There is no greater challenge for a writer than to try and recreate the style of another, especially someone whose style and characters are universally known and loved. But recently, while sidelined with a fever, I decided that I would write my very own, original Sherlock Holmes story in the style of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. It's a bit long, so here is the first half of the tale. Please, comment and tell me what you think! Part II to follow next week.
THE
MONSTER IN THE MARSH
By
Dr.
John H. Watson, MD
(transcribed
by Lewis B. Smith)
My
friend Mr. Sherlock Holmes scoffed at the thought of the supernatural. This is not to say that he was an atheist; in
fact, he once told a vicar, after helping locate the man’s missing daughter,
that pure logic led him to believe our world was simply too orderly and structured
to be a product of chaos. That being
said, however, Holmes turned up his nose at the thought of witches, vampires, demons,
werewolves, ghouls, and giant ghostly hounds.
Such things, he believed, were the products of a fevered imagination –
or else clever ruses created by evil men to mask their dark deeds with an aura
of fear and dread.
Now
that both of us have retired from active life, however – he to his beloved
Sussex Downs and me to my comfortable cottage in Hampshire – I can relate the
particulars of one case I recall which, for just a moment, made Holmes question
his skepticism. I asked his permission
over the telephone before taking up my pen, and he granted it with a chuckle.
“Indeed,
Watson, you have so often portrayed me as a genius far above my actual humble
abilities, your readers may not be happy to see how thoroughly flummoxed I was
in this instance!” he said.
“I
was equally misled, as you may recall,” I told him.
“My
dear Watson, at the risk of sounding a bit uncharitable, you were frequently
guilty of, shall we say, barking up the wrong tree?” he teased me.
“Indeed
I was,” I said, “which is why your ability to find the right one always
impressed me so. But, in all honesty, Holmes, you often set me barking up one
tree in order to distract your quarry while you climbed another!”
“Bravo,
Watson!” he said. “And you always played
along beautifully. Do me a favor, old
friend, and do not shortchange yourself in this narrative. You do that far too often in your writings,
and in this case you did guess the truth before I did.”
With
that, we said our farewells and I sat down to write this account.
***********************
It
was a wet spring day in the fiftieth year of our beloved Queen’s reign when I
returned to Baker Street after a morning excursion, feeling quite pleased with
myself. I bounded up the steps to 221B
and set my package down by the fireplace, hanging my hat and cloak on the coat
rack and warming my hands before the fire.
Holmes was seated in his overstuffed chair, facing a rather distressed-looking
young man whose soggy state told me that he had not preceded me by much.
“Good
morning, Watson! I am glad your wager on
Barleycorn paid off so well,” he said.
I
stopped dead in my tracks. I suppose I
should have been used to it after all these years, but confound it, how could the man have known?
“Come,
come, dear Watson,” he said. “You left
the racing form on the table with the name of a certain dark horse underscored
thrice. I see by the white clay adhering
to your left heel that you walked past the construction at the old Cathedral
just this side of Whitechapel. Its hue
is quite unique. What place is there in
that neighborhood that a respectable widower like yourself would frequent
during the daylight hours? Only your
favorite bookmaker’s establishment. The
races at Sussex would have ended almost two hours ago, and the results would
have been cabled in almost immediately.
I can see the claim stub for your winnings peeking out of your vest
pocket, and that large bag bearing the stamp of Hastings Booksellers tells me
that the ten-volume, Corinthian leather-bound collection of Cicero’s works that
you have been eyeballing for the last month or so has now found a home in your
library. Really, old chum, it was a very
simple bit of reasoning.”
“You
always make it sound so when you explain it, Holmes! But your powers of observation are indeed
uncanny,” I said. I could have sworn I
had stuck the stub deep enough into my vest pocket so as to be invisible, but
sure enough, a tiny corner of it was visible, due to my shifting around to
remove my cloak. Still, it could have
been any piece of paper. How did he
always know?
