fic: The Hound of the (Saverin)-Baskervilles (Mark/Eduardo, Prompt 29)
Title: The Hound of the (Saverin)-Baskervilles
Recipient: skyearth85
Prompt Number: #29
Characters/Pairings: Mark/Eduardo, Holmes/Watson
Rating/Warnings: gen, both pairings can be read as friendship
Word Count: 6495
Disclaimer: This fanwork is based on fictional representations of the characters in The Social Network; I make no claims of ownership of the characters or concepts.
Summary (or prompt scenario): For the prompt "Sherlock Holmes AU, Victorian!setting."
Notes: Plot and dialogue borrowed shamelessly from Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Apologies for any anachronisms--this was written while watching too much Downton Abbey.
The Hound of the (Saverin)-Baskervilles
The Hound of the (Saverin)-Baskervilles
“Well, Watson, what do you make of it?”
Dr. John H. Watson startled, nearly dropping the walking stick which a visitor had left the night before. He recovered quickly. “Holmes, how did you know what I was doing? I believe you have eyes in the back of your head.”
Mr. Sherlock Holmes looked up from his breakfast with a smirk. “I have, at least, a silver-plated coffee pot in front of me. Whatever Mrs. Hudson lacks in the fine art of porridge, she compensates with her polishing.”
Watson acknowledged this truth with a wry glance and seated himself at the breakfast table. “Who is this ‘Hughes?’ A new client?” he asked, referring to the broad silver band on the stick. The full band read: “Christopher Hughes, Esq., from his friends of the R.C.”
Holmes leaned back in his chair. “My dear Watson, you know my methods. Apply them!”
“I think,” Watson said, trying to follow his companion’s ways, “that Mr. Hughes is a successful, elderly solicitor, well-esteemed since he has been given this stick as a mark of appreciation.”
“Excellent!”
“This stick must belong to a country practitioner, since its iron ferrule is worn down. No doubt from extensive walking.”
“Perfectly sound!” said Holmes.
“And here,” Watson said, warming under his friend’s praise. “There is the “friends of the R.C.” I should guess that to be the Something Chapter, perhaps one of the various Inns of Court.”
“Bravo, my dear Watson! Your readers would little guess how advanced you are in your deductive abilities,” Holmes said, offering Watson the coffee.
Watson smoothed his mustache to suppress a smile. “Has anything escaped me? I trust that there is nothing of consequence which I have overlooked?”
“I am afraid,” Holmes said as he carried the stick to examine it by the window, “that your conclusions are entirely incorrect.”
“Entirely?”
Holmes ran a hand over the ferrule of the stick. “See here, where the tip has been worn down? No traces of mud or grass-the sign of country walks-but rather minute bits of wood. We do not have an elderly country practitioner, but rather a young solicitor, who pounds his stick with too much enthusiasm. Where would he abuse his gift so? The initials R.C. suggest the Reform Club, where you can always find Liberals gathered in debate. So we have a blonde-hair young solicitor with political ambitions.”
Watson glared at him. “And how did you divine the colour of his hair?”
“Because I see him through the window. Here he is coming up the stairs.”
“Mr. Sherlock Holmes. And Dr. John Watson, I presume?” Mr. Christopher Hughes introduced himself with an amiable confidence. “Ah, and my stick! I was afraid I had misplaced it at Charing Cross.”
Holmes waved him into a chair. “Mr. Hughes. You are undoubtedly here for greater matters than a lost item.”
“Yes, I am, sir.” Hughes declined the offer of a cigar, and Holmes shot Watson a triumphant look. “I am much obliged for this audience, confronted as I am with a most serious and extraordinary problem. Recognizing, as I do, that you are the second highest expert in Europe-”
“Indeed?” Holmes fixed his dark eyes upon their visitor. “May I inquire who has the honor of being the first?”
Hughes coloured. “Mr. Horatio Caine has quite a few admirers.”
“Then had you not better consult him?” Holmes bristled, while Watson choked down a laugh.
“I misspoke,” Hughes apologized with grace. “The matter I am to put before you concerns one of my dearest friends. But first-how familiar, Mr. Holmes, are you with the untimely death of Sir Charles Baskerville of Baskerville Hall?”
Holmes steepled his fingers. “Yes, I recall some scandal in the papers. The family hushed it up rather quickly, but there was some talk of the occult. The inquest was perfectly useless, of course.”
Hughes cleared his throat. “I am intimately acquainted with the family, owing to my friendship with Sir Charles’s nephew-and his heir. Edward Saverin and I had been schoolboys together, and Sir Charles was a kind host whenever we ended upon him for the holidays.
“Sir Charles was a good, stout-hearted man, with only one weakness: a superstitious fear of the Baskerville Curse. There had been a legend in the family, you see, of a Sir Hugo Baskerville, who had a promised the Devil his soul if only he could possess a girl from the village. She escaped him by running out on to the moor. Sir Hugo rode in chase, and his friends followed.
“When they finally came across Sir Hugo and his prey, both were dead. She lay as if sleeping, but his throat was torn out. Looming above him, with blood on its muzzle, was a massive beast. It was a hellhound-one of the famous legends of Dartmoor.
“Sir Charles claimed that the Baskervilles have been cursed ever since. He certainly refused to walk alone on the moor, particularly at night. One evening, however, the steward saw Sir Charles slip out past the gardens. When he did not return after dusk, the entire house was roused for a search.
“It was only near dawn when the gardener came across Sir Charles. He had been sprawled out upon the wet ground. And his face was frozen in a rictus of fear.
“When I heard the dreadful news, I had to see for myself. I caught the next train to Dartmoor and persuaded the steward to lead me to the site where Sir Charles was found.” Hughes paused, as if trying to muster the proper words. “Mr. Holmes, I am not a superstitious man. And I have always scoffed Sir Charles’ tales of the Baskerville curse. But when I went to the site of Sir Baskerville’s demise, I saw-I saw-”
“My good man, what did you see?”
“Mr. Holmes, I saw . . . I saw the footsteps of a gigantic hound!”
The next morning, Holmes scraped tunelessly on the Stradivarius as they awaited Hughes’s return with his client, the new baronet of Baskerville Hall.
“Stop that infernal noise, Holmes. You’re scaring Gladstone.” The bulldog huffed and waddled over to lay by Watson’s feet. “I thought you would welcome a new puzzle.”
“On the contrary, I can think of ten different ways to recreate the scene of the crime. With our luck, the answer will be the most mundane one.” Holmes sighed. “How hateful.”
Once again, the arrival of Hughes forestalled an argument between the friends. “Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson,” said Hughes. “May I introduce Sir Edward Saverin of Baskerville Hall.”
The new baronet shook hands eagerly, then drew his chair closer to the fire “You must forgive me. I have grown unused to England’s climate.”
“I am surprised, Sir Edward,” Holmes said. “I would have thought that you had grown used to cold winters during your studies in Boston.”
“How-” He turned to his friend. “Hughes, what have you told them about me?”
“Yes, Holmes, how did you know?” Watson muttered under his breath, but his smile was fond.
Holmes cast a lazy glance over their guest. “Why, Sir Edward, it is obvious. Your tan extends past your wrists-your complexion is the product of a southern heritage, inherited no doubt from your mother. But you are already dressed in preparation for our English weather, so you must have lived in the north. At your age, your removal from the south to the north would have been to further your education. Yet, these studies were not in Europe-”
He gestured at Sir Eduardo.
“Your accent betrays an extended stay in North America. Your clothing is of the finest cut, but you wear an old scarf. From the state of its fibers, you’ve worn it for more than five years, in a place with repeated exposure to sea air. Clearly a cherished memento. The scarf is a distinct shade of crimson, the school colours of Harvard University. From which I surmise that you endured many a winter in Boston.”
“Marvelous! Absolutely astounding.”
“You are too kind, Sir Edward,” Holmes said, openly preening.
“Eduardo, please, not Edward,” the baronet said. “As you surmised, I spent my childhood in Brazil. It is too strange to be Edward now.”
Hughes clasped his friend on the arm. “Please show these gentlemen what you received this morning.”
Sir Eduardo reached for his pocketbook and retrieved a folded sheet of paper. Pasted across the sheet were clipped-out words, to form a message:
[STAY] [AWAY] [FROM] [THE] [MOOR]
Frowning, Sir Eduardo smoothed out the paper. “I can’t make any sense of it. My ship from Boston only docked in London last night. How could this message arrive at my hotel in the morning?”
“This morning, you say?” Holmes dashed to a side table, displacing his experiment on tobacco ash to pick up to morning Times. “Hmmm, tariffs, yes, fog in Channel-ah! Here is the ‘stay,’” he said, circling a word on the front page. “And here the ‘away,’ ‘from the,’ and even the ‘moor.’
“The message was prepared from this morning’s paper. Someone waited your arrival and followed you to your hotel. At the crack of dawn, they retrieved the morning paper and composed this message for you to find. What fun!”
