“I see. Well, I did not think it so obvious.”
“Everything is obvious to one who knows how to look,” said Holmes. “Shoeing horses brings in a variable income, greatly dependent upon season and demand. In lean times, when work is thin on the ground, one must resort to other methods of making ends meet. When you said you weren’t where you should have been, poaching seemed the most logical inference. More often than not, when a countryman is in straits, he turns poacher.”
The farrier sighed. “I has five children by two wives. That be mouths to feed aplenty. On Lord Torkington’s estate, near Chagborough, there’s rabbit warrens galore, ’undreds of plump little coneys what’s just waitin’ to be trapped.”
“And it was there, while trespassing on this nobleman’s land, that you saw the giant moth.”
“This were the Wednesday afore the Wednesday afore last. It were a night much like the one Jethro Satterley described. The air so clear, you could see for miles, and with enough of a wind blowin’ for the noise of it to mask your movements.”
“A perfect night for poaching, it would seem to me.”
“You would not be wrong, sir. Around midnight, that moth loomed up in the distance. It didn’t ride in front of the moon for me, like it did for Jethro, but there was so many stars out that its shape stood out against them, stark and black. Four wings, all flutterin’; a body thick in the middle, narrowin’ to a point at the tail; a pair of stalks atop its head, curved like a demon’s horns; and of course those red eyes…”
The farrier and part-time poacher gave an involuntary shiver.
“Nothing the good Lord has made has eyes like that,” he said, “and I ’opes with all my heart that never again does I see the beast as them belonged to. I ain’t mentioned this to a single soul, until today. That be because I don’t want to answer questions about the whereabouts of the sighting, but also because even the act of rememberin’ it makes me come over all queasy.”
“Then why tell us now?” said Grier.
“To relieve myself of the secret, sir, which has been something of a burden to me all this time.”
“You would trust a pair of complete strangers with this confession over any of your close acquaintances?”
“You are both grockles. That is, outsiders to the county. A Londoner and an American. Doesn’t matter if I lose face with you nearly as much as it would with them as whom I rubs shoulders with day after day.”
“That makes sense.”
As a parting shot, the farrier said, “Not once since that night has I ventured abroad after dark, sirs. All across Dartmoor, people are doin’ likewise. There hasn’t been a mood like this round ’ere in years. Doors locked at night. Children kept inside. It takes a lot to intimidate us moor folk, but that giant moth has done it. The last time we was anything close to this fretful were some five years past, when a devil dog were on the prowl. That turned out to be a hoax. I pray this monster moth will do too, although,” the fellow added darkly, “havin’ seen the thing myself, I be right proper doubtful.”
Chapter Thirteen
THE PLEASURES AND PITFALLS OF BEING A PROXY WATSON
As Holmes and Grier made their way back towards Baskerville Hall, they reviewed their findings.
“It is at times like this,” Holmes said to his companion, “that I usually ask Watson for his opinion.”
“But in his absence, I shall have to do,” said Grier.
“You will more than suffice. You are easily his equal in intellect, and even when Watson is wrong, which is not unheard of, his wrongness has been known to set me on the right path.”
“Then I shall endeavour to be intelligent and, if wrong, intelligently wrong.”
I must admit to feeling a stab of jealousy as Holmes related this exchange. Was I so easily replaced? I did not resent Grier for it. Rather, I resented myself for having left a void that required filling.
“What we have,” Grier said, “are three eyewitnesses whose accounts corroborate the circumstantial facts we have already ascertained. Sheep have been attacked. A giant moth has been observed at night.”
“For me,” said Holmes, “the truly intriguing element is the similarity between Mr Jethro Satterley’s tale and that of our farrier-cum-poacher. Consider, in particular, the climatic conditions at the time of each sighting.”
“A clear night in either instance.”
“Ideal for the moth to show itself off to its best advantage.”
“You mean it wished to be seen?”
“That might not be the desire of the creature itself, but of its owner, trainer, handler, whatever you wish to call him.”
