Sherlock Holmes Murder Most Foul (52 page)

Taking the book from under his arm, the first gentleman replies, “A character born of a fertile imagination. But immensely popular, all the same.” Hailing a hansom cab, he turns to his companion, “My club, or yours?”

Finding nothing of interest, Mipps turns away from the window and, passing the two gentlemen getting into the cab, ambles into the shop. Easing his way through scores of people busily selecting books and purchasing publications, Mipps spots what he is after, a current edition of
The Strand Magazine
, numerous copies stacked high on the floor.

Picking up a copy of the magazine, Mipps stares at its coloured London street cover, predominantly depicting the aquiline face of a man with sharp piercing eyes, smoking a pipe. From behind his disguise, Holmes murmurs, “Extraordinary. It is like observing oneself in the mirror.” He lowers his gaze, reading the words, ‘
A new Sherlock Holmes story’,
emblazoned at the bottom of the cover
.

Opening the magazine and turning over several pages, Holmes reveals a chapter heading, ‘
The Hound of the Baskervilles by Arthur Conan Doyle’
. He smiles approvingly, “Watson, you have excelled yourself. Beyond all expectations, I might add.” Thumbing through a few more pages of the serialised story, Holmes pauses at chapter two and then eagerly begins to read the following exposition.

Seated in the armchair, opposite Holmes at 221b Baker Street, Dr Mortimer reads aloud the final paragraph from the unfolded manuscript he holds open with both hands, “To that providence, my sons, I hereby commend you, and counsel you by way of caution to forbear from crossing the moor in those dark hours when the powers of evil are exalted.” He looks at Holmes, “There is a footnote, Mr Holmes.”

Holmes draws on his pipe, “What does it say, Dr Mortimer?”

Mortimer imparts, “This from Hugo Baskerville to his sons Rodger and John, with instructions that they say nothing thereof to their sister Elizabeth.” He slowly lowers the manuscript to his lap, “That, then, Mr Holmes, is the legend of The Hound of the Baskervilles.”

Placing a dining-table chair beside Holmes, Watson sits, “What do you make of it, Holmes?”

Holmes wistfully exhales smoke, “Quite a melodramatic tale, eh, Watson?” He stares at Mortimer, “Shall we confine ourselves to the facts, Dr Mortimer? On the night in question, who discovered the body of Sir Charles Baskerville, surely not you?”

Mortimer folds the manuscript, “Barrymore the butler, who, in turn, sent Perkins the groom on horseback to fetch me. I reached Baskerville Hall at about half past nine and found Sir Charles lying face down on the ground, dead. Not a mark upon him.”

Holmes asks impatiently, “Where on the ground, exactly?”

Mortimer returns the folded manuscript to the inside pocket of his jacket, “A yew alley, Mr Holmes, which leads from the front of Baskerville Hall to a summerhouse.”

Holmes stares at him intently, “Describe the yew alley to me, Dr Mortimer.”

Mortimer squints at Holmes through his spectacles, “An earthen track, flanked either side by dense yew hedges, twelve feet high.”

“Might one conceivably breach the hedges?”

Mortimer removes his spectacles, fastidiously cleaning them with a handkerchief, “At one point only, Mr Holmes. Halfway along the track, through a small wooden gate, which leads out to the moor.”

Holmes enquires pensively, “The gate, Dr Mortimer? Was it open or closed?”

Mortimer replaces his spectacles, “Open, Mr Holmes. And there was something else. Footprints.”

Watson queries, “Those of a man, or a woman?”

Mortimer returns the handkerchief to his pocket, “Neither, Dr Watson. They were the footprints of a gigantic hound.”

Watson gasps, “Good grief, Holmes. Then the legend is true?”

Holmes sighs tetchily, “Come, come, Watson. It is quite obvious that the footprints were made by an animal of this world, and not by a phantom creature one hundred and forty-seven-years-old.” He turns to Mortimer, “When you found Sir Charles Baskerville, was he lying towards Baskerville Hall, or the summerhouse?”

Mortimer replies promptly, “Quite some distance from the gate, towards Baskerville Hall, Mr Holmes.”

Holmes thoughtfully draws on his pipe, “Then we can safely assume that Sir Charles, who having been out on the moor, came through the gate, left it open and was hurrying towards Baskerville Hall when he died.”

Mortimer imparts, “Sir Charles had not been hurrying along the yew alley, Mr Holmes. He had been tiptoeing.”

Watson stammers incredulously, “Tiptoeing?”

Holmes lowers his pipe, “Are you quite certain, Dr Mortimer?”

Mortimer nods fervently, “From the gate to where Sir Charles was found lying face down on the ground, only the tips of his boots were visible in the earth. Indicating he had been tiptoeing along the yew alley.”

