Sherlock Holmes and the Underpants of Death † PAGE SIX

We heard a pounding of hooves, an unnaturally fast, rhythmic pace. No beast could move so deftly along the treacherous moors on so dark a night. My blood curdled even as I stood, and the very moors seemed to shake beneath the vast tread.

It came into view.

Galloping at incredible pace, exactly along Sir Henry's path, was the most enormous, fearsome pair of pants I had ever seen. It was an unnatural green glow along the shadows of the moor's night. Even as my heart stilled Sir Henry turned around, and as he saw that the terrible pants were nearly on him he gave one hoarse cry and fainted dead away.

Holmes raced for the spot where he fell, and I, hand on my revolver, made to follow my friend's bold example.

The Pants could be seen disappearing into the distance. Holmes and I ran after it, stopped twenty paces away, and fired shots after shot at the phantasmic lingerie which had terrorised one of England's noblest families for many centuries.

I had served in India as an army doctor and was no stranger to firearms, having used them when it came to recovering medical fees from fleeing patients. But Holmes was a crack shot and emptied his revolver harmlessly into a tree stump four feet away from the hideous spectacle of the Pants.

However, some of our bullets hit home, and the Pants fell and lay still. I stooped to help Holmes attend to the unconscious form of Sir Henry, but I when I saw Holmes had his wallet I decided further medical attention would be unnecessary.

We ran over to the body of the Pants, shining our torches upon the shimmering ghostly bloomers. Wearing them was a wizened old man, clutching at his todger and muttering about ecomonics. I heard several involuntary gasps, and I indeed lost a certain amount of poise as I recognised a man recently elevated to the peerage, who had done sterling work as one of our most recent chancellors.

"It seems that Stapleton, fiend that he was, captured an escaped Conservative peer and kept him in a cage on the moor. Then he would let him roam at night, searching for port and servants, clad in these Pants of the Devil, putting the wind up many of the locals."

"Then surely, that noise at dinner—"

"Yes, Watson. The peer naturally smelt the food and sought it out, with the result that our dinner acted as bait. All over the village adjourning (which we haven't mentioned until now) the legend caught like wild fire thanks to this most cunning exploitation of the inventiveness terror may wreak in the human imagination. Yes, Watson. It was my belief from the first that these unworldly drawers were merely a hoax."

"What, Holmes. Fake Pants! What is this world coming to?"

"I know, Watson. It is the devil's own trick."

"But how is it possible? Stapleton was with the other guests on at least two occasions when the Pants could clearly be seen wandering the moors."

"Yes, Watson. But mark the fiendish cunning. I investigated the scene where the Pants appeared the night we first stayed here. You may remember that I spent a long time examining the spot."

"Well, I don't know about that, Holmes. Certainly I remember hearing that you were wandering around the place sniffing a pair of Lady Baskerville's—"

"Thank you, Watson. Yes, many hours I spent collecting clues," he said, rifling through the sheaf of notes he had taken while Stapleton had thoughtfully dictated the plot.

"It is my belief that the Pants were no more than a human ploy to distract our attention. We must find Stapleton at once and ask him what the ending is."

I clutched my forehead as a most pressing thought alarmed every sense in my head.

"But Holmes! What of the killer? Where is Stapleton? This ruthless, evil man must be brought to justice!"

Holmes smiled quizzically.

"I think we may confidently leave Stapleton to his fate. He, playing upon the myth of the ghostly bloomers which haunt the Baskervilles, has grown overconfident as to his prowess navigating the moor and will meet his just desserts very sharply."

As if on cue, a large splash could be heard into the distance on Edward Heath.

"Eeeeaaarrrrrggghhhh...." a voice said, followed by "was that all right, Mr. Holmes?"

Holmes quickly gave a thumbs up in his direction, and then turned back to me, thoughtfully patting a large bulge in his coat pocket shaped like a wodge of cash.

"I think, Watson, that that is that."

We returned to the little group surrounding the prostrate intended victim. The recovering Sir Henry attempted to brokenly thank Holmes for saving his life and reason, but Holmes waved him aside, careful to not to miss out on any money.

"Ah yes," he said as we departed the scene. "Never let it be said that whilst evil doers roam free, and while good (and wealthy) citizens live in peril, that the world will be a poorer place owing to the idleness of.....Sherlock Holmes!"

He finished on definite upbeat, arms akimbo and looking at me expectantly. I looked all around us at a variety of interesting flora and fungi and yawned elaborately.

"I said.....Sherlock Holmes!" Holmes repeated once more.

"Turned out fine again," I said, and toddled off for a quick slash against a tree.

I turned back to my colleague, who was standing with his recently outstretched arms flagging somewhat and his now departed client nowhere in sight to help.

"Oh, that's rich," said Holmes. "There's bleeding gratitude for you."

I took his arm.

"Let us go, Holmes, and bathe. I'll even sit at the end with the taps," and with that Holmes brightened considerably, and we walked off together into our respective dawns.

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