Sherlock Holmes and the Beast of the Stapletons

by James Lovegrove

  “‘My sincerest condolences over the loss of your daughter,’ I said.

  “‘Is what I have heard true, Mr Holmes?’ said this shattered old man. ‘Is my Laura the one who murdered Lady Audrey?’

  “‘So it appears.’

  “I explained what I had gleaned about Mrs Lyons’s misdeeds. There followed a bout of sobbing so piteous, it would have melted a heart of stone.

  “‘If only I had been a better father,’ Frankland wailed. ‘My Laura! She was such a sweet girl when she was little. The apple of my eye. Why do families drift apart? Why do we grow so cold to one another? Would that people were more like the stars, fixed and constant, following their set paths forever.’

  “‘Perhaps,’ I said, ‘you might in future focus more on your botanical interests than your astronomical ones. Turn your gaze from the celestial to the earthly. Plants have plenty to teach us about the evolution and interdependence of living things.’

  “He gave the suggestion some thought. ‘It is probably too late for me to learn that lesson,’ he said, ‘but that should not stop me from trying. Thank you, Mr Holmes. Those are wise words.’

  “I made my excuses and left. Back at Baskerville Hall, I gathered my belongings and prepared to depart from Dartmoor for good. Before going, however, I sought out Grier and had a word with him.

  “‘Corporal Grier,’ I said. ‘You have been an invaluable adjutant throughout this entire business.’

  “‘I have done what I can,’ said that modest fellow.

  “‘If I may, I would like you to continue to serve in that capacity. How long do you anticipate staying in England?’

  “‘Another couple of weeks, I should imagine. Three at most.’

  “‘That ought to be enough. I want you to remain with Sir Henry the whole time.’

  “‘Such is my intention.’

  “‘Maintain a careful watch over him.’

  “Grier looked at me shrewdly. ‘You do not think this is over, do you?’

  “‘Let us just say that it would not be prudent of me to leave Sir Henry unattended,’ I told him. ‘There remain one or two elements to the case that give me pause for thought.’

  “‘You can rely on me, Holmes,’ said Grier. ‘Henry is safe in my custody, as is little Harry. I will protect them with my life, if it comes to that.’

  “We shook on it.

  “‘Until we meet again, Mr Scarecrow,’ said Grier.

  “‘A valiant attempt, Grier, but I shall not be calling you Mr Chimneysweep. Not now, not ever.’

  “‘Can’t blame a fellow for trying!’ were his parting words to me.”

  Holmes stood and went to the hearth to tap out the dottle from his pipe. “And now, Watson, you are up to date with everything that has transpired in your absence. What do you make of it?”

  “It is a remarkable tale,” I said. “A web of murder and deceit that you have unravelled with your customary aplomb. The case would seem to be, as the lawyers say, open and shut. The murderer has been unmasked and, in a way, brought to justice. Her motivations and deceptions have been laid bare. All is settled. Yet,” I added, “you remain riddled with misgiving, I can tell.”

  “I am,” Holmes confessed. “There is something about it that I cannot put my finger on. I feel that I am missing something obvious, something so glaring that by rights I should have seen it long ago. For a start, Mrs Lyons’s whole scheme seems inordinately complicated. She never struck me as a woman of great imagination. Great determination, yes, but not great imagination. Yet what are that glowing-eyed moth kite, that cigarillo and that cannula but the hallmarks of a formidable imagination? Then there is her suicide note with its misspellings. Was that the handiwork of a woman who felt the net closing in around her, so drug-disorientated and panicked that her fingers were clumsy on the typewriter keys? And the bottle of laudanum…”

  His voice drifted off, and I saw a peculiar fixity come over his face and a faraway look enter his eyes. Both were traits that I knew of old. Holmes had withdrawn into himself, entering that fantastic, labyrinthine mind of his to explore its many chambers and consult its vast repositories of knowledge and logic. It was clear that I would not get any further conversation from him for the time being and that my presence was superfluous. Discreetly I tiptoed out of the room and returned home to await the call to arms which, if I knew Sherlock Holmes, would surely not be long in coming.