“Stapleton.”
“If it is he.”
“What you’re saying is that Stapleton, or whoever the culprit may be, has been releasing the moth and allowing it to disport itself publicly,” said Grier, “with the express intention of the creature entering into the purview of some passer-by. He is deliberately sowing alarm and consternation for his own nefarious ends.”
“That is one possible interpretation of the facts, yes.”
“Alternatively, might not the moth be roaming free at all times, and it is simply the case that on other nights the weather was not so conducive to a sighting? It was cloudy, or misty, or pouring with rain. The moth flew but nobody was around to see it or, owing to an overcast sky, could see it. Anyway, don’t moths prefer dry, bright conditions for their nocturnal outings? Moonlight attracts them.”
“Those are all very reasonable arguments,” said Holmes.
“I am meeting the mark as your proxy Watson, then?”
“Most commendably.”
Hearing this, my stab of jealousy deepened, and so did my feelings of self-reproach.
“The difficulty I am having with all this, Grier,” Holmes continued, “is that I am unsure how feasible it is to train a moth. Arthropods are not higher-order vertebrates like dogs or monkeys. I wonder whether one could ever be coaxed to perform even the most basic of tasks.”
“If this one is as large as it is reputed to be, then would its brain not be of a commensurate size, and its intellect therefore greatly enhanced? Perhaps even to the level of a man’s?”
“Again, a good point.”
“Then, of course, if it is a skinwalker…”
“Oh, Corporal Grier,” Holmes said. “We’re back to this Navajo ‘were-moth’ theory of yours, are we? And you were doing so well.”
“I have gone down in your estimation,” said Grier, with a note of chagrin.
“Somewhat. Watson would know better, I think, than to persist with intimations of the supernatural, especially after I have soundly rejected them.”
“You think me credulous,” Grier said.
“I think you all too ready to reach for the least plausible explanation when there are others that are likelier and more easily testable,” said Holmes. “You know of my dictum concerning the impossible and the improbable?”
“I am familiar with it from Dr Watson’s writings.”
“It applies here as much as it does anywhere. Skinwalkers belong in the ‘impossible’ category. Let us eliminate them from our considerations and instead seek out whatever remains, no matter how improbable it is.”
The asperity with which Holmes made these remarks seemed to take Grier aback. By the sound of it, the American – not as inured to my friend’s sometimes waspish temperament as I – was subdued for the rest of the journey to the Hall. As for Holmes, he was blithe to having caused offence, in so far as I could judge. I doubt he will mind me saying that he has a notorious blind spot where human sensibilities are concerned.
As the two men drew near to Baskerville Hall, the sound of childish laughter reached their ears. In the front garden they came upon young Harry cavorting with a mid-sized brown dog. Holmes had no trouble identifying the animal as Galen, Dr Mortimer’s spaniel. Harry was throwing a small tree branch for Galen to fetch and chortling deliriously as the spaniel came lolloping back with its prize and droppin
g it at his feet.
“Henry has let the kid go outside,” said Grier. “That, surely, is progress.”
“Yet he is keeping a very close eye on him,” Holmes said, indicating the main entrance to the house.
The door was open and Sir Henry Baskerville stood on the threshold, arms folded. He exhibited little of the paternal contentment one might expect to see in a father watching his child at play. His gaze was less on Harry than on the surroundings, scanning near and far for potential threat. His shoulders were hunched, and overall his posture spoke of alertness and caution. Holmes fancied that the baronet was poised at any moment to snatch up, if necessary, the pistol that was shelved just inside the door. Woe betide any intruder, be it man or moth, who might wish to menace his son.
Holmes hailed him, and Sir Henry responded with a distracted wave.
“Mr Scarecrow! Mr Chimneysweep!” Harry cried, catching sight of the two returnees. “You are back. Daddy and Uncle James have let me play with Galen.” By Uncle James, he clearly meant his godfather, Dr Mortimer. “Galen is a clever dog.”
