ashen.

  “Never fear, Mr. Holder; I think I can save you and your family. Let’s go in, shall we, and find a quiet place to talk.”

  The servants were all abed, which was good. I settled Holder in his own kitchen and began making tea, while I told him, “First, you should know: your son is innocent. In fact, you owe him a great debt. He was injured in an attempt to recover the Beryl Coronet. He struck the thief in the face, breaking his own hand in the process. I suspect that it was Arthur struggling to wrest the coronet from the thief’s grasp that broke it in the first place.”

  “But, who was the thief?”

  “George Burnwell, just as I suspected.”

  “How could it be? He could not open the vault! He could not even see the thing! If he talked Arthur into doing it, then why did they come to blows? It makes no sense!”

  “His accomplice was never Arthur, don’t you see?” I said. “It was Mary.”

  “But how? Why?”

  “How?” I laughed. “She is your brother’s daughter. Once you adopted her, there was no ward to protect the vault from her. She was of Holder blood and a legal member of your immediate family. As to why, it is the simplest of reasons. She is in love with George Burnwell. Think: an unmarried girl, in her mid-twenties, facing a life of lonely domesticity or marriage to the man she considers her brother—it’s a rather hopeless situation. Then, along comes a handsome American who tells her wild tales of gunslingers and adventure. Within five minutes of meeting Mary, I’d seen her shy away from engagement to Arthur and jump to defend Burnwell; her preference was plain. How happy it must have made her when he told her he’d take her away with him, if only she’d do this one thing: if only she’d open her father’s vault and hand him the Beryl Coronet, out the scullery window. It would have worked, too, if Arthur hadn’t caught him at it.”

  “Fiend!” Holder cried.

  “Hmm, yes, but you see: a well-informed fiend. I suspect I would not have thought of a rival organization trying to steal your treasures, if you had not spoken of it when first we met. Yet, the more I puzzled over it, the more I realized that such must be the cause of your troubles. Whoever the thief was, they were attempting entry into a vault they could not perceive, nor had any hope of opening. Yet they seemed to know you were in possession of their target and how to go about getting it. Two of the organizations you mentioned were oriental and famously close-knit, but the Pinkertons… an American… that was not such a stretch.”

  “Burnwell is a Pinkerton?” Holder gasped.

  “I had it from his own lips,” I said.

  “And he has the corone
t? King Arthur’s crown is bound for America?”

  “I’m afraid so, Mr. Holder.”

  “Then I am doomed!” he cried. “I shall have nothing to deliver to Moriarty’s man when he comes in the morning. I’ve only a few hours!”

  “Hope yet remains,” I said. “I think I may save you and your family, though not without cost. When we spoke, earlier, you seemed to think you would be held blameless if it were apparent Holmes had taken the treasure.”

  “Yes, I think so.”

  “What if it were clear that the Pinkertons had done the same?”

  “Moriarty’s men would be furious, but more with Pinkerton than myself.”

  “And your family would be saved? Your own life, your son Arthur’s, Mary’s as well?”

  “That is my hope.”

  “And what would you give, to keep that hope alive?”

  “Anything!” Holder exclaimed. “I’d give my right arm and think the price light.”

  “Well, there’s no need for such drastic measures,” I said, then looked down into my tea and sighed. “I would think I could do it for the price of your left hand.”

  He stared at me, aghast.

  “I’m sorry, but that is the only remedy I can foresee. I think I can make it clear to Moran, or whoever else should come, that you have been besieged and victimized by the Pinkertons. But I fear I cannot do it without removing one of your hands.”

  I fell silent. He stared at me for a few minutes. I could see a flood of thoughts battling in his mind. Finally he said, “Yes. Yes, what must I do?”

  “Just drink your tea. You’ve hardly touched it.”

  “What? You dosed my tea?”

  “I did,” I said, with a shrug. “I’m afraid it’s becoming a bit of a habit.”

  “So, if I drink this…”

  “You will wake in the late morning or early afternoon. Your hand will be gone. Moriarty’s man will have come and left, having found your house cracked by the Pinkertons. I suspect they will find no further need of your services.”

  Hoarse and wide-eyed, he choked, “All right,” and raised his teacup.

  “Wait!” I cried. “Now that all is known, it might serve my policy if you would come with me, before you drink that. I’ll need you to open your vault, and leave it so.”

  Five minutes later, we sat in the kitchen. In the corridor behind us was an open vault. Before us were two empty cups. Ten minutes after that, Alexander Holder was face down on his table, snoring.

  I sighed.

  I reached into my medical bag and withdrew my bone saw. Well, there was nothing for it… Besides, it might be good practice for chopping up Holmes.

  As I was about to make the first incision, I paused. Did I really expect Pinkerton raiders to remove a limb with surgical precision?

  With a silent apology to Alexander Holder, I searched his kitchen until I found a meat cleaver. This, I thrust into the hearth until the embers heated the blade to a dull orange glow. Knowing its heat should be sufficient to cauterize any wound, I withdrew it and—with one determined blow—struck away his left hand.

  Well… two determined blows.

  Two and a half.

  There was this bit of skin, holding the thing to the… anyway…

  I carried my grisly trophy to the fireside and reheated the cleaver a few times, using the hot edge of its blade to scorch my message into Holder’s palm.

  In the morning, Moriarty’s man would arrive to find Holder’s back door had been forced. Holder would be drugged and maimed. His son, immobilized by a spectral guardian. His vault, open. The Beryl Coronet, gone. On the floor they would find a disembodied hand—one of the only hands capable of opening the vault in question. Burned into the palm of that hand they would find the image of an all-seeing eye, over the promise “We never sleep”—the logo of the Pinkerton Detective Agency.

