Hayter plopped his still-smoking pipe on the dish beside my chair and shuffled out of the room. To my dismay, Holmes began pulling himself out of bed.
“Holmes! No! You mustn’t!” But he tottered to his feet. “I forbid it, Holmes!”
He glanced back at me and just a flicker of a smile crossed his lips. The smoke from Colonel Hayter’s pipe, which had been drifting in lazy loops, wrapped itself around my chest. With sudden force, it yanked me backwards into my chair and began winding itself about me like strands of ghostly rope.
“Holmes!”
Without looking back at me, he gave me a little “what can I do about it” shrug and reached for his jacket. The smoke began twining upwards towards my mouth and I realized he meant to gag me with it, so I might raise no protest.
“No, damn it! If you’re going, I’m going with you!”
The smoke tendril hesitated, hovering just beside my right ear. Holmes paused too and wondered aloud, “You won’t try to stop me?”
“I promise.”
“Then I shall be most happy to have your company, Watson.”
And just like that, the smoke released me. To some, it might seem nothing but a trick of the imagination. To me, it was a clear warning: I had no hope of stopping Holmes. The best I could do was go along and try to minimize the damage.
The neighbor, Randal, was waiting upon the front step. Colonel Hayter commanded him to lead us to the scene of the murder, which he dutifully did, though not without stealing several sideways glances at Holmes, who staggered up the hill like the recently-reanimated corpse he was. Despite Holmes’s slow pace, we eventually reached the Cunninghams’ home. A low stone wall with a wooden gate separated it from the road. On the other side of the lane stood the aforementioned, property-disputed, battered old windmill. It was in such a state of disrepair that it could not possibly be functional, yet its mere proximity to the estate did provide some reason for the Cunninghams to covet it, I supposed.
Around the wooden gate stood a knot of locals, hemming and hawing and muttering to themselves as a bedraggled constable shuffled about, trying to remember how to investigate a crime. As we neared, Colonel Hayter imperiously bellowed, “Make way! Make way, I say! I have brought Inspector Warlock Holmes from London to investigate the matter.” His statement at once promoted Holmes to a police rank he did not possess and implied that Colonel Hayter—having heard of the morning’s difficulty—had just run all the way to London, secured help and returned. Yet the worst part of the ridiculous statement was that it included a direct invitation to look at Holmes. The skin had yet to grow back over the scorched portion of his face, so his cheekbone was clearly visible. His lips had somewhat un-mummified, but his eyes were still shrunken, milky orbs. The crowd stood and gaped. There was nothing I could do but offer the best explanation I could think of.
“Er… he’s not well.”
I got a few scattered nods of acceptance, but most of the locals continued to stare.
“Constable Forrester, what has happened here?” Hayter demanded.
“Well, sir… don’t really know. Granny Nora saw the body this morning, as she’s walkin’ down the lane. She come straight round and raised me. I’ve been here ever since. Word must have got about, though, because…” the beleaguered constable trailed off and gestured meekly at the crowd around him, then added, “It’s Bill Kirwan, sure enough. Left him just as I found him.”
Perhaps, but he’d also let the gawkers crowd around the body and poke at it. Their feet had churned the ground to a muddy morass and ruined any chance of getting useful footprints. When I commented on my displeasure, Colonel Hayter shouted, “All right, you’ve seen him. Now, off with you. Only Constable Forrester, Inspector Holmes, Dr. Watson and myself are to have access to the crime scene. Be about your business.”
“But Colonel Hayter, sir,” one of the men protested, “this is the only thing that’s ever… happened.”
“All right then,” Hayter conceded. “Off to the tavern to have a drink and talk about it.”
This was viewed as fine advice. As the happy crowd dispersed, Hayter noted, “Looks like just about everybody came out to see.”
“Not everybody,” I said, gazing up at the house. “I wonder that Cunningham and his son Alec did not appear. The body is practically in their garden, after all.”
“Oh, no,” said Forrester. “They was here. They come out, expressed sympathy for Bill and his mum, said it was a shocking event that’d rock the community, gave a bit of good news and headed back inside.”
