The Hell-Hound of the Baskervilles

by G. S. Denning

  “We’re out of bread,” he told me. “I wanted to go to the market, but… I don’t suppose you’d go for me?”

  “I think that might be best.”

  So strange to say, but my joy at having Holmes returned to me was such that I hardly minded the state of him. Indeed, if I were not looking directly at him it was easy to imagine him sitting in his chair, looking as he ought, wearing the same friendly, slightly confused expression he always did. The only thing that betrayed his current state was the muffled quality of his speech, due to the sad condition of his lower lip and other vocally important bits.

  Oh, and the smell.

  We sat together for a time, catching up on all that had passed. When I told him of my agonies over when to cut him into pieces, his look became tortured. I suppose my voice must have cracked a few times, too. As I spoke, I realized I had no way of apologizing for my behavior or the callous disregard I had shown for his mortal remains. Even as I was beginning to craft a suitable contrition, he beat me to it.

  “Oh, Watson,” he sighed, near tears, “I am sorry. It must have been so sad for you. So very sad.”

  “For me? What about you?”

  “Oh, I didn’t mind. How could I? I was dead. Let me tell you, until I got that delicious blast of life-force, I had no mortal cares.”

  I had told him of the Beryl Coronet already, but now confessed, “I have no idea how I even got it to work, Holmes.”

  “Well… don’t take this the wrong way, Watson, but you probably didn’t. I’m a bit of a sponge for magic. Place any powerful quantity of it near my body and I will drink it right up, whether I wish to or not. Anyway, I’m sorry to hear you had such a bother while I was gone, especially over a trivial concern like money. Did it not occur to you to look in your ear?”

  “What are you speaking of?” I began to ask, but was interrupted. Holmes reached a hand towards my left ear and performed that most familiar of carnival-conjurer’s tricks. As a boy, I’d been amazed to see tuppence emerge from my ear, seemingly by magic. As an adult, I was even more amazed, for three reasons.

  First, because this time it was not a trick.

  Second, because I could hear it. Have you ever had someone crinkle paper, near your ear? Well, this was in my ear. It was deafening.

  Third, because I could feel it. There was a terrible, dry scraping as a banknote unfolded from deep within my aural canal.

  There stood Holmes with a look of satisfaction on his face and a crumpled, bloodstained ten-pound note in his hand.

  “Ow! Holmes! What have you…? How…?” I slapped a hand protectively over the ear. “Quite the trick, Holmes, but let us remember that you are the conjurer, not I. I have no power to simply reach into my ear and pull forth money, whenever I lack funds.”

  “Of course you do,” smiled Holmes. “Try it. Use the left ear. The right won’t do. Get a good grip on the money. Don’t want to rip the corner off, eh?”

  I stared at him, silently challenging his ridiculous joke, yet he seemed in earnest. Slowly, incredulously, I reached my finger as deep as I could within my ear. I couldn’t believe how deep that was. I felt something: dry, flat and crinkly. Pinching it betwixt thumb and forefinger, I drew it out.

  “A hundred! Well done, Watson! You’ve bested me entirely,” Warlock cheered.

  “How…? How has this happened?”

  “Don’t worry yourself over such things,” Warlock said. “Oh, and don’t overdo it. That ear is bound to have a finite amount of cash in it, you know. But when you’re in a pinch, just a moment digging about in your ear is bound to solve your problem, I would think.”

  He smiled at me, but his smile drifted to the dirtied stack of soup pots and became a sigh. I shook myself. I was staring at the bloody ruins of one hundred and ten English pounds. Well, at least now I had something to use at the grocer’s, I supposed. Perhaps even to make amends with other parties I had wronged…

  * * *

  A few hours later, I stood before the door to Mrs. Hudson’s downstairs rooms and knocked.

  “What?” barked a shrill little voice, from within.

  “It is John Watson,” I said. “Holmes has forwarded some funds, from the south of France, to cover the rent. I therefore—”

  I didn’t get to finish. The door skreeked open and a tiny, withered hand shot forth to snatch the notes I held. As soon as they disappeared, the door swung shut again. Or, it would have, if I had not thrust my foot into the crack, just in time.

