cover THE HOUND OF THE BASKERVILLES Another Adventure of Sherlock Holmes by A. Conan Doyle My dear Robinson, It was to your account of a West-Country legend that this tale owes its inception. For this and for your help in the details all thanks. Yours most truly, A. Conan Doyle. Hindhead, Haslemere. Contents Chapter 1 Mr. Sherlock Holmes Chapter 2 The Curse of the Baskervilles Chapter 3 The Problem Chapter 4 Sir Henry Baskerville Chapter 5 Three Broken Threads Chapter 6 Baskerville Hall Chapter 7 The Stapletons of Merripit House Chapter 8 First Report of Dr. Watson Chapter 9 The Light upon the Moor [Second Report of Dr. Watson] Chapter 10 Extract from the Diary of Dr. Watson Chapter 11 The Man on the Tor Chapter 12 Death on the Moor Chapter 13 Fixing the Nets Chapter 14 The Hound of the Baskervilles Chapter 15 A Retrospection Chapter 1. Mr. Sherlock Holmes Mr. Sherlock Holmes, who was usually very late in the mornings, save upon those not infrequent occasions when he was up all night, was seated at the breakfast table. I stood upon the hearth-rug and picked up the stick which our visitor had left behind him the night before. It was a fine, thick piece of wood, bulbous-headed, of the sort which is known as a âPenang lawyer.â Just under the head was a broad silver band nearly an inch across. âTo James Mortimer, M.R.C.S., from his friends of the C.C.H.,â was engraved upon it, with the date â1884.â It was just such a stick as the old-fashioned family practitioner used to carryâdignified, solid, and reassuring. âWell, Watson, what do you make of it?â Holmes was sitting with his back to me, and I had given him no sign of my occupation. âHow did you know what I was doing? I believe you have eyes in the back of your head.â âI have, at least, a well-polished, silver-plated coffee-pot in front of me,â said he. âBut, tell me, Watson, what do you make of our visitorâs stick? Since we have been so unfortunate as to miss him and have no notion of his errand, this accidental souvenir becomes of importance. Let me hear you reconstruct the man by an examination of it.â âI think,â said I, following as far as I could the methods of my companion, âthat Dr. Mortimer is a successful, elderly medical man, well-esteemed since those who know him give him this mark of their appreciation.â âGood!â said Holmes. âExcellent!â âI think also that the probability is in favour of his being a country practitioner who does a great deal of his visiting on foot.â âWhy so?â âBecause this stick, though originally a very handsome one has been so knocked about that I can hardly imagine a town practitioner carrying it. The thick-iron ferrule is worn down, so it is evident that he has done a great amount of walking with it.â âPerfectly sound!â said Holmes. âAnd then again, there is the âfriends of the C.C.H.â I should guess that to be the Something Hunt, the local hunt to whose members he has possibly given some surgical assistance, and which has made him a small presentation in return.â âReally, Watson, you excel yourself,â said Holmes, pushing back his chair and lighting a cigarette. âI am bound to say that in all the accounts which you have been so good as to give of my own small achievements you have habitually underrated your own abilities. It may be that you are not yourself luminous, but you are a conductor of light. Some people without possessing genius have a remarkable power of stimulating it. I confess, my dear fellow, that I am very much in your debt.â He had never said as much before, and I must admit that his words gave me keen pleasure, for I had often been piqued by his indifference to my admiration and to the attempts which I had made to give publicity to his methods. I was proud, too, to think that I had so far mastered his system as to apply it in a way which earned his approval. He now took the stick from my hands and examined it for a few minutes with his naked eyes. Then with an expression of interest he laid down his cigarette, and carrying the cane to the window, he looked over it again with a convex lens. âInteresting, though elementary,â said he as he returned to his favourite corner of the settee. âThere are certainly one or two indications upon the stick. It gives us the basis for several deductions.â âHas anything escaped me?â I asked with some self-importance. âI trust that there is nothing of consequence which I have overlooked?â âI am afraid, my dear Watson, that most of your conclusions were erroneous. When I said that you stimulated me I meant, to be frank, that in noting your fallacies I was occasionally guided towards the truth. Not that you are entirely wrong in this instance. The man is certainly a country practitioner. And he walks a good deal.