Sherlock Holmes and the Underpants of Death
During the many years in which it has been my privilege and honour to report the cases of my celebrated friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, I have never known him bettered by any opponent, no matter how clever or well written they may have been.
In his heroic exploits against the underworld, I have known Holmes carry out tests of endurance which would exhaust the stoutest. The case of the museum deaths involved Holmes wearing the same socks for over a fortnight, and to crack the devious mystery of the General’s missing armour Holmes went without illustrations for two entire pages; a feat which robbed him of much vital exposure. After that particular incident he had to spend a whole fortnight recovering in the pages of Victorian Hello! magazine.
Despite his efforts and considerable, nay unmatched, success in the field of criminal investigation, Holmes is relatively unknown, as befits one of the most modest men in the entire city. He can spend hour after hour unapproached at his club, The Enigmatic Mind, despite his best efforts.
On a dark night these sinister and mysterious affairs first entered our lives, like a hideous beast weaving its way through the London mists, waiting to embroil the finest analytical mind of his age.
Holmes had been sitting by the window, a pipe in his hands, the glow warmly reflecting against the grey night we saw through the glass. The agitated figure could scarcely be seen ascending the steps outside our chambers, so great and sinister was the night’s fog. I felt a tingle in my bones and the unmistakeable thrill of adventure hung heavy in the evening’s atmosphere.
There came a knocking at the door.
Mrs. Hudson could be heard telling somebody that we didn’t want any insurance and that Mr. Holmes was off in Hollywood being filmed. However, the lady would have none of it and soon found her way into our presence.
The late night London mists must have made a cruel travelling companion. Yet the young lady who made her way to our rooms so late into the night made no complaint of this when she settled into a chair. Her manner was of one who had been through much, and she stood before us with the imploring expression of one in profound need of assistance.
“You must help me, Mr. Holmes. I am in direst need.”
Holmes motioned for her to continue.
“I fear sir, that I must confide in you and you alone. So if your friend would not mind excusing us-”
“Oh, very well,” I said rather testily, and got of the bathtub and made for the towel hanging on the door.
With a dramatic utterance she clasped at her head and fell to the floor in a dead faint.
“Not another one,” said Holmes as he lay aside the paper with a groan.
“What shall we do?” I queried.
“Stick her in the cupboard with the other unconscious clients.”
After a time she came round, and Holmes stopped going through her handbag and I regretfully put down her lipstick.
“Oh Mr. Holmes. Forgive my nerves, but a most jarring incident has befallen me. My fiancé, who has recently arrived on these shores, is in gravest danger. He inherited recently, you see, an enormous and rambling estate on the edge of an appalling dark moor called Edward Heath.”
Holmes hiccupped on his pipe and turned to raise an eyebrow at the camera.
“And then a most amazing thing occurred. My mother, Lady Boyd-Peterson, recently had a pair of her, oh excuse me sir, her undergarments stolen.”
This last disclosure appeared to perturb her gentility greatly, but Holmes and I are seasoned in the art of grace, and assuaged her blushes by nudging each other and making “Wooooaaaagghh!” noises.
“Lady Boyd-Peterson? Her husband isn’t old Algie Boyd-Peterson?” I enquired, my curiosity having got the better of me.
“Indeed my late father was named Algernon, sir. Pray how do you come to be acquainted with his memory?”
“Why, he and I were in the same regiment.”
“No, really?”
“Yes, indeed.”
“Were you close to my father?”
“Oh yes, inseparable.”
I was slightly put out at this, that an old army comrade of mine should not have mentioned me to his daughter, especially one as pretty as this. I played moodily with my rubber duck and made little sniffing noises to myself as Holmes continued the conversation.
“What exactly is the cause of your distress?”
“Well, it is so unusual that I scarcely know how to describe it, sir. There is a disturbance upon my life. I do not know if you are familiar with the Baskerville family, but old Sir Hovis died recently and he left a handsome legacy for his sole heir, Sir Henry, who became my fiancé shortly after he inherited, coincidentally.”
Very little of positive information was mentioned, and Holmes’s manner became strained, and his politeness in bidding her farewell and booting her in the rear as she rose to leave betrayed his disappointment at not being given a case of the complexity which ever delighted him. His mood was clearly soured, and his manner detached as he asked me various details of the girl’s family life.
“Did you know the family well, Watson?”
“Why yes, Holmes. Her father and I used to desert together.”
Holmes’ eyes grew small and tight with thought, and took the opportunity of scribbling a few quick notes for the old memoirs, taking care to leave a space near the beginning for me to include the eventual conclusion as having been my first instinct on the matter.
“Hand me my violin, Watson.”
“Certainly, Holmes,” I said, turning my back on the great sleuth as I reached for the instrument, discreetly stamping on it once or twice out of respect for his musical skills before handing it over. Nonchalantly accepting his cracked violin, Holmes played a delightfully splintered tune, so distracted was he by the events of the night that he did not even notice the violin was in four pieces.
As a great music lover, I am used to Holmes’ singular violin playing, and in the earlier days of our friendship I could often be seen offering encouragement by striking him on the head whenever he reached for the instrument. Holmes’ violin playing is a reflective accompaniment to his thoughts; melodramatic and prone to great gusts of narration.
It is with this particular skill in mind that I have spared no effort in obtaining the finest ear plugs money can buy. I sat behind a newspaper between a pair of these, and wondered how much more I could take of Holmes’ moody eccentricity. It was bad enough him keeping his tobacco in a Persian slipper, but of late the habit of keeping his feet in my cigar case had been getting me down.
Undeterred by the barrage of cushions and small arms fire, Holmes played his violin into the dawn, and I spent the time as best I could composing lengthy, heartfelt telegrams to the Samaritans.
The case began in earnest on a wet Wednesday afternoon in Baker Street. Holmes was looking at his case notes, and I was practising my Madonna impression by singing into a hairbrush and dancing in front of the mirror. We were disturbed by an agitated knock at the door. Mrs Hudson was out for the day getting waxed, and as Holmes did not stir from his task, I laid down my hairbrush and headed for the door, first taking off my brassiere, lest our visitor should think I was a Whig.
At the appointed hour the lady’s fiancé arrived. A gentleman in fine apparel stood before me, his fine features unruffled by the inclement weather. He was evidently a man of some wealth, and I wondered why he had walked in the rain when surely he had a carriage at his disposal, or else could have his pick of hansom cabs.
