The Hell-Hound of the Baskervilles

by G. S. Denning

  “Because we were in opposite wings of the Hall,” I said. “For us both to have heard her, the lady must have either been walking about the whole house, weeping…”

  “Or else she must have been standing right here, howling at the top of her lungs,” Sir Henry chuckled.

  “There can’t be too many ladies in residence. I think Dr. Mortimer said—”

  I did not finish, for at that moment the doors opened to admit Barrymore, bringing my breakfast. I elected to ask him directly. “Barrymore, how many people live at the Hall?”

  “Well there’s only Sir Henry, yourself, the missus and me. Oh, and Molly, the scullery maid. Perkins, the groom, sleeps in his shack out near the stables. Then there’s the gardener, Gunther; he’s in the groundskeeper’s house. Oh, and I forgot the baby. In February, Eliza and I were blessed with Jonathan Barrymore the Tenth.”

  “Oh? Congratulations,” I said, carefully noting the other adults’ names for later investigation. I might have saved myself the trouble. All three were of decidedly working-class character—honest and simple, with no guile to them at all. Molly’s only concerns were her scullery and her appearance (which was more than a little… pleasant). Gunther’s and Perkins’s entire worlds seemed to revolve around their own duties and Molly’s appearance. “Now, your wife and this scullery maid… are they quite all right? We thought we heard someone crying last night.”

  “Oh… well… perhaps the baby?” Barrymore volunteered. “Or if not him, then the wind I should think. Oh, it can sound quite queer when it gets to wailing around in the turrets at night.”

  Why is it that city folk are better at lying than their country brethren? True liars seem to be rare in England’s heartland and Barrymore certainly could not count himself amongst their number. Atop his silver tray, every dish was rattling—that’s how bad his tremble was.

  “Yes,” I agreed. “Most likely the baby or the wind. Thank you, Barrymore.”

  I finished my breakfast, enjoined Sir Henry to be safe and went back upstairs to dress for my country expedition. On my way to my room, I passed Mrs. Barrymore in the hall. Her eyes were red and puffy. Two things were certain. She was indeed our midnight weeper. And her husband was lying to us.

  But why? What had upset her? What was he concealing?

  I pondered this as I set out, down the lane towards Grimpen. Oh, it was a devil of a walk. The road, neither straight nor smooth, presented me a thousand unnecessary diversions and ten thousand bumps and ankle-twisting pits before I reached my destination.

  And then, all I got for my efforts was Grimpen. The place was just as dour as its name implied. It consisted of two rival inns, a marketplace, a train station, a grocer’s and a post office. Little else. Yes, I was able to hear much local gossip concerning the Hound of the Baskervilles, but little of note and nothing of use. I rattled about for a few hours, but gained no insight into the plot against Sir Henry or its potential mastermind. In the end there was nothing to do but take lunch, scribble Holmes a quick note and leave.

  As I trudged back towards the Hall, lost in thought, I suddenly heard footsteps rushing towards me, across the moor, and heard a voice call out, “Hi-ho! You must be Watson!”

  Turning, I beheld a khaki phantom bounding towards me. He wore a pith helmet with a sort of white gauze that hung all around the brim and obscured his face on all sides. His trousers were tucked into his boots and his sleeves were pulled down all the way to his wrists and buttoned tight over tan gloves. The butterfly net he had thrown over his shoulder bobbed comically behind him as he approached. Uncertain as my new surroundings were and despite the danger of my situation, I could not bring myself to believe I would end my days beaten to death by a butterfly-net-wielding country fop, so I called back, “I am Dr. John Watson. And who might you be?”

  “Stapleton,” he chirped. “Jack Stapleton, at your service.”

  He drew back the gauze surrounding his face. He had a little shock of black hair, which escaped from under his hat, over his ears and down his forehead. I would have placed him in his early forties, but he had a youthful and energetic quality, like a child. Or a spaniel. His wide-eyed earnestness led me to suspect that, so far as he was concerned, I was the most exciting thing to come upon the moor in a dog’s age.

  “Ah yes, the naturalist. I believe Dr. Mortimer mentioned you,” I said. “Yet, that does not explain how you know me.”

