The Hound of the Baskervilles
Sir Charles alive, and the first to dog the new heir when he
returned to England. What then? Was he the agent of others or had
he some sinister design of his own? What interest could he have
in persecuting the Baskerville family? I thought of the strange
warning clipped out of the leading article of the _Times_. Was
that his work or was it possibly the doing of someone who was
bent upon counteracting his schemes? The only conceivable motive
was that which had been suggested by Sir Henry, that if the
family could be scared away a comfortable and permanent home
would be secured for the Barrymores. But surely such an
explanation as that would be quite inadequate to account for the
deep and subtle scheming which seemed to be weaving an invisible
net round the young baronet. Holmes himself had said that no more
complex case had come to him in all the long series of his
sensational investigations. I prayed, as I walked back along the
grey, lonely road, that my friend might soon be freed from his
preoccupations and able to come down to take this heavy burden of
responsibility from my shoulders.
Suddenly my thoughts were interrupted by the sound of running
feet behind me and by a voice which called me by name. I turned,
expecting to see Dr. Mortimer, but to my surprise it was a
stranger who was pursuing me. He was a small, slim, clean-shaven,
prim-faced man, flaxen-haired and lean-jawed, between thirty and
forty years of age, dressed in a grey suit and wearing a straw
hat. A tin box for botanical specimens hung over his shoulder and
he carried a green butterfly-net in one of his hands.
“You will, I am sure, excuse my presumption, Dr. Watson,” said he
as he came panting up to where I stood. “Here on the moor we are
homely folk and do not wait for formal introductions. You may
possibly have heard my name from our mutual friend, Mortimer. I
am Stapleton, of Merripit House.”
“Your net and box would have told me as much,” said I, “for I
knew that Mr. Stapleton was a naturalist. But how did you know
me?”
“I have been calling on Mortimer, and he pointed you out to me
from the window of his surgery as you passed. As our road lay the
same way I thought that I would overtake you and introduce
myself. I trust that Sir Henry is none the worse for his
journey?”
“He is very well, thank you.”
“We were all rather afraid that after the sad death of Sir
Charles the new baronet might refuse to live here. It is asking
much of a wealthy man to come down and bury himself in a place of
this kind, but I need not tell you that it means a very great
deal to the countryside. Sir Henry has, I suppose, no
superstitious fears in the matter?”
“I do not think that it is likely.”
“Of course you know the legend of the fiend dog which haunts the
family?”
“I have heard it.”
“It is extraordinary how credulous the peasants are about here!
Any number of them are ready to swear that they have seen such a
creature upon the moor.” He spoke with a smile, but I seemed to
read in his eyes that he took the matter more seriously. “The
story took a great hold upon the imagination of Sir Charles, and
I have no doubt that it led to his tragic end.”
“But how?”
“His nerves were so worked up that the appearance of any dog
might have had a fatal effect upon his diseased heart. I fancy
that he really did see something of the kind upon that last night
in the yew alley. I feared that some disaster might occur, for I
was very fond of the old man, and I knew that his heart was
weak.”
“How did you know that?”
“My friend Mortimer told me.”
“You think, then, that some dog pursued Sir Charles, and that he
died of fright in consequence?”
“Have you any better explanation?”
“I have not come to any conclusion.”
“Has Mr. Sherlock Holmes?”
The words took away my breath for an instant but a glance at the
placid face and steadfast eyes of my companion showed that no
surprise was intended.
“It is useless for us to pretend that we do not know you, Dr.
Watson,” said he. “The records of your detective have reached us
here, and you could not celebrate him without being known
yourself. When Mortimer told me your name he could not deny your
identity. If you are here, then it follows that Mr. Sherlock
Holmes is interesting himself in the matter, and I am naturally
curious to know what view he may take.”
“I am afraid that I cannot answer that question.”
“May I ask if he is going to honour us with a visit himself?”
“He cannot leave town at present. He has other cases which engage
his attention.”
“What a pity! He might throw some light on that which is so dark
to us. But as to your own researches, if there is any possible
way in which I can be of service to you I trust that you will
command me. If I had any indication of the nature of your
suspicions or how you propose to investigate the case, I might
perhaps even now give you some aid or advice.”
“I assure you that I am simply here upon a visit to my friend,
Sir Henry, and that I need no help of any kind.”
“Excellent!” said Stapleton. “You are perfectly right to be wary
and discreet. I am justly reproved for what I feel was an
unjustifiable intrusion, and I promise you that I will not
mention the matter again.”