“Your
bookmaker uses a particularly cheap grade of paper that yellows quickly and
distinctly,” Holmes said. I didn’t even
ask; he’d obviously seen me glance at my pocket.
“I
begin to think I have indeed made the right decision coming here,” the young
man said.
“I
certainly hope that is true,” said Holmes.
“Now, sir, you had barely begun your narrative. As I’m sure you know, Doctor Watson is my
indispensable colleague and foil. Would
you be so kind as to begin again, for his benefit?”
The
young man stood and moved closer to the fire.
His clothes were quite sodden, and it was a chilly afternoon. I took advantage of his proximity to study
him, trying to employ some of my friend’s methods of observation and deduction.
Our visitor was tall and thin, with broad shoulders slightly stooped and
calloused hands. His hair was thick and black and unruly, although he had
obviously made some effort to comb it into order. His shoes were soaked and muddy, with heavy
brown clay clinging to the instep. He was pale, his eyes red, and he was obviously
under a great deal of stress. He had the
look of a Welshman, and when he spoke, his accent confirmed my observation.
“I
hardly know how to begin,” he said. “It
only happened this morning, at first light, and I hopped on the first train to
London, having heard of your reputation and hoping there was something that you
could do. But I’ve barely got it all
sorted out in my head, even now, sir.”
“Start
with the beginning,” Holmes said calmly, “and, having proceeded through until
the conclusion, finish.”
The
young man ran his fingers through his hair and sighed.
“All
right, all right,” he said. “I know I’m
babblin’ like a right lunatic. I am just
eaten up with fear, Mr. Holmes, at the thought that she is out there somewhere,
alone and hurt!”
“The
sooner I know who she is and what has happened, the sooner I can be of
assistance,” Holmes said. “Watson,
please pour our guest a glass of brandy, if you would be so kind.”
I
took the snifter and poured three glasses, handing one to our guest, one to
Holmes, and taking the last for myself.
Afterward, I positioned myself by the fire and waited to hear the tale.
“My
name is Donovan, sir, Donovan Jones of Westchester, originally. My wife and I moved out to Mickledon five
years ago because there was money to be made peat farming in the old marsh
there. We did well, at first, and our
little girl Emily – oh, poor Emily!” he sobbed, and I handed him my handkerchief. He blew his nose, composed himself, and went
on.
“As I
was saying, Emily grew up on the edge of Mickledon Marsh, and she loved it
there - knew all the old paths and rabbit runs and tumbledown stone
dwellings. She would catch newts and
minnows with her bare hands, set live traps for rabbits and try to keep them as
pets, even though they always ran off. I
worried for her at first, but she understood the dangers of the Marsh as well
as any native, and knew how to avoid them.
That’s why this is so hard, sir.”
He
looked as if he might start to weep again, but took a deep breath and
continued.
“For
the last few nights, sir, there’s been strange noises coming from the
marsh. Enormous, loud bellows like
nothing anyone near has ever heard before.
Two men on the north end told me three days ago that they saw something
monstrous in the water, twice the size of their fishing boat, and when it moved
towards shore they ran straight off. They were all saying that the Monster of
the Marsh had returned after all these years, but of course that’s right nonsense. Still, there was something big and dangerous
out there.”
“So I told Emily – by
God, sir! I warned her straight up! – not to play near the water any more. And, for the last day or so, she had
obeyed. But this morning, the storms had
moved through and it was nice and clear – I’d say we sent them your way,
because the train took me straight back into the downpour – and she woke up
ahead of me and her mother. I’d had a
brutal hard day the day before, loading up peat wagons, and was deeply asleep,
and my wife Alice was up and down all night with our baby son, Jacob. So when we began to stir, it was an hour or
more after first light. I didn’t notice
at first that Emily was gone, but when I did, I ran straight out the back
door. I could see her tracks in the
soggy grass, headed straight down to the water.
I ran after them, but saw no sign of her, until -”
He
stopped his tale once more, overcome with emotion. He blew his nose again, and without asking,
poured himself another glass of brandy and drank it down in two swallows.