“Mr. Holmes,” he cried. “I’m at my wit’s end!”
Holmes smiled, ticked off another stroke on his scorecard of people at their wits’ end, and motioned him to continue.
“My name is Sir Henry Baskerville,” said he, and posed for a quick drawing as the illustrator marched in swigging a cup of coffee, took the required pencil impression and the shut the door behind him. After he had left, Holmes and I stopped being grim and determined and our guest put his clothes back on.
“The trouble all started, Mr. Holmes, when-”
“A moment, pray,” said Holmes. “Would it not be wiser to take your time and tell your story, and begin where the trouble started?”
Our guest did as directed, and for over an hour Holmes and I listened to his rambling. To omit much strenuous and wandering detail, the upshot of the matter was that Sir Henry’s mother-in-law to be, the same Lady Boyd-Peterson as his fiancé mentioned (it took Holmes and I a good half hour and not a few diagrams to connect this), had recently lost a pair of bloomers to a thief.
“Pants, Sir Henry, belonging to your fiancé’s mother? Are you sure it was not a shoe, one of a new pair perhaps, belonging to you, which is about to be returned as it is essential to the plot that the thief has a shoe you have worn which carries your scent?”
“No, Mr. Holmes. It was most definitely pants. I’m sure I wouldn’t get the two articles confused,” said Sir Henry as he crossed his legs, thus snapping the elastic.
Sir Henry’s guide in England, a noble old gentleman currently residing at Sir Henry’s suite of rooms at the Carlton, was convinced that the family curse was afoot, and was the secret at the cause of Sir Hovis Baskerville’s death. This was Sir Henry’s uncle, who had recently popped his clogs. There was something about a pair of enormous, ghostly pants which all Baskervilles must fear etc. but I don’t recall that too well.
At some considerable length he wound his address to a close, and turn expectantly to the recumbent figure of Holmes, who spoke from beneath the copy of The Times which was currently draped over his face.
“This is all very interesting as folk lore, Sir Henry, but how, may I ask, does the humble crime specialist fit into your plans?”
“I would be tremendously grateful, Mr. Holmes, if you would accompany me back to my hotel and satisfy the good doctor that his fears are groundless.”
Holmes touched the tips of his fingers together, and closed his eyes.
“It is impossible. I am deeply involved in many cases at the moment, two of which near completion even as we speak, and even an hour is too great a cost. No, sir, what you ask is impossible–”
“I’ll give you five quid.”
“Of course I’ll need expenses.”
Our guest produced a postal order, and Holmes ran for his hat and coat.
It was with the thrill of adventure in my heart and the feel of money in my pocket that I sped past Berkeley Square, headed for one of the most fashionable hotels in London. Holmes was wearing his special wealthy client coat, with the large pockets designed to hold any ornaments he may wish to remove for analysis.
We arrived at the great hotel named by our new client. As Sir Henry had gone ahead to attend his ablutions, excusing himself by stating that he could scarcely unzip the snake in a public place, Holmes and I made our own way up the steps and into the lobby.
We stood for some moments waiting at reception, smiling ingratiatingly at all the wealthy people who went past and looking down our noses at the peasants. A porter came along to attend to us after Holmes waved him over.
Sir Henry had given instructions that we were to be made welcome, and we were shown to his suite of rooms. Inside, sat in a fine leather armchair, sat a venerable old man with a full head of starkest white hair. His visage was crumpled as if a fine balloon had been slowly deflated. The size of the lenses in the spectacles on the table besides him stated clearly that such vision as he possessed was immensely poor. Upon realising this, Holmes and I put our tongues out to him, and Holmes made ‘grab it’ gestures with his buttocks.
The doctor stood to greet us, shaking the hatstand firmly by the umbrella.
“I’m pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Holmes. Your reputation has preceded you, sir, a thousandfold!” Holmes was impervious to eulogy, and received the old man’s tribute with true modesty by making great show of crossing his legs and giggling.
“....and it will be an honour to tell my grandchildren that I once shook the hand of the country’s finest bootmaker.”
Before Holmes could reply, Sir Henry entered the room. He greeted us warmly, but from his manner it was evident that he had been greatly disturbed in the time elapsed since he left our rooms.
“Mr Holmes,” began Sir Henry, clearly in a state of shock. “I found this garment in my private bathroom not ten minutes ago.” He held forward a large, one might almost say unworldly, pair of ladies bloomers, easily three feet wide and the same in length. There was a large yellow stain at the front, and a hideous streak of brown at the back.
“Good heavens,” I said. “Are they yours? Best have them laundered, old chap, and privately too. I remember a few fellows in India liked something a little bit unusual under the uniform, and they always got the devil if anyone found out–”
Sir Henry motioned for quiet by sticking two fingers in my direction.
“They are not mine, gentlemen. Nor did I give any instructions for my rooms to be disturbed. The good doctor here has not left the room all day, and he swears he saw no-one enter.” The old man looked up and gave his assurance of this, addressing the grandfather clock as he filled his pipe with soil from a plant on the side table.
Sir Henry, thus reassured, spoke again.
“Well, you had better hear the myth, gentlemen, and decide for yourselves if this oddity has any substance.” The old doctor in the chair stirred with a certain self-importance, and reached into his coat for an old parchment which I recognised from the BBC props department. The old man cleared his throat and took off his glasses.
“It is the oddest thing,” said Sir Henry. “Old Ted here needs the thickest glasses to be able to see even a very little, but his vision is perfect with the naked eye.” Holmes narrowed his eyes slightly for a moment, then shook his head and began to listen.
The doctor began:
It was in the sixteen hundred and eighty-fifth year of Our Lord that on the mighty house of Baskerville a great curse did descend.
Of the line of Baskerville a man of considerable evil did walk forth in Sir Homburg, a spitting figure of indecency more wretched than any other man of his age.
Sir Homburg’s followers included many dark characters, among them some of the most desperate and depraved men of his time. Never before had so many politicians and children’s television presenters met under the same roof.
They were all men of despicably foul character. In each chest beat a degenerate heart. All were heavy drinkers and their karaoke sessions often lasted until the dawn. Such terrors were the meat and drink of Sir Homburg’s life, and his reputation among the people of the town was of such infamy that each villager would sooner spend a night alone on the dark and fearful Edward Heath than incur Sir Homburg’s wrath.
