Prompt from mrspencil: snow on Dartmoor


AN: I am not entirely satisfied with this one. With two prompts waiting to be addressed, I don't feel I can spend any more time tweaking it, though. I hope it makes sense and that readers will enjoy the story.


The Mystery of the Frozen Pool

"Not where I would have expected to find him," Dr. John Watson observed, looking down at the bizarre corpse with its blackened skin covered in hoarfrost.

"Your report, that is, the report submitted by Inspector Lestrade indicated Stapleton had run off into the mire, sir," Inspector Skyler of the Coombe Tracey Constabulary said. "This is the mire."

"Yes, but it is the wrong part. We followed his track from Merripit House." Watson lifted his eyes from the disturbing corpse to look over the rolling, snow-blanketed landscape. "I cannot even see Merripit House from here. It is in that direction, over the hill, is it not?"

"Yes. According to my survey map, it is." Skyler slid his hand inside his ulster and withdrew a tightly folded sheet of heavy paper. He fussed with it half a minute, finally getting it to lay more or less flat between his hands. Peering at the map and then up at the overcast sky, he asked, "You don't happen to know which way is north, do you, Doctor?"

In answer Watson pulled a small brass compass from his pocket and held it out for the inspector to read.

"You are correct," Skyler said, running his finger over the map. "Merripit House is that way. Baskerville Hall is over there. And in that direction lies Lafter Hall."

"I thought so." Watson studied the face of the corpse. How had it lasted this long? Why had the eyes not been pecked out by ravens? Surely foxes should have fed upon it. And yet it was intact, virtually unchanged save for the blackening of the skin.

"Dr. Watson, what do you think?"

"Are you asking how he got here?"

"That and why does he look the way he does? It's been three years, sir. This just is not natural."

"Inspector Skyler, nothing about the Baskerville case was precisely natural." Watson sighed, his old anxieties returning. "We followed Stapleton's track into the mire. We followed it until it disappeared in a brackish pool much like this one would be in summer. We were fortunate not to become trapped ourselves on the way to the old tin mine where he had kenneled the hound. Holmes, as I recall, went waist deep at one point and I sank in past my knees."

"That has to be miles from here," Skyler said, squinting at the distant hill.

"It is miles from here and I have no explanation for Stapleton's body ending up in this pool." Watson shook his head. He actually had an explanation, but he would not voice it. It would sound far too much like a fireside tale. Moreover, he did not want to believe it. "Inspector, you will need several men, a sled and pickaxes to get the body out of here. And before it can be properly examined, it will need to thaw."

"About the examination," Skyler said hesitantly.

"Yes?"

"Dr. Mortimer is gone with his wife until after Christmas. Visiting relations in the North somewhere."

"Very well." Watson's shoulders sagged. He knew what the inspector was asking of him. "I have nothing pressing in London. I will stay until the examination can be performed."

"Thank you, Doctor! Come, we will return to the village. Morning is soon enough to get him out."

"I feel in the mood to stretch my legs, Inspector. Might I borrow your map? There are places I would revisit while I am here."

"Certainly, Doctor. In winter the moor is no place for a solitary walk, though."

"I remember where the roads are. Indulge me. I promise to be careful."

Watson struck out along what had to be a sheep track. Because it was sunken in relation to the surrounding terrain it was easy to follow, even with the thick layer of snow. He crested the ridge that had masked Merripit House, sank his stick into a drift and looked back to where Stapleton's body lay at the edge of the frozen pool. Perhaps if snow were not falling in the distance, he might have been able to see Baskerville Hall. Lafter Hall was a vague grey shape on its hilltop and between were the huts of the Stone Age village, looking for all the world like muscle shells poking up on a white sand beach.

"How the devil did he get in that pool?" Watson asked aloud. If Holmes were there, he would come up with some perfectly plausible answer. Holmes would know why the villain's skin had turned black. Holmes would explain it all away. But Holmes was not there. He had gone over the falls.

Watson tore his mind away from the loss, desperate to forget for a time. He had lost too much. Beneath his inverness he wore black. Black for Mary. Again he rebelled at the memory. He must get away from it! He must relieve this oppressive emotion. He must.

