The Hell-Hound of the Baskervilles

by G. S. Denning

  He stopped his work and stared at me with a strange urgency, then whispered, “I am not… I am not regarded as a brave man.”

  “Because you aren’t,” I reminded him.

  “Well yes… but… but I would still like to be regarded as one. I think my wife would like it more if she were married to a man of reputation.”

  “Ah, but you are a man of reputation,” I countered. “Before you came, these poor cottagers may have died of infection if they happened to break their leg. And you know how often they do it! Gads, it might almost be considered the local pastime. Now you are here to put them right, their lives are much improved. Do you think they are ungrateful?”

  “They all look at me as if I were a medical book, Watson! If I could only prove I were brave… If I could only…” He dropped his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “If I could only capture the Notting Hill Murderer.”

  “Oh no! I don’t think much of that idea,” I told him, stroking the bandaged fork-wound hidden beneath my shirt. “I am familiar with the man and I don’t think you’d care for him.”

  “But I could catch him. I could do it.”

  “Mortimer, he’d kill you in an instant.”

  “I could take him unawares.”

  “I very much doubt that.”

  “I could! I… I have a secret, Dr. Watson. Look, it stands to reason: if he were still out upon the moor—after all this time, with no plunder from local farmhouses, without the theft of any food or material, wouldn’t that mean… someone was supplying him?”

  “Ah,” I said, and my heart fell. I prepared to begin the conversation that would land the Barrymores in jail. Possibly, even Sir Henry and I might be in some trouble. Had we hunted the Notting Hill Murderer? Yes. Then again, had we gone to the authorities with what we had learned? Well… not yet.

  “Someone has been!” Mortimer insisted. “Someone has been bringing him food every day! I’ve seen him.”

  “Ah. Yes. Well… before we jump to any hasty conclusions…”

  “Not hasty! I have watched him now, for days.”

  Mortimer gestured towards the old brass telescope that occupied pride of place at his front window. My brow knit. How could he possibly see Baskerville Hall from here? Were there not several large hills between? What had Barrymore been doing, to be seen at night from such a distance?

  “He comes every day, about this time,” Mortimer continued, now gazing hungrily at the clock upon his wall.

  What? Impossible. I tried to remember any conspicuous absences of either John or Eliza Barrymore at this time of day. They always seemed to be on hand when we needed them. And why would they come so far from Baskerville Hall?

  “I’m sure you must be mistaken,” I said.

  “I am not! Look, I shall show you. Let us spy for him!” Mortimer flicked some plaster from his fingers and scurried to his telescope. As he fumbled with the focus, he told me, “We may be too late. Or too early—the lad is not regular.”

  “Lad?” I wondered aloud. John Barrymore was a little old to be called a lad.

  “Yes, yes,” Mortimer said. “A young boy—looks like an urchin—dressed more like a London pauper than one of the country-folk. He always goes just along that rise over there, with pots and boxes. I tell you: he is feeding the Notting Hill Murderer! Oh! Watson, look! Here he is!”

  I rushed to the telescope and put my eye to the piece just in time to see a tousle-headed lad of nine or ten disappearing over one of the nearby hills. I could make out little of him, for he appeared to me in silhouette and only for a moment, but one thing was clear: it certainly wasn’t Barrymore. So who was he? What was he doing? I scanned the moor. We were not close to Baskerville Hall, and though Selden’s hiding spot was closer, still it was none too near. And the boy was heading in the wrong direction. He was headed more towards…

  The tor. The man on the tor who had laughed at me during Selden’s attack. He was an unknown quantity—I had no guess as to his identity or his purpose, but it was possible he was master to the hound. Perhaps this boy could help me find him. But first, I figured, I had better save Mortimer’s life.

  “Oh no,” I laughed. “That will be young William. His father is a shepherd. The boy must be bringing him lunch.”

  “A shepherd?” Mortimer said, deflating down into one of his chairs. “Not the murderer? A shepherd? Am I to remain a coward, then?”

  “I think it would be best. Cowards are the wisest, longest-lived fellows I know. Take heart, James, and continue as you are. Yours is a noble life.”