  PART THREE

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  BASKERVILLE HALL REVISITED

  The call to arms was sounded not three days later.

  It took the form of one of Holmes’s typically terse telegrams.

  Watson

  Come at once. Bound for Devon again. This time no excuses brooked. Pack a bag. Bring revolver.

  SH

  Nor were any excuses forthcoming from me. I was resolved to make up for my previous timidity. I appreciated that I had developed cynophobia, but a phobia of Devon? Was it possible to be scared of a county?

  Then there was Benjamin Grier. I had found it galling to listen to Holmes recount their exploits together on Dartmoor and give example after example of the consummate teamwork that had so swiftly instituted itself between them. Everything Grier had done was something I should have done. He had stepped into the shoes I had vacated. It had been an act of necessity, prompted by neither malice nor ambition. Yet they were still my shoes, and no one should wear them but me.

  One of my locums was back in town and agreed to take on my caseload. I packed a bag, and presently Holmes and I were at Paddington, boarding a Devon train.

  Throughout the journey Holmes was in subdued mood, barely exchanging a word with me. He did not vouchsafe the reason why we were travelling to the West Country with such haste, but I could tell from his silence, which was interspersed with occasional sighs and irritable flourishes of the hand, that he was deeply disconsolate; that, indeed, he was angry with someone. My intuition was that this someone was most likely himself.

  As we passed from the rolling green hills of south Somerset into the rougher, russet-tinged terrain of Devon, I felt my heartbeat quicken and my mouth go dry. Again and again I told myself that my fears were baseless. I reminded myself that during my time with Holmes I had faced murderers, convicts, blackmailers, vengeful mariners, a deadly Indian swamp adder, an Andaman Islander armed with poisoned blowdarts, a rogue shikari who was a crack shot with an air-gun, and God knows how many pistol-wielding maniacs; and before any of that, hordes of Afghan ghazis who had made it their business to take potshots at me with their jezail rifles. I had also dealt with countless medical emergencies that called for a steady nerve and an equally steady hand. It was ludicrous that a man of my age and standing should be so timorous.

  This inner talking-to brought some relief to my anxiety, and by the time we pulled into Bartonhighstock station I was almost calm, almost my usual self.

  Grier himself was there to meet us with a wagonette. One look at the fellow, and I knew that some terrible catastrophe had struck. He was as solemn-faced as a mourner at a funeral. More than that, he appeared hollowed, as though half the stuffing had been knocked out of his huge frame. His eyes, which I remembered as being lively and bright, were dull and haunted.

  “Let’s go,” he said tersely, whipping the horse into motion.

  Rain spat down on us from a sky the colour of glazier’s putty. For several minutes I expected that one or other of my companions would apprise me of the situation, but perhaps Grier assumed that Holmes had already done so, and Holmes himself remained disinclined.

  At last I could bear it no longer. “I have been as patient as a man can be,” I snapped. “In heaven’s name, what has happened? One of you fill me in, I don’t much mind which it is.”

  Holmes looked at Grier, Grier at Holmes, each’s grave expression mirroring the other’s. Eventually Holmes said, “To start with, Mrs Barrymore lies at death’s door.”

  At that, I groaned in dismay. “What ailment has befallen the woman?”<
br />
  “According to the wire I received this morning from Grier here, she appears to have been the victim of the bite of some highly venomous creature. Dr Mortimer has been looking after her, and is concerned she will not survive. But,” he added, “there is worse.”

  “What could be worse than that?”

  “A kidnapping.”

  “Oh Lord,” I breathed. “Who?”

  “Young Harry.”

  I gasped. “I can hardly believe my ears! When? What were the circumstances? Spare no detail.”

  Holmes turned to Grier. “You know more than I. You should be the one to speak.”

  “I am not sure that I can bring myself to,” said the American. “But if I must, I must. The facts of the matter, Doctor, are these. Yesterday morning, Dr Mortimer called round with his spaniel, suggesting he might leave it at the Hall for a few hours. He knew how much Harry loved playing with the dog, and he told Henry and me that it would be a good therapeutic tool for the boy.

  “‘My godson has been through a great deal these past few weeks,’ he said. ‘Having Galen to look after and play with will prove a useful distraction. It will take his mind off things and perhaps help him rediscover a sense of normality.’