  “Wait!”

  “What d’you want?”

  I blinked away a few tears, related—one may easily understand—to the unnecessary force Mrs. Hudson employed when closing hinged devices.

  “I wanted to apologize. I got you something.”

  “What?”

  “You have heard of William Shakespeare’s The Two Gentlemen of Verona, I trust?”

  “Don’t care for it.”

  “Nor did I expect you to, Mrs. Hudson. Yet, in a proof that small words can have great importance, I am holding a copy of The Two Gentlemen in Verona. By this author’s interpretation, Verona is a down-on-her-luck servant girl who finds herself sandwiched—quite literally—between the affections of a country squire and a poor groo—”

  “Already got it,” Mrs. Hudson said and remounted her efforts to force her door shut, even though—I am certain—she had not forgotten my foot was still inside it.

  “Again, I am not surprised. But this volume I am holding—Ow! This one is special! Ouch! Augh! Please stop!”

  Mrs. Hudson had now abandoned all veneer of propriety and was venting her frustration at the rent’s delay against the digits of my lower extremity. Her tiny arms whipped the door open and shut again, over and over, with the terrible strength and regularity of a steam piston. I realized I must come to my point quickly, if I wished any chance of preserving my bipedalism.

  “It’s illustrated!”

  The door stopped. In the shadows behind, I could see Mrs. Hudson’s beady little eyes, gleaming up at me. There was hatred in them, of course, but no small amount of hopefulness, too. She reached one tentative paw out of her slovenly den. It probed the brown-paper parcel I held forth, experimentally at first, then clutched it and dragged it inside. Her expression wavered, for a moment. Rather than let me see her fury falter, she directed her gaze downwards, at my foot.

  Which, I quickly withdrew.

  The door slammed shut. From within came the sound of ripping paper, followed by a squeal of bestial glee.

  I gave myself a congratulatory nod. It had been the right thing to do.

  Yes. Stiff upper lip, John.

  I turned and limped back towards the stairs to 221B.

  SILVER BLAZE: MURDER HORSE

  ON TUESDAY, I SURPRISED A VAMPIRE.

  That first day of Holmes’s return—Monday—was spent situating my newly re-alive friend and making sure that 221B was a fit haven for his recovery. The next day, I found myself more at liberty and decided to spend my time in the most satisfactory pursuit I could devise: petty revenge. You see, immediately following Holmes’s “demise” Lestrade had taken special care to make sure he and Grogsson disappeared from my life. This wasn’t easy as Grogsson is not the type to turn away a friend in need.

  But no, Lestrade had said, Holmes was dead and beyond helping. I was a human and—no, more to the point—I was an idiot who refused to dispose of Holmes’s body. This would soon be discovered and Grogsson would get to see me exactly one more time: as my face purpled at the end of a hangman’s noose.

  It was therefore with utmost satisfaction that I marched up to Lestrade’s miserable little desk in his dark corner at Scotland Yard to say, “Holmes wishes to see you.”

  Oh, how rewarding the look on his face was. If you’ve never surprised a vampire, allow me to recommend it wholeheartedly.

  “Holmes,” Lestrade said.

  “Yes.”

  “Holmes?”

  “Yes, of course,” I said. “Bring Grogsson too, if it’
s convenient.”

  It was not convenient, but it was also not the kind of occasion one skips. When we reached 221B Baker Street I showed the two inspectors in myself, not wishing Mrs. Hudson to see the state of Holmes. I’d managed to hide the fact of his return from her and intended to keep it so, for as long as I could. Why ruin a triumphant day by being cast out onto the street by a terrified, septuagenarian porn-addict? I gave a soft knock on my own door and announced, “Holmes? I have brought a couple of old friends to see you.”

  “Have you, Watson? Who is it?”

  “Grogsson and Lestrade.”

  “How nice. Do come in.”

  I swung the door wide to reveal Holmes, clad in his oriental silk dressing gown, sitting in his favorite chair by the fire. His expression was pleasant, but unmoving—understandable seeing as his face was still basically mummified. Lestrade gaped, trying to discern if this were truly a living Holmes, or if I had finally snapped, dressed the corpse, propped him in a chair, learned ventriloquism and devised an off-color joke.