  He did not like my answer, but in the end I convinced him of it. We hitched his nag to his creaky cart, to carry poor Sir Henry home. Before I went I scanned the hills and committed them to memory as best I could. Mortimer was not suited to the business of chasing dangerous men across the moor. That was my job.

  Tomorrow… I thought to myself. I don’t know who you are, Man on the Tor, but by the time the sun goes down tomorrow, I shall have you.

  9

  I STAYED UP LATE THAT NIGHT, SURVEYING THE MOOR from the top of the East Tower and committing it to memory. I stayed longer than I should, fretting over each valley and hill, until the moonlight failed me and there was naught to do but go to bed.

  I slept late the next morning then went to Sir Henry’s room to tell him my plans for the day. He lay upon his bed in a magnificent array of pillows that Barrymore had arranged to support his injured leg, his arms, his breakfast, his book and any passing wildebeest that felt like it might fancy a lie-down. Barrymore buzzed about the room, arranging Sir Henry’s old, new, formal and casual clothes into different piles. Sir Henry brightened as I entered and called, “Morning, Watson! You’ve missed a couple of good dust-ups.”

  “Uh-oh. Have I?”

  “Yep. Two fights. Two reconciliations. Two agreements—one of ’em enough to get me smiling—and now we’re organizing the old wardrobe.”

  “Two fights?” I asked.

  “Hm. First, Barrymore here—he thinks we shouldn’t have gone after Selden.”

  “The man is an escaped murderer!” I cried.

  “He is family,” Barrymore said, “and Eliza told you his secret in confidence.”

  “She told us because you got caught,” Sir Henry reminded him. “But anyway, it’s a moot point. The Barrymores have a plan to make sure Selden never harms another Englishman.”

  “Oh?” I asked, “What is that?”

  “We have arranged for him to be transported, in secret, to America,” Barrymore said.

  I was rather taken aback by this and said, “Look, I have some experience with these matters, both as an investigator and a medical doctor, so I think I can tell you: a psychotic multi-murderer does not stop killing simply because he’s had a change of scenery. All you are proposing is the export of our problem, not a solution. Frankly, Sir Henry, I am surprised that you would consider endangering your friends abroad.”

  “Oh! No, no, no,” Sir Henry laughed. “South America.”

  “Oh. South America… well that does change things…”

  “What d’you think of the plan then, Watson?” Sir Henry asked.

  “Well, it is highly irregular,” I replied. “Usually, we use Australia for that sort of thing… But, if it will restore the local peace and it is South America… I suppose we could overlook it, just this once.”

  “That’s good,” Sir Henry said, “’cause I’ve already told Barrymore I’d help. So me and Barrymore are square now. Oh, and I’ve given him some of my old clothes. We’re going through ’em now and Barrymore has his choice of all the stuff I’m getting rid of.”

  It did my heart good to see that magnificent pile of foreign work clothes leaving the baronet’s possession. Perhaps my joy loosened my tongue more than it ought. “You should give him that one you’re wearing,” I said. He wore a ridiculous powder-blue suit.

  “Hey! This is my best Toronto suit!” Sir Henry protested and I only just managed to choke back the observation that this was an
oxymoronic statement, before he added, “Only you and Mortimer seem to dislike it. Stapleton thinks it looks mighty fair. He said I ought to wear it for Beryl.”

  “Jack Stapleton, you mean? When has he ever seen you in it?”

  “Oh, he was the second fight of the morning,” said Sir Henry. “I thought we were gonna have a punch-up for a minute, there. But it ended well enough.”

  I kicked myself for sleeping so late. I wasn’t sure I trusted Jack Stapleton and I was becoming more and more certain I trusted his sister not at all. What if Stapleton sought Sir Henry’s life? Had I let him alone with his would-be murderer while I slumbered, two doors down?

  “What did Stapleton want?” I asked.