  “Henry could see the logic in that, as could I. And Harry, well, when he got wind of Mortimer’s offer, he clung to his father’s legs and implored him to say yes. Henry could hardly refuse.

  “By then, Mr and Mrs Barrymore were back in residence. Henry had sent them a letter pleading with them to return. He had sworn that his black moods were a thing of the past. No longer was his life overshadowed by the threat of a vampiric moth, the letter said. Sherlock Holmes had seen to that. His grief for his wife was in no way lessened, but at least now he could get on with mourning her as a widower ought.

  “This importuning had the desired effect, and once more the Barrymores were tending to the Baskervilles’ domestic needs.

  “All that day, Harry was in a transport of delight. He fed Galen scraps from the lunch table. He tried to teach him tricks – roll over, play dead, hold out a paw to shake – which he hoped would impress his ‘Uncle James’ when he returned to collect the spaniel. Galen patiently endured the lessons but seemed in no hurry to learn. Seeing the two of them together was an enchanting sight, and I truly began to believe that the whole sorry affair of Mrs Lyons and her vendetta was behind us. Henry and Harry could move on with their lives, and all would be well. Ha!”

  Grier snorted this expostulation.

  “I should have known better,” he went on, his voice curdling. “In the afternoon, Henry proposed that he and I go out onto the moor to shoot grouse. I recalled that Holmes had advised me to keep a close watch on Henry, and by implication Harry too. Obviously, if Henry and I left the Hall to go grouse-shooting, I could not also mind Harry. However, my reckoning was that the pair of us would only be gone a couple of hours. In the meantime, the Barrymores were there to look after the boy. I deemed the risk acceptable.

  “We left Harry in the garden, romping with Galen, under Mrs Barrymore’s supervision. Before going, I had a quiet word in her ear.

  “‘Never let the lad out of your sight,’ I told her. ‘Not for one moment.’

  “‘You have my promise, Mr Grier, as a Christian woman,’ replied that lady. ‘I would sooner die than let harm come to a single hair on Harry’s head.’

  “When Henry and I returned from our outing – we had bagged a brace of birds each – it was to a Baskerville Hall in the grip of a deathly hush. Sometimes one can tell when things are awry, even before the truth of it becomes known. One senses it instinctively.

  “In the main hallway we found Galen hunkered at the foot of the stairs. The spaniel looked – ‘appalled’ is the only word I can think of for it. You know how it is with some dogs. They are sensitive to drama and calamity. Galen’s muzzle was on his paws and he barely raised his head when Henry and I entered, whereas under normal circumstances he would have hurried over to us and demanded to be petted.

  “Now my hackles were up, and so were Henry’s. It was then that a distant sound of sobbing reached our ears. It was coming from upstairs, from the wing that one might call the servants’ quarters but for the fact that that description seems an exaggeration somehow, since the sole residents are the Barrymores. Abandoning our shotguns and our birds, Henry and I hastened towards it. The source was the Barrymores’ bedroom, and therein we found Barrymore kneeling beside the bed, upon which lay his wife.

  “I have never seen a man more devastated, more desolate, than Barrymore was then. There was not a trace of colour left in his already pallid face, save for the redness of his tear-filled eyes. He was wracked with anguish.

  “‘She is dead, sirs!’ he cried upon seeing us. ‘My dear wife! Dead!’

  “Mrs Barrymore certainly looked dead, laid out atop the counterpane. I went over and examined her. I immediately detected the rise and fall of her chest, barely perceptible but present nonetheless. Barrymore, in his paroxysm of despair, must not have noticed it. I also found the merest trace of a pulse in her left wrist. I could not take the pulse in her right wrist for the whole of that arm, from hand to elbow, was horrendously inflamed, swollen to twice its usual size and a deep crimson in hue.

  “I told Barrymore that his wife was still alive, and at this he sagged to his haunches in relief.

  “‘Oh, thank merciful heaven!’ he declared.

  “‘She is terribly unwell nonetheless,’ I said. ‘We need Mortimer.’