Upstairs was a poor young maid from the village, who had been dragged back to Baskerville Hall by Sir Homburg and his evil followers. She would doubtless have been scared half out of her wits by the language they used, and had not Sir Homburg promised to pay her well for services rendered, nudge nudge, then she would surely have fainted clean away. Sobbing heartily at her fate, she counted the money twice and called medieval room service.
At great length the revels downstairs wound to a close as Sir Homburg finally won at Trivial Pursuit. Thus invigorated, he decided to head upstairs and have a bit of fun with the village maiden. But as he arrived at her room, a huge lascivious grin wiped across his features, his gaze was met with emptiness, as the maiden had somehow managed to escape with her virtue, a towelling robe and one of those expensive trouser presses.
“Bah. And I paid in advance as well!” Sir Homburg’s savage temper had been terribly aroused by the escape of the evening’s crumpet. He demanded action, and set about it himself before any other man could stir.
The doors were opened, and through the slamming and reopening shutters the men could see a midnight of severity as the trees rocked back and froth under heavy crashes of wind.
But Sir Homburg was not a man to be dissuaded, and with a foul oath he called to his stable boy to release the hounds and prepare his horse.
Such was the severity of the night that although they were all men of seasoned evil, none wanted to follow their leader into the darkness and venture onto Edward Heath at such an hour. Their manner was awed, and a unknown horror stirred among the atmosphere of the house; but in spite of this they decided to set after their leader, albeit at a distance.
And so the revellers all followed Sir Homburg out onto the moor. He had stormed far ahead of the throng on his great horse, a pack of savage hunting dogs baying at his feet.
Deeper into the moor the revellers went, their steps grown timid at sudden silence on this darkest and stormiest of nights.
As they approached a particularly dark element of the moor, the remnants of the pack of dogs ran in terror, Sir Homburg’s finest hunting dogs cowed and sniffling, their proud nature reduced to naught by the spectacle which lay ahead.
When the bravest of them reached the spot where Sir Homburg had apprehended the young maid, a sight of terror fit to freeze their bowels met their hushed gaze. Sir Homburg and the unfortunate village girl lay dead, with no marks of violence on either of their persons, but it was not the scene of human corpses which filled their veins with ice.
Above the body of Sir Homburg danced a ghostly pair of bloomers, too big to fit any human buttock. They emitted a foul light and boogied with most improper relish cor blimey.
Sir Homburg’s face was frozen in death, and wore an expression of complete surprise.
The guests all turned and fled, their spirits all broken by this supernatural hosiery. One of them died in his bed that night of what he had seen, and the rest of them lived out their days as broken men.
To this day, all of Sir Homburg’s ancestors have lived in fear of the Pants of the Baskervilles, who will strike again when one of the cursed line be about, at night, when the powers of evil are exalted.
He finished reciting and looked up at us from his parchment, anxious to see what reaction we would have to his tale of dread. I nudged Holmes awake and we met our host’s eye.
“Well, Mr Holmes?”
“Eh? Erm, yes well, five and six an hour, ten shillings on Sundays.”
“I mean, the myth.”
“Ah, well, that is rot. I have no time for superstition.”
At these words Sir Henry produced his wallet and started examining it closely.
“And yet the case may present fascinating angles. I first heard of these matters, Sir Henry, through your fiancé. I feel it appropriate that I pay her a visit and see what I can get.”
Sir Henry blushed and clasped his fists together. The ferocity of his temperament showed us most clearly that the hot blood of the Baskervilles was not absent in this, the most recent progeny of their line.
“My Elsie is an innocent, charming woman, and moreover, she has her virtue!”
“You misunderstand,” said Holmes, eager to assuage our host’s anger. “I’m not going round for any of that–” I coughed loudly and muttered ‘bullshit.’ Holmes continued. “It is merely that the only crime involved with this unusual case occurred under her roof, and I am eager to examine this matter from the most logical root, namely the first actual stroke in this unusual game.”
Sir Henry’s cheek’s lost their red colour and he appeared anxious to make amends, writing Holmes another three cheques as Holmes muttered “oh no, I couldn’t possibly” as he did fast work with the rubber stamp. After a few moments had elapsed Sir Henry’s restlessness overtook him and he bade us good day and left the room. Having forgotten about the blind doctor’s presence, Holmes forget his customary resolve and began cackling about his luck, and how he would spend months investigating this load of old knickers and then retire.
“Don’t be so eager to dismiss, Mr. Holmes,” uttered the frail old doctor, now near blind once more having replaced his glasses with the words “that’s better” as he fell over the cat.
Having had his myth dismissed, the old doctor appeared anxious to leave the room. He made his way for the bathroom, stepping with the confident haste of a man who has memorised the interior of his surroundings. Holmes and I winked at each and silently lifted the man up and set him down in the opposite direction. Keenly oblivious, he wandered further forward and Holmes and I watched as he tipped out of the window with a cry.
We chuckled our way down to the hotel lobby, our step quickened with the thrill of adventure and an eagerness to have lunch. We walked out of the hotel only a few moments later, and I stepped forward to hail a cab as the hotel doorman was struck by a falling doctor.
I made my way through the crowd which had gathered around the stricken two, and held my stethoscope to the top of the doorman’s head. I thought for a moment, and delivered my diagnosis.
“You’ve had a bang on the nut,” I concluded. “That’ll be forty guineas.”
The old man was in more of an anxious state, however, and appeared to be strangling a lamppost, yelling “detect this, you bloody great nit.” Holmes and I looked back a moment to see if we could help, and then decided that perhaps our time was better passed elsewhere. We headed for the station, and the start of another thrilling adventure etc.
We settled ourselves in the first class compartment, and rolled our trousers up to the knees and placed school caps on our heads in anticipation of the ticket inspector’s visit. After a short time along he came, and once again I marvelled at my companion’s ability to transform himself, sucking his thumb and looking upwards with wide, innocent eyes as we were asked for our tickets.
Holmes piped up in a falsetto.
“Two ‘alves please, mister.”
“That’s a very good voice, mister ‘olmes, but you still has to pay the proper fare.”
“But I’m Sherlock Holmes! Why, just by looking at the marks on your boots I can tell that you own a very large dog.”
“That’s as may be, mister ‘olmes–”
“By your bad regional accent I can tell that you were written in a hurry, probably as the author lost interest in this bit of the episode.”