“Just
a few yards from the water’s edge, sir, the grass and mud was all torn up. There was this huge smear of blood, and I
found one of little Emily’s shoes flung a fair distance away. I was holding it in my hand, still in
absolute shock, when I spotted something floating in the water a few feet
out. I waded out – it was past my knees,
and the bottom is hard clay there – and pulled it up. It was her dress, sir. Most of it, anyway. It was ripped up something awful, and not
even the water had managed to wash all the blood out of it. Oh, Mister Holmes, I am most fearful that my
darling daughter is dead!”
Holmes
had been sitting in perfect silence, his fingers templed below his chin, only
his furrowed brow betraying how troubled he was by this tale. He folded his hands in his lap and spoke.
“That
isn’t all, is it?” he said.
“Not
quite, sir,” Jones continued. “I waded
back to the shore, holding her dress in one hand and that poor little shoe in
the other. I looked down in the clay,
and next to the water I saw a pair of enormous footprints. They were over a foot across, Mister Homes,
with massive claws that had dug deep into the clay as it lunged out of the
water. As I stared at them, I heard it
again, closer than I ever had before – a monstrous bellowing. For a moment I almost believed that the old
tales were true, and that the monster really had come back! So I ran back
towards the cottage as fast as I could.
But I couldn’t help myself, I had to look back. A haze was rising from the water as the sun
hit all the rain from the night before, but I saw them anyway, sir, plain as I
can look out your window and see yonder gas light.”
“What
did you see, man?” Holmes demanded sharply.
“Eyes,
sir, staring up out of the water. The biggest eyes I have ever seen – and they
were nearly a yard apart, sir. Nothing
in England has eyes that far apart! They were watching me, glowing slightly red
in the hazy sunlight. Then they blinked
once, and slid back beneath the water, and I saw the tumult created as
something huge swam off into the deeps of the Marsh,” he concluded. “I came and told my wife, and she was quite
devastated. I sent up the road for her
friend, Evelyn, and then ran straight to the train station and caught the first
train to London. Timed it perfect – I
waited only a few minutes for it to pull into the station, and it was an
express.”
“Fascinating,”
Homes said. “Indeed, not since the case
of Lord Baskerville have I run into an enigma of such magnitude. I shall gladly take your case, Mister Jones,
and if we leave now, we can catch the four o’clock train and be back in
Mickledon before eight o’clock. Watson,
are you available?”
“My
intern, Mister Nicholson, can cover my practice for a day or two,” I said. To be honest, since my dear Mary’s death, I
had stopped taking new patients and my practice had dwindled to about thirty
old friends whom I could not bear to send away. Oh, how I miss that poor girl
to this day!
“You’ll
need your service revolver, of course,” he said, “and I think I shall bring
something that packs a bit more firepower, considering our friend’s story.”
He
vanished into his bedchamber and returned with an enormous rifle that I had
never seen before.
“Good
heavens, Holmes, where did you come by that?” I asked.
“Sir
Walter Garland, the noted elephant hunter, gave it to me when I recovered his
wife’s emerald necklace from Buckingham Burglar,” he said. “It was one of his most prized hunting
rifles. This weapon has felled over a
hundred bull elephants.” He patted the
barrel confidently and stuffed the rifle into his game bag. “Well, Mister Jones, let’s head to the train
station. I imagine that Inspector
Lestrade will be eager to accompany us.”
I had
barely heard the footfalls on the steps leading to our door, but Holmes knew
the Scotland Yard detective’s distinct gait by heart – no surprise, considering
how often the Inspector came to visit.
Before the first knock had sounded, Holmes called out to him.
“Spare
the paneling, for once, Lestrade, and come on in,” he said.
Lestrade,
red-faced, heavy-set, and sour dispositioned as ever, stepped across the
threshold and glared at my friend.
“For
your information, Mister Holmes, I was going to ring the bell this time,” he
said.
