Recap: Dad bursts through the door first and stops just inside the room. I follow in behind him, looking indignantly down at my ruined blouse as dad slams the bloody harpoon on the floor. John looks around, his eyes widening as he takes in our appearances. Dad is pretty much covered from head to foot in the blood, staining his shirt and trousers and covering his face. I have a small spattering on my shirt, but I think my face is clean.
"Well, that was tedious," dad says, breathing heavily.
"You went on the Tube like that?!" John questions in disbelief and I roll my eyes as I lift my chifon blouse over my head and toss it onto the sofa. Mrs Hudson can wash it later.
"None of the cabs would take us," I say in irritation before heading into the bedroom to get changed.
When I come back out, dad is pacing in the living room having cleaned himself up and changing into a spare set of clothes in the other room. John sits in his seat, flicking through a newspaper.
"Nothing?" I ask, sitting down in dad's seat.
"Military coup in Uganda," John suggests.
"Hmm." I shake my head in disagreement. John continues flicking through when he comes across something which makes him chuckle. "What?"
"Another photo of you with the, er ..." he points to a photograph of us wearing the hats and dad makes a disgusted sound so John moves onto another newspaper. "Oh, um, Cabinet reshuffle."
"Nothing of importance?" dad asks, furiously, slamming the end of the harpoon on the ground and roars in rage. He's been a bit restless recently. John persuaded him to go cold turkey on the cigarettes and he isn't taking it well. "Oh, God!" he moans and looks intensely round at John. "John, I need some.Getme some."
"No," he replies calmly.
"Get me some."
"No," John says more firmly and points at him. "Cold turkey, we agreed, no matter what." Irritated, dad leans the harpoon against the dining table. I consider moving it out of harms way but realise that by doing so I will put myself in harms way so just leave it. "Anyway, you've paid everyone off, remember?" John reminds him. "No-one within a two mile radius'll sell you any."
"Stupid idea," dad declares. "Whose idea was that?" I snort.
"Yours?" Dad ignores me and looks towards the door.
"Mrs Hudson!" he shouts and begins hurling paperwork off the table, desperately searching for the packs we hid.
"Look, Sherlock," John tries, "you're doing really well. Don't give up now."
"Tell me where they are," he says frantically, still pulling papers off. "Please. Tell me." John remains silent so dad straightens up and puts on his most appealing puppy-dog eyes. "Please."
"Can't help, sorry."
"I'll let you know next week's lottery numbers," he tries.
"He's not going to fall for that one again!" I laugh and John chuckles.
"Oh, it was worth a try," dad says, exasperated. He looks round the room and hurls himself onto the floor in front if the fireplace in inspiration. He digs out his Venisian slipper from beneath a pile of papers as Mrs Hudson enters.
"Ooh-ooh!" she announces.
"My secret supply," he says, still rummaging around by the fire. "What have you done with my secret supply?"
"Eh?" she replies in confusion.
"Cigarettes!" dad exclaims. "What have you done with them? Where are they?"
"You know you never let me touch your things!" Mrs Hudson looks around at the mess and tuts. "Ooh, chance would be a fine thing." Dad stands up and faces her.
"I thought you weren'tmy housekeeper."
"I'm not," she confirms and dad makes a frustrated sound, walks over to the harpoon and picks it up again. John mimes the suggestion that she makes dad some tea and she looks round at him. "How about a nice cuppa," she suggests, "and perhaps you could put away your harpoon."
"I need somethingstrongerthan tea," he argues. "Seven percentstronger." He turns on Mrs Hudson and aims the harpoon at her. She flinches. "You've been to see Mr Chatterjee again." I roll my eyes and lean back in my seat.
"Pardon?" She asks in indignation. Dad points to her dress with the tip of the harpoon.
"Sandwich shop. That's a new dress, but there's flour on the sleeve. You wouldn't dress like that for baking."
"Sherlock ..." John warns, but dad continues.
