Sherlock's Secret War -- File 5

(From The Air-gun, Vol. 1, No. 7, November 1985)

(Letter -- Dr. P. V. Cheever to Jackson Pettigrew III -- Undated)

My dear Pettigrew,

We've had our differences over the years, you and I. That incident at the Kensington arboreum was especially regrettable, and let me say now that the outbreak of fist-fighting in your audience was indeed my fault. Although we've never been the best of friends, I have still always held a good measure of respect for your judgement and intellect. Now, as I approach what must surely be the final days of my career, it is to you that I find I must turn.

No one else would ever believe what I am about to put down.

As we were together in Devonshire in those early days of our careers, however, I know that you will at least give this letter some consideration, however fleeting, before dismissing me as deluded.

You will recall how they never found the body of the murderer Stapleton on the moor that autumn in 1889. Even Sherlock Holmes seemed sure the man just sank into the quagmire and died. You will recali, too, what we found in the mouth of that canine they killed on the moor that night, that "Hound of the Baskervilles." Remember our little joke that night, as we bought each other glasses of half-and-half after it was all done? It's not very funny these days, but let me refresh your memory.

They never found the body of Rodger Baskerville, a.k.a. Stapleton, but they had the body of that hound. And inside that hound's mouth, as we discovered, he had as perfectly filled a tooth as you never saw in a dog's head before or since. Who would waste good gold and dentist's skill on a mongrel, much less get the beast to sit still for it?

We laughed about it then, but I never told you what I found later, one night when I was calling on a certain Miss Lyons, whom you will definitely remember.

At first it didn't connect, but when it did the thing she told me froze my blood. Stapleton had a gold filling, Pettigrew, right about where that hound's was. Not the kind of coincidence a man likes to ponder, is it?

Later, I broke off seeing Laura upon discovering that she was with child from a previous romance: Stapleton I guessed. As the fates of medicinal practice would have it, however, I was present at her birthing. Had I not been there I'd never have believed it--the product of her labor was a litter. One baby, two pups, and something else in between that the good lord saw fit not to breathe life into. Laura seemed to accept the entire brood as her own, as if she possessed some special knowledge we were not privy to. I called again the next day only to find the pups were gone.

I first thought she had killed them in a fit of madness, for what woman could stay sane in such circumstances? The woman who was spending the night with her, Mrs. Harns, had stepped out for a moment, only to return to find two-thirds of that strange brood missing. Laura would only say that "someone came for them, as he had said." Her story was backed up by local gossip of a stranger in the village who came empty-handed, but left with a mewling basket under one arm. I did not need to ask her who the "he" she spoke of was.

Since that time I've researched and stumbled across a number of similar occurrences, and have come to a conclusion that would guarantee me space in any madhouse were I to speak of it openly. Think before you react now, Pettigrew; remember that perfect gold filling in that dog's mouth and remember me. This is no delusion.

I have proof that a race of hound-men live among us, quietly and with unknown purposes. They have an ability to take on a canine aspect, to become as great dogs, with all the strengths and speed of such. Rodger Baskerville was shot and killed in just such a form. While human, however, these beings still possess differences. They are uncommon strong; I have seen one bend iron bars at one dread moment. They have refined senses and can virtually see in the dark. They can mate with human beings and have done so . . . their children walk among us even now. They avoid notoriety, staying out of the papers whenever they can, but bits and pieces can always be spotted by one who knows what to look for.

Don't look for such stuff, though, Pettigrew.

Whether you believe me on this matter or not really matters little, friend. I almost hope you don't.

By the time you read this, in any case, I shall be well into what I believe is the country of origin of these creatures, from where I may not return. With such a possibility ahead, I could not resist the impulse to let someone know of my fate. Until such time as it may become necessary to release what I have written here, for whatever reason, put this letter away. Do not go to the authorities, do not go take on mercenary assistance in a vain search for me, do not let anyone know that you know.

Good-bye, and may God help us both.

P.V. Cheever