|
"The Hound of the Baskervilles"
|
Chapter
1
Mr. Sherlock Holmes
Mr. Sherlock Holmes, who was usually very late in the mornings, save
upon those not infrequent occasions when he was
up all night, was seated at the breakfast table.
I stood upon the hearth-rug and picked up the
stick which our visitor had left behind him the
night before. It was a fine, thick piece of
wood, bulbous-headed, of the sort which is known
as a "Penang lawyer." Just under the head was a
broad silver band nearly an inch across. "To
James Mortimer, M.R.C.S., from his friends of
the C.C.H.," was engraved upon it, with the date
"1884." It was just such a stick as the
old-fashioned family practitioner used to
carry--dignified, solid, and reassuring.
"Well, Watson, what do you make of it?"
Holmes was sitting with his back to me, and I
had given him no sign of my occupation.
"How did you know what I was doing? I believe
you have eyes in the back of your head."
"I have, at least, a well-polished,
silver-plated coffee-pot in front of me," said
he. "But, tell me, Watson, what do you make of
our visitor`s stick? Since we have been so
unfortunate as to miss him and have no notion of
his errand, this accidental souvenir becomes of
importance. Let me hear you reconstruct the man
by an examination of it."
"I think," said I, following as far as I
could the methods of my companion, "that Dr.
Mortimer is a successful, elderly medical man,
well-esteemed since those who know him give him
this mark of their appreciation."
"Good!" said Holmes. "Excellent!"
"I think also that the probability is in
favour of his being a country practitioner who
does a great deal of his visiting on foot."
"Why so?"
"Because this stick, though originally a very
handsome one has been so knocked about that I
can hardly imagine a town practitioner carrying
it. The thick-iron ferrule is worn down, so it
is evident that he has done a great amount of
walking with it."
"Perfectly sound!" said Holmes.
"And then again, there is the `friends of the
C.C.H.` I should guess that to be the Something
Hunt, the local hunt to whose members he has
possibly given some surgical assistance, and
which has made him a small presentation in
return."
"Really, Watson, you excel yourself," said
Holmes, pushing back his chair and lighting a
cigarette. "I am bound to say that in all the
accounts which you have been so good as to give
of my own small achievements you have habitually
underrated your own abilities. It may be that
you are not yourself luminous, but you are a
conductor of light. Some people without
possessing genius have a remarkable power of
stimulating it. I confess, my dear fellow, that
I am very much in your debt."
He had never said as much before, and I must
admit that his words gave me keen pleasure, for
I had often been piqued by his indifference to
my admiration and to the attempts which I had
made to give publicity to his methods. I was
proud, too, to think that I had so far mastered
his system as to apply it in a way which earned
his approval. He now took the stick from my
hands and examined it for a few minutes with his
naked eyes. Then with an expression of interest
he laid down his cigarette, and carrying the
cane to the window, he looked over it again with
a convex lens.
"Interesting, though elementary," said he as
he returned to his favourite corner of the
settee. "There are certainly one or two
indications upon the stick. It gives us the
basis for several deductions."
"Has anything escaped me?" I asked with some
self-importance. "I trust that there is nothing
of consequence which I have overlooked?"
"I am afraid, my dear Watson, that most of
your conclusions were erroneous. When I said
that you stimulated me I meant, to be frank,
that in noting your fallacies I was occasionally
guided towards the truth. Not that you are
entirely wrong in this instance. The man is
certainly a country practitioner. And he walks a
good deal."
"Then I was right."
"To that extent."
"But that was all."
"No, no, my dear Watson, not all--by no means
all. I would suggest, for example, that a
presentation to a doctor is more likely to come
from a hospital than from a hunt, and that when
the initials `C.C.` are placed before that
hospital the words `Charing Cross` very
naturally suggest themselves."
"You may be right."
"The probability lies in that direction. And
if we take this as a working hypothesis we have
a fresh basis from which to start our
construction of this unknown visitor."
"Well, then, supposing that `C.C.H.` does
stand for `Charing Cross Hospital,` what further
inferences may we draw?"
"Do none suggest themselves? You know my
methods. Apply them!"
"I can only think of the obvious conclusion
that the man has practised in town before going
to the country."
"I think that we might venture a little
farther than this. Look at it in this light. On
what occasion would it be most probable that
such a presentation would be made? When would
his friends unite to give him a pledge of their
good will? Obviously at the moment when Dr.
Mortimer withdrew from the service of the
hospital in order to start a practice for
himself. We know there has been a presentation.
We believe there has been a change from a town
hospital to a country practice. Is it, then,
stretching our inference too far to say that the
presentation was on the occasion of the change?"
"It certainly seems probable."
"Now, you will observe that he could not have
been on the staff of the hospital, since only a
man well-established in a London practice could
hold such a position, and such a one would not
drift into the country. What was he, then? If he
was in the hospital and yet not on the staff he
could only have been a house-surgeon or a
house-physician--little more than a senior
student. And he left five years ago--the date is
on the stick. So your grave, middle-aged family
practitioner vanishes into thin air, my dear
Watson, and there emerges a young fellow under
thirty, amiable, unambitious, absent-minded, and
the possessor of a favourite dog, which I should
describe roughly as being larger than a terrier
and smaller than a mastiff."
I laughed incredulously as Sherlock Holmes
leaned back in his settee and blew little
wavering rings of smoke up to the ceiling.
"As to the latter part, I have no means of
checking you," said I, "but at least it is not
difficult to find out a few particulars about
the man`s age and professional career." From my
small medical shelf I took down the Medical
Directory and turned up the name. There were
several Mortimers, but only one who could be our
visitor. I read his record aloud.
"Mortimer, James, M.R.C.S., 1882, Grimpen,
Dartmoor, Devon. House-surgeon, from 1882 to
1884, at Charing Cross Hospital. Winner of the
Jackson prize for Comparative Pathology, with
essay entitled `Is Disease a Reversion?`
Corresponding member of the Swedish Pathological
Society. Author of `Some Freaks of Atavism`
(Lancet 1882). `Do We Progress?` (Journal of
Psychology, March, 1883). Medical Officer for
the parishes of Grimpen, Thorsley, and High
Barrow."
"No mention of that local hunt, Watson," said
Holmes with a mischievous smile, "but a country
doctor, as you very astutely observed. I think
that I am fairly justified in my inferences. As
to the adjectives, I said, if I remember right,
amiable, unambitious, and absent-minded. It is
my experience that it is only an amiable man in
this world who receives testimonials, only an
unambitious one who abandons a London career for
the country, and only an absent-minded one who
leaves his stick and not his visiting-card after
waiting an hour in your room."
"And the dog?"
"Has been in the habit of carrying this stick
behind his master. Being a heavy stick the dog
has held it tightly by the middle, and the marks
of his teeth are very plainly visible. The dog`s
jaw, as shown in the space between these marks,
is too broad in my opinion for a terrier and not
broad enough for a mastiff. It may have
been--yes, by Jove, it is a curly-haired
spaniel."
He had risen and paced the room as he spoke.
Now he halted in the recess of the window. There
was such a ring of conviction in his voice that
I glanced up in surprise.
"My dear fellow, how can you possibly be so
sure of that?"
"For the very simple reason that I see the
dog himself on our very door-step, and there is
the ring of its owner. Don`t move, I beg you,
Watson. He is a professional brother of yours,
and your presence may be of assistance to me.
Now is the dramatic moment of fate, Watson, when
you hear a step upon the stair which is walking
into your life, and you know not whether for
good or ill. What does Dr. James Mortimer, the
man of science, ask of Sherlock Holmes, the
specialist in crime? Come in!"
The appearance of our visitor was a surprise
to me, since I had expected a typical country
practitioner. He was a very tall, thin man, with
a long nose like a beak, which jutted out
between two keen, gray eyes, set closely
together and sparkling brightly from behind a
pair of gold-rimmed glasses. He was clad in a
professional but rather slovenly fashion, for
his frock-coat was dingy and his trousers
frayed. Though young, his long back was already
bowed, and he walked with a forward thrust of
his head and a general air of peering
benevolence. As he entered his eyes fell upon
the stick in Holmes`s hand, and he ran towards
it with an exclamation of joy. "I am so very
glad," said he. "I was not sure whether I had
left it here or in the Shipping Office. I would
not lose that stick for the world."
"A presentation, I see," said Holmes.
"Yes, sir."
"From Charing Cross Hospital?"
"From one or two friends there on the
occasion of my marriage."
"Dear, dear, that`s bad!" said Holmes,
shaking his head.
Dr. Mortimer blinked through his glasses in
mild astonishment. "Why was it bad?"
"Only that you have disarranged our little
deductions. Your marriage, you say?"
"Yes, sir. I married, and so left the
hospital, and with it all hopes of a consulting
practice. It was necessary to make a home of my
own."
"Come, come, we are not so far wrong, after
all," said Holmes. "And now, Dr. James
Mortimer--"
"Mister, sir, Mister--a humble M.R.C.S."
"And a man of precise mind, evidently."
"A dabbler in science, Mr. Holmes, a picker
up of shells on the shores of the great unknown
ocean. I presume that it is Mr. Sherlock Holmes
whom I am addressing and not--"
"No, this is my friend Dr. Watson."
"Glad to meet you, sir. I have heard your
name mentioned in connection with that of your
friend. You interest me very much, Mr. Holmes. I
had hardly expected so dolichocephalic a skull
or such well-marked supra-orbital development.
Would you have any objection to my running my
finger along your parietal fissure? A cast of
your skull, sir, until the original is
available, would be an ornament to any
anthropological museum. It is not my intention
to be fulsome, but I confess that I covet your
skull."
Sherlock Holmes waved our strange visitor
into a chair. "You are an enthusiast in your
line of thought, I perceive, sir, as I am in
mine," said he. "I observe from your forefinger
that you make your own cigarettes. Have no
hesitation in lighting one."
The man drew out paper and tobacco and
twirled the one up in the other with surprising
dexterity. He had long, quivering fingers as
agile and restless as the antennae of an insect.
Holmes was silent, but his little darting
glances showed me the interest which he took in
our curious companion. "I presume, sir," said he
at last, "that it was not merely for the purpose
of examining my skull that you have done me the
honour to call here last night and again today?"
"No, sir, no; though I am happy to have had
the opportunity of doing that as well. I came to
you, Mr. Holmes, because I recognized that I am
myself an unpractical man and because I am
suddenly confronted with a most serious and
extraordinary problem. Recognizing, as I do,
that you are the second highest expert in
Europe--"
"Indeed, sir! May I inquire who has the
honour to be the first?" asked Holmes with some
asperity.
"To the man of precisely scientific mind the
work of Monsieur Bertillon must always appeal
strongly."
"Then had you not better consult him?"
"I said, sir, to the precisely scientific
mind. But as a practical man of affairs it is
acknowledged that you stand alone. I trust, sir,
that I have not inadvertently--"
"Just a little," said Holmes. "I think, Dr.
Mortimer, you would do wisely if without more
ado you would kindly tell me plainly what the
exact nature of the problem is in which you
demand my assistance."
|
|
|
|
Chapter
2
The Curse of the Baskervilles
"I have in my pocket a manuscript," said Dr. James Mortimer.
"I observed it as you entered the room," said
Holmes.
"It is an old manuscript."
"Early eighteenth century, unless it is a
forgery."
"How can you say that, sir?"
"You have presented an inch or two of it to
my examination all the time that you have been
talking. It would be a poor expert who could not
give the date of a document within a decade or
so. You may possibly have read my little
monograph upon the subject. I put that at 1730."
"The exact date is 1742." Dr. Mortimer drew
it from his breast- pocket. "This family paper
was committed to my care by Sir Charles
Baskerville, whose sudden and tragic death some
three months ago created so much excitement in
Devonshire. I may say that I was his personal
friend as well as his medical attendant. He was
a strong-minded man, sir, shrewd, practical, and
as unimaginative as I am myself. Yet he took
this document very seriously, and his mind was
prepared for just such an end as did eventually
overtake him."
Holmes stretched out his hand for the
manuscript and flattened it upon his knee. "You
will observe, Watson, the alternative use of the
long s and the short. It is one of several
indications which enabled me to fix the date."
I looked over his shoulder at the yellow
paper and the faded script. At the head was
written: "Baskerville Hall," and below in large,
scrawling figures: "1742."
"It appears to be a statement of some sort."
"Yes, it is a statement of a certain legend
which runs in the Baskerville family."
"But I understand that it is something more
modern and practical upon which you wish to
consult me?"
"Most modern. A most practical, pressing
matter, which must be decided within twenty-four
hours. But the manuscript is short and is
intimately connected with the affair. With your
permission I will read it to you."
Holmes leaned back in his chair, placed his
finger-tips together, and closed his eyes, with
an air of resignation. Dr. Mortimer turned the
manuscript to the light and read in a high,
cracking voice the following curious, old-world
narrative:
"Of the origin of the Hound of the Baskervilles
there have been many statements, yet as I come
in a direct line from Hugo Baskerville, and as I
had the story from my father, who also had it
from his, I have set it down with all belief
that it occurred even as is here set forth. And
I would have you believe, my sons, that the same
Justice which punishes sin may also most
graciously forgive it, and that no ban is so
heavy but that by prayer and repentance it may
be removed. Learn then from this story not to
fear the fruits of the past, but rather to be
circumspect in the future, that those foul
passions whereby our family has suffered so
grievously may not again be loosed to our
undoing.
"Know then that in the time of the Great
Rebellion (the history of which by the learned
Lord Clarendon I most earnestly commend to your
attention) this Manor of Baskerville was held by
Hugo of that name, nor can it be gainsaid that
he was a most wild, profane, and godless man.
This, in truth, his neighbours might have
pardoned, seeing that saints have never
flourished in those parts, but there was in him
a certain wanton and cruel humour which made his
name a by-word through the West. It chanced that
this Hugo came to love (if, indeed, so dark a
passion may be known under so bright a name) the
daughter of a yeoman who held lands near the
Baskerville estate. But the young maiden, being
discreet and of good repute, would ever avoid
him, for she feared his evil name. So it came to
pass that one Michaelmas this Hugo, with five or
six of his idle and wicked companions, stole
down upon the farm and carried off the maiden,
her father and brothers being from home, as he
well knew. When they had brought her to the Hall
the maiden was placed in an upper chamber, while
Hugo and his friends sat down to a long carouse,
as was their nightly custom. Now, the poor lass
upstairs was like to have her wits turned at the
singing and shouting and terrible oaths which
came up to her from below, for they say that the
words used by Hugo Baskerville, when he was in
wine, were such as might blast the man who said
them. At last in the stress of her fear she did
that which might have daunted the bravest or
most active man, for by the aid of the growth of
ivy which covered (and still covers) the south
wall she came down from under the eaves, and so
homeward across the moor, there being three
leagues betwixt the Hall and her father`s farm.
"It chanced that some little time later Hugo
left his guests to carry food and drink--with
other worse things, perchance--to his captive,
and so found the cage empty and the bird
escaped. Then, as it would seem, he became as
one that hath a devil, for, rushing down the
stairs into the dining-hall, he sprang upon the
great table, flagons and trenchers flying before
him, and he cried aloud before all the company
that he would that very night render his body
and soul to the Powers of Evil if he might but
overtake the wench. And while the revellers
stood aghast at the fury of the man, one more
wicked or, it may be, more drunken than the
rest, cried out that they should put the hounds
upon her. Whereat Hugo ran from the house,
crying to his grooms that they should saddle his
mare and unkennel the pack, and giving the
hounds a kerchief of the maid`s, he swung them
to the line, and so off full cry in the
moonlight over the moor.
"Now, for some space the revellers stood agape,
unable to understand all that had been done in
such haste. But anon their bemused wits awoke to
the nature of the deed which was like to be done
upon the moorlands. Everything was now in an
uproar, some calling for their pistols, some for
their horses, and some for another flask of
wine. But at length some sense came back to
their crazed minds, and the whole of them,
thirteen in number, took horse and started in
pursuit. The moon shone clear above them, and
they rode swiftly abreast, taking that course
which the maid must needs have taken if she were
to reach her own home.
