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"The Hound of the Baskervilles"
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Chapter
9
The Light upon the Moor
Baskerville Hall, Oct. 15th. MY DEAR HOLMES: If I was compelled to
leave you without much news during the early
days of my mission you must acknowledge that I
am making up for lost time, and that events are
now crowding thick and fast upon us. In my last
report I ended upon my top note with Barrymore
at the window, and now I have quite a budget
already which will, unless I am much mistaken,
considerably surprise you. Things have taken a
turn which I could not have anticipated. In some
ways they have within the last forty-eight hours
become much clearer and in some ways they have
become more complicated. But I will tell you all
and you shall judge for yourself.
Before breakfast on the morning following my
adventure I went down the corridor and examined
the room in which Barrymore had been on the
night before. The western window through which
he had stared so intently has, I noticed, one
peculiarity above all other windows in the
house--it commands the nearest outlook on to the
moor. There is an opening between two trees
which enables one from this point of view to
look right down upon it, while from all the
other windows it is only a distant glimpse which
can be obtained. It follows, therefore, that
Barrymore, since only this window would serve
the purpose, must have been looking out for
something or somebody upon the moor. The night
was very dark, so that I can hardly imagine how
he could have hoped to see anyone. It had struck
me that it was possible that some love intrigue
was on foot. That would have accounted for his
stealthy movements and also for the uneasiness
of his wife. The man is a striking-looking
fellow, very well equipped to steal the heart of
a country girl, so that this theory seemed to
have something to support it. That opening of
the door which I had heard after I had returned
to my room might mean that he had gone out to
keep some clandestine appointment. So I reasoned
with myself in the morning, and I tell you the
direction of my suspicions, however much the
result may have shown that they were unfounded.
But whatever the true explanation of
Barrymore`s movements might be, I felt that the
responsibility of keeping them to myself until I
could explain them was more than I could bear. I
had an interview with the baronet in his study
after breakfast, and I told him all that I had
seen. He was less surprised than I had expected.
"I knew that Barrymore walked about nights,
and I had a mind to speak to him about it," said
he. "Two or three times I have heard his steps
in the passage, coming and going, just about the
hour you name."
"Perhaps then he pays a visit every night to
that particular window," I suggested.
"Perhaps he does. If so, we should be able to
shadow him and see what it is that he is after.
I wonder what your friend Holmes would do if he
were here."
"I believe that he would do exactly what you
now suggest," said I. "He would follow Barrymore
and see what he did."
"Then we shall do it together."
"But surely he would hear us."
"The man is rather deaf, and in any case we
must take our chance of that. We`ll sit up in my
room tonight and wait until he passes." Sir
Henry rubbed his hands with pleasure, and it was
evident that he hailed the adventure as a relief
to his somewhat quiet life upon the moor.
The baronet has been in communication with
the architect who prepared the plans for Sir
Charles, and with a contractor from London, so
that we may expect great changes to begin here
soon. There have been decorators and furnishers
up from Plymouth, and it is evident that our
friend has large ideas and means to spare no
pains or expense to restore the grandeur of his
family. When the house is renovated and
refurnished, all that he will need will be a
wife to make it complete. Between ourselves
there are pretty clear signs that this will not
be wanting if the lady is willing, for I have
seldom seen a man more infatuated with a woman
than he is with our beautiful neighbour, Miss
Stapleton. And yet the course of true love does
not run quite as smoothly as one would under the
circumstances expect. Today, for example, its
surface was broken by a very unexpected ripple,
which has caused our friend considerable
perplexity and annoyance.
After the conversation which I have quoted
about Barrymore, Sir Henry put on his hat and
prepared to go out. As a matter of course I did
the same.
"What, are you coming, Watson?" he asked,
looking at me in a curious way.
"That depends on whether you are going on the
moor," said I.
"Yes, I am."
"Well, you know what my instructions are. I
am sorry to intrude, but you heard how earnestly
Holmes insisted that I should not leave you, and
especially that you should not go alone upon the
moor."
Sir Henry put his hand upon my shoulder with
a pleasant smile.
"My dear fellow," said he, "Holmes, with all
his wisdom, did not foresee some things which
have happened since I have been on the moor. You
understand me? I am sure that you are the last
man in the world who would wish to be a
spoil-sport. I must go out alone."
It put me in a most awkward position. I was
at a loss what to say or what to do, and before
I had made up my mind he picked up his cane and
was gone.
But when I came to think the matter over my
conscience reproached me bitterly for having on
any pretext allowed him to go out of my sight. I
imagined what my feelings would be if I had to
return to you and to confess that some
misfortune had occurred through my disregard for
your instructions. I assure you my cheeks
flushed at the very thought. It might not even
now be too late to overtake him, so I set off at
once in the direction of Merripit House.
I hurried along the road at the top of my
speed without seeing anything of Sir Henry,
until I came to the point where the moor path
branches off. There, fearing that perhaps I had
come in the wrong direction after all, I mounted
a hill from which I could command a view--the
same hill which is cut into the dark quarry.
Thence I saw him at once. He was on the moor
path about a quarter of a mile off, and a lady
was by his side who could only be Miss
Stapleton. It was clear that there was already
an understanding between them and that they had
met by appointment. They were walking slowly
along in deep conversation, and I saw her making
quick little movements of her hands as if she
were very earnest in what she was saying, while
he listened intently, and once or twice shook
his head in strong dissent. I stood among the
rocks watching them, very much puzzled as to
what I should do next. To follow them and break
into their intimate conversation seemed to be an
outrage, and yet my clear duty was never for an
instant to let him out of my sight. To act the
spy upon a friend was a hateful task. Still, I
could see no better course than to observe him
from the hill, and to clear my conscience by
confessing to him afterwards what I had done. It
is true that if any sudden danger had threatened
him I was too far away to be of use, and yet I
am sure that you will agree with me that the
position was very difficult, and that there was
nothing more which I could do.
Our friend, Sir Henry, and the lady had
halted on the path and were standing deeply
absorbed in their conversation, when I was
suddenly aware that I was not the only witness
of their interview. A wisp of green floating in
the air caught my eye, and another glance showed
me that it was carried on a stick by a man who
was moving among the broken ground. It was
Stapleton with his butterfly-net. He was very
much closer to the pair than I was, and he
appeared to be moving in their direction. At
this instant Sir Henry suddenly drew Miss
Stapleton to his side. His arm was round her,
but it seemed to me that she was straining away
from him with her face averted. He stooped his
head to hers, and she raised one hand as if in
protest. Next moment I saw them spring apart and
turn hurriedly round. Stapleton was the cause of
the interruption. He was running wildly towards
them, his absurd net dangling behind him. He
gesticulated and almost danced with excitement
in front of the lovers. What the scene meant I
could not imagine, but it seemed to me that
Stapleton was abusing Sir Henry, who offered
explanations, which became more angry as the
other refused to accept them. The lady stood by
in haughty silence. Finally Stapleton turned
upon his heel and beckoned in a peremptory way
to his sister, who, after an irresolute glance
at Sir Henry, walked off by the side of her
brother. The naturalist`s angry gestures showed
that the lady was included in his displeasure.
The baronet stood for a minute looking after
them, and then he walked slowly back the way
that he had come, his head hanging, the very
picture of dejection.
What all this meant I could not imagine, but
I was deeply ashamed to have witnessed so
intimate a scene without my friend`s knowledge.
I ran down the hill therefore and met the
baronet at the bottom. His face was flushed with
anger and his brows were wrinkled, like one who
is at his wit`s ends what to do.
"Halloa, Watson! Where have you dropped
from?" said he. "You don`t mean to say that you
came after me in spite of all?"
I explained everything to him: how I had
found it impossible to remain behind, how I had
followed him, and how I had witnessed all that
had occurred. For an instant his eyes blazed at
me, but my frankness disarmed his anger, and he
broke at last into a rather rueful laugh.
"You would have thought the middle of that
prairie a fairly safe place for a man to be
private," said he, "but, by thunder, the whole
countryside seems to have been out to see me do
my wooing-- and a mighty poor wooing at that!
Where had you engaged a seat?"
"I was on that hill."
"Quite in the back row, eh? But her brother
was well up to the front. Did you see him come
out on us?"
"Yes, I did."
"Did he ever strike you as being crazy--this
brother of hers?"
"I can`t say that he ever did."
"I dare say not. I always thought him sane
enough until today, but you can take it from me
that either he or I ought to be in a
straitjacket. What`s the matter with me, anyhow?
You`ve lived near me for some weeks, Watson.
Tell me straight, now! Is there anything that
would prevent me from making a good husband to a
woman that I loved?"
"I should say not."
"He can`t object to my worldly position, so
it must be myself that he has this down on. What
has he against me? I never hurt man or woman in
my life that I know of. And yet he would not so
much as let me touch the tips of her fingers."
"Did he say so?"
"That, and a deal more. I tell you, Watson,
I`ve only known her these few weeks, but from
the first I just felt that she was made for me,
and she, too--she was happy when she was with
me, and that I`ll swear. There`s a light in a
woman`s eyes that speaks louder than words. But
he has never let us get together and it was only
today for the first time that I saw a chance of
having a few words with her alone. She was glad
to meet me, but when she did it was not love
that she would talk about, and she wouldn`t have
let me talk about it either if she could have
stopped it. She kept coming back to it that this
was a place of danger, and that she would never
be happy until I had left it. I told her that
since I had seen her I was in no hurry to leave
it, and that if she really wanted me to go, the
only way to work it was for her to arrange to go
with me. With that I offered in as many words to
marry her, but before she could answer, down
came this brother of hers, running at us with a
face on him like a madman. He was just white
with rage, and those light eyes of his were
blazing with fury. What was I doing with the
lady? How dared I offer her attentions which
were distasteful to her? Did I think that
because I was a baronet I could do what I liked?
If he had not been her brother I should have
known better how to answer him. As it was I told
him that my feelings towards his sister were
such as I was not ashamed of, and that I hoped
that she might honour me by becoming my wife.
That seemed to make the matter no better, so
then I lost my temper too, and I answered him
rather more hotly than I should perhaps,
considering that she was standing by. So it
ended by his going off with her, as you saw, and
here am I as badly puzzled a man as any in this
county. Just tell me what it all means, Watson,
and I`ll owe you more than ever I can hope to
pay."
I tried one or two explanations, but, indeed,
I was completely puzzled myself. Our friend`s
title, his fortune, his age, his character, and
his appearance are all in his favour, and I know
nothing against him unless it be this dark fate
which runs in his family. That his advances
should be rejected so brusquely without any
reference to the lady`s own wishes and that the
lady should accept the situation without protest
is very amazing. However, our conjectures were
set at rest by a visit from Stapleton himself
that very afternoon. He had come to offer
apologies for his rudeness of the morning, and
after a long private interview with Sir Henry in
his study the upshot of their conversation was
that the breach is quite healed, and that we are
to dine at Merripit House next Friday as a sign
of it.
"I don`t say now that he isn`t a crazy man,"
said Sir Henry; "I can`t forget the look in his
eyes when he ran at me this morning, but I must
allow that no man could make a more handsome
apology than he has done."
"Did he give any explanation of his conduct?"
"His sister is everything in his life, he
says. That is natural enough, and I am glad that
he should understand her value. They have always
been together, and according to his account he
has been a very lonely man with only her as a
companion, so that the thought of losing her was
really terrible to him. He had not understood,
he said, that I was becoming attached to her,
but when he saw with his own eyes that it was
really so, and that she might be taken away from
him, it gave him such a shock that for a time he
was not responsible for what he said or did. He
was very sorry for all that had passed, and he
recognized how foolish and how selfish it was
that he should imagine that he could hold a
beautiful woman like his sister to himself for
her whole life. If she had to leave him he had
rather it was to a neighbour like myself than to
anyone else. But in any case it was a blow to
him and it would take him some time before he
could prepare himself to meet it. He would
withdraw all opposition upon his part if I would
promise for three months to let the matter rest
and to be content with cultivating the lady`s
friendship during that time without claiming her
love. This I promised, and so the matter rests."
So there is one of our small mysteries
cleared up. It is something to have touched
bottom anywhere in this bog in which we are
floundering. We know now why Stapleton looked
with disfavour upon his sister`s suitor--even
when that suitor was so eligible a one as Sir
Henry. And now I pass on to another thread which
I have extricated out of the tangled skein, the
mystery of the sobs in the night, of the
tear-stained face of Mrs. Barrymore, of the
secret journey of the butler to the western
lattice window. Congratulate me, my dear Holmes,
and tell me that I have not disappointed you as
an agent--that you do not regret the confidence
which you showed in me when you sent me down.
All these things have by one night`s work been
thoroughly cleared.
I have said "by one night`s work," but, in
truth, it was by two nights` work, for on the
first we drew entirely blank. I sat up with Sir
Henry in his rooms until nearly three o`clock in
the morning, but no sound of any sort did we
hear except the chiming clock upon the stairs.
It was a most melancholy vigil and ended by each
of us falling asleep in our chairs. Fortunately
we were not discouraged, and we determined to
try again. The next night we lowered the lamp
and sat smoking cigarettes without making the
least sound. It was incredible how slowly the
hours crawled by, and yet we were helped through
it by the same sort of patient interest which
the hunter must feel as he watches the trap into
which he hopes the game may wander. One struck,
and two, and we had almost for the second time
given it up in despair when in an instant we
both sat bolt upright in our chairs with all our
weary senses keenly on the alert once more. We
had heard the creak of a step in the passage.
Very stealthily we heard it pass along until
it died away in the distance. Then the baronet
gently opened his door and we set out in
pursuit. Already our man had gone round the
gallery and the corridor was all in darkness.
Softly we stole along until we had come into the
other wing. We were just in time to catch a
glimpse of the tall, black-bearded figure, his
shoulders rounded as he tiptoed down the
passage. Then he passed through the same door as
before, and the light of the candle framed it in
the darkness and shot one single yellow beam
across the gloom of the corridor. We shuffled
cautiously towards it, trying every plank before
we dared to put our whole weight upon it. We had
taken the precaution of leaving our boots behind
us, but, even so, the old boards snapped and
creaked beneath our tread. Sometimes it seemed
impossible that he should fail to hear our
approach. However, the man is fortunately rather
deaf, and he was entirely preoccupied in that
which he was doing. When at last we reached the
door and peeped through we found him crouching
at the window, candle in hand, his white, intent
face pressed against the pane, exactly as I had
seen him two nights before.
We had arranged no plan of campaign, but the
baronet is a man to whom the most direct way is
always the most natural. He walked into the
room, and as he did so Barrymore sprang up from
the window with a sharp hiss of his breath and
stood, livid and trembling, before us. His dark
eyes, glaring out of the white mask of his face,
were full of horror and astonishment as he gazed
from Sir Henry to me.
"What are you doing here, Barrymore?"
"Nothing, sir." His agitation was so great
that he could hardly speak, and the shadows
sprang up and down from the shaking of his
candle. "It was the window, sir. I go round at
night to see that they are fastened."
"On the second floor?"
"Yes, sir, all the windows."
"Look here, Barrymore," said Sir Henry
sternly, "we have made up our minds to have the
truth out of you, so it will save you trouble to
tell it sooner rather than later. Come, now! No
lies! What were you doing at that window?"
The fellow looked at us in a helpless way,
and he wrung his hands together like one who is
in the last extremity of doubt and misery.
"I was doing no harm, sir. I was holding a
candle to the window."
"And why were you holding a candle to the
window?"
"Don`t ask me, Sir Henry--don`t ask me! I
give you my word, sir, that it is not my secret,
and that I cannot tell it. If it concerned no
one but myself I would not try to keep it from
you."
A sudden idea occurred to me, and I took the
candle from the trembling hand of the butler.
"He must have been holding it as a signal,"
said I. "Let us see if there is any answer." I
held it as he had done, and stared out into the
darkness of the night. Vaguely I could discern
the black bank of the trees and the lighter
expanse of the moor, for the moon was behind the
clouds. And then I gave a cry of exultation, for
a tiny pinpoint of yellow light had suddenly
transfixed the dark veil, and glowed steadily in
the centre of the black square framed by the
window.
"There it is!" I cried.
"No, no, sir, it is nothing--nothing at all!"
the butler broke in; "I assure you, sir--"
"Move your light across the window, Watson!"
cried the baronet. "See, the other moves also!
Now, you rascal, do you deny that it is a
signal? Come, speak up! Who is your confederate
out yonder, and what is this conspiracy that is
going on?"
The man`s face became openly defiant. "It is
my business, and not yours. I will not tell."
"Then you leave my employment right away."
"Very good, sir. If I must I must."
"And you go in disgrace. By thunder, you may
well be ashamed of yourself. Your family has
lived with mine for over a hundred years under
this roof, and here I find you deep in some dark
plot against me."
"No, no, sir; no, not against you!" It was a
woman`s voice, and Mrs. Barrymore, paler and
more horrorstruck than her husband, was standing
at the door. Her bulky figure in a shawl and
skirt might have been comic were it not for the
intensity of feeling upon her face.
"We have to go, Eliza. This is the end of it.
You can pack our things," said the butler.
"Oh, John, John, have I brought you to this?
It is my doing, Sir Henry--all mine. He has done
nothing except for my sake and because I asked
him."
"Speak out, then! What does it mean?"
"My unhappy brother is starving on the moor.
We cannot let him perish at our very gates. The
light is a signal to him that food is ready for
him, and his light out yonder is to show the
spot to which to bring it."
