AU ~ Conan-Doyle
By Sammy Girl
AU ~ Conan-Doyle
By Sammy Girl
Disclaimer: The Magnificent Seven aren't mine, nor is the plot, that belongs to Sir Arthur Conan-Doyle.
Authors Note: This story was inspired by a recent film of The Hound of the Baskervilles. I have changed characters, and some of the plot, but not much. Dartmoor is, as it always is, wonderfully beautiful in is bleak wildness. A windswept, almost treeless, upland area (now a national park) Dartmoor is used by the military for survival training. The prison was built to house military prisoners from the Napoleonic War; it was turned over to civilian use in the 1850's & was deemed to have reached the end of it usable life in the 1960's. It is still there, it is still a working prison and it is still a very grim and brutal place, housing some of the most difficult and troublesome prisoners. My thanks to Firefox, Helen and Shari for all their help, support, encouragement, suggestions & proof reading.
Links:
Pictures of Dartmoor including the prison
http://www.dartmoor-npa.gov.uk/dnp/pictures.htmlDartmoor Prison circa 1900
http://www.devon.gov.uk/library/locstudy/dartpris.htmlA Map of Dartmoor can be found at this site, in 'Notes and References'
http://members.aol.com/mfrankland/dartmoor.htm
AU: Open
Part One
Part Two
Part Three
Part Four
Part Five
PERSONAL JOURNAL - DR JOSIAH SANCHEZ
January 12th 1896
I am alone, totally alone, bereaved. Henry is dead.
PERSONAL JOURNAL - DR JOSIAH SANCHEZ
January 13th 1896
Yesterday Jackson called me to the Hall. To see to my Henry. How I did my job I will never know. Jackson was a tower of strength as usual, and of no small help. It is surely a crime that that man will never be a doctor. The beautiful Mrs Jackson provided tea, laced with brandy. Jackson had found him on the terrace, dead. Oh how can he be gone, how? It's not Fate, it's not right. I should have stayed with him, I knew he was worried, I knew he had become convinced the legend was true and would come for him. That last day we were together, he was at first distracted and then clinging to me like a frightened child, following me as if afraid if he lost sight of me he would lose me. He begged me to stay the night - as I have so many times before. But I had surgery first thing in the morning and the hard frost of the night before had never melted. I knew from experience that even though it was clear then there would thick fog by dawn
I should have stayed. I would still have him if I had stayed. But people talk, I have - had - to be careful how often I stay and when. Jackson knows of course, and the wonderful Rain. His people are far more understanding. I don't know about the boy, but to my knowledge if he knows anything he has never spread this knowledge abroad.
It looked like a heart attack, I will know this evening after the post mortem - Oh God help me! How will I cut into him? How will I eviscerate one so adored, so pure of heart, I who loved him the best, I will be the one to mutilate him after death. I must be objective, I can't help him if I let my grief take over …damn! Now I have cried all over the page and smudged the ink.
I don't understand how it could be a heart attack, he was in perfect health, surely if he were to have a seizure it would be while engaged in a far more vigorous activity than a late evening stroll in the moonlight. And that's another thing - why was he out there at all? Yes, it was a beautiful night but freezing, he could have enjoyed that from the bedroom window or even the parlour terrace. Why go all the way to the moor gate - when he will not step so much as one foot on the moor after dark and if he ventures out in the daylight, keeps the house in sight at all times?
PERSONAL JOURNAL - DR JOSIAH SANCHEZ
January 14th 1896
I am drunk. I finished the brandy Henry gave me for my birthday last night, almost half a bottle. I was drunk last night and I am still drunk this morning. I drank in his memory and to wipe the memory of what I had just done from my mind. But I cannot. He lay there before me. Cold, still, stiff and lifeless. A look on his face such as I have never seen on those so familiar features before, indeed on any face. He died in such fear and such terror. Why did I leave him? Why? Damn it, he needed me and I wasn't there for him. I will write the report later, when my head is clear. As usual I will do a summary for Sergeant Riley in plain language. The poor man tries, but he really has no imagination and precious little intellect. I am resolved to seek more skilled help to find the truth behind my dear friend's death.
REPORT ON THE DEATH OF SIR HENRY STANDISH
SUMMARY:-
Date:- January 14th 1896
Name:- Sir Henry George Cedric Ezra Standish. Baronet.
Aged:- 52.
Died:- January 12th 1896
Address:- Standish Hall, Four Corners, Devonshire.
Death was as the result of a sudden failure of the heart. There were no signs of prior heart disease or of any abnormality of the heart muscle. Other than some minor abrasions to the knees and hands there were no signs of violence on the body.
Doctor Josiah Sanchez M.R.C.P.
