Chapter Text
The rain pouring in sheets outside our apartments dulled the sound of the carriage wheels on Baker Street's cobblestones. I was lazily engaged in reading Doctor Eugene Bledwith's monograph on the effects of superstitious mania; Holmes, for his part, was staring listlessly into the fire. "Ah, Watson," he sighed, breaking the long silence. "London is an empty abyss."
"Nothing of the sort, Holmes." I smoothed my mustache. "Check the adverts in the Times. Someone's bound to need your help."
"In what, finding lost cats? Identifying to importunate women that their lost emerald bracelets have disappeared to support their ne'er-do-well husbands' gambling habits--or those of his latest opera dancer?"
"No, dash it, that's not what I mean at all. A lady in distress, or--" I gave up on the monograph. "Perhaps Inspector Lestrade could use some assistance. We could go 'round."
"And let him see us beg for work? Never!" Sherlock threw a newspaper violently to the floor and paced over to the tobacco slipper.
Just then, there was a rap at the street door. Holmes was in a black mood indeed, and made no sign of interest, which worried me. For my part, I listened to Mrs. Hudson's footsteps tap their way to the door to admit the newcomer. It was possible, of course, that the visitor was for another tenant, but I hoped that it was a Case, something to distract Holmes from his dangerous lethargy.
In a short time the question was answered: Mrs. Hudson appeared at the door. "A Reverend Philtrum Davenport to see you, Mr. Holmes," she announced.
"To inquire about a missing cufflink, no doubt," Holmes groused. "Oh, send him in, Mrs. Hudson."
The Rev. Davenport was a man in his sixties, grey-haired, with old-fashioned muttonchop whiskers and a slightly nervous demeanor. I assumed a pose of attentive interest, my pen and notebook at the ready.
"Mr. Holmes?" the Rev. inquired, glancing back and forth between us, and then focusing on myself as the more attentive interlocutor. Holmes had barely glanced at him.
"John Watson," I introduced myself, suppressing a sudden desire to kick my companion. "This is Mr. Holmes."
"Sit down, Rev. Davenport, and tell us of your problem," Holmes said in a slightly bored voice, waving vaguely toward a chair. "My friend and colleague Dr. Watson you can trust unreservedly."
"Yes, yes, of course." The Reverend nodded toward me in a friendly way. "I am quite aware of your methods, Mr. Holmes, through the good doctor's writings. It is your friendship toward those in distress which decided me to-- Well, nearly decided me. It is such a strange situation, so far out of your usual area, that I hesitated-- I would have written to let you know I was coming, but I only decided just now, outside your door, and--"
"Please! Rev. Davenport," Holmes interrupted him, raising a dramatic hand. "Your problem! Briefly!"
The Rev. seemed taken aback for a moment, but recovered himself. "Well, Mr. Holmes, it's like this.
"I have a small parish in the environs of Dartmoor--the Village of Grimpen. It is a quiet community, peaceful. We have a few notable citizens, the most notable is--or was, until a few weeks ago--Sir Jacob van Dusen, of Brabant Hall."
I had heard of the van Dusens--indeed, who had not? His sudden and unexpected demise had caught the media's attention, though there seemed, on the face of it, to be nothing to pique Holmes' particular sort of interest. And yet, with such an introduction... surely whatever puzzle the Reverend was to present us would turn out to hold more interest than a lost cat or a dishonest servant.
"I suppose you have heard of the circumstances of Sir Jacob's death?" he asked Holmes.
"Heart attack, wasn't it?" Holmes asked with barely-concealed boredom.
"Yes--well, that is what the doctor decided. Dr. Henry Delmage, a good friend of Sir Jacob's. But it was--strange, very strange. You see, Sir Jacob's body was found near the gate of Brabant Hall--he frequently took a turn there in the evening. But the next morning, his were not the only footprints there. Another man had apparently passed that way--though at what time, we could not tell--and then...
"Do you believe in the supernatural, Mr. Holmes?"
Holmes gave a bark of laughter. "Certainly not. Everything that occurs is in accordance with natural laws--even if they are natural laws that have not yet been properly explained by science."