  “Quite the same way,” said he. “James and I are friends and he made much of his decision to go to London to find you and Warlock Holmes. I say, is he here? I should very much like to meet him!”

  “Warlock, sadly, is detained in London,” I told him.

  “Dashed shame. We could use a man like him. Why, there’s mystery everywhere and nobody seems willing to address it. Nobody pays any attention to the moor at all. I’m here collecting rare and unknown species—and I am the only one. People go to Peru to find new flora and fauna, but they won’t come here! Isn’t it strange?”

  “Passing strange.”

  “But then, you aren’t afraid of strange things! You adventure with Warlock Holmes! Mortimer showed me clips of your exploits from the London papers. Oh, the things you’ve seen, I imagine… Oh, you must let me help you! I can be of so much use to you, Dr. Watson! The moor is alien to you, yes? But I—I have studied it! I’m sure I must have a thousand facts you might want to know. Such as… well… ah! Look over there, to the northeast, do you see those purple patches on the ground?”

  Squinting, I could just make out what he was talking about. Through the hectic tangle of gorse and heather, I thought I could make out areas of the ground that were slightly more purple than the others. “Yes… I think so… What is that?”

  “Death,” he said. “That is the Great Grimpen Mire. It doesn’t look like much, because weeds will grow on the surface of the peat, but if you should step upon one of those seemingly solid pools of loose earth, we would not be hearing from you again. I don’t mean to boast, Dr. Watson, but do you see that hill just there?”

  “Of course.”

  “It lies almost in the center of the marsh. There is a mine built into the side of it. It is abandoned, not because it was unprofitable but because too many miners were lost on their way there or back. I think I am the only living man who can now navigate there safely.”

  All of a sudden, a terrible baying broke out across the moor. The still air erupted with vengeful howling, which curled from horizon to horizon for a moment, before fading into nothingness. I jumped, then crouched into a ready stance and grabbed for my pistol (which was, at that moment, safe in my room at Baskerville Hall).

  “What the hell was that?” I cried.

  Stapleton—who looked fairly shaken himself—suggested, “A bird?”

  “A bird?” I exclaimed. “Certainly not! No it sounded just like a hound, but… more…”

  “Well yes, of course, that’s what the locals say,” Stapleton scoffed. “The hound. Yet, to those of a more scientific mind we must consider other options.”

  “But a bird?”

  “Some birds are very loud. Or very large. The California condor has a wingspan of—”

  “Look! There!” I interrupted him. “The hound!”

  He spun to follow my outstretched finger. A gigantic quadruped hove into view over one of the many bluffs. It was hard to judge exactly at that distance, but based on the bushes near its feet, it must have been four or five feet tall. It charged across the moor much faster than a man could run. I gave a sharp gasp, but Stapleton began to laugh and grasped my shoulder.

  “Ah, Dr. Watson! You gave me such a fright! The hound, indeed! That is a pony, sir.”

  “A pony?”

  “A wild pony; the moor is home to several herds. Look, here come two more.”

  Sure enough, two more of the creatures appeared over the rise. Yes, now that he pointed it out, the size of their heads and their gait was certainly more equine than canine. I had just a moment of relief, before Stapleton mutte
red, “Oh dear. Turn, little ponies.”

  “What was that?” I asked, but before he could answer, another horrible cry echoed over the moor. The lead pony had run headlong into the Great Grimpen Mire and was now thrashing in a peat bog, already chest deep. The two other animals had managed to pull up short. They bucked and kicked in circles, their eyes wide and rolling. As disconcerting as the trapped pony’s screams were to Stapleton and I, I’m sure it must have been worse for them.

  “Poor devil,” Stapleton said, then added, “I say, Watson, come to tea.”

  “Tea?” I cried. “At a moment like this? Shouldn’t we…”

  I had no ideas. Stapleton gave a hangman’s smile and said, “Shouldn’t we… what? There is nothing we can do, Dr. Watson. If we had a rifle we could shoot it, which would be a mercy, but beyond that…”

  “Can we not help him get out?” I asked.

  “Dr. Watson, it is dangerous enough to go into a peat bog alone. With a thrashing, kicking pony present, the outcome is even more certain than usual. That said, if a human—with his broad, paddle-like feet and opposable thumbs—cannot usually extricate himself from such a bog… well… how would it go if you only had hooves? No; in an hour or so, that pony will be gone.”