H*S*H*S*H*S*H
PERSONAL DIARY - CHRISTOPHER LARABEE
February 15th 1896
He lies there in my bed sleeping. He can sleep for England, hour upon hour, untroubled by dreams and nightmares. Mostly he is still, only occasionally does he move, and when he does it is slow and soft and loose, as if all his muscles, normally hard and strong, were suddenly no more than feather pillows. I do not sleep, not like him. I sleep after. After he has made love to me, after he has taken away my control, my resolve, the very intellect I live by, he takes from me piece by piece, and what delicious torture it is. How wonderful, how exquisite, how primordial in its wonderful baseness, he takes the blackness that dwells in me and envelopes it in his love and for a while it is contained. I sleep after that, for a while anyway. Last night I needed him. I know he sleeps with women, some fine, some not so fine, and I know he enjoys it, but it is me he loves, and only me, though God knows why? If I were not such an emotional cripple maybe he would be mine always? Maybe? But then again it does both of us no harm for him to have the reputation as a rogue and a scoundrel.
I needed him because I am bored. I have no case to keep my mind occupied and thus it wanders to dwell in dark places where only two things can bring me relief, whisky - a temporary but easy solution and him, his love, his care, his passion. Then I can sleep for a while at least. I worry sometimes about the harm I do, about how I use him, he always comes when I need him, he is always at my side. He endures my put-downs and tempers, my tendency not to tell him the whole truth. He covers up for me when I am rude and neglectful of the feelings of others. I don't deserve one such as him. Buck? What kind of a name is that? Not his anyway, his name is John, but he has been 'Buck' to everyone since school - where we first met. I have long since come to believe that being expelled from Eton was the best thing that ever happened to me. I don't know if being expelled from Marlborough was as beneficial for him, but it was for me.
SCHOOL DIARY - CHRISTOPHER LARABEE
April 19th 1874
Oh God I can't believe that tomorrow I start at Lee Park School. Lee Park, no one has ever heard of it! A small provisional school, full of small provincial boys with small provincial minds and dull, stupid, provincial masters! Why couldn't I have a tutor at home? Freddie Bond was expelled and his parents got him a tutor, why not me? Oh no can't have Chris at home, getting underfoot, spoiling the family's reputation. Damn it I'm 16, I'm not a child, I don't need to be locked away in the nursery! My father is scared of me. I used to think he hated me, but now I think he just can't understand me. He is dull, my father, dull and unthinking and boring. He lives by rules, when to get up, what to wear, when to ride out, when to hunt, when to shoot, when to go to London and be seen, he lives for convention. Mother hates him, and me. All those girls, eight tiny graves in the church, one after another, all dead before they were even one year old, and me, strong and healthy. All she ever wanted was a girl. Father wanted a son, but not me. He wanted a different son, one to hunt and shoot and fish with. I like riding and shooting and even fishing, but hunting? I'm not sure, too many people, too many rules. But there is so much more to life than just hunting, shooting and fishing.
SCHOOL DIARY - CHRISTOPHER LARABEE
April 20th 1874
Well that went about as expected. Dull! Dull! Dull! My room is in the attic, because I am starting here in the middle of the school year there is no space for me with my peers. I have to have a room with the Remove. They are only 13 or 14, oh dear God in heaven save me from 14 year old boys! The headmaster took me into his study and informed me that any chemistry experiments have to be done in the science laboratory under supervision. Father should have been proud of me and my experiment, I was trying to make better gunpowder, and I succeeded too - it was a very small, old potting shed, I still don't see what all the fuss was about! I have to say that was the one bright spot in the whole miserable experience. Here they actually teach science, there is a laboratory and we will do experiments. I met the science master, he is Hungarian - that bodes well, more free thinking. The food was, well to call it food would be gracing it with a title it does not deserve. My room is small and pokey and draughty, no doubt in summer it will be stifling and freezing in winter. The ceiling slopes and I have to duck my head when rising from my desk. No doubt I will forget sometimes.
I have seen the boy who has the room next to mine, he also started today. He was called into see the headmaster just after me. Mr Bolton was quite reasonable with me, he told me this was a new start, that he had heard I had a quick mind and was inquisitive and he liked that. The other boy, my new neighbour, he just shouted at, though I couldn't hear what was said. When I saw him later he looked about ready to blub. His room is in the corner of the attic. I would surmise that, since he is nearly as tall as me, there is only one spot in the whole room where he can stand up straight, poor boy. His trunk has several Marlborough Station stickers on it and several from Brighton, so he lives in Brighton and was expelled from Marlborough, I wonder what he did to deserve that?
I can't sleep. This damn bed sags and the mattress is so lumpy I think it has rocks in it. As soon as possible I shall go in search of a better one, or even buy one. I can hear my new neighbour moving about. Perhaps it is time to make introductions.
