From goodpenmanship: Sherlock Holmes investigates a prison escape.
"Ah, good morning, Watson. Your timing is impeccable, for unless I am very much mistaken, we have a client."
Indeed, no sooner had I sat down than Mrs. Hudson was climbing the stairs, closely followed by a man in a well-mended blue jacket and neat brown pants. Dark, worried eyes met mine over his thick beard and a bristly mustache.
"Thank you for seeing me, Mr. Holmes," he said, casting his gaze between us. "I'm Robert Davies."
"Yes, a guard at Newgate Prison, I perceive."
I could not help but shudder. No doubt every society must have a place to keep its criminals, and Holmes himself had dispatched many criminals to Newgate and thence to the noose. Yet the conditions at Newgate were deplorable, and I privately considered it a blot on our fair England. Holmes, for his part, seemed unperturbed.
Davies, however, gaped. "I...yes, Mr. Holmes, exactly. But how —"
Holmes waved this away impatiently. "Sit down, Mr. Davies, and tell me how I can help you."
Davies sank into the chair. "Well, it's like this. You've probably heard of the big, black dog that's supposed to haunt the prison before an execution?"
Holmes turned a quizzical glance on me. I shook my head.
Davies seemed surprised. "I thought, well, you knew who I was, easy enough." He took a deep breath. "This happened a long time ago. A fancy scholar was thrown into Newgate during a bad year. Not enough food, prisoners starving. And, well, they ate him, Mr. Holmes. But what they didn't know was he was a warlock sent to prison for charms and witchcraft and all that. And the night he died, there appeared a big black dog!"
Holmes shook his head with a small smile. "There's your Hound of the Baskervilles all over again, Watson," he said. "Allow me to guess. This dog, no doubt, avenged its master on the inmates who were responsible?"
Davies nodded. "Even the ones that shot their gaolers and escaped. The dog went after them one by one and killed them all. Only I always thought it was just a story, something the lads would tell each other at night." He swallowed. "Except every night for the past week, Mr. Holmes, I've seen it. A big black dog wandering the halls!"
There was a moment of silence; I felt the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.
Holmes smiled sardonically. "And what, exactly, do you expect me to do, Mr. Davies? Despite my colleague's somewhat lurid account of the Baskerville case, I am hardly qualified to dispel spirits from beyond the grave."
"I...I was hoping you could figure out if, if it's a real ghost. Like with the hound the doctor wrote about. Or help me get rid of it. Mr. Holmes, I'm not a coward, but I'm desperate…"
"And what have you done to deserve this ghost dog's ire?"
I shot Holmes a sharp look for his sardonic tone, but Mr. Davies blanched.
"Well, um, to tell you the truth, Mr. Holmes —"
"That would be a good start."
"One of the prisoners, well, he threatened to set the dog from the legend on me, just last week."
"Before or during the fatal beating you administered?"
Silence. Davies' face had gone as pale as milk.
Holmes leaned forward. "I find, Mr. Davies, that I am not inclined to handle your request. The rare advent of justice in a prison must be cherished."
Rage flared abruptly in Mr. Davies' face; I tensed in my chair. Though Davies did not appear to be armed, he would be no stranger to violence in his profession. After a long moment, however, Davies rose, jerked his head at us, and left the room, slamming the door shut behind him.
It was not until the sound of Davies' footsteps had faded that I relaxed and turned back to Holmes. His expression was quite unreadable. Yet something in his parting words to Davies struck me as odd.
"Holmes, you spoke of justice against Davies. Yet that must surely imply the dog is real and indeed seeking out revenge for the murdered prisoner. Surely you of all people do not believe in the supernatural?"
Holmes' mouth twitched in grim amusement. "Apart from the passing belief in Providence which you yourself have witnessed, Watson…" Inexplicably, his gaze turned briefly to the corner of our rooms, "I believe in what I can see."
A/N: Ok, so this didn't exactly follow the prompt; the escaped prisoners that inspired this story ended up being tangential. The Black Dog of Newgate is a real legend though. Bonus points if you can spot the link to one of my previous chapters!