Looking at the distant falling snow he wondered what it would be like to simply walk into that and never return. He could do it. Inspector Skyler would assume he had lost his way. No one would ever know what really happened to him. He could become another of the mysteries of Dartmoor. A hundred years on people would still tell the tale and children would frighten each other with stories of a phantom doctor wandering among the heather.

A movement below caught his attention. He narrowed his eyes, looking among the stone huts of the prehistoric village, seeing nothing. Something had moved, he was sure, but it was not moving now. He suddenly regretted leaving his field glasses behind. They were a good pair with lenses made in France. Those lenses were doing him no good sitting on his bed at the inn.

Thoughts of lenses brought to mind old Mr. Franklin of Lafter Hall and his telescope. The man had not been among Watson's favorite Grimpen residents, but nostalgia cast a warmer light upon the old curmudgeon. Perhaps, with his long tenure on the moor, Franklin would have some insight as to what could account for Stapleton being found miles from where he had disappeared.

An hour's walk through shin deep snow brought Watson to the doorstep of Lafter Hall. He was in fair training and only just past middle age, yet the cold and wind had tried him sorely. He was grateful to just be in the lee of the building, sheltered from the worst of the wind. To his surprise the large door opened before he had a chance to knock.

"I know you," said the gaunt, mustachioed master of the hall. "You were here once."

"Yes, Mr. Franklin," Watson said, unwinding his scarf enough to show his face. "I am John Watson, Dr. John Watson, and I was a guest of Sir Henry Baskerville when he first came to claim his inheritance."

"Come in, come in!" Franklin urged, waving eagerly and looking past Watson's shoulder as if expecting more guests to materialize.

The interior of the hall was much the same as it had been. Perhaps it was bit dustier. Not surprisingly Watson could still see his breath. These old stone piles were expensive to heat and if Franklin was alone with his servants, likely only his apartments and their quarters would be warm.

"This way, Doctor!" Franklin urged. "Come, come! I have news! Something no one knows! I used my telescope to see! I saw you on the hill! I saw it too! Come! Come and I will show you!"

Years ago Franklin had spied out Holmes's hiding place using his powerful glass. Watson now wondered if the old fellow had learned of Stapleton's body by the same method. It was possible, but there was something distinctly peculiar about the old fellow's behavior. Several times as they mounted the stairs to the third floor Franklin turned eager, frantic grins on Watson. He was obviously agitated nearly to the point of being manic.

"This way, Doctor!" Franklin said and swung open the door to his private rooms. "I will show you! If only I had a camera that could focus at this distance I would have proof!"

"Proof of what, Mr. Franklin?" Watson asked. This apartment was considerably warmer than the rest of the house and Watson immediately stripped off his inverness and scarf.

"You and that fellow, what was his name?" Franklin snapped his fingers and shook his head.

"Sir Henry?" Watson ventured.

"No! The other one. The famous one!"

"Holmes?"

"That was him!" Franklin jabbed a finger in the air by way of punctuation. "You and that Holmes fellow killed it. We all saw the body. Everyone in the village went by the church to have a look. But it is not dead, Doctor. It is not dead."

"Mr. Franklin, what on earth do you mean?" Watson cast his things upon the chair next to the low hearth and crossed the room to where the old man stood beside his long brass telescope.

"It was out there when you stood upon the hill an hour ago," the old man said, putting his eye to the scope. "It is not out there now, though."

"What is not out there?"

"The Hound! The Hound, man!" Franklin scowled up at Watson and put his eye back to the scope. "No one would believe me, but you might. You've seen it up close. You and Holmes shot it."

For several seconds Watson could not credit his ears. He stood, aghast, thinking Franklin, in his isolation, had cracked. But had he not himself entertained similar thoughts?

"I'm not mad, Doctor," said the old man. "I know what I saw. I can still tell a hawk from a handsaw and I know there is something more than snow upon the moor. When the moon is right and the wind not too strong I can even hear the cries of its victim."

"Good God," breathed Watson. "What are you saying?"

Franklin finally gave up his searching and looked at Watson. He seemed to make up his mind and nodded.

"You are right to doubt me," he said. "If this were a case before a court, I could provide no proof. Come, Doctor, I will ring for something hot. Beef broth and buttered toast or barley soup if you like. Something better than thin tea and a few biscuits on a day like this. Brandy while we wait."

The maid came and Franklin told her what was wanted and then he and Watson settled to either side of the fire. With warm snifters in their fingers and comfortable blankets over their laps Franklin began his explanation.

