Holmes maintained his morose silence, so I felt obliged to answer on his behalf.
“If Harry has been abducted, then a ransom demand must surely come soon,” I said. “And what of Mrs Barrymore, Grier? Can you tell us anything further? I presume Mortimer has been to see her by now.”
“In the event, Barrymore himself went to fetch him,” came the reply. “He had no choice, given that the rest of us had all at once become embroiled in looking for Harry, a matter that seemed the more urgent of the two. Mortimer has been at her bedside ever since.”
“And her condition?”
“No better, no worse.”
“What do you think may have caused it?”
“There are two tiny, closely adjacent wounds on her hand which, to me, look like puncture marks caused by fangs,” said Grier. “Mortimer agrees. Then there is the inflammation and discolouration arising from them. I have seen rattlesnake bites, and the symptoms they present are not at all dissimilar.”
“A rattlesnake? In Devon?”
“Or some other kind of snake. Do you not have venomous snakes in this country?”
“Just one that is native.”
“One!” Grier declared. “Is that all?”
“The adder,” I said, “and its bite is seldom fatal. The pain and swelling are usually negligible, not much worse than a bee sting. Very occasionally a person might have an extreme allergic reaction and die, but instances of this are vanishingly rare.”
Grier shook his head in mild disbelief. Hailing from a land of copperheads, coral snakes and cottonmouths, not to mention rattlesnakes, he seemed surprised that the British Isles were so free of serpentine danger.
“Well,” he said, “it could be that Mrs Barrymore is one of the few who react badly to an adder bite.”
“If that were so, chances are she would be dead by now from anaphylaxis. Since she is still alive, we must consider that the venom came from some animal other than an adder and that its effects are slower-acting, if far more insidious. I will be able to tell you more once I have examined her for myself. And Sir Henry. I must ask about him. How is he faring in all this?”
“Broken, Doctor. Quite broken. As you and Mr Holmes will shortly see for yourselves, for we are here. Journey’s end.”
Baskerville Hall rose before us, bleak and black. The sight of it ought to have filled me with disquiet, given its connotations for me, yet at that precise moment I felt nothing but a smouldering fury. My thoughts were as sharp and clear as a diamond. I was almost pleased to be back in this gloomy, disaster-ridden place, for I was now instilled with a sense of purpose that left little room for any other considerations. Holmes and I had a mission, and I would not rest until it was successfully discharged. Neither, if I knew my friend, would he. Whoever had harmed Mrs Barrymore and snatched young Harry Baskerville would have not only the remarkable intellect of Sherlock Holmes to contend with but the dogged determination of Dr John Watson as well. And woe betide the villain!
Chapter Twenty-Four
THE HIDER IN THE HEDGE
Sir Henry Baskerville was not simply “quite broken”, to use Grier’s phrase. He was all but catatonic.
He sat in the drawing room with a vacant stare, rocking to and fro slightly. His hair was unkempt, as if he had torn at it, and he wrung his hands constantly. I could get little more sense from him than I might from a stone. All he did in answer to my entreaties was to intone, “My boy is gone. My boy is gone,” over and over, a threnody of misery. He was lost in some private hell, beyond the reach of others.
Sir Henry was Holmes’s and my first port of call. Our next was Mrs Barrymore. Grier had left us to it, having gone back out onto the moor to continue organising the parties looking for Harry. Evening was coming on, the start of a second night of searching, but the American, indefatigable as ever, was refusing to give it up.
Dr Mortimer, who was watching over Mrs Barrymore along with her husband, looked as exhausted as anyone. He sprang up from his seat when Holmes and I entered, then sat straight back down.
“A touch of lightheadedness there,” said he, hand flying to forehead. “I got up too quickly, and no wonder. I haven’t eaten a thing all day.”
“Stay where you are, then, Mortimer,” I said. “Better still, go downstairs and find yourself some food. I will take over Mrs Barrymore’s care for now.”
“I couldn’t possibly.”
“No, it is quite all right.”
“Well, if you are sure,” said Mortimer. “It is such a relief to see you and Mr Holmes, Doctor. For the first time since this latest dreadful business began, I am feeling that all may not be lost.”