"Thumbnail." He raises the harpoon to point at her nail. "Tiny traces of foil. Been at the scratch cards again. We all know wherethatleads, don't we?" He sniffs deeply and lowers the harpoon. "Mmm," dad says. "'Kasbah Nights.' Pretty racy for first thing on a Monday morning, wouldn't you agree? I've written a little blog on the identification of perfumes. It's on the website – you should look it up."
"Please," Mrs Hudson says, exasperated.
"I wouldn't pin your hopes on that cruise with Mr Chatterjee. He's got a wife in Doncasterthat nobody knows about."
"Sherlock!" John tries again, angrily.
"Well, nobody except me."
"And me," I announce, standing up and moving round to comfort her. "But I don't go around upsetting our landlady with it."
"I don't know what you're talking about, I really don't," she cries, storming out the flat and slamming the living room door as she goes. Dad leaps over the back of his chair from behind it and perches on it, wrapping his arms around his knees like a petulant child. John slams his newspaper down.
"What the bloody hell was all that about?"
"You don't understand," dad replies, rocking backward and forwards.
"Go after her and apologise," John orders, sternly. Dad stares at him.
"Apologise?" he repeats.
"Mmm-hmm."
"Oh, John," dad sighs. "I envy you so much." He hesitates and looks momentarily up at me, considering whwther he should rise to the bait.
"You envy me?"
"Your mind," dad explains, "it's so placid, straightforward, barely used. Mine's like an engine, racing out of control; a rocket tearing itself to pieces trapped on the launch pad." He raises his voice."I need a case!"
"You've just solved one!" John cries, equally as loud. "By harpooning a dead pig, apparently!" Dad makes an exasperated noise and jumps up, repositioning himself into a sitting position.
"That was this morning!" He starts drumming his fingers on the arms if the chair and stomps his feet on the floor. "When's the next one?"
"Nothing on the website?" I question and dad gets up and collects the laptop from the table and hands it to me before stomping over to the window and narrating the message.
"'Dear Mr Sherlock Holmes. I can't find Bluebell anywhere. Please please please can you help?'"
"Yes, I can read thank you," I say, skipping through it myself.
"Bluebell?" John questions.
"A rabbit, John!" Dad answers in irritation.
"Oh."
"Ah, but there's more!" dad continues, sarcastically. "Before Bluebell disappeared, it turned luminous, 'like a fairy' according to little Kirsty; then the next morning, Bluebell was gone! Hutch still locked, no sign of a forced entry ..." He stops and his eyes narrow, his expression becoming more intense. "Ah! What am I saying?" he questions, perking up. "This is brilliant! Phone Lestrade. Tell him there's an escaped rabbit."
"Are you serious?" I ask, eyebrows raised as I close the laptop down and carry it back over to the table.
"It's this, or Cluedo."
"Ah, no!" John says quickly. "We areneverplaying that again!"
"Why not?"
"Because it's not actually possible for the victim to have done it, Sherlock, that's why."
"Well, it was the only possible solution," dad protests.
"It's not in the rules."
"Then the rules are wrong!" he replies, furiously. As he finishes, the doorbell rings. John thoughtfully holds up a finger as dad looks towards the sound.
"Single ring," John says.
"Maximum pressure just under the half second," dad continues.
We look at each other before saying simultaneously, "Client."
Prologue
Mrs Hudson leads a young man up the stairs and into the living room and I begin to make deductions. He's in his early thirties but is still haunted by his traumatic childhood, but he has a lot of money which he's living off though I'm not sure it's money he's earned himself. Probably something he was left when his parents died or something he was given off the back of his story. He's travelled a long way so it must be important.
"Sophie, there's a -"
"Client," dad interrupts Mrs Hudson and she glares at him. "Yes, we know."
"Thanks, Mrs H," I say, giving her a smile.
"Can I get you a drink, dear?" she asks, but the client shakes his head.
"No, um," he hesitates slightly and I take in his accent, "Thanks." Upper class, so lots of money then. There's a slight westcountry tinge to it though. That would explain the distance. Mrs Hudson leaves the room and shuts the door, more gently this time. "Mr Holmes," he says, walking further into the room. "Henry Knight. I've come to talk to you about...um...something strange that has been happening down on Dartmoor." Dad sighs but gestures for him to sit in John's chair while John and I take our seats up at the dining table. "I actually have a dvd which will give you some context. It's been happening for decades now. Here," he says, offering dad the dvd case which he takes and we wait for it to load. A minute later, a documentary comes onto the screen showing scenes of the Dartmoor countryside, but dad is already bored. I don't know why he hasn't already thrown him out.