â âThen I was right.â âTo that extent.â âBut that was all.â âNo, no, my dear Watson, not allâby no means all. I would suggest, for example, that a presentation to a doctor is more likely to come from a hospital than from a hunt, and that when the initials âC.C.â are placed before that hospital the words âCharing Crossâ very naturally suggest themselves.â âYou may be right.â âThe probability lies in that direction. And if we take this as a working hypothesis we have a fresh basis from which to start our construction of this unknown visitor.â âWell, then, supposing that âC.C.H.â does stand for âCharing Cross Hospital,â what further inferences may we draw?â âDo none suggest themselves? You know my methods. Apply them!â âI can only think of the obvious conclusion that the man has practised in town before going to the country.â âI think that we might venture a little farther than this. Look at it in this light. On what occasion would it be most probable that such a presentation would be made? When would his friends unite to give him a pledge of their good will? Obviously at the moment when Dr. Mortimer withdrew from the service of the hospital in order to start a practice for himself. We know there has been a presentation. We believe there has been a change from a town hospital to a country practice. Is it, then, stretching our inference too far to say that the presentation was on the occasion of the change?â âIt certainly seems probable.â âNow, you will observe that he could not have been on the _staff_ of the hospital, since only a man well-established in a London practice could hold such a position, and such a one would not drift into the country. What was he, then? If he was in the hospital and yet not on the staff he could only have been a house-surgeon or a house-physicianâlittle more than a senior student. And he left five years agoâthe date is on the stick. So your grave, middle-aged family practitioner vanishes into thin air, my dear Watson, and there emerges a young fellow under thirty, amiable, unambitious, absent-minded, and the possessor of a favourite dog, which I should describe roughly as being larger than a terrier and smaller than a mastiff.â I laughed incredulously as Sherlock Holmes leaned back in his settee and blew little wavering rings of smoke up to the ceiling. âAs to the latter part, I have no means of checking you,â said I, âbut at least it is not difficult to find out a few particulars about the manâs age and professional career.â From my small medical shelf I took down the Medical Directory and turned up the name. There were several Mortimers, but only one who could be our visitor. I read his record aloud. âMortimer, James, M.R.C.S., 1882, Grimpen, Dartmoor, Devon. House-surgeon, from 1882 to 1884, at Charing Cross Hospital. Winner of the Jackson prize for Comparative Pathology, with essay entitled âIs Disease a Reversion?â Corresponding member of the Swedish Pathological Society. Author of âSome Freaks of Atavismâ (_Lancet_ 1882). âDo We Progress?â (_Journal of Psychology_, March, 1883). Medical Officer for the parishes of Grimpen, Thorsley, and High Barrow.â âNo mention of that local hunt, Watson,â said Holmes with a mischievous smile, âbut a country doctor, as you very astutely observed. I think that I am fairly justified in my inferences. As to the adjectives, I said, if I remember right, amiable, unambitious, and absent-minded. It is my experience that it is only an amiable man in this world who receives testimonials, only an unambitious one who abandons a London career for the country, and only an absent-minded one who leaves his stick and not his visiting-card after waiting an hour in your room.â âAnd the dog?â âHas been in the habit of carrying this stick behind his master. Being a heavy stick the dog has held it tightly by the middle, and the marks of his teeth are very plainly visible. The dogâs jaw, as shown in the space between these marks, is too broad in my opinion for a terrier and not broad enough for a mastiff. It may have beenâyes, by Jove, it _is_ a curly-haired spaniel.â He had risen and paced the room as he spoke. Now he halted in the recess of the window. There was such a ring of conviction in his voice that I glanced up in surprise. âMy dear fellow, how can you possibly be so sure of that?â âFor the very simple reason that I see the dog himself on our very door-step, and there is the ring of its owner. Donât move, I beg you, Watson. He is a professional brother of yours, and your presence may be of assistance to me. Now is the dramatic moment of fate, Watson, when you hear a step upon the stair which is walking into your life, and you know not whether for good or ill. What does Dr. James Mortimer, the man of science, ask of Sherlock Holmes, the specialist in crime? Come in!