“Holmes,” Watson leaned over to whisper. “You are scaring our client.” Indeed, the young baronet looked pale, while his solicitor seemed nervous.
Holmes struggled to suppress his glee. “Now that we have discovered a human hand behind these events-and not just a supernatural hound-you must hasten to Dartmoor. Data, data, data! I can’t make bricks without clay.”
“Will you be coming with us, Mr. Holmes?”
“I am afraid not, Sir Eduardo. My work for another client has reached a most delicate stage. But you will have an equally worthy companion-Dr. Watson will go with you.”
“Holmes!” Watson cried with indignation. “My patients-I can’t possibly-”
“You have been a most invaluable partner, Watson” Holmes said, a pleading expression on his face. It was the same expression he employed when Watson refused to house yet another dead cat in the pantry. “It does make a considerable difference to me, having someone on whom I can thoroughly rely.”
Watson sighed. “Very well. Mrs. Hudson will have to take in Gladstone. I would not trust him to survive your care.”
“I have rarely seen such wild beauty as these moors,” Watson said as their carriage rattled to a stop in front of Baskerville Hall. “Perhaps we could ride out tomorrow, if the weather permits.”
“Of course. We shall have guides from the house. The bogs can be quite treacherous-I once saw a lamb sink to its death, as a schoolboy,” Sir Eduardo said. He had seemed out of spirits since their departure from London, but was all politeness as a host.
“Are you still fretting about those old boots? This is why you need a valet, my friend,” said Hughes. Before their departure from London, Sir Eduardo had reported that an old pair of boots was missing from their hotel. He had set them out the night before for polishing, but no employee would confess to taking them. Yet another mystery, Watson noted to himself.
“No, Hughes. My mind was elsewhere, but-” Sir Eduardo sprung out the carriage and looked up at his ancestral pile. “This is my home now.”
Watson noted Hughes’s worried glance towards his friend. Sir Eduardo’s melancholy was more than that of a nephew grieving his uncle. His sorrow seemed to have another source.
“Your Highness!” A loud American voice boomed from the entrance to the Hall. “Your palace awaits!”
“Moskovitz! What in the world are you doing here?” Sir Eduardo cried.
The American emerged from the shadows with a grin. “Dustin Moskovitz, at your service,” he said, shaking hands with all around. “Hughes has told me all about you, Dr. Watson. I am very much an admirer of your accounts the Strand-it is a pity that Mr. Holmes couldn’t come in person to solve our mystery.”
“‘Our’ mystery, Moskovitz?” Hughes punched him in the shoulder. “I thought you were here to ‘sample the cellar and the village girls.’”
“What feudal notions you have,” Sir Eduardo said, laughing. “As lord of the manor, I expressly forbid you from approaching the women-or the wine.”
“Too late! I have already ordered Carson to bring out a bottle of your best vintage. It will be like our Harvard days: the Four Horsemen ride again-” Moskovitz cut himself off, but Sir Eduardo flinched as if he had been slapped.
They were a frozen tableau, until Sir Eduardo took a deep breath. “Yes, we are the Four Horsemen, now that Dr. Watson has joined us. We could always use a medical man, especially when Moskovitz drinks to excess.” He managed a tight smile and waved their company through into Baskerville Hall.
As he passed the threshold, Watson glanced back at the open moor. In the distance, clusters of rocks loomed over the coarse grass. But was that--? Watson squinted at the shadow. Was that a man on the moor?
When he blinked, the shadow was gone.
****************
“Saverin, we should turn back!” Moskovitz tried to hail their host, but Sir Eduardo only walked faster into the pelting rain.
Watson sighed and wished he had brought an umbrella instead of a walking stick. Their first night at Baskerville Hall had been uneventful, and Barrymore the head gardener offered to guide them through the moor after breakfast. In the morning light, the blossoms of spring were lovely indeed, and even Moskovitz ceased his incessant chatter to enjoy the sight. The climbing sun, however, was overtaken by dark clouds, and the first drops of rain soon fell upon them. Yet, Sir Eduardo refused to return.
“I see shelter ahead,” Sir Eduardo shouted over his shoulder. “Let’s run to it!”
“That’s Barton Lodge, sir. The gentleman living there do not accept visitors!” Barrymore tried to explain, but Sir Eduardo had already taken off. Barrymore sighed. “The poor Master. Trying to outrun his troubles.”
Watson drew closer. “What do you mean?”
Barrymore looked around and lowered his voice. “It’s that blasted American, Doctor. Not Mr. Moskovitz. But word is that the Master had invested in a scheme of his school friend’s. It came to tears, and there were rumors of a lawsuit that was hushed up quickly.”
Struck by a cruel suspicion, Watson lowered his voice as well. “Do you know how much money was lost?” Sir Charles’s sudden death could have been rather timely.
“No, no.” Barrymore was already shaking his head. “The Master has a large estate in Brazil from his mother’s family-the sum lost was a pittance.”
Relieved, Watson tried to catch sight of their host. As Sir Eduardo’s long legs ate up the distance, a light came on in Barton Lodge. The door opened moments later, where a tall, broad-shouldered figure loomed.
“Come in!” The man waved them into chairs by the fire. Identifying himself as Cameron Winklevoss, he apologized for the state of the rooms. “We left the servants behind when we came down to Dartmoor. My brother Tyler and I serve ourselves here.”
Footsteps sounded in the hall, and a second man walked in with a tray of cold meats. Winklevoss laughed at their look of surprise. “Yes, Tyler and I are a regular Castor and Pollux. We used to drive our tutors mad with our pranks.” Even by the flickering fire, Watson could see that their features were exactly identical.
“What brings you to Dartmoor, Mr. Winklevoss?” Sir Eduardo asked.
“I’ve conceived a great passion for archaeology,” the brother Cameron explained. “We hurried here at the first sign of spring, so I can find my arrowheads and pottery shards.”
“Without servants?” Hughes sounded skeptical.
Tyler Winklevoss’s laugh had a sheepish quality. “You may think us very silly, but we have always preferred to do without. When Tyler and I traveled through wilds of the western states in America, we would camp for weeks without seeing another soul.”
“How far west you have been?” Sir Eduardo asked. “I have always dreamed of seeing the beauties of Yellowstone.”
“A glorious place,” the brother Tyler nodded. “Truly, you have not hunted until you have ridden among a herd of stampeding buffalo. I had three of the finest heads shipped to London.”
Moskovitz looked aghast rather than impressed. “What hunting do you plan to find on the moor?”
“I continue to seek out the most dangerous game,” Tyler Winklevoss replied with a smirk.
Watson could not help his next words. “A gigantic hound, perhaps?”
Both brothers stiffened, but Cameron recovered more quickly. “As part of my pursuit of the local legends, yes. I have even begun writing a monograph on the Great Thunderstorm of 1638.”
“You don’t say!” Sir Eduardo almost sprung from his chair. “I once conducted a study on the Kamikaze storms that saved Japan from the Mongols.”
Sir Eduardo warmed quickly to conversation with the Winklevoss brothers, but Watson could see that Hughes and Moskovitz shared his misgivings.
“Holmes,” Watson wrote in his daily report to Baker Street. “It has become clear that Hughes and Moskovitz do not welcome Sir Eduardo’s improved spirits, when the cause is our increasing intimacy with the Winklevosses at Barton Lodge. Tyler Winklevoss is a cordial neighbor, while his brother Cameron visits daily. He and Sir Eduardo have been absorbed in uncovering weather records kept in the local abbeys, for which they drive out constantly.
As he wrote those words, Watson could hear the clatter of the carriage that heralded Cameron Winklevoss’s arrival for dinner. Winklevoss was greeted by the voices of the servants, who were overjoyed to see their new Master shake off his gloom. Only Hughes and Moskovitz seemed to disapprove. Indeed, Moskovitz had invited himself to the first of these outings, only to quit in boredom. Hughes alternated between long conversations with Moskovitz and sending his own daily letters to London.
“I have followed your instructions and sought to discover the recipient of Hughes’s letters,” Watson continued. “But they are addressed to his law office on Harley Street, where they are presumably redirected. You will allow me some semblance of subtlety-I contrived to deliver my post to Carson until Hughes was doing the same, then posed an innocent query about his errand. Hughes was embarrassed and evasive. Yet, he seems genuinely fond of Sir Eduardo, and I do not agree that these letters have a sinister overtone-”
Watson dropped his pen and rushed to the window. Walking among the cluster of rocks on the horizon was the indistinct figure of a tall man. It could be Tyler Winklevoss-Watson tried to rationalize, until he recalled that the elder Winklevoss had returned to London on business. Who, then, was on the moor?
Acting upon impulse, Watson took his loaded revolver from the drawer and swept up his coat and cane. As he walked briskly away from Baskerville Hall, he wondered if it was a new form of madness, this chasing after shadows, or perhaps a sign of how much he missed Baker Street. Holmes would certainly say that he had too much of a taste for danger to be content with a doctor’s practice.