“Sir, I know you’re a twat, but you still has to pay for your seat.”
My colleague’s face showed his irritation.
“Very well. Two third class seats to the scene of the crime, and Watson has a student railcard.”
I produced this from my pocket and waved a three year old Glastonbury t-shirt to add verisimilitude.
The ticket inspector consulted his sheets.
“That’ll be five shillings please, sir.”
“Five shi – you swine! You’ll swing for this!”
“Now then, mister ‘olmes, there’s no need for – ”
“Shut it, porky. I haven’t got anyone for that murder last Tuesday, and you’ll do nicely. Observe, Watson, how closely his eyes are set together.”
I agreed, and eventually we beat him down to four and six provided we stood throughout the journey.
The inspector left us, muttering darkly about how fictional detectives never behaved like that in his day. After a brief journey we arrived at the home of Sir Henry’s fiance, which was on the outskirts of Essex. It was a matter of a small cab ride from the station to the address we had been given, but Holmes had yet to ascertain his expenses and so we swiped a couple of pushbikes from outside the railings and peddled our way.
Holmes’ thoroughness was legend, and inscribed anew on my mind whenever I played some small part in investigations he was engaged upon. We were here because it was possible Lady Boyd-Peterson’s missing pants had been the ones seen wandering the moors late at night, a ghostly howl emerging from its crack, and an unholy brown and yellow light emitting from it.
We rung the bell at her mansion, and a butler appeared and opened the door.
“We don’t want anything, thank you, sirs.”
“But we come on business,” said my friend masterfully.”
“We are fully glazed, I thank you, sir,” said the butler, about to close the door.
My friend saw that his identity must be disclosed for us to gain admittance.
“It is I, Sherlock Holmes,” and then looked at me with keen anticipation.
“The world’s greatest living detective,” I added, a little late.
Holmes raised his eyes wearily, and impressed upon the man the importance of our errand. He explained with all his powers of description and inventiveness, and a cheque for sixpence, which he signed ‘Herbert Rothschild.’ We were shown in, and we made an attempt to be haughty in this grand hall by saying, “coo, look at all them pictures,” and other such urbanities.
Our hostess was a most noble personage, a genuine aristocrat and one who, despite this puritan age, never entertained the notion of keeping her bristols under wraps. Upon being ushered into her gracious presence, Holmes and I bowed low for a good eyeful, and the Countess treated us to a wide smile showing the many gaps in her teeth, a tribute to her keen interest in political affairs.
We had barely started on the small talk when, from the floors above, we heard furniture breaking. Holmes and I looked up in great astonishment.
“Don’t mind that, Mr. Holmes. My Elsie will insist on joining this modern fad for exercise. But enough of this. We are about to sit down for lunch, perhaps you could call back later –”
At this point Holmes started rubbing his stomach with an expression of keen anxiety, and I fainted through lack of nutrition.
“....well, of course if you haven’t dined yet –” she resumed, and Holmes and I swiftly recovered with a cry of “wahey!” and raced each other to the dining room.
Elsie rumbled down the stairs, breaking several of them as she did so. The butler showed her into the dining room, affecting surprise as he found Holmes and I stuffing bread rolls into our pockets and hiding ornaments about our persons, as if this wasn’t done in the best houses.
After a time our visitor from the week before entered the room, and noted our presence with approval, pinching her nose between forefinger and thumb, looking for explanation to her mother, who shrugged and raised her eyes heavenward.
Holmes and I greeted her in a manner befitting professional gentlemen, and the butler brought in the luncheon just as she finished slapping our faces.
It is healthy for the young to enjoy keen appetite, and I well remember the meals I enjoyed as a boy, which my sister enjoyed still more. After watching her leave table, I often marvelled at how such a lithe figure could contain so many potatoes.
I was reminded of this when our hostess’s daughter, a fine looking lump of a girl, moved toward the table crossing the room, casting it into darkness. The young lady gave a delightful curtsy, and then joined us. Holmes watched with interest and pointed at her with his trousers.
Her knife and fork became a blur, and she continued eating until the animal noises stopped, whereat the maid came in to wipe down the walls. At this the young lady remembered a pressing engagement and left the room, making a departing statement to effect that she was “leaving the wankers to it.” I looked around, and trust that my eyesight is accurate, but I could see no gentlemen who could be described as such, for only myself and Holmes were present.
I was momentarily ruffled, and sat huffily in silence, too hurt even to pocket any of the silver. My companion, on the other hand, is a seasoned professional who does not allow personal feelings or inclinations to interfere with his ruthless pursuit of the truth. Pausing only to ignore a far reaching belch, Holmes began with his questions.
“I should like to address a rather delicate matter, madam, with your permission.”
“By all means, Mr. Holmes. If there is any foul play afoot with Sir Henry, then why yes of course I should be most anxious to help.”
“I am afraid that I must speak plainly. Although it was your daughter who first introduced me to this remarkable affair, I feel that it is you rather than she whom I must address about this matter.”
“You baffle me, Mr. Holmes.”
“The Pants! The spectre which has haunted Sir Henry’s people since one of his ancestors first made a mess on the moor. The family have been ever since haunted by a ghostly pair of knickers.”
“And this spectre was in the form of what, exactly?”
At which point Holmes displayed his impatience with those who tried to fool his great perception.
“Bloomers, Madam. You know – ” he winked and gestured. “Those which hold your husband’s delight, eh?” Here he winked again, and made a movement which was an unusual mix of rowing with both hands whilst thrusting the hips in a singular fashion.
I have never, in all my years of association with Holmes, seen him punched to the floor by a lady of mature years. I thought it best not to interfere, and stuffed a handkerchief into my mouth lest Holmes should think I was laughing. After some time she finished, and left with a gesture of contempt. Holmes tugged at his deer stalker, which had somehow been pulled over his head during the ordeal, and cocked a dishevelled eyebrow at me.
“It that the gentler sex, Watson?”
“(snigger) Yes, Holmes.” We saw ourselves out.
In the hansom cab on the way back, Holmes seethed with red anger. I passed the journey quietly, looking out of the window and suppressing the odd giggle. By the time we had returned to Baker Street, Holmes had regained his customary savoir faire and wore the Sioux face of insulted professionalism.