"They had gone a mile or two when they passed
one of the night shepherds upon the moorlands,
and they cried to him to know if he had seen the
hunt. And the man, as the story goes, was so
crazed with fear that he could scarce speak, but
at last he said that he had indeed seen the
unhappy maiden, with the hounds upon her track.
`But I have seen more than that,` said he, `for
Hugo Baskerville passed me upon his black mare,
and there ran mute behind him such a hound of
hell as God forbid should ever be at my heels.`
So the drunken squires cursed the shepherd and
rode onward. But soon their skins turned cold,
for there came a galloping across the moor, and
the black mare, dabbled with white froth, went
past with trailing bridle and empty saddle. Then
the revellers rode close together, for a great
fear was on them, but they still followed over
the moor, though each, had he been alone, would
have been right glad to have turned his horse`s
head. Riding slowly in this fashion they came at
last upon the hounds. These, though known for
their valour and their breed, were whimpering in
a cluster at the head of a deep dip or goyal, as
we call it, upon the moor, some slinking away
and some, with starting hackles and staring
eyes, gazing down the narrow valley before them.
"The company had come to a halt, more sober men,
as you may guess, than when they started. The
most of them would by no means advance, but
three of them, the boldest, or it may be the
most drunken, rode forward down the goyal. Now,
it opened into a broad space in which stood two
of those great stones, still to be seen there,
which were set by certain forgotten peoples in
the days of old. The moon was shining bright
upon the clearing, and there in the centre lay
the unhappy maid where she had fallen, dead of
fear and of fatigue. But it was not the sight of
her body, nor yet was it that of the body of
Hugo Baskerville lying near her, which raised
the hair upon the heads of these three
dare-devil roysterers, but it was that, standing
over Hugo, and plucking at his throat, there
stood a foul thing, a great, black beast, shaped
like a hound, yet larger than any hound that
ever mortal eye has rested upon. And even as
they looked the thing tore the throat out of
Hugo Baskerville, on which, as it turned its
blazing eyes and dripping jaws upon them, the
three shrieked with fear and rode for dear life,
still screaming, across the moor. One, it is
said, died that very night of what he had seen,
and the other twain were but broken men for the
rest of their days.
"Such is the tale, my sons, of the coming of the
hound which is said to have plagued the family
so sorely ever since. If I have set it down it
is because that which is clearly known hath less
terror than that which is but hinted at and
guessed. Nor can it be denied that many of the
family have been unhappy in their deaths, which
have been sudden, bloody, and mysterious. Yet
may we shelter ourselves in the infinite
goodness of Providence, which would not forever
punish the innocent beyond that third or fourth
generation which is threatened in Holy Writ. To
that Providence, my sons, I hereby commend you,
and I counsel you by way of caution to forbear
from crossing the moor in those dark hours when
the powers of evil are exalted.
"[This from Hugo Baskerville to his sons Rodger
and John, with instructions that they say
nothing thereof to their sister Elizabeth.]"
When Dr. Mortimer had finished reading this
singular narrative he pushed his spectacles up
on his forehead and stared across at Mr.
Sherlock Holmes. The latter yawned and tossed
the end of his cigarette into the fire.
"Well?" said he.
"Do you not find it interesting?"
"To a collector of fairy tales."
Dr. Mortimer drew a folded newspaper out of
his pocket.
"Now, Mr. Holmes, we will give you something
a little more recent. This is the Devon County
Chronicle of May 14th of this year. It is a
short account of the facts elicited at the death
of Sir Charles Baskerville which occurred a few
days before that date."
My friend leaned a little forward and his
expression became intent. Our visitor readjusted
his glasses and began:
"The recent sudden death of Sir Charles
Baskerville, whose name has been mentioned as
the probable Liberal candidate for Mid-Devon at
the next election, has cast a gloom over the
county. Though Sir Charles had resided at
Baskerville Hall for a comparatively short
period his amiability of character and extreme
generosity had won the affection and respect of
all who had been brought into contact with him.
In these days of nouveaux riches it is
refreshing to find a case where the scion of an
old county family which has fallen upon evil
days is able to make his own fortune and to
bring it back with him to restore the fallen
grandeur of his line. Sir Charles, as is well
known, made large sums of money in South African
speculation. More wise than those who go on
until the wheel turns against them, he realized
his gains and returned to England with them. It
is only two years since he took up his residence
at Baskerville Hall, and it is common talk how
large were those schemes of reconstruction and
improvement which have been interrupted by his
death. Being himself childless, it was his
openly expressed desire that the whole
countryside should, within his own lifetime,
profit by his good fortune, and many will have
personal reasons for bewailing his untimely end.
His generous donations to local and county
charities have been frequently chronicled in
these columns.
"The circumstances connected with the death of
Sir Charles cannot be said to have been entirely
cleared up by the inquest, but at least enough
has been done to dispose of those rumours to
which local superstition has given rise. There
is no reason whatever to suspect foul play, or
to imagine that death could be from any but
natural causes. Sir Charles was a widower, and a
man who may be said to have been in some ways of
an eccentric habit of mind. In spite of his
considerable wealth he was simple in his
personal tastes, and his indoor servants at
Baskerville Hall consisted of a married couple
named Barrymore, the husband acting as butler
and the wife as housekeeper. Their evidence,
corroborated by that of several friends, tends
to show that Sir Charles`s health has for some
time been impaired, and points especially to
some affection of the heart, manifesting itself
in changes of colour, breathlessness, and acute
attacks of nervous depression. Dr. James
Mortimer, the friend and medical attendant of
the deceased, has given evidence to the same
effect.
"The facts of the case are simple. Sir Charles
Baskerville was in the habit every night before
going to bed of walking down the famous yew
alley of Baskerville Hall. The evidence of the
Barrymores shows that this had been his custom.
On the fourth of May Sir Charles had declared
his intention of starting next day for London,
and had ordered Barrymore to prepare his
luggage. That night he went out as usual for his
nocturnal walk, in the course of which he was in
the habit of smoking a cigar. He never returned.
At twelve o`clock Barrymore, finding the hall
door still open, became alarmed, and, lighting a
lantern, went in search of his master. The day
had been wet, and Sir Charles`s footmarks were
easily traced down the alley. Halfway down this
walk there is a gate which leads out on to the
moor. There were indications that Sir Charles
had stood for some little time here. He then
proceeded down the alley, and it was at the far
end of it that his body was discovered. One fact
which has not been explained is the statement of
Barrymore that his master`s footprints altered
their character from the time that he passed the
moor-gate, and that he appeared from thence
onward to have been walking upon his toes. One
Murphy, a gipsy horse-dealer, was on the moor at
no great distance at the time, but he appears by
his own confession to have been the worse for
drink. He declares that he heard cries but is
unable to state from what direction they came.
No signs of violence were to be discovered upon
Sir Charles`s person, and though the doctor`s
evidence pointed to an almost incredible facial
distortion--so great that Dr. Mortimer refused
at first to believe that it was indeed his
friend and patient who lay before him--it was
explained that that is a symptom which is not
unusual in cases of dyspnoea and death from
cardiac exhaustion. This explanation was borne
out by the post-mortem examination, which showed
long-standing organic disease, and the coroner`s
jury returned a verdict in accordance with the
medical evidence. It is well that this is so,
for it is obviously of the utmost importance
that Sir Charles`s heir should settle at the
Hall and continue the good work which has been
so sadly interrupted. Had the prosaic finding of
the coroner not finally put an end to the
romantic stories which have been whispered in
connection with the affair, it might have been
difficult to find a tenant for Baskerville Hall.
It is understood that the next of kin is Mr.
Henry Baskerville, if he be still alive, the son
of Sir Charles Baskerville`s younger brother.
The young man when last heard of was in America,
and inquiries are being instituted with a view
to informing him of his good fortune."
Dr. Mortimer refolded his paper and replaced
it in his pocket. "Those are the public facts,
Mr. Holmes, in connection with the death of Sir
Charles Baskerville."
"I must thank you," said Sherlock Holmes,
"for calling my attention to a case which
certainly presents some features of interest. I
had observed some newspaper comment at the time,
but I was exceedingly preoccupied by that little
affair of the Vatican cameos, and in my anxiety
to oblige the Pope I lost touch with several
interesting English cases. This article, you
say, contains all the public facts?"
"It does."
"Then let me have the private ones." He
leaned back, put his finger-tips together, and
assumed his most impassive and judicial
expression.
"In doing so," said Dr. Mortimer, who had
begun to show signs of some strong emotion, "I
am telling that which I have not confided to
anyone. My motive for withholding it from the
coroner`s inquiry is that a man of science
shrinks from placing himself in the public
position of seeming to indorse a popular
superstition. I had the further motive that
Baskerville Hall, as the paper says, would
certainly remain untenanted if anything were
done to increase its already rather grim
reputation. For both these reasons I thought
that I was justified in telling rather less than
I knew, since no practical good could result
from it, but with you there is no reason why I
should not be perfectly frank.
"The moor is very sparsely inhabited, and
those who live near each other are thrown very
much together. For this reason I saw a good deal
of Sir Charles Baskerville. With the exception
of Mr. Frankland, of Lafter Hall, and Mr.
Stapleton, the naturalist, there are no other
men of education within many miles. Sir Charles
was a retiring man, but the chance of his
illness brought us together, and a community of
interests in science kept us so. He had brought
back much scientific information from South
Africa, and many a charming evening we have
spent together discussing the comparative
anatomy of the Bushman and the Hottentot.
"Within the last few months it became
increasingly plain to me that Sir Charles`s
nervous system was strained to the breaking
point. He had taken this legend which I have
read you exceedingly to heart--so much so that,
although he would walk in his own grounds,
nothing would induce him to go out upon the moor
at night. Incredible as it may appear to you,
Mr. Holmes, he was honestly convinced that a
dreadful fate overhung his family, and certainly
the records which he was able to give of his
ancestors were not encouraging. The idea of some
ghastly presence constantly haunted him, and on
more than one occasion he has asked me whether I
had on my medical journeys at night ever seen
any strange creature or heard the baying of a
hound. The latter question he put to me several
times, and always with a voice which vibrated
with excitement.
"I can well remember driving up to his house
in the evening some three weeks before the fatal
event. He chanced to be at his hall door. I had
descended from my gig and was standing in front
of him, when I saw his eyes fix themselves over
my shoulder and stare past me with an expression
of the most dreadful horror. I whisked round and
had just time to catch a glimpse of something
which I took to be a large black calf passing at
the head of the drive. So excited and alarmed
was he that I was compelled to go down to the
spot where the animal had been and look around
for it. It was gone, however, and the incident
appeared to make the worst impression upon his
mind. I stayed with him all the evening, and it
was on that occasion, to explain the emotion
which he had shown, that he confided to my
keeping that narrative which I read to you when
first I came. I mention this small episode
because it assumes some importance in view of
the tragedy which followed, but I was convinced
at the time that the matter was entirely trivial
and that his excitement had no justification.
"It was at my advice that Sir Charles was
about to go to London. His heart was, I knew,
affected, and the constant anxiety in which he
lived, however chimerical the cause of it might
be, was evidently having a serious effect upon
his health. I thought that a few months among
the distractions of town would send him back a
new man. Mr. Stapleton, a mutual friend who was
much concerned at his state of health, was of
the same opinion. At the last instant came this
terrible catastrophe.
"On the night of Sir Charles`s death
Barrymore the butler, who made the discovery,
sent Perkins the groom on horseback to me, and
as I was sitting up late I was able to reach
Baskerville Hall within an hour of the event. I
checked and corroborated all the facts which
were mentioned at the inquest. I followed the
footsteps down the yew alley, I saw the spot at
the moor-gate where he seemed to have waited, I
remarked the change in the shape of the prints
after that point, I noted that there were no
other footsteps save those of Barrymore on the
soft gravel, and finally I carefully examined
the body, which had not been touched until my
arrival. Sir Charles lay on his face, his arms
out, his fingers dug into the ground, and his
features convulsed with some strong emotion to
such an extent that I could hardly have sworn to
his identity. There was certainly no physical
injury of any kind. But one false statement was
made by Barrymore at the inquest. He said that
there were no traces upon the ground round the
body. He did not observe any. But I did--some
little distance off, but fresh and clear."
"Footprints?"
"Footprints."
"A man`s or a woman`s?"
Dr. Mortimer looked strangely at us for an
instant, and his voice sank almost to a whisper
as he answered.
"Mr. Holmes, they were the footprints of a
gigantic hound!" |
|
|
|
Chapter
3
The Problem
I confess at these words a shudder passed through me. There was a
thrill in the doctor`s voice which showed that
he was himself deeply moved by that which he
told us. Holmes leaned forward in his excitement
and his eyes had the hard, dry glitter which
shot from them when he was keenly interested.
"You saw this?"
"As clearly as I see you."
"And you said nothing?"
"What was the use?"
"How was it that no one else saw it?"
"The marks were some twenty yards from the
body and no one gave them a thought. I don`t
suppose I should have done so had I not known
this legend."
"There are many sheep-dogs on the moor?"
"No doubt, but this was no sheep-dog."
"You say it was large?"
"Enormous."
"But it had not approached the body?"
"No."
"What sort of night was it?`
"Damp and raw."
"But not actually raining?"
"No."
"What is the alley like?"
"There are two lines of old yew hedge, twelve
feet high and impenetrable. The walk in the
centre is about eight feet across."
"Is there anything between the hedges and the
walk?"
"Yes, there is a strip of grass about six
feet broad on either side."
"I understand that the yew hedge is
penetrated at one point by a gate?"
"Yes, the wicket-gate which leads on to the
moor."
"Is there any other opening?"
"None."
"So that to reach the yew alley one either
has to come down it from the house or else to
enter it by the moor-gate?"
"There is an exit through a summer-house at
the far end."
"Had Sir Charles reached this?"
"No; he lay about fifty yards from it."
"Now, tell me, Dr. Mortimer--and this is
important--the marks which you saw were on the
path and not on the grass?"
"No marks could show on the grass."
"Were they on the same side of the path as
the moor-gate?"
"Yes; they were on the edge of the path on
the same side as the moor-gate."
"You interest me exceedingly. Another point.
Was the wicket-gate closed?"
"Closed and padlocked."
"How high was it?"
"About four feet high."
"Then anyone could have got over it?"
"Yes."
"And what marks did you see by the
wicket-gate?"
"None in particular."
"Good heaven! Did no one examine?"
"Yes, I examined, myself."
"And found nothing?"
"It was all very confused. Sir Charles had
evidently stood there for five or ten minutes."
"How do you know that?"
"Because the ash had twice dropped from his
cigar."
"Excellent! This is a colleague, Watson,
after our own heart. But the marks?"
"He had left his own marks all over that
small patch of gravel. I could discern no
others."
Sherlock Holmes struck his hand against his
knee with an impatient gesture.
"If I had only been there!" he cried. "It is
evidently a case of extraordinary interest, and
one which presented immense opportunities to the
scientific expert. That gravel page upon which I
might have read so much has been long ere this
smudged by the rain and defaced by the clogs of
curious peasants. Oh, Dr. Mortimer, Dr.
Mortimer, to think that you should not have
called me in! You have indeed much to answer
for."
"I could not call you in, Mr. Holmes, without
disclosing these facts to the world, and I have
already given my reasons for not wishing to do
so. Besides, besides--"
"Why do you hesitate?"
"There is a realm in which the most acute and
most experienced of detectives is helpless."
"You mean that the thing is supernatural?"
"I did not positively say so."
"No, but you evidently think it."
"Since the tragedy, Mr. Holmes, there have
come to my ears several incidents which are hard
to reconcile with the settled order of Nature."
"For example?"
"I find that before the terrible event
occurred several people had seen a creature upon
the moor which corresponds with this Baskerville
demon, and which could not possibly be any
animal known to science. They all agreed that it
was a huge creature, luminous, ghastly, and
spectral. I have cross-examined these men, one
of them a hard-headed countryman, one a farrier,
and one a moorland farmer, who all tell the same
story of this dreadful apparition, exactly
corresponding to the hell-hound of the legend. I
assure you that there is a reign of terror in
the district, and that it is a hardy man who
will cross the moor at night."
