The Hound of the Baskervilles
as we call it, upon the moor, some slinking away and some,
with starting hackles and staring eyes, gazing down the
narrow valley before them.
“The company had come to a halt, more sober men, as you may
guess, than when they started. The most of them would by
no means advance, but three of them, the boldest, or it may
be the most drunken, rode forward down the goyal. Now, it
opened into a broad space in which stood two of those great
stones, still to be seen there, which were set by certain
forgotten peoples in the days of old. The moon was shining
bright upon the clearing, and there in the centre lay the
unhappy maid where she had fallen, dead of fear and of
fatigue. But it was not the sight of her body, nor yet was
it that of the body of Hugo Baskerville lying near her,
which raised the hair upon the heads of these three
dare-devil roysterers, but it was that, standing over Hugo,
and plucking at his throat, there stood a foul thing, a
great, black beast, shaped like a hound, yet larger than
any hound that ever mortal eye has rested upon. And even
as they looked the thing tore the throat out of Hugo
Baskerville, on which, as it turned its blazing eyes and
dripping jaws upon them, the three shrieked with fear and
rode for dear life, still screaming, across the moor. One,
it is said, died that very night of what he had seen, and
the other twain were but broken men for the rest of their
days.
“Such is the tale, my sons, of the coming of the hound
which is said to have plagued the family so sorely ever
since. If I have set it down it is because that which is
clearly known hath less terror than that which is but
hinted at and guessed. Nor can it be denied that many of
the family have been unhappy in their deaths, which have
been sudden, bloody, and mysterious. Yet may we shelter
ourselves in the infinite goodness of Providence, which
would not forever punish the innocent beyond that third or
fourth generation which is threatened in Holy Writ. To
that Providence, my sons, I hereby commend you, and I
counsel you by way of caution to forbear from crossing the
moor in those dark hours when the powers of evil are
exalted.
“[This from Hugo Baskerville to his sons Rodger and John,
with instructions that they say nothing thereof to their
sister Elizabeth.]”
When Dr. Mortimer had finished reading this singular narrative he
pushed his spectacles up on his forehead and stared across at Mr.
Sherlock Holmes. The latter yawned and tossed the end of his
cigarette into the fire.
“Well?” said he.
“Do you not find it interesting?”
“To a collector of fairy tales.”
Dr. Mortimer drew a folded newspaper out of his pocket.
“Now, Mr. Holmes, we will give you something a little more
recent. This is the _Devon County Chronicle_ of May 14th of this
year. It is a short account of the facts elicited at the death of
Sir Charles Baskerville which occurred a few days before that
date.”
My friend leaned a little forward and his expression became
intent. Our visitor readjusted his glasses and began:
“The recent sudden death of Sir Charles Baskerville, whose name
has been mentioned as the probable Liberal candidate for
Mid-Devon at the next election, has cast a gloom over the
county. Though Sir Charles had resided at Baskerville Hall for
a comparatively short period his amiability of character and
extreme generosity had won the affection and respect of all who
had been brought into contact with him. In these days of
_nouveaux riches_ it is refreshing to find a case where the
scion of an old county family which has fallen upon evil days
is able to make his own fortune and to bring it back with him
to restore the fallen grandeur of his line. Sir Charles, as is
well known, made large sums of money in South African
speculation. More wise than those who go on until the wheel
turns against them, he realised his gains and returned to
England with them. It is only two years since he took up his
residence at Baskerville Hall, and it is common talk how large
were those schemes of reconstruction and improvement which have
been interrupted by his death. Being himself childless, it was
his openly expressed desire that the whole countryside should,
within his own lifetime, profit by his good fortune, and many
will have personal reasons for bewailing his untimely end. His
generous donations to local and county charities have been
frequently chronicled in these columns.
“The circumstances connected with the death of Sir Charles
cannot be said to have been entirely cleared up by the
inquest, but at least enough has been done to dispose of
those rumours to which local superstition has given rise.
There is no reason whatever to suspect foul play, or to
imagine that death could be from any but natural causes.