  Grogsson displayed no such reluctance. Springing across the threshold, he cried, “Yah! Yah! Torg knew! Torg said: ‘Warlock can never be killed!’” He then landed a celebratory punch in the center of Holmes’s chest that very nearly disproved his words. Holmes’s chair tumbled backwards, spilling my friend onto the floor. Coughing and fumbling, Holmes regained his feet and nodded his thanks. I nearly laughed out loud; not at Holmes, but at Lestrade’s expression. If anybody were able to feel at ease while watching a dead man rise to his feet, I would have thought a vampire to be the most likely candidate. But no, if Lestrade were ever coerced into laying an egg into an upturned top hat, while the House of Lords watched and judged his performance, I think he would look equally uncomfortable as he did on that wonderful Tuesday.

  Realizing it was his turn to address Holmes, Lestrade lurched forward and announced, “Yes. Yes, of course. We are all so pleased to see you, Warlock. So glad to have you back, at last. Er… Oh! Here! I got you this, my friend—to commemorate your return to us.”

  After a quick rummage of his pockets, Lestrade drew forth a crumpled piece of paper and presented it to Holmes. It was a twenty-pound bet on a horse named Silver Blaze, to win the Wessex Cup. My eyebrows went up. Twenty pounds was a princely sum, even when it wasn’t coming from a glum penny-pincher. I suspected there must be some reason the paper was valueless and that Lestrade knew it.

  My cynicism was not shared by Holmes. One hand went to his heart and it looked as if his rotted eyes might run with tears. His voice caught in his throat as he said, “You did? But this… this is wonderful, Vladislav! You know, there’s nothing like being dead for a month to make one examine his life. I’ve been taking stock of myself all morning. And do you know what I found? I am an unremarkable fellow. I’ve squandered my advantages. I had just decided to bring myself up a bit—to become the gentleman I should have been—and now here you stand with this wonderful gift. What could possibly be more gentlemanly than a gambling problem?”

  Grogsson shrugged and suggested, “Monocle?”

  “Oh! Good point! Watson, remind me to pick up a monocle, won’t you? Why, with the right eyepiece and a cultivated gambling habit, I am sure a title must follow. But, enough of such things! I must have missed so much. Sit! Sit and tell me all.”

  There was nothing of importance. Following a short catch-up and tea, our Scotland Yard friends took their leave. Grogsson’s spirits were high; he left a few dents in my coffee table so that we might remember this joyous day. Lestrade remained just as shaken when he left as he was when he arrived. After they had departed, Holmes turned to me and mused, “How lucky am I, to have friends such as these. And what a princely gift! I don’t deserve it, Watson.”

  “I think you may be overestimating Lestrade,” I said, eyeing the battered race-slip.

  “One can never overestimate the value of a true friend, Watson.”

  “Be that as it may, I am sure that bet must be worthless. Come now, would Lestrade ever give up twenty pounds?”

  “Well… loathe as I am to admit flaws in the character of my closest comrades… it does seem a tad unlikely. But, let us provide him with the benefit of the doubt. Yes! I have decided! Lestrade believes this ticket to be valid. What’s more, he is hopeful that I will win and that this first taste of victory will plant within me the seed that shall flourish into a gambling addiction, worthy of any duke!”

  I rolled my eyes at Holmes and reached over to the pile of newspapers I’d allowed to accumulate, unread, during Holmes’s ordeal. I snagged the top one off the stack and flipped to the sport pages. The very first article answered my every question.

  “Well, Holmes, it seems I have underestimated Vladislav Lestrade in only one aspect: the Wessex Cup has not already been run…”

  “There! You see, Watson?”

  “But the gate drops in less than twenty minutes and the overwhelming favorite, Silver Blaze, is still missing following the murder of his trainer, John Straker.”

  “By the gods! Get your coat, Watson!”

  “What? You don’t mean that you intend to—”

  “To solve the mystery, Watson! Quick! We’ve little time to lose!”

  “Holmes! I absolutely forbid it!”