“I will have no more part in this vulgar farce,” cried Holmes, slamming the carriage door on his trousers and losing them a moment later as the cab sped off with a great tearing noise. Holmes walked back into our rooms with as much hauteur as is possible for one who is covering his red and white spotted shorts with a deerstalker. At least he was able to preserve some dignity, it was a very big hat.
Back in the flat, when Holmes had retrousered himself, we thought over the next development in this puzzling case. Sir Henry had sent word to us that, if it was convenient, he would appreciate our presence at Baskerville Hall. Holmes weighed the request for a while, but when he remembered that Thursday was bailiff day we packed our revolvers, the expenses book and a couple of naughty illustrations should the story prove to be uninteresting.
The journey down to Baskerville Hall was fraught with excitement, as Holmes and I looked out for the ticket inspector with a better plan than before. Holmes sat tightly clutching the push chair while I sneakily puffed at a cigar from behind my dummy. Our thoughts were of the Pants, and the strange possibilities which the mystery might entail.
We had travelled down during the evening. Holmes had not been available for travel until late in the afternoon, owing to having been busy the night before investigating the underside of his table at the Dog and Hammer.
When we reached the station, Holmes hailed a cab. We particularly wished to arrive as innocuously as possible, to avoid attracting unnecessary attention which may hamper our movements as we investigated the stain which the Pants had left.
Baskerville Hall was a rambling, extensive mansion adjourning many sinister acres of dark moor. The exterior was covered in a long ribbon of ivy, from behind which the stones of the hall sat in grey isolation, apart from the fact that they were all together, or something.
We were greeted by the butler, Barrymore, a short fellow with a bald head. He asked if we had any baggage, at which I replied that we were both unemployed. He bent down to pick up our cases and Holmes took the opportunity of booting him in the rear. Rolling his eyes upward, Barrymore made his way into the drawing room to inform Sir Henry his guests had arrived and that jokes had been served.
As it was late in the evening, we sat down to dinner at the hall. Holmes and I changed into our dinner suit, me wearing the jacket and him the trousers. We are of rather disparate build: Holmes standing a lean six feet and myself being a perfect four foot cube, and as such the clothes are rather poor compromise. I duly sat bunched up to the middle and couldn’t bend either of my arms through fear of tearing the seams at the back, and Holmes sat with great heaving sags of material on either side, in which he kept his violin and spare quizzical expressions.
There were eight of us sat down to dinner at Sir Henry’s table. In addition to our host was a local specialist and his wife, who introduced themselves as keen ramblers. There were three other people, all locals, who introduced themselves as spares “should the plot turn nasty.”
The scene could not have been more pleasant, except for the pictures adjourning the walls having eyes which swivelled back forth and that secret passages kept opening and the lights going out and people disappearing. Come to think of it, it was pretty damn depressing.
Holmes led much of the conversation, holding forth on how it is possible to distinguish between over 144 different varieties of tobacco by simply reading the packet, and I held the table spellbound with reminiscences of my days in India. I had just finished recollecting the riveting tale of how had I the shits for two years without even having time to pull my trousers up when a terrible, single howl could be heard.
The conversation stopped. A terrible hush fell upon the room, and the candles dimmed as the chandelier swung violently, casting the room in a bizarre partial darkness which placed a ghostly light upon the face of each of us.
A scrabbling noise could be heard from just outside the window, and a great blustering windy noise swept through the room and made the candles flicker. We turned to each other in wild surmise, and despite our best efforts it was clear that we shared but one and the same thought.
Sir Henry made an effort to ensure that calm triumphed in the room.
“Give the guests some more soup to wear, Barrymore. We’ll all catch our deaths.”
Suddenly, the table shook and the butler turned pale and dropped the dish holding the potatoes.
“It’s the Pants, the Pants!” cried Barrymore, who hitched up his trousers and ran from the room screaming. Holmes remained calm, following his professional instinct to jump on top of the bookshelf screeching at the top of his voice. I saw Sir Henry who, for all his blood and will, had turned a chilled white. I myself remained calm, and sat there moistening the chair.
After several moments the hideous scratching noise dimmed and a snuffling could be heard diminishing into the night. For a brief while I felt an enormous sense of relief, and in every soul one could detect an ease which had been markedly absent a moment before. Not one minute had passed before it transpired that our senses had been too kind in allowing us to relax even for that scant time.
Outside in the distance, a bloodcurdling scream shook the chill of the night, and I remembered that the old doctor, who had acted as Sir Henry’s guide in London, had not joined us for dinner, doubting his powers of self control. He was due to take a perambulation around the grounds and I feared the worst may have befallen him.
In such delicate matters, it is essential to ensure that calm and propriety.
“I’ll give you 12-8 the old bugger’s snuffed it,” muttered Holmes as we ran down the steps outside Baskerville Hall to a scene of horror and dread.
There at the front of the house, lay the good doctor, his face a mask of terror. There were no footprints other than his own, and at first examination there was no sign of how he could have met his end. Holmes knelt down where he lay and took his pulse, watch and wallet.
Sir Henry stood his distance, unsure of what to make of the terrible sight. Far off into Edward Heath’s dark and unholy distance we could hear a disturbance deep into the night, as if wildlife were being disturbed by something whose heart lay beyond the confines of the natural.
My gaze returned to the unfortunate doctor, and Holmes standing above the bent figure of Sir Henry, massaging his shoulder and soothing him by saying that corpses were extra.
“But are you sure he’s gone?” asked our distraught host, hiding his cheque book.
“Oh he’s dead all right,” said Holmes, trying to extract the deceased’s gold teeth with the pliers he carried around for that very purpose. “I need these for analysis – nnnngh, got the bugger.”
“What think you, Mr. Holmes?”
“Oh, that’s worth at least five bob.”
“I mean, what killed him?”
The unfortunate doctor wore an expression of terror that seemed to freeze our very blood. Whatever had caused such a reaction was beyond our imagination, but I was sure that the analytical powers of the great Sherlock Holmes would be more than a match for whatever fiends of earth or beyond were responsible for this deed.
We returned to our dinner, and for the first time I began to realise the full extent of the dark matters we had entered upon. My troubled mind was calmed by my knowledge that Holmes was a man of iron resolution, and should we be in any danger then our return to London would be imminent.
It has been well said that wherever the threat of death by murder reared its ugly head, Sherlock Holmes could be seen departing with a speed that defied the human eye to follow him.
