Sometimes students produce work of such a standard, that it would not be an exaggeration to say that it could be mistaken for an excerpt of the literature it is seeking to emulate. As you will know, dear reader, from last month’s blog, Year 8 have been studying Victorian Crime Fiction in English. This unit of work culminated in a test and the submission of a piece of written work in the style of the author of the Sherlock Holmes adventures, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. The students were asked to write a diary entry in the pen of Dr Watson, referring to an event that occured in chapter 12 of The Hound Of The Baskervilles. The event was the discovery of a dead body on the Devonshire moors by Holmes and Watson, who originally feared it belonged to their friend, Sir Henry Baskerville, only to later realise it was that of an escaped convicted murderer. The students had already identified a selection of literary devices in Doyle’s writing, and were asked to use the same devices in their work, while at the same time maintaining grammatical precision, and remaining true to trusty Dr Watson’s nature. The following piece of work, submitted by Marta Stacchiola, is a delight to read. It is so good, in fact, I have included the original illustration by Sidney Paget, who illustrated Doyle’s stories in London’s monthly magazine The Strand Magazine, in which the story was originally written. I believe both Doyle and Paget would have approved.
Death On The Moor
by Marta Stacchiola
3rd of November, 1902
Last eve, when Holmes and I were expostulating, we heard a quite shrill scream not too distant from us. The cry of help swept through the silence of the night, making it even louder. When the agonizing wail had died down, a new sound was heard, one that made my spine shiver, one that frightened even the strongest of men… the sound of the hound. We briskly made our way over to the cry of pain while Holmes was hurrying me to get a move on.
While we were making our way towards the screech, another scream was heard. We were too late, Holmes told me, then he put the blame on me, telling me that I had let my guard down. That was one of the flaws about dear Holmes; he didn’t accept the fact that sometimes he was inaccurate with his calculations. We stopped sprinting, which left Holmes and me panting heavily. Just then, a deep lament made its way to our ears. Both our heads snapped to our left, there on the denticulate edge of the steep cliff lay a vague silhouette of a body. Holmes, on seeing this, led our way over to the outline. The man, by now clearly obvious, was hunched over, his head intertwined with what seemed to be his stomach. It seemed as though he was some sort of gymnast, all doubled over.
As we now knew, this man had departed into the passageway of heaven of hell, because not the faintest noise was made by him. Holmes gazed at the unknown man, then laid a touch upon him with his hand. He looked at me with a perturbing look on his face. As the moonlight shone across the man, it was clear it was Sir Henry Baskerville.
It was now clear, he was even wearing the same clothes that he had worn that very day in Baker Street. I listened to the faint groan which came from Holmes. At the sight of Sir Henry’s body I became very choleric, and a string of words left my mouth that could make even a sailor blush. I felt disloyal to Holmes, that I had let my guard down. If only I had heard his screams, maybe he would still be living. My mind reflected on the thought of Stapleton. Oh, he would be punished for this!
Holmes told me that we could not seize Stapleton on the instant. We would have to wait. Together we made our way over to the corpse, Holmes and I hunched down to hoist the remains of Sir Henry, when Holmes started dancing and prancing around the body. Holmes was a king’s jester, I thought. What had happened to my dear friend? Had he gone mad? “A beard, a beard!’’ he kept shouting at me. That’s when I perceived that while Sir Hen
ry didn’t have a beard, this man clearly did, leading me to the conclusion
that this man was not Sir Henry! This was indeed the face of the escaped convict, Selden! That’s when I realized that Barrymore must have given the clothes he got from Sir Henry to Selden.
A figure and a gleam of a lit cigar made its way towards us. “Watson, is that you?’’
I recognized the voice… it was the voice of Stapleton! We explained to him what had happened without raising suspicions, he had also supposedly heard the screams of Selden and had come to help. Holmes suggested that he returned to London tomorrow. The shocking appearance or Stapleton had given us a fright. Once we had told him that it was Selden that lay there dead, Stapleton’s face turned a ghostly shade of white.
After this whole tragedy, Holmes and I decided to return to Baskerville Hall. This witching hour had come to an end and, my, how it has been a blight! I pray tomorrow will bring a better day.
Dr Watson