"Then your brother is--"
"The escaped convict, sir--Selden, the
criminal."
"That`s the truth, sir," said Barrymore. "I
said that it was not my secret and that I could
not tell it to you. But now you have heard it,
and you will see that if there was a plot it was
not against you."
This, then, was the explanation of the
stealthy expeditions at night and the light at
the window. Sir Henry and I both stared at the
woman in amazement. Was it possible that this
stolidly respectable person was of the same
blood as one of the most notorious criminals in
the country?
"Yes, sir, my name was Selden, and he is my
younger brother. We humoured him too much when
he was a lad and gave him his own way in
everything until he came to think that the world
was made for his pleasure, and that he could do
what he liked in it. Then as he grew older he
met wicked companions, and the devil entered
into him until he broke my mother`s heart and
dragged our name in the dirt. From crime to
crime he sank lower and lower until it is only
the mercy of God which has snatched him from the
scaffold; but to me, sir, he was always the
little curly-headed boy that I had nursed and
played with as an elder sister would. That was
why he broke prison, sir. He knew that I was
here and that we could not refuse to help him.
When he dragged himself here one night, weary
and starving, with the warders hard at his
heels, what could we do? We took him in and fed
him and cared for him. Then you returned, sir,
and my brother thought he would be safer on the
moor than anywhere else until the hue and cry
was over, so he lay in hiding there. But every
second night we made sure if he was still there
by putting a light in the window, and if there
was an answer my husband took out some bread and
meat to him. Every day we hoped that he was
gone, but as long as he was there we could not
desert him. That is the whole truth, as I am an
honest Christian woman and you will see that if
there is blame in the matter it does not lie
with my husband but with me, for whose sake he
has done all that he has."
The woman`s words came with an intense
earnestness which carried conviction with them.
"Is this true, Barrymore?"
"Yes, Sir Henry. Every word of it."
"Well, I cannot blame you for standing by
your own wife. Forget what I have said. Go to
your room, you two, and we shall talk further
about this matter in the morning."
When they were gone we looked out of the
window again. Sir Henry had flung it open, and
the cold night wind beat in upon our faces. Far
away in the black distance there still glowed
that one tiny point of yellow light.
"I wonder he dares," said Sir Henry.
"It may be so placed as to be only visible
from here."
"Very likely. How far do you think it is?"
"Out by the Cleft Tor, I think."
"Not more than a mile or two off."
"Hardly that."
"Well, it cannot be far if Barrymore had to
carry out the food to it. And he is waiting,
this villain, beside that candle. By thunder,
Watson, I am going out to take that man!"
The same thought had crossed my own mind. It
was not as if the Barrymores had taken us into
their confidence. Their secret had been forced
from them. The man was a danger to the
community, an unmitigated scoundrel for whom
there was neither pity nor excuse. We were only
doing our duty in taking this chance of putting
him back where he could do no harm. With his
brutal and violent nature, others would have to
pay the price if we held our hands. Any night,
for example, our neighbours the Stapletons might
be attacked by him, and it may have been the
thought of this which made Sir Henry so keen
upon the adventure.
"I will come," said I.
"Then get your revolver and put on your
boots. The sooner we start the better, as the
fellow may put out his light and be off."
In five minutes we were outside the door,
starting upon our expedition. We hurried through
the dark shrubbery, amid the dull moaning of the
autumn wind and the rustle of the falling
leaves. The night air was heavy with the smell
of damp and decay. Now and again the moon peeped
out for an instant, but clouds were driving over
the face of the sky, and just as we came out on
the moor a thin rain began to fall. The light
still burned steadily in front.
"Are you armed?" I asked.
"I have a hunting-crop."
"We must close in on him rapidly, for he is
said to be a desperate fellow. We shall take him
by surprise and have him at our mercy before he
can resist."
"I say, Watson," said the baronet, "what
would Holmes say to this? How about that hour of
darkness in which the power of evil is exalted?"
As if in answer to his words there rose
suddenly out of the vast gloom of the moor that
strange cry which I had already heard upon the
borders of the great Grimpen Mire. It came with
the wind through the silence of the night, a
long, deep mutter, then a rising howl, and then
the sad moan in which it died away. Again and
again it sounded, the whole air throbbing with
it, strident, wild, and menacing. The baronet
caught my sleeve and his face glimmered white
through the darkness.
"My God, what`s that, Watson?"
"I don`t know. It`s a sound they have on the
moor. I heard it once before."
It died away, and an absolute silence closed
in upon us. We stood straining our ears, but
nothing came.
"Watson," said the baronet, "it was the cry
of a hound."
My blood ran cold in my veins, for there was
a break in his voice which told of the sudden
horror which had seized him.
"What do they call this sound?" he asked.
"Who?"
"The folk on the countryside."
"Oh, they are ignorant people. Why should you
mind what they call it?"
"Tell me, Watson. What do they say of it?"
I hesitated but could not escape the
question.
"They say it is the cry of the Hound of the
Baskervilles."
He groaned and was silent for a few moments.
"A hound it was," he said at last, "but it
seemed to come from miles away, over yonder, I
think."
"It was hard to say whence it came."
"It rose and fell with the wind. Isn`t that
the direction of the great Grimpen Mire?"
"Yes, it is."
"Well, it was up there. Come now, Watson,
didn`t you think yourself that it was the cry of
a hound? I am not a child. You need not fear to
speak the truth."
"Stapleton was with me when I heard it last.
He said that it might be the calling of a
strange bird."
"No, no, it was a hound. My God, can there be
some truth in all these stories? Is it possible
that I am really in danger from so dark a cause?
You don`t believe it, do you, Watson?"
"No, no."
"And yet it was one thing to laugh about it
in London, and it is another to stand out here
in the darkness of the moor and to hear such a
cry as that. And my uncle! There was the
footprint of the hound beside him as he lay. It
all fits together. I don`t think that I am a
coward, Watson, but that sound seemed to freeze
my very blood. Feel my hand!"
It was as cold as a block of marble.
"You`ll be all right tomorrow."
"I don`t think I`ll get that cry out of my
head. What do you advise that we do now?"
"Shall we turn back?"
"No, by thunder; we have come out to get our
man, and we will do it. We after the convict,
and a hell-hound, as likely as not, after us.
Come on! We`ll see it through if all the fiends
of the pit were loose upon the moor."
We stumbled slowly along in the darkness,
with the black loom of the craggy hills around
us, and the yellow speck of light burning
steadily in front. There is nothing so deceptive
as the distance of a light upon a pitch-dark
night, and sometimes the glimmer seemed to be
far away upon the horizon and sometimes it might
have been within a few yards of us. But at last
we could see whence it came, and then we knew
that we were indeed very close. A guttering
candle was stuck in a crevice of the rocks which
flanked it on each side so as to keep the wind
from it and also to prevent it from being
visible, save in the direction of Baskerville
Hall. A boulder of granite concealed our
approach, and crouching behind it we gazed over
it at the signal light. It was strange to see
this single candle burning there in the middle
of the moor, with no sign of life near it--just
the one straight yellow flame and the gleam of
the rock on each side of it.
"What shall we do now?" whispered Sir Henry.
"Wait here. He must be near his light. Let us
see if we can get a glimpse of him."
The words were hardly out of my mouth when we
both saw him. Over the rocks, in the crevice of
which the candle burned, there was thrust out an
evil yellow face, a terrible animal face, all
seamed and scored with vile passions. Foul with
mire, with a bristling beard, and hung with
matted hair, it might well have belonged to one
of those old savages who dwelt in the burrows on
the hillsides. The light beneath him was
reflected in his small, cunning eyes which
peered fiercely to right and left through the
darkness like a crafty and savage animal who has
heard the steps of the hunters.
Something had evidently aroused his
suspicions. It may have been that Barrymore had
some private signal which we had neglected to
give, or the fellow may have had some other
reason for thinking that all was not well, but I
could read his fears upon his wicked face. Any
instant he might dash out the light and vanish
in the darkness. I sprang forward therefore, and
Sir Henry did the same. At the same moment the
convict screamed out a curse at us and hurled a
rock which splintered up against the boulder
which had sheltered us. I caught one glimpse of
his short, squat, strongly built figure as he
sprang to his feet and turned to run. At the
same moment by a lucky chance the moon broke
through the clouds. We rushed over the brow of
the hill, and there was our man running with
great speed down the other side, springing over
the stones in his way with the activity of a
mountain goat. A lucky long shot of my revolver
might have crippled him, but I had brought it
only to defend myself if attacked and not to
shoot an unarmed man who was running away.
We were both swift runners and in fairly good
training, but we soon found that we had no
chance of overtaking him. We saw him for a long
time in the moonlight until he was only a small
speck moving swiftly among the boulders upon the
side of a distant hill. We ran and ran until we
were completely blown, but the space between us
grew ever wider. Finally we stopped and sat
panting on two rocks, while we watched him
disappearing in the distance.
And it was at this moment that there occurred
a most strange and unexpected thing. We had
risen from our rocks and were turning to go
home, having abandoned the hopeless chase. The
moon was low upon the right, and the jagged
pinnacle of a granite tor stood up against the
lower curve of its silver disc. There, outlined
as black as an ebony statue on that shining
background, I saw the figure of a man upon the
tor. Do not think that it was a delusion,
Holmes. I assure you that I have never in my
life seen anything more clearly. As far as I
could judge, the figure was that of a tall, thin
man. He stood with his legs a little separated,
his arms folded, his head bowed, as if he were
brooding over that enormous wilderness of peat
and granite which lay before him. He might have
been the very spirit of that terrible place. It
was not the convict. This man was far from the
place where the latter had disappeared. Besides,
he was a much taller man. With a cry of surprise
I pointed him out to the baronet, but in the
instant during which I had turned to grasp his
arm the man was gone. There was the sharp
pinnacle of granite still cutting the lower edge
of the moon, but its peak bore no trace of that
silent and motionless figure.
I wished to go in that direction and to
search the tor, but it was some distance away.
The baronet`s nerves were still quivering from
that cry, which recalled the dark story of his
family, and he was not in the mood for fresh
adventures. He had not seen this lonely man upon
the tor and could not feel the thrill which his
strange presence and his commanding attitude had
given to me. "A warder, no doubt," said he. "The
moor has been thick with them since this fellow
escaped." Well, perhaps his explanation may be
the right one, but I should like to have some
further proof of it. Today we mean to
communicate to the Princetown people where they
should look for their missing man, but it is
hard lines that we have not actually had the
triumph of bringing him back as our own
prisoner. Such are the adventures of last night,
and you must acknowledge, my dear Holmes, that I
have done you very well in the matter of a
report. Much of what I tell you is no doubt
quite irrelevant, but still I feel that it is
best that I should let you have all the facts
and leave you to select for yourself those which
will be of most service to you in helping you to
your conclusions. We are certainly making some
progress. So far as the Barrymores go we have
found the motive of their actions, and that has
cleared up the situation very much. But the moor
with its mysteries and its strange inhabitants
remains as inscrutable as ever. Perhaps in my
next I may be able to throw some light upon this
also. Best of all would it be if you could come
down to us. In any case you will hear from me
again in the course of the next few days.
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Chapter
10
Extract from the Diary of Dr. Watson
So far I have been able to quote from the reports which I have
forwarded during these early days to Sherlock
Holmes. Now, however, I have arrived at a point
in my narrative where I am compelled to abandon
this method and to trust once more to my
recollections, aided by the diary which I kept
at the time. A few extracts from the latter will
carry me on to those scenes which are indelibly
fixed in every detail upon my memory. I proceed,
then, from the morning which followed our
abortive chase of the convict and our other
strange experiences upon the moor.
October 16th. A dull and foggy day with a
drizzle of rain. The house is banked in with
rolling clouds, which rise now and then to show
the dreary curves of the moor, with thin, silver
veins upon the sides of the hills, and the
distant boulders gleaming where the light
strikes upon their wet faces. It is melancholy
outside and in. The baronet is in a black
reaction after the excitements of the night. I
am conscious myself of a weight at my heart and
a feeling of impending danger--ever present
danger, which is the more terrible because I am
unable to define it.
And have I not cause for such a feeling?
Consider the long sequence of incidents which
have all pointed to some sinister influence
which is at work around us. There is the death
of the last occupant of the Hall, fulfilling so
exactly the conditions of the family legend, and
there are the repeated reports from peasants of
the appearance of a strange creature upon the
moor. Twice I have with my own ears heard the
sound which resembled the distant baying of a
hound. It is incredible, impossible, that it
should really be outside the ordinary laws of
nature. A spectral hound which leaves material
footmarks and fills the air with its howling is
surely not to be thought of. Stapleton may fall
in with such a superstition, and Mortimer also,
but if I have one quality upon earth it is
common sense, and nothing will persuade me to
believe in such a thing. To do so would be to
descend to the level of these poor peasants, who
are not content with a mere fiend dog but must
needs describe him with hell-fire shooting from
his mouth and eyes. Holmes would not listen to
such fancies, and I am his agent. But facts are
facts, and I have twice heard this crying upon
the moor. Suppose that there were really some
huge hound loose upon it; that would go far to
explain everything. But where could such a hound
lie concealed, where did it get its food, where
did it come from, how was it that no one saw it
by day? It must be confessed that the natural
explanation offers almost as many difficulties
as the other. And always, apart from the hound,
there is the fact of the human agency in London,
the man in the cab, and the letter which warned
Sir Henry against the moor. This at least was
real, but it might have been the work of a
protecting friend as easily as of an enemy.
Where is that friend or enemy now? Has he
remained in London, or has he followed us down
here? Could he--could he be the stranger whom I
saw upon the tor?
It is true that I have had only the one
glance at him, and yet there are some things to
which I am ready to swear. He is no one whom I
have seen down here, and I have now met all the
neighbours. The figure was far taller than that
of Stapleton, far thinner than that of
Frankland. Barrymore it might possibly have
been, but we had left him behind us, and I am
certain that he could not have followed us. A
stranger then is still dogging us, just as a
stranger dogged us in London. We have never
shaken him off. If I could lay my hands upon
that man, then at last we might find ourselves
at the end of all our difficulties. To this one
purpose I must now devote all my energies.
My first impulse was to tell Sir Henry all my
plans. My second and wisest one is to play my
own game and speak as little as possible to
anyone. He is silent and distrait. His nerves
have been strangely shaken by that sound upon
the moor. I will say nothing to add to his
anxieties, but I will take my own steps to
attain my own end.
We had a small scene this morning after
breakfast. Barrymore asked leave to speak with
Sir Henry, and they were closeted in his study
some little time. Sitting in the billiard-room I
more than once heard the sound of voices raised,
and I had a pretty good idea what the point was
which was under discussion. After a time the
baronet opened his door and called for me.
"Barrymore considers that he has a grievance,"
he said. "He thinks that it was unfair on our
part to hunt his brother-in-law down when he, of
his own free will, had told us the secret."
The butler was standing very pale but very
collected before us.
"I may have spoken too warmly, sir," said he,
"and if I have, I am sure that I beg your
pardon. At the same time, I was very much
surprised when I heard you two gentlemen come
back this morning and learned that you had been
chasing Selden. The poor fellow has enough to
fight against without my putting more upon his
track."
"If you had told us of your own free will it
would have been a different thing," said the
baronet, "you only told us, or rather your wife
only told us, when it was forced from you and
you could not help yourself."
"I didn`t think you would have taken
advantage of it, Sir Henry-- indeed I didn`t."
"The man is a public danger. There are lonely
houses scattered over the moor, and he is a
fellow who would stick at nothing. You only want
to get a glimpse of his face to see that. Look
at Mr. Stapleton`s house, for example, with no
one but himself to defend it. There`s no safety
for anyone until he is under lock and key."
"He`ll break into no house, sir. I give you
my solemn word upon that. But he will never
trouble anyone in this country again. I assure
you, Sir Henry, that in a very few days the
necessary arrangements will have been made and
he will be on his way to South America. For
God`s sake, sir, I beg of you not to let the
police know that he is still on the moor. They
have given up the chase there, and he can lie
quiet until the ship is ready for him. You can`t
tell on him without getting my wife and me into
trouble. I beg you, sir, to say nothing to the
police."
"What do you say, Watson?"
I shrugged my shoulders. "If he were safely
out of the country it would relieve the
tax-payer of a burden."
"But how about the chance of his holding
someone up before he goes?"
"He would not do anything so mad, sir. We
have provided him with all that he can want. To
commit a crime would be to show where he was
hiding."
"That is true," said Sir Henry. "Well,
Barrymore--"
"God bless you, sir, and thank you from my
heart! It would have killed my poor wife had he
been taken again."
"I guess we are aiding and abetting a felony,
Watson? But, after what we have heard I don`t
feel as if I could give the man up, so there is
an end of it. All right, Barrymore, you can go."
With a few broken words of gratitude the man
turned, but he hesitated and then came back.
"You`ve been so kind to us, sir, that I
should like to do the best I can for you in
return. I know something, Sir Henry, and perhaps
I should have said it before, but it was long
after the inquest that I found it out. I`ve
never breathed a word about it yet to mortal
man. It`s about poor Sir Charles`s death."
The baronet and I were both upon our feet.
"Do you know how he died?"
"No, sir, I don`t know that."
"What then?"
"I know why he was at the gate at that hour.
It was to meet a woman."
"To meet a woman! He?"
"Yes, sir."
"And the woman`s name?"
"I can`t give you the name, sir, but I can
give you the initials. Her initials were L. L."
"How do you know this, Barrymore?"