After the meal, with the stirring demonstration of the power of folklore over the vulnerable mind, Holmes and I went for an evening stroll. I had hoped to spent the time discussing matters as they had unfolded to us with my colleague, but he was in quizzical mood and spent the entire perambulation in distracted state. After a time we paused on the edge of Edward Heath, Holmes deep in his own private analysis of these strange events, and me busy with my own thoughts, recounting my days in India.
After a time Holmes started with sudden energy, and gripped my arm tightly.
“And if it squeals, let it go – ow! Holmes, what the devil is the matter?”
I looked at my companion with keen surmise, and found his face a mask of the most rigid concentration, his eyes shiftlessly rooted to one fixed point shortly ahead. Slowly, and as silently as possible, for fear of giving away our position on this dark, undetectable night, we took our stances.
A scrabbling noise heralded the arrival of that which had captured my companion’s attention. It appeared out of a bush, a scarcely human figure which snuffled and scratched at the earth. Its lower proportions were covered with mud, and a variety of leaves had adhered themselves to this appalling figure.
Doubtless this terrible sight was once as human as you or I, but was now condemned to wander in darkness, lost forever to the world by poverty. I thought I saw something familiar in the visage, as if a once noble face had been ruined by whatever misfortune tears great and good lives. After an examination of the bushes nearby, which it conducted with a great hissing noise followed by grunts which sounded like “that’s better,” the apparition disappeared once more into the night.
I kicked Holmes awake from his dead faint and we walked briskly back to the Hall, our nerves not a little shaken by what we had seen.
The next day we arose early, as Sir Henry had expressed a desire to have company whilst he explored the locale. I agreed keenly, but Holmes begged to be excluded as there were many vital clues at the scene of the crime which demanded his attention. Sir Henry had arranged a guide for us, a man called Stapleton who lived on the edge of his estate.
When we left Holmes was mincing around with a magnifying glass held to his eye. We walked for a time, and as Baskerville Hall disappeared behind us I looked back to see him wearing trunks and unfolding a deckchair.
After an invigorating stroll round the back of some railings, where we sampled several drafts of local cider. Sir Henry insisted that we mixed it with white spirit, “to put hair on our chests.” I had never encountered that particular cocktail before, and I am sure I would have recalled if I had owing to its unusual effect. From what I can recall, we spent much of the afternoon running back and forth across waste ground pretending to be aeroplanes. It was an odd sensation, knowing that Holmes was hard at work reading the sports page and we were expanding our horizons in such a fashion. Life has its usual moments.
After we had awoken from our refreshing sleep, dusk was creeping across the moor’s dank exterior, and it was with hastened if not accurate step that we returned to Baskerville Hall. The doctor’s warnings had become poignant in our minds since his untimely death, and our thoughts about the powers of evil being exalted after nightfall spurred us on.
As we returned to the Hall, I came upon a sight which I hoped never to chance across, despite the danger inherent in his profession. Holmes lay face down, dead to the world. There were no visible marks of violence on person, but near his limp and outstretched right hand was a bottle of the variety which hold chemicals.
After a few anxious moments, Holmes revived and answered our solicitations after his health. I asked him if he had been drinking.
“Sorry, Watson, no. It’s just that all the labels came off my chemistry set, so I thought I’d test the contents by smelling the bottle. You’ll be pleased to hear I’ve found the chloroform.”
With a sigh of consternation at his eccentricity emerging once more, I helped him to his feet.
Our enquires continued the next day.
“That guide of ours yesterday was useful,” I volunteered,
“Who was that, the man Stapleton? What is his business with the moor?”
“I could not say,” I said, looking perplexed. “Perhaps he has botanical interests, or else he simply needs an encyclopaedic knowledge of the moors for some dastardly crime.”
One often says such things without thinking about it.
In Holmes’s absence, the Pants had made several other appearances about the village. A nearby farmer, one Arthur Jenkins, swore that he had seen the Pants prowling about the moor at night, accompanied only by the ghastly darkness and appropriate backing music.
The Pants had also been spotted in Tesco’s stealing cans of lager, lurking near a primary school in Trent and once appearing on TV to describe its years of psychoanalysis following an unhappy relationship.
Holmes sat with furrowed brow, and our thoughtful solitude was only disturbed by the serving maid who, having noticed Holmes’ presence, stormed angrily from the room buttoning up the top buttons of her blouse. Holmes affected not to notice and, to ease the awkward situation I passed him my notes on the case so far, and he perused them for a time.
“Mmm,” said Holmes.
“Spell it,” I asked, for I like my memoirs to be accurate.
“If I may make one criticism, my dear fellow, it is that in these memoirs you insist on writing, the descriptions are very nearly always inaccurate
“That’s not fair, Holmes,” I said, going off for a little cry. Holmes, you will remember, is reputed to have been a lean six feet of brain orientated master. In actual truth, Holmes is a pudgy little fellow with bad breath and a tiddler; whereas I am a tall handsome stallion of a man with a wavy mane of hair and manhood like a rolled up carpet. I also have far more crumpet than I ever have time to write about.
We set out moodily for a stroll toward Stapleton’s residence, my manner of course not showing any of the bitterness I wore following Holmes’ earlier comments. I held my head high, and dragged my feet making little sniffling noises.
“I think this incident may prove an excellent addition to your memoirs, my dear chap.”
“Write them yourself, you great ponce,” I added indifferently.
“By the way, I didn’t mean what I said earlier, Watson,” he added nobly. “Your efforts are most appreciated and very effective.” With this, Sherlock Holmes grew another foot and lost about two stone. His manner recovered its former élan, and he got chased down the path by screaming teenage girls, who had presumably mistaken him for me.
We arrived outside a stretch of cottages where we had been informed old Sir Hovis’s gatekeeper, Stapleton, lived. Holmes walked up to the first cottage and knocked imperiously on the door. There came no answer for some moments, so Holmes knocked again. “God forbid they have met with foul play,” he said to me hopefully. After a small time a stirring could be heard within, and the voice of a large male could be heard commenting to the effect that it would be “that bloody great detective.”
The door opened, and my colleague introduced himself.
“It is I, Sherlock Holmes,” and then gave me a swift kick in the rear as I almost forgot to add–
“The world’s greatest living detective,” and shrugged as Holmes sent a withering glance in my direction.
The man strained to listen for a moment, and then called back to a frail voice which echoed forward, asking what the bugger was selling this time.