"Dartmoor," the female voiceover announces. "It's always been a place of myth and legend, but is there something else lurking out here – something very real?" The camera cuts to a series of 'Keep Out' signs before it shows the presenter walking down a long, narrow lane - a village visible in the background. "Because Dartmoor's also home to one of the government's most secret of operations ..." I narrow my eyes as they throw up another image of a sign which reads
'AUTHORISED PERSONNEL ONLY
YOU ARE NOW ENTERING A RESTRICTED AREA
BASKERVILLE'
Baskerville? Can't say I've heard of it before. But then again there are hundreds of military bases all over the countryside because they get so easily lost in the Moor.
"The chemical and biological weapons research centre is said to be even more sensitive than Porton Down," the presenter continues. "Since the end of the Second World War, there've been persistent stories about the Baskerville experiments: genetic mutations, animals grown for the battlefield. There are many who believe that within this compound, in the heart of this ancient wilderness, there are horrors beyond imagining. But the real question is: are all of them still inside?" The footage switches to an indoor scene where Henry is sitting and talking to an offscreen interviewer. It identifies him briefly as a Grimen resident, presumably the name of the village or hamlet he lives in.
"I was just a kid," the on-screen Henry says. "It-it was on the moor." They bring up a child's drawing of a large, snarling dog with red eyes and a caption says it's Henry's depiction of the beast. "It was dark," he continues, "but I know what I saw. Iknowwhat killed my father." Sighing again, dad picks back up the remote and turns the player off.
"What did you see?" dad asks him.
"Oh," Henry replies in surprise and points to the television. "I ... I was just about to say."
"Yes, in a TV interview," dad agrees. "I prefer to do my own editing."
"Yes," Henry nods. "Sorry, yes, of course. 'Scuse me." He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a train napkin and wipes his nose on it. The tissue is stained with what looks like coffee but there is also some writing which has been traced again after the spill, but I'm too far away to see what it is.
"In your own time," John says, not unkindly but dad jumps in after him.
"But quite quickly." Henry lowers the napkin and looks over at dad.
"Do you know Dartmoor, Mr Holmes?"
"No."
"It's an amazing place," Henry explains. "It's like nowhere else. It's sort of ... bleak but beautiful."
"Mmm, not interested," dad say, impatiently. "Moving on."
"We used to go for walks," Henry continues, seeming to gain some confidence, "after my mum died, my dad and me. Every evening we'd go out onto the moor."
"Yes, good," dad interrupts again. "Skipping to the night that your dad was violently killed. Where did that happen?" I exchange an amused expression with John who looks like he's experiencing second-hand embarrassment from the insensitive question.
"There's a place," he starts, "it's... it's a sort of local landmark called Dewer's Hollow." He checks to see if Dad is going to interrupt him again before explaining. "That's an ancient name for the Devil."
"So?" dad asks.
"Did you see the Devil that night?" John asks and Henry looks instantly haunted by the memories it triggers.
"There's no such thing," I dismiss, but John silences me.
"Yes," Henry replies in a whisper and grimaces as the images form in his mind. "It was huge. Coal-black fur, with red eyes." He starts to break down in tears. "It got him, tore at him, tore him apart. I can't remember anything else. They found me the next morning, just wandering on the moor. My dad's body was never found."
"Red eyes, coal-black fur, enormous," I repeat before shrugging. "There's been legends of the Dartmoor Beast for centuries - could it be some kind of panther?"
"Or a genetic experiment," dad suggests, looking at me and biting back a smile.
"Are you laughing at me, Mr Holmes?" Henry says, affronted.
"Why, are you joking?"
"My dad was always going on about the things they were doing at Baskerville," he continues, "about the type of monsters they were breeding there. People used to laugh at him. At least the TV people took me seriously."