“Good news?”
“They’re hiring a new coachman! I mean, we’re all very sorry about Bill, but employment vacancies is rare, in these parts.”
I pushed past him to examine the body. It didn’t take me long to determine a cause of death.
“Holmes, his heart has been torn right out of his chest!”
“That doesn’t prove it’s murder,” said Hayter, who was still unwilling to believe that something had actually happened in Surrey. “Look how sharp these gate posts are. He could have fallen on one and torn his heart out. I imagine we’ll find it around here somewhere…”
Since the scene was already disturbed, I allowed Hayter and Forrester to look around for the “misplaced” heart, while Holmes and I examined the body.
“What do we think, Watson? Redcap? Chupacabra?”
“Not unless they were armed,” I said. “Though part of the wound is ragged, the top and right side are clean. Whoever did this used a blade.”
“Remarkable.”
“That’s not the only thing that’s odd. There are no bruises, no other cuts, no damage to his clothing—his hair’s still combed, for God’s sake. If someone were after you with a knife, trying to cut your heart out, don’t you think you’d struggle? And look at his face: what would you call that expression?”
“Contentment?” Holmes ventured. “Relief?”
“Hardly what I would have expected. Perhaps he was drugged. Oh! Hello! What’s this?”
Clutched in Bill Kirwan’s rigid right hand was a piece of paper—a scrap of a handwritten note, torn from a larger whole. Though it had not profited by the morning’s mud-bath, it was still legible:
…D AT QUARTER TO TWELVE
…ST, WHICH SHOULD
…WE SHALL
…U ARE RID
“Written in blood,” Holmes noted.
“No. Half written in blood. Look here, two different people have contributed to this note, alternating words. The words in blood are written in a strong, confident hand. But these are writ in normal ink and see how shaky the letters are? It is as if the writer were scared. Or else infirm. Why would anybody choose to make a note in this extraordinary fashion?”
To my surprise, Holmes had a ready answer. “Blame. Two men have entered into a confederation to perpetrate dark deeds. One is certain in his conviction. One is not. The strong man wished the other fellow to put his hand to it also—to prove his mettle and take some of the blame upon himself, if ever this should come to light.”
It was one of those occasions when I found it hard to guess whether his information came from previous experience or some far-off demon feeding him the answer. Whatever the source, I had to admit the idea made a great deal of sense. I rose and walked over to Constable Forrester.
“Did the victim have anything in either of his hands?” I asked.
Forrester scratched his head. “Er… not that I saw.”
Since the entire note would have been more noticeable, that left only two possibilities and one certainty. Possibility one: Granny Nora had taken the rest of the note when she found the body—a remote chance, I thought. Possibility two: the murderer or murderers had ripped the note from Kirwan’s hand, failing to notice that a portion of it remained in the dead man’s grip. This I thought more likely and it meant that if we could find the other half of the note, its bearer would be our chief suspect.
The certainty: Forrester was an idiot.
I r
eturned to Holmes’s side and whispered, “I think Kirwan knew the killers and agreed to come. The words ‘at quarter to twelve’ suggest an appointment.”
“Just before midnight,” Holmes noted. “Perfect time to tear a heart out.”
“But what did they want with it and where were they going? A disembodied human heart is not the sort of thing you can put in your pocket and go to the shops.”
I looked around for answers. The road led off in both directions, so the killers could have made quick progress either way. If they had stayed in the vicinity, there were only two options: the Cunninghams’ house or the disused windmill. I pointed to the latter and asked, “Constable Forrester, did you search that old mill?”
“It was locked,” he said with a shrug.
“And you let that deter you?”
“Of course I did,” he said, defensively. “Every trooper knows: if the door’s locked, move on to the next one.”
Yes. An idiot.
“We’ll get the key from Acton later,” I decided. “For now, let us go talk to the Cunninghams.”
As the four of us walked to the door, I whispered to Holmes, “Nobody knows about the note but you and me. If anyone should mention it, they may well be the killer. The man in possession of the other half of this note is almost certainly guilty.”
