A DOGGED MEMORY
by elfin

Part Two - Jack Stapleton


Had I known then what I know now, I'd have shot Stapleton on the moor
that afternoon and never regretted it.

But despite his knowing exactly who I was, I had no idea of the
fellow's name or background.

Not even when he mentioned Holmes were my suspicions aroused.

My mind, I admit, was elsewhere.  I'd woken that morning in the
possessive embrace of the man I'd taken to my bed the night before.
What we'd done could certainly ruin us if the details of our encounter
ever became public knowledge.  But the warmth and joy to which I'd
woken was far from perverted.  It had been wonderful.

Stapleton met me on the moor, at the site of his archaeological dig,
and invited me back to Merripit House to meet his sister.  He kept his
initial promise not to ask about Holmes again after that first time,
and we had a pleasant yet somewhat queer chat over tea.

He was a strange man.  His ego was one of the biggest I've come across
and I imagined, for a moment, having he and Holmes in the same room.
He spoke of himself a lot, of his accomplishments in the field of
natural archaeology and his fascination with bones, especially skulls.
  He possessed much knowledge in the area of medicine and cranial
studies and, although I didn't like the man, he and I shared many
similar interests.

But it was his sister who caught my attention upon my arrival at the
house, and also as I was leaving.  She'd mistaken me for Henry and, in
the moments we had alone when I'd first met her, had begged me to
return to London.  As I left, she caught me alone again at the front
door and asked me to disregard her earlier pleas.

I told her that I could not.  That if Henry was in danger it was my
sworn duty to protect him.  Sworn duty indeed!  Holmes had bound me to
Sir Henry's side back in London and last night that bond had been
deepened.

I couldn't let him come to harm.  But neither would I enjoin him to
run from the place that was rightfully his home.  I would protect him,
I swore to myself.

~~~

"Must we spend the night making dull conversation, John?" Henry asked
when I put Stapleton's invitation to dinner to him upon my return to
Baskerville Hall.  Stepping around the desk that was next to the
library window, he checked that the door behind me was closed before
taking my hands in his and grasping them tightly.

"I'm under no illusions.  I won't have your company for very long, but
while I do have it I want to make the most of it!"

His declaration surprised me, and I felt the heat rise in my cheeks.

"We should go," I told him with little heart, "they're your nearest
neighbours and I imagine it could get very lonely out here.  One day
you might appreciate their company."

He sighed.  "Of course, you're right.  Accept their invitation then."
  A smile returned to his lips, a sly one at that.  "It's not until
Friday after all."


I spent a good deal of the afternoon recounting some of my
experiences, in writing, as my first report back to Holmes in London.
  All I said of Henry was that he was in fine health and enjoying
exploring his new home.

But it wasn't his home that he'd spent much of his time in exploration
of.  It was me.  Making it look as if his hard bed had been slept in
was easy enough, even though he had not yet spent a night in it.
After retiring to bed, he would wait until the sounds of the servants
ceased, and then creep across the hall to my room.  Behind the locked
door, we sought intimate knowledge of one another.

He was a generous, talented and adventurous lover.  I had little
experience, but made up for it by experimenting with some of the ideas
my heated mind brought forth.

At night we spoke only in whispers.  Only once did he ask me who it
was that kept my heart under lock and key.  I gently refused him an
answer, telling he that, as he would never chance to meet the man, it
was of no consequence to him.

Of course, it was on the Thursday night that we made the discovery of
Barrymore at the window.   He was signalling to, he said at the time,
a woman with whom he was conducting an illicit affair.  They met after
dark, he told us, out in the summerhouse when his wife was asleep.
This was one of the things I wrote in my next letter to Holmes, and
the one detail he positively tore strips from me for a few days after
the whole case was closed.

(Even now, as I write this, I read the lines to him and he rolls his
eyes heavenward.  How could I fall for such an obvious, blatant
falsehood?  'And you a doctor, Watson!  Pray, tell me, what effect
does the freezing temperature have on a man's sexual prowess?')