The rocks loomed large as he approached them, but there was no sign of the man. Use what Holmes taught you, Watson told himself. He squatted down to examine the stony surface. There-in the growing dusk, he could see the traces of mud, where human feet had trod. There was the faint mark where the heel struck the ground and there, for the pad of the foot. With some difficulty, Watson could follow the direction of the footsteps over, around, and between the boulders-the last was just barely-until he turned a corner.
Before him was the entrance of a small cave. Watson had to bow his head to enter the chamber and wait for his sight to adjust to the dimness. What struck him first was the absolute mess-the cluter of empty tins, candle stubs, and crumpled papers. There were two distinct bundles of clothing, strewn over two cramped pallets.
Did the Winklevoss brothers camp here? Watson stirred some of the litter with his cane, as he tried to envision two large men in such a small space. Among the ashes in the small fire were the burnt remains of paper.
Watson had begun to crouch down to examine them when he heard the dull scratch of a boot landing upon stone. He darted to one side of the entrance and drew out the revolver. Holding his breath as the footsteps grew closer, he quietly cocked the hammer.
The footsteps stopped. Then a familiar voice began.
“It is a lovely sunset, Watson. Come out, and please be careful with the revolver.”
For the longest moment, Watson could only stare into the darkness with incomprehension. Then he scrambled out the miserable cave with a bellow. “Holmes! Holmes-what the devil are you doing here?”
“You wound me, my dear Watson. I had not expected so uncivil a welcome.” He was wearing a cloth cap like any other tourist on the moor, but the disguise was ruined by his habitual greatcoat.
Watson was torn between the urge to shake him for answers and to cluck at him for the state of his collar. “How long have you been in Dartmoor? And why did you not send for me?”
“I have been here a fortnight-”
“-And you have hidden here all this time? While all my reports went to London and were wasted. So you use me, and yet do not trust me!”
“You cannot be further from the truth, my dear Watson.” He took out a bundle of papers from his pocket. “Here are your reports, which I had intercepted. You have been most invaluable in your observations and indeed stumbled on one half of the mystery of Sir Eduardo Saverin. By staying in this humble cave, I came across the other half.”
“The mystery of Sir Eduardo? What do you mean-”
A terrible scream-a man’s cry of desperation-burst out of the silence of the moor. Holmes sprung towards it, Watson hard upon his heels.
“Oh, my God!” Watson gasped. “What is it?”
“The hound, Watson, the hound!” cried Holmes. “Run!”
They squeezed between two boulders and skidded to a stop. On one rock lay the shredded remains of the familiar crimson scarf. “Sir Eduardo!” Watson whispered, with rising horror.
Another cry cut through the air. “He lives still!” Holmes shouted as he sprinted towards the sound.
If he dies, Watson thought, I will never forgive myself.
They scratched their hands scrambling over the boulders, driven by the sound of the man’s cries. It was but a moment-which felt like an eternity-before they saw the dark shadow of a beast, crouched over a split in the rock.
Watson drew his revolver and fired. The bullet clipped the massive hound in the shoulder, and it turned towards them with a howl. In the growing dusk, the beast seemed lit with an unearthly glow.
He fired again just as the hound changed course. It evaded the second shot and bounded away, swallowed by the shadows of the moor.
Holmes was already at the crevice. “Come,” he said as he guided a man out from between the rocks. He passed a flask to the man’s shaking hands. “Have some brandy.”
It was not Sir Eduardo. The man before them was shorter, with a head of untamed curls. “Thank you, Mr. Holmes,” he said with a tremor in his American accent. “And you, Dr. Watson.”
Watson again felt deceived. “I beg your pardon. I do not believe that we have been introduced.”
“My apologies,” the man said, his handshake still clammy cold sweat. “Mark Zuckerberg, at your service.”
“Mr. Zuckerberg has been my fellow lodger in the cave you discovered,” Holmes said to Watson with some pique. “We had both hit upon the same idea of spying on the occupants of Baskerville Hall. Mr. Zuckerberg declined to leave, though the space was unfit for two men.
“I deduced that he and Sir Eduardo were classmates at Harvard who had a falling out, but Mr. Zuckerberg refused to explain further. Fortunately, your report on Sir Eduardo’s failed investment and lawsuit were sufficient for me to make further inquiries. Watson, you are looking upon Mark Zuckerberg, owner of the newest and most popular wire service in New York.”
Zuckerberg crossed his arms with a mulish expression on his face. “It wasn’t a failed investment. Eduardo wanted to make it a news service for businessmen and stock traders, but we had the chance to create something new. To shake the foundations of society.”
“And indeed you have-produced the best source for scandal and gossip on either side of the Atlantic. Last month, by my count, you have inspired at least three divorces and one murder.” Holmes said with admiration.
Watson raised his eyebrow at both Zuckerberg’s informal use of Sir Eduardo’s name and his unsavory occupation. “I can see why Sir Eduardo would cease his association with you. The baronet of Baskerville Hall could hardly be a scandalmonger.”
Zuckerberg growled with outrage, but then wilted. “Will he refuse to see me?” he asked, voice low
“Nonsense,” Holmes said. “Just follow my lead.”
“Mark! How dare you show your face here?” Sir Eduardo pushed past his friends in his haste to reach the new arrivals, but stopped short. “And Mr. Holmes! I thought you were in London.”
Holmes guided Zuckerberg to a seat before the fire. Zuckerberg looked convincingly pale as sank into it. “We found Mr. Zuckerberg on the moor. His carriage had been set upon by brigands, who abandoned him in the wild.” Holmes said. “Watson, pray, do you think his cuts will need stitches?”
Watson glared at Holmes for involving him in such a deception. “I think not. But perhaps a cup of tea will do him some good.”
“Of course!” Though the colour drained from his face at this news, Sir Eduardo rang the bell with force. “And some dinner-Mark, when was the last time you ate?”
Zuckerberg slumped further and closed his eyes. “I don’t, I don’t remember. Yesterday perhaps . . . a tin of peaches?”
“Oh, Mark.” Sir Eduardo hovered uncertainly over Zuckerberg’s chair. “What happened to you?”
“Brigands?” Moskovitz asked Hughes in rough whisper. “But I thought he was-” Hughes hushed him up quickly, but not before Watson caught their sheepish expressions. The mystery of Hughes’s letters was not that difficult after all. Zuckerberg must have been their mysterious recipient.
“Mr. Zuckerberg, what a pleasant surprise.”
Zuckerberg’s eyes slid open, his gaze transformed into a look of cold concentration. “Cameron Winklevoss. The feeling is not mutual.”
“Are you-how do you know each other?” Sir Eduardo asked.
“We were business-”
“Acquaintances.” Zuckerberg cut in. He sat forward, then sank back with an exaggerated grimace. Sir Eduardo forgot his inquiry in the subsequent flurry of activity.
From the tension in the room, Watson could see that no one else did.
*******************
Sir Eduardo’s solicitude for Zuckerberg barely lasted the week. Zuckerberg was too poor an actor to feign injury for long, and Sir Eduardo could sense that Hughes, and Moskovitz knew more than they let on. Suspicions aroused against his closest friends, Sir Eduardo turned to his other guests instead.
“Mr. Holmes. Dr. Watson,” Sir Eduardo said as they sat down to lunch. “Would you join me for dinner with Winklevoss this evening?”
“My brother and I do not keep a cook, but I rather pride myself on preparing a good roast,” Winklevoss said.
“Are we invited?” Zuckerberg asked with some asperity.
“Tyler would be happy to see you. We never had a chance to say proper farewells in New York.”
“When did you meet Mark?” Sir Eduardo asked with a frown.
“Zuckerberg didn’t tell you?” Winklevoss bared his teeth, but the smile did not reach his eyes. “My brother and I hired him to renegotiate telegraph rates for our grandfather’s newspaper in New York. We returned from a hunting trip in Colorado to discover that Zuckerberg had made arrangements to create a new wire service-which, coincidentally, served all our competitors.”
Sir Eduardo stilled. “I remember now. There was a letter from your solicitor. Mark said he would handle the matter.”
“I did.” Zuckerberg turned to Winklevoss with a sneer. “I turned the negotiations over to your agent before embarking on our own venture. You had no claims on our success.”
“And how has that success been treating you, Sir Eduardo?” Winklevoss asked.
Sir Eduardo smiled thinly. “Mark is at least consistent in his behavior towards his business partners.”
“Eduardo-you can’t possibly believe him.” The servants gasped as Zuckerberg reached across the table to clasp Sir Eduardo’s wrist.
“Mr. Zuckerberg.” Sir Eduardo’s voice was deathly calm. “You are a guest in my house. But if you do not unhand me at once, I’ll have you escorted aboard the next train to London.”
