A slightly different approach to"The Hound of the Baskervilles". Narrative verse.
A/N: This was mainly written to keep me occupied on planes, trains and in airports on a recent trip to the States. It is quite a bit longer than is my usual style, hence the 5 parts, and follows, fairly closely, ACD's story and descriptions. I am not sure if this version adds anything new, but I certainly have a better idea now of just how many words rhyme with "hound" and "moor"! As always, I welcome comments and feedback.
Mrs P :)
Holmes and companions do not belong to me.
Many, many thanks to medcat for beta reading.
Spoilers: for The Hound of the Baskervilles, many spoilers.
Watson POV
Moor Verse 1
This tale began with a walking stick, left in our rooms one night,
And led to the strangest, wildest case I have ever had cause to write.
A case which was filled with remarkable deeds and events never seen before,
And the haunting sound of a monstrous hound on the bleak and the windswept moor.
A walking stick, a physician's stick, engraved with the owner's name.
The chance to employ our deductive skills, an old and familiar game.
A chance for my careful response to be wrong, and my partner, again, to be right,
Though I seemed to have sparked off a new train of thought, a useful conductor of light.
When Doctor James Mortimer came for his stick, the story began to unfold.
As he read out the words on an old manuscript, this sinister legend was told.
He described a Sir Hugo Baskerville, a wild and a godless man,
Who devised, from his land on the edge of the moors, an evil, heartless plan.
He sought the love of a local maid, as a hunter seeks its prey,
And when she rejected his cruel demands, he carried the girl away.
He carried her off to his stark grey hall, with the lonely moors above,
And locked her away for his own foul ends, a warped and twisted love.
To stay in the power of this wicked man, was a cross she could not bear,
So as he indulged in wine and song, she fled from his evil lair.
As she ran for her life from that gloomy hall, her courage began to fail,
As she faced a flight through the moors at night, with his hounds upon her trail.
When he'd gone to her room in a drunken haze, his prize was no longer there,
So he pledged his soul to the powers of Hell and saddled his proud black mare.
In an awful, mindless fit of rage, he headed for the windswept moor,
And his friends were afraid, if he caught the maid, of the terrible fate in store.
So they followed his tracks through the untamed land, till they came to a lonely tor,
Where they saw the form of the tragic girl, lying lifeless upon the floor.
And next to the girl, in the light of the moon, where their drunken comrade fell,
With jaws which were red with Sir Hugo's blood, stood a monstrous hound of Hell!
"Just a fairytale," was my friend's response, "I confess, I had hoped for more.
I fail to see, why you've come to me, I don't see what you need me for."
"But there's more to this tale which would interest you, a recent twist, "he replied.
"It concerns the late Charles Baskerville, and the manner in which he died.
He was found at the end of a yew-lined path, by a gate leading up to the moor,
With his arms out flung and such fear on his face, I have never seen the like before.
And a little way off, I espied some marks, fresh and clear in the ground.
The marks I am sure, though you'll scarce believe, were the prints of a monstrous hound!
And the heir to the wealth of the Baskervilles, Sir Henry, is in my charge.
And I fear for his life, as events suggest there are murderous fiends at large."
Now, the boredom vanished from my partner's eyes, and the atmosphere grew tense,
And he questioned the doctor further, about that day's events.
Then after a day spent deep in thought, he agreed to take the case.
As he had other business to complete in town, he would send me in his place.
The next few days, as we all prepared, were not without some danger,
With missing boots, our movements tracked, and warnings from a stranger.
The day arrived, with my new found friends; I was heading for a west-bound train,
And Holmes confessed he would not relax till I was back in our rooms again.
With revolver packed, and my partner's trust, and adventure in the air,
I thrilled at the thought of the lonely moors, and whatever awaited me there.
We arrived at a Devonshire station, and headed for the edge of the moor,
Where we learned of a Princetown convict, escaped several days before.
So we travelled on up, through high-banked lanes in the waning evening light,
And as we crossed a bridge, past a rushing stream, we beheld an amazing sight,
For we'd topped a rise, and in front of us was the huge expanse of the moor,
Mottled with gnarled and craggy cairns, with mire and looming tor.
Thus we came to the seat of the Baskervilles, a massive two-towered block,
To the left and the right of the turrets were wings of granite rock.
And a man stepped out of the shadows, to greet us at the door,
He was tall and pale with a square black beard, the butler, Barrymore.
We ate in the ancient dining hall, a shadow-filled dim-lit room,
And were watched by a line of ancestors, above us in the gloom.
Our talk was hushed and stilted, the atmosphere subdued,
And the moor in the distance echoed the melancholy mood.
I was glad to return to my room by then, to prepare for another day,
But a chiming clock and a woman's sobs kept sleep and peace at bay.
I woke next day in a lighter mood, and wondered about the cries,
And was served by the wife of Barrymore, with tell-tale, red-rimmed eyes.
As my own suspicions were heightened, by the actions of this pair,
I headed for Grimpen village, and talked to the postman there.
My enquiries made no headway, so I returned along the road,
The trust that Holmes had placed in me, a constant heavy load.
My thoughts were interrupted, when I heard a neighbour's call,
A botanist, named Stapleton, who lived beyond the Hall.
As we walked and talked on the roadway, the day had a shock in store,
A pony's hopeless struggle, as the mire claimed one soul more.
The strangest sound then filled the air, a moan which rose and fell,
It faded to a murmur. The cause? We could not tell.
As Stapleton left, a girl approached, as dark as he was fair,
And warned me I should leave the moor and all the danger there.
The girl was Stapleton's sister, a beauty, proud and slim,
She'd thought I was Sir Henry, the message was for him.
But as I headed homeward, she spoke to me again,
Informed me if I lingered, the danger would remain.
end of part one