Sherlock Holmes and the Underpants of Death † PAGE THREE

"Bah. And I paid in advance as well!" Sir Homburg's savage temper had been terribly aroused by the escape of the evening's crumpet. He demanded action, and set about it himself before any other man could stir.

The doors were opened, and through the slamming and reopening shutters the men could see a midnight of severity as the trees rocked back and forth under heavy crashes of wind.

But Sir Homburg was not a man to be dissuaded, and with a foul oath he called to his stable boy to release the hound and prepare his horse.

Such was the severity of the night that although they were all men of seasoned evil, none wanted to follow their leader into the darkness and venture onto Edward Heath at such an hour. Their manner was awed, and an unknown horror stirred among the atmosphere of the house; but in spite of this they decided to set after their leader, albeit at a distance.

And so the revellers all followed Sir Homburg out onto the moor. He had stormed far ahead of the throng on his great horse, a pack of savage hunting dogs baying at his feet.

Deeper into the moor the revellers went, their steps grown timid at sudden silence on this darkest and stormiest of nights.

As they approached a particularly dark element of the moor, the remnants of the pack of dogs ran in terror, Sir Homburg's finest hunting dogs cowed and sniffling, their proud nature reduced to naught by the spectacle which lay ahead.

When the bravest of them reached the spot where Sir Homburg had apprehended the young maid, a sight of terror fit to freeze their bowels met their hushed gaze. Sir Homburg and the unfortunate village girl lay dead, with no marks of violence on either of their persons, but it was not the scene of human corpses which filled their veins with ice.

Above the body of Sir Homburg danced a ghostly pair of bloomers, too big to fit any human buttock. They emitted a foul light and boogied with most improper relish cor blimey.

Sir Homburg's face was frozen in death, and wore an expression of complete surprise.

The guests all turned and fled, their spirits all broken by this supernatural hosiery. One of them died in his bed that night of what he had seen, and the rest of them lived out their days as broken men.

To this day, all of Sir Homburg's ancestors have lived in fear of the Pants of the Baskervilles, who will strike again when one of the cursed line be about, at night, when the powers of evil are exalted.

He finished reciting and looked up at us from his parchment, anxious to see what reaction we would have to his tale of dread. I nudged Holmes awake, and we met our host's eye.

"Well, Mr Holmes?"

"Eh? Erm, yes well, five and six an hour, ten shillings on Sundays."

"I mean, the myth."

"Ah, well, that is rot. I have no time for superstition."

At these words Sir Henry produced his wallet and started examining it closely.

"And yet the case may present fascinating angles," Holmes continued and reached for his hat.

We headed for the station, and the start of another thrilling adventure etc.

Upon arriving, Holmes hailed a cab. We particularly wished to arrive as innocuously as possible, to avoid attracting unnecessary attention which may hamper our movements as we investigated the stain which the Pants had left.

Baskerville Hall was a rambling, extensive mansion adjourning many sinister acres of dark moor. The exterior was covered in a long ribbon of ivy, from behind which the stones of the hall sat in grey isolation, apart from the fact that they were all together, or something.

As it was late in the evening, we sat down to dinner at the hall. Holmes and I changed into our dinner suit, me wearing the jacket and him the trousers. We are of rather disparate build: Holmes standing a lean six feet and myself being a perfect four foot cube, and as such the clothes are rather poor compromise.

There were eight of us sat down to dinner at Sir Henry's table. In addition to our host was a local specialist and his wife, who introduced themselves as keen ramblers. There were three other people, all locals, who introduced themselves as spares "should the plot turn nasty."

The scene could not have been more pleasant, except for the pictures adorning the walls having eyes which swivelled back forth and that secret passages kept opening and the lights going out and people disappearing. Come to think of it, it was pretty damn depressing.

Holmes led much of the conversation, holding forth on how it is possible to distinguish between over 144 different varieties of tobacco by simply reading the packet when a terrible, single howl could be heard. The candles dimmed as the chandelier swung violently. A scrabbling noise could be heard from just outside the window, and a great blustering windy noise swept through the room.

Suddenly, the table shook and the butler turned pale and dropped the dish holding the potatoes.

"It's the Pants, the Pants!" cried Barrymore, who hitched up his trousers and ran from the room screaming. Holmes remained calm, following his professional instinct to jump on top of the bookshelf screeching at the top of his voice. I saw Sir Henry who, for all his blood and will, had turned a chilled white. I myself remained calm, and sat there moistening the chair.

A terrible scream could be heard from outside.

"The old doctor!" I gasped.

"I'll give you 12-8 the old bugger's snuffed it," muttered Holmes as we ran outside.

There at the front of the house, his face wearing a mask of terror, lay the body of the good doctor. At first examination there was no sign of how he could have met his end. Holmes knelt down where he lay and took his pulse, watch and wallet.

"Are you sure he's gone?" asked our distraught host, hiding his cheque book.

"Oh he's dead all right," said Holmes.

The unfortunate doctor wore an expression of terror that seemed to freeze our very blood. Whatever had caused such a reaction was beyond our imagination, but, it has been well said that wherever the threat of death by murder reared its ugly head, Sherlock Holmes could be seen departing with a speed that defied the human eye to follow him.

The next day we arose early, as Sir Henry had expressed a desire to have company whilst he explored the locale. I agreed keenly, but Holmes begged to be excluded as there were many vital clues at the scene of the crime which demanded his attention. Sir Henry had arranged a guide for us, a man called Stapleton who lived on the edge of his estate.

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