  “He said he felt bad about yelling at me yesterday,” Sir Henry said. “He came round to apologize. That didn’t stop him getting pretty out of shape when I asked if I could call on Beryl. And it didn’t stop me from shouting that he’s her brother, not her governess. And it didn’t stop a bunch of other things being said that nearly set us at each other. But it came out all right in the end. He says he’s alone out here, with only his sister for company. They’ve been together their whole lives and he’s got nobody else to speak with about his… bugs and things. So, the idea of losing her fell hard on him. I told him it wasn’t right for him to prevent her from marrying and he agreed. He only asked me for three months. This time next January, I can start courting her; until then, I’m supposed to just be civil.”

  “That will be difficult,” I said. It is hard to describe the slew of emotion that had poured through me as he spoke. Unspeakable jealousy and anger were my first reactions, but I firmly reminded myself that these were not my true emotions, but something I was being made to feel. In those moments where I successfully convinced myself of this, I worried for Sir Henry. Nothing good could come from courting such a temptress, of that I was certain.

  “It’s gonna be hard to wait,” he said, “but I gave my word, so… You really don’t like this suit?”

  “Forgive me, Sir Henry, I do not.”

  “Why?”

  “Allow me just to say that if Jack Stapleton encouraged you to appear in it in front of Beryl Stapleton, it was an attempt to sabotage your hopes with her.”

  His eyebrows went up, as if he were having trouble deciding if I were being helpful or trying to start the morning’s third argument. Finally, and with studied Britishness, he said, “I will take that under advisement. I had planned to wear it when I saw them tonight. Stapleton invited me round to play cards with him. I told him I’d see whether or not my foot was fit for it. I’m sure it won’t be, but… I don’t know… I kinda like the idea of going anyway. I thought Beryl might make a fuss and… what a strangely happy thought that was… But anyway, what are you up to today, Watson?”

  “You remember the man we saw upon the tor, when we were fighting Selden?”

  “Sure.”

  “Today, I am hunting that man.”

  “Careful, Watson,” Sir Henry said. “If he can control a demon hound, he’s prob’ly not the nicest guy.”

  “One way to find out, I suppose,” I said. “I confess, I am against you playing cards tonight. Not without me to protect you. Perhaps I shall make it back in time to ride with you to Merripit House. Don’t make a face, I need not go in; the Stapletons needn’t even know I have come. I shall sit in the trap and read a book, perhaps. I just don’t want you risking your neck without me there to guard it. I shall hurry about my business and see you this evening.”

  Yet, it proved to be a difficult business to hurry. I hadn’t made it far from Baskerville Hall when I spotted a suspicious cave, across a ravine. It took me nearly half an hour to make it down one side of the defile and up the other, only to find the cave was deep enough to shelter, perhaps, two squirrels.

  If they hugged each other.

  Moreover, I’d spotted six or seven other points of interest on the journey. I had no time to check them all and was beginning to realize I was still too close to the Hall. I hadn’t fathomed the enormity of my task. A thousand Watsons couldn’t search the moor in a day. Perhaps it would be folly for them to try. As the day wore on I came to a second dreadful realization: I was actually going too fast. I’d been employing no stealth at all. My quarry could easily have spotted me and shot me dead from the safety of his hiding place. Or set the hound on me. Then there was Selden. He’d promised to stop killing, but if he’d found the perfect little eggcup to end somebody with, did I expect him to be able to control himself?

  Seven hours and several miles out onto the empty moor, I began to despair that this was one of the worst ideas I’d ever had. Then, in an instant, my luck reversed itself. I smelled fire. Not still-burning fire but that sad, sour smell of last night’s campfire, gone to burnt black memory. I was wandering past a little hollow in one of the tors, when I scented it. I’d been on the very point of turning back, for I knew the daylight must soon fail me.

  The tor curved around, forming a natural sort of harbor. Inside were five of those little Stone Age huts Holmes had told me of. They were in better condition than any I’d seen so far. One was still full height, but lacked a roof. One was intact. I crept to the best-preserved hut and peeped inside.

