The Case Of The Black Beast

THE CASE OF THE BLACK BEAST

It was a filthy evening in mid-November and Holmes accosted me as I returned from seeing a patient on the Marylebone Road.

“Can your partner take your patients tomorrow, Watson?” he asked. “We must catch the early express to Edinburgh.”

“I have nothing urgent, anyway. You have a case, then,” I added.

“Yes, I’ll supply you with details on our journey. You should get your packing done. Don’t forget your service revolver,” added the great man, ominously.

Holmes had booked two first-class tickets on the Flying Scotsman, and after a frenzied drive to King’s Cross, we were soon ensconced in a carriage. Only just in time, for the whistle blew as we were removing our hats and mufflers, and the powerful engine was soon speeding through the foggy air.

“Well,” said I, “what is this case that is so mysterious?”

Holmes stared through the carriage window at the murk outside. Then he said gravely,

“Mysterious enough, Watson, and normally, not something I would involve myself with. As you know, I can better most earthly villains, but this would seem to verge on the supernatural. At least our client, Richard Draxman, seems to think so. But I will relate the facts as I know them, and we’ll see what our journey’s end makes of the affair.”

It transpired that Mr Draxman had arrived at Baker Street yesterday morning almost beside himself with agitation.

“I’m being haunted, Mr Holmes,” he had blurted out, and had almost collapsed in my friend’s arms. Mrs Hudson had brought a pot of strong tea, and he continued his tale.

“I live alone, and the nearest village is five miles away. Just lately, to while away these awfu’ long winter evenings, three o’ my neighbours and myself have taken to holding a séance every week. Well may you scoff, Mr Holmes, but these gatherings have summoned up a terrible demon! I first heard the noise last week. It was the strangest, eeriest wailing you could imagine, and canna’ have been uttered by a human throat. It came from my cellar, and I went to investigate. The place is in a bit of a mess, I’m afraid. Well, I searched about, but could’na see anything – the racket had stopped by then. Suddenly, I did see it – a huge black hairy thing, singing some weird song and seemingly pulsating. The next second it was gone, and I don’t mind telling ye, Mr Holmes, that I soon followed its example!”

As Holmes recited this strange tale he looked pale and drawn.

“Draxman had to return yesterday,” he said. “But what do you make of his story? It’s as curious a tale as any that have graced your journals.”

“It is certainly a fantastic case,” said I, “but I am afraid the solution, to me, is prosaic enough.”

“Really? You amaze me, Watson. Pray enlighten me, then.”

For answer I raised my arm and tipped an imaginary glass toward my lips. “This Draxman and his companions, they have nothing to do of an evening, so they play at raising spirits and enjoy a ‘wee dram’ of other spirits too, no doubt.”

“Mmm. I’m not sure I agree with your theory. Edinburgh is reputedly a haunted city. In fact, tonight we are going ghost-hunting, Watson!”

There was a trap waiting at Waverley station and we were soon rattling through the frozen fields to our client’s house, which proved to be a dark, gothic mansion surrounded by depressing-looking laurels.

Our host did not lighten our mood, and after a mournful meal he took us to the cellar.

“You’ll excuse me not joining ye in your vigil, gentlemen,” he said, nervously. “I canna venture doon there again.”

“We’ll search the cellars, Watson – they look pretty extensive. And keep your revolver within reach.”

The air was freezing and the cold brick walls crumbled at my touch, and mingled with the cobwebs which were everywhere.

Meanwhile, Holmes was examining some dusty wine racks.

“There are several bottles here. Perhaps your theory is supported, Watson!”

He flashed his torch around. The beam lit up the flotsam and jetsam that are universal to any cellar. Broken furniture vied with packing crates and ancient trunks. And it spotted something else with its sweeping gaze.

“Hello, what’s this?” said Holmes, moving in for a closer look.

Then without warning some horrid monster leapt from nowhere onto my chest, its long sharp, talons slicing excruciatingly into my body, seemingly into my very soul. I collapsed to the floor with a scream of agony, and darkness enveloped me.

A torch shone into my face. “Watson! Are you alright? You dropped your torch, old fellow.”

I sat up slowly; amazingly I found was unhurt apart from some deep scratches. I looked at Holmes and saw him looking rather pleased with himself.

“Did you see that, Holmes?” I gasped. “Was it the Black Beast?”

“I’ve seen the Beast,” he said slowly. “And I’ve solved the mystery!”

“My dear Holmes!”

“Yes. Just before the Beast attacked you, I spied something in the corner of the cellar.”

“What was it? What did you see?”

A grin spread across Holmes’ face. “I saw an old ventilation shaft. With the grid missing. You see? Access from the outside. The reason for the freezing air in here?”

I began to understand.

“The Black Beast,” said Holmes. “is a cat. A huge Scottish wildcat who comes in sometimes from the bad weather. Wildcats are notoriously wary of people.”

“But wildcats aren’t black.” said I, feeling increasingly disorientated. “They’re tabby, aren’t they?”

“Yes, but this wildcat had a lot of ancient coal dust on him,” laughed Holmes. “The shaft is thick with it. The animal has bolted now, and our client will have to fix his grating!”

“I can’t believe the answer was so simple,” said I, ruefully.

“Elementary, my dear Watson,” said Holmes. “Let us allay our friend Draxson’s fears, and then I think we shall be ready for that ‘wee dram’ you mentioned earlier!”