  “An hour? By God, is he going to scream like that the whole time?”

  “Wouldn’t you?” Stapleton shrugged. “Do come to tea. It must be more pleasant than walking all the way back to Baskerville Hall, listening to the pony. We’ll close the windows. We have a piano; perhaps we could persuade my sister Beryl to play for us. Oh, you must come; she’ll be ever so pleased to meet you. We get so few visitors here upon the moor. I have my butterflies and my studies of flora and fauna, but I fear she gets bored. Say you’ll come!”

  Torn between returning to Sir Henry and reconnoitering the locals, I let the pony be the tie-breaker. I agreed to tea and the two of us set off. Stapleton was in high spirits; he stopped from time to time to point out unique flowers or particular butterflies, but I had little regard for them. I could not force myself to ignore the screams of that poor, trapped pony, dying behind us.

  Merripit House came into view. It was a charming little structure, unusual for the area in that it had two floors. It was the perfect country cottage, pastoral and charming. I turned to relate my compliments to Stapleton only to find that he was gone. I could just make out his butterfly net bobbing over the nearest hill. It seemed that the merest glance of a grizzled skipper fluttering over a heather bloom was enough to send him charging into the bush, without so much as a fare-you-well.

  I shook my head and turned back to resume my way, but immediately stopped. In the path stood a woman. I had no idea where she had come from, but I didn’t care. I have no power to lay upon this page a description of Beryl Stapleton’s beauty, or even enough of one to justify the immediate and total mastery that I allowed her to practice over me. I could tell you of her raven hair. I could tell you of her eyes—dark and almost unbelievably large—which seemed to every man on whom they gazed to be interested only in him. No. Allow me only this: that as a doctor, who has studied anatomy, I have often beheld the human form in a totally nude state and felt nothing. Beryl, even as she appeared then, conservatively clothed from neck to toe was… lurid.

  My breath escaped. She ran to me. She laid a hand upon my sleeve and leaned her face close to my ear. I could not speak. If she had slid a knife between my ribs, I could only have watched her do it in worshipful fascination. Instead she whispered, “Go! Leave this place! You are in terrible danger! You cannot stay upon the moor!”

  I nodded, dumbly. The earnestness of her touch upon my arm… the scent of her… I need to stop writing about this, right now.

  In any case, we were suddenly interrupted by a sharp voice, calling, “Beryl! What are you doing out here?”

  “Oh, Jack,” she said, turning to Stapleton, who was coming towards us over the heath. “You look as if you’ve had quite the chase.”

  He gazed at her severely for a moment then grumbled, “I see you have already introduced yourself.”

  “Oh, yes,” she said. “I was just telling Sir Henry he has come too late to see the full beauty of the moor.”

  “Sir Henry? This is not Sir Henry!” Stapleton sneered, as if only the greatest fool could think I was. “This is his friend, Dr. Watson.”

  “Oh?” said Beryl. “Oh… well then, welcome to Merripit House, Dr. Watson. Though you are not the new lord, still I am sorry that you have not seen the moor in her full bloom. It is… enchanting.”

  If my mind had been its usual self, I’m sure I could not have failed to notice Stapleton’s sudden transformation. How—in the presence of his sister—the foppish amateur scientist faded away, replaced by a disquieting, paternalistic bully. Yet, in that moment, I was incapable of deduction, insight, or even rational speech. All I could do was stare at Beryl.

  “Watson’s going to join us for tea.”

  “Oh how delightful!” Beryl declared, clasping her hands together. “We have so little company, all the way out here.”

  She took my arm and led me inside. We had tea, I presume. I fear I am a poor narrator, when it comes to relating my first adventure in Merripit House. I can remember almost nothing of it, except Beryl leaning across a tray for a lump of sugar. Or Beryl laughing—at what I cannot say. Or Beryl touching a napkin to her lips to brush away a crumb. These images are as clear to me now as they were the day they occurred—indeed, I think they shall be on the day I die. But as to what actually transpired that day in Merripit House, I have forgotten it all.

