The two travellers eventually left the dining cart, returning to their cold compartment. The room remained as they had left it, and Holmes contentedly pulled out his pipe and began to smoke, as Watson gazed out of the window. They soon left London, passing through snow-covered countryside as they sped on their way. The journey passed by without incident, as they chatted idly, read the papers, and dozed lightly in turn. Eventually, the train pulled up at the station, and the cries of the porter to disembark roused them from their cabin.
They dismounted the train with their luggage, to find themselves standing in several inches of snow on the platform. Although it was not snowing, the air was cold and the sky was grey, leaden and heavy with the threat of the storm to come. Shivering, Watson took a few steps forward, leaning heavily on his cane, glancing around. Only a few other travellers had dismounted the train, and they disappeared quickly, leaving only Holmes, Watson and the station-porter.
"Can I help you, gentlemen?" the porter drawled, from somewhere within his overcoat, scarf and hat, "for 'tis far too cold to be standin' around in this."
"We're expecting someone to meet us," Watson replied, politely.
"Well, I hope you don't mind staying for a few days," the man continued, as if he hadn't heard, "I s'pect trains won't be running no more for a while when that snow comes down. Bad enough as is."
"Err, yes, thank you," Watson touched his hat, and the odd porter disappeared.
Holmes lifted his bag easily, and strode through the snow to the front of the station. There, they waited under the eaves for a good few minutes. Eventually, Watson broke the silence.
"I hope Dr. Mortimer received your telegram," he commented, glancing across at Holmes.
"Indeed," the detective replied, with a frown, "it would be most inconvenient to attempt to find someone to take us to the Hall… ah, wait – a carriage approaches."
Watson turned, and indeed, an open trap was rattling down the road, led by a single shire horse, guided by a very familiar figure, which leapt down and greeted them warmly.
"My dear Mr Holmes-! Dr. Watson-! Such a pleasure to see you again! Thank you so much for coming, and so quickly as well. Sir Henry was delighted to hear news of your coming; the poor chap, his nerves are almost ruined by all that has been happening…"
"Of which you must tell us more, once we are at Baskerville Hall," Holmes said, firmly.
"Oh, yes, of course," Mortimer nodded, quickly, "do forgive me; you must be perishing cold… I am afraid that Sir Henry's personal cab has a wheel off it – an odd, unfortunate happenstance – so we are, I am afraid, limited to my little trap until it has been repaired…"
He helped them to lift up their luggage, stowing it beneath the seat, and the two of them climbed aboard, wrapping their coats around themselves tightly, as Mortimer eased the horse into a swift trot.
"We'll be there as soon as we can, gentlemen!" he called, over his shoulder, "the roads are not too bad, at the moment, but the weather has made travel difficult…"
The trap rattled along the roads, and Watson was beginning to doubt the wisdom of their decision to travel immediately; he wondered if it might have been better to wait a week or two until the weather improved. A quick glance across at Holmes betrayed nothing of what the great detective was thinking, though his eyes were half-closed against the bitter wind, and his nose and cheeks had reddened in the cold. Watson knew that he looked no better; a particularly sharp jolt made him hiss, reached involuntarily for his shoulder, which was beginning to ache as he held himself tense against the cold.
They passed through the familiar village of Grimpen, out into the country lanes. The horse's pace slowed slightly on the less well-travelled path, but they kept up a steady trot. Eventually, in the ever-growing darkness, a pinprick of light appeared. Mortimer encouraged the horse onwards, as Baskerville hall came into view. In the darkness, it was hard to see if the place had changed at all as they traversed the moor-path; however, a row of lights had been installed up the front drive, and the windows all blazed brightly, a beacon in the freezing night-time.
The trap eventually drew up to the front door, where they were met by Perkins, Sir Henry's elderly groom. He greeted them quickly, and, placing his fingers to his lips, issued a loud whistle. The front door suddenly opened, and Barrymore, the butler, appeared quickly to take their bags inside. Holmes stepped down from the trap, feeling an aching, deep stiffness in his bones, induced by the cold and inactivity of remaining seated in the trap. He stepped forwards as Watson dismounted with somewhat less grace, swearing under his breath as he stumbled slightly. Holmes reached out to steady him, but Watson waved off the assistance with an apologetic smile, and turned towards the house. Perkins quickly led the horse and trap away; as Dr Mortimer agreed that he would be staying the night, not wishing to risk a journey back to the village in the freezing darkness.
