Gaslight Grotesque: Nightmare Tales of Sherlock Holmes

by Jeff Campbell

  It was on the following day that I met Jack Stapleton and his sister, as we then supposed her to be. Thinking back over this first encounter, with my knowledge of later events, and the sinister meaning which lurked behind so many of his words, the true import of which only became apparent in retrospect, I am unable to repress a shudder. I recorded his remarks in my published narrative, though it would be a keen reader indeed who could discern their true meaning.

  And now I must recount the meeting which Dr. Mortimer had requested, and diverge, for the first time, from the story as I originally set it down. Our meeting took place on 12 October, and the details are taken from a letter I sent to Holmes on the 13th, a letter which I referred to as incomplete in my narrative, in order that readers would excuse any seeming gap in the events I recorded. In it I reported on various of the inhabitants living within the vicinity of Baskerville Hall, and concluded by describing the strange nocturnal perambulations of Barrymore. I described this event as “a very surprising circumstance”, which it certainly was. Originally, however, I mentioned that I had two very surprising circumstances to relate; now, some thirty years after the event, I will reveal the second. It followed on from my comments about the character of our neighbour, Mr. Frankland, and I can do no better than reproduce it verbatim.

  I made mention of Dr. Mortimer’s single-minded enthusiasm, when he lunched with us on Thursday. Upon that occasion it was a prehistoric skull about which he was holding forth; and yet I could not but feel that this genuine enthusiasm was masking some other topic about which he wished to speak, and to me alone, for he looked chagrined when, after lunch, the Stapletons arrived, and he was unable to have a word with me. As he was leaving he took me aside for a brief moment, while Sir Henry was occupied with the Stapletons, and whispered urgently “A word with you, Dr. Watson, if you will. No” —with a glance towards our host— “not here. Not now. At my surgery. Tomorrow, or the day after at the latest. It is imperative that I speak with you.” I asked if he could give me some indication as to what he wished to say, but he shook his head. “I cannot do the matter justice in a few words. I will tell you all when next we meet; and you will either take my words seriously, or dismiss me as a lunatic. I do not know which prospect frightens me more.” Further than that he would not be drawn.

  As you may imagine, I was anxious to see Mortimer as soon as possible; but events the next day conspired to keep me at Baskerville Hall, and it was not until yesterday that I was able to visit the doctor. He was not in, said his wife — a pleasant woman, quiet, but with, I suspect, the reserves of patience and strength needed to be a doctor’s wife in such a place as this — but he was expected soon; and within a half-hour Dr. Mortimer was showing me into his surgery where, he assured me, we would not be disturbed. He appeared nervous, ensuring that the window was closed and the door into the house shut and locked, and when he took his seat at his desk opposite me he was silent for some time. When he finally spoke, it was in the desperate tone of a man who is at the end of his reserves of mental strength, and does not know which way to turn.

  “Do you remember, Doctor, that legend of the Hound of the Baskervilles?”

  “Indeed yes,” I replied. “It is not a story which is easily forgotten.”

  “And what did you make of it?”

  “Make of it?” I replied in some astonishment. “As Holmes said, it is interesting to a collector of fairy-tales, perhaps.”

  “You did not feel, then, that there might be some truth to the story, however distorted the legend which has been passed down?”

  “Surely you cannot believe there is any element of truth to it?”

  “Not as such,” he answered. “I do not, for example, believe that a hound from Hell has been tormenting the Baskerville family for generations. Not precisely.”

  I remained silent. Since arriving on Dartmoor my own thoughts had, I must admit, been occupied with reflection on the curious tale, and there had been moments when I had wondered if there were any truth to it, for current events seemed to bear out the legend to a remarkable degree. The moor is a curious and unsettling place, where it is all too easy to lend credence to things we would laugh at in Baker Street.

  “If not a hound from Hell, Dr. Mortimer, then what precisely do you believe the legend to describe?”

