Part XXVIII

Dr. Louis Mortimer was waiting for them in the parlour when Sherlock and John finally descended the stairs properly dressed. The ex-Surgeon was tall, thin, with a beak-like nose and keen grey eyes. He wore gold-rimmed goggles perched on his head and a pair of golden pince-nez dangling from a silver chain around his neck. His pinstriped breeches were splattered with mud; he had smudges of mud all over his shining black boots; his blue velvet vest looked travel-stained and worn. His frock coat was hanging on the brass peg in the hall, next to a tartan scarf and a clock-topped walking stick.

"Mr. Holmes!" he exclaimed, leaping to his feet to shake Sherlock's hand. "How very nice to see you!"

"Indeed," Sherlock remarked neutrally. Dr. Mortimer turned to John.

"Ah, and Dr. Watson." He smiled, his eyes showing happiness at having found a fellow Protector, someone who understood what it was like to dedicate his life to helping and protecting one other person. John smiled in return, shaking his newfound colleague's hand.

"Pleased to meet you, Dr. Mortimer."

"You're here to discuss the murder of Sir Charles Baskerville?" Sherlock asked.

"Mm, yes, in a way." Dr. Mortimer resumed his seat; Sherlock and John sat on the loveseat across from him.

"I hope your M.A.T.I.N. doesn't mind staying in the kitchen?" Sherlock asked. Dr. Mortimer nearly jumped out of his seat.

"How did you know?"

"The teeth marks on your walking-stick in the nearby hallway. You sometimes have your M.A.T.I.N. fetch you your stick. It didn't bother to wipe its feet in the entryway, and instead veered off in the direction of the kitchen leaving a mud trail behind. You must have arrived recently, though, since no droids have come by to clean up the mud."

"Yes, about a minute ago. Your mother anticipated us."

"Considering that you left London at the earliest train south this morning, I suppose the matter is of graver importance than what Mycroft believes?"

"Well, he said that the best time to contact you would be Saturday, the day you return – but unfortunately, my new charge comes in on Saturday and I need your advice as soon as possible –"

"You contacted him on Wednesday. Why not come over on Thursday?"

"Trains were full on Thursday. There was a mass breakout at Pentonville and break-ins at the Tower of London and the Bank of England."

"Who was the perpetrator?" Sherlock asked, sending a significant look at John.

"Well, the Maths Professor James Moriarty attempted to steal the Crown Jewels at the Tower, but we don't know about the others. Or at least that's what the papers this morning said."

John frowned. "Moriarty did what?"

"I thought he wasn't going to actually involve himself with a crime," Sherlock murmured. "That must mean he's up to something."

"Could it be the first puzzle?"

Mortimer was looking at them oddly at this point, so Sherlock and John turned their attention back to him.

"What do you need my advice for?" Sherlock asked. "Is it about the death of Sir Charles, or about his successor?"

"Both, to be honest," Mortimer replied. "But it'd require a bit of backstory."

"Oh, lovely." Sherlock crossed his arms and settled into his thinking pose. John leaned in to listen to the story.

"Baskerville Hall has been, for generations, an expansive manor house not unlike your own, housing the Baskervilles and a multitude of servants under its roof. In recent times, however, the family hasn't… proliferated. Now the last Baskerville in the family is my new charge, Sir Henry Baskerville."

"I see," Sherlock muttered.

"The Baskervilles have always served the state faithfully, as top-tier civil servants and Assignment Agents for the mid-Devon area. So when the government asked to house a top-secret, high-security project at Baskerville Hall, they readily agreed."

"When was this asked?"

"Decades ago."

Sherlock nodded, frowning. "Can you tell me the project?"

"I believe the official acronym is R.A.C.H.E.L.," replied Mortimer, causing Sherlock and John to look at each other in alarm.

"The Legacy Project!" John exclaimed.

"So you know what it is?" Mortimer asked.

"It's supposedly a project that enables people to access past memories, like some sort of memory bank," Sherlock replied immediately. "Or at least that's what the press thinks it means."

"I suppose." Dr. Mortimer shifted uncomfortably. "In any case, the Legacy Project is highly sensitive and therefore well-guarded."

"M.A.T.I.N.s?"

"Cerberus model."

John's eyes widened and he muttered something like "wow" under his breath.

"The Cerberus models are programmed to guard the Hall from all sides. Aside from that, we have other security checks and the Great Grimpen Mire to keep intruders away."

"But something happened. Sir Charles's death is suspicious, and you fear that the same fate will befall Sir Henry."

"Right you are, Mr. Holmes." Mortimer's face had turned ashen pale; his hands were shaking. "I find it hard to doubt the evidence of my own eyes, even if it happened a week ago. It's still fresh in my memory, burned beneath my eyelids in sleep…" He shuddered, unwilling to remember what had happened.

"Tell us what happened," John whispered, face anxious.


Sir Charles Baskerville was a Politician of simple tastes and regular habits. He dressed similarly every morning, in the same style of solemn black, white, red. Red waistcoat, white shirt, black trousers, black coat. Golden watch, golden glasses. His salt-and-pepper beard was immaculate; his dark but greying hair was well combed. He had keen brown eyes and a long, aquiline nose.

On the morning of his death, he made his usual rounds about the mansion with Dr. Mortimer following behind several paces. He talked to the Scientists maintaining the project's systems; he talked to the Mechanics responsible for the Cerberus M.A.T.I.N.s.; he talked to the Manager. The Manager, Eliza Selden, had married his butler John Barrymore a couple of years ago. The two remained childless. Aside from Barrymore, the rest of the servants in Baskerville were clockwork droids.