"Well, Sir Henry, your uncle had a letter
that morning. He had usually a great many
letters, for he was a public man and well known
for his kind heart, so that everyone who was in
trouble was glad to turn to him. But that
morning, as it chanced, there was only this one
letter, so I took the more notice of it. It was
from Coombe Tracey, and it was addressed in a
woman`s hand."
"Well?"
"Well, sir, I thought no more of the matter,
and never would have done had it not been for my
wife. Only a few weeks ago she was cleaning out
Sir Charles`s study--it had never been touched
since his death--and she found the ashes of a
burned letter in the back of the grate. The
greater part of it was charred to pieces, but
one little slip, the end of a page, hung
together, and the writing could still be read,
though it was gray on a black ground. It seemed
to us to be a postscript at the end of the
letter and it said: `Please, please, as you are
a gentleman, burn this letter, and be at the
gate by ten o clock. Beneath it were signed the
initials L. L."
"Have you got that slip?"
"No, sir, it crumbled all to bits after we
moved it."
"Had Sir Charles received any other letters
in the same writing?"
"Well, sir, I took no particular notice of
his letters. I should not have noticed this one,
only it happened to come alone."
"And you have no idea who L. L. is?"
"No, sir. No more than you have. But I expect
if we could lay our hands upon that lady we
should know more about Sir Charles`s death."
"I cannot understand, Barrymore, how you came
to conceal this important information."
"Well, sir, it was immediately after that our
own trouble came to us. And then again, sir, we
were both of us very fond of Sir Charles, as we
well might be considering all that he has done
for us. To rake this up couldn`t help our poor
master, and it`s well to go carefully when
there`s a lady in the case. Even the best of
us--"
"You thought it might injure his reputation?"
"Well, sir, I thought no good could come of
it. But now you have been kind to us, and I feel
as if it would be treating you unfairly not to
tell you all that I know about the matter."
"Very good, Barrymore; you can go." When the
butler had left us Sir Henry turned to me.
"Well, Watson, what do you think of this new
light?"
"It seems to leave the darkness rather
blacker than before."
"So I think. But if we can only trace L. L.
it should clear up the whole business. We have
gained that much. We know that there is someone
who has the facts if we can only find her. What
do you think we should do?"
"Let Holmes know all about it at once. It
will give him the clue for which he has been
seeking. I am much mistaken if it does not bring
him down."
I went at once to my room and drew up my
report of the morning`s conversation for Holmes.
It was evident to me that he had been very busy
of late, for the notes which I had from Baker
Street were few and short, with no comments upon
the information which I had supplied and hardly
any reference to my mission. No doubt his
blackmailing case is absorbing all his
faculties. And yet this new factor must surely
arrest his attention and renew his interest. I
wish that he were here.
October 17th. All day today the rain poured
down, rustling on the ivy and dripping from the
eaves. I thought of the convict out upon the
bleak, cold, shelterless moor. Poor devil!
Whatever his crimes, he has suffered something
to atone for them. And then I thought of that
other one--the face in the cab, the figure
against the moon. Was he also out in that
deluged--the unseen watcher, the man of
darkness? In the evening I put on my waterproof
and I walked far upon the sodden moor, full of
dark imaginings, the rain beating upon my face
and the wind whistling about my ears. God help
those who wander into the great mire now, for
even the firm uplands are becoming a morass. I
found the black tor upon which I had seen the
solitary watcher, and from its craggy summit I
looked out myself across the melancholy downs.
Rain squalls drifted across their russet face,
and the heavy, slate-coloured clouds hung low
over the landscape, trailing in gray wreaths
down the sides of the fantastic hills. In the
distant hollow on the left, half hidden by the
mist, the two thin towers of Baskerville Hall
rose above the trees. They were the only signs
of human life which I could see, save only those
prehistoric huts which lay thickly upon the
slopes of the hills. Nowhere was there any trace
of that lonely man whom I had seen on the same
spot two nights before.
As I walked back I was overtaken by Dr.
Mortimer driving in his dog-cart over a rough
moorland track which led from the outlying
farmhouse of Foulmire. He has been very
attentive to us, and hardly a day has passed
that he has not called at the Hall to see how we
were getting on. He insisted upon my climbing
into his dog-cart, and he gave me a lift
homeward. I found him much troubled over the
disappearance of his little spaniel. It had
wandered on to the moor and had never come back.
I gave him such consolation as I might, but I
thought of the pony on the Grimpen Mire, and I
do not fancy that he will see his little dog
again.
"By the way, Mortimer," said I as we jolted
along the rough road, "I suppose there are few
people living within driving distance of this
whom you do not know?"
"Hardly any, I think."
"Can you, then, tell me the name of any woman
whose initials are L. L.?"
He thought for a few minutes.
"No," said he. "There are a few gipsies and
labouring folk for whom I can`t answer, but
among the farmers or gentry there is no one
whose initials are those. Wait a bit though," he
added after a pause. "There is Laura Lyons--her
initials are L. L.--but she lives in Coombe
Tracey."
"Who is she?" I asked.
"She is Frankland`s daughter."
"What! Old Frankland the crank?"
"Exactly. She married an artist named Lyons,
who came sketching on the moor. He proved to be
a blackguard and deserted her. The fault from
what I hear may not have been entirely on one
side. Her father refused to have anything to do
with her because she had married without his
consent and perhaps for one or two other reasons
as well. So, between the old sinner and the
young one the girl has had a pretty bad time."
"How does she live?"
"I fancy old Frankland allows her a pittance,
but it cannot be more, for his own affairs are
considerably involved. Whatever she may have
deserved one could not allow her to go
hopelessly to the bad. Her story got about, and
several of the people here did something to
enable her to earn an honest living. Stapleton
did for one, and Sir Charles for another. I gave
a trifle myself. It was to set her up in a
typewriting business."
He wanted to know the object of my inquiries,
but I managed to satisfy his curiosity without
telling him too much, for there is no reason why
we should take anyone into our confidence.
Tomorrow morning I shall find my way to Coombe
Tracey, and if I can see this Mrs. Laura Lyons,
of equivocal reputation, a long step will have
been made towards clearing one incident in this
chain of mysteries. I am certainly developing
the wisdom of the serpent, for when Mortimer
pressed his questions to an inconvenient extent
I asked him casually to what type Frankland`s
skull belonged, and so heard nothing but
craniology for the rest of our drive. I have not
lived for years with Sherlock Holmes for
nothing.
I have only one other incident to record upon
this tempestuous and melancholy day. This was my
conversation with Barrymore just now, which
gives me one more strong card which I can play
in due time.
Mortimer had stayed to dinner, and he and the
baronet played ecarte afterwards. The butler
brought me my coffee into the library, and I
took the chance to ask him a few questions.
"Well," said I, "has this precious relation
of yours departed, or is he still lurking out
yonder?"
"I don`t know, sir. I hope to heaven that he
has gone, for he has brought nothing but trouble
here! I`ve not heard of him since I left out
food for him last, and that was three days ago."
"Did you see him then?"
"No, sir, but the food was gone when next I
went that way."
"Then he was certainly there?"
"So you would think, sir, unless it was the
other man who took it."
I sat with my coffee-cup halfway to my lips
and stared at Barrymore.
"You know that there is another man then?"
"Yes, sir; there is another man upon the
moor."
"Have you seen him?"
"No, sir."
"How do you know of him then?"
"Selden told me of him, sir, a week ago or
more. He`s in hiding, too, but he`s not a
convict as far as I can make out. I don`t like
it, Dr. Watson--I tell you straight, sir, that I
don`t like it." He spoke with a sudden passion
of earnestness.
"Now, listen to me, Barrymore! I have no
interest in this matter but that of your master.
I have come here with no object except to help
him. Tell me, frankly, what it is that you don`t
like."
Barrymore hesitated for a moment, as if he
regretted his outburst or found it difficult to
express his own feelings in words.
"It`s all these goings-on, sir," he cried at
last, waving his hand towards the rain-lashed
window which faced the moor. "There`s foul play
somewhere, and there`s black villainy brewing,
to that I`ll swear! Very glad I should be, sir,
to see Sir Henry on his way back to London
again!"
"But what is it that alarms you?"
"Look at Sir Charles`s death! That was bad
enough, for all that the coroner said. Look at
the noises on the moor at night. There`s not a
man would cross it after sundown if he was paid
for it. Look at this stranger hiding out yonder,
and watching and waiting! What`s he waiting for?
What does it mean? It means no good to anyone of
the name of Baskerville, and very glad I shall
be to be quit of it all on the day that Sir
Henry`s new servants are ready to take over the
Hall."
"But about this stranger," said I. "Can you
tell me anything about him? What did Selden say?
Did he find out where he hid, or what he was
doing?"
"He saw him once or twice, but he is a deep
one and gives nothing away. At first he thought
that he was the police, but soon he found that
he had some lay of his own. A kind of gentleman
he was, as far as he could see, but what he was
doing he could not make out."
"And where did he say that he lived?"
"Among the old houses on the hillside--the
stone huts where the old folk used to live."
"But how about his food?"
"Selden found out that he has got a lad who
works for him and brings all he needs. I dare
say he goes to Coombe Tracey for what he wants."
"Very good, Barrymore. We may talk further of
this some other time." When the butler had gone
I walked over to the black window, and I looked
through a blurred pane at the driving clouds and
at the tossing outline of the wind-swept trees.
It is a wild night indoors, and what must it be
in a stone hut upon the moor. What passion of
hatred can it be which leads a man to lurk in
such a place at such a time! And what deep and
earnest purpose can he have which calls for such
a trial! There, in that hut upon the moor, seems
to lie the very centre of that problem which has
vexed me so sorely. I swear that another day
shall not have passed before I have done all
that man can do to reach the heart of the
mystery.
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Chapter
11
The Man on the Tor
The extract from my private diary which forms the last chapter has
brought my narrative up to the eighteenth of
October, a time when these strange events began
to move swiftly towards their terrible
conclusion. The incidents of the next few days
are indelibly graven upon my recollection, and I
can tell them without reference to the notes
made at the time. I start them from the day
which succeeded that upon which I had
established two facts of great importance, the
one that Mrs. Laura Lyons of Coombe Tracey had
written to Sir Charles Baskerville and made an
appointment with him at the very place and hour
that he met his death, the other that the
lurking man upon the moor was to be found among
the stone huts upon the hillside. With these two
facts in my possession I felt that either my
intelligence or my courage must be deficient if
I could not throw some further light upon these
dark places.
I had no opportunity to tell the baronet what
I had learned about Mrs. Lyons upon the evening
before, for Dr. Mortimer remained with him at
cards until it was very late. At breakfast,
however, I informed him about my discovery and
asked him whether he would care to accompany me
to Coombe Tracey. At first he was very eager to
come, but on second thoughts it seemed to both
of us that if I went alone the results might be
better. The more formal we made the visit the
less information we might obtain. I left Sir
Henry behind, therefore, not without some
prickings of conscience, and drove off upon my
new quest.
When I reached Coombe Tracey I told Perkins
to put up the horses, and I made inquiries for
the lady whom I had come to interrogate. I had
no difficulty in finding her rooms, which were
central and well appointed. A maid showed me in
without ceremony, and as I entered the
sitting-room a lady, who was sitting before a
Remington typewriter, sprang up with a pleasant
smile of welcome. Her face fell, however, when
she saw that I was a stranger, and she sat down
again and asked me the object of my visit.
The first impression left by Mrs. Lyons was
one of extreme beauty. Her eyes and hair were of
the same rich hazel colour, and her cheeks,
though considerably freckled, were flushed with
the exquisite bloom of the brunette, the dainty
pink which lurks at the heart of the sulphur
rose. Admiration was, I repeat, the first
impression. But the second was criticism. There
was something subtly wrong with the face, some
coarseness of expression, some hardness,
perhaps, of eye, some looseness of lip which
marred its perfect beauty. But these, of course,
are afterthoughts. At the moment I was simply
conscious that I was in the presence of a very
handsome woman, and that she was asking me the
reasons for my visit. I had not quite understood
until that instant how delicate my mission was.
"I have the pleasure," said I, "of knowing
your father."
It was a clumsy introduction, and the lady
made me feel it. "There is nothing in common
between my father and me," she said. "I owe him
nothing, and his friends are not mine. If it
were not for the late Sir Charles Baskerville
and some other kind hearts I might have starved
for all that my father cared."
"It was about the late Sir Charles
Baskerville that I have come here to see you."
The freckles started out on the lady`s face.
"What can I tell you about him?" she asked,
and her fingers played nervously over the stops
of her typewriter.
"You knew him, did you not?"
"I have already said that I owe a great deal
to his kindness. If I am able to support myself
it is largely due to the interest which he took
in my unhappy situation."
"Did you correspond with him?"
The lady looked quickly up with an angry
gleam in her hazel eyes.
"What is the object of these questions?" she
asked sharply.
"The object is to avoid a public scandal. It
is better that I should ask them here than that
the matter should pass outside our control."
She was silent and her face was still very
pale. At last she looked up with something
reckless and defiant in her manner.
"Well, I`ll answer," she said. "What are your
questions?"
"Did you correspond with Sir Charles?"
"I certainly wrote to him once or twice to
acknowledge his delicacy and his generosity."
"Have you the dates of those letters?"
"No."
"Have you ever met him?"
"Yes, once or twice, when he came into Coombe
Tracey. He was a very retiring man, and he
preferred to do good by stealth."
"But if you saw him so seldom and wrote so
seldom, how did he know enough about your
affairs to be able to help you, as you say that
he has done?"
She met my difficulty with the utmost
readiness.
"There were several gentlemen who knew my sad
history and united to help me. One was Mr.
Stapleton, a neighbour and intimate friend of
Sir Charles`s. He was exceedingly kind, and it
was through him that Sir Charles learned about
my affairs."
I knew already that Sir Charles Baskerville
had made Stapleton his almoner upon several
occasions, so the lady`s statement bore the
impress of truth upon it.
"Did you ever write to Sir Charles asking him
to meet you?" I continued.
Mrs. Lyons flushed with anger again. "Really,
sir, this is a very extraordinary question."
"I am sorry, madam, but I must repeat it."
"Then I answer, certainly not."
"Not on the very day of Sir Charles`s death?"
The flush had faded in an instant, and a
deathly face was before me. Her dry lips could
not speak the "No" which I saw rather than
heard.
"Surely your memory deceives you," said I. "I
could even quote a passage of your letter. It
ran `Please, please, as you are a gentleman,
burn this letter, and be at the gate by ten
o`clock.`"
I thought that she had fainted, but she
recovered herself by a supreme effort.
"Is there no such thing as a gentleman?" she
gasped.
"You do Sir Charles an injustice. He did burn
the letter. But sometimes a letter may be
legible even when burned. You acknowledge now
that you wrote it?"
"Yes, I did write it," she cried, pouring out
her soul in a torrent of words. "I did write it.
Why should I deny it? I have no reason to be
ashamed of it. I wished him to help me. I
believed that if I had an interview I could gain
his help, so I asked him to meet me."
"But why at such an hour?"
"Because I had only just learned that he was
going to London next day and might be away for
months. There were reasons why I could not get
there earlier."
"But why a rendezvous in the garden instead
of a visit to the house?"
"Do you think a woman could go alone at that
hour to a bachelor`s house?"
"Well, what happened when you did get there?"
"I never went."
"Mrs. Lyons!"
"No, I swear it to you on all I hold sacred.
I never went. Something intervened to prevent my
going."
"What was that?"
"That is a private matter. I cannot tell it."
"You acknowledge then that you made an
appointment with Sir Charles at the very hour
and place at which he met his death, but you
deny that you kept the appointment."
"That is the truth."
Again and again I cross-questioned her, but I
could never get past that point.
"Mrs. Lyons," said I as I rose from this long
and inconclusive interview, "you are taking a
very great responsibility and putting yourself
in a very false position by not making an
absolutely clean breast of all that you know. If
I have to call in the aid of the police you will
find how seriously you are compromised. If your
position is innocent, why did you in the first
instance deny having written to Sir Charles upon
that date?"
"Because I feared that some false conclusion
might be drawn from it and that I might find
myself involved in a scandal."
"And why were you so pressing that Sir
Charles should destroy your letter?"
"If you have read the letter you will know."
"I did not say that I had read all the
letter."
"You quoted some of it."
"I quoted the postscript. The letter had, as
I said, been burned and it was not all legible.
I ask you once again why it was that you were so
pressing that Sir Charles should destroy this
letter which he received on the day of his
death."
"The matter is a very private one."
"The more reason why you should avoid a
public investigation."
"I will tell you, then. If you have heard
anything of my unhappy history you will know
that I made a rash marriage and had reason to
regret it."
"I have heard so much."
"My life has been one incessant persecution
from a husband whom I abhor. The law is upon his
side, and every day I am faced by the
possibility that he may force me to live with
him. At the time that I wrote this letter to Sir
Charles I had learned that there was a prospect
of my regaining my freedom if certain expenses
could be met. It meant everything to me--peace
of mind, happiness, self-respect--everything. I
knew Sir Charles`s generosity, and I thought
that if he heard the story from my own lips he
would help me."
"Then how is it that you did not go?"
"Because I received help in the interval from
another source."
"Why then, did you not write to Sir Charles
and explain this?"
"So I should have done had I not seen his
death in the paper next morning."
The woman`s story hung coherently together,
and all my questions were unable to shake it. I
could only check it by finding if she had,
indeed, instituted divorce proceedings against
her husband at or about the time of the tragedy.
