Dr Mortimer had no qualms about offering the use of his trap. Sir Henry ordered Perkins to hitch up Dr Mortimer's Shire horse, and the vehicle was made ready. Dr Mortimer and Sir Henry sat up front, as Holmes and Watson sat on the passenger seat. Holmes, Watson and Sir Henry all carried revolvers; Dr Mortimer demurred from action but promised to be on hand to provide transport and medical assistance in case of injury.

"Take us past Merripit House," Holmes ordered, "we will dismount around the corner and work our way back. I do not want our man to see us coming; I believe him to be armed, and I do not want to give him the opportunity to even the odds…"

Watson suppressed a shiver, though not enough to prevent Holmes from giving him a concerned look. Watson glanced away, smothering a cough, as the achingly familiar sight of Merripit House rolled into view. Watson averted his eyes; he had sore memories of that place, most of all of the sight of an innocent woman, brutalised to death by her sadistic husband…

"I would take it from the state of repair that no-one has tenanted the house since… since our last visit?" Holmes asked, carefully.

"It has been allowed to fall into ruin," Dr Mortimer confirmed, "the villagers mutter that the place is cursed… haunted, even."

"It is haunted only by a ghost of flesh and blood," Holmes declared, "this is far enough, doctor – we must now double back, and spring our trap…"

Dr Mortimer reined the horse to a halt obediently, allowing them to dismount.

"Continue back to the village," Holmes ordered, "summon the local constable, and return in all due haste, doctor!"

"Of course," Dr Mortimer nodded, "please be careful – all of you!"

He encouraged the horse into a canter, and the three other men watched as the trap went bouncing down the track. Watson and Sir Henry automatically turned to Holmes for guidance, and the detective led them carefully through the undergrowth back to the very edge of Merripit House.

Watson shuddered at the sight of the place, unable to take his eyes off the outbuildings in particular, recalling with clarity how he had cut the body of Beryl Stapleton from the cruel noose tied by her callous, now-dead husband. Holmes spared him a glance, and Watson nodded, drawing his revolver; he was ready. Sir Henry also nodded; he carried a small, silver pistol. Holmes remained unarmed, and the three of them advanced slowly towards the back door. Holmes picked the lock, and the door creaked open on obnoxiously loud hinges.

There was a long moment of hesitation, before Watson ducked into the house, staying low. He recalled the layout easily enough, and slowly made his way down the stairs to the sitting room. Memories assailed him. There, the wall against which Inspector Lestrade had been thrown by the enraged Stapleton; and over there, there were still traces of Watson's own blood on the wall, faded to an old, dark brown stain… He continued to creep forwards, ears alert for any sound. He heard something in the kitchen, and saw Holmes stiffen, stopping where he stood.

They froze like that for a long moment, before Holmes nodded again, his grey eyes holding a message of caution. Watson advanced slowly towards the kitchen; there was someone in there, but there were no other sounds or movement. Watson glanced across at Holmes, who was frowning slightly at the kitchen door.

"Sir, we number three to one," Holmes announced, suddenly, "we are armed, and you have no escape; I suggest you lay down your weapon and step out here…"

A low chuckle answered them, and a hoarse voice called back; "My, my – the famous Sherlock Holmes. When my London scout warned me that you were on your way to Dartmoor, I should have known my little game was over… too great an intellect is yours to fall for a simple puppet-ghost!"

The man slowly emerged from the kitchen, his arms relaxed and by his sides, and he was smiling slightly as he stepped forwards. Holmes could see the tip of a knife hidden up one sleeve even as he noted the passing similarity to Stapleton. The man was too short and swarthy to be an actual relative; he had darkened his hair with boot-polish or some cheap dye enough to fool a casual observer, but Holmes could see the lighter tint of his roots. His accent spoke of an educated upbringing, but his eyes were malicious and there was a hard set to his jaw that indicated rougher inclinations of character. Holmes braced himself; he doubted that this man would surrender himself to arrest peacefully.

"You are to be arrested for the harassment of Sir Henry Baskerville," Holmes informed him, "and for the assault on Dr. Watson, along with a number of other crimes, I suspect. I suggest you accompany us outside."

"I think not," the man replied, and his hand moved.

Holmes cursed himself for his slow-thinking – he had forgotten about the bottle of chloroform… right up until it was thrown in his face. He gasped in shock, and drew in a lungful of the cloying sedative. Immediately, his head began to swim, and he pitched to his knees, holding his breath. The sounds of a struggle raged above him as, blinded by the fumes, he half-crawled, half-staggered towards the kitchen. Reaching out, groping sightlessly, he found the sink… a bowl of water… and without hesitation, he plunged his head into the icy liquid.

~*~