"And you, a trained man of science, believe
it to be supernatural?"
"I do not know what to believe."
Holmes shrugged his shoulders. "I have
hitherto confined my investigations to this
world," said he. "In a modest way I have
combated evil, but to take on the Father of Evil
himself would, perhaps, be too ambitious a task.
Yet you must admit that the footmark is
material."
"The original hound was material enough to
tug a man`s throat out, and yet he was
diabolical as well."
"I see that you have quite gone over to the
supernaturalists. But now, Dr. Mortimer, tell me
this. If you hold these views, why have you come
to consult me at all? You tell me in the same
breath that it is useless to investigate Sir
Charles`s death, and that you desire me to do
it."
"I did not say that I desired you to do it."
"Then, how can I assist you?"
"By advising me as to what I should do with
Sir Henry Baskerville, who arrives at Waterloo
Station"--Dr. Mortimer looked at his watch--"in
exactly one hour and a quarter."
"He being the heir?"
"Yes. On the death of Sir Charles we inquired
for this young gentleman and found that he had
been farming in Canada. From the accounts which
have reached us he is an excellent fellow in
every way. I speak now not as a medical man but
as a trustee and executor of Sir Charles`s
will."
"There is no other claimant, I presume?"
"None. The only other kinsman whom we have
been able to trace was Rodger Baskerville, the
youngest of three brothers of whom poor Sir
Charles was the elder. The second brother, who
died young, is the father of this lad Henry. The
third, Rodger, was the black sheep of the
family. He came of the old masterful Baskerville
strain and was the very image, they tell me, of
the family picture of old Hugo. He made England
too hot to hold him, fled to Central America,
and died there in 1876 of yellow fever. Henry is
the last of the Baskervilles. In one hour and
five minutes I meet him at Waterloo Station. I
have had a wire that he arrived at Southampton
this morning. Now, Mr. Holmes, what would you
advise me to do with him?"
"Why should he not go to the home of his
fathers?"
"It seems natural, does it not? And yet,
consider that every Baskerville who goes there
meets with an evil fate. I feel sure that if Sir
Charles could have spoken with me before his
death he would have warned me against bringing
this, the last of the old race, and the heir to
great wealth, to that deadly place. And yet it
cannot be denied that the prosperity of the
whole poor, bleak countryside depends upon his
presence. All the good work which has been done
by Sir Charles will crash to the ground if there
is no tenant of the Hall. I fear lest I should
be swayed too much by my own obvious interest in
the matter, and that is why I bring the case
before you and ask for your advice."
Holmes considered for a little time.
"Put into plain words, the matter is this,"
said he. "In your opinion there is a diabolical
agency which makes Dartmoor an unsafe abode for
a Baskerville--that is your opinion?"
"At least I might go the length of saying
that there is some evidence that this may be
so."
"Exactly. But surely, if your supernatural
theory be correct, it could work the young man
evil in London as easily as in Devonshire. A
devil with merely local powers like a parish
vestry would be too inconceivable a thing."
"You put the matter more flippantly, Mr.
Holmes, than you would probably do if you were
brought into personal contact with these things.
Your advice, then, as I understand it, is that
the young man will be as safe in Devonshire as
in London. He comes in fifty minutes. What would
you recommend?"
"I recommend, sir, that you take a cab, call
off your spaniel who is scratching at my front
door, and proceed to Waterloo to meet Sir Henry
Baskerville."
"And then?"
"And then you will say nothing to him at all
until I have made up my mind about the matter."
"How long will it take you to make up your
mind?"
"Twenty-four hours. At ten o`clock tomorrow,
Dr. Mortimer, I will be much obliged to you if
you will call upon me here, and it will be of
help to me in my plans for the future if you
will bring Sir Henry Baskerville with you."
"I will do so, Mr. Holmes." He scribbled the
appointment on his shirt-cuff and hurried off in
his strange, peering, absent-minded fashion.
Holmes stopped him at the head of the stair.
"Only one more question, Dr. Mortimer. You
say that before Sir Charles Baskerville`s death
several people saw this apparition upon the
moor?"
"Three people did."
"Did any see it after?"
"I have not heard of any."
"Thank you. Good-morning."
Holmes returned to his seat with that quiet
look of inward satisfaction which meant that he
had a congenial task before him.
"Going out, Watson?"
"Unless I can help you."
"No, my dear fellow, it is at the hour of
action that I turn to you for aid. But this is
splendid, really unique from some points of
view. When you pass Bradley`s, would you ask him
to send up a pound of the strongest shag
tobacco? Thank you. It would be as well if you
could make it convenient not to return before
evening. Then I should be very glad to compare
impressions as to this most interesting problem
which has been submitted to us this morning."
I knew that seclusion and solitude were very
necessary for my friend in those hours of
intense mental concentration during which he
weighed every particle of evidence, constructed
alternative theories, balanced one against the
other, and made up his mind as to which points
were essential and which immaterial. I therefore
spent the day at my club and did not return to
Baker Street until evening. It was nearly nine
o`clock when I found myself in the sitting-room
once more.
My first impression as I opened the door was
that a fire had broken out, for the room was so
filled with smoke that the light of the lamp
upon the table was blurred by it. As I entered,
however, my fears were set at rest, for it was
the acrid fumes of strong coarse tobacco which
took me by the throat and set me coughing.
Through the haze I had a vague vision of Holmes
in his dressing-gown coiled up in an armchair
with his black clay pipe between his lips.
Several rolls of paper lay around him.
"Caught cold, Watson?" said he.
"No, it`s this poisonous atmosphere."
"I suppose it is pretty thick, now that you
mention it."
"Thick! It is intolerable."
"Open the window, then! You have been at your
club all day, I perceive."
"My dear Holmes!"
"Am I right?"
"Certainly, but how?"
He laughed at my bewildered expression.
"There is a delightful freshness about you,
Watson, which makes it a pleasure to exercise
any small powers which I possess at your
expense. A gentleman goes forth on a showery and
miry day. He returns immaculate in the evening
with the gloss still on his hat and his boots.
He has been a fixture therefore all day. He is
not a man with intimate friends. Where, then,
could he have been? Is it not obvious?"
"Well, it is rather obvious."
"The world is full of obvious things which
nobody by any chance ever observes. Where do you
think that I have been?"
"A fixture also."
"On the contrary, I have been to Devonshire."
"In spirit?"
"Exactly. My body has remained in this
armchair and has, I regret to observe, consumed
in my absence two large pots of coffee and an
incredible amount of tobacco. After you left I
sent down to Stamford`s for the Ordnance map of
this portion of the moor, and my spirit has
hovered over it all day. I flatter myself that I
could find my way about."
"A large-scale map, I presume?"
"Very large."
He unrolled one section and held it over his
knee. "Here you have the particular district
which concerns us. That is Baskerville Hall in
the middle."
"With a wood round it?"
"Exactly. I fancy the yew alley, though not
marked under that name, must stretch along this
line, with the moor, as you perceive, upon the
right of it. This small clump of buildings here
is the hamlet of Grimpen, where our friend Dr.
Mortimer has his headquarters. Within a radius
of five miles there are, as you see, only a very
few scattered dwellings. Here is Lafter Hall,
which was mentioned in the narrative. There is a
house indicated here which may be the residence
of the naturalist--Stapleton, if I remember
right, was his name. Here are two moorland
farmhouses, High Tor and Foulmire. Then fourteen
miles away the great convict prison of
Princetown. Between and around these scattered
points extends the desolate, lifeless moor.
This, then, is the stage upon which tragedy has
been played, and upon which we may help to play
it again."
"It must be a wild place."
"Yes, the setting is a worthy one. If the
devil did desire to have a hand in the affairs
of men--"
"Then you are yourself inclining to the
supernatural explanation."
"The devil`s agents may be of flesh and
blood, may they not? There are two questions
waiting for us at the outset. The one is whether
any crime has been committed at all; the second
is, what is the crime and how was it committed?
Of course, if Dr. Mortimer`s surmise should be
correct, and we are dealing with forces outside
the ordinary laws of Nature, there is an end of
our investigation. But we are bound to exhaust
all other hypotheses before falling back upon
this one. I think we`ll shut that window again,
if you don`t mind. It is a singular thing, but I
find that a concentrated atmosphere helps a
concentration of thought. I have not pushed it
to the length of getting into a box to think,
but that is the logical outcome of my
convictions. Have you turned the case over in
your mind?"
"Yes, I have thought a good deal of it in the
course of the day."
"What do you make of it?"
"It is very bewildering."
"It has certainly a character of its own.
There are points of distinction about it. That
change in the footprints, for example. What do
you make of that?"
"Mortimer said that the man had walked on
tiptoe down that portion of the alley."
"He only repeated what some fool had said at
the inquest. Why should a man walk on tiptoe
down the alley?"
"What then?"
"He was running, Watson--running desperately,
running for his life, running until he burst his
heart--and fell dead upon his face."
"Running from what?"
"There lies our problem. There are
indications that the man was crazed with fear
before ever he began to run."
"How can you say that?"
"I am presuming that the cause of his fears
came to him across the moor. If that were so,
and it seems most probable, only a man who had
lost his wits would have run from the house
instead of towards it. If the gipsy`s evidence
may be taken as true, he ran with cries for help
in the direction where help was least likely to
be. Then, again, whom was he waiting for that
night, and why was he waiting for him in the yew
alley rather than in his own house?"
"You think that he was waiting for someone?"
"The man was elderly and infirm. We can
understand his taking an evening stroll, but the
ground was damp and the night inclement. Is it
natural that he should stand for five or ten
minutes, as Dr. Mortimer, with more practical
sense than I should have given him credit for,
deduced from the cigar ash?"
"But he went out every evening."
"I think it unlikely that he waited at the
moor-gate every evening. On the contrary, the
evidence is that he avoided the moor. That night
he waited there. It was the night before he made
his departure for London. The thing takes shape,
Watson. It becomes coherent. Might I ask you to
hand me my violin, and we will postpone all
further thought upon this business until we have
had the advantage of meeting Dr. Mortimer and
Sir Henry Baskerville in the morning." |
|
|
|
Chapter
4
Sir Henry Baskerville
Our breakfast table was cleared early, and Holmes waited in his
dressing-gown for the promised interview. Our
clients were punctual to their appointment, for
the clock had just struck ten when Dr. Mortimer
was shown up, followed by the young baronet. The
latter was a small, alert, dark-eyed man about
thirty years of age, very sturdily built, with
thick black eyebrows and a strong, pugnacious
face. He wore a ruddy-tinted tweed suit and had
the weather-beaten appearance of one who has
spent most of his time in the open air, and yet
there was something in his steady eye and the
quiet assurance of his bearing which indicated
the gentleman.
"This is Sir Henry Baskerville," said Dr.
Mortimer.
"Why, yes," said he, "and the strange thing
is, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, that if my friend here
had not proposed coming round to you this
morning I should have come on my own account. I
understand that you think out little puzzles,
and I`ve had one this morning which wants more
thinking out than I am able to give it."
"Pray take a seat, Sir Henry. Do I understand
you to say that you have yourself had some
remarkable experience since you arrived in
London?"
"Nothing of much importance, Mr. Holmes. Only
a joke, as like as not. It was this letter, if
you can call it a letter, which reached me this
morning."
He laid an envelope upon the table, and we
all bent over it. It was of common quality,
grayish in colour. The address, "Sir Henry
Baskerville, Northumberland Hotel," was printed
in rough characters; the post-mark "Charing
Cross," and the date of posting the preceding
evening.
"Who knew that you were going to the
Northumberland Hotel?" asked Holmes, glancing
keenly across at our visitor.
"No one could have known. We only decided
after I met Dr. Mortimer."
"But Dr. Mortimer was no doubt already
stopping there?"
"No, I had been staying with a friend," said
the doctor.
"There was no possible indication that we
intended to go to this hotel."
"Hum! Someone seems to be very deeply
interested in your movements." Out of the
envelope he took a half-sheet of foolscap paper
folded into four. This he opened and spread flat
upon the table. Across the middle of it a single
sentence had been formed by the expedient of
pasting printed words upon it. It ran:
As
you value your life or your reason keep away
from the moor.
The word "moor" only was printed in ink.
"Now," said Sir Henry Baskerville, "perhaps
you will tell me, Mr. Holmes, what in thunder is
the meaning of that, and who it is that takes so
much interest in my affairs?"
"What do you make of it, Dr. Mortimer? You
must allow that there is nothing supernatural
about this, at any rate?"
"No, sir, but it might very well come from
someone who was convinced that the business is
supernatural."
"What business?" asked Sir Henry sharply. "It
seems to me that all you gentlemen know a great
deal more than I do about my own affairs."
"You shall share our knowledge before you
leave this room, Sir Henry. I promise you that,"
said Sherlock Holmes. "We will confine ourselves
for the present with your permission to this
very interesting document, which must have been
put together and posted yesterday evening. Have
you yesterday`s Times, Watson?"
"It is here in the corner."
"Might I trouble you for it--the inside page,
please, with the leading articles?" He glanced
swiftly over it, running his eyes up and down
the columns. "Capital article this on free
trade. Permit me to give you an extract from it.
`You may be cajoled into imagining that your
own special trade or your own industry will be
encouraged by a protective tariff, but it stands
to reason that such legislation must in the long
run keep away wealth from the country, diminish
the value of our imports, and lower the general
conditions of life in this island.`
"What do you think of that, Watson?" cried
Holmes in high glee, rubbing his hands together
with satisfaction. "Don`t you think that is an
admirable sentiment?"
Dr. Mortimer looked at Holmes with an air of
professional interest, and Sir Henry Baskerville
turned a pair of puzzled dark eyes upon me.
"I don`t know much about the tariff and
things of that kind," said he, "but it seems to
me we`ve got a bit off the trail so far as that
note is concerned."
"On the contrary, I think we are particularly
hot upon the trail, Sir Henry. Watson here knows
more about my methods than you do, but I fear
that even he has not quite grasped the
significance of this sentence."
"No, I confess that I see no connection."
"And yet, my dear Watson, there is so very
close a connection that the one is extracted out
of the other. `You,` `your,` `your,` `life,`
`reason,` `value,` `keep away,` `from the.`
Don`t you see now whence these words have been
taken?"
"By thunder, you`re right! Well, if that
isn`t smart!" cried Sir Henry.
"If any possible doubt remained it is settled
by the fact that `keep away` and `from the` are
cut out in one piece."
"Well, now--so it is!"
"Really, Mr. Holmes, this exceeds anything
which I could have imagined," said Dr. Mortimer,
gazing at my friend in amazement. "I could
understand anyone saying that the words were
from a newspaper; but that you should name
which, and add that it came from the leading
article, is really one of the most remarkable
things which I have ever known. How did you do
it?"
"I presume, Doctor, that you could tell the
skull of a negro from that of an Esquimau?"
"Most certainly."
"But how?"
"Because that is my special hobby. The
differences are obvious. The supra-orbital
crest, the facial angle, the maxillary curve,
the--"
"But this is my special hobby, and the
differences are equally obvious. There is as
much difference to my eyes between the leaded
bourgeois type of a Times article and the
slovenly print of an evening half-penny paper as
there could be between your negro and your
Esquimau. The detection of types is one of the
most elementary branches of knowledge to the
special expert in crime, though I confess that
once when I was very young I confused the Leeds
Mercury with the Western Morning News. But a
Times leader is entirely distinctive, and these
words could have been taken from nothing else.
As it was done yesterday the strong probability
was that we should find the words in yesterday`s
issue."
"So far as I can follow you, then, Mr.
Holmes," said Sir Henry Baskerville, "someone
cut out this message with a scissors--"
"Nail-scissors," said Holmes. "You can see
that it was a very short-bladed scissors, since
the cutter had to take two snips over `keep
away.`"
"That is so. Someone, then, cut out the
message with a pair of short-bladed scissors,
pasted it with paste--"
"Gum," said Holmes.
"With gum on to the paper. But I want to know
why the word `moor` should have been written?"