"It started the winter following your visit to Grimpen, Doctor. Out on the moor all was quiet until after the turning of the year. Someone in the village told a wild tale of seeing a black hound the size of a calf pursuing a man across the tor. I doubt much credence was given to the tale. I know I personally scoffed, thinking it was only ignorance and superstition. It was not until late in the winter I saw something, a shadow moving at great speed from valley to hilltop, I began to suspect there was anything at all to the story."

"A shadow?" asked Watson.

"A shadow and little more," said Franklin. "I decided it must have been a large bird and that my eyes were playing tricks. It left no prints in the snow, so how could it be anything but a bird?"

"Clearly you have changed your mind."

"I have." Franklin swallowed his brandy and refilled his glass. "I caught one other glimpse of it that winter and no more. I still believed I was seeing some bird or other. It was not until spring came when I had new evidence. The days were warm enough to open these windows and let in fresh air. I was enjoying the evening breeze and reading here by the hearth in May when a scream carried faintly from somewhere out on the moor. I was so disturbed I went to the window. The moon was bright and full and there were few clouds. Out there, not far from the ancient village, I saw the figures as described in the winter tale. A man running in a mad rush and the hound following. I put my eye to my lens, but it was too late. They had slipped beyond the hill and I lost them."

"Could it have been some prankster? A fatm boy out playing with his dog, perhaps?"

"I asked myself the same thing, Doctor. I did. And I tried to convince myself that was all it was. I am not a superstitious man. Over the last several years evidence has presented itself that compels me to believe the Hound in incorporeal form, lingers."

"I don't wish to call you a liar, Mr. Franklin, but surely there is some other explanation. I am a man of science. This seems too much."

"I know just what you mean," said Franklin. "But let me ask you, do you recall the Baskerville legend?"

"Wicked Sir Hugo and the maiden, you mean?"

"Precisely."

"Hugo Baskerville kidnapped a young girl and would have done worse to her had she not risked all and escaped. When he discovered she had flown he called for his hounds and horse and pursued. When a group of his friends found him, the girl was dead and a great black hound was tearing at Sir Hugo. The friends were never the same and the legend of the Hound was born."

"In a nutshell you are correct," Franklin said. He pointed vaguely towards the window. "Where you and that fool of an inspector stood, earlier today, is the very pool beside which the maiden was found and the wicked Sir Hugo died."

Watson frowned into the fire, calling up what memories he had of his time at Baskerville Hall. Stapleton himself had guided Sir Henry and Watson across the moor to a place supposed to be the killing ground. Rising, Watson went to the telescope. He peered through it, seeking Baskerville Hall. A dark shape was all he could see of it. Tracing a line from the hall to the pool it sank home. Franklin was correct. It was the same pool.

"Enough of this for now, Doctor," Franklin said. "Have warm food and I will give you a flask of hot coffee to take with you. You have a long walk back to the village."

Watson joined Mr. Franklin in a repast and then donned his coat and hat and took up his walking stick. It was time to go, and time to learn what he could.

Retracing his course through the snow he found his tracks already obscured but not so much that he got lost. The afternoon was drawing on towards an early winter evening and Watson debated the wisdom of his intended actions. Still, the stone huts were not far out of his path. He could certainly find his way to the hilltop and thence to Grimpen even in late evening. And he was armed. Carrying his old Adams service revolver had become a habit for him when he accompanied Holmes on so many of their adventures. And Mary had frequently reminded him to take it. He smiled at the memory of intentionally leaving it in his desk so that she would bring it to him at the door. They would kiss, she would admonish him to be careful and he would swear he would.

"No need to be careful anymore," he told the oncoming night.

Descending to the ancient settlement he stabbed the earth before him, seeking solid footing. His eyes constantly scanned the land ahead of him and his ears were pricked for any sound, howl or scream. In the fold of the hill twilight had already come. Shirtless Celts painted in woad, conjured by Watson's mind, stared at him from the shadows. Still he pressed on through the snow and the gloom. And then his destination came in sight. He paused in his trek and recalled his friend's words almost as clearly as if Holmes were there speaking them.

"…for when I see the stub of a cigarette marked Bradley, Oxford Street, I know that my friend Watson is in the neighborhood."