Holmes
smiled cheerfully, less because it amused him than because it irritated the
Scotland Yard official so much. “Then
we can say we spared the poor bell rope,” he said, “for you seem to be in a
mood to yank on or beat on something today.
Seldom has your step on the stair been quite so forceful!”
“Child
murder angers me, Mister Holmes,” he said.
“Is this Donovan Jones?”
“Yes,
that’s me,” the Welshman said. “I am
glad to see you, sir! Can you help us
find my daughter?”
“Glad
to see me indeed!” Lestrade snorted.
“Jones, you are under arrest for the murder of your daughter Emily!”
“Me?”
he said in shock. “Sir, this is
preposterous! I came straight to London
to get Mister Holmes to help me find her.
And – and – she’s not dead! We
don’t know that she is dead yet!!”
“After
you left, your wife called our local man, Inspector George Clinton. Good man, George, he knows how to ask the
right questions!” Lestrade pulled out a pair of shackles and advanced on the
terrified Welshman. “Isn’t it true,
Mister Jones, that just last week you purchased a life insurance policy on your
little girl? What kind of man buys a
life insurance policy for a seven year old?”
Anger
replaced fear on Jones’ face. His fists
balled up, and I braced myself to step between the two if necessary.
“Gentlemen,
please,” Holmes said. “I prefer there
not to be any fisticuffs in my flat unless I am a participant. Now, Lestrade, please restrain yourself for
just a moment. Watson, pour the
Inspector a brandy – it is rather beastly out!
Mister Jones, would you care to answer the detective’s question?”
Jones
still looked angry, but he took a deep breath.
“I
bought policies for all of us,” he said.
“They are simple burial policies – they cover the cost of the burial
plot, the casket, and the gravediggers and parson’s services, with a pittance
left over. We’re not so bad off now, but
times can change. One of our friends
lost her wee boy last year, and she didn’t have enough money to bury him. We took up a collection to cover the cost. I didn’t ever want meself or me family to be
in such a spot, so I talked it over with Alice, and we decided to cover all of
us, even the baby. One less thing to
worry about when the time comes is all, Inspector.”
Lestrade
listened to this explanation, and his expression softened a bit.
“Perhaps
your man Clinton asked the right question, but didn’t wait for a complete
answer,” Holmes suggested.
“I
suppose that is possible,” the Inspector said.
“I’ll hold off arresting you until I can verify your story, Mister
Jones. But I won’t let you out of my
sight.”
“Then
you must accompany us to Mickledon,” Holmes said. “This unnecessary drama has cost us time, and
the train leaves in half an hour.”
“Oh,
I’ll be glad to accompany you, Holmes,” Lestrade says. “I can’t have you buggering up Clinton’s case
with your wild theories. And as for you,
Mister Jones, if you are indeed innocent of any crime, I apologize. But for heaven sakes, sir, when you need
help, come to Scotland Yard first next time.
Mister Holmes is an amateur – and admittedly talented, one, but still an
amateur. Investigating a murder is a job
for professionals!”
“But
we don’t know that she’s dead!” Jones wailed again as we walked out the door
and down the stairs.
****************
“Now,
Mister Jones, if you would, tell me about this legendary monster of Mickledon
Marsh,” Holmes said, lighting his Meerschaum pipe as the train left the
station. We had barely made it in time
for the express, but now the slums of London were flashing by as we headed
north and west.
“Well,
there’s a carving of it on the walls of the old church,” Jones said. “Got knocked about a bit during the
dissolution of the monasteries back in King Henry’s day, but since it was plain
stone and not marble or gold, they just left it there and abandoned the church
not long after. But the church’s library
was moved over to the new rectory, and Parson Ralson read me the story one
afternoon last week from the old chronicles, when the noises started up and I
heard others talking about it.”
“What
does the carving look like?” I asked, my curiosity piqued.
“A
huge scaly beast with bulging eyes and enormous teeth,” he said. “A bit like St. George’s dragon, but without
any wings or anything. Long, serrated,
wicked looking tail it had, too!