  “No, but, don’t you see Lestrade’s true gift? I am now certain that he was presenting me with a case—something to stimulate me back into action!”

  “Holmes, I think it is much more likely that he was relieving himself of some wastepaper. Even if he were not, the Wessex Cup is run in Dorset and this newspaper notes that Colonel Ross—Silver Blaze’s owner—keeps his stables at King’s Pyland on Dartmoor! Do you propose that we might make it to either location in only fifteen minutes? Let us recall, Holmes, you remain unable to bend either knee and every time you move faster than a waddle, little bits of you fall off. No, I am sorry to say: it is impossible to solve this case in the time we have.”

  “Bah, Watson! Nothing is impossible.”

  “Actually, a great many things—”

  “Not for me!” cried Holmes and the terrible green fire lit in his eye-sockets.

  “Holmes! No magic!”

  “Ha! Magic? I can solve it with a simple parlay.” At this, he curled his left hand into a claw and shouted into it, “Parlay! Parlay! All you who creep or crawl on Dartmoor, hear me! Those with force but no vision, I abjure thee! You with sight but no strength, heed my call! Come to me now and sit in parliament!”

  “Holmes! Are you… are you calling demons?”

  He snorted. “None that you need fear. As I’ve told you before, there are powerful outside forces that wish to live within our world, but are held out.”

  “Yes, I recall as much and would rather not have them in my sitting room, thank you.”

  “Yet there are also those demons who love our world so well that they have given up all their power, just to dwell near us. They can clearly see our world. They can fool themselves into thinking they exist within it. They can observe the changing of our seasons and the business of man and beast, yet they have no power to act.”

  “So they are like…”

  “Football fans,” Holmes sneered. “Like those fellows who hang upon every shot and every block of their favorite team—who curse and shout from the sidelines—loving the game and the players, forever banned from participating themselves.”

  “It’s a bit sad,” I said.

  “No,” Holmes corrected me. “It is pathetic in the extreme. But hush! They are coming.”

  And suddenly, the air around me was thick with murmurs. The shadows in our room began to convulse and solidify. In the pantry, one of the cupboard doors creaked open and a little man made all of willow bark fell out. He gave a queer sort of curse, then asked Holmes, “Who are you, Sorcerer? What do you wish of me?”

  “Knowledge,” Holmes said. “That is why I call this parliament. Just… er… just take a place over there on the sofa, won’t you?”

  From every corner an
d cranny, more of the little creatures came. One was made all of smoke. One, a ball of moss with a disgruntled sneer. A man of twisted brambles crossed his thorny little arms and stared up at Holmes. There was a splatter of mud and a walking slick of thick, oily tar (whom I made sit upon newspapers, to preserve the upholstery). One was a crow—or no, let me say: it looked as if someone who had never seen a crow but had heard one described had attempted to carve one out of roast beef. These and many others crowded and jostled around our settee, until each had his place.

  “Is this all?” Holmes demanded.

  “We are met,” they answered all together. “What would you have of us?”

  “I seek Silver Blaze!” said Holmes. Smoke-Puff tilted his head quizzically to one side. The parliament of demons stared at Holmes, uncomprehending, blinking.

  “It’s a horse. Silver Blaze is the name of a horse,” I volunteered.

  “Ohhhhhh,” said Meat-Crow. “That makes sense. What about him?”

  “Wait!” shouted Willow-Bark, jumping to his feet and spreading his dry little hands. “Why should we speak? What will this man pay?”

  Holmes smiled and replied, “I will give you that which you most crave. If you help me find Silver Blaze, show me the truth of his abduction and of Straker’s murder and return him to his owner in time to race, I will give you a home. You will have a piece of this world to call your own—with walls of stone and cool, deep shadows.”

  The mish-mash of tiny demons shouted and cheered. Meat-Crow flapped his horrid little beef-wings so violently that he blew Smoke-Puff completely apart. It took the poor fellow almost five minutes to piece himself back together.

  “Holmes,” I hissed, “are you sure about this? Think of what you are saying. Demons from other planes seeping through to live here—that is exactly the phenomenon you are always trying to prevent!”

  Holmes turned to me and declared, “This is important!”