We had come to a point where a narrow grassy path struck off from
the road and wound away across the moor. A steep,
boulder-sprinkled hill lay upon the right which had in bygone
days been cut into a granite quarry. The face which was turned
towards us formed a dark cliff, with ferns and brambles growing
in its niches. From over a distant rise there floated a grey
plume of smoke.
“A moderate walk along this moor-path brings us to Merripit
House,” said he. “Perhaps you will spare an hour that I may have
the pleasure of introducing you to my sister.”
My first thought was that I should be by Sir Henry’s side. But
then I remembered the pile of papers and bills with which his
study table was littered. It was certain that I could not help
with those. And Holmes had expressly said that I should study the
neighbours upon the moor. I accepted Stapleton’s invitation, and
we turned together down the path.
“It is a wonderful place, the moor,” said he, looking round over
the undulating downs, long green rollers, with crests of jagged
granite foaming up into fantastic surges. “You never tire of the
moor. You cannot think the wonderful secrets which it contains.
It is so vast, and so barren, and so mysterious.”
“You know it well, then?”
“I have only been here two years. The residents would call me a
newcomer. We came shortly after Sir Charles settled. But my
tastes led me to explore every part of the country round, and I
should think that there are few men who know it better than I
do.”
“Is it hard to know?”
“Very hard. You see, for example, this great plain to the north
here with the queer hills breaking out of it. Do you observe
anything remarkable about that?”
“It would be a rare place for a gallop.”
“You would naturally think so and the thought has cost several
their lives before now. You notice those bright green spots
scattered thickly over it?”
“Yes, they seem more fertile than the rest.”
Stapleton laughed. “That is the great Grimpen Mire,” said he. “A
false step yonder means death to man or beast. Only yesterday I
saw one of the moor ponies wander into it. He never came out. I
saw his head for quite a long time craning out of the bog-hole,
but it sucked him down at last. Even in dry seasons it is a
danger to cross it, but after these autumn rains it is an awful
place. And yet I can find my way to the very heart of it and
return alive. By George, there is another of those miserable
ponies!”
Something brown was rolling and tossing among the green sedges.
Then a long, agonised, writhing neck shot upward and a dreadful
cry echoed over the moor. It turned me cold with horror, but my
companion’s nerves seemed to be stronger than mine.
“It’s gone!” said he. “The mire has him. Two in two days, and
many more, perhaps, for they get in the way of going there in the
dry weather and never know the difference until the mire has them
in its clutches. It’s a bad place, the great Grimpen Mire.”
“And you say you can penetrate it?”
“Yes, there are one or two paths which a very active man can
take. I have found them out.”
“But why should you wish to go into so horrible a place?”
“Well, you see the hills beyond? They are really islands cut off
on all sides by the impassable mire, which has crawled round them
in the course of years. That is where the rare plants and the
butterflies are, if you have the wit to reach them.”
“I shall try my luck some day.”
He looked at me with a surprised face. “For God’s sake put such
an idea out of your mind,” said he. “Your blood would be upon my
head. I assure you that there would not be the least chance of
your coming back alive. It is only by remembering certain complex
landmarks that I am able to do it.”
“Halloa!” I cried. “What is that?”
A long, low moan, indescribably sad, swept over the moor. It
filled the whole air, and yet it was impossible to say whence it
came. From a dull murmur it swelled into a deep roar, and then
sank back into a melancholy, throbbing murmur once again.
Stapleton looked at me with a curious expression in his face.
“Queer place, the moor!” said he.
“But what is it?”
“The peasants say it is the Hound of the Baskervilles calling for
its prey. I’ve heard it once or twice before, but never quite so
loud.”
I looked round, with a chill of fear in my heart, at the huge
swelling plain, mottled with the green patches of rushes. Nothing
stirred over the vast expanse save a pair of ravens, which
croaked loudly from a tor behind us.
“You are an educated man. You don’t believe such nonsense as
that?” said I. “What do you think is the cause of so strange a
sound?”
“Bogs make queer noises sometimes. It’s the mud settling, or the
water rising, or something.”
“No, no, that was a living voice.”
“Well, perhaps it was. Did you ever hear a bittern booming?”
“No, I never did.”
“It’s a very rare bird—practically extinct—in England now, but
all things are possible upon the moor. Yes, I should not be
surprised to learn that what we have heard is the cry of the last
of the bitterns.”
“It’s the weirdest, strangest thing that ever I heard in my
life.”
“Yes, it’s rather an uncanny place altogether. Look at the
hillside yonder. What do you make of those?”
The whole steep slope was covered with grey circular rings of
stone, a score of them at least.
“What are they? Sheep-pens?”