~~~

Dinner at Merripit House was an odd affair.

Dr Mortimer and his lovely wife had also been invited, and they proved
to be highly intelligent and interesting people.  Stapleton again
brought Holmes' name into the conversation and asked many questions,
all general things, and all of which I answered as such.  But his
interest in my friend piqued my interest in him, and I know that I
responded to his queries with a proprietary air, one not missed by Henry.

After dinner, I put it to the doctor that he had lied about the money
Sir Charles Baskerville had left to him, and he admitted that the sum
had been twice what he'd told us.  But save from adding detail in my
next letter to Holmes, it seemed not to mean a great deal.

I watched out for those small clues that Holmes always observes and
relays to me after the fact - those things only he seems to ever see,
yet once he has pointed them out, are so very obvious.  All I really
saw, however (and I didn't understand its significance until much
later) was Miss Stapleton's not-so-subtle advances toward Henry.

They amused me, for all his polite smiles and laughs at her jokes, his
occasional glances at me were more meaningful than any words he spoke
to her.  For some reason, his indifference to her was annoying Jack
Stapleton, although I couldn't for the life of me fathom why.

Mrs Mortimer was a medium, or psychic, or some such nonsense.  She
claimed to have the ability to speak to the dead, and Henry,
obviously, enquired whether or not she had spoken to his uncle.  When
she told him that she hadn't, and asked him what it was he would like
to know from Sir Charles, I could see that Henry was quite taken in.

A séance was hurriedly arranged around the card table in the library.
  We all sat and held hands.  With three men and three women, this
should have been a simple set up, but somehow Henry ensured that I sat
on his other side, and thus it was my hand in his.  When we were
instructed to close our eyes and wipe all earthly thoughts from our
minds, he began a discreet yet incredibly erotic caress of my palm
with the tips of his fingers.

My rebellious mind filled with thoughts, all of which were earthly
indeed.  My body reacted the same way it had from the very first time
he'd touched me, and I had to shift in my chair to relieve the painful
strain in my underwear.

The absurdity then, of hearing Sir Charles' supposed words coming from
Mrs Mortimer's mouth, quickly followed by the fright of the wolf, or
dog, or whatever it was at the window, quite dulled my inconvenient
arousal and helped me recover my wits.

Until, that is, we reached Baskerville Hall around midnight.

As I moved to the roaring fire in order to rescue my frozen hands,
Henry grabbed me from behind, spun me to face him and kissed me fiercely.

I pushed him away with all my strength.  "Are you mad?!"  But the
expression on his face showed me no remorse.  I lowered my voice.  "We
could be caught!"

"The servants are asleep.  Who else is there to catch us?"

He had a point and made it well... still, I had hidden my whole life
and was not easily persuaded that I was free to love as I pleased in
what felt like such a public place, when in fact it was almost
entirely private.

He smiled at me with such affection.  "Tell you what, my uncle kept
some excellent old French brandy.  Would you care to join me?"

"It would be a pleasure," I accepted happily, back on known ground.

His fight with Seldon, the convict, is well recorded.  The first I
heard was a crash - Henry hitting the cupboards as he was pushed to
the floor of the kitchen - and grabbing my revolver from my jacket, I
ran after him.

As I entered the kitchen, Henry was sitting up on the floor and Seldon
was reaching for a chicken leg left out on the table.

"Stop where you are or I'll shoot," I warned him, taking my aim.

When he threw himself bodily through the window, I was more than a
little shocked, and it took a moment for me to find the presence of
mind to give chase.  By the time I reached the end of the dark walk,
he was off over the moor.  I refused to shoot him in the back, and it
seemed our night's adventures were finally at an end.  Then I saw the
man on the top of the Black Tor, watching us, the moon at his back
creating a silhouette.  When I pointed him out to Henry, he'd already
vanished.

We went to bed an hour or so later, and took our time with one
another.  I came to a slow crescendo, Henry swallowing every drop of
me.  It was his name on my lips, but not his face in my mind.

I missed Holmes, and wished to see him again.

~~~

fin part two