His name is John Wilmington, but I get the feeling he doesn't like the name John much. He too could not sleep. I asked him without hesitation what he did to be expelled. He wouldn't say, but seemed amazed that I knew that he had been and from where. Really! It was easy enough to work out. He seems equally disenchanted with our new school. But while I merely want to get a decent education, he would appear to be desperately home sick. He is a fine looking boy, tall and slender, with thick dark hair, which is wavy with out being curly. His eyes are the deepest blue I have ever seen. His manner was guarded and defensive, but I get the feeling that he would like to be friends. For a 14 year old he isn't too bad, so I will endeavour to over come his reserve.
H*S*H*S*H*S*H
LETTER LEFT FOR MR CHRISTOPHER LARABEE,
221B GREEN STREET,
LONDON.
February 15th 1896
Dear Sir
I present to you this copy of a legend that is well known around the villages on Dartmoor. I will visit you again, since you were not in when I called today. Your housekeeper allowed me to write and leave this note. You will have read of the death of Sir Henry Standish of Standish Hall on Dartmoor. I have some reason to believe his death was not entirely natural.
Your Servant,
Dr J Sanchez. M.R.C.P.
COPY OF 'THE LEGEND OF STANDISH HALL.'
In the late 15th Century the lord of the manor of Standish Hall, Sir William Standish became enamoured of a young serving wench. When she rejected his advances he locked her in the cellar until she gave into him. But the girl escaped, fleeing across the moor. Enraged Sir William called upon the devil to aid him. The devil sent a huge hound to him to track down the girl. When he found her and she saw what her fate would be, the girl ran to the top of Hound tor and threw herself to her death. When Sir William railed against the devil for not keeping his promise, the huge hell-hound turned on him and ripped him to pieces. To this day the hound can be heard on the moor, baying for blood, the blood of the Standish family, while Sir William wanders the Hall and the moor seeking a resting-place.
H*S*H*S*H*S*H
PERSONAL DIARY - BUCK WILMINGTON
February 15th 1896
He was watching me again this morning, he thinks I don't know, he thinks I don't notice when he gets out of bed. I know. I know the moment that warmth leaves me, the moment the bed no longer rolls us together. I worry about him. When I come to his bed he does sleep, not as much as I would like but some, but when I am not here - does he sleep at all? When he has no case to occupy his mind, I doubt it. Inez tells me his bed is often not used, and he only sleeps when he has drunk far too much whisky, then he sleeps on the couch or in his chair by the fire. If he asked me I would move in with him. But he won't ask. He doesn't know what he wants, he doesn't think we can live together day in, day out and remain friends as well as lovers. And he needs my friendship as much as he needs my love - he has both and always will. He is different, special, he needs taking care of, and that's my job. I know I'm not much, a fair field surgeon, not too bad to look at, bit too tall, rather too rough around the edges for really polite society - though they tolerate me. Fame or infamy? What ever it is, it is a double edged sword.
The note left by the doctor intrigued my friend, and that is good. We were out for lunch when he called. I saw that look in Chris' eyes this morning and knew he needed a diversion. So I took him to the King's Head at Southwall. It is an old coaching inn, and still frequented by travellers. Of course it is not our usual sort of place - I say 'our' but I mean him, I'm quite used to such places. The places was crowded, loud and lively. The food, plentiful and warming. I had steak and kidney pudding, Chris had steak and ale pie, we both drank beer, common for me but a rare treat for Chris. While we ate, he watched the people - that is why I took him there - constructing their lives from the fragmentary clues he could observe in the crush. It was a pleasant and even productive meal and I felt confident I had kept him from the drink for one more day.
When we returned Inez informed Chris he had had a visitor and handed over the note and also a cane our visitor had left. Chris read the note and the enclosed document and then handed them to me while he examined the cane. With out looking up he asked.
"Well? What do you think?"
I shrugged. "An amusing little tale to scare women and children with, no doubt it encourages visitors to the area," I commented.
"Quite so," Chris confirmed. Then he handed me the cane. "What do you make of it?" he asked.
I hate it when he does that. I do my best but I always get it wrong, which he is always most patronisingly sympathetic about in a smug way. Never the less it amuses him to see me floundering about, so I humour him.
"Well," I began with something easy, "it's mahogany - which is unusual for a cane, so it must be custom made or of foreign origin?" I looked up at him for some conformation, but as usual he let nothing show on his face, other than a look that reminds me of a trainer watching his prized dog go through its' tricks. I persevered. "The top is silver." I was confident about that, and strained to look at the hallmark. "Exeter?" Chris did at least give me a nod of conformation at that. "So, since we know the doctor is from Devon, I surmise it was custom made for him locally." Without looking up I examined the engraving around the silver cane topper.