  It was most certainly inhabited. Though nobody was present at that moment, there was a rudimentary bedroll on one side and a tiny firepit on the other. In the center, the round cross section of an old stump had been upended to make a sort of table, with a chair of the same just beside it. On that makeshift table lay a pile of burnt breadcrumbs, a knife, a spoon, a bowl and a note—handwritten by someone who seemed barely literate—which read: Beware. Watson searching the moor today. So if it were my Man on the Tor, it seemed his supply boy had done a better job spotting me than I had of spying him. This was the only deduction I could form, except…

  My eyes went to the silverware. Spoon. Knife. No fork. My left hand flew protectively to my chest. Selden! Less than two days previous, I had oh-so-cleverly divested him of that fork and had now wandered, alone, into the beast’s lair! I had to…

  But before I could begin truly hyperventilating, reason mastered my fear. The heirloom Baskerville silver was well worthy of its title and clearly marked with the family crest. This set was cheap and tinny. Different silverware, so… different fellow? Yet how had it come to pass that this gentleman should also have lost his fork? The coincidence was too much; there had to be some explanation…

  And I had it. Oh, it is hard to explain the rage I felt in that moment—I threw the little table over, kicked the burnt wood out of the firepit, and flung my pistol at the bedroll. Before it hit, I was already cringing low, with my hands over my face. Sometimes, when one does such things with a loaded pistol, one gets exactly what one deserves. Standing near the center of a small, round chamber with walls of stone on every side might have proved to be interesting if that pistol had discharged. But luck was with me. There was nothing to do but set my jaw, cross my arms and sit grumpily on the stump to wait.

  An hour passed.

  So did daylight.

  Finally, as twilight filled the little hollow, there came the sound of footsteps. As they neared, I raised my voice and called, “Welcome back, Holmes. Care to step inside and explain yourself?”

  I suppose it would have been wiser to have kept the pistol handy, in case my deduction had proved false. Yet the strangled little scream that drifted in through the stone doorway was strikingly familiar. A moment later it was followed by Holmes’s head—shaggy and disheveled—which bent in to wonder, “Watson? How did you find me? How did you even know it was me?”

  “Simple deduction, Holmes. A pot. A spoon. A knife. Burnt breadcrumbs. No fork. The gentleman who resides here has not only been living on toast and soup, he is ill equipped to eat anything else. That is only you, Holmes. Only you.”

  “Bravo, Watson! Yes, well done indeed,” he said, then cleared his throat with some apprehension and added, “I suppose I owe you an explanation.”

&nbs
p; “I suppose you do.”

  “You probably want to know what I’ve been doing since we parted company,” said Holmes. “But if you really wish to know the full account we must go back farther. In fact, I think we’d best start at Baskerville Hall, Michaelmas 1643.”

  PART II

  FROM SOME NEBULOUS, UNDEFINED SOURCE

  10

  Michaelmas 1643

  IT IS THE DAY OF DUES, AND SO THEY COME. EVERY creditor knows the day and every debtor. Michaelmas: the day of expectation; the day of payment. For those who work by day, the accounts will be settled by the exchange of pounds or goods. For those who labor in secret, attending the otherworldly mumbles of darker powers, this is the day their supplications and exhortations may be repaid by direct congress with the demons and devils to whom they attach all hope.

  Hugo Baskerville is there, of course, for it is in his hall where the worlds may most easily be brought together. Sheng Xia, the Lady of Secrets, has journeyed from the East. Talog To-Tek, last practitioner of the Aztec sacrifices has come, wearing the skin of his last slave. Pope Urban VIII is not well, but he will have to do without the magics of his favored doctor, for Sanzetti the Sarcomancer would never miss this day—not for all the cardinal’s begging. Fasoul the Turk is here as well, though it is hard to say if he was invited as a kindness to him, or merely as entertainment for the others. Yes, his powers are impressive, but they are as much an affliction as a gift. Fasoul sees the hidden world, but not the presented one. When he beholds a man, he sees the man’s intentions, his hopes, his fears, his triumphs and his failings, but he cannot see the face, the flesh or the form. Like a normal blind man, he survives on charity. He sees his benefactors’ pity for him, as well as their disdain, yet he cannot taste the bread they bring. In the crowded streets of Istanbul, the showmen play their Karagöz, but he cannot see the puppets. He beholds the strings.

  These five chairs are claimed and one more is expected to be filled. Today, for the first time anybody can remember, the best of them is coming. Moriarty has accepted the Michaelmas invitation.