It was unlikely that she would dare to say
that she had not been to Baskerville Hall if she
really had been, for a trap would be necessary
to take her there, and could not have returned
to Coombe Tracey until the early hours of the
morning. Such an excursion could not be kept
secret. The probability was, therefore, that she
was telling the truth, or, at least, a part of
the truth. I came away baffled and disheartened.
Once again I had reached that dead wall which
seemed to be built across every path by which I
tried to get at the object of my mission. And
yet the more I thought of the lady`s face and of
her manner the more I felt that something was
being held back from me. Why should she turn so
pale? Why should she fight against every
admission until it was forced from her? Why
should she have been so reticent at the time of
the tragedy? Surely the explanation of all this
could not be as innocent as she would have me
believe. For the moment I could proceed no
farther in that direction, but must turn back to
that other clue which was to be sought for among
the stone huts upon the moor.
And that was a most vague direction. I
realized it as I drove back and noted how hill
after hill showed traces of the ancient people.
Barrymore`s only indication had been that the
stranger lived in one of these abandoned huts,
and many hundreds of them are scattered
throughout the length and breadth of the moor.
But I had my own experience for a guide since it
had shown me the man himself standing upon the
summit of the Black Tor. That, then, should be
the centre of my search. From there I should
explore every hut upon the moor until I lighted
upon the right one. If this man were inside it I
should find out from his own lips, at the point
of my revolver if necessary, who he was and why
he had dogged us so long. He might slip away
from us in the crowd of Regent Street, but it
would puzzle him to do so upon the lonely moor.
On the other hand, if I should find the hut and
its tenant should not be within it I must remain
there, however long the vigil, until he
returned. Holmes had missed him in London. It
would indeed be a triumph for me if I could run
him to earth where my master had failed.
Luck had been against us again and again in
this inquiry, but now at last it came to my aid.
And the messenger of good fortune was none other
than Mr. Frankland, who was standing,
gray-whiskered and red-faced, outside the gate
of his garden, which opened on to the highroad
along which I travelled.
"Good-day, Dr. Watson," cried he with
unwonted good humour, "you must really give your
horses a rest and come in to have a glass of
wine and to congratulate me."
My feelings towards him were very far from
being friendly after what I had heard of his
treatment of his daughter, but I was anxious to
send Perkins and the wagonette home, and the
opportunity was a good one. I alighted and sent
a message to Sir Henry that I should walk over
in time for dinner. Then I followed Frankland
into his dining-room.
"It is a great day for me, sir--one of the
red-letter days of my life," he cried with many
chuckles. "I have brought off a double event. I
mean to teach them in these parts that law is
law, and that there is a man here who does not
fear to invoke it. I have established a right of
way through the centre of old Middleton`s park,
slap across it, sir, within a hundred yards of
his own front door. What do you think of that?
We`ll teach these magnates that they cannot ride
roughshod over the rights of the commoners,
confound them! And I`ve closed the wood where
the Fernworthy folk used to picnic. These
infernal people seem to think that there are no
rights of property, and that they can swarm
where they like with their papers and their
bottles. Both cases decided, Dr. Watson, and
both in my favour. I haven`t had such a day
since I had Sir John Morland for trespass
because he shot in his own warren."
"How on earth did you do that?"
"Look it up in the books, sir. It will repay
reading--Frankland v. Morland, Court of Queen`s
Bench. It cost me 200 pounds, but I got my
verdict."
"Did it do you any good?"
"None, sir, none. I am proud to say that I
had no interest in the matter. I act entirely
from a sense of public duty. I have no doubt,
for example, that the Fernworthy people will
burn me in effigy tonight. I told the police
last time they did it that they should stop
these disgraceful exhibitions. The County
Constabulary is in a scandalous state, sir, and
it has not afforded me the protection to which I
am entitled. The case of Frankland v. Regina
will bring the matter before the attention of
the public. I told them that they would have
occasion to regret their treatment of me, and
already my words have come true."
"How so?" I asked.
The old man put on a very knowing expression.
"Because I could tell them what they are dying
to know; but nothing would induce me to help the
rascals in any way."
I had been casting round for some excuse by
which I could get away from his gossip, but now
I began to wish to hear more of it. I had seen
enough of the contrary nature of the old sinner
to understand that any strong sign of interest
would be the surest way to stop his confidences.
"Some poaching case, no doubt?" said I with
an indifferent manner.
"Ha, ha, my boy, a very much more important
matter than that! What about the convict on the
moor?"
I stared. "You don`t mean that you know where
he is?" said I.
"I may not know exactly where he is, but I am
quite sure that I could help the police to lay
their hands on him. Has it never struck you that
the way to catch that man was to find out where
he got his food and so trace it to him?"
He certainly seemed to be getting
uncomfortably near the truth. "No doubt," said
I; "but how do you know that he is anywhere upon
the moor?"
"I know it because I have seen with my own
eyes the messenger who takes him his food."
My heart sank for Barrymore. It was a serious
thing to be in the power of this spiteful old
busybody. But his next remark took a weight from
my mind.
"You`ll be surprised to hear that his food is
taken to him by a child. I see him every day
through my telescope upon the roof. He passes
along the same path at the same hour, and to
whom should he be going except to the convict?"
Here was luck indeed! And yet I suppressed
all appearance of interest. A child! Barrymore
had said that our unknown was supplied by a boy.
It was on his track, and not upon the convict`s,
that Frankland had stumbled. If I could get his
knowledge it might save me a long and weary
hunt. But incredulity and indifference were
evidently my strongest cards.
"I should say that it was much more likely
that it was the son of one of the moorland
shepherds taking out his father`s dinner."
The least appearance of opposition struck
fire out of the old autocrat. His eyes looked
malignantly at me, and his gray whiskers
bristled like those of an angry cat.
"Indeed, sir!" said he, pointing out over the
wide-stretching moor. "Do you see that Black Tor
over yonder? Well, do you see the low hill
beyond with the thornbush upon it? It is the
stoniest part of the whole moor. Is that a place
where a shepherd would be likely to take his
station? Your suggestion, sir, is a most absurd
one."
I meekly answered that I had spoken without
knowing all the facts. My submission pleased him
and led him to further confidences.
"You may be sure, sir, that I have very good
grounds before I come to an opinion. I have seen
the boy again and again with his bundle. Every
day, and sometimes twice a day, I have been
able--but wait a moment, Dr. Watson. Do my eyes
deceive me, or is there at the present moment
something moving upon that hillside?"
It was several miles off, but I could
distinctly see a small dark dot against the dull
green and gray.
"Come, sir, come!" cried Frankland, rushing
upstairs. "You will see with your own eyes and
judge for yourself."
The telescope, a formidable instrument
mounted upon a tripod, stood upon the flat leads
of the house. Frankland clapped his eye to it
and gave a cry of satisfaction.
"Quick, Dr. Watson, quick, before he passes
over the hill!"
There he was, sure enough, a small urchin
with a little bundle upon his shoulder, toiling
slowly up the hill. When he reached the crest I
saw the ragged uncouth figure outlined for an
instant against the cold blue sky. He looked
round him with a furtive and stealthy air, as
one who dreads pursuit. Then he vanished over
the hill.
"Well! Am I right?"
"Certainly, there is a boy who seems to have
some secret errand."
"And what the errand is even a county
constable could guess. But not one word shall
they have from me, and I bind you to secrecy
also, Dr. Watson. Not a word! You understand!"
"Just as you wish."
"They have treated me shamefully--shamefully.
When the facts come out in Frankland v. Regina I
venture to think that a thrill of indignation
will run through the country. Nothing would
induce me to help the police in any way. For all
they cared it might have been me, instead of my
effigy, which these rascals burned at the stake.
Surely you are not going! You will help me to
empty the decanter in honour of this great
occasion!"
But I resisted all his solicitations and
succeeded in dissuading him from his announced
intention of walking home with me. I kept the
road as long as his eye was on me, and then I
struck off across the moor and made for the
stony hill over which the boy had disappeared.
Everything was working in my favour, and I swore
that it should not be through lack of energy or
perseverance that I should miss the chance which
fortune had thrown in my way.
The sun was already sinking when I reached
the summit of the hill, and the long slopes
beneath me were all golden-green on one side and
gray shadow on the other. A haze lay low upon
the farthest sky-line, out of which jutted the
fantastic shapes of Belliver and Vixen Tor. Over
the wide expanse there was no sound and no
movement. One great gray bird, a gull or curlew,
soared aloft in the blue heaven. He and I seemed
to be the only living things between the huge
arch of the sky and the desert beneath it. The
barren scene, the sense of loneliness, and the
mystery and urgency of my task all struck a
chill into my heart. The boy was nowhere to be
seen. But down beneath me in a cleft of the
hills there was a circle of the old stone huts,
and in the middle of them there was one which
retained sufficient roof to act as a screen
against the weather. My heart leaped within me
as I saw it. This must be the burrow where the
stranger lurked. At last my foot was on the
threshold of his hiding place--his secret was
within my grasp.
As I approached the hut, walking as warily as
Stapleton would do when with poised net he drew
near the settled butterfly, I satisfied myself
that the place had indeed been used as a
habitation. A vague pathway among the boulders
led to the dilapidated opening which served as a
door. All was silent within. The unknown might
be lurking there, or he might be prowling on the
moor. My nerves tingled with the sense of
adventure. Throwing aside my cigarette, I closed
my hand upon the butt of my revolver and,
walking swiftly up to the door, I looked in. The
place was empty.
But there were ample signs that I had not
come upon a false scent. This was certainly
where the man lived. Some blankets rolled in a
waterproof lay upon that very stone slab upon
which Neolithic man had once slumbered. The
ashes of a fire were heaped in a rude grate.
Beside it lay some cooking utensils and a bucket
half-full of water. A litter of empty tins
showed that the place had been occupied for some
time, and I saw, as my eyes became accustomed to
the checkered light, a pannikin and a half-full
bottle of spirits standing in the corner. In the
middle of the hut a flat stone served the
purpose of a table, and upon this stood a small
cloth bundle--the same, no doubt, which I had
seen through the telescope upon the shoulder of
the boy. It contained a loaf of bread, a tinned
tongue, and two tins of preserved peaches. As I
set it down again, after having examined it, my
heart leaped to see that beneath it there lay a
sheet of paper with writing upon it. I raised
it, and this was what I read, roughly scrawled
in pencil: "Dr. Watson has gone to Coombe
Tracey."
For a minute I stood there with the paper in
my hands thinking out the meaning of this curt
message. It was I, then, and not Sir Henry, who
was being dogged by this secret man. He had not
followed me himself, but he had set an
agent--the boy, perhaps-- upon my track, and
this was his report. Possibly I had taken no
step since I had been upon the moor which had
not been observed and reported. Always there was
this feeling of an unseen force, a fine net
drawn round us with infinite skill and delicacy,
holding us so lightly that it was only at some
supreme moment that one realized that one was
indeed entangled in its meshes.
If there was one report there might be
others, so I looked round the hut in search of
them. There was no trace, however, of anything
of the kind, nor could I discover any sign which
might indicate the character or intentions of
the man who lived in this singular place, save
that he must be of Spartan habits and cared
little for the comforts of life. When I thought
of the heavy rains and looked at the gaping roof
I understood how strong and immutable must be
the purpose which had kept him in that
inhospitable abode. Was he our malignant enemy,
or was he by chance our guardian angel? I swore
that I would not leave the hut until I knew.
Outside the sun was sinking low and the west
was blazing with scarlet and gold. Its
reflection was shot back in ruddy patches by the
distant pools which lay amid the great Grimpen
Mire. There were the two towers of Baskerville
Hall, and there a distant blur of smoke which
marked the village of Grimpen. Between the two,
behind the hill, was the house of the
Stapletons. All was sweet and mellow and
peaceful in the golden evening light, and yet as
I looked at them my soul shared none of the
peace of Nature but quivered at the vagueness
and the terror of that interview which every
instant was bringing nearer. With tingling
nerves but a fixed purpose, I sat in the dark
recess of the hut and waited with sombre
patience for the coming of its tenant.
And then at last I heard him. Far away came
the sharp clink of a boot striking upon a stone.
Then another and yet another, coming nearer and
nearer. I shrank back into the darkest corner
and cocked the pistol in my pocket, determined
not to discover myself until I had an
opportunity of seeing something of the stranger.
There was a long pause which showed that he had
stopped. Then once more the footsteps approached
and a shadow fell across the opening of the hut.
"It is a lovely evening, my dear Watson,"
said a well-known voice. "I really think that
you will be more comfortable outside than in." |
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Chapter
12
Death on the Moor
For a moment or two I sat breathless, hardly able to believe my ears.
Then my senses and my voice came back to me,
while a crushing weight of responsibility seemed
in an instant to be lifted from my soul. That
cold, incisive, ironical voice could belong to
but one man in all the world.
"Holmes!" I cried--"Holmes!"
"Come out," said he, "and please be careful
with the revolver."
I stooped under the rude lintel, and there he
sat upon a stone outside, his gray eyes dancing
with amusement as they fell upon my astonished
features. He was thin and worn, but clear and
alert, his keen face bronzed by the sun and
roughened by the wind. In his tweed suit and
cloth cap he looked like any other tourist upon
the moor, and he had contrived, with that
catlike love of personal cleanliness which was
one of his characteristics, that his chin should
be as smooth and his linen as perfect as if he
were in Baker Street.
"I never was more glad to see anyone in my
life," said I as I wrung him by the hand.
"Or more astonished, eh?"
"Well, I must confess to it."
"The surprise was not all on one side, I
assure you. I had no idea that you had found my
occasional retreat, still less that you were
inside it, until I was within twenty paces of
the door."
"My footprint, I presume?"
"No, Watson, I fear that I could not
undertake to recognize your footprint amid all
the footprints of the world. If you seriously
desire to deceive me you must change your
tobacconist; for when I see the stub of a
cigarette marked Bradley, Oxford Street, I know
that my friend Watson is in the neighbourhood.
You will see it there beside the path. You threw
it down, no doubt, at that supreme moment when
you charged into the empty hut."
"Exactly."
"I thought as much--and knowing your
admirable tenacity I was convinced that you were
sitting in ambush, a weapon within reach,
waiting for the tenant to return. So you
actually thought that I was the criminal?"
"I did not know who you were, but I was
determined to find out."
"Excellent, Watson! And how did you localize
me? You saw me, perhaps, on the night of the
convict hunt, when I was so imprudent as to
allow the moon to rise behind me?"
"Yes, I saw you then."
"And have no doubt searched all the huts
until you came to this one?"
"No, your boy had been observed, and that
gave me a guide where to look."
"The old gentleman with the telescope, no
doubt. I could not make it out when first I saw
the light flashing upon the lens." He rose and
peeped into the hut. "Ha, I see that Cartwright
has brought up some supplies. What`s this paper?
So you have been to Coombe Tracey, have you?"
"Yes."
"To see Mrs. Laura Lyons?"
"Exactly."
"Well done! Our researches have evidently
been running on parallel lines, and when we
unite our results I expect we shall have a
fairly full knowledge of the case."
"Well, I am glad from my heart that you are
here, for indeed the responsibility and the
mystery were both becoming too much for my
nerves. But how in the name of wonder did you
come here, and what have you been doing? I
thought that you were in Baker Street working
out that case of blackmailing."
"That was what I wished you to think."
"Then you use me, and yet do not trust me!" I
cried with some bitterness. "I think that I have
deserved better at your hands, Holmes."
"My dear fellow, you have been invaluable to
me in this as in many other cases, and I beg
that you will forgive me if I have seemed to
play a trick upon you. In truth, it was partly
for your own sake that I did it, and it was my
appreciation of the danger which you ran which
led me to come down and examine the matter for
myself. Had I been with Sir Henry and you it is
confident that my point of view would have been
the same as yours, and my presence would have
warned our very formidable opponents to be on
their guard. As it is, I have been able to get
about as I could not possibly have done had I
been living in the Hall, and I remain an unknown
factor in the business, ready to throw in all my
weight at a critical moment."
"But why keep me in the dark?"
"For you to know could not have helped us and
might possibly have led to my discovery. You
would have wished to tell me something, or in
your kindness you would have brought me out some
comfort or other, and so an unnecessary risk
would be run. I brought Cartwright down with
me--you remember the little chap at the express
office--and he has seen after my simple wants: a
loaf of bread and a clean collar. What does man
want more? He has given me an extra pair of eyes
upon a very active pair of feet, and both have
been invaluable."
"Then my reports have all been wasted!" --My
voice trembled as I recalled the pains and the
pride with which I had composed them.
Holmes took a bundle of papers from his
pocket.
"Here are your reports, my dear fellow, and
very well thumbed, I assure you. I made
excellent arrangements, and they are only
delayed one day upon their way. I must
compliment you exceedingly upon the zeal and the
intelligence which you have shown over an
extraordinarily difficult case."
I was still rather raw over the deception
which had been practised upon me, but the warmth
of Holmes`s praise drove my anger from my mind.
I felt also in my heart that he was right in
what he said and that it was really best for our
purpose that I should not have known that he was
upon the moor.
"That`s better," said he, seeing the shadow
rise from my face. "And now tell me the result
of your visit to Mrs. Laura Lyons-- it was not
difficult for me to guess that it was to see her
that you had gone, for I am already aware that
she is the one person in Coombe Tracey who might
be of service to us in the matter. In fact, if
you had not gone today it is exceedingly
probable that I should have gone tomorrow."