"Because he could not find it in print. The
other words were all simple and might be found
in any issue, but `moor` would be less common."
"Why, of course, that would explain it. Have
you read anything else in this message, Mr.
Holmes?"
"There are one or two indications, and yet
the utmost pains have been taken to remove all
clues. The address, you observe is printed in
rough characters. But the Times is a paper which
is seldom found in any hands but those of the
highly educated. We may take it, therefore, that
the letter was composed by an educated man who
wished to pose as an uneducated one, and his
effort to conceal his own writing suggests that
that writing might be known, or come to be
known, by you. Again, you will observe that the
words are not gummed on in an accurate line, but
that some are much higher than others. `Life,`
for example is quite out of its proper place.
That may point to carelessness or it may point
to agitation and hurry upon the part of the
cutter. On the whole I incline to the latter
view, since the matter was evidently important,
and it is unlikely that the composer of such a
letter would be careless. If he were in a hurry
it opens up the interesting question why he
should be in a hurry, since any letter posted up
to early morning would reach Sir Henry before he
would leave his hotel. Did the composer fear an
interruption--and from whom?"
"We are coming now rather into the region of
guesswork," said Dr. Mortimer.
"Say, rather, into the region where we
balance probabilities and choose the most
likely. It is the scientific use of the
imagination, but we have always some material
basis on which to start our speculation. Now,
you would call it a guess, no doubt, but I am
almost certain that this address has been
written in a hotel."
"How in the world can you say that?"
"If you examine it carefully you will see
that both the pen and the ink have given the
writer trouble. The pen has spluttered twice in
a single word and has run dry three times in a
short address, showing that there was very
little ink in the bottle. Now, a private pen or
ink-bottle is seldom allowed to be in such a
state, and the combination of the two must be
quite rare. But you know the hotel ink and the
hotel pen, where it is rare to get anything
else. Yes, I have very little hesitation in
saying that could we examine the waste-paper
baskets of the hotels around Charing Cross until
we found the remains of the mutilated Times
leader we could lay our hands straight upon the
person who sent this singular message. Halloa!
Halloa! What`s this?"
He was carefully examining the foolscap, upon
which the words were pasted, holding it only an
inch or two from his eyes.
"Well?"
"Nothing," said he, throwing it down. "It is
a blank half-sheet of paper, without even a
water-mark upon it. I think we have drawn as
much as we can from this curious letter; and
now, Sir Henry, has anything else of interest
happened to you since you have been in London?"
"Why, no, Mr. Holmes. I think not."
"You have not observed anyone follow or watch
you?"
"I seem to have walked right into the thick
of a dime novel," said our visitor. "Why in
thunder should anyone follow or watch me?"
"We are coming to that. You have nothing else
to report to us before we go into this matter?"
"Well, it depends upon what you think worth
reporting."
"I think anything out of the ordinary routine
of life well worth reporting."
Sir Henry smiled. "I don`t know much of
British life yet, for I have spent nearly all my
time in the States and in Canada. But I hope
that to lose one of your boots is not part of
the ordinary routine of life over here."
"You have lost one of your boots?"
"My dear sir," cried Dr. Mortimer, "it is
only mislaid. You will find it when you return
to the hotel. What is the use of troubling Mr.
Holmes with trifles of this kind?"
"Well, he asked me for anything outside the
ordinary routine."
"Exactly," said Holmes, "however foolish the
incident may seem. You have lost one of your
boots, you say?"
"Well, mislaid it, anyhow. I put them both
outside my door last night, and there was only
one in the morning. I could get no sense out of
the chap who cleans them. The worst of it is
that I only bought the pair last night in the
Strand, and I have never had them on."
"If you have never worn them, why did you put
them out to be cleaned?"
"They were tan boots and had never been
varnished. That was why I put them out."
"Then I understand that on your arrival in
London yesterday you went out at once and bought
a pair of boots?"
"I did a good deal of shopping. Dr. Mortimer
here went round with me. You see, if I am to be
squire down there I must dress the part, and it
may be that I have got a little careless in my
ways out West. Among other things I bought these
brown boots-- gave six dollars for them--and had
one stolen before ever I had them on my feet."
"It seems a singularly useless thing to
steal," said Sherlock Holmes. "I confess that I
share Dr. Mortimer`s belief that it will not be
long before the missing boot is found."
"And, now, gentlemen," said the baronet with
decision, "it seems to me that I have spoken
quite enough about the little that I know. It is
time that you kept your promise and gave me a
full account of what we are all driving at."
"Your request is a very reasonable one,"
Holmes answered. "Dr. Mortimer, I think you
could not do better than to tell your story as
you told it to us."
Thus encouraged, our scientific friend drew
his papers from his pocket and presented the
whole case as he had done upon the morning
before. Sir Henry Baskerville listened with the
deepest attention and with an occasional
exclamation of surprise.
"Well, I seem to have come into an
inheritance with a vengeance," said he when the
long narrative was finished. "Of course, I`ve
heard of the hound ever since I was in the
nursery. It`s the pet story of the family,
though I never thought of taking it seriously
before. But as to my uncle`s death--well, it all
seems boiling up in my head, and I can`t get it
clear yet. You don`t seem quite to have made up
your mind whether it`s a case for a policeman or
a clergyman."
"Precisely."
"And now there`s this affair of the letter to
me at the hotel. I suppose that fits into its
place."
"It seems to show that someone knows more
than we do about what goes on upon the moor,"
said Dr. Mortimer.
"And also," said Holmes, "that someone is not
ill-disposed towards you, since they warn you of
danger."
"Or it may be that they wish, for their own
purposes, to scare me away."
"Well, of course, that is possible also. I am
very much indebted to you, Dr. Mortimer, for
introducing me to a problem which presents
several interesting alternatives. But the
practical point which we now have to decide, Sir
Henry, is whether it is or is not advisable for
you to go to Baskerville Hall."
"Why should I not go?"
"There seems to be danger."
"Do you mean danger from this family fiend or
do you mean danger from human beings?"
"Well, that is what we have to find out."
"Whichever it is, my answer is fixed. There
is no devil in hell, Mr. Holmes, and there is no
man upon earth who can prevent me from going to
the home of my own people, and you may take that
to be my final answer." His dark brows knitted
and his face flushed to a dusky red as he spoke.
It was evident that the fiery temper of the
Baskervilles was not extinct in this their last
representative. "Meanwhile," said he, "I have
hardly had time to think over all that you have
told me. It`s a big thing for a man to have to
understand and to decide at one sitting. I
should like to have a quiet hour by myself to
make up my mind. Now, look here, Mr. Holmes,
it`s half-past eleven now and I am going back
right away to my hotel. Suppose you and your
friend, Dr. Watson, come round and lunch with us
at two. I`ll be able to tell you more clearly
then how this thing strikes me."
"Is that convenient to you, Watson?"
"Perfectly."
"Then you may expect us. Shall I have a cab
called?"
"I`d prefer to walk, for this affair has
flurried me rather."
"I`ll join you in a walk, with pleasure,"
said his companion.
"Then we meet again at two o`clock. Au
revoir, and good-morning!"
We heard the steps of our visitors descend
the stair and the bang of the front door. In an
instant Holmes had changed from the languid
dreamer to the man of action.
"Your hat and boots, Watson, quick! Not a
moment to lose!" He rushed into his room in his
dressing-gown and was back again in a few
seconds in a frock-coat. We hurried together
down the stairs and into the street. Dr.
Mortimer and Baskerville were still visible
about two hundred yards ahead of us in the
direction of Oxford Street.
"Shall I run on and stop them?"
"Not for the world, my dear Watson. I am
perfectly satisfied with your company if you
will tolerate mine. Our friends are wise, for it
is certainly a very fine morning for a walk."
He quickened his pace until we had decreased
the distance which divided us by about half.
Then, still keeping a hundred yards behind, we
followed into Oxford Street and so down Regent
Street. Once our friends stopped and stared into
a shop window, upon which Holmes did the same.
An instant afterwards he gave a little cry of
satisfaction, and, following the direction of
his eager eyes, I saw that a hansom cab with a
man inside which had halted on the other side of
the street was now proceeding slowly onward
again.
"There`s our man, Watson! Come along! We`ll
have a good look at him, if we can do no more."
At that instant I was aware of a bushy black
beard and a pair of piercing eyes turned upon us
through the side window of the cab. Instantly
the trapdoor at the top flew up, something was
screamed to the driver, and the cab flew madly
off down Regent Street. Holmes looked eagerly
round for another, but no empty one was in
sight. Then he dashed in wild pursuit amid the
stream of the traffic, but the start was too
great, and already the cab was out of sight.
"There now!" said Holmes bitterly as he
emerged panting and white with vexation from the
tide of vehicles. "Was ever such bad luck and
such bad management, too? Watson, Watson, if you
are an honest man you will record this also and
set it against my successes!"
"Who was the man?"
"I have not an idea."
"A spy?"
"Well, it was evident from what we have heard
that Baskerville has been very closely shadowed
by someone since he has been in town. How else
could it be known so quickly that it was the
Northumberland Hotel which he had chosen? If
they had followed him the first day I argued
that they would follow him also the second. You
may have observed that I twice strolled over to
the window while Dr. Mortimer was reading his
legend."
"Yes, I remember."
"I was looking out for loiterers in the
street, but I saw none. We are dealing with a
clever man, Watson. This matter cuts very deep,
and though I have not finally made up my mind
whether it is a benevolent or a malevolent
agency which is in touch with us, I am conscious
always of power and design. When our friends
left I at once followed them in the hopes of
marking down their invisible attendant. So wily
was he that he had not trusted himself upon
foot, but he had availed himself of a cab so
that he could loiter behind or dash past them
and so escape their notice. His method had the
additional advantage that if they were to take a
cab he was all ready to follow them. It has,
however, one obvious disadvantage."
"It puts him in the power of the cabman."
"Exactly."
"What a pity we did not get the number!"
"My dear Watson, clumsy as I have been, you
surely do not seriously imagine that I neglected
to get the number? No. 2704 is our man. But that
is no use to us for the moment."
"I fail to see how you could have done more."
"On observing the cab I should have instantly
turned and walked in the other direction. I
should then at my leisure have hired a second
cab and followed the first at a respectful
distance, or, better still, have driven to the
Northumberland Hotel and waited there. When our
unknown had followed Baskerville home we should
have had the opportunity of playing his own game
upon himself and seeing where he made for. As it
is, by an indiscreet eagerness, which was taken
advantage of with extraordinary quickness and
energy by our opponent, we have betrayed
ourselves and lost our man."
We had been sauntering slowly down Regent
Street during this conversation, and Dr.
Mortimer, with his companion, had long vanished
in front of us.
"There is no object in our following them,"
said Holmes. "The shadow has departed and will
not return. We must see what further cards we
have in our hands and play them with decision.
Could you swear to that man`s face within the
cab?"
"I could swear only to the beard."
"And so could I--from which I gather that in
all probability it was a false one. A clever man
upon so delicate an errand has no use for a
beard save to conceal his features. Come in
here, Watson!"
He turned into one of the district messenger
offices, where he was warmly greeted by the
manager.
"Ah, Wilson, I see you have not forgotten the
little case in which I had the good fortune to
help you?"
"No, sir, indeed I have not. You saved my
good name, and perhaps my life."
"My dear fellow, you exaggerate. I have some
recollection, Wilson, that you had among your
boys a lad named Cartwright, who showed some
ability during the investigation."
"Yes, sir, he is still with us."
"Could you ring him up? -- thank you! And I
should be glad to have change of this five-pound
note."
A lad of fourteen, with a bright, keen face,
had obeyed the summons of the manager. He stood
now gazing with great reverence at the famous
detective.
"Let me have the Hotel Directory," said
Holmes. "Thank you! Now, Cartwright, there are
the names of twenty-three hotels here, all in
the immediate neighbourhood of Charing Cross. Do
you see?"
"Yes, sir."
"You will visit each of these in turn."
"Yes, sir."
"You will begin in each case by giving the
outside porter one shilling. Here are
twenty-three shillings."
"Yes, sir."
"You will tell him that you want to see the
waste-paper of yesterday. You will say that an
important telegram has miscarried and that you
are looking for it. You understand?"
"Yes, sir."
"But what you are really looking for is the
centre page of the Times with some holes cut in
it with scissors. Here is a copy of the Times.
It is this page. You could easily recognize it,
could you not?"
"Yes, sir."
"In each case the outside porter will send
for the hall porter, to whom also you will give
a shilling. Here are twenty-three shillings. You
will then learn in possibly twenty cases out of
the twenty-three that the waste of the day
before has been burned or removed. In the three
other cases you will be shown a heap of paper
and you will look for this page of the Times
among it. The odds are enormously against your
finding it. There are ten shillings over in case
of emergencies. Let me have a report by wire at
Baker Street before evening. And now, Watson, it
only remains for us to find out by wire the
identity of the cabman, No. 2704, and then we
will drop into one of the Bond Street picture
galleries and fill in the time until we are due
at the hotel." |
|
|
|
Chapter
5
Three Broken Threads
Sherlock Holmes had, in a very remarkable degree, the power of
detaching his mind at will. For two hours the
strange business in which we had been involved
appeared to be forgotten, and he was entirely
absorbed in the pictures of the modern Belgian
masters. He would talk of nothing but art, of
which he had the crudest ideas, from our leaving
the gallery until we found ourselves at the
Northumberland Hotel.
"Sir Henry Baskerville is upstairs expecting
you," said the clerk. "He asked me to show you
up at once when you came."
"Have you any objection to my looking at your
register?" said Holmes.
"Not in the least."
The book showed that two names had been added
after that of Baskerville. One was Theophilus
Johnson and family, of Newcastle; the other Mrs.
Oldmore and maid, of High Lodge, Alton.
"Surely that must be the same Johnson whom I
used to know," said Holmes to the porter. "A
lawyer, is he not, gray-headed, and walks with a
limp?"
"No, sir, this is Mr. Johnson, the
coal-owner, a very active gentleman, not older
than yourself."
"Surely you are mistaken about his trade?"
"No, sir! he has used this hotel for many
years, and he is very well known to us."
"Ah, that settles it. Mrs. Oldmore, too; I
seem to remember the name. Excuse my curiosity,
but often in calling upon one friend one finds
another."
"She is an invalid lady, sir. Her husband was
once mayor of Gloucester. She always comes to us
when she is in town."
"Thank you; I am afraid I cannot claim her
acquaintance. We have established a most
important fact by these questions, Watson," he
continued in a low voice as we went upstairs
together. "We know now that the people who are
so interested in our friend have not settled
down in his own hotel. That means that while
they are, as we have seen, very anxious to watch
him, they are equally anxious that he should not
see them. Now, this is a most suggestive fact."
"What does it suggest?"
"It suggests--halloa, my dear fellow, what on
earth is the matter?"
As we came round the top of the stairs we had
run up against Sir Henry Baskerville himself.
His face was flushed with anger, and he held an
old and dusty boot in one of his hands. So
furious was he that he was hardly articulate,
and when he did speak it was in a much broader
and more Western dialect than any which we had
heard from him in the morning.
"Seems to me they are playing me for a sucker
in this hotel," he cried. "They`ll find they`ve
started in to monkey with the wrong man unless
they are careful. By thunder, if that chap can`t
find my missing boot there will be trouble. I
can take a joke with the best, Mr. Holmes, but
they`ve got a bit over the mark this time."
"Still looking for your boot?"
"Yes, sir, and mean to find it."
"But, surely, you said that it was a new
brown boot?"
"So it was, sir. And now it`s an old black
one."
"What! you don`t mean to say--?"
"That`s just what I do mean to say. I only
had three pairs in the world--the new brown, the
old black, and the patent leathers, which I am
wearing. Last night they took one of my brown
ones, and today they have sneaked one of the
black. Well, have you got it? Speak out, man,
and don`t stand staring!"
An agitated German waiter had appeared upon
the scene.
"No, sir; I have made inquiry all over the
hotel, but I can hear no word of it."
"Well, either that boot comes back before
sundown or I`ll see the manager and tell him
that I go right straight out of this hotel."
"It shall be found, sir--I promise you that
if you will have a little patience it will be
found."