â The appearance of our visitor was a surprise to me, since I had expected a typical country practitioner. He was a very tall, thin man, with a long nose like a beak, which jutted out between two keen, grey eyes, set closely together and sparkling brightly from behind a pair of gold-rimmed glasses. He was clad in a professional but rather slovenly fashion, for his frock-coat was dingy and his trousers frayed. Though young, his long back was already bowed, and he walked with a forward thrust of his head and a general air of peering benevolence. As he entered his eyes fell upon the stick in Holmesâs hand, and he ran towards it with an exclamation of joy. âI am so very glad,â said he. âI was not sure whether I had left it here or in the Shipping Office. I would not lose that stick for the world.â âA presentation, I see,â said Holmes. âYes, sir.â âFrom Charing Cross Hospital?â âFrom one or two friends there on the occasion of my marriage.â âDear, dear, thatâs bad!â said Holmes, shaking his head. Dr. Mortimer blinked through his glasses in mild astonishment. âWhy was it bad?â âOnly that you have disarranged our little deductions. Your marriage, you say?â âYes, sir. I married, and so left the hospital, and with it all hopes of a consulting practice. It was necessary to make a home of my own.â âCome, come, we are not so far wrong, after all,â said Holmes. âAnd now, Dr. James Mortimerââ âMister, sir, Misterâa humble M.R.C.S.â âAnd a man of precise mind, evidently.â âA dabbler in science, Mr. Holmes, a picker up of shells on the shores of the great unknown ocean. I presume that it is Mr. Sherlock Holmes whom I am addressing and notââ âNo, this is my friend Dr. Watson.â âGlad to meet you, sir. I have heard your name mentioned in connection with that of your friend. You interest me very much, Mr. Holmes. I had hardly expected so dolichocephalic a skull or such well-marked supra-orbital development. Would you have any objection to my running my finger along your parietal fissure? A cast of your skull, sir, until the original is available, would be an ornament to any anthropological museum. It is not my intention to be fulsome, but I confess that I covet your skull.â Sherlock Holmes waved our strange visitor into a chair. âYou are an enthusiast in your line of thought, I perceive, sir, as I am in mine,â said he. âI observe from your forefinger that you make your own cigarettes. Have no hesitation in lighting one.â The man drew out paper and tobacco and twirled the one up in the other with surprising dexterity. He had long, quivering fingers as agile and restless as the antennÃ¦ of an insect. Holmes was silent, but his little darting glances showed me the interest which he took in our curious companion. âI presume, sir,â said he at last, âthat it was not merely for the purpose of examining my skull that you have done me the honour to call here last night and again today?â âNo, sir, no; though I am happy to have had the opportunity of doing that as well. I came to you, Mr. Holmes, because I recognized that I am myself an unpractical man and because I am suddenly confronted with a most serious and extraordinary problem. Recognizing, as I do, that you are the second highest expert in Europeââ âIndeed, sir! May I inquire who has the honour to be the first?â asked Holmes with some asperity. âTo the man of precisely scientific mind the work of Monsieur Bertillon must always appeal strongly.â âThen had you not better consult him?â âI said, sir, to the precisely scientific mind. But as a practical man of affairs it is acknowledged that you stand alone. I trust, sir, that I have not inadvertentlyââ âJust a little,â said Holmes. âI think, Dr. Mortimer, you would do wisely if without more ado you would kindly tell me plainly what the exact nature of the problem is in which you demand my assistance.â Chapter 2. The Curse of the Baskervilles âI have in my pocket a manuscript,â said Dr. James Mortimer. âI observed it as you entered the room,â said Holmes. âIt is an old manuscript.â âEarly eighteenth century, unless it is a forgery.â âHow can you say that, sir?â âYou have presented an inch or two of it to my examination all the time that you have been talking. It would be a poor expert who could not give the date of a document within a decade or so. You may possibly have read my little monograph upon the subject. I put that at 1730.â âThe exact date is 1742.