Holmes nodded. Hayter knocked. The door swung open to reveal an aging butler with a face like a droopy old hound’s. He stared at us blandly.
“Colonel Hayter, Constable Forrester and two London investigators, here to speak to the Cunninghams, father and son,” I said.
He gave a curt little bow and retreated, returning swiftly to announce, “The masters will see you in the drawing room. This way.”
The instant he led us in, I saw that things were amiss. The whole place stank of brimstone and blood. The room was in disarray; books and papers lay strewn about. Alec Cunningham stood, wearing an expression of frantic fury. His father leaned on the mantel, dewy-eyed and complacent.
“Ah. Hello, chaps,” Alec Cunningham said, absolutely failing to appear friendly. “Any luck with the investigation?” His weight was on the balls of his feet, as if he might lunge out to strike us at any moment. His father just looked happy to have company. Cunningham Senior was one of those pleasant, doddering old country gentlemen that England manufactures in extraordinary quantity. His limbs had contracted somewhat with the advancement of age and, as I noted the palsied shaking of his hands, I surmised that I might be looking at one of the authors of our mysterious message.
“Quite a bit of luck,” said Holmes, brightly. “It turns out the murderer left part of a no—”
I elbowed him in the stomach. I only meant to stop him speaking, but in my surprise I think I jabbed him harder than I meant to. Holmes reeled to one side, bent double and vomited forth a horrible stream of congealed blood, complete with a few writhing worms. Probably this was some of his own bodily fluid, trapped in his abdomen during his month-long deathbed stint. It made for an awkward social introduction, but—from a medical point of view—I was rather glad to have it out of him.
If he noticed one of his guests had just regurgitated a pile of scabby blood onto his carpet, Cunningham Senior seemed to take no special care of it. Instead, he waved a friendly finger at us and said, “Now, now. I am not certain it can be called murder if the slain party came willingly and allowed—”
It was Alec’s turn to elbow his father. My force had been accidental, but Alec undertook the exercise with purposeful brutality, whereupon the old man proved himself the equal of Holmes by turning to one side and counter-vomiting all down the mantelpiece. The two stricken gentlemen both reached out for something to steady themselves. Fortunately for our investigation, Holmes picked an unstable pedestal beside a lounging chair. No sooner had he placed his weight to it than it tipped forwards, sending both Holmes and the fruit basket that rested atop it plunging to the floor. The basket tipped over, sending three apples, two pears, a sacrificial dagger and a disembodied human heart bouncing across the carpet.
I raised an eyebrow. “The murder weapon, I presume?”
“Ah-ha! So that’s where I put it!” Cunningham crowed, ignoring the dribble of vomit that still clung to his cheek. “Now… why should I have left it in a fruit basket? Dear me… Must have been hungry, I suppose.”
The discovery of guilt seemed to remove none of the joviality from the elder Cunningham, but his son was another matter entirely. Alec’s hand darted for the pocket of his jacket and yanked forth a small revolver. With wild eyes, he swung it towards us and fired three quick shots. As Forrester, Hayter and I went diving for cover, Alec Cunningham scooped up the heart and jumped out of the window. He made no effort to open it, just put his shoulder into it and let the wooden frame come apart as he plunged through. He rolled out onto the lawn, gained his footing and made a beeline for the old windmill.
“Oh, I say!” said old Cunningham. “He’s going to open the demon portal. He said I could watch.”
Holmes gave me a look of dread severity. I turned to Cunningham and demanded, “Why on earth would you want to do that?”
He sniffed defensively and said, “I have lived in Surrey all my life, young man. When I was nine, a boy in town accidentally broke a window and cut his arm.”
“So?”
“It is the only happening in Reigate’s history. The laceration of thirty-four, folks call it. Those who are not old enough to have been there curse their youth that they missed it.”
“And you feel that is sufficient reason to release a demonic invasion upon your unsuspecting peers?”
“Might be a nice change of pace,” he said, airily.
“How bad is the situation, Holmes?” I asked.