  He eyed me squarely and took a deep breath, as if nerving himself for an ordeal. “I believe the legend is describing something far worse than a mere hound, Dr. Watson; something which the author could not put into words. I believe that the affliction cursing the family, since before the time of Sir Hugo, is a werewolf.”

  From somewhere far off in the house I heard the sound of a door closing, and a woman’s voice — Mrs. Mortimer’s — talking to someone; a maidservant, I thought idly, as the greater part of my mind tried to digest the import of Dr. Mortimer’s words. The face turned towards me was an anxious one, and yet his voice sounded firmer, more assured, when he spoke again. It was as if, having given utterance to his thoughts, the worst was over.

  “Before you laugh or ridicule, Doctor — and I am fully prepared for either reaction — please hear me out, and then decide whether you believe my theory has any validity. I have conducted considerable research, and while I will not bore you with all the details, I feel that my conclusions are sound.

  “I described myself as a dabbler in science. What you may not know is that my particular field of interest is atavism, particularly reversion; a paper of mine upon the subject won the Jackson Prize for Comparative Pathology, and you might have seen my article in The Lancet some years ago, entitled ‘Some Freaks of Atavism’. I have always been intrigued by the idea that ancestral characteristics reappear, sometimes after an absence of generations, but I had little idea when I arrived here that I would be able to see what appears to be a stunning and terrible example at first hand.”

  Mortimer paused, and reached for a mass of papers and books stacked haphazardly on the corner of his desk. “Are you familiar with the work of Lombroso?” he asked, searching through the pile.

  “To an extent,” I replied. “It is not in my medical field, but I am of course aware of his argument that criminal deviance might be explained as an atavistic throwback to more savage ancestors, and that abnormal physical features are a measure of this.”

  “Precisely. I have made something of a study of his work, and have attempted my own modest researches along the lines he has mapped; hence my enthusiasm regarding the prehistoric skull I recently discovered. Ah, here it is.” He had opened one of the books. “Here is what Lombroso himself said about the moment when he appreciated the importance of his theory, after he performed an autopsy on the infamous criminal Vilella: ‘At the sight of that skull, I seemed to see all of a sudden, lighted up as a vast plain under a flaming sky, the problem of the nature of the criminal — an atavistic being who reproduces in his person the ferocious instincts of primitive humanity and the inferior animals.’ Heredity is, in this theory, the key cause of deviance. And while many have seized on Lombroso’s comments regarding the lower classes, what is often overlooked is his argument that degeneration, as he calls it, is as endemic to the aristocracy as it is to those lower in the social order.”

  I shifted somewhat impatiently in my chair. “This is all very interesting, Dr. Mortimer. However, I fail to see what relevance it has to the legend, or the death of Sir Charles, or the threat to Sir Henry; and as for your mention of werewolves…”

  “A moment, Doctor, and I will explain. My studies had led me to believe that certain diseases can remain latent within a family, sometimes for generations, and then recur without warning. Lombroso’s theories about savagery, and criminal behaviour, likewise being a throwback to earlier times resonate very strongly with me. I was particularly intrigued when I read that he feels these throwbacks resemble their ancestors not only in behaviour and tendency, but in physical characteristics; consider his comment about these throwbacks resembling the ‘inferior animals’.

  “This w
as, as I say, very interesting to me, but only from the point of view of the scientist. All that changed, however, when I first read the legend of the Hound of the Baskervilles, which Sir Charles showed me shortly after he moved here. I had, of course, heard stories from the locals, but had not had an opportunity to read the original document. The peasant stories about a hound from Hell, combined with other instances of local folklore, led me to do some minor research into these legends, and it was in the course of this that I first encountered the theory of the werewolf. Like you, Doctor, I was prepared to dismiss it as a particularly far-fetched story, fit for frightening children and credulous peasants, but of no scientific standing whatsoever. When I read the actual legend, however, I could not repress the terrible thought that there might well be some truth to the werewolf theory after all. I have a copy of the legend here, Dr. Watson, and there are several points about it to which I would draw your attention.”