The sun had set and dusk was settling over
the moor. The air had turned chill and we
withdrew into the hut for warmth. There, sitting
together in the twilight, I told Holmes of my
conversation with the lady. So interested was he
that I had to repeat some of it twice before he
was satisfied.
"This is most important," said he when I had
concluded. "It fills up a gap which I had been
unable to bridge in this most complex affair.
You are aware, perhaps, that a close intimacy
exists between this lady and the man Stapleton?"
"I did not know of a close intimacy."
"There can be no doubt about the matter. They
meet, they write, there is a complete
understanding between them. Now, this puts a
very powerful weapon into our hands. If I could
only use it to detach his wife--"
"His wife?"
"I am giving you some information now, in
return for all that you have given me. The lady
who has passed here as Miss Stapleton is in
reality his wife."
"Good heavens, Holmes! Are you sure of what
you say? How could he have permitted Sir Henry
to fall in love with her?"
"Sir Henry`s falling in love could do no harm
to anyone except Sir Henry. He took particular
care that Sir Henry did not make love to her, as
you have yourself observed. I repeat that the
lady is his wife and not his sister."
"But why this elaborate deception?"
"Because he foresaw that she would be very
much more useful to him in the character of a
free woman."
All my unspoken instincts, my vague
suspicions, suddenly took shape and centred upon
the naturalist. In that impassive colourless
man, with his straw hat and his butterfly-net, I
seemed to see something terrible--a creature of
infinite patience and craft, with a smiling face
and a murderous heart.
"It is he, then, who is our enemy--it is he
who dogged us in London?"
"So I read the riddle."
"And the warning--it must have come from
her!"
"Exactly."
The shape of some monstrous villainy, half
seen, half guessed, loomed through the darkness
which had girt me so long.
"But are you sure of this, Holmes? How do you
know that the woman is his wife?"
"Because he so far forgot himself as to tell
you a true piece of autobiography upon the
occasion when he first met you, and I dare say
he has many a time regretted it since. He was
once a schoolmaster in the north of England.
Now, there is no one more easy to trace than a
schoolmaster. There are scholastic agencies by
which one may identify any man who has been in
the profession. A little investigation showed me
that a school had come to grief under atrocious
circumstances, and that the man who had owned
it--the name was different--had disappeared with
his wife. The descriptions agreed. When I
learned that the missing man was devoted to
entomology the identification was complete."
The darkness was rising, but much was still
hidden by the shadows.
"If this woman is in truth his wife, where
does Mrs. Laura Lyons come in?" I asked.
"That is one of the points upon which your
own researches have shed a light. Your interview
with the lady has cleared the situation very
much. I did not know about a projected divorce
between herself and her husband. In that case,
regarding Stapleton as an unmarried man, she
counted no doubt upon becoming his wife."
"And when she is undeceived?"
"Why, then we may find the lady of service.
It must be our first duty to see her--both of
us--tomorrow. Don`t you think, Watson, that you
are away from your charge rather long? Your
place should be at Baskerville Hall."
The last red streaks had faded away in the
west and night had settled upon the moor. A few
faint stars were gleaming in a violet sky.
"One last question, Holmes," I said as I
rose. "Surely there is no need of secrecy
between you and me. What is the meaning of it
all? What is he after?"
Holmes`s voice sank as he answered:
"It is murder, Watson--refined, cold-blooded,
deliberate murder. Do not ask me for
particulars. My nets are closing upon him, even
as his are upon Sir Henry, and with your help he
is already almost at my mercy. There is but one
danger which can threaten us. It is that he
should strike before we are ready to do so.
Another day--two at the most--and I have my case
complete, but until then guard your charge as
closely as ever a fond mother watched her ailing
child. Your mission today has justified itself,
and yet I could almost wish that you had not
left his side. Hark!"
A terrible scream--a prolonged yell of horror
and anguish--burst out of the silence of the
moor. That frightful cry turned the blood to ice
in my veins.
"Oh, my God!" I gasped. "What is it? What
does it mean?"
Holmes had sprung to his feet, and I saw his
dark, athletic outline at the door of the hut,
his shoulders stooping, his head thrust forward,
his face peering into the darkness.
"Hush!" he whispered. "Hush!"
The cry had been loud on account of its
vehemence, but it had pealed out from somewhere
far off on the shadowy plain. Now it burst upon
our ears, nearer, louder, more urgent than
before.
"Where is it?" Holmes whispered; and I knew
from the thrill of his voice that he, the man of
iron, was shaken to the soul. "Where is it,
Watson?"
"There, I think." I pointed into the
darkness.
"No, there!"
Again the agonized cry swept through the
silent night, louder and much nearer than ever.
And a new sound mingled with it, a deep,
muttered rumble, musical and yet menacing,
rising and falling like the low, constant murmur
of the sea.
"The hound!" cried Holmes. "Come, Watson,
come! Great heavens, if we are too late!"
He had started running swiftly over the moor,
and I had followed at his heels. But now from
somewhere among the broken ground immediately in
front of us there came one last despairing yell,
and then a dull, heavy thud. We halted and
listened. Not another sound broke the heavy
silence of the windless night.
I saw Holmes put his hand to his forehead
like a man distracted. He stamped his feet upon
the ground.
"He has beaten us, Watson. We are too late."
"No, no, surely not!"
"Fool that I was to hold my hand. And you,
Watson, see what comes of abandoning your
charge! But, by Heaven, if the worst has
happened we`ll avenge him!"
Blindly we ran through the gloom, blundering
against boulders, forcing our way through gorse
bushes, panting up hills and rushing down
slopes, heading always in the direction whence
those dreadful sounds had come. At every rise
Holmes looked eagerly round him, but the shadows
were thick upon the moor, and nothing moved upon
its dreary face.
"Can you see anything?"
"Nothing."
"But, hark, what is that?"
A low moan had fallen upon our ears. There it
was again upon our left! On that side a ridge of
rocks ended in a sheer cliff which overlooked a
stone-strewn slope. On its jagged face was
spread-eagled some dark, irregular object. As we
ran towards it the vague outline hardened into a
definite shape. It was a prostrate man face
downward upon the ground, the head doubled under
him at a horrible angle, the shoulders rounded
and the body hunched together as if in the act
of throwing a somersault. So grotesque was the
attitude that I could not for the instant
realize that that moan had been the passing of
his soul. Not a whisper, not a rustle, rose now
from the dark figure over which we stooped.
Holmes laid his hand upon him and held it up
again with an exclamation of horror. The gleam
of the match which he struck shone upon his
clotted fingers and upon the ghastly pool which
widened slowly from the crushed skull of the
victim. And it shone upon something else which
turned our hearts sick and faint within us--the
body of Sir Henry Baskerville!
There was no chance of either of us
forgetting that peculiar ruddy tweed suit--the
very one which he had worn on the first morning
that we had seen him in Baker Street. We caught
the one clear glimpse of it, and then the match
flickered and went out, even as the hope had
gone out of our souls. Holmes groaned, and his
face glimmered white through the darkness.
"The brute! The brute!" I cried with clenched
hands. "Oh Holmes, I shall never forgive myself
for having left him to his fate."
"I am more to blame than you, Watson. In
order to have my case well rounded and complete,
I have thrown away the life of my client. It is
the greatest blow which has befallen me in my
career. But how could I know--how could l
know--that he would risk his life alone upon the
moor in the face of all my warnings?"
"That we should have heard his screams--my
God, those screams!--and yet have been unable to
save him! Where is this brute of a hound which
drove him to his death? It may be lurking among
these rocks at this instant. And Stapleton,
where is he? He shall answer for this deed."
"He shall. I will see to that. Uncle and
nephew have been murdered--the one frightened to
death by the very sight of a beast which he
thought to be supernatural, the other driven to
his end in his wild flight to escape from it.
But now we have to prove the connection between
the man and the beast. Save from what we heard,
we cannot even swear to the existence of the
latter, since Sir Henry has evidently died from
the fall. But, by heavens, cunning as he is, the
fellow shall be in my power before another day
is past!"
We stood with bitter hearts on either side of
the mangled body, overwhelmed by this sudden and
irrevocable disaster which had brought all our
long and weary labours to so piteous an end.
Then as the moon rose we climbed to the top of
the rocks over which our poor friend had fallen,
and from the summit we gazed out over the
shadowy moor, half silver and half gloom. Far
away, miles off, in the direction of Grimpen, a
single steady yellow light was shining. It could
only come from the lonely abode of the
Stapletons. With a bitter curse I shook my fist
at it as I gazed.
"Why should we not seize him at once?"
"Our case is not complete. The fellow is wary
and cunning to the last degree. It is not what
we know, but what we can prove. If we make one
false move the villain may escape us yet."
"What can we do?"
"There will be plenty for us to do tomorrow.
Tonight we can only perform the last offices to
our poor friend."
Together we made our way down the precipitous
slope and approached the body, black and clear
against the silvered stones. The agony of those
contorted limbs struck me with a spasm of pain
and blurred my eyes with tears.
"We must send for help, Holmes! We cannot
carry him all the way to the Hall. Good heavens,
are you mad?"
He had uttered a cry and bent over the body.
Now he was dancing and laughing and wringing my
hand. Could this be my stern, self- contained
friend? These were hidden fires, indeed!
"A beard! A beard! The man has a beard!"
"A beard?"
"It is not the baronet--it is--why, it is my
neighbour, the convict!"
With feverish haste we had turned the body
over, and that dripping beard was pointing up to
the cold, clear moon. There could be no doubt
about the beetling forehead, the sunken animal
eyes. It was indeed the same face which had
glared upon me in the light of the candle from
over the rock--the face of Selden, the criminal.
Then in an instant it was all clear to me. I
remembered how the baronet had told me that he
had handed his old wardrobe to Barrymore.
Barrymore had passed it on in order to help
Selden in his escape. Boots, shirt, cap--it was
all Sir Henry`s. The tragedy was still black
enough, but this man had at least deserved death
by the laws of his country. I told Holmes how
the matter stood, my heart bubbling over with
thankfulness and joy.
"Then the clothes have been the poor devil`s
death," said he. "It is clear enough that the
hound has been laid on from some article of Sir
Henry`s--the boot which was abstracted in the
hotel, in all probability--and so ran this man
down. There is one very singular thing, however:
How came Selden, in the darkness, to know that
the hound was on his trail?"
"He heard him."
"To hear a hound upon the moor would not work
a hard man like this convict into such a
paroxysm of terror that he would risk recapture
by screaming wildly for help. By his cries he
must have run a long way after he knew the
animal was on his track. How did he know?"
"A greater mystery to me is why this hound,
presuming that all our conjectures are
correct--"
"I presume nothing."
"Well, then, why this hound should be loose
tonight. I suppose that it does not always run
loose upon the moor. Stapleton would not let it
go unless he had reason to think that Sir Henry
would be there."
"My difficulty is the more formidable of the
two, for I think that we shall very shortly get
an explanation of yours, while mine may remain
forever a mystery. The question now is, what
shall we do with this poor wretch`s body? We
cannot leave it here to the foxes and the
ravens."
"I suggest that we put it in one of the huts
until we can communicate with the police."
"Exactly. I have no doubt that you and I
could carry it so far. Halloa, Watson, what`s
this? It`s the man himself, by all that`s
wonderful and audacious! Not a word to show your
suspicions--not a word, or my plans crumble to
the ground."
A figure was approaching us over the moor,
and I saw the dull red glow of a cigar. The moon
shone upon him, and I could distinguish the
dapper shape and jaunty walk of the naturalist.
He stopped when he saw us, and then came on
again.
"Why, Dr. Watson, that`s not you, is it? You
are the last man that I should have expected to
see out on the moor at this time of night. But,
dear me, what`s this? Somebody hurt? Not--don`t
tell me that it is our friend Sir Henry!" He
hurried past me and stooped over the dead man. I
heard a sharp intake of his breath and the cigar
fell from his fingers.
"Who--who`s this?" he stammered.
"It is Selden, the man who escaped from
Princetown."
Stapleton turned a ghastly face upon us, but
by a supreme effort he had overcome his
amazement and his disappointment. He looked
sharply from Holmes to me. "Dear me! What a very
shocking affair! How did he die?"
"He appears to have broken his neck by
falling over these rocks. My friend and I were
strolling on the moor when we heard a cry."
"I heard a cry also. That was what brought me
out. I was uneasy about Sir Henry."
"Why about Sir Henry in particular?" I could
not help asking.
"Because I had suggested that he should come
over. When he did not come I was surprised, and
I naturally became alarmed for his safety when I
heard cries upon the moor. By the way"--his eyes
darted again from my face to Holmes`s--"did you
hear anything else besides a cry?"
"No," said Holmes; "did you?"
"No."
"What do you mean, then?"
"Oh, you know the stories that the peasants
tell about a phantom hound, and so on. It is
said to be heard at night upon the moor. I was
wondering if there were any evidence of such a
sound tonight."
"We heard nothing of the kind," said I.
"And what is your theory of this poor
fellow`s death?"
"I have no doubt that anxiety and exposure
have driven him off his head. He has rushed
about the moor in a crazy state and eventually
fallen over here and broken his neck."
"That seems the most reasonable theory," said
Stapleton, and he gave a sigh which I took to
indicate his relief. "What do you think about
it, Mr. Sherlock Holmes?"
My friend bowed his compliments. "You are
quick at identification," said he.
"We have been expecting you in these parts
since Dr. Watson came down. You are in time to
see a tragedy."
"Yes, indeed. I have no doubt that my
friend`s explanation will cover the facts. I
will take an unpleasant remembrance back to
London with me tomorrow."
"Oh, you return tomorrow?"
"That is my intention."
"I hope your visit has cast some light upon
those occurrences which have puzzled us?"
Holmes shrugged his shoulders.
"One cannot always have the success for which
one hopes. An investigator needs facts and not
legends or rumours. It has not been a
satisfactory case."
My friend spoke in his frankest and most
unconcerned manner. Stapleton still looked hard
at him. Then he turned to me.
"I would suggest carrying this poor fellow to
my house, but it would give my sister such a
fright that I do not feel justified in doing it.
I think that if we put something over his face
he will be safe until morning."
And so it was arranged. Resisting Stapleton`s
offer of hospitality, Holmes and I set off to
Baskerville Hall, leaving the naturalist to
return alone. Looking back we saw the figure
moving slowly away over the broad moor, and
behind him that one black smudge on the silvered
slope which showed where the man was lying who
had come so horribly to his end. |
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Chapter
13
Fixing the Nets
"We`re at close grips at last," said Holmes as we walked together
across the moor. "What a nerve the fellow has!
How he pulled himself together in the face of
what must have been a paralyzing shock when he
found that the wrong man had fallen a victim to
his plot. I told you in London, Watson, and I
tell you now again, that we have never had a
foeman more worthy of our steel."
"I am sorry that he has seen you."
"And so was I at first. But there was no
getting out of it."
"What effect do you think it will have upon
his plans now that he knows you are here?"
"It may cause him to be more cautious, or it
may drive him to desperate measures at once.
Like most clever criminals, he may be too
confident in his own cleverness and imagine that
he has completely deceived us."
"Why should we not arrest him at once?"
"My dear Watson, you were born to be a man of
action. Your instinct is always to do something
energetic. But supposing, for argument`s sake,
that we had him arrested tonight, what on earth
the better off should we be for that? We could
prove nothing against him. There`s the devilish
cunning of it! If he were acting through a human
agent we could get some evidence, but if we were
to drag this great dog to the light of day it
would not help us in putting a rope round the
neck of its master."
"Surely we have a case."
"Not a shadow of one--only surmise and
conjecture. We should be laughed out of court if
we came with such a story and such evidence."
"There is Sir Charles`s death."
"Found dead without a mark upon him. You and
I know that he died of sheer fright, and we know
also what frightened him, but how are we to get
twelve stolid jurymen to know it? What signs are
there of a hound? Where are the marks of its
fangs? Of course we know that a hound does not
bite a dead body and that Sir Charles was dead
before ever the brute overtook him. But we have
to prove all this, and we are not in a position
to do it."
"Well, then, tonight?"
"We are not much better off tonight. Again,
there was no direct connection between the hound
and the man`s death. We never saw the hound. We
heard it, but we could not prove that it was
running upon this man`s trail. There is a
complete absence of motive. No, my dear fellow;
we must reconcile ourselves to the fact that we
have no case at present, and that it is worth
our while to run any risk in order to establish
one."
"And how do you propose to do so?"
"I have great hopes of what Mrs. Laura Lyons
may do for us when the position of affairs is
made clear to her. And I have my own plan as
well. Sufficient for tomorrow is the evil
thereof; but I hope before the day is past to
have the upper hand at last."
I could draw nothing further from him, and he
walked, lost in thought, as far as the
Baskerville gates.
"Are you coming up?"
"Yes; I see no reason for further
concealment. But one last word, Watson. Say
nothing of the hound to Sir Henry. Let him think
that Selden`s death was as Stapleton would have
us believe. He will have a better nerve for the
ordeal which he will have to undergo tomorrow,
when he is engaged, if I remember your report
aright, to dine with these people."
"And so am I."
"Then you must excuse yourself and he must go
alone. That will be easily arranged. And now, if
we are too late for dinner, I think that we are
both ready for our suppers."