â Dr. Mortimer drew it from his breast-pocket. âThis family paper was committed to my care by Sir Charles Baskerville, whose sudden and tragic death some three months ago created so much excitement in Devonshire. I may say that I was his personal friend as well as his medical attendant. He was a strong-minded man, sir, shrewd, practical, and as unimaginative as I am myself. Yet he took this document very seriously, and his mind was prepared for just such an end as did eventually overtake him.â Holmes stretched out his hand for the manuscript and flattened it upon his knee. âYou will observe, Watson, the alternative use of the long _s_ and the short. It is one of several indications which enabled me to fix the date.â I looked over his shoulder at the yellow paper and the faded script. At the head was written: âBaskerville Hall,â and below in large, scrawling figures: â1742.â âIt appears to be a statement of some sort.â âYes, it is a statement of a certain legend which runs in the Baskerville family.â âBut I understand that it is something more modern and practical upon which you wish to consult me?â âMost modern. A most practical, pressing matter, which must be decided within twenty-four hours. But the manuscript is short and is intimately connected with the affair. With your permission I will read it to you.â Holmes leaned back in his chair, placed his finger-tips together, and closed his eyes, with an air of resignation. Dr. Mortimer turned the manuscript to the light and read in a high, cracking voice the following curious, old-world narrative: âOf the origin of the Hound of the Baskervilles there have been many statements, yet as I come in a direct line from Hugo Baskerville, and as I had the story from my father, who also had it from his, I have set it down with all belief that it occurred even as is here set forth. And I would have you believe, my sons, that the same Justice which punishes sin may also most graciously forgive it, and that no ban is so heavy but that by prayer and repentance it may be removed. Learn then from this story not to fear the fruits of the past, but rather to be circumspect in the future, that those foul passions whereby our family has suffered so grievously may not again be loosed to our undoing. âKnow then that in the time of the Great Rebellion (the history of which by the learned Lord Clarendon I most earnestly commend to your attention) this Manor of Baskerville was held by Hugo of that name, nor can it be gainsaid that he was a most wild, profane, and godless man. This, in truth, his neighbours might have pardoned, seeing that saints have never flourished in those parts, but there was in him a certain wanton and cruel humour which made his name a by-word through the West. It chanced that this Hugo came to love (if, indeed, so dark a passion may be known under so bright a name) the daughter of a yeoman who held lands near the Baskerville estate. But the young maiden, being discreet and of good repute, would ever avoid him, for she feared his evil name. So it came to pass that one Michaelmas this Hugo, with five or six of his idle and wicked companions, stole down upon the farm and carried off the maiden, her father and brothers being from home, as he well knew. When they had brought her to the Hall the maiden was placed in an upper chamber, while Hugo and his friends sat down to a long carouse, as was their nightly custom. Now, the poor lass upstairs was like to have her wits turned at the singing and shouting and terrible oaths which came up to her from below, for they say that the words used by Hugo Baskerville, when he was in wine, were such as might blast the man who said them. At last in the stress of her fear she did that which might have daunted the bravest or most active man, for by the aid of the growth of ivy which covered (and still covers) the south wall she came down from under the eaves, and so homeward across the moor, there being three leagues betwixt the Hall and her fatherâs farm. âIt chanced that some little time later Hugo left his guests to carry food and drinkâwith other worse things, perchanceâto his captive, and so found the cage empty and the bird escaped. Then, as it would seem, he became as one that hath a devil, for, rushing down the stairs into the dining-hall, he sprang upon the great table, flagons and trenchers flying before him, and he cried aloud before all the company that he would that very night render his body and soul to the Powers of Evil if he might but overtake the wench. And while the revellers stood aghast at the fury of the man, one more wicked or, it may be, more drunken than the rest, cried out that they should put the hounds upon her. Whereat Hugo ran from the house, crying to his grooms that they should saddle his mare and unkennel the pack, and giving the hounds a kerchief of the maidâs, he swung them to the line, and so off full cry in the moonlight over the moor. âNow, for some space the