"And, I assume, did wonders for Devon tourism," dad says sarcastically.
"Yeah ..." John mutters uncomfortably before leaning forward in his seat, "Henry, whateverdidhappen to your father, it was twenty years ago. Why come to us now?"
"I'm not sure you can help me, Mr Holmes," Henry says, leaning forwards in his own seat and glaring at dad, "since you find it all so funny." He stands up and heads towards the door.
"Because of what happened last night," dad tells him.
"Why," John frowns, "what happened last night?"
"How ..." Henry stutters, stopping and turning back around, "how do you know?"
"I didn't know; I noticed." John and I exchange a short glance before dad rattles the deductions off quick-fire. "You came up from Devon on the first available train this morning. You had a disappointing breakfast and a cup of black coffee. The girl in the seat across the aisle fancied you. Although you were initially keen, you've now changed your mind. You are, however,extremelyanxious to have your first cigarette of the day. Sit down, Mr Knight, and doplease smoke. I'd be delighted." So that's why he's kept him here this long - he's hoping to get a hit through passive smoking. Henry stares at him for a moment in surprise before walking back over to the chair and sitting down, fumbling in his pocket for his cigarettes.
"How on earth did you notice all that?!" Henry questions in amazement.
"It's not important ..." John tries, but dad has already started.
"Punched-out holes where your ticket's been checked ..."
"Not now, Sherlock," John interrupts.
"Ohplease," dad argues. "I've been cooped up in here for ages."
"You're just showing off," I remark, but only because I'm annoyed I missed a few details.
"Ofcourse," dad replies. "Iama show-off. That's what we do." He turns his attention back to Henry and the napkin he's still holding. "The train napkin that you used to mop up the spilled coffee: the strength of the stain shows that you didn't take milk. There are traces of ketchup on it and round your lips and on your sleeve. Cooked breakfast – or the nearest thing those trains can manage. Probably a sandwich."
"How did you know it was disappointing?" Henry half-sobs, clearly over-awed by the explanation.
"Is there any other type of breakfast on a train?" Henry shrugs to agree. "The girl – female handwriting's quite distinctive. Wrote her phone number down on the napkin. I can tell from the angle she wrote at that she was sat across from you on the other side of the aisle. Later – after she got off, I imagine – you used the napkin to mop up your spilled coffee, accidentally smudging the numbers. You've been over the last four digits yourself with another pen, so you wanted to keep the number. Just now, though, you used the napkin to blow your nose. Maybe you're not that into her after all. Then there's the nicotine stains on your fingers ... yourshakingfingers. I know the signs. No chance to smoke one on the train; no time to roll one before you got a cab here." Dad looks down at his watch. "It's just after nine fifteen. You're desperate. The first train from Exeter to London leaves at five forty-six a.m. You got the first one possible, so something important must have happened last night. Am I wrong?" Henry stares at him in amazement then draws in a shaky breath.
"No," Henry confirms and dad smiles smugly. "You're right," he remarks, awe-struck. "You're completely, exactly right. Bloody hell, I heard you were quick."
"It's my job," dad returns and leans forward in his seat, glaring intensely at Henry. "Now shut up and smoke." John frowns at dad as Henry rolls his cigarette and lights it.
"Um, Henry," John says, consulting his notes, "your parents both died and you were, what, seven years old?" Dad stands up as Henry exhales his first drag.
"I know," he says, breathing out. "That ... my ..." he stops and watches in bewilderment as dad leans into the smoke and breathes it in deeply and noisily through his nose. After sucking up most of the smoke, he sits back down, momentarily contented and John continues, trying to ignore dad.
"That must be a ... quite a trauma. Have you ever thought that maybe you invented this story, this ..." As Henry exhales another lungful, dad dives in again to breath in the smoke. John pauses for a moment as he waits for him to sit back down before continuing, "... to account for it?"
"That's what Doctor Mortimer says," Henry says.
"Who?" John asks.
"His therapist," dad and I say in unison.
"My therapist," Henry says at the same time.
"Obviously," dad explains.
