The Hell-Hound of the Baskervilles

by G. S. Denning

  Brimstone. I knew it in an instant. Holmes’s self-control had been strained to the breaking point. I knew that Mortimer and Sir Henry must be removed from 221B immediately, or they were likely to witness something most irregular. Springing from my seat, I declared, “Well, gentlemen, you have given us much to ponder. Holmes and I must consult. Alone. Yes. I presume the two of you have accommodation somewhere in London?”

  “The Northumberland Hotel,” Mortimer replied.

  “Capital. Why don’t you gentlemen return there and settle in? I’ll call on you later and let you know what Holmes and I come up with, shall I? Wonderful. I’ll show you out. Good day!”

  “That’s all?” said Mortimer, disappointment showing on his face. “You have no recommendations for us? No course of action?”

  “None as yet, except this: be on your guard. Keep your eyes open for anything unusual or out of place, no matter how small!”

  “Anything?” Sir Henry asked.

  “Yes, anything at all,” I replied, bustling him towards the door.

  “Well, there was one thing,” Sir Henry said. “As I was gettin’ off the train, one of my boots disappeared! Right off my foot! I had to get a spare set outta my luggage. You got any idea what happened?”

  I had no idea. Holmes, on the other hand, did. All the color drained from his face, replaced by a look of sorrow and hatred that seemed to declare that this was one of the least pleasant days he had ever endured and that it was about to get five times worse. His eyes came to rest on Mortimer’s walking stick, jutting from our elephant’s foot umbrella stand. When Holmes spoke, his tone was dolorous.

  “Watson,” he said, “I fear I feel a sneeze coming on…”

  3

  I DID NOT STAY TO CONSULT WITH HOLMES, AS I HAD promised our guests. No sooner had they gone than Holmes begged some time alone to re-gather his emotions and rid himself of the unwanted boot he was sure had come to rest within his nasal cavity. I heartily assented. Cafés, libraries, parks, shops: all fine places to spend the day, compared to the grim confines of our rooms. Indeed, the daylight had already begun to fail by the time I returned home. I opened the door of 221B and…

  Found a wall of thick, stinking smoke. Even this miasma seemed to be eager to flee Holmes, for as soon as it had a path the smoke began to roll in sick, slimy waves, up onto the ceiling of the entryway. It spread slowly in both directions as if gravity had been reversed and someone were pouring pea soup into our rooms.

  “Holmes!” I shouted. “What has happened?”

  No answer came. I thrust the sleeve of my jacket over my nose and mouth, and plunged into the tenebrous haze. Two steps in, my foot came down on an unexpected pile of books and I nearly toppled. Cursing and coughing, I stumbled to first one of our windows then the other, and threw them wide. The thick, soupy smoke was now free to join the eternal haze of coal smoke, chemical vapors and body odor that is the atmosphere of this, the greatest of cities. Still, foul as the London air can be, it was a magnificent relief. I hung out our window for a few moments, wheezing and gasping until I had enough “clean” air in my lungs to turn back and survey our rooms.

  There was Holmes, sitting stiffly in one of our chairs, staring at the far wall. The bookcase had been pulled away, leaving a slew of books across our entryway and a vast expanse of unadorned wall. Well, I say unadorned, but its entire surface had been covered in a latticework of scorch marks, which formed a detailed mural.

  “Holmes! What is this?”

  “Dartmoor,” he replied, audibly hurt that I hadn’t recognized it. “I’ve drawn out a map of Baskerville Hall, see?”

  He pointed his finger at his work and a little dot of red light appeared on a scorch-drawn manor house at the center of his map. There must have been heat as well, for a fresh whiff of smoke wafted up from where the light hovered.

  “Holmes! Look what you have done!”

  “Do not speak to me as if I were a child, Watson.”

  “Well then, do not be childish! Look at the mess you’ve made! Look at all this magic you have used!”

  “Not so very much, I should think.”

  “Oh? Do you have a book in front of you? Do you have a map? Did you draw this all from memory?”

  “Of course not. I have allowed my mind to wander free of my body, observing Dartmoor and recording it here, in splendid detail. All for your benefit, by the way, and see how you treat me? You can be a most ungrateful wretch sometimes, I must say.”