The spaniel came bounding over to greet Holmes and Grier. Holmes scratched it behind the ears.
“Galen!” said Harry, holding up the stick. “Galen. Get it, Galen.” He hurled the branch, and the spaniel dutifully scurried off to retrieve it. “See? He always brings it back.”
“Dr Mortimer is visiting, I presume,” said Holmes to Sir Henry.
“He is within,” came the reply.
“I ran into him this morning, out by Crookback Samuel. He said he might call by the Hall, and it seems he has been as good as his word.”
“How have your investigations gone today?” Sir Henry enquired.
“Profitably.”
“Anything to report? Has there, dare I ask, been a breakthrough?”
“It has, above all else, been a day of substantiation,” said Holmes. “What I have hitherto learned at second hand, I have now learned at first hand. I have turned up some promising leads nonetheless.”
“Excellent,” said Sir Henry. “Would either of you care for a cup of tea? Mortimer has the kettle on even as we speak.”
“I can think of nothing I would like better.”
“Myself, I’d prefer coffee,” said Grier, “but tea will do in a pinch.”
“You go in,” said Sir Henry. “I shall remain here a little longer, keeping vigil, until either Harry or Galen gets bored of their game.”
“My money is on the dog,” said Grier. “Harry looks like he could throw that darned piece of wood all day.”
“He’s certainly making the most of his freedom,” said the lad’s father.
“And why shouldn’t he? It’s his first taste of it in a while.” Grier patted his friend on the shoulder. “Brave of you to give him this opportunity, Henry. I know it can’t have been an easy decision.”
“It is a small step.” Sir Henry essayed a smile. “The first, I trust, of many.”
In the kitchen, Holmes introduced Grier to Mortimer. Then, teacups in hand, the three men repaired to the drawing room. There, on the floor, lay the aftermath of Sir Henry and Harry’s restaging of the Battle of Waterloo in miniature. Dozens of lead soldiers were strewn about, the red-jacketed British troops standing mostly upright while their blue-jacketed French counterparts were, almost to a man, horizontal.
Between grateful sips of tea, Holmes regaled Mortimer with a brief synopsis of his and Grier’s experiences that day.
“What I require now,” said he, “is a map.”
“A map of what?” said Mortimer.
“Dartmoor. Would you know if Sir Henry has one?”
“As it happens, I think he does.” Mortimer disappeared to the library and returned presently with an Ordnance Survey plan of the local area, which he unfolded on the drawing-room table. The map covered almost the entirety of the tabletop.
Holmes pored over it for several minutes. Then, with a peremptory snap of the fingers, he said, “Pencil.”
Mortimer duly fetched the requested item. He and Grier leaned in to watch as Holmes began collating, in visual format, various of the data he had gathered that day.
“First, let us identify the spot where the sheep belonging to our friend, the venerable crofter, was killed,” he said. “He told us it was a mile from his homestead which, unless I am much mistaken, is here. The scale of the map is an inch to a mile, and an inch, conveniently, is the same length as the top joint of my thumb.” He swept his thumb round in a circle, his first knuckle pivoting upon the point where the croft lay. “There we are. Now, to judge by the closeness of these concentric contour lines, here lies a tor. It is the correct distance away from the croft, and in the correct direction, and is thus the likeliest candidate for the location of the ovine death.”
He put an X on the map.
“Then let us plot the two confirmed sightings of the moth. One was here, to the north of Clyst St Margaret. We cannot be certain of the exact place but we know it was on the lane leading out of the village in that direction. That puts it roughly here.”
He drew another X.
“The second sighting occurred on Lord Torkington’s estate. That, I have it on good authority, lies near Chagborough, which is here. Mortimer, can you tell me which of the five large houses proximate to that village is his lordship’s?”
Mortimer hesitated, then picked one out.
“You’re sure?”
“I have been there just the once. I believe I am right, though.”