revellers stood agape, unable to understand all that had been done in such haste. But anon their bemused wits awoke to the nature of the deed which was like to be done upon the moorlands. Everything was now in an uproar, some calling for their pistols, some for their horses, and some for another flask of wine. But at length some sense came back to their crazed minds, and the whole of them, thirteen in number, took horse and started in pursuit. The moon shone clear above them, and they rode swiftly abreast, taking that course which the maid must needs have taken if she were to reach her own home. âThey had gone a mile or two when they passed one of the night shepherds upon the moorlands, and they cried to him to know if he had seen the hunt. And the man, as the story goes, was so crazed with fear that he could scarce speak, but at last he said that he had indeed seen the unhappy maiden, with the hounds upon her track. âBut I have seen more than that,â said he, âfor Hugo Baskerville passed me upon his black mare, and there ran mute behind him such a hound of hell as God forbid should ever be at my heels.â So the drunken squires cursed the shepherd and rode onward. But soon their skins turned cold, for there came a galloping across the moor, and the black mare, dabbled with white froth, went past with trailing bridle and empty saddle. Then the revellers rode close together, for a great fear was on them, but they still followed over the moor, though each, had he been alone, would have been right glad to have turned his horseâs head. Riding slowly in this fashion they came at last upon the hounds. These, though known for their valour and their breed, were whimpering in a cluster at the head of a deep dip or goyal, 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. âThe 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. âSuch 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. â[This from Hugo Baskerville to his sons Rodger and John, with instructions that they say nothing thereof to their sister Elizabeth.]â 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. âWell?â said he. âDo you not find it interesting?â âTo a collector of fairy tales.â Dr. Mortimer drew a folded newspaper out of his pocket. âNow, 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.â My friend leaned a little forward and his expression became intent. Our visitor readjusted his glasses and began: âThe 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. âThe 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 Charlesâs 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. âThe 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 oâclock 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 Charlesâs 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 masterâs 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 Charlesâs person, and though the doctorâs evidence pointed to an almost incredible facial distortionâso great that Dr. Mortimer refused at first to believe that it was indeed his friend and patient who lay before himâit was explained that that is a symptom which is not unusual in cases of dyspnÅa and death from cardiac exhaustion. This explanation was borne out by the post-mortem examination, which showed long-standing organic disease, and the coronerâs 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 Charlesâs 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 Baskervilleâs 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.â Dr. Mortimer refolded his paper and replaced it in his pocket. âThose are the public facts, Mr. Holmes, in connection with the death of Sir Charles Baskerville.â âI must thank you,â said Sherlock Holmes, âfor 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?â âIt does.â âThen let me have the private ones.â He leaned back, put his finger-tips together, and assumed his most impassive and judicial expression. âIn doing so,â said Dr. Mortimer, who had begun to show signs of some strong emotion, âI am telling that which I have not confided to anyone. My motive for withholding it from the coronerâs 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. âThe 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 us together, and a community of interests in science kept us so. He had brought back much scientific information from South Africa, and many a charming evening we have spent together discussing the comparative anatomy of the Bushman and the Hottentot. âWithin the last few months it became increasingly plain to me that Sir Charlesâs nervous system was strained to the breaking point. He had taken this legend which I have read you exceedingly to heartâso much so that, although he would walk in his own grounds, nothing