The True Ending of The Hound of the Baskervilles – Page Seven “Sorry, Beryl,” came a voice out of the fog-bank from the direction of the mire. An instant later out walked Rodger Baskerville, alias Vandeleur, alias Jack Stapleton. His trousers were caked with a dark, slimy ooze. “Oh, that’s all right, Rodger,” she said. “Let’s go home and get you out of those wet clothes and into a dry martini.” “But wait a minute!” I cried. “I thought that certain death awaited anyone who was caught in the mire. How were you able to get out, and not just once but, according to your wife here, on many different occasions?” “Well, in the first place, Doctor,” explained Stapleton, “the Grimpen Mire, like all bogs, is quite shallow. It is only about three feet deep at its deepest point. So I would not be able to sink into it past my hips. And even if it were deeper, it would not be dangerous. You see, there is a great deal of mythology in regard to quicksand. As you know, human beings naturally float in water, because their specific gravity is less than that of water. In fresh water, if they merely hold still and assume the fetal position, they will float just below the surface. In salt water, which has a higher specific gravity than fresh water, it is easier to float. Now, quicksand is merely water with sand mixed into it, which gives it an even higher specific gravity than salt water. Therefore, a person would be buoyed up even more by quicksand than by salt water. The danger of the Grimpen Mire has been purposely exaggerated by the officials at Dartmoor prison to frighten the inmates so that they will not try to escape across the moor.”
“But what about the moor pony that you told me you saw being sucked down into the mire?” I asked.             Just then there was a whinny from the fog-bank, and out trotted a pony with mud on its lower legs.             “Obviously, I was lying to you, Dr. Watson. Ponies wander into and out of the mire all the time. If they really got sucked down into it, there would be no ponies left on the moor.             “So,” I said, “You are alive, Sir Charles is alive, Selden is alive, Selden’s supposed victims are alive, and the moor pony is alive. But what about Dr. Mortimer’s dog that disappeared? It must be dead. The hound probably killed it.”             “Arf! Arf!” came from the fog-bank, and out pranced a curly-haired spaniel. It went directly up to the hound, and the two dogs nuzzled each other.
	“No,” said Stapleton. “Mortimer’s dog was out wandering on the moor and chanced upon the den where I was keeping the hound. As you see, they became good friends. Quite good friends, in fact.             Mortimer’s dog is a female, you know, and I shouldn’t be surprised if some bloodhound-mastiff-curly-haired-spaniel puppies were to appear on the scene in the near future.” “So even Dr. Mortimer’s spaniel is alive,” I said. “Apparently the only deaths involved in this adventure were those of the butterflies and moths you caught in your guise of a naturalist.”
“Oh, no,” laughed Stapleton. “Since I am not really a naturalist, why would I want to go around catching bugs? The so-called specimens in the display boxes at Merripit House are actually pictures cut out of magazines.” “Good heavens!” I expostulated. “Does nothing ever die out here on the moor except the cattle, pigs, and chickens that are used for food?” “Actually,” said Sir Charles, “we are all vegetarians around here. We keep the cows for milk and the chickens—free range, of course—for eggs and the pigs as pets. What you thought was meat of various kinds served at meals at Baskerville Hall was actually cunning preparations of soybeans made to taste like beef, ham, and chicken.” “But how can you eat eggs and dairy products if you are vegetarians?” I asked. “We are vegetarians, doctor, not vegans,” replied Sir Charles. “We consume animal products, but not the animals themselves.” Lestrade spoke up. “Well, anyway, Jack Stapleton or Rodger Baskerville or Vandeleur or whatever your name is, I hereby arrest you and your wife in the name of the crown for the attempted murders of Sir Charles and Sir Henry Baskerville. It is my solemn duty to warn you that anything you say may be taken down and used in evidence against you.” “We weren’t really trying to murder them,” replied Stapleton. “As you can see, this dog wouldn’t hurt one of its own fleas. But it is big and frightening in appearance, especially when painted up with a little glow-in-the-dark chemical and seen by someone who has heard the legend of Hugo Baskerville and the Hound from Hell. We just wanted to scare Sir Charles and Sir Henry away. We thought our plan had gone terribly wrong when it appeared that Sir Charles had died of a heart attack at the mere sight of the hound, and I am glad to see that he is all right. By then we were in so deep, we went ahead and tried to scare Sir Henry off. We knew that he was a younger man and wouldn’t be likely to drop dead, and we hoped to send him packing back to Canada. Then we thought that the dog had frightened the convict into falling off a cliff to his death, but I see that he is alive and well, too.”             Selden smiled and nodded. “So you weren’t trying to kill anybody?” asked Lestrade plaintively. “No, indeed!” said Stapleton. “And so you did not starve and mistreat this animal so as to change his inherently gentle dog nature into a vicious one?” asked Holmes. “Good heavens, no!” cried Stapleton in horror. “Anyone who would do such a thing would deserve to be horsewhipped!” “I quite agree,” said Holmes. “It appears, then, Lestrade, that you have no case to bring against these people. What they did amounts to no more than a rather extreme practical joke. And they certainly received as good as they gave, with two of their supposed ‘victims’ pretending to be dead at their hands. You cannot even charge them with animal abuse. Back in London you might be able to cite them for allowing their dog to run loose, but there is no leash law out here on the moor.”