Galen the spaniel was in the room too, curled up on the rug by the fireplace. As Mortimer exited, the dog traipsed after him with an expectant eye. Evidently Galen had not been fed lately either, and was hopeful of a meal. What is telling is that I had scarcely registered the dog’s presence when I came in, and as it left with Mortimer, all I thought was that it was a pretty, affectionate-looking little thing. Not once did snarls and the flashing of canine fangs cross my mind.
I glanced over at Holmes. His persistent taciturnity was beginning to trouble me. I had never known him to be this uncommunicative or seemingly passive when presented with a vexing problem. Normally in such circumstances he was a whirlwind of activity, barking out questions and statements, his keen eyes flashing as he hunted high and low for clues. Now, his eyes were hooded and his lips tightly pressed together. To a certain degree he reminded me of Sir Henry. Both men seemed to have withdrawn into themselves. My hope was that in Holmes’s case it meant he was deep in rumination, already homing in on the solution to the case. But I could not be sure.
He seemed content for me to continue to make the running, at any rate, and so I did.
“Barrymore,” I said, “perhaps you should take a break too, and have something to eat. Go and join Mortimer downstairs.”
“Forgive me, sir, but no,” said the butler stolidly. “I am not moving from this room until I am assured that my wife will be well.”
“Then let me see if I can give you that assurance,” said I, moving to the bedside.
Mrs Barrymore lay tucked in under the covers, limp and still. Her breathing was shallow and slightly irregular. A sheen of sweat glistened on her forehead, and her cheek was hot to the touch. I took her pulse and found it rapid. All her symptoms betokened feverishness.
On a table nearby I spied a bottle of tincture of opium, alongside a china basin full of water and a cloth. Mortimer, clearly, had been using the medicine and cold compresses to reduce her temperature and alleviate the pain and inflammation. It was what I would have done.
Gently I drew back the covers to expose her right arm. There was puffiness and redness all the way from hand to elbow, as Grier had said, and this condition had begun to spread into her upper arm.
I took the hand and examined it. On the back I spied the two puncture marks mentioned by Grier. They were set close together, a quarter of an inch apart. Around them the swelling was at its worst, a mound of inflammation stretching the skin so tight it practically shone.
Like Grier, I too had seen snakebites. In Afghanistan once, at camp in Kandahar, I had treated a lieutenant in the North Lancashires who had put his boots on one morning without checking them first as he ought to. Overnight, a krait had crawled inside and gone to sleep. The vicious brown-and-white-striped vermin did not like its rude awakening and bit the fellow’s foot. I got there in time to be able to squeeze out most of the venom from his toe, and I am pleased to say the lieutenant made a swift recovery.
The puncture marks on Mrs Barrymore’s hand were too small, and not deep enough, to be those of a snake.
Their origin, however, did not concern me then so much as their consequences. My nostrils were registering a distinct, sour odour, and I could see purple-black lines within the skin, emanating from the site of the injury and threading their way, tendril-like, up into Mrs Barrymore’s forearm. The smell was that o
f flesh starting to turn rotten.
I turned to Holmes and Barrymore. Since my friend was being so unresponsive, it was to the butler that I addressed my remarks, but they were intended for both men.
“Your wife’s body is resisting the toxicity of whatever poison is within her,” I said.
“That is good news,” said Barrymore.
“It is indeed. But there is bad news to go with the good, I’m afraid.”
“What? Tell me, Doctor.”
“Necrosis is setting in.”
“My God.”
“If I am to halt the spread of it, and save her life, I am going to have to operate.”
“Operate? You mean…?”
It is always better when dealing with patients or their relatives to speak plainly rather than honey one’s words.
“Amputate the arm from the elbow down,” I said.
At that, Barrymore let out an unmanly shriek. He clamped a hand to his mouth. His eyes were round and horrified.
“It is the only way,” I went on, “and it must be done forthwith. The longer we leave it, the further the destruction of the bodily tissues will progress, until it will inevitably prove fatal. Do I have your consent, sir?”
