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Holmes
stretched out his hand for the manuscript and flattened it upon his knee.
`You
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.'
I
looked over his shoulder at the yellow paper and the faded script. At the
head was written: `Baskerville Hall,' and below in large, scrawling figures:
`1742.'
`It
appears to be a statement of some sort.'
`Yes,
it is a statement of a certain legend which runs in the Baskerville family.'
`But
I understand that it is something more modern and practical upon which you
wish to consult me?'
`Most
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.'
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, crackling voice the following curious, old-world
narrative:
`Of
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.
`Know
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 byword 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 father's
farm.
`It
chanced that some little time later Hugo left his guests to carry food and
drink - with other worse things, perchance - to 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 maid's, he swung them to the line, and so off full cry in
the moonlight over the moor.
`Now,
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.
`They
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. ``But I have seen more than that,'' said he, ``for
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.'' 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 horse's 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.
`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 daredevil 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 realized
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
dyspnoea 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
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.
`Within
the last few months it became increasingly plain to me that Sir Charles's
nervous system was strained to the breaking point. He had taken this legend
which I have read you exceedingly to heart - so 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.
`I
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.
`It
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.
`On
the night of Sir Charles's 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 did - some little distance off, but fresh and clear.'
`Footprints?'
`Footprints.'
`A
man's or a woman's?'
Dr.
Mortimer looked strangely at us for an instant, and his voice sank almost to
a whisper as he answered:
`Mr.
Holmes, they were the footprints of a gigantic hound!'
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