  I remember stepping back out. I remember tipping my hat to Stapleton and starting back up the lane to the main road. The pony was quiet by then. As I turned onto the main lane and began my stumbling progress past the rear of Merripit House, I found one of my arms arrested; I turned to see if I had caught it on something.

  There stood Beryl Stapleton, holding the crook of my right arm. She smiled at me and said, “Dr. Watson, I’m glad I caught you. I just wanted to apologize for what I said.”

  “What you said?”

  “Yes, when I told you there was great danger and you must leave. You must forget all that.”

  “You thought I was Sir Henry,” I reflected. My thoughts came like peas, rolling through gravy—slow and clumsy.

  “It doesn’t matter who I thought you to be,” she insisted. “It was a foolish fancy. So easy for a woman alone to be disconcerted by the moor—by a foolish, dying pony. But don’t forget to tell Sir Henry: my brother will be calling on him.”

  “Oh? Shall I?”

  “Yes. You said you would be our messenger. You said he wouldn’t mind if Jack came round to meet him.”

  “Oh. No. He won’t mind.”

  “Thank you, Dr. Watson. I suppose I’ll see you again, soon.”

  She smiled. She leaned in and gave me a little kiss on the cheek. It was nothing more than friendly. Even sisterly. There was no harm in it, no great impropriety. Yet, I could not have been more stunned if someone had cracked my skull with an iron maul.

  She left. I stood there. I’ve no idea how long. I don’t know what I was thinking, or what I was looking at. Eventually, it grew dark and the wind began to rise. With a start, I realized how cold I had become. I realized there was nothing else for it but to shamble off in the direction of Baskerville Hall. Thank God there was a clear road for my feet to follow. If I had been forced to rely upon my wits, I am sure I would have wandered into the mire.

  6

  From the third letter to Warlock Holmes, 13 October 1882

  To the esteemed consulting detective,

  Mr. Warlock Holmes,

  Where the hell are you? Why have you not answered my previous letters? Yes, I know, there’s not much in them. Precious little has been accomplished in these days at Baskerville Hall, but that means I am all the more eager for your help, Holmes.

  I am lost at sea.

  I’ve checked out all the neighbors and detected no plots. D
r. Mortimer claims to have seen the hound one night. He describes it as a huge dog with luminous eyes, smoldering all over its skin. To me, it sounds suspiciously like one of the moor ponies who has just been rained on, water steaming off its back while moonlight reflects from its eyes. Time will tell, I suppose.

  The Mortimers regularly join us for dinner. The Stapletons come even more often. Jack is so soft and foppish you would sometimes think he was playing a part, simply to discredit the entire race of country scientists. Though he certainly enjoys torturing butterflies, he seems incapable of anger towards a human. Well, he does snap at Beryl a great deal more than he ought. Oh, and his sense of dress, Holmes… He wears these ridiculous high-necked jackets with ruffs. The age of Elizabeth may have ended nearly three hundred years hence, but it seems nobody has informed the Dartmoor tailors. Between those coats and his beekeeper’s garb, I’ve never seen anything of the man but his head and hands. The rest of his body may be a complete myth, for all I know.

  As for Beryl, oh it pains me to write this, Holmes, but she and Sir Henry seem to be forming quite the attachment. I should be happy for him, I know, but I find Beryl to be such a charming girl… It brings the very worst aspects of my character to the surface, to see the way they look at each other. I shall not write of it.

  Mr. Frankland, the owner of Lafter Hall, has visited. Once. We realized it might be seen as a slight—a censure from the local baronet—not to invite him to dine. Unfortunately, he came on the same night Mortimer proudly displayed a skull that he had found on one of his amateur archeological digs. The very next morning, Frankland brought a suit against Mortimer for disinterring human remains without permission from the deceased’s next of kin. Despite the impossibility of tracking a Stone Age skull’s family to his current relatives, the letter of the law is on Frankland’s side. It is expected he will win his suit. Sir Henry has not seen fit to extend a second invitation.

  Speaking of Sir Henry, you’d like him, Holmes. He’s a brave soul and a good man, too. His anti-Canada lessons are proceeding admirably. Of course now, if I fail to protect him, I will have the death of a friend upon my conscience. I have moved to new quarters—just two rooms down from Sir Henry—the better to guard him.