'FOR MY PARTICULAR FRIEND, JOSIAH, M.A.'
"It was clearly a gift from someone to the doctor." Much more than that I couldn't add. Chris of course just smiled indulgently.
"Nothing else?" he asked.
I frowned at him and took one more look. "It is new, " I stated. "The end is barely worn down, there are few scratches upon it."
"You're getting better Buck," Chris commented, and for once he didn't sound patronising.
"What do you make of that engraving? 'Particular friend' an odd statement for a walking stick and why M.A.? We know he is a medical doctor. If you are going to put a man's qualifications on the thing why not put all of them?"
"How should I know what it means, maybe it was given by someone whose initials are M.A. Is it important?" I asked.
"You never know what is important. Consider that this doctor has an unusual name, someone called 'Sanchez' might reasonably be expected to speak Spanish, or at least have some connection to a Spanish speaking country - yes?"
I conceded that this was probably true.
"Maybe M.A. is not a title or initials, but an abbreviation, some sentiment of affection from this 'particular friend'? After all, why abbreviate when there is plenty of room on the thing for several more names?"
This was pure speculation with no evidence and I told him so, he just dismissed my doubts.
"M.A?" he wandered around the room once and then stopped. "Buck I have it!" he suddenly said. "M.A. in Spanish, 'Mi Amor' or 'My Love'."
I had to admit it was possible, all kinds of things were possible, for all we knew the doctor was hard up for cash and had bought the thing second hand. But once he is started like this there is no stopping him.
"But why would someone who loves you call you a 'particular friend? Mmmm? Why not 'for my love' or 'for my dear one' or simply 'for my darling'?" He paced the room some more, wrapped up in this puzzle he had created for himself.
He was still pacing when the door bell went and we heard Inez letting someone in. There was a brief conversion in Spanish and then she showed him upstairs to the front parlour.
"Dr Sanchez," she announced.
Dr Sanchez is an imposing man, a good six feet, he is built like the proverbial ox, and though I would guess him to be in his fifties with greying, slightly curly hair, he looks fit and strong. I for one would not like to tangle with him. Hopefully he is on our side. Larabee ushered him in and offered him a seat opposite his own favourite fireside chair. As usual I took up my seat by the window with my trusty note book and pencil. His accent was neutral, if he is part Spanish it does not show itself in his voice or his face.
H*S*H*S*H*S*H
TRANSCRIPT OF NOTES TAKEN BY DR WILMINGTON OF A MEETING BETWEEN MR C LARABEE AND DR J SANCHEZ AT 221B GREEN STREET,
February 15TH 1896
"Mr Larabee, your reputation has reached even Dartmoor, I felt I could come to no one else with this problem."
"Indeed, and what problem is that?" Larabee asked.
"You have read the legend?" Larabee nodded.
"My dear friend Sir Henry Standish was the direct descendant of the unfortunate wretch in that legend. For some time last year, and at the beginning of this year, he became convinced that it was true and this hound was coming for him. On the afternoon of the 12th of last month {January} we had spent a pleasant day together at the Hall. It was cold, snow lay on the ground and a hard frost had not lifted all day. I had surgery the next day and so left him that afternoon, not wishing to be trapped by more bad weather - I left before darkness came. He wanted me to stay, I should have stayed." The doctor stopped to compose himself. "His butler found him, out in the garden, he had apparently walked to the gate that leads onto the moor. This is my first concern. Why would he do that when he was terrified of the moor? He never went abroad after dark, never leaving the grounds of the Hall for any reason once the sun was down. He stood there for some time."
"How do you know this?" Larabee asked.
"I noticed the snow was trampled as if someone had stood and stamped his feet to keep warm and the ash from his cigar had dropped three times, freezing where it lay on the hard snow."
Larabee smiled. "You are a man after my own heart Doctor, please continue."
"From his footprints, he walked to the gate but ran from it, only the tips of his boots made an impression and they were further apart. He died of heart failure, yet his heart was healthy. His face was contorted in fear, such as I have never seen. There was something else, another set of prints, in the snow just beyond the gate."
"Well go on! Whose prints were they?" Larabee was getting impatient.
"Sir, they were the prints of a gigantic hound!"
Your writer let out a whistle of amazement at this moment. Larabee glared at me.
"Are you sure?"
"Mr Larabee I know what I saw."
"What is it you want from me?"
"I need advice, what am I to do with Sir Ezra, he arrives tomorrow, on the boat train."
Larabee leant back in his chair, those green eyes of his fixed on the good doctor. "He is the heir?"
"There were some settlements on friends and servants, but Sir Ezra, who is the son of Sir Henry's younger brother, the late Piers Standish, inherits the bulk of the estate, stocks, land, and properties overseas."
"Did you receive anything from the will?" Larabee asked.