Mortimer had been trying to get his charge to go to London. A change of scenery, some distance between Devonshire and himself – anything was welcome with his failing health. His heart and lungs were weak; he had nearly died of bronchitis last winter. Mortimer was trying to schedule an operation to get some clockwork reinforcements for his heart and lungs, using his connections at the Charing Cross Hospital in the process. That day, he had finally managed to find an appointment that would work for them. He broke the news to Sir Charles in the afternoon, the arrangement was settled, and the accommodations and transportation plans were accordingly made.

That evening found the two of them sitting up late with the two head Scientists at the Hall, Dr. Beryl Stapleton and Dr. Jack Frankland. After a while, Sir Charles left for his usual walk, insisting that Mortimer stay inside since it was rather cold outside. Darkness had settled on the moor with a blanket of fog, and from the windows it was hard to see where Sir Charles had gone.

Moments later, the howling of a hound broke through the night air. John Barrymore rushed through the parlour in his haste to get out; Mortimer followed him with fear in his heart. The howling increased in volume and fearsomeness; for one chilling moment Mortimer had thought the creature that made the terrible noise was close to them. But Barrymore, with the lantern in his hand, pressed on. They searched the front grounds and found nothing, but when they went round back and traversed the yew alley, they found footsteps. The footsteps had started out normal, but suddenly they had changed. They were lighter, the footsteps of a man who was fleeing for his life.

Heart racing, hands sweating, Mortimer continued to follow Barrymore along the path. The howling had subsided, leaving only the mournful whistle of wind through trees and the creaking hinges of the old moor-gate off to the side, swinging to and fro in the wind.

"Unlocked," Barrymore breathed. "What on earth –"

The moor-gate led onto the moor, predictably. It was ten feet away from the Great Grimpen Mire, which had expanded to encircle nearly all of the land surrounding Baskerville Hall (mostly from deliberate flooding on behalf of the state). But there was no indication that Sir Charles had gone through the gate. In fact, the gravel around it had been scuffed up, but not by him.

Mortimer and Barrymore turned away from the creaking gate. As they looked father down the yew alley, Mortimer's face turned ashen with horror and Barrymore nearly dropped his lantern in shock.

Lying a couple feet from the creaking gate with his face turned towards the ground, with scratch and bite marks all over his body, with almost the entirety of his neck ripped into shreds, was Sir Charles Baskerville.


"Is any of this known to the public?" Sherlock asked as John waved a droid over to pour Mortimer a glass of strong brandy.

"The public story is that he died of natural causes. Cardiac arrest, dyspnoea. But it's obvious he died a violent death. His throat was torn out and laid a couple of feet away from his corpse."

"And do you have any clues as to what led to this violent death?"

"The sound of a hound, and something else. Barrymore failed to mention it to the others when we notified everyone of the death, but it's something that has been bothering me ever since. The gravel walk was scuffled; there were footprints there and around the body."

"A man's or a woman's?"

Dr. Mortimer looked from Sherlock to John, before leaning in. "They were the footprints of a gigantic hound."

Sherlock and John looked at each other. "Natural or mechanical?" Sherlock demanded.

"Couldn't tell with the gravel. But I will have you know that the Cerberus models are extremely docile unless you happen to be an intruder."

"So it could be an actual hound, or it could be a malfunctioning M.A.T.I.N."

"We've checked them. The Mechanics found no changes in their programming."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Hm. By the way, how has the Project been able to work without the Bruce-Partington Memory Key? Because I know that that's been put in the wrong hands."

"That Memory Key isn't the only copy," Mortimer affirmed.

"Ah." Sherlock smiled. "I was wondering why you lot were keeping such sensitive government projects on Memory Keys, of all things."

Mortimer shrugged. "I'm only a Protector. I don't interfere with my charge's business unless he's in danger." He paused at that, his face reverting to a sickly, sorrowful pallor. "I can't believe I let him die. I should've gone out after him."

"It's not your fault for following orders," John comforted.

"But he was killed because of my negligence! I'm lucky the Baskerville-Mortimer Protectorship is one that has spanned generations; they'd Deassign me otherwise!"

Sherlock and John looked at each other again. Throughout the Empire's history, there were always famous Protectorships, the bonds formed between Protector Assistant and charge. Their own, the Holmes-Watson Protectorship, was one that had even influenced the creation of the Protector Assistant Assignment.

"I think we'll look into your case," Sherlock said in as comforting a voice as he could muster (which wasn't very comforting at all, but it was the thought that counted). "The death does seem to be very suspicious – after all, an ordinary dog cannot open the gate on its own, so someone would have unleashed it on purpose. And if a M.A.T.I.N. was responsible for the death, then who reprogrammed it to attack Sir Charles? Either way, it clearly suggests murder." He paused. "Now, what is the matter concerning your next charge?"

"I'd come to that same conclusion, Mr. Holmes," Mortimer replied calmly. "If there's a murderer within our ranks – we're very much isolated from the rest of Devon – the rest of Dartmoor, to be honest – then that person may wish to see Sir Henry dead as well."

"You say Sir Henry's coming in on Saturday? From where, and to where?"

"He's arriving in London from Canada on Saturday. He's next of kin, as indicated by the will left by Sir Charles. A good portion of the inheritance, the title, and the Hall goes to him, and the rest to the Legacy Project. I already know Sir Henry will continue letting the state use the Hall for the Project, but he's signing the papers tomorrow."

"Mycroft will oversee that," Sherlock told John. "We'll return to London with you," he added, nodding at Dr. Mortimer. "Our train leaves at twenty-one hours tonight. See you in a bit."