"Mind it is, for it`s the last thing of mine
that I`ll lose in this den of thieves. Well,
well, Mr. Holmes, you`ll excuse my troubling you
about such a trifle--"
"I think it`s well worth troubling about."
"Why, you look very serious over it."
"How do you explain it?"
"I just don`t attempt to explain it. It seems
the very maddest, queerest thing that ever
happened to me."
"The queerest perhaps--" said Holmes
thoughtfully.
"What do you make of it yourself?"
"Well, I don`t profess to understand it yet.
This case of yours is very complex, Sir Henry.
When taken in conjunction with your uncle`s
death I am not sure that of all the five hundred
cases of capital importance which I have handled
there is one which cuts so deep. But we hold
several threads in our hands, and the odds are
that one or other of them guides us to the
truth. We may waste time in following the wrong
one, but sooner or later we must come upon the
right."
We had a pleasant luncheon in which little
was said of the business which had brought us
together. It was in the private sitting-room to
which we afterwards repaired that Holmes asked
Baskerville what were his intentions.
"To go to Baskerville Hall."
"And when?"
"At the end of the week."
"On the whole," said Holmes, "I think that
your decision is a wise one. I have ample
evidence that you are being dogged in London,
and amid the millions of this great city it is
difficult to discover who these people are or
what their object can be. If their intentions
are evil they might do you a mischief, and we
should be powerless to prevent it. You did not
know, Dr. Mortimer, that you were followed this
morning from my house?"
Dr. Mortimer started violently. "Followed! By
whom?"
"That, unfortunately, is what I cannot tell
you. Have you among your neighbours or
acquaintances on Dartmoor any man with a black,
full beard?"
"No--or, let me see--why, yes. Barrymore, Sir
Charles`s butler, is a man with a full, black
beard."
"Ha! Where is Barrymore?"
"He is in charge of the Hall."
"We had best ascertain if he is really there,
or if by any possibility he might be in London."
"How can you do that?"
"Give me a telegraph form. `Is all ready for
Sir Henry?` That will do. Address to Mr.
Barrymore, Baskerville Hall. What is the nearest
telegraph-office? Grimpen. Very good, we will
send a second wire to the postmaster, Grimpen:
`Telegram to Mr. Barrymore to be delivered into
his own hand. If absent, please return wire to
Sir Henry Baskerville, Northumberland Hotel.`
That should let us know before evening whether
Barrymore is at his post in Devonshire or not."
"That`s so," said Baskerville. "By the way,
Dr. Mortimer, who is this Barrymore, anyhow?"
"He is the son of the old caretaker, who is
dead. They have looked after the Hall for four
generations now. So far as I know, he and his
wife are as respectable a couple as any in the
county."
"At the same time," said Baskerville, "it`s
clear enough that so long as there are none of
the family at the Hall these people have a
mighty fine home and nothing to do."
"That is true."
"Did Barrymore profit at all by Sir Charles`s
will?" asked Holmes.
"He and his wife had five hundred pounds
each."
"Ha! Did they know that they would receive
this?"
"Yes; Sir Charles was very fond of talking
about the provisions of his will."
"That is very interesting."
"I hope," said Dr. Mortimer, "that you do not
look with suspicious eyes upon everyone who
received a legacy from Sir Charles, for I also
had a thousand pounds left to me."
"Indeed! And anyone else?"
"There were many insignificant sums to
individuals, and a large number of public
charities. The residue all went to Sir Henry."
"And how much was the residue?"
"Seven hundred and forty thousand pounds."
Holmes raised his eyebrows in surprise. "I
had no idea that so gigantic a sum was
involved," said he.
"Sir Charles had the reputation of being
rich, but we did not know how very rich he was
until we came to examine his securities. The
total value of the estate was close on to a
million."
"Dear me! It is a stake for which a man might
well play a desperate game. And one more
question, Dr. Mortimer. Supposing that anything
happened to our young friend here--you will
forgive the unpleasant hypothesis!--who would
inherit the estate?"
"Since Rodger Baskerville, Sir Charles`s
younger brother died unmarried, the estate would
descend to the Desmonds, who are distant
cousins. James Desmond is an elderly clergyman
in Westmoreland."
"Thank you. These details are all of great
interest. Have you met Mr. James Desmond?"
"Yes; he once came down to visit Sir Charles.
He is a man of venerable appearance and of
saintly life. I remember that he refused to
accept any settlement from Sir Charles, though
he pressed it upon him."
"And this man of simple tastes would be the
heir to Sir Charles`s thousands."
"He would be the heir to the estate because
that is entailed. He would also be the heir to
the money unless it were willed otherwise by the
present owner, who can, of course, do what he
likes with it."
"And have you made your will, Sir Henry?"
"No, Mr. Holmes, I have not. I`ve had no
time, for it was only yesterday that I learned
how matters stood. But in any case I feel that
the money should go with the title and estate.
That was my poor uncle`s idea. How is the owner
going to restore the glories of the Baskervilles
if he has not money enough to keep up the
property? House, land, and dollars must go
together."
"Quite so. Well, Sir Henry, I am of one mind
with you as to the advisability of your going
down to Devonshire without delay. There is only
one provision which I must make. You certainly
must not go alone."
"Dr. Mortimer returns with me."
"But Dr. Mortimer has his practice to attend
to, and his house is miles away from yours. With
all the goodwill in the world he may be unable
to help you. No, Sir Henry, you must take with
you someone, a trusty man, who will be always by
your side."
"Is it possible that you could come yourself,
Mr. Holmes?"
"If matters came to a crisis I should
endeavour to be present in person; but you can
understand that, with my extensive consulting
practice and with the constant appeals which
reach me from many quarters, it is impossible
for me to be absent from London for an
indefinite time. At the present instant one of
the most revered names in England is being
besmirched by a blackmailer, and only I can stop
a disastrous scandal. You will see how
impossible it is for me to go to Dartmoor."
"Whom would you recommend, then?"
Holmes laid his hand upon my arm. "If my
friend would undertake it there is no man who is
better worth having at your side when you are in
a tight place. No one can say so more
confidently than I."
The proposition took me completely by
surprise, but before I had time to answer,
Baskerville seized me by the hand and wrung it
heartily.
"Well, now, that is real kind of you, Dr.
Watson," said he. "You see how it is with me,
and you know just as much about the matter as I
do. If you will come down to Baskerville Hall
and see me through I`ll never forget it."
The promise of adventure had always a
fascination for me, and I was complimented by
the words of Holmes and by the eagerness with
which the baronet hailed me as a companion.
"I will come, with pleasure," said I. "I do
not know how I could employ my time better."
"And you will report very carefully to me,"
said Holmes. "When a crisis comes, as it will
do, I will direct how you shall act. I suppose
that by Saturday all might be ready?"
"Would that suit Dr. Watson?"
"Perfectly."
"Then on Saturday, unless you hear to the
contrary, we shall meet at the ten-thirty train
from Paddington."
We had risen to depart when Baskerville gave
a cry, of triumph, and diving into one of the
corners of the room he drew a brown boot from
under a cabinet.
"My missing boot!" he cried.
"May all our difficulties vanish as easily!"
said Sherlock Holmes.
"But it is a very singular thing," Dr.
Mortimer remarked. "I searched this room
carefully before lunch."
"And so did I," said Baskerville. "Every inch
of it."
"There was certainly no boot in it then."
"In that case the waiter must have placed it
there while we were lunching."
The German was sent for but professed to know
nothing of the matter, nor could any inquiry
clear it up. Another item had been added to that
constant and apparently purposeless series of
small mysteries which had succeeded each other
so rapidly. Setting aside the whole grim story
of Sir Charles`s death, we had a line of
inexplicable incidents all within the limits of
two days, which included the receipt of the
printed letter, the black-bearded spy in the
hansom, the loss of the new brown boot, the loss
of the old black boot, and now the return of the
new brown boot. Holmes sat in silence in the cab
as we drove back to Baker Street, and I knew
from his drawn brows and keen face that his
mind, like my own, was busy in endeavouring to
frame some scheme into which all these strange
and apparently disconnected episodes could be
fitted. All afternoon and late into the evening
he sat lost in tobacco and thought.
Just before dinner two telegrams were handed
in. The first ran:
Have just heard that Barrymore is at the
Hall. BASKERVILLE.
The second:
Visited twenty-three hotels as directed, but
sorry, to report unable to trace cut sheet of
Times. CARTWRlGHT.
"There go two of my threads, Watson. There is
nothing more stimulating than a case where
everything goes against you. We must cast round
for another scent."
"We have still the cabman who drove the spy."
"Exactly. I have wired to get his name and
address from the Official Registry. I should not
be surprised if this were an answer to my
question."
The ring at the bell proved to be something
even more satisfactory than an answer, however,
for the door opened and a rough-looking fellow
entered who was evidently the man himself.
"I got a message from the head office that a
gent at this address had been inquiring for No.
2704," said he. "I`ve driven my cab this seven
years and never a word of complaint. I came here
straight from the Yard to ask you to your face
what you had against me."
"I have nothing in the world against you, my
good man," said Holmes. "On the contrary, I have
half a sovereign for you if you will give me a
clear answer to my questions."
"Well, I`ve had a good day and no mistake,"
said the cabman with a grin. "What was it you
wanted to ask, sir?"
"First of all your name and address, in case
I want you again."
"John Clayton, 3 Turpey Street, the Borough.
My cab is out of Shipley`s Yard, near Waterloo
Station."
Sherlock Holmes made a note of it.
"Now, Clayton, tell me all about the fare who
came and watched this house at ten o`clock this
morning and afterwards followed the two
gentlemen down Regent Street."
The man looked surprised and a little
embarrassed. "Why, there`s no good my telling
you things, for you seem to know as much as I do
already," said he. "The truth is that the
gentleman told me that he was a detective and
that I was to say nothing about him to anyone."
"My good fellow; this is a very serious
business, and you may find yourself in a pretty
bad position if you try to hide anything from
me. You say that your fare told you that he was
a detective?"
"Yes, he did."
"When did he say this?"
"When he left me."
"Did he say anything more?"
"He mentioned his name."
Holmes cast a swift glance of triumph at me.
"Oh, he mentioned his name, did he? That was
imprudent. What was the name that he mentioned?"
"His name," said the cabman, "was Mr.
Sherlock Holmes."
Never have I seen my friend more completely
taken aback than by the cabman`s reply. For an
instant he sat in silent amazement. Then he
burst into a hearty laugh.
"A touch, Watson--an undeniable touch!" said
he. "I feel a foil as quick and supple as my
own. He got home upon me very prettily that
time. So his name was Sherlock Holmes, was it?"
"Yes, sir, that was the gentleman`s name."
"Excellent! Tell me where you picked him up
and all that occurred."
"He hailed me at half-past nine in Trafalgar
Square. He said that he was a detective, and he
offered me two guineas if I would do exactly
what he wanted all day and ask no questions. I
was glad enough to agree. First we drove down to
the Northumberland Hotel and waited there until
two gentlemen came out and took a cab from the
rank. We followed their cab until it pulled up
somewhere near here."
"This very door," said Holmes.
"Well, I couldn`t be sure of that, but I dare
say my fare knew all about it. We pulled up
halfway down the street and waited an hour and a
half. Then the two gentlemen passed us, walking,
and we followed down Baker Street and along--"
"I know," said Holmes.
"Until we got three-quarters down Regent
Street. Then my gentleman threw up the trap, and
he cried that I should drive right away to
Waterloo Station as hard as I could go. I
whipped up the mare and we were there under the
ten minutes. Then he paid up his two guineas,
like a good one, and away he went into the
station. Only just as he was leaving he turned
round and he said: `It might interest you to
know that you have been driving Mr. Sherlock
Holmes.` That`s how I come to know the name."
"I see. And you saw no more of him?"
"Not after he went into the station."
"And how would you describe Mr. Sherlock
Holmes?"
The cabman scratched his head. "Well, he
wasn`t altogether such an easy gentleman to
describe. I`d put him at forty years of age, and
he was of a middle height, two or three inches
shorter than you, sir. He was dressed like a
toff, and he had a black beard, cut square at
the end, and a pale face. I don`t know as I
could say more than that."
"Colour of his eyes?"
"No, I can`t say that."
"Nothing more that you can remember?"
"No, sir; nothing."
"Well, then, here is your half-sovereign.
There`s another one waiting for you if you can
bring any more information. Good-night!"
"Good-night, sir, and thank you!"
John Clayton departed chuckling, and Holmes
turned to me with a shrug of his shoulders and a
rueful smile.
"Snap goes our third thread, and we end where
we began," said he. "The cunning rascal! He knew
our number, knew that Sir Henry Baskerville had
consulted me, spotted who I was in Regent
Street, conjectured that I had got the number of
the cab and would lay my hands on the driver,
and so sent back this audacious message. I tell
you, Watson, this time we have got a foeman who
is worthy of our steel. I`ve been checkmated in
London. I can only wish you better luck in
Devonshire. But I`m not easy in my mind about
it."
"About what?"
"About sending you. It`s an ugly business,
Watson, an ugly dangerous business, and the more
I see of it the less I like it. Yes, my dear
fellow, you may laugh, but I give you my word
that I shall be very glad to have you back safe
and sound in Baker Street once more." |
|
|
|
Chapter
6
Baskerville Hall
Sir Henry Baskerville and Dr. Mortimer were ready upon the appointed
day, and we started as arranged for Devonshire.
Mr. Sherlock Holmes drove with me to the station
and gave me his last parting injunctions and
advice.
"I will not bias your mind by suggesting
theories or suspicions, Watson," said he; "I
wish you simply to report facts in the fullest
possible manner to me, and you can leave me to
do the theorizing."
"What sort of facts?" I asked.
"Anything which may seem to have a bearing
however indirect upon the case, and especially
the relations between young Baskerville and his
neighbours or any fresh particulars concerning
the death of Sir Charles. I have made some
inquiries myself in the last few days, but the
results have, I fear, been negative. One thing
only appears to be certain, and that is that Mr.
James Desmond, who is the next heir, is an
elderly gentleman of a very amiable disposition,
so that this persecution does not arise from
him. I really think that we may eliminate him
entirely from our calculations. There remain the
people who will actually surround Sir Henry
Baskerville upon the moor."
"Would it not be well in the first place to
get rid of this Barrymore couple?"
"By no means. You could not make a greater
mistake. If they are innocent it would be a
cruel injustice, and if they are guilty we
should be giving up all chance of bringing it
home to them. No, no, we will preserve them upon
our list of suspects. Then there is a groom at
the Hall, if I remember right. There are two
moorland farmers. There is our friend Dr.
Mortimer, whom I believe to be entirely honest,
and there is his wife, of whom we know nothing.
There is this naturalist, Stapleton, and there
is his sister, who is said to be a young lady of
attractions. There is Mr. Frankland, of Lafter
Hall, who is also an unknown factor, and there
are one or two other neighbours. These are the
folk who must be your very special study."
"I will do my best."
"You have arms, I suppose?"
"Yes, I thought it as well to take them."
"Most certainly. Keep your revolver near you
night and day, and never relax your
precautions."
Our friends had already secured a first-class
carriage and were waiting for us upon the
platform.
"No, we have no news of any kind," said Dr.
Mortimer in answer to my friend`s questions. "I
can swear to one thing, and that is that we have
not been shadowed during the last two days. We
have never gone out without keeping a sharp
watch, and no one could have escaped our
notice."
"You have always kept together, I presume?"
"Except yesterday afternoon. I usually give
up one day to pure amusement when I come to
town, so I spent it at the Museum of the College
of Surgeons."
"And I went to look at the folk in the park,"
said Baskerville.
"But we had no trouble of any kind."
"It was imprudent, all the same," said
Holmes, shaking his head and looking very grave.
"I beg, Sir Henry, that you will not go about
alone. Some great misfortune will befall you if
you do. Did you get your other boot?"
"No, sir, it is gone forever."
"Indeed. That is very interesting. Well,
good-bye," he added as the train began to glide
down the platform. "Bear in mind, Sir Henry, one
of the phrases in that queer old legend which
Dr. Mortimer has read to us, and avoid the moor
in those hours of darkness when the powers of
evil are exalted."