Before Barrymore could answer, there came a soft stirring from the bed. This was followed by a gasp of pain, and then a reedy, halting voice spoke.
“Husband? Is that you?”
Barrymore rushed over to his wife. “Yes, my dear. It is I.”
Mrs Barrymore’s eyelids fluttered. She turned her head towards him. “I heard you cry out. Whatever is the matter?”
“Nothing, now that you are awake again.”
“My arm. It throbs so.”
“It must do, I know.”
“And I feel so weak.”
“Please, don’t exert yourself,” said the concerned husband, smoothing her hair. “Just rest.”
Suddenly Sherlock Holmes stepped forward, showing animation at last. “Mrs Barrymore,” said he. “Do you know who I am?”
The housekeeper blinked up at him, attempting to bring her gaze into focus. “It is… Mr Sherlock Holmes, is it not? I remember you.”
“Madam, I regret imposing upon you at a time like this, when you are indisposed so. I would not if the need were not great. Can you tell me what occurred yesterday afternoon?”
“I… I recall very little.”
“You were in the garden, with Harry. He was playing with Dr Mortimer’s dog. Something happened. What?”
“I cannot… I cannot remember.”
“You must try,” Holmes insisted. “It is important.”
“Holmes,” I cautioned. “Mrs Barrymore is not at all well. Do not press her.” Barrymore, to judge by his scowl, agreed with me.
“Regrettably I must, Watson,” said my friend. “I do not know when I might next get the opportunity.”
“It… It is a blur, in large part,” said Mrs Barrymore. “But… Yes. It is coming back to me. Harry was playing. He had a rubber ball and he – he was throwing it for Galen to fetch. Such merry laughter. I had not heard the child laugh like that for some time, not since… since Lady Audrey. It was a good sound. And then…”
“Then?” Holmes prompted, bending forward eagerly.
“Then there was another sound. A twig.”
“A twig?”
“Snapping. Crick-crack, it went. Like that. In the hedge.”
“The hedge. Which one?”
“The stand of wild privet that borders the old lodge. There was…” Mrs Barrymore rubbed her brow with her good hand. “There must have been someone within the hedge, or on the other side. That is what I thought. Someone who was trying to be stealthy. Galen must have thought so too, because he became excited. He ran to the hedge, yapping, and vanished through. Harry followed before I could stop him. To him it seemed… seemed a new game that Galen had started. A game of chase. He too ducked into the hedge. I was on my feet in a trice. I called out to Harry. ‘Come back, lad,’ I said. And he…”
She was becoming agitated, and I placed a hand on Holmes’s elbow and cast him a look that begged him to relent. Harassing the woman when she was in such a delicate condition was potentially injurious to her health, not to mention unkind.
Aside from shrugging off my hand, Holmes studiously ignored me. “Please, Mrs Barrymore. I know it is difficult, but whatever you can remember, anything at all, will help.”
“Harry did not come back. There was the sound of conversation on the other side of the hedge. Soft. One of the voices was Harry’s. The other was too quiet for me to distinguish clearly.”
“A male voice or female?”
“I cannot say. By then, I was up and striding to the hedge myself. I was keen to know who was there and what business they had with Harry. I knew, too, that I must retrieve the boy. I had promised Sir Henry not to let him out of my sight, and now I had allowed that very thing to happen. I put out a hand to part the leaves and peer in. It was then that I felt it. The pain. Oh! The pain! It was so sudden, so awful. My hand seemed all at once on fire. I snatched it back. I have this recollection of… of something. Something crawling over my hand. It… writhed. I shook it off. It fell to the ground and scuttled away. I… Did I fall too? I think I must have. I was on my back, looking up at the sky. Things went dim.”
“Can you describe further the thing that was on your hand?” said Holmes.
“It was… It was black. And red. And yellow. Long. Thin.” Mrs Barrymore’s voice was fading. She was sinking back into unconsciousness.
Holmes leaned further over her, and it looked as though he was going to shake her in order to keep her awake.
I took hold of him again, firmly this time, and pulled him back.
