A/N as per chapter 1
Many thanks to all who read this and all who reviewed:) Although this is the end of the long poem, there are 2 more moor(! )related pieces to follow; a shorter poem, and a piece written with Lemon Zinger.
Holmes and companions do not belong to me.
Watson POV
Moor Verse 5
The shots we fired meant Stapleton would know we stopped his hound,
We'd check the house, but understood he'd likely gone to ground.
We found the door wide open, so swiftly hurried in,
One room was locked; we heard the sound of moaning from within.
Holmes kicked the door, above the lock; we entered in, all three,
And saw the strangest object we had ever had to see.
The room was a museum, a botanist's delight,
And tethered to a central post, a dreadful, hopeless sight.
A figure, wrapped in sheets and towels, with dark eyes full of grief.
We unswathed the bonds, tore off the gag and stared in disbelief,
We'd freed the wife of Stapleton; we saw she'd been ill-used,
With weals and bruises visible, her mind and soul abused.
The hope that he still loved her, had kept her in this place,
She'd endured deceit and solitude, ill-usage and disgrace.
But now she knew he'd fooled her, her wasted life was mourned,
And Hell could have no fury like this tragic woman scorned.
She knew where he would flee to, his refuge on the moor,
An old tin mine on Grimpen mire, was where he'd headed for.
The mire was dark and treacherous; some wands had shown his way,
But as the thick white fog rolled in, were hidden where they lay.
He might get in, but not get out, was trapped by his own hand,
We had him at our mercy; it could not be better planned.
It was clear that in the fog-wreathed night, pursuit would be in vain,
We'd rest from our exertions, in the morning search again.
We had to tell Sir Henry what the Stapletons had done,
The web of lies and subterfuge the botanist had spun.
He took the news quite bravely of the girl he had adored,
His nerves and health were shattered, needing time to be restored.
Next morning, Mrs Stapleton revealed her husband's track.
She showed the wands which guided him across the moor and back.
We followed them from tuft to tuft, as closely as we could,
But several times we missed a step, and sank in thigh deep mud.
The reeds and water plants produced an odour of decay,
The mire plucked at our heels as though enticing us to stay.
Then Holmes espied, on cotton-grass, an object, small and black,
And nearly lost his life in an attempt to bring it back.
The object was the boot, Sir Henry lost in London town,
And Stapleton had used it for his scent, then thrown it down.
And that was all we ever found, no trace of Stapleton,
No chance of prints in rising mud to show where he had gone.
We knew the mire had claimed him on his final panicked flight,
Buried in the huge morass, which swallowed him that night.
And Holmes declared he'd rarely seen a stranger case before,
And swept his long arm out towards the mire and endless moor.
A few weeks on, in Baker Street, we talked about the case,
The details of that dreadful time, the fears we'd had to face.
Sir Henry and James Mortimer had been that afternoon,
A trip abroad was planned; we hoped his health recovered soon.
The complex nature of the crime, meant weeks of work ahead,
But Holmes declared a different plan, an evening off instead.
The logical solution, to a bleak November day,
A box to see"Les Huguenots", Marcini's on the way.
End