  “Well that is magic, Holmes, don’t you see? It is not the kind of thing a normal man could do. You know it hurts the world every time you use your powers! You’ve told me so yourself!”

  “Pish, tosh…”

  “And look at the state of our wall, Warlock! Why would you… Why on earth… I did buy you a pencil and paper, if you recall.”

  “I’ve no art with them, Watson,” he said, waving the thought away as if it were a buzzing gnat, “and I feel entirely justified in today’s expenditure of eldritch force. This is important, don’t you see? Dartmoor is a dangerous place. We dare not tread there lightly.”

  “What, because of the hound?”

  “Ha! One hell-hound? We should be so lucky, John. No. Look at this place. Here’s overgrown plains-land. Here’s a stand of trees. Rolling hills. Rocky tors. Oh, here’s a deadly peat bog called the Great Grimpen Mire!”

  As he spoke, his little red pointer-light lit each of the areas he described, sending puffs of fresh smoke up from the much-abused wall. At last he turned to me and demanded, “And what is the name we use for all these diverse features, eh?”

  “It’s the moor. Just… the moor.”

  “Exactly! And have you ever paused, oh master of deduction, to wonder why such a wide array of terrain should share a single name? What is the common factor, Watson?”

  I was taken somewhat aback. I’d never paused to think on it, but the question was a fair one.

  “Er… it’s kind of pretty?”

  “Bah!”

  “There’s not much there?”

  “Now you are closer to the mark,” Holmes declared, waving a finger at me. “It is still wild. In this, the most developed, most populous of countries, the moor remains unused. Why? Because it is not the domain of man, Watson, and man knows it.”

  “Now, Holmes, it can’t be all that bad. People do live there, after all.”

  “Not very sane ones,” he protested. “Look, see all these little circles, out among the hills; do you know what those are?”

  “I cannot claim to.”

  “Stone huts. These are where the ancient Britons made their homes, in prehistoric times. But where are they now? What became of them?”

  “I have no idea. Perhaps—”

  “They moved to London!” Holmes cried. “They were ancient, not stupid! And I haven’t even told you the worst bit, yet! Watson, have you ever heard of a ley-line? Do you know what that is?”

  “Well… ‘yes’ and ‘no’ in that order.”

  “Think of a wagon wheel upon a muddy dirt road,” said Holmes. “As it passes, it leaves a depression. The next wheel deepens it. With each subsequent passing it is worn further and further into the ground, such that all other wagons passing by are likely to fall in. They may easily travel one way along the rut of the other, but they may not extricate themselves without great difficulty.”

  “I’ve driven in the country before, Holmes.”

  “But have you driven in another world? That is what a ley-line is, Watson. Outside entities can hardly extend themselves here. When they do, their influences are feeble—nearly blind. The easiest thing for them to do is grope this way and that along the paths worn by the outsiders who have come before them. Thus, if a mortal man is interested to have congress with these demons, his best bet is to find a ley-line and wait until one of the little blighters stumbles along.”

  “And there is one such line at Baskerville Hall, one supposes?”

  “No,” said Holmes and pointed at his impromptu ma
p. Five red dots appeared at the edges and streaked together, converging at Baskerville Hall. Two of them stopped there, the other three ran out the other side and kept going.

  “Five,” said Holmes, with dread severity. “Five of them. Three of them continue through, but two take their genesis at the Hall and radiate away. At no other place in England—at no other place in this world, that I am aware of—do five lines come together.”

  “It sounds like exactly the sort of place that would capture your interest.”

  But Holmes shook his head. “Do you remember that exhibition we went to, Watson? Those four tradesmen who placed an anvil on the center of a pane of glass? When they each lifted up a corner, the glass did not break. The anvil rose. It stayed, suspended on a translucent plane, as if it hovered on nothing!”

  “Yes, but… what is your point, Holmes?”

  “If there had been a crack in the glass, straight across the middle from side to side, just under the anvil, do you think it would still have held?”

  “Well no, I shouldn’t think so.”

  “What if there were five?”

  “Well then definitely—”

  “Yes! Precisely! I dare not go to Baskerville Hall, Watson! I dare not! To place an anvil such as myself at so vulnerable a juncture would court disaster. I cannot promise that the step of my foot across the threshold of that house would not shatter the barriers that keep this world whole.”