  I hoped that would be sufficient to save Mr. Holder. Or, what was left of him…

  I didn’t know which of Moriarty’s lieutenants would be the one to make the discovery—and indeed I had only encountered one of the names Holder gave, Moran—but I filed the others away for future use.

  Moran. McCloe. Adler.

  * * *

  By the time I reached 221B Baker Street so much of the night had gone I didn’t know if there was any point sleeping or not. But I was damn well going to try. I hung my hat and coat and made for my room, for my own warm bed.

  “With one determined blow…”

  Yet, guilt assailed me.

  I had no intention of cutting Holmes up that night. I’d had a full enough day, as it was. Tomorrow night would be soon enough.

  So, perhaps one last night’s vigil by his bedside, before I bid him farewell? Yes. I headed for his open door.

  I was on the threshold when a voice behind me said, “Watson? Is that you? I feel terrible.”

  In Holmes’s favorite chair by the hearth sat…

  Holmes.

  To say he looked a bit out of sorts would not be unfair. When I say I have seen corpses that look better, I am not exaggerating. Recently deceased individuals look much like still-living ones, with the exception of bullet holes, or other trauma. Long-dead corpses are only bone or mummified—dry and devoid of odor. Thus, there is only a certain window where corpses are even capable of looking as bad as Holmes did in that moment. Yet there he sat, awaiting an answer.

  Which is something I found myself utterly incapable of delivering. I just gaped at him.

  After a time, he spoke again. “Can I have some soup?”

  I nodded and went to the pantry, where I must have dropped the pot six or seven times before I finally managed to get it filled and set above the fire.

  “Am I sick?”

  “Well… no, Holmes. The truth is: you’ve been poisoned.”

  “Oh…” he said, then, “You know, that’s funny, Watson. I don’t remember mixing myself anything.”

  “Well, you wouldn’t. I poisoned you, Holmes, I must confess.”

  “I see. That must be why my chest hurts so badly.”

  “Ah… no. I may also have shot you. Twice.”

  “Oh.” He nodded, then stared at the remains of our fire for a few minutes before asking, “Did I say something wrong? Or betray our friendship?”

  “Holmes! No! By God, no. Nothing like that. Do you not remember?”

  I told him all. Of our disastrous misadventure with Charles Augustus Milverton. Of the woman who interrupted our encounter with the blackmailer and how she murdered him. Of the tiny, burning name that flew free of Holmes when she did. Of my horrified realization that the personality within Holmes’s body was not his own. Of the revelation that Moriarty had taken control of Holmes’s physical form and how he had threatened me with a fireball.

  At this point, Holmes interrupted me to scoff, “Bah! This was surely an illusion. Moriarty was never one to expend power so readily. His art was in using very small amounts of magic to great effect. I cannot imagine him—”

  “Holmes, touch your face.”

  “Why? Hmmm… What is this hard thing? What am I feeling?”

  “Your cheekbone. That fire was quite real, I fear. You see, I’d already poisoned you, before Moriarty revealed himself.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I knew something was wrong. I’d also taken the precaution of slipping my pistol into my coat pocket. When he pulled out the fireball and proclaimed ownership of me, I panicked. I kicked the fireball into his face—your face—and shot him twice in the chest.”

  “I say! Well done, Watson! Bravo!”

  “How can you say that? I shot you! I… Holmes, I’m not sure how to tell you this, but… I think I sort of killed you.”

  “And well done, too. Right through the heart! Look how close these bullet holes are. That takes marksmanship!”

  “It’s really not the sort of thing a doctor is supposed to do.”

  “But you did. That’s what matters.”

  “Holmes… aren’t you an
gry?”

  He leaned in and smiled. Well, I suppose with his charred lips in the shape they were, he’d been smiling the whole time. I still shudder when I recall that familiar, friendly gaze in his rotting eyes.

  “Watson, you must believe me when I say: death is a far preferable fate to being trapped in my own body, watching Moriarty run around in it. Ye gods, when I think of the damage he could have done… You did the right thing, Watson. You saw your friend and your world in danger and you acted. I applaud your initiative. But for now, there are other matters I must attend. Oh, that soup! It smells heavenly, Watson! How long has it been?”

  However long, it appeared it would be a little longer still before Holmes got the fix he was craving. As I watched in horror, Holmes fed himself that first, much-anticipated spoonful of soup. It dribbled right through his half-detached lower lip, down his shirtfront and onto our table.

  “Ah…” he said. “Yes… this might take a little work, I suppose. Look here, Watson, why don’t you leave me to it and have a rest, eh? You look a bit worn out, if it’s not too crude to speak so plainly.”

  Without making any comment as to how he himself might look at the moment, I rose and walked into my chamber. There was my bed, long-foresworn but looking every bit as tempting as it ever had. I suppose some folk might find it impossible to sleep, knowing that the half-mummified remains of a beloved friend sat not twenty feet from their bed, giving itself a clumsy soup-bath.

  I had no such difficulty.

  * * *

  When I arose, I rather fancied I would find the events of the previous evening to be a pleasant dream—a phantasm concocted by my guilty mind to assuage itself for a time. But no. There at our table—which now looked nearly as terrible as the man himself—sat Warlock Holmes. He’d clearly had a devil of a time with his soup, which now speckled every surface. His lower lip had come almost all the way off and he’d also found two significant leaks through his right cheek and neck, which seemed to have made the successful delivery of food to his waiting stomach something of a trial. Half-chewed toast lay amidst puddles of soup, interspersed with the odd desiccated flower or little bit of Holmes that had given up and fallen off.