"If you'll follow me, gentlemen," Barrymore indicated the door.
The trio silently followed him up the steps and into the hall, where he closed the door. Their bags were placed at the bottom of the stairs for now, as Barrymore assisted them in removing and hanging their coats. He then lead them through to a sitting room, where a fire was blazing merrily in the hearth, the first real warmth that Holmes and Watson had felt since leaving their lodgings in London on their long journey.
"Sir Henry?" Barrymore ventured, "Dr Mortimer has returned, with Mr Holmes and Dr Watson."
"Oh! My dear fellows!" Sir Henry leapt out of his armchair and greeted them enthusiastically, shaking their hands in turn, "thank you so much for coming. Please; come in, be seated, make yourselves warm – you are all almost blue with cold! Barrymore; I should be grateful if you would ask Mrs Barrymore to provide us with some hot tea, and prepare some dinner for our guests."
"Of course, Sir," Barrymore bowed slightly and left the room, as the three new arrivals gladly took their places around the roaring fire.
Watson took a moment to take in Sir Henry's appearance; the jagged scars around his ear from the bite of the hound had faded to the stark white of an old wound, and the man had grown his hair somewhat longer than was fashionable, no doubt to attempt to disguise the slight disfigurement. He looked older than when Watson had last seen him; not just in terms of the few short years since the incident of the hound, but greyer; tired, pale, as if he had been overwrought too much for too long. He was pale, and thin, with dark circles under his eyes, though he was still lively, talkative, and enthusiastic in his greeting of those whom he considered to be his honoured guests.
Hot tea was provided, by a thin, waif-like serving girl with a pox-scarred, sallow face. She dipped a slight, sullen curtsey, and disappeared out of the door before Sir Henry could ask her to serve. He sighed.
"Please excuse Sally," he said, "I only took her on a few weeks ago. She's the niece of the Barrymores… her mother died recently, and her father asked if there was a place for her on my staff… my previous maid left just before Christmas, so I agreed to take her on. She has a lot to learn. Tea, gentlemen?"
"Allow me, Sir Henry," Dr Mortimer stepped in graciously, and served each of them with a hot drink.
As they sipped at the tea, Mortimer, Sir Henry and Watson exchanged small talk, remarking upon the modernisation and decorative works Sir Henry had undertaken in his time at Baskerville Hall. There had also been additions to the staff, as Holmes noted with interest; in addition to Mr and Mrs Barrymore, the groom Perkins, and Sally the new maid, there was also Jenkins, a gardener and grounds-keeper, who had arrived at about the same time from the nearby Grimpen village.
Warmed by the tea and the fire, they soon moved amiably from the sitting room to the dining room, where they dined on a hot soup to begin with, followed by roast beef and vegetables, and a hot fruit pudding to finish. Having dined well, and feeling fully satisfied, they again retired to the sitting room, where they seated themselves around the fire with a decanter of brandy between them. Holmes lit his pipe, and Dr Mortimer followed suit, while Watson and Sir Henry opted instead for cigarettes. Outside, it was cold, dark and snowing. Inside, it was warm, bright, and friendly. Eventually, however, Holmes leaned forward slightly in his chair.
"Sir Henry," he said, gravely, "I do thank you for your kind hospitality this evening, but I feel it is time we came down to the purpose of our visit…"
The atmosphere grew sombre, as Sir Henry nodded, slowly.
"Of course, Mr Holmes," the American agreed, his fingers tensing slightly around his glass, "and I am very grateful to you both for coming… as you will know from Dr Mortimer's letter, I… that is, we… have been… haunted… by the spectre of Beryl Stapleton."
Watson gritted his teeth slightly; he still recalled, with no small amount of anger, the sight of the poor woman's body hanging in an outbuilding at Merripit House. She had been abused and murdered by her husband, with whom she had posed as sister and brother, and although their name wasn't even 'Stapleton', it was the one that Sir Henry seemed comfortable using; better that than to be ever reminded that the callous man was a close blood relative.
"Please, Sir Henry," Holmes said, sternly, "limit yourself to the facts, and I will deduce from them your unfortunate circumstances."