Sir Henry was more pleased than surprised to
see Sherlock Holmes, for he had for some days
been expecting that recent events would bring
him down from London. He did raise his eyebrows,
however, when he found that my friend had
neither any luggage nor any explanations for its
absence. Between us we soon supplied his wants,
and then over a belated supper we explained to
the baronet as much of our experience as it
seemed desirable that he should know. But first
I had the unpleasant duty of breaking the news
to Barrymore and his wife. To him it may have
been an unmitigated relief, but she wept
bitterly in her apron. To all the world he was
the man of violence, half animal and half demon;
but to her he always remained the little wilful
boy of her own girlhood, the child who had clung
to her hand. Evil indeed is the man who has not
one woman to mourn him.
"I`ve been moping in the house all day since
Watson went off in the morning," said the
baronet. "I guess I should have some credit, for
I have kept my promise. If I hadn`t sworn not to
go about alone I might have had a more lively
evening, for I had a message from Stapleton
asking me over there."
"I have no doubt that you would have had a
more lively evening," said Holmes drily. "By the
way, I don`t suppose you appreciate that we have
been mourning over you as having broken your
neck?"
Sir Henry opened his eyes. "How was that?"
"This poor wretch was dressed in your
clothes. I fear your servant who gave them to
him may get into trouble with the police."
"That is unlikely. There was no mark on any
of them, as far as I know."
"That`s lucky for him--in fact, it`s lucky
for all of you, since you are all on the wrong
side of the law in this matter. I am not sure
that as a conscientious detective my first duty
is not to arrest the whole household. Watson`s
reports are most incriminating documents."
"But how about the case?" asked the baronet.
"Have you made anything out of the tangle? I
don`t know that Watson and I are much the wiser
since we came down."
"I think that I shall be in a position to
make the situation rather more clear to you
before long. It has been an exceedingly
difficult and most complicated business. There
are several points upon which we still want
light--but it is coming all the same."
"We`ve had one experience, as Watson has no
doubt told you. We heard the hound on the moor,
so I can swear that it is not all empty
superstition. I had something to do with dogs
when I was out West, and I know one when I hear
one. If you can muzzle that one and put him on a
chain I`ll be ready to swear you are the
greatest detective of all time."
"I think I will muzzle him and chain him all
right if you will give me your help."
"Whatever you tell me to do I will do."
"Very good; and I will ask you also to do it
blindly, without always asking the reason."
"Just as you like."
"If you will do this I think the chances are
that our little problem will soon be solved. I
have no doubt--"
He stopped suddenly and stared fixedly up
over my head into the air. The lamp beat upon
his face, and so intent was it and so still that
it might have been that of a clear-cut classical
statue, a personification of alertness and
expectation.
"What is it?" we both cried.
I could see as he looked down that he was
repressing some internal emotion. His features
were still composed, but his eyes shone with
amused exultation.
"Excuse the admiration of a connoisseur,"
said he as he waved his hand towards the line of
portraits which covered the opposite wall.
"Watson won`t allow that I know anything of art
but that is mere jealousy because our views upon
the subject differ. Now, these are a really very
fine series of portraits."
"Well, I`m glad to hear you say so," said Sir
Henry, glancing with some surprise at my friend.
"I don`t pretend to know much about these
things, and I`d be a better judge of a horse or
a steer than of a picture. I didn`t know that
you found time for such things."
"I know what is good when I see it, and I see
it now. That`s a Kneller, I`ll swear, that lady
in the blue silk over yonder, and the stout
gentleman with the wig ought to be a Reynolds.
They are all family portraits, I presume?"
"Every one."
"Do you know the names?"
"Barrymore has been coaching me in them, and
I think I can say my lessons fairly well."
"Who is the gentleman with the telescope?"
"That is Rear-Admiral Baskerville, who served
under Rodney in the West Indies. The man with
the blue coat and the roll of paper is Sir
William Baskerville, who was Chairman of
Committees of the House of Commons under Pitt."
"And this Cavalier opposite to me--the one
with the black velvet and the lace?"
"Ah, you have a right to know about him. That
is the cause of all the mischief, the wicked
Hugo, who started the Hound of the Baskervilles.
We`re not likely to forget him."
I gazed with interest and some surprise upon
the portrait.
"Dear me!" said Holmes, "he seems a quiet,
meek-mannered man enough, but I dare say that
there was a lurking devil in his eyes. I had
pictured him as a more robust and ruffianly
person."
"There`s no doubt about the authenticity, for
the name and the date, 1647, are on the back of
the canvas."
Holmes said little more, but the picture of
the old roysterer seemed to have a fascination
for him, and his eyes were continually fixed
upon it during supper. It was not until later,
when Sir Henry had gone to his room, that I was
able to follow the trend of his thoughts. He led
me back into the banqueting-hall, his bedroom
candle in his hand, and he held it up against
the time- stained portrait on the wall.
"Do you see anything there?"
I looked at the broad plumed hat, the curling
love-locks, the white lace collar, and the
straight, severe face which was framed between
them. It was not a brutal countenance, but it
was prim, hard, and stern, with a firm-set,
thin-lipped mouth, and a coldly intolerant eye.
"Is it like anyone you know?"
"There is something of Sir Henry about the
jaw."
"Just a suggestion, perhaps. But wait an
instant!" He stood upon a chair, and, holding up
the light in his left hand, he curved his right
arm over the broad hat and round the long
ringlets.
"Good heavens!" I cried in amazement.
The face of Stapleton had sprung out of the
canvas.
"Ha, you see it now. My eyes have been
trained to examine faces and not their
trimmings. It is the first quality of a criminal
investigator that he should see through a
disguise."
"But this is marvellous. It might be his
portrait."
"Yes, it is an interesting instance of a
throwback, which appears to be both physical and
spiritual. A study of family portraits is enough
to convert a man to the doctrine of
reincarnation. The fellow is a Baskerville--that
is evident."
"With designs upon the succession."
"Exactly. This chance of the picture has
supplied us with one of our most obvious missing
links. We have him, Watson, we have him, and I
dare swear that before tomorrow night he will be
fluttering in our net as helpless as one of his
own butterflies. A pin, a cork, and a card, and
we add him to the Baker Street collection!" He
burst into one of his rare fits of laughter as
he turned away from the picture. I have not
heard him laugh often, and it has always boded
ill to somebody.
I was up betimes in the morning, but Holmes
was afoot earlier still, for I saw him as I
dressed, coming up the drive.
"Yes, we should have a full day today," he
remarked, and he rubbed his hands with the joy
of action. "The nets are all in place, and the
drag is about to begin. We`ll know before the
day is out whether we have caught our big,
leanjawed pike, or whether he has got through
the meshes."
"Have you been on the moor already?"
"I have sent a report from Grimpen to
Princetown as to the death of Selden. I think I
can promise that none of you will be troubled in
the matter. And I have also communicated with my
faithful Cartwright, who would certainly have
pined away at the door of my hut, as a dog does
at his master`s grave, if I had not set his mind
at rest about my safety."
"What is the next move?"
"To see Sir Henry. Ah, here he is!"
"Good-morning, Holmes," said the baronet.
"You look like a general who is planning a
battle with his chief of the staff."
"That is the exact situation. Watson was
asking for orders."
"And so do I."
"Very good. You are engaged, as I understand,
to dine with our friends the Stapletons
tonight."
"I hope that you will come also. They are
very hospitable people, and I am sure that they
would be very glad to see you."
"I fear that Watson and I must go to London."
"To London?"
"Yes, I think that we should be more useful
there at the present juncture."
The baronet`s face perceptibly lengthened.
"I hoped that you were going to see me
through this business. The Hall and the moor are
not very pleasant places when one is alone."
"My dear fellow, you must trust me implicitly
and do exactly what I tell you. You can tell
your friends that we should have been happy to
have come with you, but that urgent business
required us to be in town. We hope very soon to
return to Devonshire. Will you remember to give
them that message?"
"If you insist upon it."
"There is no alternative, I assure you."
I saw by the baronet`s clouded brow that he
was deeply hurt by what he regarded as our
desertion.
"When do you desire to go?" he asked coldly.
"Immediately after breakfast. We will drive
in to Coombe Tracey, but Watson will leave his
things as a pledge that he will come back to
you. Watson, you will send a note to Stapleton
to tell him that you regret that you cannot
come."
"I have a good mind to go to London with
you," said the baronet. "Why should I stay here
alone?"
"Because it is your post of duty. Because you
gave me your word that you would do as you were
told, and I tell you to stay."
"All right, then, I`ll stay."
"One more direction! I wish you to drive to
Merripit House. Send back your trap, however,
and let them know that you intend to walk home."
"To walk across the moor?"
"Yes."
"But that is the very thing which you have so
often cautioned me not to do."
"This time you may do it with safety. If I
had not every confidence in your nerve and
courage I would not suggest it, but it is
essential that you should do it."
"Then I will do it."
"And as you value your life do not go across
the moor in any direction save along the
straight path which leads from Merripit House to
the Grimpen Road, and is your natural way home."
"I will do just what you say."
"Very good. I should be glad to get away as
soon after breakfast as possible, so as to reach
London in the afternoon."
I was much astounded by this programme,
though I remembered that Holmes had said to
Stapleton on the night before that his visit
would terminate next day. It had not crossed my
mind however, that he would wish me to go with
him, nor could I understand how we could both be
absent at a moment which he himself declared to
be critical. There was nothing for it, however,
but implicit obedience; so we bade good-bye to
our rueful friend, and a couple of hours
afterwards we were at the station of Coombe
Tracey and had dispatched the trap upon its
return journey. A small boy was waiting upon the
platform.
"Any orders, sir?"
"You will take this train to town,
Cartwright. The moment you arrive you will send
a wire to Sir Henry Baskerville, in my name, to
say that if he finds the pocketbook which I have
dropped he is to send it by registered post to
Baker Street."
"Yes, sir."
"And ask at the station office if there is a
message for me."
The boy returned with a telegram, which
Holmes handed to me. It ran:
Wire received. Coming down with unsigned
warrant. Arrive five- forty. Lestrade.
"That is in answer to mine of this morning.
He is the best of the professionals, I think,
and we may need his assistance. Now, Watson, I
think that we cannot employ our time better than
by calling upon your acquaintance, Mrs. Laura
Lyons."
His plan of campaign was beginning to be
evident. He would use the baronet in order to
convince the Stapletons that we were really
gone, while we should actually return at the
instant when we were likely to be needed. That
telegram from London, if mentioned by Sir Henry
to the Stapletons, must remove the last
suspicions from their minds. Already I seemed to
see our nets drawing closer around that
leanjawed pike.
Mrs. Laura Lyons was in her office, and
Sherlock Holmes opened his interview with a
frankness and directness which considerably
amazed her.
"I am investigating the circumstances which
attended the death of the late Sir Charles
Baskerville," said he. "My friend here, Dr.
Watson, has informed me of what you have
communicated, and also of what you have withheld
in connection with that matter."
"What have I withheld?" she asked defiantly.
"You have confessed that you asked Sir
Charles to be at the gate at ten o`clock. We
know that that was the place and hour of his
death. You have withheld what the connection is
between these events."
"There is no connection."
"In that case the coincidence must indeed be
an extraordinary one. But I think that we shall
succeed in establishing a connection, after all.
I wish to be perfectly frank with you, Mrs.
Lyons. We regard this case as one of murder, and
the evidence may implicate not only your friend
Mr. Stapleton but his wife as well."
The lady sprang from her chair.
"His wife!" she cried.
"The fact is no longer a secret. The person
who has passed for his sister is really his
wife."
Mrs. Lyons had resumed her seat. Her hands
were grasping the arms of her chair, and I saw
that the pink nails had turned white with the
pressure of her grip.
"His wife!" she said again. "His wife! He is
not a married man."
Sherlock Holmes shrugged his shoulders.
"Prove it to me! Prove it to me! And if you
can do so--!"
The fierce flash of her eyes said more than
any words.
"I have come prepared to do so," said Holmes,
drawing several papers from his pocket. "Here is
a photograph of the couple taken in York four
years ago. It is indorsed `Mr. and Mrs.
Vandeleur,` but you will have no difficulty in
recognizing him, and her also, if you know her
by sight. Here are three written descriptions by
trustworthy witnesses of Mr. and Mrs. Vandeleur,
who at that time kept St. Oliver`s private
school. Read them and see if you can doubt the
identity of these people."
She glanced at them, and then looked up at us
with the set, rigid face of a desperate woman.
"Mr. Holmes," she said, "this man had offered
me marriage on condition that I could get a
divorce from my husband. He has lied to me, the
villain, in every conceivable way. Not one word
of truth has he ever told me. And why--why? I
imagined that all was for my own sake. But now I
see that I was never anything but a tool in his
hands. Why should I preserve faith with him who
never kept any with me? Why should I try to
shield him from the consequences of his own
wicked acts? Ask me what you like, and there is
nothing which I shall hold back. One thing I
swear to you, and that is that when I wrote the
letter I never dreamed of any harm to the old
gentleman, who had been my kindest friend."
"I entirely believe you, madam," said
Sherlock Holmes. "The recital of these events
must be very painful to you, and perhaps it will
make it easier if I tell you what occurred, and
you can check me if I make any material mistake.
The sending of this letter was suggested to you
by Stapleton?"
"He dictated it."
"I presume that the reason he gave was that
you would receive help from Sir Charles for the
legal expenses connected with your divorce?"
"Exactly."
"And then after you had sent the letter he
dissuaded you from keeping the appointment?"
"He told me that it would hurt his
self-respect that any other man should find the
money for such an object, and that though he was
a poor man himself he would devote his last
penny to removing the obstacles which divided
us."
"He appears to be a very consistent
character. And then you heard nothing until you
read the reports of the death in the paper?"
"No."
"And he made you swear to say nothing about
your appointment with Sir Charles?"
"He did. He said that the death was a very
mysterious one, and that I should certainly be
suspected if the facts came out. He frightened
me into remaining silent."
"Quite so. But you had your suspicions?"
She hesitated and looked down.
"I knew him," she said. "But if he had kept
faith with me I should always have done so with
him."
"I think that on the whole you have had a
fortunate escape," said Sherlock Holmes. "You
have had him in your power and he knew it, and
yet you are alive. You have been walking for
some months very near to the edge of a
precipice. We must wish you good-morning now,
Mrs. Lyons, and it is probable that you will
very shortly hear from us again."
"Our case becomes rounded off, and difficulty
after difficulty thins away in front of us,"
said Holmes as we stood waiting for the arrival
of the express from town. "I shall soon be in
the position of being able to put into a single
connected narrative one of the most singular and
sensational crimes of modern times. Students of
criminology will remember the analogous
incidents in Godno, in Little Russia, in the
year `66, and of course there are the Anderson
murders in North Carolina, but this case
possesses some features which are entirely its
own. Even now we have no clear case against this
very wily man. But I shall be very much
surprised if it is not clear enough before we go
to bed this night."
The London express came roaring into the
station, and a small, wiry bulldog of a man had
sprung from a first-class carriage. We all three
shook hands, and I saw at once from the
reverential way in which Lestrade gazed at my
companion that he had learned a good deal since
the days when they had first worked together. I
could well remember the scorn which the theories
of the reasoner used then to excite in the
practical man.
"Anything good?" he asked.
"The biggest thing for years," said Holmes.
"We have two hours before we need think of
starting. I think we might employ it in getting
some dinner and then, Lestrade, we will take the
London fog out of your throat by giving you a
breath of the pure night air of Dartmoor. Never
been there? Ah, well, I don`t suppose you will
forget your first visit."
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Chapter
14
The Hound of the Baskervilles
One of Sherlock Holmes`s defects--if, indeed, one may call it a
defect--was that he was exceedingly loath to
communicate his full plans to any other person
until the instant of their fulfilment. Partly it
came no doubt from his own masterful nature,
which loved to dominate and surprise those who
were around him. Partly also from his
professional caution, which urged him never to
take any chances. The result, however, was very
trying for those who were acting as his agents
and assistants. I had often suffered under it,
but never more so than during that long drive in
the darkness. The great ordeal was in front of
us; at last we were about to make our final
effort, and yet Holmes had said nothing, and I
could only surmise what his course of action
would be. My nerves thrilled with anticipation
when at last the cold wind upon our faces and
the dark, void spaces on either side of the
narrow road told me that we were back upon the
moor once again. Every stride of the horses and
every turn of the wheels was taking us nearer to
our supreme adventure.
Our conversation was hampered by the presence
of the driver of the hired wagonette, so that we
were forced to talk of trivial matters when our
nerves were tense with emotion and anticipation.
It was a relief to me, after that unnatural
restraint, when we at last passed Frankland`s
house and knew that we were drawing near to the
Hall and to the scene of action. We did not
drive up to the door but got down near the gate
of the avenue. The wagonette was paid off and
ordered to return to Coombe Tracey forthwith,
while we started to walk to Merripit House.
"Are you armed, Lestrade?"
The little detective smiled. "As long as I
have my trousers I have a hip-pocket, and as
long as I have my hip-pocket I have something in
it."
"Good! My friend and I are also ready for
emergencies."
"You`re mighty close about this affair, Mr.
Holmes. What`s the game now?"
"A waiting game."
"My word, it does not seem a very cheerful
place," said the detective with a shiver,
glancing round him at the gloomy slopes of the
hill and at the huge lake of fog which lay over
the Grimpen Mire. "I see the lights of a house
ahead of us."
"That is Merripit House and the end of our
journey. I must request you to walk on tiptoe
and not to talk above a whisper."
We moved cautiously along the track as if we
were bound for the house, but Holmes halted us
when we were about two hundred yards from it.