For a long moment, Zuckerberg clenched his hand. Then he pushed his chair back and hurried from the room without another word.
“I should visit the country more often,” Holmes said as he reached for the wine. “The air of violence is most invigorating.”
“Perhaps we should make a habit of leaving London every spring,” Holmes mused as they strolled into the library. He examined one of the shelves. “To explore the seamy underbellies of these little villages. Any one could hide the next Napoleon of crime.”
“As your doctor, I would rather hope that you content yourself with enjoying the fresh country air.” Watson poured himself some brandy. “Holmes, do you want-what is it?”
Holmes was transfixed by a time-stained portrait on the wall. “Who is this?”
“Sir Hugo Baskerville. I told you the first day you came here.”
“No, Watson, who do you see?”
Watson examined the man in black velvet and lace, taking in the broad plumed hat, the curling locks, and the white lace collar. The man had a severe expression and a coldness in his eyes. “There is some resemblance to Sir Eduardo in the jaw.”
Holmes made an incoherent sound of frustration and leapt upon a chair. Over the noise of Watson’s protestations, he curved his arm over the broad hat and covered the long hair.
“Good lord!” Watson nearly dropped his brandy.
It was a visage they had been used to seeing in two copies. The face of Cameron and Tyler Winklevoss sprung from the canvas.
“I should have seen it immediately. The ears alone! Mycroft would never let me forget this, if he knew. Ah-here it is!” Holmes lifted the family Bible from its stand. “Two generations ago, Edith Baskerville married a Josiah Winklevoss, who promptly moved to New York. No further names are recorded for that branch of the family, but I suspect our Winklevoss brothers are the newest fruit from that tree. Given that Sir Charles died without issue-”
Holmes flipped through a few pages before shutting the book with an air of finality. “If Sir Eduardo dies, Cameron and Tyler Winklevoss stand to inherit everything. Now, Mr. Zuckerberg, please come out from behind the curtain.”
One of the curtains trembled and then jerked to the side, to reveal a hidden alcove. Zuckerberg emerged with his eyes ablaze and curls in disarray.
“We must warn Eduardo. I knew that the Winklevii were intent upon evil!” Zuckerberg reached for the door, but Holmes barred his way.
“Do you admit that you were the man who followed Sir Eduardo to his hotel and left that threatening message?”
Zuckerberg coloured. “I had heard some rumors about Sir Charles’s death in New York. I did not mean to threaten Eduardo, only to tell him to stay away from the moor.”
“Watson, at last you have found a man more bent on ignoring social convention than I am.” Holmes chuckled. “The next time you wish to leave an anonymous message, Mr. Zuckerberg, pray do disguise your writing by other means. Words clipped from the newspaper have such sinister connotations.”
“What about Sir Eduardo’s boots?” Watson asked Zuckerberg. “Did you steal them from the hotel as well?”
Holmes turned solemn. “No, the only reason to take those boots is to train a hound to recognize Sir Eduardo’s scent.”
Watson recalled the day they rescued Zuckerberg from the hound’s attack. “Sir Eduardo’s crimson scarf! You, Zuckerberg, must have procured it through your friends-” Watson took Zuckerberg’s sheepish nod to be a confirmation. “Whereupon the hound attacked you for it.”
“The Winklevoss brothers must have played a long game indeed,” Holmes said. “They have lived upon the moor without servants all spring, no doubt to train a hound without interruption. Sir Charles was their first victim. Sir Eduardo may become their second.”
“We must go to Eduardo at once. He can confront them tonight.”
Holmes shook his head at Zuckerberg’s command. “We have no evidence. I have wired for Inspector Lestrade, but even he will need a reason to arrest the Winklevosses.”
Zuckerberg looked defiant. “I can go to Eduardo. He will believe me.”
Holmes raised an eyebrow, but did not deign to reply.
“Holmes, tell me you will not send Sir Eduardo to dine with the Winklevosses alone,” Watson said. He knew his friend too well. “You intend to use him as bait.”
Zuckerberg surged forward to shove Holmes against the door. “If any harm comes to him, I will-I will destroy you.”
“Trust me,” Holmes said. “I’ve timed it perfectly.”
“Trust you?” Zuckerberg growled, fingers clenched around the revolver. “I can’t see a damn thing in this fog.”
The fog-bank flowed over the moor, obscuring the lights from Barton Lodge. They had waited among the stones, as Sir Eduardo lingered with Cameron and Tyler Winklevoss over their cigars.
“If Sir Eduardo takes any longer, we might not be able to see the hound before it overtakes him,” Watson warned.
Lestrade sighed. He had barely arrived in time from the train station. “I have the warrant with me, but it shan’t hold up in court if we don’t find the hound.”
Holmes had clapped his ear to the ground. “Hush! I think I hear him.”
They crouched behind the stones, as footsteps approached through the curtain of the fog. Through the white haze, Watson could see the familiar shape of their host. Sir Eduardo walked quickly and glanced continually over one shoulder, like a man who saw monsters in the shadows.
“I hear it! It’s coming.” Zuckerberg shot up from behind his rock and leapt over the stones.
Watson could hear a thin, continuous patter somewhere in the heart of the roiling fog. Scrambling after Zuckerberg, he had only managed to cock his pistol when a large snarl cut through the quiet of the night.
“Wardo!” Zuckerberg shouted. “Wardo, watch out!”
An enormous coal-black hound burst through the fog, leaping down the track in long bounds. They fired together, but the creature did not pause as it raced through the haze. Zuckerberg turned and shot as the hound overtook him on the path, but it had eyes only for one prey.
The fog parted to show Sir Eduardo looking back, his face white in the moonlight. Another moment, and the hound was upon him.
Watson had never seen men run like they ran that night. They dashed along the path as they heard scream after scream and the sound of wet flesh. Zuckerberg’s hoarse shouts at the hound were only answered by a deep roar.
But the next instant Holmes fired into monster’s side. It lashed out at him with a snap of its jaws, but seized with a howl of agony. Watson sprinted forward and emptied his rounds between the creature’s eyes.
The hound fell limp to one side. It was dead.
Mark had cradled Sir Eduardo in his arms, heedless of the blood that covered them. “Wardo-please, somebody help him!”
“Holmes, we need pressure on the wounds. Lestrade, elevate his legs.” Watson snapped out his orders.
“Wardo, the doctor’s here,” Zuckerberg tried to speak through his tears. “You have to stay with me. I need you to stay.”
For one long moment, Sir Eduardo looked up with frightened eyes. Then he closed them.
***************
“I should throw you out of this house.” Hughes almost shook with the force of his anger at Holmes. “You allowed him to enter that den of murderers!”
“But if it were not for Dr. Watson, he would have . . . .” Moskovitz trailed off, shaken. They had been roused with the rest of the household when Lestrade went back to Baskerville Hall for help. Watson thanked his Maker that Sir Eduardo’s wounds were not beyond assistance.
Hughes clasped Watson’s hand. “Doctor, you have all our thanks. We would be grateful if you can stay to ensure that Sir Eduardo is out of danger. But you must forgive me if I cannot allow the presence of your friend.”
“Gentleman.” Zuckerberg appeared in the doorway. “Eduardo is awake and asking for you.”
They crowded around the hastily created infirmary, and Zuckerberg took up his self-appointed place by Sir Eduardo’s side. The baronet had lost a lot of blood, but he managed to greet them with a shadow of a smile.
“Mr. Holmes, I am in your debt. You saved my life.”
“Having first endangered it,” Holmes replied with a rueful look. “We owe you a deep apology, Sir Eduardo. I had overestimated my own ability to stop that creature.”
Zuckerberg narrowed his eyes. “Mr. Holmes, I once made you a promise. I fully intend to keep it.”
“Oh, Mark. You can’t vow destruction on every man we meet.” Sir Eduardo’s laugh was cut short by a grimace of pain.
“As we are speaking of destruction,” Moskovitz cut in. “Where are the Winklevosses?”
“Lestrade tracked them into the bogs, where I am afraid they have left trace. They may have escaped entirely, or sank to their deaths in the mire,” Holmes said.
“I almost wish Cameron Winklevoss had escaped to safety,” Sir Eduardo said with a sigh. “He had been a good friend.”
Zuckerberg made a sound of indignation. “Your capacity for forgiveness is astounding.”
“Do you intend to complain?” Sir Eduardo asked. Their eyes met, and Watson sensed a new kind of ease between them.
Holmes adjusted his coat. “Before I return to London, I seek one boon.”
“How can you request a reward when you nearly killed your client?” Hughes demanded.
Sir Eduardo cut him short with a gesture. “Of course, anything.”
“I wish to take the body of the hound with me. Its skull alone would be a marvelous addition to my collection. I would also be to test its sinews-”
“Absolutely not!” Watson found himself sputtering. “We do not have rooms enough for your new experiments, and I refuse to share a space with that dead creature.”