The reverend shook his head. "I wish science could explain this."
"Could explain WHAT, Rev. Davenport?" Holmes asked in impatience.
"Beside the stranger's footprints were another set--those of a huge dog or wolf. And just before the gate, they changed--into those of a barefoot man."
I couldn't help but shoot an expectant look at Holmes.
His attention was fairly caught now, though he gazed at the good reverend with a combination of curiosity and amusement. "Surely you're not suggesting Sir Jacob was killed by a *werewolf*?"
Rev. Davenport shook his head. "I'm not suggesting anything. I don't know *what* to think. But the village have already decided. You see, there are stories there about werewolves, going back centuries. The story of the footprints got out, was noised about the village, and now--there is an absolute witch-hunt going on. ...Or, perhaps, wolf-hunt is the most accurate term. They are attempting every old technique of werewolf detection every old woman has ever copied down in her list of household hints. For a little while, suspicion fell upon a newcomer to our village--a Mr. MacKenna of Rosetrellis Cottage. He only arrived around the time of Sir Jacob's death. But luckily for him and his safety, the full moon was a few days ago, and some of his more adventurous neighbors peeked in his cottage windows during the night to find him reading by the fire, quite in his own form.
"Only now, some are claiming that werewolves need not change on the full moon, and... Well, to put it bluntly, Mr. Holmes, I worry for the safety of my parish. I worry that some night there may be a terrible crime committed in the name of superstition and ignorance. And frankly, I know not how to stop it. So I came to you."
I waited only a moment before expostulating, "Of course we must do something! Holmes, surely!"
"But what CAN I do?" Holmes argued. "My special study is in crime, and no crime has been committed!"
"But it is also in the prevention of crime, is it not?" the Rev. argued shrewdly. "And here you may well prevent a terrible crime. ...If you were only to be seen in the village, to be known by the villagers to be investigating--they might well feel that the problem was being dealt with."
"But how could I investigate? Sir Jacob's death was weeks ago; any clues in those footprints have been long since washed away."
"If it is footprints you wish to see," Rev. Davenport said slowly, "you shall have no shortage. At least three times, to my knowledge, prints of a large dog or wolf have been seen in the area--particularly around Brabant Hall. They never go within the grounds, but they are seen beyond its borders, and outside its gates. The villagers say that the werewolf is stalking the van Dusens--that it will not rest until it has wiped out their family line. Yes, Mr. Holmes, you might do a great deal of good in Grimpen--save those accused of lycanthropy, and save the van Dusens from whatever it is that hunts them."
Holmes thought for a few moments. "Very well, Reverend. Dr. Watson and I shall be on the next train to Grimpen. If you have no objections?" he added to me.
"None whatever," I replied with alacrity, making mental notes of the equipment we should need. Silver bullets, some imp of mischief urged, but I squashed the very idea, knowing Holmes would give me one of those looks of austere disapproval.
"Oh, thank you." The reverend seemed to relax at once. "Thank you--thank you both. I'm so relieved."
Holmes got up and chivied him toward the door. "We may call on you once we have arrived in Grimpen. You would not object?"
"Oh, no, certainly not!" The reverend managed to snatch his hat before Holmes practically forced him out the door. "Thank you, Mr. Holmes. Thank you, Dr. Watson!"
The door shut upon his words, and Holmes turned to look at me with a stare of amusement. "Well, Watson. What do you make of that?"
"Intriguing," I pronounced, after a pause. "Someone is certainly trying very hard to stir things up in an otherwise sleepy village. I find myself most concerned for Sir Jacob's family, however."
"A large dog, do you think?" Holmes asked.
I raised my shoulders. "Possibly, though from the Reverend's description, it seems unlikely that a dog so large would go unnoticed for any length of time. More possibly, to my mind, a hoax, meant to threaten and overset. A cruel trick, if so."
"Mm." Holmes nodded. "Well, Watson, what are you doing sitting there? Pack your bags! We must make for Grimpen without delay! The life of a werewolf may rest upon it!" If nothing else, at least his good mood seemed to be restored.