"I did yes, Sir Henry was most…generous."
"How generous?"
"Twenty thousand pounds."
Your writer nearly chokes in amazement! Resulting in another Larabee glare.
"That is a very… generous settlement, what is the bulk of the estate worth?"
"Over one and a quarter million pounds Sterling."
Larabee looked genuinely surprised. "I had no idea the estate was so large. You were right to come to me Doctor. Where are you staying?"
"The Northumberland Hotel."
"Excellent, book your Sir Ezra in as well, preferably next to you, keep him close at hand and we will meet with you in a few days time, three at the most."
H*S*H*S*H*S*H
LETTER FROM:- SNODGRASS, PEEVES, SNODGRASS AND DEWY, SOLICITORS, LONDON.
TO MR EZRA P STANDISH, LITTLE FORT POINT, SOUTH CAROLINA, THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
> FORWARDED TO THE STEEL RIDGE ESTATE, MISSISSIPPI
> FORWARDED TO THE SIMCOX STEAM NAVIGATION COMPANY, LOUISIANA.
January 18th 1896
Dear Sir
I have the honour to be your obedient servant Harold Peeves, solicitor at law. I am the bearer of sad tidings. Your Uncle, Sir Henry Standish has passed away very suddenly. Under the terms of his will, you are the principal beneficiary and now inherit the title of Baronet. In order to facilitate the transfer of funds it will be necessary for you to come to London, please bring suitable proof of identity. Contact us on your arrival and make an appointment. We look forward to welcoming you to London Sir Ezra.
Your Obedient Servant,
H J F Peeves
H*S*H*S*H*S*H
LETTER TO MAUDE STANDISH FROM SIR EZRA STANDISH - POSTED IN NEW YORK
February 2nd 1896
Dear Mother,
I have left the country.
Your ever loving son,
Ezra
H*S*H*S*H*S*H
LETTER TO SIR EZRA P STANDISH, C/O THE WHITE STAR NAVIGATION COMPANY, SOUTHAMPTON.
February 16th 1896
Dear Sir Ezra,
My name is Josiah Sanchez, I was your uncle's doctor and friend, I enclose my report on his death and a newspaper account of the events. I have engaged the famous detective Mr Christopher Larabee to look into the circumstance of your late uncle's death. Since he is not well known in the Americas I have enclosed what I know of him and his close friends and associate Dr J Wilmington. I also have written a little about myself, please know that I was your uncle's closet friend and will do all I can to assist you in any way.
I will meet you off the boat train in London. Until then, I remain your servant and I hope your friend.
Josiah Sanchez
ABOUT MYSELF.
As you will no doubt have noticed my name is distinctly un-English, this is thanks to my Grandfather, he came to England from Spain to study, met a beautiful English rose called Hilary, and never left. I am thus only one quarter Spanish although I can speak the language fluently. I studied Medicine at Oxford and, wishing to see more of the world, travelled much after I qualified, often working in mission hospitals and clinics around the world. I settled back in England because of family commitments, purchasing a practice on Dartmoor, in the little village of Four Corners. It was here that I met your uncle. I am no surgeon and I don't claim to be anything other than a jobbing physician. I enjoy the quiet and slow pace of country life, surrounded by God's majesty. I will admit to preaching in the Methodist Chapel on occasions.
INFORMATION ABOUT CHRISTOPHER LARABEE - DETECTIVE AND DR JOHN 'BUCK' WILMINGTON.
This is everything I know of the men, from newspaper articles, police gazette reports, and I admit it, social gossip.
Christopher Adam Larabee, born 1858 to James Larabee of Fordingbridge Hampshire. He was expelled from Eton, although I don't know why or where he went to school after that. He studied at Edinburgh University and has a degree in chemistry. While in Scotland he worked with a famous professor of medicine who was known to aid the police in some cases. He joined the navy as an officer in the marines and met and married Sarah Connelly, an Irish heiress. They had a son, but when the boy was six, mother and son both died, under what circumstances I do not know. I believe the deaths affected him deeply and he left the navy. Some time later he set up as a 'Consulting Detective'. Some persistent rumours say his family was murdered and he is still seeking the guilty party. He has a fine record for solving apparently impossible cases and the police consult him regularly. I met him yesterday. He is direct and although some what intimidating, he projects an air of confidence and trust. Mr Larabee is tall and slender, with fair hair and green eyes.
Buck Wilmington, born 1860, his real name is John - according to the medical register. But I have never heard or seen him referred to as anything but Buck. His mother was a famous courtesan. There are all kinds of rumours about who his father might be, none that can be proved, but what is common knowledge - I am told by society colleagues, since I do not move in such circles - is that his mother came into a generous 'inheritance' just after he was born. He too studied at Edinburgh, though he and Larabee would only have been there together for one year. After he qualified as a doctor he joined the army and served with some distinction in India. On returning to this country he became - assuming they did not already know each other - the close friend of Christopher Larabee. I am told he does still practice medicine, but he does not seem to have a practice anywhere or be on the staff of any hospital.