“I recommend that you yield, Dr. Watson,” Sir Eduardo said with a gleam in his eye. “We neither of us can refuse our friends anything.”
Recipient: skyearth85
Prompt Number: #29
Characters/Pairings: Mark/Eduardo, Holmes/Watson
Rating/Warnings: gen, both pairings can be read as friendship
Word Count: 6495
Disclaimer: This fanwork is based on fictional representations of the characters in The Social Network; I make no claims of ownership of the characters or concepts.
Summary (or prompt scenario): For the prompt "Sherlock Holmes AU, Victorian!setting."
Notes: Plot and dialogue borrowed shamelessly from Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Apologies for any anachronisms--this was written while watching too much Downton Abbey.
The Hound of the (Saverin)-Baskervilles
The Hound of the (Saverin)-Baskervilles
“Well, Watson, what do you make of it?”
Dr. John H. Watson startled, nearly dropping the walking stick which a visitor had left the night before. He recovered quickly. “Holmes, how did you know what I was doing? I believe you have eyes in the back of your head.”
Mr. Sherlock Holmes looked up from his breakfast with a smirk. “I have, at least, a silver-plated coffee pot in front of me. Whatever Mrs. Hudson lacks in the fine art of porridge, she compensates with her polishing.”
Watson acknowledged this truth with a wry glance and seated himself at the breakfast table. “Who is this ‘Hughes?’ A new client?” he asked, referring to the broad silver band on the stick. The full band read: “Christopher Hughes, Esq., from his friends of the R.C.”
Holmes leaned back in his chair. “My dear Watson, you know my methods. Apply them!”
“I think,” Watson said, trying to follow his companion’s ways, “that Mr. Hughes is a successful, elderly solicitor, well-esteemed since he has been given this stick as a mark of appreciation.”
“Excellent!”
“This stick must belong to a country practitioner, since its iron ferrule is worn down. No doubt from extensive walking.”
“Perfectly sound!” said Holmes.
“And here,” Watson said, warming under his friend’s praise. “There is the “friends of the R.C.” I should guess that to be the Something Chapter, perhaps one of the various Inns of Court.”
“Bravo, my dear Watson! Your readers would little guess how advanced you are in your deductive abilities,” Holmes said, offering Watson the coffee.
Watson smoothed his mustache to suppress a smile. “Has anything escaped me? I trust that there is nothing of consequence which I have overlooked?”
“I am afraid,” Holmes said as he carried the stick to examine it by the window, “that your conclusions are entirely incorrect.”
“Entirely?”
Holmes ran a hand over the ferrule of the stick. “See here, where the tip has been worn down? No traces of mud or grass-the sign of country walks-but rather minute bits of wood. We do not have an elderly country practitioner, but rather a young solicitor, who pounds his stick with too much enthusiasm. Where would he abuse his gift so? The initials R.C. suggest the Reform Club, where you can always find Liberals gathered in debate. So we have a blonde-hair young solicitor with political ambitions.”
Watson glared at him. “And how did you divine the colour of his hair?”
“Because I see him through the window. Here he is coming up the stairs.”
“Mr. Sherlock Holmes. And Dr. John Watson, I presume?” Mr. Christopher Hughes introduced himself with an amiable confidence. “Ah, and my stick! I was afraid I had misplaced it at Charing Cross.”
Holmes waved him into a chair. “Mr. Hughes. You are undoubtedly here for greater matters than a lost item.”
“Yes, I am, sir.” Hughes declined the offer of a cigar, and Holmes shot Watson a triumphant look. “I am much obliged for this audience, confronted as I am with a most serious and extraordinary problem. Recognizing, as I do, that you are the second highest expert in Europe-”
“Indeed?” Holmes fixed his dark eyes upon their visitor. “May I inquire who has the honor of being the first?”
Hughes coloured. “Mr. Horatio Caine has quite a few admirers.”
“Then had you not better consult him?” Holmes bristled, while Watson choked down a laugh.
“I misspoke,” Hughes apologized with grace. “The matter I am to put before you concerns one of my dearest friends. But first-how familiar, Mr. Holmes, are you with the untimely death of Sir Charles Baskerville of Baskerville Hall?”
Holmes steepled his fingers. “Yes, I recall some scandal in the papers. The family hushed it up rather quickly, but there was some talk of the occult. The inquest was perfectly useless, of course.”
Hughes cleared his throat. “I am intimately acquainted with the family, owing to my friendship with Sir Charles’s nephew-and his heir. Edward Saverin and I had been schoolboys together, and Sir Charles was a kind host whenever we ended upon him for the holidays.
“Sir Charles was a good, stout-hearted man, with only one weakness: a superstitious fear of the Baskerville Curse. There had been a legend in the family, you see, of a Sir Hugo Baskerville, who had a promised the Devil his soul if only he could possess a girl from the village. She escaped him by running out on to the moor. Sir Hugo rode in chase, and his friends followed.
“When they finally came across Sir Hugo and his prey, both were dead. She lay as if sleeping, but his throat was torn out. Looming above him, with blood on its muzzle, was a massive beast. It was a hellhound-one of the famous legends of Dartmoor.
“Sir Charles claimed that the Baskervilles have been cursed ever since. He certainly refused to walk alone on the moor, particularly at night. One evening, however, the steward saw Sir Charles slip out past the gardens. When he did not return after dusk, the entire house was roused for a search.
“It was only near dawn when the gardener came across Sir Charles. He had been sprawled out upon the wet ground. And his face was frozen in a rictus of fear.
“When I heard the dreadful news, I had to see for myself. I caught the next train to Dartmoor and persuaded the steward to lead me to the site where Sir Charles was found.” Hughes paused, as if trying to muster the proper words. “Mr. Holmes, I am not a superstitious man. And I have always scoffed Sir Charles’ tales of the Baskerville curse. But when I went to the site of Sir Baskerville’s demise, I saw-I saw-”
“My good man, what did you see?”
“Mr. Holmes, I saw . . . I saw the footsteps of a gigantic hound!”
The next morning, Holmes scraped tunelessly on the Stradivarius as they awaited Hughes’s return with his client, the new baronet of Baskerville Hall.
“Stop that infernal noise, Holmes. You’re scaring Gladstone.” The bulldog huffed and waddled over to lay by Watson’s feet. “I thought you would welcome a new puzzle.”
“On the contrary, I can think of ten different ways to recreate the scene of the crime. With our luck, the answer will be the most mundane one.” Holmes sighed. “How hateful.”
Once again, the arrival of Hughes forestalled an argument between the friends. “Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson,” said Hughes. “May I introduce Sir Edward Saverin of Baskerville Hall.”
The new baronet shook hands eagerly, then drew his chair closer to the fire “You must forgive me. I have grown unused to England’s climate.”
“I am surprised, Sir Edward,” Holmes said. “I would have thought that you had grown used to cold winters during your studies in Boston.”
“How-” He turned to his friend. “Hughes, what have you told them about me?”
“Yes, Holmes, how did you know?” Watson muttered under his breath, but his smile was fond.
Holmes cast a lazy glance over their guest. “Why, Sir Edward, it is obvious. Your tan extends past your wrists-your complexion is the product of a southern heritage, inherited no doubt from your mother. But you are already dressed in preparation for our English weather, so you must have lived in the north. At your age, your removal from the south to the north would have been to further your education. Yet, these studies were not in Europe-”
He gestured at Sir Eduardo.
“Your accent betrays an extended stay in North America. Your clothing is of the finest cut, but you wear an old scarf. From the state of its fibers, you’ve worn it for more than five years, in a place with repeated exposure to sea air. Clearly a cherished memento. The scarf is a distinct shade of crimson, the school colours of Harvard University. From which I surmise that you endured many a winter in Boston.”
“Marvelous! Absolutely astounding.”
“You are too kind, Sir Edward,” Holmes said, openly preening.
“Eduardo, please, not Edward,” the baronet said. “As you surmised, I spent my childhood in Brazil. It is too strange to be Edward now.”
Hughes clasped his friend on the arm. “Please show these gentlemen what you received this morning.”
Sir Eduardo reached for his pocketbook and retrieved a folded sheet of paper. Pasted across the sheet were clipped-out words, to form a message:
[STAY] [AWAY] [FROM] [THE] [MOOR]
Frowning, Sir Eduardo smoothed out the paper. “I can’t make any sense of it. My ship from Boston only docked in London last night. How could this message arrive at my hotel in the morning?”
“This morning, you say?” Holmes dashed to a side table, displacing his experiment on tobacco ash to pick up to morning Times. “Hmmm, tariffs, yes, fog in Channel-ah! Here is the ‘stay,’” he said, circling a word on the front page. “And here the ‘away,’ ‘from the,’ and even the ‘moor.’
“The message was prepared from this morning’s paper. Someone waited your arrival and followed you to your hotel. At the crack of dawn, they retrieved the morning paper and composed this message for you to find. What fun!”