“Desist at once, Holmes,” I hissed. “I will not have you beleaguering her any more. She needs rest.” I lowered my voice further still, in case Mrs Barrymore remained alert enough to overhear. “Not least in light of the ordeal which lies ahead for her.”
Holmes gave a sign of assent. “Quite right, Watson. I apologise to you – and, Barrymore, to you. In my fit of passion, I forgot myself. Mrs Barrymore has not told us much but she has told us as much as she can, and that will have to do.”
“What does it all mean?” Barrymore wondered. “What hurt her?”
“Your wife was ambushed, Barrymore,” said Holmes. “What was done to her was done in order to prevent her hindering the kidnapping of Harry – and, for that matter, seeing the kidnapper. The ruthlessness of the person responsible would seem to know no bounds. Mrs Barrymore was an innocent bystander, and she has been used cruelly.”
“Do you know who did it? I would dearly love to get my hands on the fiend.”
“Not yet, but there will come a reckoning, you mark my words,” said Holmes. “Not only will Harry be brought home safely, but his abductor, your wife’s attacker, will pay the penalty for these crimes. This I vow.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
THE LESS SAVOURY PRACTICES OF HOLMES’S AND MY RESPECTIVE PROFESSIONS
Within the hour, I commenced the operation on Mrs Barrymore. I availed myself of the sharpest knives I could find in the kitchen and a small handsaw from the tool shed, since none of the implements Dr Mortimer carried with him in his medical bag was sufficient to the task. Mortimer doused the blades in alcohol to disinfect them while I set up oil lamps in a circle around the bed, so that their light bathed what was to be my makeshift theatre.
A tourniquet was tied about Mrs Barrymore’s upper arm. Towels were wadded beneath her elbow. Then, using sulphuric ether furnished by Mortimer, I sedated the patient and set to work.
The amputation itself went well, by which I mean it was quickly and cleanly done. Once the affected portion of limb had been detached, I tied off the blood vessels. Earlier, when making my initial incisions, I had left long flaps of skin which I had peeled back above the elbow. Now I took these, folded them down over the stump and sewed the ends together. The result looked as neat as such things ever can. To
finish, I slathered the join with antiseptic unguent and applied bandages.
Throughout, Barrymore stayed in the room. I had suggested he step outside, but his refusal was total and unbending. Once or twice I heard him stifle a groan while I was working, but he held his nerve. I don’t know that I could have been as brave in his position, were it my own wife I was watching be surgically mutilated. As for Mortimer, he assisted by passing various implements to me upon request and taking the ones I handed back to him. He maintained an air of professional detachment throughout, although his cheeks were notably whiter than usual.
As I cleaned up afterwards, I told Barrymore that I had done the best I could and his wife’s fate now lay with a greater power than mine. The butler thanked me profusely, with much shaking of the hand and the shedding of more than a few tears.
My only recourse with the severed forearm was to take it to a far corner of the garden and bury it. I dug a hole deeper than any fox or other scavenging mammal could, dropped the limb in, covered it up, and patted the soil down hard on top.
Then I took myself off for a well-deserved stiff drink.
As I was helping myself to a snifter of brandy in the drawing room, Holmes came in. There was mud smeared liberally on his trousers and jacket sleeves, and scraps of foliage adhered to his clothing all over.
“Good grief!” I said. “Look at the state of you. If young Harry could see you now, he would think his nickname for you all the more appropriate. What on earth have you been up to?”
“While you were engaging in one of the less savoury practices of your profession, Watson,” Holmes said, “I was engaging in one of the less savoury practices of mine. To wit, I have spent the past hour down on my hands and knees in the hedge near the old ruined lodge, conducting a painstaking search by the light of a dark-lantern.”
“A sense of proportion, Holmes,” I chided him. “One can hardly equate ferreting around in a hedge with removing a person’s limb.”
“No, you are right, old friend,” came the contrite reply. “I spoke glibly. There is no comparison. Still, like you I find myself in need of a restorative. Any chance there’s a glass of that brandy going spare?”
Sherlock Holmes and the Beast of the Stapletons Page 16