"Louise Mortimer," Henry continues. "She's the reason I came back to Dartmoor. She thinks I have to face my demons."
"And what happened when you went back to Dewer's Hollow last night, Henry?" I ask. "You went there on the advice of your therapist and now you're consulting a detective. What did you see that changed everything?"
"It's a strange place, the Hollow," Henry starts and grimaces again as another memory resurfaces. "Makes you feel so cold inside, so afraid."
"Yes," dad says, rolling his eyes, "if I wanted poetry I'd read John's emails to his girlfriends. Much funnier." John gives a hard sigh and I chuckle slightly, causing him to glare at me.
"What did yousee?" I repeat.
"Footprints," Henry says. "On the exact spot where I saw my father torn apart." Exasperated, dad leans back in his seat. I must say that isn't really sufficient evidence to drag all the way up to London on.
"Man's or a woman's?" John asks.
"Neither," Henry says, shaking his head. "They were ..."
"Is that it?" dad interrupts. "Nothing else. Footprints. Is that all?"
"Yes, but they were ..."
"No, sorry," he interrupts again, "Doctor Mortimer wins. Childhood trauma masked by an invented memory. Boring! Goodbye, Mr Knight. Thank you for smoking."
"No," Henry protests, "but what about the footprints?"
"Oh, they're probably paw prints; could be anything, therefore nothing." Dad leans forward and flicks his fingers at Henry, gesturing him towards the door. "Off to Devon with you; have a cream tea on me." He stands up and heads into the kitchen, but Henry turns in his seat to look at him.
"Mr Holmes, they were the footprints of a gigantic hound!" Dad stops dead in the doorway of the kitchen and I narrow my eyes.
"Say that again," dad requests.
"I found the footprints," Henry starts, "they were ..."
"No, no, no," dad says, shaking his head, "your exact words. Repeat your exact words from a moment ago, exactly as you said them." Henry thinks for a second then slowly recites his words back to us.
"Mr Holmes," he says slowly, "they were the footprints of a gigantic ... hound."
Hound is nearly archaic now, the use of it is vastly infrequent so for him to use it...there must be a reason.
"I'll take the case," dad says, startling John.
"Sorry, what?"
Dad adopts the steepled position with his hands as he starts pacing the living room.
"Thank you for bringing this to my attention. It's very promising."
"No-no-no," John says, still confused, "sorry,what? A minute ago, footprints were boring; now they're very promising?"
"It'snothingto do with footprints," I tell him softly and in wonder as my mind begins to tick again while dad shakes his head in agreement.
"As ever, John, you weren't listening. Baskerville: ever heard of it?"
"Vaguely," John replies. "It's very hush-hush."
"Sounds like a good place to start," dad decides.
"Ah!" Henry exclaims. "You'll come down, then?"
"No, I can't leave London at the moment," dad tells him, but I can tell he's playing us. "Far too busy. Don't worry – putting my best people onto it." He walks over to John and pats his shoulder. "Always rely on John to send me the relevant data, as he never understands a word of it himself."
"What are you talking about, you're busy?" John asks. "You don't have a case! A minute ago you were complaining ..."
"Bluebell, John!" Dad interrupts. "I've got Bluebell! The case of the vanishing, glow-in-the-dark rabbit!" He looks at Henry before continuing."NATO's in uproar."
"Oh, sorry, no," Henry says, trying to work dad out, "you're not coming, then?" Dad puts on a fake face of regret and shakes his head.
"Okay," John groans and I can tell he's fallen hook line and sinker for dad's trap as he walks over to the mantlepiece and lifts up the skull, revealing the hidden cigarettes. Dad smiles smugly as John tosses him the packet, but tosses them instantly over his shoulder.
"I don't need those any more," dad says, smiling. "I'm going to Dartmoor." I laugh and John glares at me as dad walks out the living room door. "You go on ahead, Henry," dad calls from the landing. "We'll follow later."
"Er," Henry says, scrambling to his feet, "sorry, so youare coming?" Dad turns and walks back into the room.
"Twenty year old disappearance; a monstrous hound? I wouldn't miss this for the world!"