"I can tell you only what I saw," Sir Henry exclaimed, "the first apparition was three weeks ago – shortly before Christmas. I hosted a party in the hall for the people at the village on Christmas Eve. The night before the party, I was relaxing in this very room. I was reading a book, alone, when I heard a tapping on the glass of the window. I looked up, and saw nothing. Returning to my book, a few moments later the tapping sounded again. There are no plants or trees, nothing nearby that could be catching the glass in the window… I looked up, and approached the window, wondering if it might be a bird or animal outside, intending to shoo it away… as I approached… she… it… that… that thing, suddenly appeared before me, outside the window…"
The colour drained from Sir Henry's face as he spoke, recalling the sight that had greeted him.
"Please describe it, Sir Henry," Holmes encouraged him.
"It… it was skeletal," Sir Henry's voice was almost a whisper, as he stared in vague horror at the window, "it… she… had Beryl's long brown hair, but… it was just a skull. It wore that lovely yellow dress… the one she wore when she… when he…"
He broke off, and took a deep, shuddering breath; "I know… I sensed that it was her, it was Beryl… All of this I took in, all in a flash… then there was a loud, mournful, wailing cry, such like as I haven't heard since… since the howl of that terrible hound… and the spectre disappeared. I don't mind telling you that I was shocked to the core… it took me a few moments to gather my wits. I called for Barrymore, Jenkins and Perkins – we searched the grounds, and found nothing. There were no footprints in the soil, which was wet from the rain, and no trace of a mortal presence…"
"How often have you seen the spectre since then – and where?" Holmes interrupted, as Watson and Mortimer listened attentively.
"Several times – usually once every two or three days," Sir Henry replied, swallowing nervously, and staring out of the window hesitantly, "the last time was… two days ago. It is always at night, always fairly late… always the spectre appears outside, and always at a window – not always on the ground floor. I have seen it two or three times from my own bedroom window. When I moved to guest rooms, the spectre… followed me."
"I have seen it," Dr Mortimer affirmed, "it is as Sir Henry describes. I have seen it twice, once from this window with Sir Henry present, and once from a bedroom window, when I consented to spend the night in a guest room. It is as… disturbing… as Sir Henry describes. Both times we made extensive searches of the grounds, and found no traces in the earth, either immediately afterwards and in the cold light of day… the phantom has been seen by the staff, too, sir… it frightened the poor maid until she left, along with the previous groundskeeper and a scullery maid hired a couple of years ago to assist Mrs Barrymore…"
"Thank you, gentlemen," Holmes interrupted, leaping to his feet, and puffing quickly on his pipe, "Most informative. Sir Henry, I would wager that this skeletal apparition is nothing more than some clever puppet, one with a human master; as was the nature of the hound. There will be some clever trickery afoot here, no doubt – someone is trying to scare you, and yet has prevented you from leaving the Hall… this mysterious puppet master wishes to keep you here, but wishes to break your spirit, and I cannot fathom yet the whys…"
"What makes you say that I am being kept here?" cried out Sir Henry, leaning forward in his chair, "how the devil do you deduce it, sir?"
"Dr Mortimer remarked on the odd, unfortunate happenstance of your coach requiring repair, Sir Henry," Holmes replied, calmly, "I took it from his tone and demeanour that neither he nor you could fathom how the damage had come about, only that a wheel had come off and in such a way that your own groom and household staff could not effect repair. My immediate thought, therefore, is sabotage."
"Why, it is the very finding of Perkins himself that he thought the damage deliberate, and all of this without even seeing the offending vehicle!" Sir Henry laughed, the first genuine sign of merriment he had made all evening, "Mr Holmes – you give me hope of being rid of this… this apparition… for the first time in these last three weeks!"
"I intend to inspect the grounds first thing this morning, when it grows light," Holmes declared, "Sir Henry, I imagine your problem to be a simple one; this 'apparition', as you call it, is being used to scare you, by a person or persons unknown. Someone wishes you harm, and has been systematically scaring away your staff but ensuring that you yourself remain. Someone is trying to scare you, and isolate you. Why, Sir Henry? Why?"
"I'm sure I don't know, Mr Holmes," Sir Henry replied, his lighter mood dissipating quickly, "but, by God, I hope that you can find out… poor Mrs Barrymore fainted dead away from shock when the thing appeared at the dining room window last week after dinner."
"Sir Henry, I shall apply all of my faculties to the problem," Holmes promised, gravely, "now, I think; little more can be accomplished this evening; I suggest that we retire for the night."
"Of course, Mr Holmes," Sir Henry nodded, in agreement, though he looked apprehensive, "I have taken the liberty of assigning you rooms in close proximity to my own… I believe Barrymore has taken up your things, so if you'll follow me…"
~*~