  “Oh,” I said, pursing my lips and reflecting on this new information. “So, Sir Henry…”

  “Sir Henry can have no help from us.”

  “Well, Holmes, he can have no help from you.”

  At this, Holmes went pale. His face took on a pleading aspect. “Watson… No…”

  “I see no reason why a non-anvil-like fellow such as myself may not aid him.”

  “Failure, that’s a good reason,” Holmes volunteered. “Obliteration… murder at the hands of a hell-hound… There are so many when you stop to think about it. Oh, you know what: bad weather.”

  “Yes, but I could act as your agent, Holmes. Don’t you see? I could accompany Sir Henry, try to keep him safe, and offer such reports as I may until our shared talents reveal the true form of the threat that has slain Sir Charles and now menaces his heir.”

  “But… no…”

  “I think you cannot deny the arcane nature of these circumstances, Holmes. The brimstone thread, which you make your special business, seems to show clearly within this patch of cloth, would you not say?”

  “If something were to happen to you there, Watson, I could be of no aid.”

  “Then I must take special care to avoid misfortune,” said I, yet I must admit that separation from Holmes’s protection did unease me. “Yes… er… just how much protection do we assume I might need? Might this be the work of an actual hell-hound?”

  “Oh, how pleased everyone seems to be to blame the hound!”

  His anger surprised me. I had thought the question to be perfectly fair. After further reflection, Holmes seemed to come to that conclusion as well. His features softened and he mumbled, “Surgery with a claymore, Watson.”

  “Eh?”

  “If you had to excise a tumor, would you choose your trusty scalpel or a whacking great broadsword? Someone wanted Sir Charles slain, we believe, and yes, he was slain. But only he. If a true hell-hound were loosed upon Dartmoor, I promise you the carnage would be tremendous. If a hound did this murder, it certainly did not do it alone. It must have been directed by a greater intelligence—one that could hold it to only one target and even overrule the beast’s normal inclination to eat the body of his fallen foe.”

  “Is that possible, Holmes? Could such a hound-master exist?”

  “I know of nothing that is truly impossible, Watson, but I can tell you this: if a hell-hound did kill Sir Charles Baskerville, only a fool would fear the hound more than the hand that mastered it!

  “Well,” he added, after some consideration, “unless the hound was in the same room. Then… obviously…”

  The notion of going upon the moor without Holmes’s protection was beginning to lose some of its allure. Nevertheless, my mind was made up. I therefore diverted Holmes to another topic. “I say, did you manage to recover Sir Henry’s missing boot?”

  “Ugh. Yes, I did.”

  “And was it lodged in your nose, as you feared?”

  “Er… not quite the nose, but it was in my possession,” Holmes blushed.

  “Oh? But then where was—”

  “I shall not say, Watson, for to recount it would be to rekindle a most unpleasant memory. Suffice to say that Sir Henry’s boot may currently be found in our bathroom, just next to our bathtub, and that he might be pleased if it were given a very thorough scrubbing before it is returned to him.”

  With that, Holmes stalked off to his bedroom and slammed the door. I suppose it had been a rather unpleasant day for my poor friend.

  4

  THOUGH HOLMES HAD NOT FAVORED IT, MY PLAN WAS met with great relief by Dr. Mortimer and Sir Henry. Of course, I did not share Holmes’s tales of ley-lines or the demonic hordes they might unleash if he came too close to one. Instead, I told our clients that Holmes was involved in other cases and found himself inextricably entangled in London. I promised that I should be in constant contact with “the great detective” and that his expertise should not be wanted, despite his absence. This was deemed acceptable and train tickets were purchased for that very afternoon.

  Holmes accompanied us to the train station and, if his zeal to see me undertake Sir Henry’s protection was meager before, it was even less as he watched me depart. “Are you sure, Watson?” he hissed.

  “Yes. Stop asking.”

  He didn’t. “This is folly, Watson. Utter folly.”

  “Holmes, calm down. This whole affair may be nothing, you know? Look, we’ve got the old legend of the hound. We’ve got the death of Sir Charles. We’ve got motive—Mortimer says the Baskerville fortune is vast and has no apparent heir, after Sir Henry. Yet have we any proof that there is a direct plot against him? It may be nothing more than a ghost story and Mortimer’s over-caution. Perhaps I shall go there, scout for danger, find nothing and return.”