“Thank you,” said Holmes. “The fence lines indicate that the estate covers several hundred acres, making it hard to pinpoint with any great accuracy where our poacher was when the moth flitted into view. Still, we may make an educated guess. Rabbit warrens are usually found on hillsides. A ridge of low hill abuts the property just here. That, then, for want of an alternative, is where we shall put our cross.”
He sat back.
“As you can see, gentlemen, our giant moth has a somewhat circumscribed territory. All the crosses I have made are within a few miles of one another.”
“I can add a further two crosses, if you would like,” said Mortimer.
“The more the merrier,” said Holmes. “I was hoping your local knowledge would come in handy.”
Taking the pencil from him, Mortimer added yet another X. “The moth was seen by the vicar of Thorsley parish, no less. He was heading home on his bicycle after a round of evening visits, ministering to housebound parishioners. He was less than half a mile from the vicarage when the beast put in an appearance.”
“Very good. What more trustworthy testimony could there be than a man of the cloth’s?”
“Quite. He says the moth passed above him, scarcely ten feet from his head, its wingbeats loud as thunderclaps. He was so rattled, he steered his machine into a ditch.”
“And the other sighting?”
“Not a sighting but a sheep killing,” said Mortimer. “It took place at the farm at Foulmire. There.”
“Capital!” Holmes exclaimed. “Here, now, we have five marks. And what is common to them all?”
“Nothing, as far as I can see,” said Grier. “They seem to be scattered at random.”
“They are. It is not the placement of the marks themselves that counts so much as their locus. Look. They encircle a town. This one, Coombe Tracey. Imagine spokes radiating out from the centre of that municipality, each extending to one of the X’s which marks a sighting of the moth. In fact, there is no need to imagine them. If you will give me back the pencil, Mortimer, I shall draw them. There we go. See how the lines are more or less the same length as one another. Coombe Tracey, by that reckoning, would appear to be the hub of the moth’s activity.”
“What does that signify?” said Mortimer.
“Perhaps nothing. Perhaps everything. It may merely be coincidence. We would need to record many more confirmed moth sightings and sheep killings on the map before we could state with any certainty that the giant insect calls Coombe Tracey i
ts home. Militating against this theory is the fact that Baskerville Hall lies further from Coombe Tracey by some margin than any of the other locations. If the moth strayed from its usual stamping ground in order to kill Lady Audrey, why? Why this one exception to the rule? If it even is an exception. Hum!”
Bent over the Ordnance Survey map, Holmes sank into a profound meditation. The other two men left him there, Grier to go to the kitchen and prepare the evening meal, Mortimer to collect Galen and go home. Lost in his musings, Holmes did not stir from this position until Grier came in an hour and a half later to announce that supper was served.
Chapter Fourteen
A WILD MOTH CHASE
That night, during the small hours, Holmes was awoken by a scream.
It was a high-pitched, thready wail, filled with terror, and it came from Harry’s bedroom.
Holmes sprang from his bed and hurried along the darkened corridor. Sir Henry was also up, and arrived at the boy’s room before Holmes, for his own room lay nearer. The baronet flung open the door and rushed in, crying, “Harry! Harry! My God, Harry, what is it?”
Holmes entered the room hot on his heels. Harry was sitting bolt upright in his bed, wide-eyed, his face a mask of fright.
“Harry,” said his father. “Speak to me, son. What has happened? Was it a nightmare?”
In answer, the distraught little creature pointed to the window.
“Th-there,” he sobbed. “I saw it. It – it tapped on the glass, and it was looking in. It was looking at me. Its eyes were red and shiny.”
Unhesitatingly, Holmes darted for the window. The curtains were not fully drawn, and through the chink between them, which spanned perhaps four inches, he spied movement. He snatched them apart and peered out.
A waxing moon shed light over the landscape. By its butter-coloured glow Holmes could see, with absolute clarity, a winged figure in silhouette. It was flying away from the Hall, out over the moor, already some fifty yards off and receding fast.
Sherlock Holmes and the Beast of the Stapletons Page 9