Sherlock Holmes and the Underpants of Death † PAGE FIVE

"Good god, Holmes!" I said in a voice hushed with awe. "It's, why it is almost the world of the Evil One."

We had arrived at Stapleton's gate just as he walked out of his garden shed, clutching a pot of luminous paint. As we walked, he kicked aside a box labelled "Enormous Paintproof Knickers."

He greeted us fervently, and we shook hands. I noticed Holmes had great difficulty getting the odd phosphorous stains off his hands from where he had touched Mr. Stapleton's palm.

"I wondered if we might interrupt your study for a few moments, Mr. Stapleton, and have a word with you about the terrible occurrences on the moor."

Stapleton inclined his head slightly, as if unsure of whether to speak.

"I have some small theories on the matter, and I wonder if your views match my own." Holmes held up his notebook, the pages of which had spelled doom for a many a villain.

Stapleton ignored him until his guest cleared his throat to speak again. Before Holmes had time to say anything, Stapleton began to address us, in the manner of one who is unloading much.

"Pants? Luminous pants? Why, I've never heard anything so ridiculous. Do you honestly think that I can terrorise the moor by releasing a hideous pair of glowing long johns onto them? I mean, does that sound credible, playing off the incredible dark and eerie atmosphere of this terrible, evocative place and use that as a means with which to dissuade those who would venture forth?"

Holmes looked at him with astonishment, and compared Stapleton's words with the theory in his own notebook, which read "Buggered if I know."

Stapleton wound his comprehensive remarks to a close.

"....why, I've never heard anything so preposterous in my life." said he.

"Hang on, hang on," said Holmes, trying to write the plot down on the back of an old envelope. "What did you say after 'claim the wealth which isn't rightfully mine'?"

"You fool, Holmes. I suppose you think I killed Sir Hovis to get my hands on the Baskerville fortune, owing to the fact that I am the illegitimate heir to the line," he continued, and Holmes, scarcely believing his luck, had run out of envelopes to write on. He was jotting the basis of his case down on the back of a passing servant, which these novels seem to be full of. Doubtless he would give tuppence to the fellow afterwards, having neatly copied out all that he had written on the wretch's grimy person.

"So," Stapleton continued, "I suppose that, you, great detective that you are, immediately noticed that I have webbed fingers."

Holmes looked at Stapleton's fingers with bulging eyes.

"And having noticed the Baskerville webbed fingers on the family portraits—"

"What family portraits?" Holmes hissed in my ear.

"So, on returning to Baskerville hall..."

Holmes turned to me with enquiring eyes, "Where's Baskerville Hall?" he began, but I silenced him with a wave of my ear trumpet and continued listening to the plot.

"You realised the validity of my claim to the entire fortune and think that I will stop at nothing until it is mine."

By this point Holmes had run out of poor people to write on and had started scribbling on his own naked flesh.

And so it went on, evil plans, reviving the old Baskerville legend, knowing Sir Henry had a bad heart, etc. By the time he'd finished, Holmes had given up trying to write the thing down and was lying down, banging his fists on the floor and sobbing.

Stapleton—or our benefactor, as I now thought of him—left with his parting shot:

"Not another word, sir. No, I've nothing left to say," and I for one believed him.

As he went, Holmes lifted his head from the floor and called after him.

"Just a minute," called Holmes after the retreating figure. "Is this the one where I fall off the waterfall at the end?"

Later that evening, Sir Henry demanded a report of Holmes' progress. I was evident that the poor man's nerve was wearing thin, for he kept on referring to my celebrated colleague as "you pompous great tit," and a "waste of good food."

After an uncomfortable dressing down, whereat Sir Henry became so personal I scarce wondered at even my colleague's legendary patience at enduring so intimate an ear bashing, our host left, after having backed Holmes up against the wall.

When he was sure Sir Henry was out of earshot, Holmes shook his fist in the direction he had retreated in.

"And let that be a lesson to you," he muttered. I asked him what his next move was.

"We have no choice, Watson. Sir Henry's patience is wearing thin, and I happen to know he still has cheques left."

"What do you plan to do," I hissed, anxious to discover the exact nature of my masterful friend's scheme with which he intended to resolve this most baffling of cases.

Holmes shrugged. "We'll stake him out on the moor and see what happens. Then one way or another we'll find something out."

"Ah," I noticed my friend's modesty. "You mean, you have worked it all out and must simply obtain the irrefutable proof you need to wrap the matter up perfectly."

"The world's greatest living detective," chorused the Vienna Boys' Choir, who just happened to be passing at that exact moment.

"Don't put it on too thick, Watson. There are no tourists about."

That night we waited for many hours upon the cold, lonely moors. I expect Edward Heath had never been that popular before.

Holmes stood by my side, and I could feel his tension as we kept our lonely vigil in a spot so remote that our imaginations took us a merry dance into the horrors that exist only in the night, when the powers of evil are exalted.

"What time is it, Holmes?" I whispered.

Holmes took out his watch and consulted it.

"Half past exalted," he said.

The minutes ticked by at what seemed like enormous length, as is the case when a keen and tense wait is afoot.

At last it seemed our wait was at an end. We could hear footsteps, and Sir Henry wandered into view, fresh from having visited his sick friend. Clearly the visit had taken its toll upon the poor man's already wasted nerves. He could hardly keep his feet in a straight line upon the path as he staggered home, dropping part of his kebab as he did so.

Then it occurred, and I pray the angels and saints that what I saw that night will never be visited upon me or any of my line.

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