  “‘Of course,’ said Barrymore. ‘I shall saddle a horse at once and ride to his house.’

  “‘No, Barrymore,’ said Henry. ‘Your place is by your wife’s side. I shall go. Besides, I am a better horseman than you.’

  “‘Bless you, sir. Bless you. Might I ask, before you go – you have seen young Master Harry, have you not?’

  “Something about this query made my blood run cold.

  “Henry himself did not share my dread, at least not yet. ‘I presume he is somewhere in the house,’ said he.

  “‘Only,’ said Barrymore, ‘I heard my wife cry out in distress, and found her lying in the garden, in the state that you see her now. Dr Mortimer’s dog was by her side, looking solicitous of her. There was no sign of Harry, and I assumed he had gone indoors, having tired of their game. I picked my wife up and carried her into the house, with the dog following me. It looked to me as though she had swooned. It was only after I laid her out on the bed that I realised how lifeless she seemed. And then I saw that.’ He pointed to her arm. ‘It was bad then, and it has since got worse. I still do not know what it signifies. But Harry is surely somewhere around here. Is he not?’ he added in a plaintive tone.

  “Now it dawned on Henry, as it already had on me, that some vile mishap might have befallen his son as well as Mrs Barrymore. Were Harry in the house, would he not have come to greet us when we returned? The fact that Galen was lying on his own in the hallway, when Harry and he had seemed so inseparable earlier, was another ill omen.

  “Henry dashed out of the room, crying, ‘Harry! Harry!’ I followed, and together we combed the house, from attic to cellar, and then the garden. We yelled the boy’s name continually, at the top of our lungs. Were he within range of our voices, and conscious, he could not have failed to hear us, and would surely have responded if he had been able. We even ventured onto the moor, moving outward from the Hall in a widening spiral, still shouting, ‘Harry! Harry!’ as we went. We were in a state of panic that mounted with every minute, until we could scarcely think straight. We had all but forgotten about poor Mrs Barrymore. Harry alone occupied our minds.

  “‘Gone!’ Henry wailed after an hour of futile searching. ‘My son is gone!’

  “‘We do not know that, Henry,’ I said. ‘Not for sure.’ These words rang hollow even to my own ears. I persisted nonetheless. ‘Perhaps Harry ran away when Mrs Barrymore fell ill. Perhaps he took fright and, not knowing what else to do, headed out onto the moor. Or perhaps,’ I went on,
warming to my theme, ‘he ran for help. Yes, that could be it. The lad has a sensible head on his shoulders, even aged just three. He could have gone to Lafter Hall, say, or to that farmer who put me up for the night – what is his name? Wonnacott. Even now, Harry sits indoors, in the warm, enjoying a well-deserved treat, while a doctor makes his way here, most likely Mortimer. Mrs Barrymore will be saved, and it will be all thanks to Harry and his resourcefulness. Your son will be the hero of the hour.’

  “‘No,’ said a forlorn Henry. ‘Why would Harry go all the way to Lafter Hall, or anywhere else, when he knew Barrymore was right here? He would have sought out Barrymore before he did anything else.’

  “This, gentlemen, I could not gainsay. My speculation crumbled like the fantasy it was.

  “And there you have it,” Grier said by way of conclusion. “We have had search parties out on the moor all through the night, equipped with lanterns and torches, and all of today as well. Dozens of local folk have volunteered their services. I myself have coordinated these efforts and led more than one of them. We have looked in the prehistoric huts. We have looked in crofts, both abandoned and tenanted. We have looked in barns, spinneys, gorse patches…”

  “The Grimpen Mire?” I hazarded hesitantly.

  “Even there. What is left of it. I have had the remaining areas of shallow bog dragged with hooks on ropes. Nothing of note has turned up, aside from the mouldering skeletons of ponies and sheep. I have not slept. I am running on my last dregs of energy, yet I will not abandon this endeavour until Harry is found.”

  “Is there any proof that Harry was kidnapped? There hasn’t been a ransom demand, has there?”

  “None. But given that Henry has been the object of a recent campaign of terror and murder, the kidnapping of his son is hardly an unlikely extrapolation of that. Don’t you think, Holmes?”