I looked back at the platform when we had
left it far behind and saw the tall, austere
figure of Holmes standing motionless and gazing
after us.
The journey was a swift and pleasant one, and
I spent it in making the more intimate
acquaintance of my two companions and in playing
with Dr. Mortimer`s spaniel. In a very few hours
the brown earth had become ruddy, the brick had
changed to granite, and red cows grazed in
well-hedged fields where the lush grasses and
more luxuriant vegetation spoke of a richer, if
a damper, climate. Young Baskerville stared
eagerly out of the window and cried aloud with
delight as he recognized the familiar features
of the Devon scenery.
"I`ve been over a good part of the world
since I left it, Dr. Watson," said he; "but I
have never seen a place to compare with it."
"I never saw a Devonshire man who did not
swear by his county," I remarked.
"It depends upon the breed of men quite as
much as on the county," said Dr. Mortimer. "A
glance at our friend here reveals the rounded
head of the Celt, which carries inside it the
Celtic enthusiasm and power of attachment. Poor
Sir Charles`s head was of a very rare type, half
Gaelic, half Ivernian in its characteristics.
But you were very young when you last saw
Baskerville Hall, were you not?"
"I was a boy in my teens at the time of my
father`s death and had never seen the Hall, for
he lived in a little cottage on the South Coast.
Thence I went straight to a friend in America. I
tell you it is all as new to me as it is to Dr.
Watson, and I`m as keen as possible to see the
moor."
"Are you? Then your wish is easily granted,
for there is your first sight of the moor," said
Dr. Mortimer, pointing out of the carriage
window.
Over the green squares of the fields and the
low curve of a wood there rose in the distance a
gray, melancholy hill, with a strange jagged
summit, dim and vague in the distance, like some
fantastic landscape in a dream. Baskerville sat
for a long time, his eyes fixed upon it, and I
read upon his eager face how much it meant to
him, this first sight of that strange spot where
the men of his blood had held sway so long and
left their mark so deep. There he sat, with his
tweed suit and his American accent, in the
corner of a prosaic railway-carriage, and yet as
I looked at his dark and expressive face I felt
more than ever how true a descendant he was of
that long line of high-blooded, fiery, and
masterful men. There were pride, valour, and
strength in his thick brows, his sensitive
nostrils, and his large hazel eyes. If on that
forbidding moor a difficult and dangerous quest
should lie before us, this was at least a
comrade for whom one might venture to take a
risk with the certainty that he would bravely
share it.
The train pulled up at a small wayside
station and we all descended. Outside, beyond
the low, white fence, a wagonette with a pair of
cobs was waiting. Our coming was evidently a
great event, for station-master and porters
clustered round us to carry out our luggage. It
was a sweet, simple country spot, but I was
surprised to observe that by the gate there
stood two soldierly men in dark uniforms who
leaned upon their short rifles and glanced
keenly at us as we passed. The coachman, a
hard-faced, gnarled little fellow, saluted Sir
Henry Baskerville, and in a few minutes we were
flying swiftly down the broad, white road.
Rolling pasture lands curved upward on either
side of us, and old gabled houses peeped out
from amid the thick green foliage, but behind
the peaceful and sunlit countryside there rose
ever, dark against the evening sky, the long,
gloomy curve of the moor, broken by the jagged
and sinister hills.
The wagonette swung round into a side road,
and we curved upward through deep lanes worn by
centuries of wheels, high banks on either side,
heavy with dripping moss and fleshy
hart`s-tongue ferns. Bronzing bracken and
mottled bramble gleamed in the light of the
sinking sun. Still steadily rising, we passed
over a narrow granite bridge and skirted a noisy
stream which gushed swiftly down, foaming and
roaring amid the gray boulders. Both road and
stream wound up through a valley dense with
scrub oak and fir. At every turn Baskerville
gave an exclamation of delight, looking eagerly
about him and asking countless questions. To his
eyes all seemed beautiful, but to me a tinge of
melancholy lay upon the countryside, which bore
so clearly the mark of the waning year. Yellow
leaves carpeted the lanes and fluttered down
upon us as we passed. The rattle of our wheels
died away as we drove through drifts of rotting
vegetation--sad gifts, as it seemed to me, for
Nature to throw before the carriage of the
returning heir of the Baskervilles.
"Halloa!" cried Dr. Mortimer, "what is this?"
A steep curve of heath-clad land, an outlying
spur of the moor, lay in front of us. On the
summit, hard and clear like an equestrian statue
upon its pedestal, was a mounted soldier, dark
and stern, his rifle poised ready over his
forearm. He was watching the road along which we
travelled.
"What is this, Perkins?" asked Dr. Mortimer.
Our driver half turned in his seat. "There`s
a convict escaped from Princetown, sir. He`s
been out three days now, and the warders watch
every road and every station, but they`ve had no
sight of him yet. The farmers about here don`t
like it, sir, and that`s a fact."
"Well, I understand that they get five pounds
if they can give information."
"Yes, sir, but the chance of five pounds is
but a poor thing compared to the chance of
having your throat cut. You see, it isn`t like
any ordinary convict. This is a man that would
stick at nothing."
"Who is he, then?"
"It is Selden, the Notting Hill murderer."
I remembered the case well, for it was one in
which Holmes had taken an interest on account of
the peculiar ferocity of the crime and the
wanton brutality which had marked all the
actions of the assassin. The commutation of his
death sentence had been due to some doubts as to
his complete sanity, so atrocious was his
conduct. Our wagonette had topped a rise and in
front of us rose the huge expanse of the moor,
mottled with gnarled and craggy cairns and tors.
A cold wind swept down from it and set us
shivering. Somewhere there, on that desolate
plain, was lurking this fiendish man, hiding in
a burrow like a wild beast, his heart full of
malignancy against the whole race which had cast
him out. It needed but this to complete the grim
suggestiveness of the barren waste, the chilling
wind, and the darkling sky. Even Baskerville
fell silent and pulled his overcoat more closely
around him.
We had left the fertile country behind and
beneath us. We looked back on it now, the
slanting rays of a low sun turning the streams
to threads of gold and glowing on the red earth
new turned by the plough and the broad tangle of
the woodlands. The road in front of us grew
bleaker and wilder over huge russet and olive
slopes, sprinkled with giant boulders. Now and
then we passed a moorland cottage, walled and
roofed with stone, with no creeper to break its
harsh outline. Suddenly we looked down into a
cuplike depression, patched with stunted oaks
and firs which had been twisted and bent by the
fury of years of storm. Two high, narrow towers
rose over the trees. The driver pointed with his
whip.
"Baskerville Hall," said he.
Its master had risen and was staring with
flushed cheeks and shining eyes. A few minutes
later we had reached the lodge-gates, a maze of
fantastic tracery in wrought iron, with
weather-bitten pillars on either side, blotched
with lichens, and surmounted by the boars` heads
of the Baskervilles. The lodge was a ruin of
black granite and bared ribs of rafters, but
facing it was a new building, half constructed,
the first fruit of Sir Charles`s South African
gold.
Through the gateway we passed into the
avenue, where the wheels were again hushed amid
the leaves, and the old trees shot their
branches in a sombre tunnel over our heads.
Baskerville shuddered as he looked up the long,
dark drive to where the house glimmered like a
ghost at the farther end.
"Was it here?" he asked in a low voice.
"No, no, the yew alley is on the other side."
The young heir glanced round with a gloomy
face.
"It`s no wonder my uncle felt as if trouble
were coming on him in such a place as this,"
said he. "It`s enough to scare any man. I`ll
have a row of electric lamps up here inside of
six months, and you won`t know it again, with a
thousand candle-power Swan and Edison right here
in front of the hall door."
The avenue opened into a broad expanse of
turf, and the house lay before us. In the fading
light I could see that the centre was a heavy
block of building from which a porch projected.
The whole front was draped in ivy, with a patch
clipped bare here and there where a window or a
coat of arms broke through the dark veil. From
this central block rose the twin towers,
ancient, crenelated, and pierced with many
loopholes. To right and left of the turrets were
more modern wings of black granite. A dull light
shone through heavy mullioned windows, and from
the high chimneys which rose from the steep,
high-angled roof there sprang a single black
column of smoke.
"Welcome, Sir Henry! Welcome to Baskerville
Hall!"
A tall man had stepped from the shadow of the
porch to open the door of the wagonette. The
figure of a woman was silhouetted against the
yellow light of the hall. She came out and
helped the man to hand down our bags.
"You don`t mind my driving straight home, Sir
Henry?" said Dr. Mortimer. "My wife is expecting
me."
"Surely you will stay and have some dinner?"
"No, I must go. I shall probably find some
work awaiting me. I would stay to show you over
the house, but Barrymore will be a better guide
than I. Good-bye, and never hesitate night or
day to send for me if I can be of service."
The wheels died away down the drive while Sir
Henry and I turned into the hall, and the door
clanged heavily behind us. It was a fine
apartment in which we found ourselves, large,
lofty, and heavily raftered with huge baulks of
age-blackened oak. In the great old-fashioned
fireplace behind the high iron dogs a log-fire
crackled and snapped. Sir Henry and I held out
our hands to it, for we were numb from our long
drive. Then we gazed round us at the high, thin
window of old stained glass, the oak panelling,
the stags` heads, the coats of arms upon the
walls, all dim and sombre in the subdued light
of the central lamp.
"It`s just as I imagined it," said Sir Henry.
"Is it not the very picture of an old family
home? To think that this should be the same hall
in which for five hundred years my people have
lived. It strikes me solemn to think of it."
I saw his dark face lit up with a boyish
enthusiasm as he gazed about him. The light beat
upon him where he stood, but long shadows
trailed down the walls and hung like a black
canopy above him. Barrymore had returned from
taking our luggage to our rooms. He stood in
front of us now with the subdued manner of a
well-trained servant. He was a
remarkable-looking man, tall, handsome, with a
square black beard and pale, distinguished
features.
"Would you wish dinner to be served at once,
sir?"
"Is it ready?"
"In a very few minutes, sir. You will find
hot water in your rooms. My wife and I will be
happy, Sir Henry, to stay with you until you
have made your fresh arrangements, but you will
understand that under the new conditions this
house will require a considerable staff."
"What new conditions?"
"I only meant, sir, that Sir Charles led a
very retired life, and we were able to look
after his wants. You would, naturally, wish to
have more company, and so you will need changes
in your household."
"Do you mean that your wife and you wish to
leave?"
"Only when it is quite convenient to you,
sir."
"But your family have been with us for
several generations, have they not? I should be
sorry to begin my life here by breaking an old
family connection."
I seemed to discern some signs of emotion
upon the butler`s white face.
"I feel that also, sir, and so does my wife.
But to tell the truth, sir, we were both very
much attached to Sir Charles, and his death gave
us a shock and made these surroundings very
painful to us. I fear that we shall never again
be easy in our minds at Baskerville Hall."
"But what do you intend to do?"
"I have no doubt, sir, that we shall succeed
in establishing ourselves in some business. Sir
Charles`s generosity has given us the means to
do so. And now, sir, perhaps I had best show you
to your rooms."
A square balustraded gallery ran round the
top of the old hall, approached by a double
stair. From this central point two long
corridors extended the whole length of the
building, from which all the bedrooms opened. My
own was in the same wing as Baskerville`s and
almost next door to it. These rooms appeared to
be much more modern than the central part of the
house, and the bright paper and numerous candles
did something to remove the sombre impression
which our arrival had left upon my mind.
But the dining-room which opened out of the
hall was a place of shadow and gloom. It was a
long chamber with a step separating the dais
where the family sat from the lower portion
reserved for their dependents. At one end a
minstrel`s gallery overlooked it. Black beams
shot across above our heads, with a
smoke-darkened ceiling beyond them. With rows of
flaring torches to light it up, and the colour
and rude hilarity of an old-time banquet, it
might have softened; but now, when two
black-clothed gentlemen sat in the little circle
of light thrown by a shaded lamp, one`s voice
became hushed and one`s spirit subdued. A dim
line of ancestors, in every variety of dress,
from the Elizabethan knight to the buck of the
Regency, stared down upon us and daunted us by
their silent company. We talked little, and I
for one was glad when the meal was over and we
were able to retire into the modern
billiard-room and smoke a cigarette.
"My word, it isn`t a very cheerful place,"
said Sir Henry. "I suppose one can tone down to
it, but I feel a bit out of the picture at
present. I don`t wonder that my uncle got a
little jumpy if he lived all alone in such a
house as this. However, if it suits you, we will
retire early tonight, and perhaps things may
seem more cheerful in the morning."
I drew aside my curtains before I went to bed
and looked out from my window. It opened upon
the grassy space which lay in front of the hall
door. Beyond, two copses of trees moaned and
swung in a rising wind. A half moon broke
through the rifts of racing clouds. In its cold
light I saw beyond the trees a broken fringe of
rocks, and the long, low curve of the melancholy
moor. I closed the curtain, feeling that my last
impression was in keeping with the rest.
And yet it was not quite the last. I found
myself weary and yet wakeful, tossing restlessly
from side to side, seeking for the sleep which
would not come. Far away a chiming clock struck
out the quarters of the hours, but otherwise a
deathly silence lay upon the old house. And then
suddenly, in the very dead of the night, there
came a sound to my ears, clear, resonant, and
unmistakable. It was the sob of a woman, the
muffled, strangling gasp of one who is torn by
an uncontrollable sorrow. I sat up in bed and
listened intently. The noise could not have been
far away and was certainly in the house. For
half an hour I waited with every nerve on the
alert, but there came no other sound save the
chiming clock and the rustle of the ivy on the
wall. |
|
|
|
Chapter
7
The Stapletons of Merripit House
The fresh beauty of the following morning did something to efface from
our minds the grim and gray impression which had
been left upon both of us by our first
experience of Baskerville Hall. As Sir Henry and
I sat at breakfast the sunlight flooded in
through the high mullioned windows, throwing
watery patches of colour from the coats of arms
which covered them. The dark panelling glowed
like bronze in the golden rays, and it was hard
to realize that this was indeed the chamber
which had struck such a gloom into our souls
upon the evening before.
"I guess it is ourselves and not the house
that we have to blame!" said the baronet. "We
were tired with our journey and chilled by our
drive, so we took a gray view of the place. Now
we are fresh and well, so it is all cheerful
once more."
"And yet it was not entirely a question of
imagination," I answered. "Did you, for example,
happen to hear someone, a woman I think, sobbing
in the night?"
"That is curious, for I did when I was half
asleep fancy that I heard something of the sort.
I waited quite a time, but there was no more of
it, so I concluded that it was all a dream."
"I heard it distinctly, and I am sure that it
was really the sob of a woman."
"We must ask about this right away." He rang
the bell and asked Barrymore whether he could
account for our experience. It seemed to me that
the pallid features of the butler turned a shade
paler still as he listened to his master`s
question.
"There are only two women in the house, Sir
Henry," he answered. "One is the scullery-maid,
who sleeps in the other wing. The other is my
wife, and I can answer for it that the sound
could not have come from her."
And yet he lied as he said it, for it chanced
that after breakfast I met Mrs. Barrymore in the
long corridor with the sun full upon her face.
She was a large, impassive, heavy-featured woman
with a stern set expression of mouth. But her
telltale eyes were red and glanced at me from
between swollen lids. It was she, then, who wept
in the night, and if she did so her husband must
know it. Yet he had taken the obvious risk of
discovery in declaring that it was not so. Why
had he done this? And why did she weep so
bitterly? Already round this pale-faced,
handsome, black-bearded man there was gathering
an atmosphere of mystery and of gloom. It was he
who had been the first to discover the body of
Sir Charles, and we had only his word for all
the circumstances which led up to the old man`s
death. Was it possible that it was Barrymore,
after all, whom we had seen in the cab in Regent
Street? The beard might well have been the same.
The cabman had described a somewhat shorter man,
but such an impression might easily have been
erroneous. How could I settle the point forever?
