The Hound of the Baskervilles
“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 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.”
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