Couldn’t tell much about its legs – they were closest to the floor and
the mobs had banged them up with hammers long ago.”
“Give
us the Parson’s story, please,” Holmes said, shooting me a cross glance. I must confess, to my shame, that I rolled my
eyes at him.
“Well,
sirs, according to the Parson, it was during the days of Alfred of Wessex that
a great dragon emerged from the marsh,” Jones began.
“A
dragon!” Lestrade snorted. “What
medieval balderdash!”
“Primitive
people resort to the supernatural to explain what they cannot understand,”
Holmes said calmly. “Pray continue, my
good man.”
Lestrade
closed his eyes and slowly dozed off, but I listened intently – such tales have
always fascinated me, and this was no exception.
“Well,
this beast lived in the water but could roam far on land,” said Jones. “It killed nearly threescore people in a
period of a year. It was hot that year;
a tremendous drought was going on. The Marsh held the only drinking water for miles,
and it seemed no matter how many people banded together, the beast always
managed to lunge out where least expected and grab whoever it could. At night it would emerge and hunt, even
tearing down peasant huts and barns.
Men, women, children, cattle, and sheep – it consumed them all greedily.
Finally, King Alfred sent three of his mightiest knights, and they hunted the
beast for a week. Eventually they caught
it out of the water, and after a mighty battle, Sir Percival of Lufkin ran it
through the heart with his blade, and as it wallowed in its death throes, Sir
Malcolm of Donderry drove his sword through its mighty neck. Sir Geoffrey of Leicester was slain in the
fight. For years after a statue of him
stood in the town square, but they say the Roundheads knocked it down during
the Civil War.”
“Was
there any more to the story?” Holmes asked.
Jones
furrowed his brow. “Let’s see, Mister
Holmes, there was a bit more, I think.
The head was sent to London and displayed in King Alfred’s court for the
rest of his reign. The Chronicle said
that the beast was over four fathoms in length and its body was a yard and a
half wide at the widest. It also said
the Monster of Mickledon Marsh was the last known dragon slain in England.”
“An
entertaining tale, to be sure,” Holmes said calmly.
“It
sounds like the ‘Monster’ may have been an enormous crocodile,” I said. “I know of some that have been shot in Egypt
that have approached that size, although the longest one I saw myself was less
than twenty feet. But the feeding habits
are those of a crocodile, to be sure.”
“Leaving
aside the bothersome question of how a crocodile of that size could possibly
have gotten to England,” Holmes said, “that is not a bad explanation for those
events long ago, Watson. But I fear it
is utterly inadequate for our current dilemma.”
“Why
is that?” I asked defensively, and Holmes gave a languorous gesture towards the
window.
“Look
at the weather, Watson!” he said.
“Crocodiles are cold-blooded, tropical creatures, and the glass has only
nudged above freezing these last few weeks.
A crocodile, dropped into the swamp in this weather, would burrow into
the mud in a desperate attempt to stay alive, and then freeze there.”
“But
you said the Monster -” I sputtered.
“Oh,
Watson, did you not listen to the story?
England was in the grip of a terrible heat during that summer of Alfred’s
reign. There were two winters during
that era in which there was no snow at all south of Hadrian’s Wall, according
to the Domesday Book,” Holmes explained.
I hung my head, crestfallen at having let such an important detail slip
my mind.
“Perhaps
it could be some other African beast,” I suggested.
“Do you think there might be an
elephant hiding under the waters of the swamp, Watson?” Holmes asked
sardonically. “Or maybe a rhinoceros?”
“Well,”
I said angrily, “perhaps a hippopotamus -”
“My
dear Watson,” my friend said testily, “how many times must I emphasize how
destructive it is to theorize in advance of the facts? Pray let me consider the
facts of the case without interruption till we arrive at our destination.”
With
that, he closed his eyes and folded his hands under his chin, and spoke not a word
until we arrived at Mickledon.