"This will do," said he. "These rocks upon
the right make an admirable screen."
"We are to wait here?"
"Yes, we shall make our little ambush here.
Get into this hollow, Lestrade. You have been
inside the house, have you not, Watson? Can you
tell the position of the rooms? What are those
latticed windows at this end?"
"I think they are the kitchen windows."
"And the one beyond, which shines so
brightly?"
"That is certainly the dining-room."
"The blinds are up. You know the lie of the
land best. Creep forward quietly and see what
they are doing--but for heaven`s sake don`t let
them know that they are watched!"
I tiptoed down the path and stooped behind
the low wall which surrounded the stunted
orchard. Creeping in its shadow I reached a
point whence I could look straight through the
uncurtained window.
There were only two men in the room, Sir
Henry and Stapleton. They sat with their
profiles towards me on either side of the round
table. Both of them were smoking cigars, and
coffee and wine were in front of them. Stapleton
was talking with animation, but the baronet
looked pale and distrait. Perhaps the thought of
that lonely walk across the ill-omened moor was
weighing heavily upon his mind.
As I watched them Stapleton rose and left the
room, while Sir Henry filled his glass again and
leaned back in his chair, puffing at his cigar.
I heard the creak of a door and the crisp sound
of boots upon gravel. The steps passed along the
path on the other side of the wall under which I
crouched. Looking over, I saw the naturalist
pause at the door of an out-house in the corner
of the orchard. A key turned in a lock, and as
he passed in there was a curious scuffling noise
from within. He was only a minute or so inside,
and then I heard the key turn once more and he
passed me and reentered the house. I saw him
rejoin his guest, and I crept quietly back to
where my companions were waiting to tell them
what I had seen.
"You say, Watson, that the lady is not
there?" Holmes asked when I had finished my
report.
"No."
"Where can she be, then, since there is no
light in any other room except the kitchen?"
"I cannot think where she is."
I have said that over the great Grimpen Mire
there hung a dense, white fog. It was drifting
slowly in our direction and banked itself up
like a wall on that side of us, low but thick
and well defined. The moon shone on it, and it
looked like a great shimmering ice-field, with
the heads of the distant tors as rocks borne
upon its surface. Holmes`s face was turned
towards it, and he muttered impatiently as he
watched its sluggish drift.
"It`s moving towards us, Watson."
"Is that serious?"
"Very serious, indeed--the one thing upon
earth which could have disarranged my plans. He
can`t be very long, now. It is already ten
o`clock. Our success and even his life may
depend upon his coming out before the fog is
over the path."
The night was clear and fine above us. The
stars shone cold and bright, while a half-moon
bathed the whole scene in a soft, uncertain
light. Before us lay the dark bulk of the house,
its serrated roof and bristling chimneys hard
outlined against the silver-spangled sky. Broad
bars of golden light from the lower windows
stretched across the orchard and the moor. One
of them was suddenly shut off. The servants had
left the kitchen. There only remained the lamp
in the dining-room where the two men, the
murderous host and the unconscious guest, still
chatted over their cigars.
Every minute that white woolly plain which
covered one-half of the moor was drifting closer
and closer to the house. Already the first thin
wisps of it were curling across the golden
square of the lighted window. The farther wall
of the orchard was already invisible, and the
trees were standing out of a swirl of white
vapour. As we watched it the fog-wreaths came
crawling round both corners of the house and
rolled slowly into one dense bank on which the
upper floor and the roof floated like a strange
ship upon a shadowy sea. Holmes struck his hand
passionately upon the rock in front of us and
stamped his feet in his impatience.
"If he isn`t out in a quarter of an hour the
path will be covered. In half an hour we won`t
be able to see our hands in front of us."
"Shall we move farther back upon higher
ground?"
"Yes, I think it would be as well."
So as the fog-bank flowed onward we fell back
before it until we were half a mile from the
house, and still that dense white sea, with the
moon silvering its upper edge, swept slowly and
inexorably on.
"We are going too far," said Holmes. "We dare
not take the chance of his being overtaken
before he can reach us. At all costs we must
hold our ground where we are." He dropped on his
knees and clapped his ear to the ground. "Thank
God, I think that I hear him coming."
A sound of quick steps broke the silence of
the moor. Crouching among the stones we stared
intently at the silver-tipped bank in front of
us. The steps grew louder, and through the fog,
as through a curtain, there stepped the man whom
we were awaiting. He looked round him in
surprise as he emerged into the clear, starlit
night. Then he came swiftly along the path,
passed close to where we lay, and went on up the
long slope behind us. As he walked he glanced
continually over either shoulder, like a man who
is ill at ease.
"Hist!" cried Holmes, and I heard the sharp
click of a cocking pistol. "Look out! It`s
coming!"
There was a thin, crisp, continuous patter
from somewhere in the heart of that crawling
bank. The cloud was within fifty yards of where
we lay, and we glared at it, all three,
uncertain what horror was about to break from
the heart of it. I was at Holmes`s elbow, and I
glanced for an instant at his face. It was pale
and exultant, his eyes shining brightly in the
moonlight. But suddenly they started forward in
a rigid, fixed stare, and his lips parted in
amazement. At the same instant Lestrade gave a
yell of terror and threw himself face downward
upon the ground. I sprang to my feet, my inert
hand grasping my pistol, my mind paralyzed by
the dreadful shape which had sprung out upon us
from the shadows of the fog. A hound it was, an
enormous coal-black hound, but not such a hound
as mortal eyes have ever seen. Fire burst from
its open mouth, its eyes glowed with a
smouldering glare, its muzzle and hackles and
dewlap were outlined in flickering flame. Never
in the delirious dream of a disordered brain
could anything more savage, more appalling, more
hellish be conceived than that dark form and
savage face which broke upon us out of the wall
of fog.
With long bounds the huge black creature was
leaping down the track, following hard upon the
footsteps of our friend. So paralyzed were we by
the apparition that we allowed him to pass
before we had recovered our nerve. Then Holmes
and I both fired together, and the creature gave
a hideous howl, which showed that one at least
had hit him. He did not pause, however, but
bounded onward. Far away on the path we saw Sir
Henry looking back, his face white in the
moonlight, his hands raised in horror, glaring
helplessly at the frightful thing which was
hunting him down. But that cry of pain from the
hound had blown all our fears to the winds. If
he was vulnerable he was mortal, and if we could
wound him we could kill him. Never have I seen a
man run as Holmes ran that night. I am reckoned
fleet of foot, but he outpaced me as much as I
outpaced the little professional. In front of us
as we flew up the track we heard scream after
scream from Sir Henry and the deep roar of the
hound. I was in time to see the beast spring
upon its victim, hurl him to the ground, and
worry at his throat. But the next instant Holmes
had emptied five barrels of his revolver into
the creature`s flank. With a last howl of agony
and a vicious snap in the air, it rolled upon
its back, four feet pawing furiously, and then
fell limp upon its side. I stooped, panting, and
pressed my pistol to the dreadful, shimmering
head, but it was useless to press the trigger.
The giant hound was dead.
Sir Henry lay insensible where he had fallen.
We tore away his collar, and Holmes breathed a
prayer of gratitude when we saw that there was
no sign of a wound and that the rescue had been
in time. Already our friend`s eyelids shivered
and he made a feeble effort to move. Lestrade
thrust his brandy-flask between the baronet`s
teeth, and two frightened eyes were looking up
at us.
"My God!" he whispered. "What was it? What,
in heaven`s name, was it?"
"It`s dead, whatever it is," said Holmes.
"We`ve laid the family ghost once and forever."
In mere size and strength it was a terrible
creature which was lying stretched before us. It
was not a pure bloodhound and it was not a pure
mastiff; but it appeared to be a combination of
the two--gaunt, savage, and as large as a small
lioness. Even now in the stillness of death, the
huge jaws seemed to be dripping with a bluish
flame and the small, deep-set, cruel eyes were
ringed with fire. I placed my hand upon the
glowing muzzle, and as I held them up my own
fingers smouldered and gleamed in the darkness.
"Phosphorus," I said.
"A cunning preparation of it," said Holmes,
sniffing at the dead animal. "There is no smell
which might have interfered with his power of
scent. We owe you a deep apology, Sir Henry, for
having exposed you to this fright. I was
prepared for a hound, but not for such a
creature as this. And the fog gave us little
time to receive him."
"You have saved my life."
"Having first endangered it. Are you strong
enough to stand?"
"Give me another mouthful of that brandy and
I shall be ready for anything. So! Now, if you
will help me up. What do you propose to do?"
"To leave you here. You are not fit for
further adventures tonight. If you will wait,
one or other of us will go back with you to the
Hall."
He tried to stagger to his feet; but he was
still ghastly pale and trembling in every limb.
We helped him to a rock, where he sat shivering
with his face buried in his hands.
"We must leave you now," said Holmes. "The
rest of our work must be done, and every moment
is of importance. We have our case, and now we
only want our man.
"It`s a thousand to one against our finding
him at the house," he continued as we retraced
our steps swiftly down the path. "Those shots
must have told him that the game was up."
"We were some distance off, and this fog may
have deadened them."
"He followed the hound to call him off--of
that you may be certain. No, no, he`s gone by
this time! But we`ll search the house and make
sure."
The front door was open, so we rushed in and
hurried from room to room to the amazement of a
doddering old manservant, who met us in the
passage. There was no light save in the
dining-room, but Holmes caught up the lamp and
left no corner of the house unexplored. No sign
could we see of the man whom we were chasing. On
the upper floor, however, one of the bedroom
doors was locked.
"There`s someone in here," cried Lestrade. "I
can hear a movement. Open this door!"
A faint moaning and rustling came from
within. Holmes struck the door just over the
lock with the flat of his foot and it flew open.
Pistol in hand, we all three rushed into the
room.
But there was no sign within it of that
desperate and defiant villain whom we expected
to see. Instead we were faced by an object so
strange and so unexpected that we stood for a
moment staring at it in amazement.
The room had been fashioned into a small
museum, and the walls were lined by a number of
glass-topped cases full of that collection of
butterflies and moths the formation of which had
been the relaxation of this complex and
dangerous man. In the centre of this room there
was an upright beam, which had been placed at
some period as a support for the old worm-eaten
baulk of timber which spanned the roof. To this
post a figure was tied, so swathed and muffled
in the sheets which had been used to secure it
that one could not for the moment tell whether
it was that of a man or a woman. One towel
passed round the throat and was secured at the
back of the pillar. Another covered the lower
part of the face, and over it two dark
eyes--eyes full of grief and shame and a
dreadful questioning--stared back at us. In a
minute we had torn off the gag, unswathed the
bonds, and Mrs. Stapleton sank upon the floor in
front of us. As her beautiful head fell upon her
chest I saw the clear red weal of a whiplash
across her neck.
"The brute!" cried Holmes. "Here, Lestrade,
your brandy-bottle! Put her in the chair! She
has fainted from ill-usage and exhaustion."
She opened her eyes again.
"Is he safe?" she asked. "Has he escaped?"
"He cannot escape us, madam."
"No, no, I did not mean my husband. Sir
Henry? Is he safe?"
"Yes."
"And the hound?"
"It is dead."
She gave a long sigh of satisfaction.
"Thank God! Thank God! Oh, this villain! See
how he has treated me!" She shot her arms out
from her sleeves, and we saw with horror that
they were all mottled with bruises. "But this is
nothing--nothing! It is my mind and soul that he
has tortured and defiled. I could endure it all,
ill-usage, solitude, a life of deception,
everything, as long as I could still cling to
the hope that I had his love, but now I know
that in this also I have been his dupe and his
tool." She broke into passionate sobbing as she
spoke.
"You bear him no good will, madam," said
Holmes. "Tell us then where we shall find him.
If you have ever aided him in evil, help us now
and so atone."
"There is but one place where he can have
fled," she answered. "There is an old tin mine
on an island in the heart of the mire. It was
there that he kept his hound and there also he
had made preparations so that he might have a
refuge. That is where he would fly."
The fog-bank lay like white wool against the
window. Holmes held the lamp towards it.
"See," said he. "No one could find his way
into the Grimpen Mire tonight."
She laughed and clapped her hands. Her eyes
and teeth gleamed with fierce merriment.
"He may find his way in, but never out," she
cried. "How can he see the guiding wands
tonight? We planted them together, he and I, to
mark the pathway through the mire. Oh, if I
could only have plucked them out today. Then
indeed you would have had him at your mercy!"
It was evident to us that all pursuit was in
vain until the fog had lifted. Meanwhile we left
Lestrade in possession of the house while Holmes
and I went back with the baronet to Baskerville
Hall. The story of the Stapletons could no
longer be withheld from him, but he took the
blow bravely when he learned the truth about the
woman whom he had loved. But the shock of the
night`s adventures had shattered his nerves, and
before morning he lay delirious in a high fever
under the care of Dr. Mortimer. The two of them
were destined to travel together round the world
before Sir Henry had become once more the hale,
hearty man that he had been before he became
master of that ill-omened estate.
And now I come rapidly to the conclusion of
this singular narrative, in which I have tried
to make the reader share those dark fears and
vague surmises which clouded our lives so long
and ended in so tragic a manner. On the morning
after the death of the hound the fog had lifted
and we were guided by Mrs. Stapleton to the
point where they had found a pathway through the
bog. It helped us to realize the horror of this
woman`s life when we saw the eagerness and joy
with which she laid us on her husband`s track.
We left her standing upon the thin peninsula of
firm, peaty soil which tapered out into the
widespread bog. From the end of it a small wand
planted here and there showed where the path
zigzagged from tuft to tuft of rushes among
those green-scummed pits and foul quagmires
which barred the way to the stranger. Rank reeds
and lush, slimy water-plants sent an odour of
decay and a heavy miasmatic vapour onto our
faces, while a false step plunged us more than
once thigh-deep into the dark, quivering mire,
which shook for yards in soft undulations around
our feet. Its tenacious grip plucked at our
heels as we walked, and when we sank into it it
was as if some malignant hand was tugging us
down into those obscene depths, so grim and
purposeful was the clutch in which it held us.
Once only we saw a trace that someone had passed
that perilous way before us. From amid a tuft of
cotton grass which bore it up out of the slime
some dark thing was projecting. Holmes sank to
his waist as he stepped from the path to seize
it, and had we not been there to drag him out he
could never have set his foot upon firm land
again. He held an old black boot in the air.
"Meyers, Toronto," was printed on the leather
inside.
"It is worth a mud bath," said he. "It is our
friend Sir Henry`s missing boot."
"Thrown there by Stapleton in his flight."
"Exactly. He retained it in his hand after
using it to set the hound upon the track. He
fled when he knew the game was up, still
clutching it. And he hurled it away at this
point of his flight. We know at least that he
came so far in safety."
But more than that we were never destined to
know, though there was much which we might
surmise. There was no chance of finding
footsteps in the mire, for the rising mud oozed
swiftly in upon them, but as we at last reached
firmer ground beyond the morass we all looked
eagerly for them. But no slightest sign of them
ever met our eyes. If the earth told a true
story, then Stapleton never reached that island
of refuge towards which he struggled through the
fog upon that last night. Somewhere in the heart
of the great Grimpen Mire, down in the foul
slime of the huge morass which had sucked him
in, this cold and cruel-hearted man is forever
buried.
Many traces we found of him in the bog-girt
island where he had hid his savage ally. A huge
driving-wheel and a shaft half-filled with
rubbish showed the position of an abandoned
mine. Beside it were the crumbling remains of
the cottages of the miners, driven away no doubt
by the foul reek of the surrounding swamp. In
one of these a staple and chain with a quantity
of gnawed bones showed where the animal had been
confined. A skeleton with a tangle of brown hair
adhering to it lay among the debris.
"A dog!" said Holmes. "By Jove, a
curly-haired spaniel. Poor Mortimer will never
see his pet again. Well, I do not know that this
place contains any secret which we have not
already fathomed. He could hide his hound, but
he could not hush its voice, and hence came
those cries which even in daylight were not
pleasant to hear. On an emergency he could keep
the hound in the out-house at Merripit, but it
was always a risk, and it was only on the
supreme day, which he regarded as the end of all
his efforts, that he dared do it. This paste in
the tin is no doubt the luminous mixture with
which the creature was daubed. It was suggested,
of course, by the story of the family
hell-hound, and by the desire to frighten old
Sir Charles to death. No wonder the poor devil
of a convict ran and screamed, even as our
friend did, and as we ourselves might have done,
when he saw such a creature bounding through the
darkness of the moor upon his track. It was a
cunning device, for, apart from the chance of
driving your victim to his death, what peasant
would venture to inquire too closely into such a
creature should he get sight of it, as many have
done, upon the moor? I said it in London,
Watson, and I say it again now, that never yet
have we helped to hunt down a more dangerous man
than he who is lying yonder"--he swept his long
arm towards the huge mottled expanse of
green-splotched bog which stretched away until
it merged into the russet slopes of the moor.
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Chapter
15
A Retrospection
It was the end of November, and Holmes and I sat,
upon a raw and foggy night, on either side of a
blazing fire in our sitting-room in Baker
Street. Since the tragic upshot of our visit to
Devonshire he had been engaged in two affairs of
the utmost importance, in the first of which he
had exposed the atrocious conduct of Colonel
Upwood in connection with the famous card
scandal of the Nonpareil Club, while in the
second he had defended the unfortunate Mme.