“Holmes,” Watson leaned over to whisper. “You are scaring our client.” Indeed, the young baronet looked pale, while his solicitor seemed nervous.
Holmes struggled to suppress his glee. “Now that we have discovered a human hand behind these events-and not just a supernatural hound-you must hasten to Dartmoor. Data, data, data! I can’t make bricks without clay.”
“Will you be coming with us, Mr. Holmes?”
“I am afraid not, Sir Eduardo. My work for another client has reached a most delicate stage. But you will have an equally worthy companion-Dr. Watson will go with you.”
“Holmes!” Watson cried with indignation. “My patients-I can’t possibly-”
“You have been a most invaluable partner, Watson” Holmes said, a pleading expression on his face. It was the same expression he employed when Watson refused to house yet another dead cat in the pantry. “It does make a considerable difference to me, having someone on whom I can thoroughly rely.”
Watson sighed. “Very well. Mrs. Hudson will have to take in Gladstone. I would not trust him to survive your care.”
“I have rarely seen such wild beauty as these moors,” Watson said as their carriage rattled to a stop in front of Baskerville Hall. “Perhaps we could ride out tomorrow, if the weather permits.”
“Of course. We shall have guides from the house. The bogs can be quite treacherous-I once saw a lamb sink to its death, as a schoolboy,” Sir Eduardo said. He had seemed out of spirits since their departure from London, but was all politeness as a host.
“Are you still fretting about those old boots? This is why you need a valet, my friend,” said Hughes. Before their departure from London, Sir Eduardo had reported that an old pair of boots was missing from their hotel. He had set them out the night before for polishing, but no employee would confess to taking them. Yet another mystery, Watson noted to himself.
“No, Hughes. My mind was elsewhere, but-” Sir Eduardo sprung out the carriage and looked up at his ancestral pile. “This is my home now.”
Watson noted Hughes’s worried glance towards his friend. Sir Eduardo’s melancholy was more than that of a nephew grieving his uncle. His sorrow seemed to have another source.
“Your Highness!” A loud American voice boomed from the entrance to the Hall. “Your palace awaits!”
“Moskovitz! What in the world are you doing here?” Sir Eduardo cried.
The American emerged from the shadows with a grin. “Dustin Moskovitz, at your service,” he said, shaking hands with all around. “Hughes has told me all about you, Dr. Watson. I am very much an admirer of your accounts the Strand-it is a pity that Mr. Holmes couldn’t come in person to solve our mystery.”
“‘Our’ mystery, Moskovitz?” Hughes punched him in the shoulder. “I thought you were here to ‘sample the cellar and the village girls.’”
“What feudal notions you have,” Sir Eduardo said, laughing. “As lord of the manor, I expressly forbid you from approaching the women-or the wine.”
“Too late! I have already ordered Carson to bring out a bottle of your best vintage. It will be like our Harvard days: the Four Horsemen ride again-” Moskovitz cut himself off, but Sir Eduardo flinched as if he had been slapped.
They were a frozen tableau, until Sir Eduardo took a deep breath. “Yes, we are the Four Horsemen, now that Dr. Watson has joined us. We could always use a medical man, especially when Moskovitz drinks to excess.” He managed a tight smile and waved their company through into Baskerville Hall.
As he passed the threshold, Watson glanced back at the open moor. In the distance, clusters of rocks loomed over the coarse grass. But was that--? Watson squinted at the shadow. Was that a man on the moor?
When he blinked, the shadow was gone.
****************
“Saverin, we should turn back!” Moskovitz tried to hail their host, but Sir Eduardo only walked faster into the pelting rain.
Watson sighed and wished he had brought an umbrella instead of a walking stick. Their first night at Baskerville Hall had been uneventful, and Barrymore the head gardener offered to guide them through the moor after breakfast. In the morning light, the blossoms of spring were lovely indeed, and even Moskovitz ceased his incessant chatter to enjoy the sight. The climbing sun, however, was overtaken by dark clouds, and the first drops of rain soon fell upon them. Yet, Sir Eduardo refused to return.
“I see shelter ahead,” Sir Eduardo shouted over his shoulder. “Let’s run to it!”
“That’s Barton Lodge, sir. The gentleman living there do not accept visitors!” Barrymore tried to explain, but Sir Eduardo had already taken off. Barrymore sighed. “The poor Master. Trying to outrun his troubles.”
Watson drew closer. “What do you mean?”
Barrymore looked around and lowered his voice. “It’s that blasted American, Doctor. Not Mr. Moskovitz. But word is that the Master had invested in a scheme of his school friend’s. It came to tears, and there were rumors of a lawsuit that was hushed up quickly.”
Struck by a cruel suspicion, Watson lowered his voice as well. “Do you know how much money was lost?” Sir Charles’s sudden death could have been rather timely.
“No, no.” Barrymore was already shaking his head. “The Master has a large estate in Brazil from his mother’s family-the sum lost was a pittance.”
Relieved, Watson tried to catch sight of their host. As Sir Eduardo’s long legs ate up the distance, a light came on in Barton Lodge. The door opened moments later, where a tall, broad-shouldered figure loomed.
“Come in!” The man waved them into chairs by the fire. Identifying himself as Cameron Winklevoss, he apologized for the state of the rooms. “We left the servants behind when we came down to Dartmoor. My brother Tyler and I serve ourselves here.”
Footsteps sounded in the hall, and a second man walked in with a tray of cold meats. Winklevoss laughed at their look of surprise. “Yes, Tyler and I are a regular Castor and Pollux. We used to drive our tutors mad with our pranks.” Even by the flickering fire, Watson could see that their features were exactly identical.
“What brings you to Dartmoor, Mr. Winklevoss?” Sir Eduardo asked.
“I’ve conceived a great passion for archaeology,” the brother Cameron explained. “We hurried here at the first sign of spring, so I can find my arrowheads and pottery shards.”
“Without servants?” Hughes sounded skeptical.
Tyler Winklevoss’s laugh had a sheepish quality. “You may think us very silly, but we have always preferred to do without. When Tyler and I traveled through wilds of the western states in America, we would camp for weeks without seeing another soul.”
“How far west you have been?” Sir Eduardo asked. “I have always dreamed of seeing the beauties of Yellowstone.”
“A glorious place,” the brother Tyler nodded. “Truly, you have not hunted until you have ridden among a herd of stampeding buffalo. I had three of the finest heads shipped to London.”
Moskovitz looked aghast rather than impressed. “What hunting do you plan to find on the moor?”
“I continue to seek out the most dangerous game,” Tyler Winklevoss replied with a smirk.
Watson could not help his next words. “A gigantic hound, perhaps?”
Both brothers stiffened, but Cameron recovered more quickly. “As part of my pursuit of the local legends, yes. I have even begun writing a monograph on the Great Thunderstorm of 1638.”
“You don’t say!” Sir Eduardo almost sprung from his chair. “I once conducted a study on the Kamikaze storms that saved Japan from the Mongols.”
Sir Eduardo warmed quickly to conversation with the Winklevoss brothers, but Watson could see that Hughes and Moskovitz shared his misgivings.
“Holmes,” Watson wrote in his daily report to Baker Street. “It has become clear that Hughes and Moskovitz do not welcome Sir Eduardo’s improved spirits, when the cause is our increasing intimacy with the Winklevosses at Barton Lodge. Tyler Winklevoss is a cordial neighbor, while his brother Cameron visits daily. He and Sir Eduardo have been absorbed in uncovering weather records kept in the local abbeys, for which they drive out constantly.
As he wrote those words, Watson could hear the clatter of the carriage that heralded Cameron Winklevoss’s arrival for dinner. Winklevoss was greeted by the voices of the servants, who were overjoyed to see their new Master shake off his gloom. Only Hughes and Moskovitz seemed to disapprove. Indeed, Moskovitz had invited himself to the first of these outings, only to quit in boredom. Hughes alternated between long conversations with Moskovitz and sending his own daily letters to London.
“I have followed your instructions and sought to discover the recipient of Hughes’s letters,” Watson continued. “But they are addressed to his law office on Harley Street, where they are presumably redirected. You will allow me some semblance of subtlety-I contrived to deliver my post to Carson until Hughes was doing the same, then posed an innocent query about his errand. Hughes was embarrassed and evasive. Yet, he seems genuinely fond of Sir Eduardo, and I do not agree that these letters have a sinister overtone-”
Watson dropped his pen and rushed to the window. Walking among the cluster of rocks on the horizon was the indistinct figure of a tall man. It could be Tyler Winklevoss-Watson tried to rationalize, until he recalled that the elder Winklevoss had returned to London on business. Who, then, was on the moor?
Acting upon impulse, Watson took his loaded revolver from the drawer and swept up his coat and cane. As he walked briskly away from Baskerville Hall, he wondered if it was a new form of madness, this chasing after shadows, or perhaps a sign of how much he missed Baker Street. Holmes would certainly say that he had too much of a taste for danger to be content with a doctor’s practice.