would induce him to go out upon the moor at night. Incredible as it may appear to you, Mr. Holmes, he was honestly convinced that a dreadful fate overhung his family, and certainly the records which he was able to give of his ancestors were not encouraging. The idea of some ghastly presence constantly haunted him, and on more than one occasion he has asked me whether I had on my medical journeys at night ever seen any strange creature or heard the baying of a hound. The latter question he put to me several times, and always with a voice which vibrated with excitement. âI can well remember driving up to his house in the evening some three weeks before the fatal event. He chanced to be at his hall door. I had descended from my gig and was standing in front of him, when I saw his eyes fix themselves over my shoulder and stare past me with an expression of the most dreadful horror. I whisked round and had just time to catch a glimpse of something which I took to be a large black calf passing at the head of the drive. So excited and alarmed was he that I was compelled to go down to the spot where the animal had been and look around for it. It was gone, however, and the incident appeared to make the worst impression upon his mind. I stayed with him all the evening, and it was on that occasion, to explain the emotion which he had shown, that he confided to my keeping that narrative which I read to you when first I came. I mention this small episode because it assumes some importance in view of the tragedy which followed, but I was convinced at the time that the matter was entirely trivial and that his excitement had no justification. âIt was at my advice that Sir Charles was about to go to London. His heart was, I knew, affected, and the constant anxiety in which he lived, however chimerical the cause of it might be, was evidently having a serious effect upon his health. I thought that a few months among the distractions of town would send him back a new man. Mr. Stapleton, a mutual friend who was much concerned at his state of health, was of the same opinion. At the last instant came this terrible catastrophe. âOn the night of Sir Charlesâs death Barrymore the butler, who made the discovery, sent Perkins the groom on horseback to me, and as I was sitting up late I was able to reach Baskerville Hall within an hour of the event. I checked and corroborated all the facts which were mentioned at the inquest. I followed the footsteps down the yew alley, I saw the spot at the moor-gate where he seemed to have waited, I remarked the change in the shape of the prints after that point, I noted that there were no other footsteps save those of Barrymore on the soft gravel, and finally I carefully examined the body, which had not been touched until my arrival. Sir Charles lay on his face, his arms out, his fingers dug into the ground, and his features convulsed with some strong emotion to such an extent that I could hardly have sworn to his identity. There was certainly no physical injury of any kind. But one false statement was made by Barrymore at the inquest. He said that there were no traces upon the ground round the body. He did not observe any. But I didâsome little distance off, but fresh and clear.â âFootprints?â âFootprints.â âA manâs or a womanâs?â Dr. Mortimer looked strangely at us for an instant, and his voice sank almost to a whisper as he answered. âMr. Holmes, they were the footprints of a gigantic hound!â Chapter 3. The Problem I confess at these words a shudder passed through me. There was a thrill in the doctorâs voice which showed that he was himself deeply moved by that which he told us. Holmes leaned forward in his excitement and his eyes had the hard, dry glitter which shot from them when he was keenly interested. âYou saw this?â âAs clearly as I see you.â âAnd you said nothing?â âWhat was the use?â âHow was it that no one else saw it?â âThe marks were some twenty yards from the body and no one gave them a thought. I donât suppose I should have done so had I not known this legend.â âThere are many sheep-dogs on the moor?â âNo doubt, but this was no sheep-dog.â âYou say it was large?â âEnormous.â âBut it had not approached the body?â âNo.â âWhat sort of night was it?â âDamp and raw.â âBut not actually raining?â âNo.â âWhat is the alley like?â âThere are two lines of old yew hedge, twelve feet high and impenetrable. The walk in the centre is about eight feet across.â âIs there anything between the hedges and the walk?â âYes, there is a strip of grass about six feet broad on either side.â âI understand that the yew hedge is penetrated at one point by a gate?â âYes, the wicket-gate which leads on to the moor.â âIs there any other opening?