Montpensier from the charge of murder which hung
over her in connection with the death of her
step-daughter, Mlle. Carere, the young lady who,
as it will be remembered, was found six months
later alive and married in New York. My friend
was in excellent spirits over the success which
had attended a succession of difficult and
important cases, so that I was able to induce
him to discuss the details of the Baskerville
mystery. I had waited patiently for the
opportunity for I was aware that he would never
permit cases to overlap, and that his clear and
logical mind would not be drawn from its present
work to dwell upon memories of the past. Sir
Henry and Dr. Mortimer were, however, in London,
on their way to that long voyage which had been
recommended for the restoration of his shattered
nerves. They had called upon us that very
afternoon, so that it was natural that the
subject should come up for discussion.
"The whole course of events," said Holmes,
"from the point of view of the man who called
himself Stapleton was simple and direct,
although to us, who had no means in the
beginning of knowing the motives of his actions
and could only learn part of the facts, it all
appeared exceedingly complex. I have had the
advantage of two conversations with Mrs.
Stapleton, and the case has now been so entirely
cleared up that I am not aware that there is
anything which has remained a secret to us. You
will find a few notes upon the matter under the
heading B in my indexed list of cases."
"Perhaps you would kindly give me a sketch of
the course of events from memory."
"Certainly, though I cannot guarantee that I
carry all the facts in my mind. Intense mental
concentration has a curious way of blotting out
what has passed. The barrister who has his case
at his fingers` ends and is able to argue with
an expert upon his own subject finds that a week
or two of the courts will drive it all out of
his head once more. So each of my cases
displaces the last, and Mlle. Carere has blurred
my recollection of Baskerville Hall. Tomorrow
some other little problem may be submitted to my
notice which will in turn dispossess the fair
French lady and the infamous Upwood. So far as
the case of the hound goes, however, I will give
you the course of events as nearly as I can, and
you will suggest anything which I may have
forgotten.
"My inquiries show beyond all question that
the family portrait did not lie, and that this
fellow was indeed a Baskerville. He was a son of
that Rodger Baskerville, the younger brother of
Sir Charles, who fled with a sinister reputation
to South America, where he was said to have died
unmarried. He did, as a matter of fact, marry,
and had one child, this fellow, whose real name
is the same as his father`s. He married Beryl
Garcia, one of the beauties of Costa Rica, and,
having purloined a considerable sum of public
money, he changed his name to Vandeleur and fled
to England, where he established a school in the
east of Yorkshire. His reason for attempting
this special line of business was that he had
struck up an acquaintance with a consumptive
tutor upon the voyage home, and that he had used
this man`s ability to make the undertaking a
success. Fraser, the tutor, died however, and
the school which had begun well sank from
disrepute into infamy. The Vandeleurs found it
convenient to change their name to Stapleton,
and he brought the remains of his fortune, his
schemes for the future, and his taste for
entomology to the south of England. I learned at
the British Museum that he was a recognized
authority upon the subject, and that the name of
Vandeleur has been permanently attached to a
certain moth which he had, in his Yorkshire
days, been the first to describe.
"We now come to that portion of his life
which has proved to be of such intense interest
to us. The fellow had evidently made inquiry and
found that only two lives intervened between him
and a valuable estate. When he went to
Devonshire his plans were, I believe,
exceedingly hazy, but that he meant mischief
from the first is evident from the way in which
he took his wife with him in the character of
his sister. The idea of using her as a decoy was
clearly already in his mind, though he may not
have been certain how the details of his plot
were to be arranged. He meant in the end to have
the estate, and he was ready to use any tool or
run any risk for that end. His first act was to
establish himself as near to his ancestral home
as he could, and his second was to cultivate a
friendship with Sir Charles Baskerville and with
the neighbours.
"The baronet himself told him about the
family hound, and so prepared the way for his
own death. Stapleton, as I will continue to call
him, knew that the old man`s heart was weak and
that a shock would kill him. So much he had
learned from Dr. Mortimer. He had heard also
that Sir Charles was superstitious and had taken
this grim legend very seriously. His ingenious
mind instantly suggested a way by which the
baronet could be done to death, and yet it would
be hardly possible to bring home the guilt to
the real murderer.
"Having conceived the idea he proceeded to
carry it out with considerable finesse. An
ordinary schemer would have been content to work
with a savage hound. The use of artificial means
to make the creature diabolical was a flash of
genius upon his part. The dog he bought in
London from Ross and Mangles, the dealers in
Fulham Road. It was the strongest and most
savage in their possession. He brought it down
by the North Devon line and walked a great
distance over the moor so as to get it home
without exciting any remarks. He had already on
his insect hunts learned to penetrate the
Grimpen Mire, and so had found a safe
hiding-place for the creature. Here he kennelled
it and waited his chance.
"But it was some time coming. The old
gentleman could not be decoyed outside of his
grounds at night. Several times Stapleton lurked
about with his hound, but without avail. It was
during these fruitless quests that he, or rather
his ally, was seen by peasants, and that the
legend of the demon dog received a new
confirmation. He had hoped that his wife might
lure Sir Charles to his ruin, but here she
proved unexpectedly independent. She would not
endeavour to entangle the old gentleman in a
sentimental attachment which might deliver him
over to his enemy. Threats and even, I am sorry
to say, blows refused to move her. She would
have nothing to do with it, and for a time
Stapleton was at a deadlock.
"He found a way out of his difficulties
through the chance that Sir Charles, who had
conceived a friendship for him, made him the
minister of his charity in the case of this
unfortunate woman, Mrs. Laura Lyons. By
representing himself as a single man he acquired
complete influence over her, and he gave her to
understand that in the event of her obtaining a
divorce from her husband he would marry her. His
plans were suddenly brought to a head by his
knowledge that Sir Charles was about to leave
the Hall on the advice of Dr. Mortimer, with
whose opinion he himself pretended to coincide.
He must act at once, or his victim might get
beyond his power. He therefore put pressure upon
Mrs. Lyons to write this letter, imploring the
old man to give her an interview on the evening
before his departure for London. He then, by a
specious argument, prevented her from going, and
so had the chance for which he had waited.
"Driving back in the evening from Coombe
Tracey he was in time to get his hound, to treat
it with his infernal paint, and to bring the
beast round to the gate at which he had reason
to expect that he would find the old gentleman
waiting. The dog, incited by its master, sprang
over the wicket-gate and pursued the unfortunate
baronet, who fled screaming down the yew alley.
In that gloomy tunnel it must indeed have been a
dreadful sight to see that huge black creature,
with its flaming jaws and blazing eyes, bounding
after its victim. He fell dead at the end of the
alley from heart disease and terror. The hound
had kept upon the grassy border while the
baronet had run down the path, so that no track
but the man`s was visible. On seeing him lying
still the creature had probably approached to
sniff at him, but finding him dead had turned
away again. It was then that it left the print
which was actually observed by Dr. Mortimer. The
hound was called off and hurried away to its
lair in the Grimpen Mire, and a mystery was left
which puzzled the authorities, alarmed the
countryside, and finally brought the case within
the scope of our observation.
"So much for the death of Sir Charles
Baskerville. You perceive the devilish cunning
of it, for really it would be almost impossible
to make a case against the real murderer. His
only accomplice was one who could never give him
away, and the grotesque, inconceivable nature of
the device only served to make it more
effective. Both of the women concerned in the
case, Mrs. Stapleton and Mrs. Laura Lyons, were
left with a strong suspicion against Stapleton.
Mrs. Stapleton knew that he had designs upon the
old man, and also of the existence of the hound.
Mrs. Lyons knew neither of these things, but had
been impressed by the death occurring at the
time of an uncancelled appointment which was
only known to him. However, both of them were
under his influence, and he had nothing to fear
from them. The first half of his task was
successfully accomplished but the more difficult
still remained.
"It is possible that Stapleton did not know
of the existence of an heir in Canada. In any
case he would very soon learn it from his friend
Dr. Mortimer, and he was told by the latter all
details about the arrival of Henry Baskerville.
Stapleton`s first idea was that this young
stranger from Canada might possibly be done to
death in London without coming down to
Devonshire at all. He distrusted his wife ever
since she had refused to help him in laying a
trap for the old man, and he dared not leave her
long out of his sight for fear he should lose
his influence over her. It was for this reason
that he took her to London with him. They
lodged, I find, at the Mexborough Private Hotel,
in Craven Street, which was actually one of
those called upon by my agent in search of
evidence. Here he kept his wife imprisoned in
her room while he, disguised in a beard,
followed Dr. Mortimer to Baker Street and
afterwards to the station and to the
Northumberland Hotel. His wife had some inkling
of his plans; but she had such a fear of her
husband--a fear founded upon brutal
ill-treatment--that she dare not write to warn
the man whom she knew to be in danger. If the
letter should fall into Stapleton`s hands her
own life would not be safe. Eventually, as we
know, she adopted the expedient of cutting out
the words which would form the message, and
addressing the letter in a disguised hand. It
reached the baronet, and gave him the first
warning of his danger.
"It was very essential for Stapleton to get
some article of Sir Henry`s attire so that, in
case he was driven to use the dog, he might
always have the means of setting him upon his
track. With characteristic promptness and
audacity he set about this at once, and we
cannot doubt that the boots or chamber-maid of
the hotel was well bribed to help him in his
design. By chance, however, the first boot which
was procured for him was a new one and,
therefore, useless for his purpose. He then had
it returned and obtained another--a most
instructive incident, since it proved
conclusively to my mind that we were dealing
with a real hound, as no other supposition could
explain this anxiety to obtain an old boot and
this indifference to a new one. The more outre
and grotesque an incident is the more carefully
it deserves to be examined, and the very point
which appears to complicate a case is, when duly
considered and scientifically handled, the one
which is most likely to elucidate it.
"Then we had the visit from our friends next
morning, shadowed always by Stapleton in the
cab. From his knowledge of our rooms and of my
appearance, as well as from his general conduct,
I am inclined to think that Stapleton`s career
of crime has been by no means limited to this
single Baskerville affair. It is suggestive that
during the last three years there have been four
considerable burglaries in the west country, for
none of which was any criminal ever arrested.
The last of these, at Folkestone Court, in May,
was remarkable for the cold-blooded pistolling
of the page, who surprised the masked and
solitary burglar. I cannot doubt that Stapleton
recruited his waning resources in this fashion,
and that for years he has been a desperate and
dangerous man.
"We had an example of his readiness of
resource that morning when he got away from us
so successfully, and also of his audacity in
sending back my own name to me through the
cabman. From that moment he understood that I
had taken over the case in London, and that
therefore there was no chance for him there. He
returned to Dartmoor and awaited the arrival of
the baronet."
"One moment!" said I. "You have, no doubt,
described the sequence of events correctly, but
there is one point which you have left
unexplained. What became of the hound when its
master was in London?"
"I have given some attention to this matter
and it is undoubtedly of importance. There can
be no question that Stapleton had a confidant,
though it is unlikely that he ever placed
himself in his power by sharing all his plans
with him. There was an old manservant at
Merripit House, whose name was Anthony. His
connection with the Stapletons can be traced for
several years, as far back as the
schoolmastering days, so that he must have been
aware that his master and mistress were really
husband and wife. This man has disappeared and
has escaped from the country. It is suggestive
that Anthony is not a common name in England,
while Antonio is so in all Spanish or
Spanish-American countries. The man, like Mrs.
Stapleton herself, spoke good English, but with
a curious lisping accent. I have myself seen
this old man cross the Grimpen Mire by the path
which Stapleton had marked out. It is very
probable, therefore, that in the absence of his
master it was he who cared for the hound, though
he may never have known the purpose for which
the beast was used.
"The Stapletons then went down to Devonshire,
whither they were soon followed by Sir Henry and
you. One word now as to how I stood myself at
that time. It may possibly recur to your memory
that when I examined the paper upon which the
printed words were fastened I made a close
inspection for the water-mark. In doing so I
held it within a few inches of my eyes, and was
conscious of a faint smell of the scent known as
white jessamine. There are seventy-five
perfumes, which it is very necessary that a
criminal expert should be able to distinguish
from each other, and cases have more than once
within my own experience depended upon their
prompt recognition. The scent suggested the
presence of a lady, and already my thoughts
began to turn towards the Stapletons. Thus I had
made certain of the hound, and had guessed at
the criminal before ever we went to the west
country.
"It was my game to watch Stapleton. It was
evident, however, that I could not do this if I
were with you, since he would be keenly on his
guard. I deceived everybody, therefore, yourself
included, and I came down secretly when I was
supposed to be in London. My hardships were not
so great as you imagined, though such trifling
details must never interfere with the
investigation of a case. I stayed for the most
part at Coombe Tracey, and only used the hut
upon the moor when it was necessary to be near
the scene of action. Cartwright had come down
with me, and in his disguise as a country boy he
was of great assistance to me. I was dependent
upon him for food and clean linen. When I was
watching Stapleton, Cartwright was frequently
watching you, so that I was able to keep my hand
upon all the strings.
"I have already told you that your reports
reached me rapidly, being forwarded instantly
from Baker Street to Coombe Tracey. They were of
great service to me, and especially that one
incidentally truthful piece of biography of
Stapleton`s. I was able to establish the
identity of the man and the woman and knew at
last exactly how I stood. The case had been
considerably complicated through the incident of
the escaped convict and the relations between
him and the Barrymores. This also you cleared up
in a very effective way, though I had already
come to the same conclusions from my own
observations.
"By the time that you discovered me upon the
moor I had a complete knowledge of the whole
business, but I had not a case which could go to
a jury. Even Stapleton`s attempt upon Sir Henry
that night which ended in the death of the
unfortunate convict did not help us much in
proving murder against our man. There seemed to
be no alternative but to catch him red-handed,
and to do so we had to use Sir Henry, alone and
apparently unprotected, as a bait. We did so,
and at the cost of a severe shock to our client
we succeeded in completing our case and driving
Stapleton to his destruction. That Sir Henry
should have been exposed to this is, I must
confess, a reproach to my management of the
case, but we had no means of foreseeing the
terrible and paralyzing spectacle which the
beast presented, nor could we predict the fog
which enabled him to burst upon us at such short
notice. We succeeded in our object at a cost
which both the specialist and Dr. Mortimer
assure me will be a temporary one. A long
journey may enable our friend to recover not
only from his shattered nerves but also from his
wounded feelings. His love for the lady was deep
and sincere, and to him the saddest part of all
this black business was that he should have been
deceived by her.
"It only remains to indicate the part which
she had played throughout. There can be no doubt
that Stapleton exercised an influence over her
which may have been love or may have been fear,
or very possibly both, since they are by no
means incompatible emotions. It was, at least,
absolutely effective. At his command she
consented to pass as his sister, though he found
the limits of his power over her when he
endeavoured to make her the direct accessory to
murder. She was ready to warn Sir Henry so far
as she could without implicating her husband,
and again and again she tried to do so.
Stapleton himself seems to have been capable of
jealousy, and when he saw the baronet paying
court to the lady, even though it was part of
his own plan, still he could not help
interrupting with a passionate outburst which
revealed the fiery soul which his self-contained
manner so cleverly concealed. By encouraging the
intimacy he made it certain that Sir Henry would
frequently come to Merripit House and that he
would sooner or later get the opportunity which
he desired. On the day of the crisis, however,
his wife turned suddenly against him. She had
learned something of the death of the convict,
and she knew that the hound was being kept in
the outhouse on the evening that Sir Henry was
coming to dinner. She taxed her husband with his
intended crime, and a furious scene followed in
which he showed her for the first time that she
had a rival in his love. Her fidelity turned in
an instant to bitter hatred, and he saw that she
would betray him. He tied her up, therefore,
that she might have no chance of warning Sir
Henry, and he hoped, no doubt, that when the
whole countryside put down the baronet`s death
to the curse of his family, as they certainly
would do, he could win his wife back to accept
an accomplished fact and to keep silent upon
what she knew. In this I fancy that in any case
he made a miscalculation, and that, if we had
not been there, his doom would none the less
have been sealed. A woman of Spanish blood does
not condone such an injury so lightly. And now,
my dear Watson, without referring to my notes, I
cannot give you a more detailed account of this
curious case. I do not know that anything
essential has been left unexplained."
"He could not hope to frighten Sir Henry to
death as he had done the old uncle with his
bogie hound."
"The beast was savage and half-starved. If
its appearance did not frighten its victim to
death, at least it would paralyze the resistance
which might be offered."
"No doubt. There only remains one difficulty.
If Stapleton came into the succession, how could
he explain the fact that he, the heir, had been
living unannounced under another name so close
to the property? How could he claim it without
causing suspicion and inquiry?"
"It is a formidable difficulty, and I fear
that you ask too much when you expect me to
solve it. The past and the present are within
the field of my inquiry, but what a man may do
in the future is a hard question to answer. Mrs.
Stapleton has heard her husband discuss the
problem on several occasions. There were three
possible courses. He might claim the property
from South America, establish his identity
before the British authorities there and so
obtain the fortune without ever coming to
England at all, or he might adopt an elaborate
disguise during the short time that he need be
in London; or, again, he might furnish an
accomplice with the proofs and papers, putting
him in as heir, and retaining a claim upon some
proportion of his income. We cannot doubt from
what we know of him that he would have found
some way out of the difficulty. And now, my dear
Watson, we have had some weeks of severe work,
and for one evening, I think, we may turn our
thoughts into more pleasant channels. I have a
box for `Les Huguenots.` Have you heard the De
Reszkes? Might I trouble you then to be ready in
half an hour, and we can stop at Marcini`s for a
little dinner on the way?" |
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