“Here, it’s Sherlock ‘Olmes, the world’s greatest living detective. Do we want anything detecting?”
She replied in the negative, and the man was about to usher us out when Holmes interjected.
“I am not offering my services, sir. Not that you could afford them –” Holmes continued graciously as an old lady, covered in filth as is usual for the poor in these stories, walked forward and grimaced at us.
“No, sir. We are here to put some questions about Mr. Stapleton, who I believe lives nearby, god knows why, you grubby poor person.”
The man took a handful of Holmes’ shirt and jutted his face forward menacingly.
“Don’t touch me,” Holmes shrilled. “I don’t know where you’ve been.”
The larger man made the unfortunate error of grabbing at Holmes. Holmes, who has made good use of his study of boxing, at once launched into action with a useless effeminate flapping of his hands, accompanied by a chilling battle cry of “you beast you, get off get off get off.” The assailant was unharmed by this feeble slapping and proceeded to tweak Holmes mercilessly.
I would normally have joined the throng with glad cry, as my appetite for battle is known and feared far and wide, but I was too busy being chased in circles round the room by the man’s vicious grandmother, who sported a nasty looking pair of false choppers. These she held in her hand, and clicked them at my rear like castanets as she pursued me.
I feared for Holmes, and certainly my thoughts at the time were very far away from the dentures of the savage octogenarian who pursued me with such vigour. However I was powerless to help, upon realising this my colleague, never one to let the grass grow under his feet, rapidly changed tactic.
Holmes abandoned the Queensbury rules and kicked his assailant in the plums.
“Aha, never fails, eh Watson?” He looked at me for reassurance but I gave him none. I pointedly blew on my fist and gave Holmes a Meaningful Stare. I wanted him to see that I had felled my own opponent with more honourable means (actually, I had used a club but Holmes had been too busy to notice).
Holmes looked sulky for a moment and ushered aside the waiting cartoonist, who was wanting to get a slow motion still of Holmes in action. I suppose my esteemed colleague did not think that a freeze frame illustration of him booting an opponent in the crown jewels did full justice to the nobility of his career.
We examined the other houses, and Holmes discovered Stapleton’s address with a more than usually ungodly display of his detecting ability. He pointed at the nameplate outside one of the houses, which read:
E. Stapleton (killer), provider of luminous things to the gentry and all round shifty character.
“Good god, Holmes!” I said in a voice hushed with awe. “It’s, why it is almost the work of the Evil One.”
We had arrived at Stapleton’s gate just as he walked out of his garden shed, clutching a pot of luminous paint. As we walked, he kicked aside a box labelled “Enormous Paintproof Knickers.”
He greeted us fervently, and we shook hands. I noticed Holmes had great difficulty getting the odd phosphorous stains off his hands from where he had touched Mr. Stapleton’s palm.
“I wondered if we might interrupt your study for a few moments, Mr. Stapleton, and have a work with you about the terrible occurrences on the moor.”
Stapleton inclined his head slightly, as if unsure of whether to speak.
“I have some small theories on the matter, and I wonder if your views match my own.” Holmes held up his notebook, the pages of which had spelled doom for a many a villain.
Stapleton ignored him until his guest cleared his throat to speak again. Before Holmes had time to say anything, Stapleton began to address us, in the manner of one who is unloading much.
“Pants? Luminous pants? Why, I’ve never heard anything so ridiculous. Do you honestly think that I can terrorise the moor by releasing a hideous pair of glowing long johns onto them? I mean, does that sound credible, playing off the incredible dark and eerie atmosphere of this terrible, evocative place and use that as a means with which to dissuade those who would venture forth?”
Holmes looked at him with astonishment, and compared Stapleton’s words with the theory in his own notebook, which read “Buggered if I know.”
Stapleton wound his comprehensive remarks to a close.
“....why, I’ve never heard anything so preposterous in my life.” said he.
“Hang on, hang on,” said Holmes, trying to write the plot down on the back of an old envelope. “What did you say after ‘claim the wealth which isn’t rightfully mine’?”
“You fool, Holmes. I suppose you think I killed Sir Hovis to get my hands on the Baskerville fortune, owing to the fact that I am the illegitimate heir to the line,” he continued, and Holmes, scarcely believing his luck, had run out of envelopes to write on. He was jotting the basis of his case down on the back of a passing servant, which these novels seem to be full of. Doubtless he would give tuppence to the fellow afterwards, having neatly copied out all that he had written on the wretch’s grimy person.
“So,” Stapleton continued, “I suppose that, you, great detective that you are, immediately noticed that I have webbed fingers.”
Holmes looked at Stapleton’s fingers with bulging eyes.
“And having noticed the Baskerville webbed fingers on the family portraits-”
“What family portraits?” Holmes hissed in my ear.
“So, on returning to Baskerville hall.....”
Holmes turned to me with enquiring eyes, “Where’s Baskerville Hall?” he began, but I silenced him with a wave of my ear trumpet and continued listening to the plot.
“You realised the validity of my claim to the entire fortune, and think that I will stop at nothing until it is mine.”
By this point Holmes had run out of poor people to write on and had started scribbling on his own naked flesh.
And so it went on, evil plans, reviving the old Baskerville legend, knowing Sir Hovis had a bad heart etc. By the time he’d finished, Holmes had given up trying to write the thing down and was lying down, banging his fists on the floor and sobbing.
Stapleton – or our benefactor, as I now thought of him – left with his parting shot :
“Not another word, sir. No, I’ve nothing left to say,” and I for one believed him.
As he went, Holmes lifted his head from the floor and called after him.
“Just a minute,” called Holmes after the retreating figure. “Is this the one where I fall off the waterfall at the end?”
Later that evening, Sir Henry demanded a report of Holmes’ progress. I was evident that the poor man’s nerve was wearing thin, for he kept on referring to my celebrated colleague as “you pompous great tit,” and a “waste of good food.”
After an uncomfortable dressing down, whereat Sir Henry became so personal I scarce wondered at even my colleague’s legendary patience at enduring so intimate an ear bashing, our host left, after having backed Holmes up against the wall.
When he was sure Sir Henry was out of earshot, Holmes shook his fist in the direction he had retreated in.
“There’s plenty more where that came from,” he muttered quietly. I asked him what his next move was.
“We have no choice, Watson. Sir Henry’s patience is wearing thin, and I happen to know he still has cheques left.”