Sir Charles was a widower, and a man who may be said to
have been in some ways of an eccentric habit of mind. In
spite of his considerable wealth he was simple in his
personal tastes, and his indoor servants at Baskerville
Hall consisted of a married couple named Barrymore, the
husband acting as butler and the wife as housekeeper. Their
evidence, corroborated by that of several friends, tends to
show that Sir Charles’s health has for some time been
impaired, and points especially to some affection of the
heart, manifesting itself in changes of colour,
breathlessness, and acute attacks of nervous depression.
Dr. James Mortimer, the friend and medical attendant of the
deceased, has given evidence to the same effect.
“The facts of the case are simple. Sir Charles Baskerville
was in the habit every night before going to bed of walking
down the famous yew alley of Baskerville Hall. The
evidence of the Barrymores shows that this had been his
custom. On the fourth of May Sir Charles had declared his
intention of starting next day for London, and had ordered
Barrymore to prepare his luggage. That night he went out
as usual for his nocturnal walk, in the course of which he
was in the habit of smoking a cigar. He never returned.
At twelve o’clock Barrymore, finding the hall door still
open, became alarmed, and, lighting a lantern, went in
search of his master. The day had been wet, and Sir
Charles’s footmarks were easily traced down the alley.
Halfway down this walk there is a gate which leads out on
to the moor. There were indications that Sir Charles had
stood for some little time here. He then proceeded down
the alley, and it was at the far end of it that his body
was discovered. One fact which has not been explained is
the statement of Barrymore that his master’s footprints
altered their character from the time that he passed the
moor-gate, and that he appeared from thence onward to have
been walking upon his toes. One Murphy, a gipsy
horse-dealer, was on the moor at no great distance at the
time, but he appears by his own confession to have been the
worse for drink. He declares that he heard cries but is
unable to state from what direction they came. No signs of
violence were to be discovered upon Sir Charles’s person,
and though the doctor’s evidence pointed to an almost
incredible facial distortion—so great that Dr. Mortimer
refused at first to believe that it was indeed his friend
and patient who lay before him—it was explained that that
is a symptom which is not unusual in cases of dyspnœa and
death from cardiac exhaustion. This explanation was borne
out by the post-mortem examination, which showed
long-standing organic disease, and the coroner’s jury
returned a verdict in accordance with the medical evidence.
It is well that this is so, for it is obviously of the
utmost importance that Sir Charles’s heir should settle at
the Hall and continue the good work which has been so sadly
interrupted. Had the prosaic finding of the coroner not
finally put an end to the romantic stories which have been
whispered in connection with the affair, it might have been
difficult to find a tenant for Baskerville Hall. It is
understood that the next of kin is Mr. Henry Baskerville,
if he be still alive, the son of Sir Charles Baskerville’s
younger brother. The young man when last heard of was in
America, and inquiries are being instituted with a view to
informing him of his good fortune.”
Dr. Mortimer refolded his paper and replaced it in his pocket.
“Those are the public facts, Mr. Holmes, in connection with the
death of Sir Charles Baskerville.”
“I must thank you,” said Sherlock Holmes, “for calling my
attention to a case which certainly presents some features of
interest. I had observed some newspaper comment at the time, but
I was exceedingly preoccupied by that little affair of the
Vatican cameos, and in my anxiety to oblige the Pope I lost touch
with several interesting English cases. This article, you say,
contains all the public facts?”
“It does.”
“Then let me have the private ones.” He leaned back, put his
finger-tips together, and assumed his most impassive and judicial
expression.
“In doing so,” said Dr. Mortimer, who had begun to show signs of
some strong emotion, “I am telling that which I have not confided
to anyone. My motive for withholding it from the coroner’s
inquiry is that a man of science shrinks from placing himself in
the public position of seeming to indorse a popular superstition.
I had the further motive that Baskerville Hall, as the paper
says, would certainly remain untenanted if anything were done to
increase its already rather grim reputation. For both these
reasons I thought that I was justified in telling rather less
than I knew, since no practical good could result from it, but
with you there is no reason why I should not be perfectly frank.
“The moor is very sparsely inhabited, and those who live near
each other are thrown very much together. For this reason I saw a
good deal of Sir Charles Baskerville. With the exception of Mr.
Frankland, of Lafter Hall, and Mr. Stapleton, the naturalist,
there are no other men of education within many miles. Sir
Charles was a retiring man, but the chance of his illness brought