Obviously the first thing to do was to see the
Grimpen postmaster and find whether the test
telegram had really been placed in Barrymore`s
own hands. Be the answer what it might, I should
at least have something to report to Sherlock
Holmes.
Sir Henry had numerous papers to examine
after breakfast, so that the time was propitious
for my excursion. It was a pleasant walk of four
miles along the edge of the moor, leading me at
last to a small gray hamlet, in which two larger
buildings, which proved to be the inn and the
house of Dr. Mortimer, stood high above the
rest. The postmaster, who was also the village
grocer, had a clear recollection of the
telegram.
"Certainly, sir," said he, "I had the
telegram delivered to Mr. Barrymore exactly as
directed."
"Who delivered it?"
"My boy here. James, you delivered that
telegram to Mr. Barrymore at the Hall last week,
did you not?"
"Yes, father, I delivered it."
"Into his own hands?" I asked.
"Well, he was up in the loft at the time, so
that I could not put it into his own hands, but
I gave it into Mrs. Barrymore`s hands, and she
promised to deliver it at once."
"Did you see Mr. Barrymore?"
"No, sir; I tell you he was in the loft."
"If you didn`t see him, how do you know he
was in the loft?"
"Well, surely his own wife ought to know
where he is," said the postmaster testily.
"Didn`t he get the telegram? If there is any
mistake it is for Mr. Barrymore himself to
complain."
It seemed hopeless to pursue the inquiry any
farther, but it was clear that in spite of
Holmes`s ruse we had no proof that Barrymore had
not been in London all the time. Suppose that it
were so-- suppose that the same man had been the
last who had seen Sir Charles alive, and the
first to dog the new heir when he returned to
England. What then? Was he the agent of others
or had he some sinister design of his own? What
interest could he have in persecuting the
Baskerville family? I thought of the strange
warning clipped out of the leading article of
the Times. Was that his work or was it possibly
the doing of someone who was bent upon
counteracting his schemes? The only conceivable
motive was that which had been suggested by Sir
Henry, that if the family could be scared away a
comfortable and permanent home would be secured
for the Barrymores. But surely such an
explanation as that would be quite inadequate to
account for the deep and subtle scheming which
seemed to be weaving an invisible net round the
young baronet. Holmes himself had said that no
more complex case had come to him in all the
long series of his sensational investigations. I
prayed, as I walked back along the gray, lonely
road, that my friend might soon be freed from
his preoccupations and able to come down to take
this heavy burden of responsibility from my
shoulders.
Suddenly my thoughts were interrupted by the
sound of running feet behind me and by a voice
which called me by name. I turned, expecting to
see Dr. Mortimer, but to my surprise it was a
stranger who was pursuing me. He was a small,
slim, clean-shaven, prim- faced man,
flaxen-haired and leanjawed, between thirty and
forty years of age, dressed in a gray suit and
wearing a straw hat. A tin box for botanical
specimens hung over his shoulder and he carried
a green butterfly-net in one of his hands.
"You will, I am sure, excuse my presumption,
Dr. Watson," said he as he came panting up to
where I stood. "Here on the moor we are homely
folk and do not wait for formal introductions.
You may possibly have heard my name from our
mutual friend, Mortimer. I am Stapleton, of
Merripit House."
"Your net and box would have told me as
much," said I, "for I knew that Mr. Stapleton
was a naturalist. But how did you know me?"
"I have been calling on Mortimer, and he
pointed you out to me from the window of his
surgery as you passed. As our road lay the same
way I thought that I would overtake you and
introduce myself. I trust that Sir Henry is none
the worse for his journey?"
"He is very well, thank you."
"We were all rather afraid that after the sad
death of Sir Charles the new baronet might
refuse to live here. It is asking much of a
wealthy man to come down and bury himself in a
place of this kind, but I need not tell you that
it means a very great deal to the countryside.
Sir Henry has, I suppose, no superstitious fears
in the matter?"
"I do not think that it is likely."
"Of course you know the legend of the fiend
dog which haunts the family?"
"I have heard it."
"It is extraordinary how credulous the
peasants are about here! Any number of them are
ready to swear that they have seen such a
creature upon the moor." He spoke with a smile,
but I seemed to read in his eyes that he took
the matter more seriously. "The story took a
great hold upon the imagination of Sir Charles,
and I have no doubt that it led to his tragic
end."
"But how?"
"His nerves were so worked up that the
appearance of any dog might have had a fatal
effect upon his diseased heart. I fancy that he
really did see something of the kind upon that
last night in the yew alley. I feared that some
disaster might occur, for I was very fond of the
old man, and I knew that his heart was weak."
"How did you know that?"
"My friend Mortimer told me."
"You think, then, that some dog pursued Sir
Charles, and that he died of fright in
consequence?"
"Have you any better explanation?"
"I have not come to any conclusion."
"Has Mr. Sherlock Holmes?"
The words took away my breath for an instant
but a glance at the placid face and steadfast
eyes of my companion showed that no surprise was
intended.
"It is useless for us to pretend that we do
not know you, Dr. Watson," said he. "The records
of your detective have reached us here, and you
could not celebrate him without being known
yourself. When Mortimer told me your name he
could not deny your identity. If you are here,
then it follows that Mr. Sherlock Holmes is
interesting himself in the matter, and I am
naturally curious to know what view he may
take."
"I am afraid that I cannot answer that
question."
"May I ask if he is going to honour us with a
visit himself?"
"He cannot leave town at present. He has
other cases which engage his attention."
"What a pity! He might throw some light on
that which is so dark to us. But as to your own
researches, if there is any possible way in
which I can be of service to you I trust that
you will command me. If I had any indication of
the nature of your suspicions or how you propose
to investigate the case, I might perhaps even
now give you some aid or advice."
"I assure you that I am simply here upon a
visit to my friend, Sir Henry, and that I need
no help of any kind."
"Excellent!" said Stapleton. "You are
perfectly right to be wary and discreet. I am
justly reproved for what I feel was an
unjustifiable intrusion, and I promise you that
I will not mention the matter again."
We had come to a point where a narrow grassy
path struck off from the road and wound away
across the moor. A steep, boulder-sprinkled hill
lay upon the right which had in bygone days been
cut into a granite quarry. The face which was
turned towards us formed a dark cliff, with
ferns and brambles growing in its niches. From
over a distant rise there floated a gray plume
of smoke.
"A moderate walk along this moor-path brings
us to Merripit House," said he. "Perhaps you
will spare an hour that I may have the pleasure
of introducing you to my sister."
My first thought was that I should be by Sir
Henry`s side. But then I remembered the pile of
papers and bills with which his study table was
littered. It was certain that I could not help
with those. And Holmes had expressly said that I
should study the neighbours upon the moor. I
accepted Stapleton`s invitation, and we turned
together down the path.
"It is a wonderful place, the moor," said he,
looking round over the undulating downs, long
green rollers, with crests of jagged granite
foaming up into fantastic surges. "You never
tire of the moor. You cannot think the wonderful
secrets which it contains. It is so vast, and so
barren, and so mysterious."
"You know it well, then?"
"I have only been here two years. The
residents would call me a newcomer. We came
shortly after Sir Charles settled. But my tastes
led me to explore every part of the country
round, and I should think that there are few men
who know it better than I do."
"Is it hard to know?"
"Very hard. You see, for example, this great
plain to the north here with the queer hills
breaking out of it. Do you observe anything
remarkable about that?"
"It would be a rare place for a gallop."
"You would naturally think so and the thought
has cost several their lives before now. You
notice those bright green spots scattered
thickly over it?"
"Yes, they seem more fertile than the rest."
Stapleton laughed. "That is the great Grimpen
Mire," said he. "A false step yonder means death
to man or beast. Only yesterday I saw one of the
moor ponies wander into it. He never came out. I
saw his head for quite a long time craning out
of the bog-hole, but it sucked him down at last.
Even in dry seasons it is a danger to cross it,
but after these autumn rains it is an awful
place. And yet I can find my way to the very
heart of it and return alive. By George, there
is another of those miserable ponies!"
Something brown was rolling and tossing among
the green sedges. Then a long, agonized,
writhing neck shot upward and a dreadful cry
echoed over the moor. It turned me cold with
horror, but my companion`s nerves seemed to be
stronger than mine.
"It`s gone!" said he. "The mire has him. Two
in two days, and many more, perhaps, for they
get in the way of going there in the dry weather
and never know the difference until the mire has
them in its clutches. It`s a bad place, the
great Grimpen Mire."
"And you say you can penetrate it?"
"Yes, there are one or two paths which a very
active man can take. I have found them out."
"But why should you wish to go into so
horrible a place?"
"Well, you see the hills beyond? They are
really islands cut off on all sides by the
impassable mire, which has crawled round them in
the course of years. That is where the rare
plants and the butterflies are, if you have the
wit to reach them."
"I shall try my luck some day."
He looked at me with a surprised face. "For
God`s sake put such an idea out of your mind,"
said he. "Your blood would be upon my head. I
assure you that there would not be the least
chance of your coming back alive. It is only by
remembering certain complex landmarks that I am
able to do it."
"Halloa!" I cried. "What is that?"
A long, low moan, indescribably sad, swept
over the moor. It filled the whole air, and yet
it was impossible to say whence it came. From a
dull murmur it swelled into a deep roar, and
then sank back into a melancholy, throbbing
murmur once again. Stapleton looked at me with a
curious expression in his face.
"Queer place, the moor!" said he.
"But what is it?"
"The peasants say it is the Hound of the
Baskervilles calling for its prey. I`ve heard it
once or twice before, but never quite so loud."
I looked round, with a chill of fear in my
heart, at the huge swelling plain, mottled with
the green patches of rushes. Nothing stirred
over the vast expanse save a pair of ravens,
which croaked loudly from a tor behind us.
"You are an educated man. You don`t believe
such nonsense as that?" said I. "What do you
think is the cause of so strange a sound?"
"Bogs make queer noises sometimes. It`s the
mud settling, or the water rising, or
something."
"No, no, that was a living voice."
"Well, perhaps it was. Did you ever hear a
bittern booming?"
"No, I never did."
"It`s a very rare bird--practically
extinct--in England now, but all things are
possible upon the moor. Yes, I should not be
surprised to learn that what we have heard is
the cry of the last of the bitterns."
"It`s the weirdest, strangest thing that ever
I heard in my life."
"Yes, it`s rather an uncanny place
altogether. Look at the hillside yonder. What do
you make of those?"
The whole steep slope was covered with gray
circular rings of stone, a score of them at
least.
"What are they? Sheep-pens?"
"No, they are the homes of our worthy
ancestors. Prehistoric man lived thickly on the
moor, and as no one in particular has lived
there since, we find all his little arrangements
exactly as he left them. These are his wigwams
with the roofs off. You can even see his hearth
and his couch if you have the curiosity to go
inside.
"But it is quite a town. When was it
inhabited?"
"Neolithic man--no date."
"What did he do?"
"He grazed his cattle on these slopes, and he
learned to dig for tin when the bronze sword
began to supersede the stone axe. Look at the
great trench in the opposite hill. That is his
mark. Yes, you will find some very singular
points about the moor, Dr. Watson. Oh, excuse me
an instant! It is surely Cyclopides."
A small fly or moth had fluttered across our
path, and in an instant Stapleton was rushing
with extraordinary energy and speed in pursuit
of it. To my dismay the creature flew straight
for the great mire, and my acquaintance never
paused for an instant, bounding from tuft to
tuft behind it, his green net waving in the air.
His gray clothes and jerky, zigzag, irregular
progress made him not unlike some huge moth
himself. I was standing watching his pursuit
with a mixture of admiration for his
extraordinary activity and fear lest he should
lose his footing in the treacherous mire, when I
heard the sound of steps and, turning round,
found a woman near me upon the path. She had
come from the direction in which the plume of
smoke indicated the position of Merripit House,
but the dip of the moor had hid her until she
was quite close.
I could not doubt that this was the Miss
Stapleton of whom I had been told, since ladies
of any sort must be few upon the moor, and I
remembered that I had heard someone describe her
as being a beauty. The woman who approached me
was certainly that, and of a most uncommon type.
There could not have been a greater contrast
between brother and sister, for Stapleton was
neutral tinted, with light hair and gray eyes,
while she was darker than any brunette whom I
have seen in England--slim, elegant, and tall.
She had a proud, finely cut face, so regular
that it might have seemed impassive were it not
for the sensitive mouth and the beautiful dark,
eager eyes. With her perfect figure and elegant
dress she was, indeed, a strange apparition upon
a lonely moorland path. Her eyes were on her
brother as I turned, and then she quickened her
pace towards me. I had raised my hat and was
about to make some explanatory remark when her
own words turned all my thoughts into a new
channel.
"Go back!" she said. "Go straight back to
London, instantly."
I could only stare at her in stupid surprise.
Her eyes blazed at me, and she tapped the ground
impatiently with her foot.
"Why should I go back?" I asked.
"I cannot explain." She spoke in a low, eager
voice, with a curious lisp in her utterance.
"But for God`s sake do what I ask you. Go back
and never set foot upon the moor again."
"But I have only just come."
"Man, man!" she cried. "Can you not tell when
a warning is for your own good? Go back to
London! Start tonight! Get away from this place
at all costs! Hush, my brother is coming! Not a
word of what I have said. Would you mind getting
that orchid for me among the mare`s-tails
yonder? We are very rich in orchids on the moor,
though, of course, you are rather late to see
the beauties of the place."
Stapleton had abandoned the chase and came
back to us breathing hard and flushed with his
exertions.
"Halloa, Beryl!" said he, and it seemed to me
that the tone of his greeting was not altogether
a cordial one.
"Well, Jack, you are very hot."
"Yes, I was chasing a Cyclopides. He is very
rare and seldom found in the late autumn. What a
pity that I should have missed him!" He spoke
unconcernedly, but his small light eyes glanced
incessantly from the girl to me.
"You have introduced yourselves, I can see."
"Yes. I was telling Sir Henry that it was
rather late for him to see the true beauties of
the moor."
"Why, who do you think this is?"
"I imagine that it must be Sir Henry
Baskerville."
"No, no," said I. "Only a humble commoner,
but his friend. My name is Dr. Watson."
A flush of vexation passed over her
expressive face. "We have been talking at cross
purposes," said she.
"Why, you had not very much time for talk,"
her brother remarked with the same questioning
eyes.
"I talked as if Dr. Watson were a resident
instead of being merely a visitor," said she.
"It cannot much matter to him whether it is
early or late for the orchids. But you will come
on, will you not, and see Merripit House?"
A short walk brought us to it, a bleak
moorland house, once the farm of some grazier in
the old prosperous days, but now put into repair
and turned into a modern dwelling. An orchard
surrounded it, but the trees, as is usual upon
the moor, were stunted and nipped, and the
effect of the whole place was mean and
melancholy. We were admitted by a strange,
wizened, rusty-coated old manservant, who seemed
in keeping with the house. Inside, however,
there were large rooms furnished with an
elegance in which I seemed to recognize the
taste of the lady. As I looked from their
windows at the interminable granite-flecked moor
rolling unbroken to the farthest horizon I could
not but marvel at what could have brought this
highly educated man and this beautiful woman to
live in such a place.
"Queer spot to choose, is it not?" said he as
if in answer to my thought. "And yet we manage
to make ourselves fairly happy, do we not,
Beryl?"
"Quite happy," said she, but there was no
ring of conviction in her words.
"I had a school," said Stapleton. "It was in
the north country. The work to a man of my
temperament was mechanical and uninteresting,
but the privilege of living with youth, of
helping to mould those young minds, and of
impressing them with one`s own character and
ideals was very dear to me. However, the fates
were against us. A serious epidemic broke out in
the school and three of the boys died. It never
recovered from the blow, and much of my capital
was irretrievably swallowed up. And yet, if it
were not for the loss of the charming
companionship of the boys, I could rejoice over
my own misfortune, for, with my strong tastes
for botany and zoology, I find an unlimited
field of work here, and my sister is as devoted
to Nature as I am. All this, Dr. Watson, has
been brought upon your head by your expression
as you surveyed the moor out of our window."
"It certainly did cross my mind that it might
be a little dull-- less for you, perhaps, than
for your sister."
