The Hound of the Baskervilles
“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.”
Chapter 13.
Fixing the Nets
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, lean-jawed pike, or
whether he has got through the meshes.”
“Have you been on the moor already?”