Buck Wilmington seems to be a very affable, friendly and dependable fellow. He is a very tall, fine looking man with a mane of dark hair and has something of a reputation as a scoundrel with the ladies.
H*S*H*S*H*S*H
JOURNAL - EZRA P STANDISH
February 16th 1896
What a day! I arrived in London at twenty after ten, as per the timetable. A tall man in a simple tweed coat approached me on the platform, even before I had engaged a porter. He asked if I was Sir Ezra. That was the first time anyone had called me that out loud. I must admit it sounded most …dignified, no not dignified, it was most satisfying. Oh good Lord it was very nice, I liked it. Mother would be in hog heaven if she were here - which she is not and never will be if I can prevent it. The man who approached me was of course, Dr Sanchez, whose letter I had read on the train, along with the other documents he had thoughtfully included.
I was unsure whether to give the Doctor's fears any credence, but as he spoke to me, while we rode in a Handsome to the hotel, I began to wonder what I had let myself in for. Nevertheless I insisted that as soon as my baggage, one small trunk and a valise, were in the room the good Doctor had booked in my name - it really is interesting the deference a title can get you here - we made our way to the solicitors. Here too Doctor Sanchez had made an appointment.
Mr Peeves is a very small man - very small, after all I'm not exactly a giant, but he was minute! Small but efficient. I had managed to 'relieve' mother of my birth certificate and a picture of myself as an infant of three or four with my father. This he took to be proof of identity. I read the will, signed some papers and instantly I am a man of property and wealth. All my life I have been in pursuit of money. We had money, while father was still alive, then he died and we had no money. Now I know why. Mother has spent her whole life in pursuit of this and now it just falls into my lap, all I had to do was wait. Money, respectability and a title, what more is there - but love. Ah well, you can't have it all, and no amount of money can bring that, for anyone, but especially for me, not now, probably never - its just the way the world is I guess.
The efficient but piggy Mr Peeves - how can one man look so much like a pig - had already turned some of the estate disposable income into cash. Vulgar but necessary, he also provided a letter of recommendation for the bank. My late uncle's bank. His solicitors, his bank, his land, his house, his life, I still have nothing of my own. It is all borrowed, a pretence on my part, I pretend to be 'Sir Ezra' I pretend to be the lord of the manor, I pretend to be a gentleman, I pretend to be respectable, I pretend to be honest and decent and normal. I can do that, I'm good at pretending to be something and someone I'm not. I've been doing it all my life after all, so now I will do it for the rest of my life, at least the surroundings will be comfortable. And the clothes are exquisite!
After the bank and a fine meal we headed for Jermin Street, Bond Street, Saville Row, and Knightsbridge. I now posses a working wardrobe for my life as an English gentleman.
In the evening after we dined at the hotel, the good Doctor told me about my new home, he also spoke most warmly of my uncle. I get the feeling they were very good friends and he misses him more than he can say.
H*S*H*S*H*S*H
LETTER TO SIR EZRA PIERS STANDISH
FROM SIR HENRY STANDISH
If you are reading this Nephew, I am dead, and that being the case I regret I cannot meet you and set right a wrong done to you and your mother.
Your Grandfather was a hard man, a man who expected obedience and unquestioning loyalty. Your father, my dearest younger brother, was a free spirit, a child of the wild moor where he grew up. Our father could never tame him, and when he ran away to America to find adventure Father threatened to cut him off from all family funds, but Mother persuaded him not to. She died the next year, in honour of her memory he continued to support Piers, but he was a vindictive old man by then, and ill himself. When he died I found he had made it a condition of his will that your father would only receive money from the family trust fund while he lived, no dependent could claim so much as a farthing after he died. I am so sorry if this caused you and your mother hardship, there was noting I could do. Forgive me nephew.
Look after my moor, my house, my servants, all are loyal, trustworthy and decent. Do not listen to gossip, listen to your heart.
Your uncle,
Henry Standish.
H*S*H*S*H*S*H
NOTE SENT TO THE MANAGER OF THE NORTHUMBERLAND HOTEL, FROM SIR EZRA STANDISH, ROOM 15
February 17th 1896
Sir,
Being new in your fair county I was dependent on the advice of others in the choice of hotel. I was given to believe this was a first class establishment, clearly my advice was erroneous. Last night I placed two pairs of boots outside my suite, one old pair and one newly purchased. When I put out a new pair of boots to be weatherproofed I expect a new pair of boots to be returned to me. This morning I found one old pair of boots, duly polished and one new boot. Be so good as to find my missing boot with all expediency!