The rocks loomed large as he approached them, but there was no sign of the man. Use what Holmes taught you, Watson told himself. He squatted down to examine the stony surface. There-in the growing dusk, he could see the traces of mud, where human feet had trod. There was the faint mark where the heel struck the ground and there, for the pad of the foot. With some difficulty, Watson could follow the direction of the footsteps over, around, and between the boulders-the last was just barely-until he turned a corner.
Before him was the entrance of a small cave. Watson had to bow his head to enter the chamber and wait for his sight to adjust to the dimness. What struck him first was the absolute mess-the cluter of empty tins, candle stubs, and crumpled papers. There were two distinct bundles of clothing, strewn over two cramped pallets.
Did the Winklevoss brothers camp here? Watson stirred some of the litter with his cane, as he tried to envision two large men in such a small space. Among the ashes in the small fire were the burnt remains of paper.
Watson had begun to crouch down to examine them when he heard the dull scratch of a boot landing upon stone. He darted to one side of the entrance and drew out the revolver. Holding his breath as the footsteps grew closer, he quietly cocked the hammer.
The footsteps stopped. Then a familiar voice began.
“It is a lovely sunset, Watson. Come out, and please be careful with the revolver.”
For the longest moment, Watson could only stare into the darkness with incomprehension. Then he scrambled out the miserable cave with a bellow. “Holmes! Holmes-what the devil are you doing here?”
“You wound me, my dear Watson. I had not expected so uncivil a welcome.” He was wearing a cloth cap like any other tourist on the moor, but the disguise was ruined by his habitual greatcoat.
Watson was torn between the urge to shake him for answers and to cluck at him for the state of his collar. “How long have you been in Dartmoor? And why did you not send for me?”
“I have been here a fortnight-”
“-And you have hidden here all this time? While all my reports went to London and were wasted. So you use me, and yet do not trust me!”
“You cannot be further from the truth, my dear Watson.” He took out a bundle of papers from his pocket. “Here are your reports, which I had intercepted. You have been most invaluable in your observations and indeed stumbled on one half of the mystery of Sir Eduardo Saverin. By staying in this humble cave, I came across the other half.”
“The mystery of Sir Eduardo? What do you mean-”
A terrible scream-a man’s cry of desperation-burst out of the silence of the moor. Holmes sprung towards it, Watson hard upon his heels.
“Oh, my God!” Watson gasped. “What is it?”
“The hound, Watson, the hound!” cried Holmes. “Run!”
They squeezed between two boulders and skidded to a stop. On one rock lay the shredded remains of the familiar crimson scarf. “Sir Eduardo!” Watson whispered, with rising horror.
Another cry cut through the air. “He lives still!” Holmes shouted as he sprinted towards the sound.
If he dies, Watson thought, I will never forgive myself.
They scratched their hands scrambling over the boulders, driven by the sound of the man’s cries. It was but a moment-which felt like an eternity-before they saw the dark shadow of a beast, crouched over a split in the rock.
Watson drew his revolver and fired. The bullet clipped the massive hound in the shoulder, and it turned towards them with a howl. In the growing dusk, the beast seemed lit with an unearthly glow.
He fired again just as the hound changed course. It evaded the second shot and bounded away, swallowed by the shadows of the moor.
Holmes was already at the crevice. “Come,” he said as he guided a man out from between the rocks. He passed a flask to the man’s shaking hands. “Have some brandy.”
It was not Sir Eduardo. The man before them was shorter, with a head of untamed curls. “Thank you, Mr. Holmes,” he said with a tremor in his American accent. “And you, Dr. Watson.”
Watson again felt deceived. “I beg your pardon. I do not believe that we have been introduced.”
“My apologies,” the man said, his handshake still clammy cold sweat. “Mark Zuckerberg, at your service.”
“Mr. Zuckerberg has been my fellow lodger in the cave you discovered,” Holmes said to Watson with some pique. “We had both hit upon the same idea of spying on the occupants of Baskerville Hall. Mr. Zuckerberg declined to leave, though the space was unfit for two men.
“I deduced that he and Sir Eduardo were classmates at Harvard who had a falling out, but Mr. Zuckerberg refused to explain further. Fortunately, your report on Sir Eduardo’s failed investment and lawsuit were sufficient for me to make further inquiries. Watson, you are looking upon Mark Zuckerberg, owner of the newest and most popular wire service in New York.”
Zuckerberg crossed his arms with a mulish expression on his face. “It wasn’t a failed investment. Eduardo wanted to make it a news service for businessmen and stock traders, but we had the chance to create something new. To shake the foundations of society.”
“And indeed you have-produced the best source for scandal and gossip on either side of the Atlantic. Last month, by my count, you have inspired at least three divorces and one murder.” Holmes said with admiration.
Watson raised his eyebrow at both Zuckerberg’s informal use of Sir Eduardo’s name and his unsavory occupation. “I can see why Sir Eduardo would cease his association with you. The baronet of Baskerville Hall could hardly be a scandalmonger.”
Zuckerberg growled with outrage, but then wilted. “Will he refuse to see me?” he asked, voice low
“Nonsense,” Holmes said. “Just follow my lead.”
“Mark! How dare you show your face here?” Sir Eduardo pushed past his friends in his haste to reach the new arrivals, but stopped short. “And Mr. Holmes! I thought you were in London.”
Holmes guided Zuckerberg to a seat before the fire. Zuckerberg looked convincingly pale as sank into it. “We found Mr. Zuckerberg on the moor. His carriage had been set upon by brigands, who abandoned him in the wild.” Holmes said. “Watson, pray, do you think his cuts will need stitches?”
Watson glared at Holmes for involving him in such a deception. “I think not. But perhaps a cup of tea will do him some good.”
“Of course!” Though the colour drained from his face at this news, Sir Eduardo rang the bell with force. “And some dinner-Mark, when was the last time you ate?”
Zuckerberg slumped further and closed his eyes. “I don’t, I don’t remember. Yesterday perhaps . . . a tin of peaches?”
“Oh, Mark.” Sir Eduardo hovered uncertainly over Zuckerberg’s chair. “What happened to you?”
“Brigands?” Moskovitz asked Hughes in rough whisper. “But I thought he was-” Hughes hushed him up quickly, but not before Watson caught their sheepish expressions. The mystery of Hughes’s letters was not that difficult after all. Zuckerberg must have been their mysterious recipient.
“Mr. Zuckerberg, what a pleasant surprise.”
Zuckerberg’s eyes slid open, his gaze transformed into a look of cold concentration. “Cameron Winklevoss. The feeling is not mutual.”
“Are you-how do you know each other?” Sir Eduardo asked.
“We were business-”
“Acquaintances.” Zuckerberg cut in. He sat forward, then sank back with an exaggerated grimace. Sir Eduardo forgot his inquiry in the subsequent flurry of activity.
From the tension in the room, Watson could see that no one else did.
*******************
Sir Eduardo’s solicitude for Zuckerberg barely lasted the week. Zuckerberg was too poor an actor to feign injury for long, and Sir Eduardo could sense that Hughes, and Moskovitz knew more than they let on. Suspicions aroused against his closest friends, Sir Eduardo turned to his other guests instead.
“Mr. Holmes. Dr. Watson,” Sir Eduardo said as they sat down to lunch. “Would you join me for dinner with Winklevoss this evening?”
“My brother and I do not keep a cook, but I rather pride myself on preparing a good roast,” Winklevoss said.
“Are we invited?” Zuckerberg asked with some asperity.
“Tyler would be happy to see you. We never had a chance to say proper farewells in New York.”
“When did you meet Mark?” Sir Eduardo asked with a frown.
“Zuckerberg didn’t tell you?” Winklevoss bared his teeth, but the smile did not reach his eyes. “My brother and I hired him to renegotiate telegraph rates for our grandfather’s newspaper in New York. We returned from a hunting trip in Colorado to discover that Zuckerberg had made arrangements to create a new wire service-which, coincidentally, served all our competitors.”
Sir Eduardo stilled. “I remember now. There was a letter from your solicitor. Mark said he would handle the matter.”
“I did.” Zuckerberg turned to Winklevoss with a sneer. “I turned the negotiations over to your agent before embarking on our own venture. You had no claims on our success.”
“And how has that success been treating you, Sir Eduardo?” Winklevoss asked.
Sir Eduardo smiled thinly. “Mark is at least consistent in his behavior towards his business partners.”
“Eduardo-you can’t possibly believe him.” The servants gasped as Zuckerberg reached across the table to clasp Sir Eduardo’s wrist.
“Mr. Zuckerberg.” Sir Eduardo’s voice was deathly calm. “You are a guest in my house. But if you do not unhand me at once, I’ll have you escorted aboard the next train to London.”
For a long moment, Zuckerberg clenched his hand. Then he pushed his chair back and hurried from the room without another word.