“What do you plan to do,” I hissed, anxious to discover the exact nature of my masterful friend’s scheme with which he intended to resolve this most baffling of cases.
Holmes shrugged. “We’ll stake him out on the moor and see what happens. Then one way or another we’ll find something out.”
“Ah,” I noticed my friend’s modesty. “You mean, you have worked it all out and must simply obtain the irrefutable proof you need to wrap the matter up perfectly.”
“The world’s greatest living detective,” chorused the Vienna Boys’ Choir, who just happened to be passing at that exact moment.
“Don’t put it on too thick, Watson. There are no tourists about.”
That night we waited for many hours upon the cold, lonely moors. I expect Edward Heath had never that popular before.
Holmes stood by my side, and I could feel his tension as we kept our lonely vigil in a spot so remote that our imaginations took us a merry dance into the horrors that exist only in the night, when the powers of evil are exalted.
“What time is it, Holmes?” I whispered.
Holmes took out his watch and consulted it.
“Half past exalted,” he said.
The minutes ticked by at what seemed like enormous length, as is the case when a keen and tense wait is afoot.
At last it seemed our wait was at an end. We could hear footsteps, and Sir Henry wandered into view, fresh from having visited his sick friend. Clearly the visit has taken its toll upon the poor man’s already wasted nerves. He could hardly keep his feet in a straight line upon the path as he staggered home, dropping part of his kebab as he did so.
Then it occurred, and I pray the angels and saints that what I saw that night will never be visited upon me or any of my line.
We heard a pounding of hooves, an unnaturally fast, rhythmic pace. No beast could move so deftly along the treacherous moors on so dark a night. My blood curdled even as I stood, and the very moors seemed to shake beneath the vast tread.
It came into view.
Galloping at incredible pace, exactly along Sir Henry’s path, was the most enormous, fearsome pair of pants I had ever seen. It was an unnatural green glow along the shadows of the moor’s night. Even as my heart stilled Sir Henry turned around, and as he saw that the terrible pants were nearly on him he gave one hoarse cry and fainted dead away.
Holmes raced for the spot where he fell, and I, hand on my revolver, made to follow my friend’s bold example.
The Pants could be seen disappearing into the distance. Holmes and I ran after it, stopped twenty paces away, and fired shots after shot at the phantasmic lingerie which had terrorised one of England’s noblest families for many centuries.
I had served in India as and army doctor, and was no stranger to firearms, having used them when it came to recovering medical fees from fleeing patients. But Holmes was a crack shot, and emptied his revolver harmlessly into a tree stump four feet away from the hideous spectacle of the Pants.
However, some of our bullets hit home, and the Pants fell and lay still. I stooped to help Holmes attend to the unconscious form of Sir Henry, but I when I saw Holmes had his wallet I decided further medical attention would be unnecessary.
We ran over to the body of the Pants, shining our torches upon the shimmering ghostly bloomers. Wearing them was a wizened old man, clutching at his todger and muttering about economics. I heard several involuntary gasps, and I indeed lost a certain amount of poise as I recognised a man recently elevated to the peerage, who had done sterling work as one of our most recent chancellors.
“It seems that Stapleton, fiend that he was, captured an escaped Conservative peer and kept him in a cage on the moor. Then he would let him roam at night, searching for port and servants, clad in these Pants of the Devil, putting the wind up many of the locals.”
“Then surely, that noise at dinner –”
“Yes, Watson. The peer naturally smelt the food and sought it out, with the result that our dinner acted as bait. All over the adjourning village (which we haven’t mentioned until now) the legend caught like wild fire thanks to this most cunning exploitation of the inventiveness terror may wreak in the human imagination. Yes, Watson. It was my belief from the first that these unworldly drawers were merely a hoax.”
“What, Holmes. Fake Pants! What is this world coming to?”
“I know, Watson. It is the devil’s own trick.”
“But how is it possible? Stapleton was with the others guests on at least two occasions when the Pants could clearly be seen wandering the moors.”
“Yes, Watson. But mark the fiendish cunning. I investigated the scene where the Pants appeared the night we first stayed here. You may remember that I spent a long time examining the spot.”
“Well, I don’t know about that, Holmes. Certainly I remember hearing that you were wandering around the place sniffing a pair of Lady Baskerville’s –”
“Thank you, Watson. Yes, many hours I spent collecting clues,” he said, rifling through the sheaf of notes he had taken while Stapleton had thoughtfully dictated the plot.
“It is my belief that the Pants were no more than a human ploy to distract our attention. We must find Stapleton at once and ask him what the ending is.”
I clutched my forehead as a most pressing thought alarmed every sense in my head.
“But Holmes! What of the killer? Where is Stapleton,? This ruthless, evil man must be brought to justice!”
Holmes smiled quizzically.
“I think we may confidently leave Stapleton to his fate. He, playing upon the myth of the ghostly bloomers which haunt the Baskervilles, has grown overconfident as to his prowess navigating the moor, and will meet his just desserts very sharply.”
As if on cue, a large splash could be heard into the distance on Edward Heath.
“Eeeeaaarrrrrggghhhh....” a voice said, followed by “was that all right, Mr. Holmes?”
Holmes quickly gave a thumbs up in his direction, and then turned back to me, thoughtfully patting a large bulge in his coat shaped like a wodge of cash.
“I think, Watson, that that is that.”
We returned to the little group surrounding the prostrate intended victim. The recovering Sir Henry attempted to brokenly thank Holmes for saving his life and reason, but Holmes waved him aside, careful to not to miss out on any money.
“Ah yes,” he said as we departed the scene. “Never let it be said that whilst evil doers roam free, and while good (and wealthy) citizens live in peril, that the world will be a poorer place owing to the idleness of.....Sherlock Holmes!”
He finished on a definite upbeat, arms akimbo and looking at me expectantly. I looked all around us at a variety of interesting flora and fungi, and yawned elaborately.
“I said.....Sherlock Holmes!” Holmes repeated once more.
“Turned out fine again,” I said, and toddled off for a quick slash against a tree.
I turned back to my colleague, who was standing with his recently outstretched arms flagging somewhat and his now departed client nowhere in sight to help.
“Oh, that’s rich,” said Holmes. “There’s bleeding gratitude for you.”
I took his arm.
“Let us go, Holmes, and bath. I’ll even sit at the end with the taps,” and with that Holmes brightened considerably, and we walked off together into our respective dawns.