"No, no, I am never dull," said she quickly.
"We have books, we have our studies, and we
have interesting neighbours. Dr. Mortimer is a
most learned man in his own line. Poor Sir
Charles was also an admirable companion. We knew
him well and miss him more than I can tell. Do
you think that I should intrude if I were to
call this afternoon and make the acquaintance of
Sir Henry?"
"I am sure that he would be delighted."
"Then perhaps you would mention that I
propose to do so. We may in our humble way do
something to make things more easy for him until
he becomes accustomed to his new surroundings.
Will you come upstairs, Dr. Watson, and inspect
my collection of Lepidoptera? I think it is the
most complete one in the south-west of England.
By the time that you have looked through them
lunch will be almost ready."
But I was eager to get back to my charge. The
melancholy of the moor, the death of the
unfortunate pony, the weird sound which had been
associated with the grim legend of the
Baskervilles, all these things tinged my
thoughts with sadness. Then on the top of these
more or less vague impressions there had come
the definite and distinct warning of Miss
Stapleton, delivered with such intense
earnestness that I could not doubt that some
grave and deep reason lay behind it. I resisted
all pressure to stay for lunch, and I set off at
once upon my return journey, taking the
grass-grown path by which we had come.
It seems, however, that there must have been
some short cut for those who knew it, for before
I had reached the road I was astounded to see
Miss Stapleton sitting upon a rock by the side
of the track. Her face was beautifully flushed
with her exertions and she held her hand to her
side.
"I have run all the way in order to cut you
off, Dr. Watson," said she. "I had not even time
to put on my hat. I must not stop, or my brother
may miss me. I wanted to say to you how sorry I
am about the stupid mistake I made in thinking
that you were Sir Henry. Please forget the words
I said, which have no application whatever to
you."
"But I can`t forget them, Miss Stapleton,"
said I. "I am Sir Henry`s friend, and his
welfare is a very close concern of mine. Tell me
why it was that you were so eager that Sir Henry
should return to London."
"A woman`s whim, Dr. Watson. When you know me
better you will understand that I cannot always
give reasons for what I say or do."
"No, no. I remember the thrill in your voice.
I remember the look in your eyes. Please,
please, be frank with me, Miss Stapleton, for
ever since I have been here I have been
conscious of shadows all round me. Life has
become like that great Grimpen Mire, with little
green patches everywhere into which one may sink
and with no guide to point the track. Tell me
then what it was that you meant, and I will
promise to convey your warning to Sir Henry."
An expression of irresolution passed for an
instant over her face, but her eyes had hardened
again when she answered me.
"You make too much of it, Dr. Watson," said
she. "My brother and I were very much shocked by
the death of Sir Charles. We knew him very
intimately, for his favourite walk was over the
moor to our house. He was deeply impressed with
the curse which hung over the family, and when
this tragedy came I naturally felt that there
must be some grounds for the fears which he had
expressed. I was distressed therefore when
another member of the family came down to live
here, and I felt that he should be warned of the
danger which he will run. That was all which I
intended to convey.
"But what is the danger?"
"You know the story of the hound?"
"I do not believe in such nonsense."
"But I do. If you have any influence with Sir
Henry, take him away from a place which has
always been fatal to his family. The world is
wide. Why should he wish to live at the place of
danger?"
"Because it is the place of danger. That is
Sir Henry`s nature. I fear that unless you can
give me some more definite information than this
it would be impossible to get him to move."
"I cannot say anything definite, for I do not
know anything definite."
"I would ask you one more question, Miss
Stapleton. If you meant no more than this when
you first spoke to me, why should you not wish
your brother to overhear what you said? There is
nothing to which he, or anyone else, could
object."
"My brother is very anxious to have the Hall
inhabited, for he thinks it is for the good of
the poor folk upon the moor. He would be very
angry if he knew that I have said anything which
might induce Sir Henry to go away. But I have
done my duty now and I will say no more. I must
go back, or he will miss me and suspect that I
have seen you. Good-bye!" She turned and had
disappeared in a few minutes among the scattered
boulders, while I, with my soul full of vague
fears, pursued my way to Baskerville Hall.
|
|
|
|
Chapter
8
First Report of Dr. Watson
From this point onward I will follow the course of events by
transcribing my own letters to Mr. Sherlock
Holmes which lie before me on the table. One
page is missing, but otherwise they are exactly
as written and show my feelings and suspicions
of the moment more accurately than my memory,
clear as it is upon these tragic events, can
possibly do.
Baskerville Hall, October 13th. MY DEAR
HOLMES: My previous letters and telegrams have
kept you pretty well up to date as to all that
has occurred in this most God-forsaken corner of
the world. The longer one stays here the more
does the spirit of the moor sink into one`s
soul, its vastness, and also its grim charm.
When you are once out upon its bosom you have
left all traces of modern England behind you,
but, on the other hand, you are conscious
everywhere of the homes and the work of the
prehistoric people. On all sides of you as you
walk are the houses of these forgotten folk,
with their graves and the huge monoliths which
are supposed to have marked their temples. As
you look at their gray stone huts against the
scarred hillsides you leave your own age behind
you, and if you were to see a skin- clad, hairy
man crawl out from the low door fitting a
flint-tipped arrow on to the string of his bow,
you would feel that his presence there was more
natural than your own. The strange thing is that
they should have lived so thickly on what must
always have been most unfruitful soil. I am no
antiquarian, but I could imagine that they were
some unwarlike and harried race who were forced
to accept that which none other would occupy.
All this, however, is foreign to the mission
on which you sent me and will probably be very
uninteresting to your severely practical mind. I
can still remember your complete indifference as
to whether the sun moved round the earth or the
earth round the sun. Let me, therefore, return
to the facts concerning Sir Henry Baskerville.
If you have not had any report within the
last few days it is because up to today there
was nothing of importance to relate. Then a very
surprising circumstance occurred, which I shall
tell you in due course. But, first of all, I
must keep you in touch with some of the other
factors in the situation.
One of these, concerning which I have said
little, is the escaped convict upon the moor.
There is strong reason now to believe that he
has got right away, which is a considerable
relief to the lonely householders of this
district. A fortnight has passed since his
flight, during which he has not been seen and
nothing has been heard of him. It is surely
inconceivable that he could have held out upon
the moor during all that time. Of course, so far
as his concealment goes there is no difficulty
at all. Any one of these stone huts would give
him a hiding-place. But there is nothing to eat
unless he were to catch and slaughter one of the
moor sheep. We think, therefore, that he has
gone, and the outlying farmers sleep the better
in consequence.
We are four able-bodied men in this
household, so that we could take good care of
ourselves, but I confess that I have had uneasy
moments when I have thought of the Stapletons.
They live miles from any help. There are one
maid, an old manservant, the sister, and the
brother, the latter not a very strong man. They
would be helpless in the hands of a desperate
fellow like this Notting Hill criminal if he
could once effect an entrance. Both Sir Henry
and I were concerned at their situation, and it
was suggested that Perkins the groom should go
over to sleep there, but Stapleton would not
hear of it.
The fact is that our friend, the baronet,
begins to display a considerable interest in our
fair neighbour. It is not to be wondered at, for
time hangs heavily in this lonely spot to an
active man like him, and she is a very
fascinating and beautiful woman. There is
something tropical and exotic about her which
forms a singular contrast to her cool and
unemotional brother. Yet he also gives the idea
of hidden fires. He has certainly a very marked
influence over her, for I have seen her
continually glance at him as she talked as if
seeking approbation for what she said. I trust
that he is kind to her. There is a dry glitter
in his eyes and a firm set of his thin lips,
which goes with a positive and possibly a harsh
nature. You would find him an interesting study.
He came over to call upon Baskerville on that
first day, and the very next morning he took us
both to show us the spot where the legend of the
wicked Hugo is supposed to have had its origin.
It was an excursion of some miles across the
moor to a place which is so dismal that it might
have suggested the story. We found a short
valley between rugged tors which led to an open,
grassy space flecked over with the white cotton
grass. In the middle of it rose two great
stones, worn and sharpened at the upper end
until they looked like the huge corroding fangs
of some monstrous beast. In every way it
corresponded with the scene of the old tragedy.
Sir Henry was much interested and asked
Stapleton more than once whether he did really
believe in the possibility of the interference
of the supernatural in the affairs of men. He
spoke lightly, but it was evident that he was
very much in earnest. Stapleton was guarded in
his replies, but it was easy to see that he said
less than he might, and that he would not
express his whole opinion out of consideration
for the feelings of the baronet. He told us of
similar cases, where families had suffered from
some evil influence, and he left us with the
impression that he shared the popular view upon
the matter.
On our way back we stayed for lunch at
Merripit House, and it was there that Sir Henry
made the acquaintance of Miss Stapleton. From
the first moment that he saw her he appeared to
be strongly attracted by her, and I am much
mistaken if the feeling was not mutual. He
referred to her again and again on our walk
home, and since then hardly a day has passed
that we have not seen something of the brother
and sister. They dine here tonight, and there is
some talk of our going to them next week. One
would imagine that such a match would be very
welcome to Stapleton, and yet I have more than
once caught a look of the strongest
disapprobation in his face when Sir Henry has
been paying some attention to his sister. He is
much attached to her, no doubt, and would lead a
lonely life without her, but it would seem the
height of selfishness if he were to stand in the
way of her making so brilliant a marriage. Yet I
am certain that he does not wish their intimacy
to ripen into love, and I have several times
observed that he has taken pains to prevent them
from being tete- a-tete. By the way, your
instructions to me never to allow Sir Henry to
go out alone will become very much more onerous
if a love affair were to be added to our other
difficulties. My popularity would soon suffer if
I were to carry out your orders to the letter.
The other day--Thursday, to be more
exact--Dr. Mortimer lunched with us. He has been
excavating a barrow at Long Down and has got a
prehistoric skull which fills him with great
joy. Never was there such a single-minded
enthusiast as he! The Stapletons came in
afterwards, and the good doctor took us all to
the yew alley at Sir Henry`s request to show us
exactly how everything occurred upon that fatal
night. It is a long, dismal walk, the yew alley,
between two high walls of clipped hedge, with a
narrow band of grass upon either side. At the
far end is an old tumble- down summer-house.
Halfway down is the moor-gate, where the old
gentleman left his cigar-ash. It is a white
wooden gate with a latch. Beyond it lies the
wide moor. I remembered your theory of the
affair and tried to picture all that had
occurred. As the old man stood there he saw
something coming across the moor, something
which terrified him so that he lost his wits and
ran and ran until he died of sheer horror and
exhaustion. There was the long, gloomy tunnel
down which he fled. And from what? A sheep-dog
of the moor? Or a spectral hound, black, silent,
and monstrous? Was there a human agency in the
matter? Did the pale, watchful Barrymore know
more than he cared to say? It was all dim and
vague, but always there is the dark shadow of
crime behind it.
One other neighbour I have met since I wrote
last. This is Mr. Frankland, of Lafter Hall, who
lives some four miles to the south of us. He is
an elderly man, red-faced, white-haired, and
choleric. His passion is for the British law,
and he has spent a large fortune in litigation.
He fights for the mere pleasure of fighting and
is equally ready to take up either side of a
question, so that it is no wonder that he has
found it a costly amusement. Sometimes he will
shut up a right of way and defy the parish to
make him open it. At others he will with his own
hands tear down some other man`s gate and
declare that a path has existed there from time
immemorial, defying the owner to prosecute him
for trespass. He is learned in old manorial and
communal rights, and he applies his knowledge
sometimes in favour of the villagers of
Fernworthy and sometimes against them, so that
he is periodically either carried in triumph
down the village street or else burned in
effigy, according to his latest exploit. He is
said to have about seven lawsuits upon his hands
at present, which will probably swallow up the
remainder of his fortune and so draw his sting
and leave him harmless for the future. Apart
from the law he seems a kindly, good-natured
person, and I only mention him because you were
particular that I should send some description
of the people who surround us. He is curiously
employed at present, for, being an amateur
astronomer, he has an excellent telescope, with
which he lies upon the roof of his own house and
sweeps the moor all day in the hope of catching
a glimpse of the escaped convict. If he would
confine his energies to this all would be well,
but there are rumours that he intends to
prosecute Dr. Mortimer for opening a grave
without the consent of the next of kin because
he dug up the Neolithic skull in the barrow on
Long Down. He helps to keep our lives from being
monotonous and gives a little comic relief where
it is badly needed.
And now, having brought you up to date in the
escaped convict, the Stapletons, Dr. Mortimer,
and Frankland, of Lafter Hall, let me end on
that which is most important and tell you more
about the Barrymores, and especially about the
surprising development of last night.
First of all about the test telegram, which
you sent from London in order to make sure that
Barrymore was really here. I have already
explained that the testimony of the postmaster
shows that the test was worthless and that we
have no proof one way or the other. I told Sir
Henry how the matter stood, and he at once, in
his downright fashion, had Barrymore up and
asked him whether he had received the telegram
himself. Barrymore said that he had.
"Did the boy deliver it into your own hands?"
asked Sir Henry.
Barrymore looked surprised, and considered
for a little time.
"No," said he, "I was in the box-room at the
time, and my wife brought it up to me."
"Did you answer it yourself?"
"No; I told my wife what to answer and she
went down to write it."
In the evening he recurred to the subject of
his own accord.
"I could not quite understand the object of
your questions this morning, Sir Henry," said
he. "I trust that they do not mean that I have
done anything to forfeit your confidence?"
Sir Henry had to assure him that it was not
so and pacify him by giving him a considerable
part of his old wardrobe, the London outfit
having now all arrived.
Mrs. Barrymore is of interest to me. She is a
heavy, solid person, very limited, intensely
respectable, and inclined to be puritanical. You
could hardly conceive a less emotional subject.
Yet I have told you how, on the first night
here, I heard her sobbing bitterly, and since
then I have more than once observed traces of
tears upon her face. Some deep sorrow gnaws ever
at her heart. Sometimes I wonder if she has a
guilty memory which haunts her, and sometimes I
suspect Barrymore of being a domestic tyrant. I
have always felt that there was something
singular and questionable in this man`s
character, but the adventure of last night
brings all my suspicions to a head.
And yet it may seem a small matter in itself.
You are aware that I am not a very sound
sleeper, and since I have been on guard in this
house my slumbers have been lighter than ever.
Last night, about two in the morning, I was
aroused by a stealthy step passing my room. I
rose, opened my door, and peeped out. A long
black shadow was trailing down the corridor. It
was thrown by a man who walked softly down the
passage with a candle held in his hand. He was
in shirt and trousers, with no covering to his
feet. I could merely see the outline, but his
height told me that it was Barrymore. He walked
very slowly and circumspectly, and there was
something indescribably guilty and furtive in
his whole appearance.
I have told you that the corridor is broken
by the balcony which runs round the hall, but
that it is resumed upon the farther side. I
waited until he had passed out of sight and then
I followed him. When I came round the balcony he
had reached the end of the farther corridor, and
I could see from the glimmer of light through an
open door that he had entered one of the rooms.
Now, all these rooms are unfurnished and
unoccupied so that his expedition became more
mysterious than ever. The light shone steadily
as if he were standing motionless. I crept down
the passage as noiselessly as I could and peeped
round the corner of the door.
Barrymore was crouching at the window with
the candle held against the glass. His profile
was half turned towards me, and his face seemed
to be rigid with expectation as he stared out
into the blackness of the moor. For some minutes
he stood watching intently. Then he gave a deep
groan and with an impatient gesture he put out
the light. Instantly I made my way back to my
room, and very shortly came the stealthy steps
passing once more upon their return journey.
Long afterwards when I had fallen into a light
sleep I heard a key turn somewhere in a lock,
but I could not tell whence the sound came. What
it all means I cannot guess, but there is some
secret business going on in this house of gloom
which sooner or later we shall get to the bottom
of. I do not trouble you with my theories, for
you asked me to furnish you only with facts. I
have had a long talk with Sir Henry this
morning, and we have made a plan of campaign
founded upon my observations of last night. I
will not speak about it just now, but it should
make my next report interesting reading.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