We
were greeted at the station by a tall, lanky young officer who introduced
himself as Inspector George Clinton. He
was a bit shamefaced as he spoke to Lestrade, since, as Holmes had deduced, he
had run to the telegraph office the minute he heard the words “life insurance”
without hearing the rest of the story.
Darkness was perhaps an hour away, but Jones assured us that we could be
at the site of his daughter’s disappearance before the light was gone. A coach and four was waiting, and we went
bumping down the muddy road from town to the edges of the Marsh at a
teeth-jarring pace. But Jones spoke
true, and the sun was still several degrees above the horizon when we pulled up
in front of his small cottage.
A
member of the local constabulary stood in the back yard to keep curious
onlookers away from the scene, although none were on hand at the moment. Holmes held up his hand for the rest of us to
wait, and then he moved to the back door of the cottage and flung himself on
all fours. Oblivious to the damp ground, he slowly crawled back and forth,
using his magnifying glass to study every detail of the path from the door down
towards the water. When he arrived at
the churned-up area near the water’s edge, he slowed down drastically. As the light faded, he bent closer and closer
to the ground. Finally, he waved his
hand and asked for a lamp. I brought it
to him, careful to only step on ground he had already examined, and he took it
without a word.
Clinton
was looking on with fascination, while Lestrade, who had watched Holmes at work
many times, simply huffed impatiently.
But he did not interrupt; despite his outward scorn, he knew that many
of his most celebrated arrests were due to Holmes’ assistance. Only Jones spoke up, after three quarters of
an hour had passed.
“What
is he doing, Doctor Watson?” he finally hissed.
“Shouldn’t we be out looking for my girl?”
“I
have worked with Holmes for nigh on a decade now,” I said. “His methods are eccentric, but they do
indeed work. Let him finish examining
the ground, and you will be surprised what he will be able to tell us.”
“Eccentric
indeed,” Lestrade said. “It’s getting bloody cold out here!”
“Language,
Inspector!” Jones said.
Before
Lestrade could retort, Holmes stood upright and made his way back towards us.
“Inspector
Clinton, my congratulations. You have
managed to keep the intrusions on the scene of the crime to a minimum,” he
said. “I have a pretty clear picture of
what happened here. Mister Jones, I am
very sorry to inform you that your daughter is most likely dead.”
“No! How can you tell that from crawling on all
fours like an animal? I don’t believe it,” the father insisted.
“The
volume of blood on the ground was enormous,” Holmes said. “The grass concealed much of it from you, but
such blood loss is not survivable. The violence of the assault was intense,
sir. I feel compelled to warn you – we
may not find all of your daughter.”
Jones
blanched. This last blow was too much
for the man, he wheeled and ran into the house.
“Clinton,
you know this man better than any of us,” Holmes said. “Go inside, comfort him and his wife, make sure
he does nothing rash.”
“Very
good, sir. But -” he started to say
something, and then caught himself short.
“What
is it, inspector?” Holmes asked.
“Couldn’t
you hold out some hope for the poor man?” he said.
“I
saw none to offer,” Holmes replied.
“You’re a cold one, Mister
Holmes!” the Inspector snapped, and followed Jones inside.
About
this time an unearthly roar came bellowing across the marshes, loud, ferocious,
and hungry-sounding. It was also vaguely
familiar to me – it seemed as if I had heard it once before, long ago, much
fainter. But where? I racked my brain, and could not come up with
the answer. To this day I regret that my
memory was not better.
Holmes
reacted to the sound in a way I had never seen him react to anything
before. He paled visibly, and a brief
expression of fright crossed his face – something I had never seen in the
bravest man I have ever known. Then his
normal, calm demeanor replaced the expression so quickly that I could not even
be sure of that other look.
“That
was at least five miles away,” Holmes said.
“On the other side of the Marsh, if I remember my map correctly. So we should be safe to approach the water. Let me walk you through what happened,
gentlemen.”
He
stood by the door of the cottage and faced the marsh.