He gave me the kind of shrug to say that I was his friend and he still respected me and valued my company, but that I did, from time to time, come up with astoundingly stupid questions.
“Damn!” I cried. “Forrester, arrest this man for the murder of William Kirwan. Hayter, stay here with them. Holmes, you and I had better go see what we can do.”
He nodded and we set off. Eschewing the door, we elected to follow Alec’s route. As we opened the broken window to climb out, Forrester began clumsily arresting Cunningham Senior. The old man was visibly delighted.
“Wonderful! Wonderful! I’ve never been under arrest, you know. Fascinating process. I say, would anybody care for a cup of tea while you detain me?” Cunningham rang a small silver bell and, when the dog-faced butler arrived, said, “Houndsworth! I’m being arrested!”
“Indeed, sir?”
“Yes! Dashed exciting business! And I think it calls for tea.”
“Very good, sir.”
As Holmes and I picked our way down the sloping lawn, I reminded him, “Alec Cunningham is armed, Holmes. We are not.”
“I don’t care, Watson.”
“Yes, well… bear it in mind, won’t you?”
He nodded.
“Holmes… what are we to do?”
“That depends on how good the grimoire was,” he said. “I was in earnest, earlier, when I said most of them are rubbish. I should hardly be worried at all, if Alec hadn’t stolen the string.”
“The string, Holmes?”
“He is in a place owned by Acton. If he were to mark off an area of summoning, it would be better if it were delineated by something that, likewise, belonged to Acton. The fact that he knew this indicates that either Alec or the book he’s following contains some considerable level of arcane expertise. Guard yourself, Watson.” He strode up to the windmill’s door, laid a hand upon the planks and said, “Alec Cunningham! Betrayer to the race of man! By what right do you bar us? This place does not belong to you!”
The wood gave a tortured creak and began to writhe and bend. The boards contorted like seaweed in a strong current, while the iron nails that bound them together pulled free one by one. In an instant the way was open.
The windmill was nonfunctional, as I had guessed. Its h
eavy millstone had been removed from its trundle and leaned up against the far wall. Upon the flat face of this stone were scribed hundreds of arcane characters. On the floor, a circle described in string and marked by candles laid a stage before the foot of the millstone. There stood Alec, with the heart of William Kirwan in his left hand. As we watched, he rubbed the heart against the millstone, leaving an arc of gore across its surface. Even so, it was not Alec’s left hand but his right that concerned me, for that one clutched the pistol.
“Get back!” he cried. I considered that to be fine advice, especially when he sent a bullet whistling between Holmes and me. I ducked back to one side of the doorway and pressed my back to the stone wall of the windmill. Holmes did the same on the other side. His teeth were gritted and his eyes shone with unalloyed fury.
“Wretch! Betrayer!” he shouted. “Why would you do this? Why would you treat so cruelly with the world that spawned you?”
“It’s that old fool Acton’s fault! He was going to tear down the windmill! What would become of the millstone? Of the voices within the stone? They have spoken to me since I was a child, playing here alone. I had to protect them, don’t you see? And they helped me! They told me of the book, of the passage wove of string and blood! Now, at last, I shall greet them! Finally, I shall meet my friends!”
“Fool?” Holmes growled. “You think Acton was the fool? Can you not feel what is on the other side of that stone? Do not let them in here!”
“Ha! You cannot stop me!” Alec shouted and sent another shot at us. The bullet chipped the stone beside my face and ricocheted into the field.
“Oh, I rather think I can,” said Holmes. There was a crack like thunder, a swirl of black smoke and Holmes was gone. Then just as suddenly he reappeared, standing in the circle, face to face with Alec Cunningham. Cunningham gasped and raised his pistol to fire, but he was too late. With his left hand, Holmes grasped Alec’s wrist. With his right, he seized Cunningham’s collar.
“You wish to see another world? You wish to know what lies without? I will show you! Then, if you still wish to set your friends loose upon this world, you need only tell me so and I will allow it.”
The Hell-Hound of the Baskervilles Page 8