“I should visit the country more often,” Holmes said as he reached for the wine. “The air of violence is most invigorating.”
“Perhaps we should make a habit of leaving London every spring,” Holmes mused as they strolled into the library. He examined one of the shelves. “To explore the seamy underbellies of these little villages. Any one could hide the next Napoleon of crime.”
“As your doctor, I would rather hope that you content yourself with enjoying the fresh country air.” Watson poured himself some brandy. “Holmes, do you want-what is it?”
Holmes was transfixed by a time-stained portrait on the wall. “Who is this?”
“Sir Hugo Baskerville. I told you the first day you came here.”
“No, Watson, who do you see?”
Watson examined the man in black velvet and lace, taking in the broad plumed hat, the curling locks, and the white lace collar. The man had a severe expression and a coldness in his eyes. “There is some resemblance to Sir Eduardo in the jaw.”
Holmes made an incoherent sound of frustration and leapt upon a chair. Over the noise of Watson’s protestations, he curved his arm over the broad hat and covered the long hair.
“Good lord!” Watson nearly dropped his brandy.
It was a visage they had been used to seeing in two copies. The face of Cameron and Tyler Winklevoss sprung from the canvas.
“I should have seen it immediately. The ears alone! Mycroft would never let me forget this, if he knew. Ah-here it is!” Holmes lifted the family Bible from its stand. “Two generations ago, Edith Baskerville married a Josiah Winklevoss, who promptly moved to New York. No further names are recorded for that branch of the family, but I suspect our Winklevoss brothers are the newest fruit from that tree. Given that Sir Charles died without issue-”
Holmes flipped through a few pages before shutting the book with an air of finality. “If Sir Eduardo dies, Cameron and Tyler Winklevoss stand to inherit everything. Now, Mr. Zuckerberg, please come out from behind the curtain.”
One of the curtains trembled and then jerked to the side, to reveal a hidden alcove. Zuckerberg emerged with his eyes ablaze and curls in disarray.
“We must warn Eduardo. I knew that the Winklevii were intent upon evil!” Zuckerberg reached for the door, but Holmes barred his way.
“Do you admit that you were the man who followed Sir Eduardo to his hotel and left that threatening message?”
Zuckerberg coloured. “I had heard some rumors about Sir Charles’s death in New York. I did not mean to threaten Eduardo, only to tell him to stay away from the moor.”
“Watson, at last you have found a man more bent on ignoring social convention than I am.” Holmes chuckled. “The next time you wish to leave an anonymous message, Mr. Zuckerberg, pray do disguise your writing by other means. Words clipped from the newspaper have such sinister connotations.”
“What about Sir Eduardo’s boots?” Watson asked Zuckerberg. “Did you steal them from the hotel as well?”
Holmes turned solemn. “No, the only reason to take those boots is to train a hound to recognize Sir Eduardo’s scent.”
Watson recalled the day they rescued Zuckerberg from the hound’s attack. “Sir Eduardo’s crimson scarf! You, Zuckerberg, must have procured it through your friends-” Watson took Zuckerberg’s sheepish nod to be a confirmation. “Whereupon the hound attacked you for it.”
“The Winklevoss brothers must have played a long game indeed,” Holmes said. “They have lived upon the moor without servants all spring, no doubt to train a hound without interruption. Sir Charles was their first victim. Sir Eduardo may become their second.”
“We must go to Eduardo at once. He can confront them tonight.”
Holmes shook his head at Zuckerberg’s command. “We have no evidence. I have wired for Inspector Lestrade, but even he will need a reason to arrest the Winklevosses.”
Zuckerberg looked defiant. “I can go to Eduardo. He will believe me.”
Holmes raised an eyebrow, but did not deign to reply.
“Holmes, tell me you will not send Sir Eduardo to dine with the Winklevosses alone,” Watson said. He knew his friend too well. “You intend to use him as bait.”
Zuckerberg surged forward to shove Holmes against the door. “If any harm comes to him, I will-I will destroy you.”
“Trust me,” Holmes said. “I’ve timed it perfectly.”
“Trust you?” Zuckerberg growled, fingers clenched around the revolver. “I can’t see a damn thing in this fog.”
The fog-bank flowed over the moor, obscuring the lights from Barton Lodge. They had waited among the stones, as Sir Eduardo lingered with Cameron and Tyler Winklevoss over their cigars.
“If Sir Eduardo takes any longer, we might not be able to see the hound before it overtakes him,” Watson warned.
Lestrade sighed. He had barely arrived in time from the train station. “I have the warrant with me, but it shan’t hold up in court if we don’t find the hound.”
Holmes had clapped his ear to the ground. “Hush! I think I hear him.”
They crouched behind the stones, as footsteps approached through the curtain of the fog. Through the white haze, Watson could see the familiar shape of their host. Sir Eduardo walked quickly and glanced continually over one shoulder, like a man who saw monsters in the shadows.
“I hear it! It’s coming.” Zuckerberg shot up from behind his rock and leapt over the stones.
Watson could hear a thin, continuous patter somewhere in the heart of the roiling fog. Scrambling after Zuckerberg, he had only managed to cock his pistol when a large snarl cut through the quiet of the night.
“Wardo!” Zuckerberg shouted. “Wardo, watch out!”
An enormous coal-black hound burst through the fog, leaping down the track in long bounds. They fired together, but the creature did not pause as it raced through the haze. Zuckerberg turned and shot as the hound overtook him on the path, but it had eyes only for one prey.
The fog parted to show Sir Eduardo looking back, his face white in the moonlight. Another moment, and the hound was upon him.
Watson had never seen men run like they ran that night. They dashed along the path as they heard scream after scream and the sound of wet flesh. Zuckerberg’s hoarse shouts at the hound were only answered by a deep roar.
But the next instant Holmes fired into monster’s side. It lashed out at him with a snap of its jaws, but seized with a howl of agony. Watson sprinted forward and emptied his rounds between the creature’s eyes.
The hound fell limp to one side. It was dead.
Mark had cradled Sir Eduardo in his arms, heedless of the blood that covered them. “Wardo-please, somebody help him!”
“Holmes, we need pressure on the wounds. Lestrade, elevate his legs.” Watson snapped out his orders.
“Wardo, the doctor’s here,” Zuckerberg tried to speak through his tears. “You have to stay with me. I need you to stay.”
For one long moment, Sir Eduardo looked up with frightened eyes. Then he closed them.
***************
“I should throw you out of this house.” Hughes almost shook with the force of his anger at Holmes. “You allowed him to enter that den of murderers!”
“But if it were not for Dr. Watson, he would have . . . .” Moskovitz trailed off, shaken. They had been roused with the rest of the household when Lestrade went back to Baskerville Hall for help. Watson thanked his Maker that Sir Eduardo’s wounds were not beyond assistance.
Hughes clasped Watson’s hand. “Doctor, you have all our thanks. We would be grateful if you can stay to ensure that Sir Eduardo is out of danger. But you must forgive me if I cannot allow the presence of your friend.”
“Gentleman.” Zuckerberg appeared in the doorway. “Eduardo is awake and asking for you.”
They crowded around the hastily created infirmary, and Zuckerberg took up his self-appointed place by Sir Eduardo’s side. The baronet had lost a lot of blood, but he managed to greet them with a shadow of a smile.
“Mr. Holmes, I am in your debt. You saved my life.”
“Having first endangered it,” Holmes replied with a rueful look. “We owe you a deep apology, Sir Eduardo. I had overestimated my own ability to stop that creature.”
Zuckerberg narrowed his eyes. “Mr. Holmes, I once made you a promise. I fully intend to keep it.”
“Oh, Mark. You can’t vow destruction on every man we meet.” Sir Eduardo’s laugh was cut short by a grimace of pain.
“As we are speaking of destruction,” Moskovitz cut in. “Where are the Winklevosses?”
“Lestrade tracked them into the bogs, where I am afraid they have left trace. They may have escaped entirely, or sank to their deaths in the mire,” Holmes said.
“I almost wish Cameron Winklevoss had escaped to safety,” Sir Eduardo said with a sigh. “He had been a good friend.”
Zuckerberg made a sound of indignation. “Your capacity for forgiveness is astounding.”
“Do you intend to complain?” Sir Eduardo asked. Their eyes met, and Watson sensed a new kind of ease between them.
Holmes adjusted his coat. “Before I return to London, I seek one boon.”
“How can you request a reward when you nearly killed your client?” Hughes demanded.
Sir Eduardo cut him short with a gesture. “Of course, anything.”
“I wish to take the body of the hound with me. Its skull alone would be a marvelous addition to my collection. I would also be to test its sinews-”
“Absolutely not!” Watson found himself sputtering. “We do not have rooms enough for your new experiments, and I refuse to share a space with that dead creature.”
“I recommend that you yield, Dr. Watson,” Sir Eduardo said with a gleam in his eye. “We neither of us can refuse our friends anything.”