  Once more my host plunged a hand into the pile of papers on his desk, while I attempted to suppress the thrill of fear which ran through me. That two men of science should be sitting in the prosaic confines of a doctor’s surgery, discussing such a thing in any seriousness, would have struck me as ludicrous only a few short days earlier. Had you been there, however, even you might have been half-inclined to believe the incredible tale which Dr. Mortimer told.

  “We know,” he said, “that the Baskerville family has long been known as one of deep passions, cruel tempers, and untold vices; the legend makes reference to ‘those foul passions whereby our family has suffered so grievously’, and the writer hopes they will not be loosed again. This seems to make it clear that the Baskerville who wrote the legend knew more of his family’s history than he was prepared to set down on paper; but I believe that he left hints in the narrative which an astute reader might grasp. His reference to Sir Hugo becoming as one who ‘hath a devil’, for example, prepared to ‘render his body and soul to the Powers of Evil’; an indication, I believe, that the family was afflicted with a terrible evil, the nature of which they kept a secret. And his two references to the moon, which he refers to as ‘shining bright’ upon that final, horrifying scene; there is an established connection between the full of the moon and the appearance of the werewolf.

  “And consider the description of the hound itself. The peasant whom Sir Hugo’s companions pass is ‘so crazed with fear’ he can barely speak of what he saw: ‘such a hound of hell as God forbid should ever be at my heels’. The creature itself is described as ‘a foul thing, a great, black beast, shaped like a hound, yet larger than any hound that ever mortal eye has rested upon’, with ‘blazing eyes and dripping jaws’; a sight so dreadful that one of the men who saw it died that night, and the others were broken men for the rest of their days. Does this sound to you, Dr. Watson, like an ordinary dog, however large? I myself saw something three weeks before Sir Charles died; a creature as big as a calf. On a night when the moon was nearing full.”

  Dr. Mortimer’s voice was rising, his words tumbling over themselves in the manner of one unburdening himself of something he has long been forced to keep secret, and I admit that his words carried conviction. I did not feel that I was in the presence of a madman.

  “And the animals. Sir Hugo’s horse galloped past the pursuers, dabbled with white froth, obviously in a terror. The hounds, although known for their valour, were clustered together in fear, some slinking away, others with starting hackles and staring eyes, none venturing towards the body of their master. It is well known that animals sense more than humans; I believe they knew what manner of creature awaited them. What dog will tear the throat out of a living man? No, Doctor. It was no hound that killed Sir Hugo; it was a werewolf, a man who, at certain phases of the moon, reverts to animal shape, and is governed by an uncontrollable blood-lust.”

  I sat in silence for some time, trying to comprehend this strange tale. My training and background rebelled against what I was being told; yet here, in the heart of this strange country, swirling with legend and rumour, I was more inclined to lend it credence than I would have in the heart of London. And there was the manner of my host: earnest, passionate, ringing with conviction. He was not, I felt, a man to succumb to superstition and fantasy; rather, he was a man with a scientific turn of mind, used to weighing facts and evidence with care and precision. He was watching me carefully, and it was obvious that he had staked a good deal in telling me his story. When at last I spoke he scarcely seemed to breathe, so anxious was he for my reply.

  “It is an incredible story you tell,” I said slowly. “I must confess that I hardly know what to think, so unexpected is what you have to say. And yet … the evidence which you point to in the legend is very striking indeed. While I know something of Lombroso, and his views on atavism and criminality, I know nothing whatever of … werewolves, beyond a few scraps of legend which seem almost too fantastic to be believed. What in your research has convinced you that this is the explanation for the events cursing the Baskerville family? Why is it that the tale is not better known? And Sir Hugo died almost two centuries ago; surely you cannot mean that the creature — if indeed it exists — is that old?”

