Prompt: Moonlight, from W.Y. Traveller
The moonlight and a small fire are deucedly hard to read or write by. Indeed, I often wondered what the point of the fire was at all, as it hardly gave off enough warmth to loosen my nearly frozen fingertips. Writing is difficult and I shall endeavor to be short.
Still, I am not given to complaining, particularly when on a case, and one of this magnitude! The Baskerville case shall, I believe, prove to me among the most unique in my history. Few cases have offered such twisted motives or such eccentric characters, to say nothing of the wild and romantic setting of the moors and the distinct local flavor of the legend the as yet unknown criminal borrowed as inspiration for his crime.
Because of course I set no stock at all in the story of a ghostly hound. Such things are mere stories to scare children, though certainly the entire adult population of the area seems to believe in its truth. Sir Henry, if Watson's word is correct, is the lone outlier. From what little I have read of Canadian wildlife, it is no surprise the new proprietor of Baskerville Hall is not afraid of a mere dog. It is my opinion that no small number of unsolved Canadian murders are in truth the work of moose or bears.
Someday I shall write a monograph on the subject of wildlife and its importance to criminal investigation. Not, however, until I return to the comfort of my Baker Street rooms. Which, I hope, will be soon enough so I do not have to sleep among the rocks and caves of the moors and wait for my hired boy to bring me such small foodstuffs as he is able to get for me and I am able to store and use.
Watson would accuse me of complaining if he were here, though he ought to know me well enough now to know that I far prefer this discomfort to the boredom and lethargy that plagues me at Baker Street. It matters not where I lay my head and take my rest, provided that I have work to engage me in my waking hours. This makeshift campsite is all I need. The time away from Baker Street and its myriad distractions is even welcome on a case such as this. I can concentrate totally and completely upon the case at hand, though my distance from the hall is hindering my efforts somewhat. As is the murderer hiding out on the moors just as I am. That is a simple matter of an escaped prisoner that has little to do with the death of Sir Charles Baskerville, though Watson has evidently got on his trail and thinks himself very clever for having done so, for all that I have to hear about the escaped convict in his letters.'
That is unfair. Watson has dutifully been doing as I asked, which I asked knowing full well that criminal investigation is not among his many talents (if it were, surely after the years spent at my side he would have shown some improvement). His reports of the escaped convict have at least prevented the two investigations from becoming confused, allowing me to keep my full focus on the Baskerville case. The other is too simple for my notice, though I am certain to remain aware of it enough so that I do not meet with this violent fellow on the moors. I should not like to fight for my life in a landscape unfamiliar to me. Especially one such as this.
Already I have had to pay extraordinarily close attention to my surroundings, lest one wrong footstep sends me sinking into mud so thick I would not be able to free myself. I confess it taxes even my observational skills, unused as I am to having to turn them to the natural world. It is a challenge to live as our ancestors must have (I have always had an interest in our ancient ancestors, as Watson will tell you), though one I should prefer to undertake in a friendlier environment. The moors, especially in the moonlight, when their emptiness and desolation are most apparent, are not that. Watson agrees with me, for his letters are full of romantic descriptions of the loneliness of the moor rather than clear observations of the case at hand. No doubt he will turn these letters into one of those dreadful stories, or God forbid, even a novel.
I am sure it will make a fine one, however much I find such nonsense demeaning to the work at hand. But even I am not so blind to the literary arts that I cannot see how this setting lends itself perfectly to such an endeavor. If I were given to flights of fancy, I might say it is even better suited to a horror novel. Perhaps Watson ought to try his hand at that instead.
A cry splits the air, though I am certain it is the wind blowing across the moors. I have become accustomed to the strange sounds produced by both the animals and the elements in this place, though I must admit I found them disconcerting at first. Of course there is a rational explanation, but I can easily understand how people believe the area to be haunted. This place would be perfectly suited to it, if such a thing existed.
Still, knowing the rational explanation does nothing to make the loneliness or danger less. I will be glad to leave the moors behind, preferably with the case solved and Sir Henry safely ensconced in his ancestral hall. He can have the moors to himself; the dangers and strangeness of the moors do little for anyone else beyond looking eerie in the moonlight.
Though perhaps I ought to be grateful for the moon, such as it is. I would like even less to be out on the moors without its light.