“The
little girl came running out this door some fifteen hours ago,” he said,
“perhaps around seven in the morning.
She skipped the first few paces, turned aside here to pick a flower -”
He showed us a tiny severed stem by the light of the lantern, and then he
continued. “She turned off her course
here, starting to run for a moment, the slowly returned to her original
path. I think she started to chase a
rabbit and it was too quick for her; you can see its scat there.”
He
approached the ripped-up earth and grass near the water and shook his head
sadly. “Her original trail was almost
destroyed in the violence of the assault,” he said, “but I found a few
traces. She did not quite reach the
water’s edge – she paused here -” he pointed at a barely noticeable heel mark
in the torn-up clay – “and stood a moment.
I think she saw something.
Whatever it was, it made her turn and run. You can see her toe marks in three places,
very widely spaced. I think, perhaps, in another half second, she might have
gotten far enough to stand a chance. But she was overtaken and seized here –
her last step has a forward slide, as her flight was brought up short. She was jerked upwards and back with enormous
force, which caused her shoe to go flying off her foot and then land ten feet
away, over there. You can see Mister
Jones’ footprints as he walked over to retrieve it.”
He
stepped to the center of the trampled zone.
His face was very grim and pale, and his voice dropped slightly.
“This
is where she died,” he said. “I cannot
be certain, but from the volume of blood spilled, I think she must have been
ripped open or decapitated. A seven year
old does not have an enormous supply of blood, Watson, and I think nearly half
of hers is on the ground here.”
“This
is horrible, Holmes!” I said, paling. I
have never been terribly fond of children, but I hold nothing but contempt for
those human monsters who derive pleasure from hurting and killing them.
“It
is indeed, Watson,” he said.
“So
who or what did this?” Lestrade asked, his usual bluster gone. The deadly
atmosphere of this place had killed all our spirits.
“We
are meant to believe that this is the work of some hideous monster of enormous
size,” Holmes said. “But such creatures
do not exist in Welsh marshes in the nineteenth century. We are dealing with a diabolically clever
killer, a sadistic man of enormous strength, who is very comfortable in the
water. He has some mechanism for
creating these tracks and simulating the appearance of a dragon or some other
fabulous beast. Look at these two clear tracks!”
He
pointed next to the water’s edge, where two enormous, misshapen footprints were
punched deep into the clay. Each was
oval, but uneven along its edges, and there was blood pooled in the bottom of both
of them. Three massive but blunt claw
marks, slightly splayed, showed which side was the front.
“Watson,
you are more of a sportsman than I. Is
there any creature living on earth that might leave such tracks?” Holmes asked
me.
“None
that I am aware of,” I said. “All the
great beasts of Africa have more than three claws, and crocodile tracks are
smaller, and more enlongated.”
“Exactly
what I was thinking,” Holmes said. “We
are being fed the illusion of a monster by someone who wants to keep people far
from this swamp.”
He
stood on the edge of the water, far closer than I would have been comfortable
doing, and stared out into the night.
That distant roar echoed across the Marsh again. All of us but Holmes blanched at the sound,
and even his face grew pale for a moment.
“If
we do not find this man, he will kill again,” he said calmly. “So I would suggest – oh my! Lestrade, did anyone bring grappling poles?”
“The
constable has some in the wagon,” he said.
“They were going to drag the water tomorrow.”
“Bring
me one,” he said, pointing. A small pale
mass was barely visible in the shallow water, but the beams of the lamp could
not penetrate the murk enough to show us what it was. Lestrade came moments
later with a ten-foot long gaff, and Holmes reached out into the water and
hooked the object, drawing it to the surface.
“Dear
God!” Lestrade gasped.
It
was the torso of a small girl, with one arm dangling from it limply. It looked for all the world like some poor
child’s doll, ripped apart by a neighborhood bully. Holmes reverently laid it on the grass.
“Call
the constable,” he said. “Bring a
stretcher and a blanket. No one needs to
see this.”
