Kim Newman - Professor Moriarty The Hound of the D'Urbervilles

‘Our client, though not unperceptive in some matters, is a limited man.’

‘I’ve seen mysteries beyond explanation in the East, but run into many more which turn out to be some clever fakir trying to put one over on the white man.’

‘Dullards would have you believe that once you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth… but to a mathematical mind, the impossible is simply a theorem yet to be solved. We must not eliminate the impossible, we must conquer it, suborn it to our purpose. Whatever remains, however dully probable, will satisfy earthbound thinkers, while we have the profit of the hitherto inconceivable. Besides, I daresay anyone with a silver bullet in his brains couldn’t tell it from lead.’

From this, I knew Moriarty was playing his own game. When he rattled on, he was mesmeric. He could convince you Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland — also the product of ‘a mathematical mind’, remember — made sound sense. Most criminals were so rapt by his phrases and his eyes and his snake-neck wobble they blithely did whatever he wanted without knowing why. I was not immune, but had been with the Firm long enough to know the Prof’s tricks.

I left Moriarty to his musical experiments, and Chop drove me to the station.

VI

In our first-class compartment on the Great Western Railways train to Stourcastle, I quizzed Jasper Stoke about the layout at Trantridge. It’s advantageous to know the territory before setting a foot there. I had conned maps, almanacs and gazetteers; now I drew Stoke out on things nobody thought to set down. You can deduce — to use the word of the week — a great deal from smells. Not a pleasant topic, especially when the odours of Wessex are under discussion, but revealing.

‘The Chase stinks like Pennsylvania,’ Stoke said. ‘Open-cast mine country.’

‘Is there any mining?’ I asked.

‘In the New Forest, towards Bramshurst, there are pits, but nothing in The Chase. I can’t even say what the luciferous stench is. Chemicals in the ground? And something rotten. Like eggs gone off.’

Stoke filled up the compartment with fug, puffing on his cheroots. He gave a lot away when smoking. He tried to exhale confident clouds, Indian signals announcing himself as Big Chief, but chewed the stub, got leaf-bits stuck to his teeth and punctured the will-o’-the-wisp. A man for putting up a front, he couldn’t keep it together. No wonder he’d been chased out of Tombstone by the improbably named Earps. He was buckling in Wessex, and — if he didn’t get his dog-pelt soon — would probably be chased out of Trantridge too.

I can’t say I took to Stoke. British-born, he might be — but American in his ways. Big-talking, craven, insensitive and miserly. In his terms, a compleat c--sucker. If he ever ran across Jim Lassiter, he’d be dead in the dust before he could clear his holsters. Still, at least he wasn’t a bloody Mormon.

He didn’t want to look yellow-livered, though — despite his tale of terror — and compensated with high-handed, down-the-nose lecturing. In advance of the promised five thou, a small sum had passed from his coffers to ours. He felt this entitled him to treat Moriarty & Moran as jobbing carpenters hired to put up shelves. He gave out German cant about ‘payment by results’ and it still rankled that the Professor wasn’t personally in Wessex dancing to his tune.

Dan’l, the savage giant, was more forthcoming. From him, I picked up the fact that The Chase put folk in a funk even before the story of Red Shuck was revived. This stretch of ancient woodland had been the site of many crimes, it seems — now even the most daring poacher hesitated to trespass there. Dan’l wasn’t that troubled by the beast which had done for Ambush Jack, which he said did less damage than a mountain lion. He’d killed mountain lions with Gertie, and showed me deep old scars to illustrate the yarn. I have a few of those too and we played a jolly game of pulling up sleeves and opening shirts to display manly badges. However, Dan’l was scared of the Brokeneck Lady. Something was done to Theresa Clare in The Chase which she didn’t complain about at the time. It excited her spirit post-mortem, though. Dan’l said that, while taking his turn on guard, he’d seen her, veiled, head lolled to one side, creeping out of the woods.

‘Put the fear in me, she did,’ he said. ‘Mountain lion’s nothin’, but there’s no tellin’ with a haint. All sorts of ways a haint can hex you.’

Stoke snorted, but I took note. There might be a bagful of spooks to deal with, though our client only laid bounty on the dog. Still, I had a box of silver bullets.

At Stourcastle, a covered trap waited.

It was, of course, raining.

VII

Moriarty asked me to set down my observations. Very well…

I have visited all the shitholes of the world and Wessex ranks with the worst of ’em. Whores smell better in Afghanistan. Weather is nicer in Tibet. Cuisine is more appetising in the Australian outback, where snakes count as a Sunday delicacy you look forward to all week. And the natives are more welcoming in the Andaman Island Penal Colony.

The dull, driving rain made me miss London’s pea-souper.

Two bedraggled souls stood outside the station, sheltering under a lean-to which was near collapse.

‘Where’s the coachman?’ barked Stoke.

This was addressed to a burly man with the puff gone out of him. A well-chewed moustache and creeping baldness betokened a tendency to fret and fuss.

‘Come on, Derby,’ continued Stoke. ‘Out with it.’

Derby didn’t elucidate, but his smaller companion — a reedy, floppy-haired, permanently smiling cove in a peculiar tweed singlet and dun-coloured hooded cape — piped up cheerily.

‘Coachman fled the scene,’ he said, with a strange whistling voice. ‘Took fright. Not the only one. More maids quit. And the cook. And Chitty, the butler. Thring’s taken his place. We’ll have to make do as best we can, Mr Stoke. As best we can.’

Stoke, angry at the news, made no introductions. I gathered these were Braham Derby, Stoke’s overseer, and his purportedly mad brother, Saul.

‘You should have hired someone,’ Stoke said. ‘How does it look to have my manager doing scut-work like carriage-driving?’

Braham shrugged. ‘No one’s to be had, Mr Stoke. Not at any price.’

I understood. Besides the prospect of being ripped by Red Shuck, none of the locals wanted anything to do with fetching home the hated New Master. They’d be best pleased if Stoke caught a chill on the platform and died.

‘Been more howling,’ Saul said, almost cheerfully.

He turned to me, wide eyes darting up as if he glimpsed something high over my shoulder, swooping towards my back. When I cast an eye behind me, there was nothing. He caught me once and I resolved not to be fooled again. In turn, Stoke, Dan’l and even Braham — who ought to be used to his brother’s ways — owl-twisted their necks and got rain in their faces. Saul whistled to himself, seemingly unaware. I had him down as either the village idiot or a genius wearing the cloak of lunacy.

Saul was snug in the carriage while Braham sat up on the seat in the wet and grimly drove us to Trantridge. Stoke said nothing to encourage it, but Dan’l — who evidently felt the mooncalf a kindred spirit — asked for news.

‘Much disturbance among mammals,’ said Saul. ‘Hares and rabbits and rats and shrews and stoats. The Hall is plagued with their mischief. The creatures of The Chase are quitting their homes. The pink-eyed man shoots at them. But they get into the house and fight the cats. All nature is in an uproar. I have written to the press about the phenomenon.’