Holmes sent Barrymore to retrieve his pipe, and then smoked it non-stop, pacing the sitting room restlessly. Mrs Barrymore retired to the kitchen, sobbing something about being unable to cope with anymore wayward relatives.
Sir Henry poured Sally a brandy, and got her to tell the story through her choking sobs. Holmes automatically filtered out the crying and the emotion, disseminating only the pure facts. Sir Henry was fighting to get the details out of the distraught maid; Holmes wished Watson were here to lend that friendly smile, a gentle word, and possibly a sedative... Still, eventually, the truth came out…
Sally, grief-stricken over the death of her mother, had been sent by her unloving father to stay with her mother's sister, Mrs Barrymore. Alone, and friendless in the village, she had been walking back to the Hall one day when a young man (tall, thin, dark-haired, pale-faced, handsome, etc) had offered to escort her part way. He had been charming, and she, lonely, afraid, disfigured by childhood pox, had fallen for a kind word and a gentle smile. They met several more times, and he, pleading cold and poverty, had persuaded her to hide him in the house less than a week later. Almost immediately afterwards, the haunting had begun, and Sally, so infatuated with her new lover, and his promises of taking over the Baskerville fortune along with the abandoned Hall, had swept her up in a romantic whirl. She had brought him food, wine, clothes and blankets, while he had maintained his campaign of terror.
But who was this man? Sir Henry had asked; He's the man who's going to marry me and make me a lady, she had replied, stupidly, defiantly, tearfully.
Holmes snorted, dismissively, and Sally went scampering back to the kitchen, where she would no doubt get a tongue-lashing from Mrs Barrymore, followed by a hot meal, a stiff drink and an early night.
"Light the lamps outside, Barrymore," Sir Henry ordered, "hell; let's get the whole house lit up!"
Barrymore nodded and went to obey. Sir Henry crossed the room to join Holmes, who was gazing out of the window at the snow-swept moors beyond. Holmes disliked having his views obstructed; hated that this weather robbed him of all chance of tracking a friend who should otherwise have been so easily located; and worst of all, he loathed the inactivity.
"Who is this man?" Sir Henry said, at last, "Who is he, who would dare to try to drive me from the home of my ancestors?"
"At this time, I do not have sufficient evidence to deduce his exact identity," Holmes responded, his voice calm even as his mind raged in parallel to the outside storm, "I must profess, Sir Henry, I find my thoughts preoccupied…"
The young lord with the scarred face inclined his head slightly in understanding, as they gazed out of the window. The snowfall had abated somewhat, as the sickly grey light of dawn struggled to break through the stranglehold of night. Suddenly, Holmes let out a sharp cry.
"There, Sir Henry! Do you see? There!"
"I see nothing…" Sir Henry protested, but Holmes had already swept passed him, dropping his pipe on the windowsill carelessly, as he flung open the front door and strode out into the deep snow.
Sir Henry paused only to grab his heavy overcoat, pulling it on quickly as he followed the detective outside quickly. Holmes practically ran to the gate, and was through it before Sir Henry could call out.
~*~