"Would that you were in my neighborhood now, Holmes. Would that you were," he said and took from his pocket his silver cigarette case and from it a cigarette. He lit it and as if in token to his friend he held the match up, letting the wind blow it out.

On up to the low doorway from which he had emerged those several years back, Watson climbed. His leg bothered him, but he ignored the ache. In the shelter of the doorway he was out of the snow and most of the wind and he could see the hilltop clearly. The snow had not been a heavy fall throughout the day and now it slackened to almost nothing. The evening was quiet and bleak. The setting sun finally dropped below the clouds and shone across the moor, casting it in stark relief. Beauty enough to take a man's breath away. Watson rose up and marveled.

The magic of the moment was broke an instant later. A chuffing as of a huge dog sounded and Watson turned. Crouching in a shadowed nook of the hillside he spied what he knew could not be. Needing no thought to compel it, his hand emerged from his pocket holding death. The maw of the old Adams revolver held level and steady, awaiting permission to speak. The Hound shifted uneasily as if recognizing the thing in the doctor's hand.

"I killed you," Watson said, his words as cold and lifeless as the country around him. "Holmes and I killed you. You are not real."

The Hound glared and growled.

"You are not real."

White teeth flashed and phosphorescent spittle frothed.

"You are not real!" shouted Watson, stepping from his shelter. His hand held steady though all else shook with a contained energy he had not felt since before Reichenbach. "You are not real."

A scream of utter terror shattered the air. Too startled to obey reason, Watson's head snapped around. His eyes went wide, his muscles froze and his thoughts ceased to flow. Across the shallow valley and up the low hill sprinted John Stapleton, his coat tails flying. Behind followed the Hound.

Watson's eyes snapped back to the shadow where the creature had been lurking. It was gone!

"Impossible," he said. "Impossible."

When he could finally bring himself to return to the sheep path and climb the hill, he cast about for any sign whatever. The snow lay undisturbed, thick and heavy. Only the remnants of his earlier passing showed at all. When he reached the top of the hill he looked down at the black, frozen pool where Stapleton's body lay. Had he really seen the Hound? Was it nothing more than a vision brought on by Franklin's suggestion? There was no physical proof. No evidence. He did not know. Perhaps it was an hallucination.

Perhaps.

Perhaps, and yet he had discovered one thing. It had been thrilling! Thrilling to be in the thick of an adventure again. It felt right to be out of his comfortable practice. He felt useful for more than passing out pills and setting bones. This adventure had reminded Watson what it was like before his grief came.

With more energy in his stride than he would have credited only hours before, Watson made his way back to the hamlet of Grimpen. The inn was warm and the landlord was happy to serve him a good stew in his rooms while he soaked his feet in a tub of steaming water.

"Come in!" Watson called when a knock came an hour later.

"Good evening, Doctor," Inspector Skyler said, entering. "I was worried about you. Are you well?"

"Quite well, Inspector. Much better for my walk."

"Excellent. I am glad to hear it."

"Why have you come? Just to check up on me? Can I offer you whiskey?"

"No thank you, sir. I do not wish to keep you long. I did want to pass on a bit of information another inspector sent me, though. He has had some dealings in the past with bodies being found in bogs. Seems in ancient times people would fall in or would be murdered, you understand. Well, these days when peat cutters are harvesting turfs they will come across some such body. Some are so well preserved the workers mistake them for recent victims. Shocking, you can imagine."

"I see," said Watson. "It must be some property of the brackish water."

"If I understand my friend's message correctly, it is."

"Well, that could certainly explain Stapleton's coloring."

"But it does not explain how his body ended up in that pool." Skyler cocked his head inquisitively. "Have you, after your long walk, had any further insights?"

Watson debated what to say. He had no proof of anything. Holmes had once stated that there was no place for ghosts in detection and logically, Watson agreed.

"Inspector, pending examination, I think the most logical theory is that after he drowned Stapleton's body was dragged into a subterranean stream. The stream empties into that pool. His body simply floated to the surface. Like the blackening of his skin, there is no real mystery to it."

Skyler was not wholly satisfied, but when the medical examination was completed no other plausible explanation could be found. Skyler added his report to Lestrade's and Watson returned to London. A few days later he applied to Scotland Yard for a position as a police surgeon. A word or two from old friends like Lestrade and Gregson and he was in. His days were little different, but they were brighter.