The Hound of the Baskervilles
“I did not know who you were, but I was determined to find out.”
“Excellent, Watson! And how did you localise 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 agonised 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