Sherlock Holmes (42 page)

‘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
I 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 silver 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 fellow'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 for ever 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 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.

‘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 paralysing shock when he found that the wrong man had fallen a victim to his plot. I told you in London, Watson, and I will 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 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 of Selden's death 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, dryly. ‘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, so 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 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 roisterer 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 lovelocks, 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, lean-jawed 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 would 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 close round that lean-jawed 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.'