â âNone.â âSo that to reach the yew alley one either has to come down it from the house or else to enter it by the moor-gate?â âThere is an exit through a summer-house at the far end.â âHad Sir Charles reached this?â âNo; he lay about fifty yards from it.â âNow, tell me, Dr. Mortimerâand this is importantâthe marks which you saw were on the path and not on the grass?â âNo marks could show on the grass.â âWere they on the same side of the path as the moor-gate?â âYes; they were on the edge of the path on the same side as the moor-gate.â âYou interest me exceedingly. Another point. Was the wicket-gate closed?â âClosed and padlocked.â âHow high was it?â âAbout four feet high.â âThen anyone could have got over it?â âYes.â âAnd what marks did you see by the wicket-gate?â âNone in particular.â âGood heaven! Did no one examine?â âYes, I examined, myself.â âAnd found nothing?â âIt was all very confused. Sir Charles had evidently stood there for five or ten minutes.â âHow do you know that?â âBecause the ash had twice dropped from his cigar.â âExcellent! This is a colleague, Watson, after our own heart. But the marks?â âHe had left his own marks all over that small patch of gravel. I could discern no others.â Sherlock Holmes struck his hand against his knee with an impatient gesture. âIf I had only been there!â he cried. âIt is evidently a case of extraordinary interest, and one which presented immense opportunities to the scientific expert. That gravel page upon which I might have read so much has been long ere this smudged by the rain and defaced by the clogs of curious peasants. Oh, Dr. Mortimer, Dr. Mortimer, to think that you should not have called me in! You have indeed much to answer for.â âI could not call you in, Mr. Holmes, without disclosing these facts to the world, and I have already given my reasons for not wishing to do so. Besides, besidesââ âWhy do you hesitate?â âThere is a realm in which the most acute and most experienced of detectives is helpless.â âYou mean that the thing is supernatural?â âI did not positively say so.â âNo, but you evidently think it.â âSince the tragedy, Mr. Holmes, there have come to my ears several incidents which are hard to reconcile with the settled order of Nature.â âFor example?â âI find that before the terrible event occurred several people had seen a creature upon the moor which corresponds with this Baskerville demon, and which could not possibly be any animal known to science. They all agreed that it was a huge creature, luminous, ghastly, and spectral. I have cross-examined these men, one of them a hard-headed countryman, one a farrier, and one a moorland farmer, who all tell the same story of this dreadful apparition, exactly corresponding to the hell-hound of the legend. I assure you that there is a reign of terror in the district, and that it is a hardy man who will cross the moor at night.â âAnd you, a trained man of science, believe it to be supernatural?â âI do not know what to believe.â Holmes shrugged his shoulders. âI have hitherto confined my investigations to this world,â said he. âIn a modest way I have combated evil, but to take on the Father of Evil himself would, perhaps, be too ambitious a task. Yet you must admit that the footmark is material.â âThe original hound was material enough to tug a manâs throat out, and yet he was diabolical as well.â âI see that you have quite gone over to the supernaturalists. But now, Dr. Mortimer, tell me this. If you hold these views, why have you come to consult me at all? You tell me in the same breath that it is useless to investigate Sir Charlesâs death, and that you desire me to do it.â âI did not say that I desired you to do it.â âThen, how can I assist you?â âBy advising me as to what I should do with Sir Henry Baskerville, who arrives at Waterloo StationââDr. Mortimer looked at his watchââin exactly one hour and a quarter.â âHe being the heir?â âYes. On the death of Sir Charles we inquired for this young gentleman and found that he had been farming in Canada. From the accounts which have reached us he is an excellent fellow in every way. I speak now not as a medical man but as a trustee and executor of Sir Charlesâs will.â âThere is no other claimant, I presume?â âNone. The only other kinsman whom we have been able to trace was Rodger Baskerville, the youngest of three brothers of whom poor Sir Charles was the elder. The second brother, who died young, is the father of this lad Henry. The third, Rodger, was the black sheep of the family. He came of the old masterful Baskerville strain and was the very image, they tell me, of the family picture of old Hugo. He made England too hot to hold him, fled to Central America, and died there in 1876 of yellow fever. Henry is the last of the Baskervilles. In one hour and five minutes I meet him at Waterloo Station. I have had a wire that he arrived at Southampton this morning. Now, Mr. Holmes, what would you advise me to do with him?