There Is A Power

Disclaimer: According to Music97, we no longer have to have disclaimers on our beloved Holmes and Watson! Hoorah! But in case Sir Henry, Stapleton, and that fearful Hound aren't covered, I don't own any of 'em.

I shut the heavy oaken door of my room behind me, troubled in mind and body over what had just occurred out on the moor. It had been over three weeks since I had come to Baskerville Hall as Sir Henry's bodyguard, and I had to admit that those weeks had done nothing but increase my dislike of the whole affair.

I was uneasy, knowing that Sir Henry and I were sitting in a castle steeped in a veritable ghostly history, which I knew that Sherlock Holmes merely discounted as legend. However, I am of a more romantic nature, as the detective has pointed out on numerous occasions, and more prone to take interest in such affairs.

To make matters worse, the American baronet is even more superstitious than I. And without the steadying influence of my dear friend around to curb my romantic streak, the mystery, gloom, and obvious danger surrounding us seemed almost oppressive at times.

This was one of those times. I had just had to apologize to Sir Henry for watching his secret liaison with Miss Beryl Stapleton – I had orders, and orders must be followed. Years of association with Sherlock Holmes has taught me that if nothing else.

But I still was rather embarrassed over doing so. And her brother's puzzling reaction to the whole affair was so drastic I was also embarrassed about having been witness to that as well.

And that was puzzling me very much indeed. There was no logical reason why Stapleton should have reacted in that violent manner. No reason whatsoever.

"Facts, Watson. Reason backwards from effects to causes," I could almost hear Sherlock Holmes saying in my head.

Reason backwards. Very well then.

Stapleton had said, to quote Sir Henry, "He would not so much as let me touch the tips of her fingers. What was I doing with the lady? How dared I offer her attentions which were distasteful to her? Did I think that because I was a baronet I could do what I liked?"

A drastic and unnatural reaction. Then what could have caused it? I thought again of the explanations I had offered to Sir Henry, trying to comfort the crushed man.

Surely just the shadow of a legend haunting the Baskerville family would not be enough to cause such an – for lack of a better word – explosion from the prospective brother-in-law?

"The most serious point in the case is the disposition of the child."

I was startled that that particular quotation from Holmes should have come to my mind at this point. From the affair of Violet Hunter at the Copper Beeches, I remembered suddenly. Holmes had been on one of his lectures about studying familial tendencies.

He had also pointed out to me on numerous occasions regarding he and his brother Mycroft that most tendencies that were hereditary were inherited from the parents. In other words, the major character traits of families usually were similar.

Why then was Stapleton's disposition and his very attitude so very different from his sister's? He had said that Sir Henry's attentions to his sister were distasteful – but the woman herself had never said any such thing – in fact, she had readily agreed to meet Sir Henry. He had an abnormal amount of control over her for a mere brother.

And if, as I believe, I am any judge of women, the feelings the baronet has for her are not all one-sided. Stapleton does not strike me as being the over-protective type; his very nature is easy-going and calm. Why then should he suddenly explode over a harmless romantic meeting?

Sir Henry was puzzled too, but I knew his thoughts to be on why Stapleton did not approve of him personally. My thoughts were more vague, but there was something about the man that very seriously struck a jarring chord within me. My instincts were at work.

Or perhaps living with the world's most famous detective has simply made me overly suspicious of everyone.

I had three hours before luncheon, and Sir Henry was busy in that meeting with the architects. I decided that a few discreet inquiries in town would not be amiss.

I wanted to check on a few things Stapleton had told me, to see if there were possibly something in his background that he were afraid of Sir Henry knowing. That might explain the reaction – merely panic to having an outsider learn a dreaded family secret if a marriage were discussed.

I stopped by the drawing room and told the baronet that I was going out but would be back before lunch, cautioning him to not go anywhere without me. This he readily promised.

"I mean it, Sir Henry," I said earnestly, "Holmes gave me orders and I must carry them out. No matter what happens, you cannot budge from the Hall. Will you give me your word, no more such escapades as of this morning?"

"I promise, Watson," he said. I noticed his pronounced American accent had begun to soften even in the short time we had been there on the moor. "I have loads of this stuff to go over with all these fellows, anyhow. You'll be back for lunch?"

"I shall. I will be back in two hours, three at the most."

Having obtained the stubborn man's word that he would not move from the Hall, I set off toward the town.

I arrived at the little post office about twenty minutes later, and I spent the better part of an hour composing and sending messages to the appropriate party.

I felt a little guilty about not informing Holmes of my intentions and line of inquiries, but I had no wish to receive yet another dressing-down for my ridiculously romantic suspicions. I doubted whether I was right; but if I was, there would be time enough to inform the man.

I had a friend at a London library whom I knew would be glad to do me a favor in return for several I had extended him in the past, and it was to him that I sent a lengthy message. I had no doubt I would receive the reply later that evening, and I arranged for the message to be sent to the Hall as soon as it arrived.

Until then I could not, to quote Mr. Sherlock Holmes, "make bricks without clay." I needed data, and it would be quite some time before I got it. I could only possess my soul in patience and wait.

How I wished to heaven that Holmes's reassuring presence were with me.