Sir Ezra Standish.
Room 15
H*S*H*S*H*S*H
PERSONAL DIARY - BUCK WILMINGTON
February 17th 1896
The good doctor introduced us to Sir Ezra over a breakfast at their hotel. He is a smaller man, with agreeable features and green eyes, not the same forest green as my Chris but a startling jade green that is most distinctive (I must ask the doctor if his uncle's eyes were also green) and chestnut coloured hair. His accent is different to other Americans I have met, but we quickly learnt that he was from the southern states where their accent is most distinctive. Sir Ezra was mad as hell. It seems there is some difficulty with a boot.
H*S*H*S*H*S*H
TRANSCRIPT OF NOTES TAKEN BY DR WILMINGTON OF A MEETING BETWEEN MR C LARABEE, DR J SANCHEZ AND SIR EZRA STANDISH
February 17th 1896
9.30 am
THE NORTHUMBERLAND HOTEL DINING ROOM
"Sir Ezra, " Chris began. "You have been made aware of the circumstances of your uncle's death and Dr Sanchez's concerns?"
"Indeed sir I have, but I am determined to go to Dartmoor and carry out my duties in person."
"An admirable sentiment."
"Do you give credence to his fears? Surly you do not believe some supernatural canine was responsible for my late uncle's demise?"
Larabee gave small smile and shook his head. "No sir, but I believe the doctor saw what he says he saw. When a fit and healthy man, a man who seems to have been happy, dies suddenly and inexplicably there is cause for some curiosity, when such a large sum of money and property is involved then there is cause to be very curious and cautious. Do you not agree?"
"I bow to your superior knowledge in such matters."
"When do you travel to Devonshire?"
It was Dr Sanchez who answered. "Tomorrow, we take the seven o'clock train to Plymouth arriving just after ten."
Sir Ezra visibly shuddered at the mention of seven o'clock.
Just then a waiter came over to us and handed a note to Sir Ezra on a platter. He took it, opened it and frowning, handed it to Mr Larabee. Larabee shot out of his seat and ran after the waiter, the rest of us followed.
"Where did you get this?" he demanded waving the note in front of the man.
"A cabby handed it to the desk clerk sir." He gestured to the front desk. Larabee took off at a run.
He ran, with the three of us in pursuit, out into the street. "The cabby who just delivered a message, where is he?" he asked the doorman.
Instantly the uniformed man indicated a Handsome cab pulling away. The two of us ran after it, but it was too quickly lost in the throng of traffic.
"Buck?" he asked me, "you get the number?"
"4531," I replied, sure of my answer.
"Good man."
We returned to the hotel. Once we were resettled in the dining room, and our food had arrived, Chris showed us the note Sir Ezra had received.
The words were all cut from what looked to be a newspaper and pasted onto a sheet of writing paper. Larabee confirmed that the paper was cheap, the kind commonly sold at railway termini. The paste was likewise cheap. A quick examination of the Times proved what he already knew, that the words were cut from today's edition.
"What do you think Mr Larabee? It is a friendly warning or a threat?" Sir Ezra asked. There was perhaps just a hint of fear in his voice.
"I don't know, the note was made in a hurry, today's paper, the words have been hurriedly cut, and the paste unevenly applied. The word 'moor' has been made from two words. Who ever made this did not plan to do it, he or she saw an opportunity and took it. I have cases I need to attend to here in London, but Buck will accompany you to Dartmoor, tomorrow."
H*S*H*S*H*S*H
PERSONAL DIARY - CHRISTOPHER LARABEE
February 17th 1896
I did it again, I lied to Buck and made decisions about his life with out asking him. I knew as soon as I said it, that it was wrong. I should have waited, it didn't need to be decided then like that, I should have asked him. He would have said yes, he always says yes, but that is not the point. Why do I do that? Why do I treat him worse than a servant. Because he lets me? Possibly, and he does, he indulges me, as if I were some nabob. He smiles at me when I am being selfish or hurtful. Damn him! Why can't he just shout at me or tell me to stop? Why? He knows I will apologise to him, in my own way, I will lay back and spread my legs and give myself over to him. But I do that anyway. He will come here tonight, late, after he has dined and done his rounds. My suddenly sending him out of town on short notice will have upset his routine. How many working girls would be dead now if it were not for the gentle ministrations of Dr Buck, how many poor wretches would have bled to death after some butcher had torn them up getting rid of another unwanted baby, if Dr Buck hadn't been there to save them. How many children would be lost? Too many. He will be in Whitechapel or Bermondsey now, he's safe there, he's their hero, no one will touch him, and he won't have to pay for a thing. But after, he'll come here. First he'll go to his club, bath, shave, put on clean clothes, and then he'll come to me.