  Dr. Mortimer let out his breath, and I saw relief sweep across his face. “I have looked into this matter with some thoroughness, Doctor, and I believe that I can answer all your questions; although what you make of those answers remains to be seen. I have already given you the details from the legend which support — to my mind — this theory. One point which stands out to me is that Sir Hugo was ready to render his body and soul to the devil. According to werewolf lore, this is precisely how the transformation comes about: a pact with the devil, often to sate a lust for blood. The Baskerville family name has been a byword for terrible passions for centuries, since long before the time of Sir Hugo. Members of the family have taken up arms in almost every battle in our country’s history, and many have gone abroad in the cause of violence and war. I suspect that some long-ago Baskerville, in service to his passion for violence and bloodshed, made such a pact with the devil, and the result has cursed the family ever since.

  “You ask why the tale is not better known. I believe that the existence of the legend of the hound has been encouraged by the family, to mask an even darker secret. Who would, in the face of such a tale, look for an even darker one? I also believe that, over the centuries, the true story has been lost even within the family; hushed up, only spoken of in guarded tones, so that the author of the legend could only leave hints and suggestions. Sir Charles, I think, suspected more than he let on; he was obsessed with the legend, and the strange creature said to haunt his family. More than once I wanted to say something to him, but feared the effect on his health. Would that I had spoken out!

  “As to the creature itself — no, I do not believe that the beast which almost certainly caused the death of Sir Charles is the same one that killed Sir Hugo two hundred years ago. This is the point, Dr. Watson, where Lombroso’s theories on atavism, and my own on reversion, come into play. Ever since that first, unknown Baskerville made his awful pact, the potential, if you will, has been there. Sometimes it lies dormant for decades, but eventually it will out, in terrible form. Almost every generation of the family has produced a black sheep: Sir Hugo was one, and Rodger, Sir Charles’s brother, another. Occasionally, however, comes … something worse.

  “You can see why I have remained silent on this point, Dr. Watson. As I said to you and Mr. Holmes, there are events about this case which are hard to reconcile with Nature. In the absence of any other explanation, however, I am forced to fall back on this; and try as I might, I cannot make it ring false. I believe that on the night of his death, Sir Charles saw this … this creature, approaching the Yew Alley from the moor, where it had been spotted at various times by other inhabitants of the area, who described a huge creature, ghastly and dreadful. I questioned two of these men privately, and they both confirmed that when they saw the creature the moon was near full, as it was on the night Si
r Charles died. When I first saw the body I refused to believe it was my friend, so distorted with terror was the face. It was no mere hound — however hellish — which caused that look.”

  I confess that I could not make his story ring false either. Incredible as it sounded, the theory accorded with the facts as we knew them. Yet I saw an objection, which I put forward immediately.

  “Granting that these creatures exist — and I do not say that I am convinced, Dr. Mortimer — you say that the … disease afflicts the family periodically, often lying dormant for decades. How, then, do you explain its recurrence of late, given that Sir Henry is the last of the line, and has been in Canada until recently?”

  Dr. Mortimer shook his head. “That is the one flaw I find, Doctor. My only explanation is that there is someone living hereabouts who is, perhaps unknowingly, descended from the Baskerville family. As the legend says, saints have never flourished in these parts, and it is entirely possible that some long-ago illicit liaison is now bearing unholy fruit.”

  “That may well be possible. It is a pity that the convict, Selden, must be ruled out as a possibility, for he did not escape until some weeks after Sir Charles’s death. Do you have any suspicions of your own?”

  My host shook his head. “No, Dr. Watson, I do not. You know how isolated we are here, and how few folk live hereabouts. One would think that would make it a simple matter to discover the culprit, but the locals are secretive, and do not take kindly to outsiders’ questions. I see very few of the inhabitants of the area save on a professional basis; certainly not enough to be able to draw a conclusion about any of them.”

  “So the creature is still out there, you believe? Waiting to take vengeance on Sir Henry?”

  “Sir Henry, or any other unfortunate who crosses its path when the blood-lust is upon it. It is thanks to a merciful heaven that no one else has been injured. For that is what I fear more than almost anything — that the creature will wound someone, without killing him. Werewolf lore is unanimous on one point: that anyone who is bitten by a werewolf, but does not die, is destined for the same ghastly fate as his attacker, and is doomed to become a werewolf himself, and possibly inflict the curse on others.”