I Have Felt the Presence of This Force

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I had been right, after all. It was not a romantic imagining brought on by fatigue and overwrought nerves. I was right.

At least on this one point.

I stared at the photograph for some minutes in silence, trying to piece the thing together. Then I picked up the articles, which were from a certain northern newspaper.

And as I read the information my librarian friend had forwarded to me (making me promise on pain of death to return said articles and photograph upon my arrival in London), my heart sank dismally for Sir Henry. He would be heartbroken at the news, and I for one was not prepared to shatter his dreams just yet.

I got up and began to pace up and down the small bedroom. What would Holmes do? I had some of the threads in my hands, but no proof yet of any actual illegal activities. How was I to get such proof that my suspicions were right?

My mind turned back to the portrait in the dining room. Had that really been my imagination playing tricks upon me? Because if not – but of course! There was the perfect motive! I had no doubt now that I was right.

I had the man, and I had the motive. But I had no idea as to the method. How had he murdered Sir Charles? And what of the gigantic hound's paw prints at the scene? What did he expect to gain from Sir Henry by continuing this extraordinary deception? And what part was the lady playing in the whole affair?

I replaced the information and the picture back into the envelope and stuffed it into my jacket pocket. Sir Henry had already gone to bed, and I knew I could do nothing until morning.

But my sleep was rather uneasy, haunted as it was by spectral demon hounds and dissimulating, evilly smiling butterfly-hunters.

It was quite a long night.

When I awakened the next morning, my mind was even more troubled than the night before. Should I tell Sir Henry of my suspicions? No, I could not. Holmes would need to do that.

I would send him a demanding wire as soon as I got to town today. London case or no London case, this affair was fast slipping out of my control, and I needed him desperately.

I met Sir Henry for breakfast, and in his cheery mood he did not notice my preoccupied manner, a fact for which I was devoutly grateful. Sometimes, there are perks to living with a man who is not the keenest observer on the planet.

I could see through the windows that the day was dawning damp, foggy, and altogether miserable-looking. This did nothing whatever to help lift my downcast spirits.

The baronet was rambling eagerly on and on about the electric lights he intended to string up along the path leading to the Hall – rather garish, I thought, distractedly attempting to take an interest in the conversation. The American was so enthusiastic that he failed to notice my monosyllabic replies to his statements.

After breakfast, the butler asked Sir Henry if he might have a word with the man, and after a long look at me, the baronet took the man into his study. They remained there for the better part of a half-hour, and while they were gone, I inspected Sir Hugo's portrait once more in the light of day.

It was indeed as I had feared – this was no romantic, overly-suspicious figment of my imagination. Holmes had to come down here, at once, before something dreadful occurred.

The man has said, on more than one occasion, that I am not at all skillful at deception – a quality I am still not sure is a vice, or a virtue. But regardless, I was very much afraid I should not be able to fully hide my suspicions from our villain, if I were to run into him unexpectedly.

And if, as Holmes believed, the man was as brilliant as we thought, then he would instantly see a change in my demeanor.

That cloud of danger that I had been keeping at bay for the past fortnight began to swirl up closer and closer on my overwrought senses, so that when Sir Henry unceremoniously bellowed for me from down the hall, I jumped like a frightened rabbit.

I stifled a laugh, for I knew how much the American's very unorthodox methods were grating on the poor butler and his wife's nerves. Sir Henry steadfastly refused to use the bell-pulls scattered throughout the house if his own voice would serve just as well, saying he had never had them before and he wasn't about to start using them now.

And our cousins across the sea think that we British are stubborn and phlegmatic.

I entered the study and saw the baronet and his butler discussing a matter in animated tones and gestures.

In a few words, Sir Henry explained about the escaped convict and his prospective departure from the country, aided by Barrymore's statement that Seldon was insanely afraid of people and would not harm anyone further.

I am quite used to compounding felonies, but evidently the baronet was not, for my answer to live and let live seemed to surprise him a good deal. I suppose he expected strict adherence to British law coming from me. The thought made me laugh inside – Sherlock Holmes had his own set of British laws, and I answered to no other than his and my consciences.

Barrymore thanked us and turned to leave; then he spun round and came back to where we were standing.

"You've been so kind to us, sir, that I should like to do the best I can for you in return. I know something, Sir Henry, and perhaps I should have said it before, but it was long after the inquest that I found it out. I've never breathed a word about it yet to mortal man. It's about poor Sir Charles's death," he said, looking from me to Sir Henry.

We were both on our feet in the instant, firing questions at the stoic butler. I held my breath as the man spoke, knowing that what he said might be one of the missing links I needed.

I willed myself to remember each word of what he said. "Details, Watson, details!" I could almost hear Holmes saying.

I listened intently as Barrymore reeled off to us how his wife had found part of a note in Sir Charles's study, signed with the initials L.L., in a feminine hand, and how it was that letter that had brought the man to the gate at that hour of the night, where he had met his death in that most mysterious manner.

L.L. What possible connection could she and her note be with the man I believed was behind this? I knew I had to find out, and without delay. Barrymore had said the letter was from Coombe Tracey. That would be my first port of call.

I told Sir Henry I had to make a report to Holmes at once, and he promised not to step foot upon the moor until my return that evening, remarking with a grimace that he hoped the rest of his life as a baronet would not be spent in going through so much paperwork.

Then I set out for the town, to catch the train to Coombe Tracey. As I walked, I was overtaken by Dr. Mortimer in his buggy and welcomed his offer of a ride to the station – the last few nights had been rather sleepless for me and I was indeed beginning to feel the effects of the strain.

We chatted for a few minutes about various issues, and then I gently steered the conversation around to the man's acquaintances. I asked him if he knew of a woman with the initials L.L.

His forehead wrinkled for a moment, and then he spoke. "No, there is no one around here by that name – but wait. There is Laura Lyons, but she lives in Coombe Tracey."

There it was - the key to the matter.

Mortimer went on to tell me she was old Frankland's daughter and of how she had been badly used by her former husband, who had now deserted her - her father had disowned her at the time of her marriage. Mortimer mentioned that both he and Sir Charles had helped set the girl up in a typewriting business, and the fact interested me. There was the link between the girl and Sir Charles.

Now I only had to find the one between her and Stapleton. As soon as I had done so, I would wire Holmes straightway and tell him all.

Pray heaven he would find the time to drop his important London case and get down here before the net closed on us. I could feel it tightening, slowly, and inexorably tightening, and I could do absolutely nothing to stop it.

To be continued...thanks for reading! Please review!