â âWhy should he not go to the home of his fathers?â âIt seems natural, does it not? And yet, consider that every Baskerville who goes there meets with an evil fate. I feel sure that if Sir Charles could have spoken with me before his death he would have warned me against bringing this, the last of the old race, and the heir to great wealth, to that deadly place. And yet it cannot be denied that the prosperity of the whole poor, bleak countryside depends upon his presence. All the good work which has been done by Sir Charles will crash to the ground if there is no tenant of the Hall. I fear lest I should be swayed too much by my own obvious interest in the matter, and that is why I bring the case before you and ask for your advice.â Holmes considered for a little time. âPut into plain words, the matter is this,â said he. âIn your opinion there is a diabolical agency which makes Dartmoor an unsafe abode for a Baskervilleâthat is your opinion?â âAt least I might go the length of saying that there is some evidence that this may be so.â âExactly. But surely, if your supernatural theory be correct, it could work the young man evil in London as easily as in Devonshire. A devil with merely local powers like a parish vestry would be too inconceivable a thing.â âYou put the matter more flippantly, Mr. Holmes, than you would probably do if you were brought into personal contact with these things. Your advice, then, as I understand it, is that the young man will be as safe in Devonshire as in London. He comes in fifty minutes. What would you recommend?â âI recommend, sir, that you take a cab, call off your spaniel who is scratching at my front door, and proceed to Waterloo to meet Sir Henry Baskerville.â âAnd then?â âAnd then you will say nothing to him at all until I have made up my mind about the matter.â âHow long will it take you to make up your mind?â âTwenty-four hours. At ten oâclock tomorrow, Dr. Mortimer, I will be much obliged to you if you will call upon me here, and it will be of help to me in my plans for the future if you will bring Sir Henry Baskerville with you.â âI will do so, Mr. Holmes.â He scribbled the appointment on his shirt-cuff and hurried off in his strange, peering, absent-minded fashion. Holmes stopped him at the head of the stair. âOnly one more question, Dr. Mortimer. You say that before Sir Charles Baskervilleâs death several people saw this apparition upon the moor?â âThree people did.â âDid any see it after?â âI have not heard of any.â âThank you. Good-morning.â Holmes returned to his seat with that quiet look of inward satisfaction which meant that he had a congenial task before him. âGoing out, Watson?â âUnless I can help you.â âNo, my dear fellow, it is at the hour of action that I turn to you for aid. But this is splendid, really unique from some points of view. When you pass Bradleyâs, would you ask him to send up a pound of the strongest shag tobacco? Thank you. It would be as well if you could make it convenient not to return before evening. Then I should be very glad to compare impressions as to this most interesting problem which has been submitted to us this morning.â I knew that seclusion and solitude were very necessary for my friend in those hours of intense mental concentration during which he weighed every particle of evidence, constructed alternative theories, balanced one against the other, and made up his mind as to which points were essential and which immaterial. I therefore spent the day at my club and did not return to Baker Street until evening. It was nearly nine oâclock when I found myself in the sitting-room once more. My first impression as I opened the door was that a fire had broken out, for the room was so filled with smoke that the light of the lamp upon the table was blurred by it. As I entered, however, my fears were set at rest, for it was the acrid fumes of strong coarse tobacco which took me by the throat and set me coughing. Through the haze I had a vague vision of Holmes in his dressing-gown coiled up in an armchair with his black clay pipe between his lips. Several rolls of paper lay around him. âCaught cold, Watson?â said he. âNo, itâs this poisonous atmosphere.â âI suppose it _is_ pretty thick, now that you mention it.â âThick! It is intolerable.â âOpen the window, then! You have been at your club all day, I perceive.â âMy dear Holmes!â
{'title': 'The Hound of the Baskervilles by Arthur Conan Doyle (309)', 'source': 'Project Gutenberg', 'lang': 'en'}