It is always the same.
He will come and greet Inez. I do believe my fiery housekeeper has a soft spot for him, but she is well aware we only ever use one bed, it doesn't bother her it seems. She knows if he ever did return her affection it would mean nothing to him, nothing other than the friendship they share now. A friendship they use against me, for she spies on me and reports back to my 'doctor' - damn her. When he has greeted her he will give her a little sign and then, as she follows him into the room to clear any dishes or glasses, she will ask;
"Will you need me any more tonight sir?"
I - off course - will say 'no'. And then she will ask when I want breakfast, and I will assure her I will go out for breakfast and she can have the morning off. It is no wonder she likes it when Buck comes to stay.
Once she is gone he will complain about the way I treated him, and I will say sorry. As he complains he will take my jacket off and let it drop to the floor - he knows I hate that, but I won't try to retrieve it. Then, while still complaining about my boorish ways he will remove my tie, then undo my waistcoat and shirt, placing the cufflinks, watch and studs in some safe place, usually in the little jade bowl on the mantle. Then we will both stop to remove our shoes and socks. Before I can roll my socks and put the shoes away neatly he will be kneeling in front of me, undoing each fly button with deliberate slowness. I have narrow hips, he only needs to undo two before he can tug them down, and every single time he does that he is able to pull my underwear down at the same time. It's no easy task because by then I'm hard. Finally, with a gentle stroke, he will push the open shirt and waistcoat off my shoulders. And there I will stand, naked as the day I was born, hard as a rock. While he, apart from his feet, is fully clothed. Somehow being naked while he is dressed gives one the most tremendous excitement. Maybe that's just me.
He will take my hand and lead me to the bedroom. He doesn't need to ask me, he doesn't need to instruct or request, I will meekly and willingly lie back across the bed, open, vulnerable and waiting for him to have his way with me. He likes to do it slowly, removing his clothes, he does it so slowly, but manages to make it look as if he is doing it quite naturally. He often doesn't undress completely, leaving his shirt on, though I can usually get it undone.
He has his own preparation, it is wonderfully smooth and slippery and smells of sandalwood and cinnamon, I have on occasion thought to analyse it, but then what is the point, it works, he seems to have a never ending supply of it - presumably from one of his many contacts in the 'business'. There are many ways we reach the end, he leads I follow, and bit by bit he strips away my self control. He kisses me, on the lips, on the chest, on my neck, he runs his tongue over my collar bone. And I reciprocate, his ears are very receptive, he gasps, and I feel his manhood give little thrusts against my thigh when I kiss and suck on his ear lobes. Once we are making love he won't complain about my behaviour, his words are soft and gentle and loving. Then his kisses will move down, dipping his tongue into my navel as if he were loading a pen with ink. Before I can revel in this - for it does bring delicious sensations, he moves - I know what is coming, and when I am not being 'punished' I have been the one bestowing this particular ministration, and it makes me tremble in anticipation. In fact, if I'm not trembling by now he thinks he's failed, that or I'm ill. He kisses just the very tip of me, once, twice, maybe three times, before he takes all of me inside his mouth. Oh what he can do with that tongue, it's just torture, delicious torture. But I don't come then, he stops, just before I'm about to lose control. Now it's time, now comes the main event, the top billing. He coats his - one must say it damn impressive - manhood in the lotion, and with a hand slick with it inserts one finger into me. Just one. Oh God, it makes me hard just to think about it. I'm usually almost ready for him by then, so it doesn't take long before that digit is removed, and even thought I know what will replace it is better I still regret its loss. And then it comes, pressing, pushing, and breaching me, there is a moment, no more than a second of burning pain and then it is over and there is just the most amazing feeling in the world, a feeling of fullness, you want more, you can't understand how you live day to day without it, but there is more. Oh so much more. There is a spot, deep within me, when he hits it, my world explodes in my head, lights go off all over the place, it is like the fireworks at the Crystal Palace going off in my head, with the sparks falling on my naked skin making it tingle all over and a jolt of lightning hits me in the groin, and I come. Just like that. Sometimes we come together, sometimes he comes just after me - never once before.
When it is all over, when we have lain on top of one another, panting, gasping, incapable of coherent speech, the English language no longer our mother tongue, he will slip out of me and wander into the bathroom, I get to watch him go, his backside is just so perfect. He returns with a flannel, soaked in warm water and a little soap. Once we are clean and fresh we sleep, together, wrapped in each other's arms, bodies pressed up against each other.
I will sleep well tonight. Not as late as he -except I must set the alarm clock, for he needs to catch that train, knowing Buck he'll want to sleep as late as possible and eat on the train, he'll want a bath first so 5.30, today I might actually wake up with him not before him. I hear the door, Inez is laughing, he's here.