  “What?” cried Holmes. “Are you mad? There is something horrible hunting that man—something powerful and awful and otherworldly. I’m surprised you can’t feel it.”

  “I don’t have your ability to sense doom, Holmes. Few men do, I should think.”

  “Yes, but do you need it? Look at him! By the gods, he’s practically got doom all over his shoes! You couldn’t doom a man any more than that without dooming him in half. You may do your utmost, Watson, but I’d say your chances of saving him are slim indeed.”

  “Hmmm… What are my chances, do you think?”

  “Er… I don’t know… I’d say, even with your help… probably eight chances out of ten, he’s dead in a month.”

  “And if I do not go?”

  “Oh, then he will die,” laughed Holmes. “Certainly, he must die.”

  “Then my hand is forced,” I said. “I have to go.”

  “Oh really? To save that man? That very Canadian-seeming one, right over there, with the hereditary British title?”

  “By Jove!” I cried. “That hadn’t occurred to me.”

  “Think of the realm, Watson.”

  “But… no. That’s no excuse. I am going, Holmes, and that’s final.”

  Holmes kept up appearances until we departed, but whenever Sir Henry and Mortimer’s backs were turned, his true feelings showed. Once, he snuck up behind Sir Henry and gave me a little mime show. Holmes pointed at me, then down at the ground, then at Sir Henry, made a little shoo-shoo motion, then slashed one finger across his throat and shrugged. As I knew Holmes quite well by that point I could clearly understand his message: Watson, you stay. Let Sir Henry go. He’ll most likely be killed, but so what?

  I followed Sir Henry onto the train and waved to Holmes as we pulled away, tryin
g to look cheerful. His face was dolorous.

  As the train chugged westwards the day wore swiftly on into twilight. By the time the train reached Grimpen station, the world was descending into burnt-orange shadows. Trees stretched black, leafless fingers against the clouds and the moon hung fiercely bright in the eastern sky. The doors of our train car opened and the last of London’s cheer disappeared as the cold blast came in upon us. Strange to think of London as cheery, but in comparison to Dartmoor, it is.

  The open doors revealed another surprise: at both ends of the platform was a soldier. They stood, silent as statues, gazing out across the moor with knit brows and rifles slung ready across their waists.

  “What is all this?” I wondered.

  The conductor, who was helping us ready our bags said, “Oh, they’ll be lookin’ for Selden. It’s thought that he can’t make it far off the moor, lest he hops a train, so the station is always guarded.”

  “He’ll most likely be killed, but so what?”

  “Selden?” I asked.

  “Aye. The Notting Hill murderer. Them fools let him escape the gallows as they said he weren’t of right mind—as if anybody who done what he done could ever be sane, eh? Well, weren’t long afore he escaped Princetown prison as well and now he’s on the moor. Or was. Ain’t been seen these three weeks past, so there’s many think the bogs’ve had him. Still, there’s plenty in these parts who lock their doors every night and pray he passes ’em by.”

  I remembered hearing of the case. Few could forget it. The savagery of the murders had commanded headlines all over the world, but the real sensation had been the bizarre array of murder weapons. Two years previously, few Englishmen would have thought a hatbox was a deadly instrument, but Frederick Selden had proved us wrong. We had similarly learned to fear tea strainers, towel racks and bags of flour. Oh, I did not envy those men, standing all night in the autumn cold, just waiting for the Notting Hill Murderer to come up behind them and end their life with… I don’t know… an oven glove, or something.

  The carriage that came to take us to Baskerville Hall needed to be condemned. Any questions I had about what had caused its supreme state of decay were answered as soon as we cleared Grimpen station. At once, the paved road was gone and we were left to the scant mercies of a true English country lane. Rutted. Pitted. Obstructed by overgrowing hedgerows and dotted with mud pits beyond counting. Despite the constant battering and the cold gusts that came in at every crack, Sir Henry’s mood remained steadfast. We could see a fair portion of the moor, for the moonlight was generous. Sir Henry would wonder aloud if this stream or that hill was familiar to him, or if it was only his mind playing tricks. Whenever a feature of interest presented itself, he would press Mortimer to explain it, which he happily did.