Sherlock Holmes and the Underpants of Death † PAGE FOUR

When we left, Holmes was mincing around with a magnifying glass held to his eye. We walked for a time, and as Baskerville Hall disappeared behind us I looked back to see him wearing trunks and unfolding a deckchair.

After an invigorating stroll round the back of some railings, where we sampled several drafts of local cider. Sir Henry insisted that we mixed it with white spirit, "to put hair on our chests." I had never encountered that particular cocktail before, and I am sure I would have recalled if I had owing to its unusual effect. From what I can recall, we spent much of the afternoon running back and forth across waste ground pretending to be aeroplanes. It was an odd sensation, knowing that Holmes was hard at work reading the sports page and we were expanding our horizons in such a fashion. Life has its odd moments.

After we had awoken from our refreshing sleep, dusk was creeping across the moor's dank exterior, and it was with hastened if not accurate step that we returned to Baskerville Hall. The doctor's warnings had become poignant in our minds since his untimely death, and our thoughts about the powers of evil being exalted after nightfall spurred us on.

As we returned to the Hall, I came upon a sight which I hoped never to chance across, despite the danger inherent in his profession. Holmes lay face down, dead to the world. There were no visible marks of violence on person, but near his limp and outstretched right hand was a bottle of the variety which holds chemicals.

After a few anxious moments, Holmes revived and answered our solicitations after his health. I asked him if he had been drinking.

"Sorry, Watson, no. It's just that all the labels came off my chemistry set, so I thought I'd test the contents by smelling the bottle. You'll be pleased to hear I've found the chloroform."

With a sigh of consternation at his eccentricity emerging once more, I helped him to his feet.

Our enquiries were continued the next day.

"That guide of ours yesterday was useful," I volunteered.

"Who was that, the man Stapleton? What is his business with the moor?"

"I could not say," I said, looking perplexed. "Perhaps he has botanical interests, or else he simply needs an encyclopaedic knowledge of the moors for some dastardly crime."

One often says such things without thinking about it.

In Holmes's absence, the Pants had made several other appearances about the village. A nearby farmer, one Arthur Jenkins, swore that he had seen the Pants prowling about the moor at night, accompanied only by the ghastly darkness and appropriate backing music. The Pants had also been spotted doing a bit of jogging and then widdling against a tree.

---

We arrived outside a stretch of cottages where we had been informed old Sir Hovis's gatekeeper, Stapleton, lived. Holmes walked up to the first cottage and knocked imperiously on the door. There came no answer for some moments, so Holmes knocked again. "God forbid they have met with foul play," he said to me hopefully. After a small time a stirring could be heard within, and the voice of a large male could be heard commenting to the effect that it would be "that bloody great detective."

The door opened, and my colleague introduced himself.

"It is I, Sherlock Holmes," and then gave me a swift kick in the rear as I almost forgot to add:

"The world's greatest living detective," and shrugged as Holmes sent a withering glance in my direction.

The man strained to listen for a moment and then called back to a frail voice which echoed forward, asking what the bugger was selling this time.

"Here, it's Sherlock 'Olmes, the world's greatest living detective. Do we want anything detecting?"

She replied in the negative, and the man was about to usher us out when Holmes interjected.

"I am not offering my services, sir. Not that you could afford themé" Holmes continued graciously as an old lady, covered in filth as is usual for the poor in these stories, walked forward and grimaced at us.

"No, sir. We are here to put some questions about Mr. Stapleton, who I believe lives nearby, god knows why, you grubby poor person."

The man took a handful of Holmes' shirt and jutted his face forward menacingly.

"Don't touch me," Holmes shrilled. "I don't know where you've been."

The larger man made the unfortunate error of grabbing at Holmes. Holmes, who has made good use of his study of boxing, at once launched into action with a useless effeminate flapping of his hands, accompanied by a chilling battle cry of "you beast you, get off get off get off." The assailant was unharmed by this feeble slapping and proceeded to tweak Holmes mercilessly.

I would normally have joined the throng with glad cry, as my appetite for battle is known and feared far and wide, but I was too busy being chased in circles round the room by the man's vicious grandmother, who sported a nasty looking pair of false choppers. These she held in her hand, and clicked them at my rear like castanets as she pursued me.

I feared for Holmes, and certainly my thoughts at the time were very far away from the dentures of the savage octogenarian who pursued me with such vigour. However I was powerless to help, upon realising this, my colleague, never one to let the grass grow under his feet, rapidly changed tactic.

Holmes abandoned the Queensbury rules and kicked his assailant in the plums.

"Aha, never fails, eh Watson?" He looked at me for reassurance but I gave him none. I pointedly blew on my fist and gave Holmes a Meaningful Stare. I wanted him to see that I had felled my own opponent with more honourable means (actually, I had used a club but Holmes had been too busy to notice).

Holmes looked sulky for a moment and ushered aside the waiting cartoonist, who was wanting to get a slow motion still of Holmes in action. I suppose my esteemed colleague did not think that a freeze frame illustration of him booting an opponent in the crown jewels did full justice to the nobility of his career.

We examined the other houses, and Holmes discovered Stapleton's address with a more than usually ungodly display of his detecting ability. He pointed at the nameplate outside one of the houses, which read:

E. Stapleton (the killer), provider of luminous things to the gentry and all round shifty character.

1 2 3 4 5 6 Next page