Watson stands quickly, “Pursued by a gigantic hound? That is a ludicrous inference, Dr Mortimer.”

Holmes raises a silencing hand, “Quite so, Watson. Quite so.” He addresses Mortimer, “In your opinion there is a diabolical power at work which makes Dartmoor a perilous place for any Baskerville to reside. Therefore, and if I am not mistaken, you fear for the life of Sir Charles’ heir, do you not, Dr Mortimer?”

Mortimer nods again, “Sir Henry Baskerville, who has travelled from Canada, and will arrive at
[469]
Waterloo Station...” He looks at his pocket watch, “In exactly one hour and a quarter.”

“Sir Henry is the sole heir?”

Mortimer nods once more, “Yes, Mr Holmes.”

“There is no other claimant?”

Mortimer shakes his head, “Not that I am aware of, Mr Holmes.”

Putting down his pipe, Holmes slowly stands, “Then, Dr Mortimer, I propose you hail a cab, proceed to Waterloo Station and meet Sir Henry.” He indicates the walking stick leaning against the chair, “And this time, do not forget your walking stick.”

Feeling rebuffed, Mortimer stands, “I expected more of you, Mr Holmes.”

Holmes raises an enquiring eyebrow, “You did?”

Mortimer retrieves his walking stick, “Your help, Mr Holmes.”

Holmes jovially claps his hands together, “And you shall have it. Say nothing of this matter to Sir Henry tonight, but bring him here tomorrow morning at ten o’clock.”

Mortimer nods approvingly, “I am indebted to you, Mr Holmes. But for what end?”

Holmes raises a tutorial finger, “Be guided by me, Dr Mortimer, and do as I say. If you fail to heed my advice, I fear Sir Henry will not be long for this world.”

Mortimer blanches, “Murder, Mr Holmes?”

Holmes strides across the room and opens the apartment door, “By the very hand that orchestrated the death of Sir Charles.” He ushers Mortimer through the door on to the landing, “Make haste, Dr Mortimer, and do not let Sir Henry stray from your sight.”

Politely raising his hat, Mortimer hurriedly descends the flight of stairs. Quietly closing the apartment door, Holmes turns to Watson, “Quickly, Watson. A map of Devonshire. Dartmoor, to be precise.”

Watson pulls open a drawer of the bureau, “I daresay there are those who are looked upon as gifted amateurs, but Dr Mortimer is hardly of that ilk, Holmes. Tiptoeing, indeed.”

Striding back across the room, Holmes picks up his pipe, “If not tiptoeing, what do you suppose Sir Charles was doing, Watson?”

Watson rummages in the drawer, “Running, of course.”

Holmes relights his pipe, “Bravo, Watson. Sir Charles was indeed running. Fleeing from the hound. He was running for his life, running until his heart burst and he fell dead upon his face.”

To be continued in next month’s issue.

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Arthur Ignatius Conan was born at approximately 4. 55 a.m. on the 22 of May, 1859, at 11 Picardy Place, Edinburgh, Scotland. In later years, he would combine his mother’s maiden name with his own surname, thereby becoming known for the rest of his life as Arthur Conan Doyle. At the age of seventeen, he enrolled at the University of Edinburgh, where he studied medicine for the next five years, making the acquaintance of Dr Joseph Bell, descendent of a family of distinguished Edinburgh surgeons.

In 1881, Conan Doyle moved to Portsmouth, England, opening a general medical practice at 1 Bush Villas, situated between a local church and a tavern. Whilst practicing at 1 Bush Villas, and in order to support himself, his wife and daughter, he turned to his first passion in life, writing. In March of 1886, he began to pen his first Sherlock Holmes novel,
A Study in Scarlet,
which would eventually secure him international fame.

Published in
Beeton’s Christmas Annual
in November of the next year,
A Study in Scarlet
proved an instant success, resulting in
Beeton’s Christmas Annual
being sold out within two weeks. Partly based on his former mentor, Dr Joseph Bell, whom Conan Doyle had greatly admired for his intellectual prowess, Sherlock Holmes would feature in another fifty-nine stories and would be universally acclaimed as the definitive fictional detective, captivating millions of readers with his powers of observation and deduction. All but four of the Sherlock Holmes stories were written in the first person, as recounted through the eyes of Dr John H. Watson. Therefore, it is safe to assume that Watson, although a fictitious character, was, in all probability, based on Arthur Conan Doyle himself.

The following year, in 1888, nine months after
A Study in Scarlet
had been published, the Whitechapel murders, perpetrated by an unknown assassin, had thrown the East End of London into a state of riotous panic. Why the murderer, known by the sobriquet of Jack the Ripper, had slaughtered and mutilated his victims in such a hideous manner, and who he might have been, remains an utter mystery today, as it had been then.

Notes

Circa 1888