For a moment or two I sat breathless, hardly able to believe my ears. Then my
senses and my voice came back to me, while a crushing weight of
responsibility seemed in an instant to be lifted from my soul. That cold,
incisive, ironical voice could belong to but one man in all the world.
"Holmes!" I cried—"Holmes!"
"Come out," said he, "and please be careful with the revolver."
I stooped under the rude lintel, and there he sat upon a stone outside, his gray
eyes dancing with amusement as they fell upon my astonished features. He
was thin and worn, but clear and alert, his keen face bronzed by the sun and
roughened by the wind. In his tweed suit and cloth cap he looked like any
other tourist upon the moor, and he had contrived, with that catlike love of
personal cleanliness which was one of his characteristics, that his chin should
be as smooth and his linen as perfect as if he were in Baker Street.
"I never was more glad to see anyone in my life," said I as I wrung him by the
hand.
"Or more astonished, eh?"
"Well, I must confess to it."
"The surprise was not all on one side, I assure you. I had no idea that you had
found my occasional retreat, still less that you were inside it, until I was within
twenty paces of the door."
"My footprint, I presume?"
"No, Watson, I fear that I could not undertake to recognize your footprint amid
all the footprints of the world. If you seriously desire to deceive me you must
change your tobacconist; for when I see the stub of a cigarette marked
Bradley, Oxford Street, I know that my friend Watson is in the neighbourhood.
You will see it there beside the path. You threw it down, no doubt, at that
supreme moment when you charged into the empty hut."
"Exactly."
"I thought as much—and knowing your admirable tenacity I was convinced
that you were sitting in ambush, a weapon within reach, waiting for the tenant
to return. So you actually thought that I was the criminal?"
"I did not know who you were, but I was determined to find out."
"Excellent, Watson! And how did you localize me? You saw me, perhaps, on
the night of the convict hunt, when I was so imprudent as to allow the moon to
rise behind me?"
"Yes, I saw you then."
"And have no doubt searched all the huts until you came to this one?"
"No, your boy had been observed, and that gave me a guide where to look."
"The old gentleman with the telescope, no doubt. I could not make it out when
first I saw the light flashing upon the lens." He rose and peeped into the hut.
"Ha, I see that Cartwright has brought up some supplies. What's this paper? So
you have been to Coombe Tracey, have you?"
"Yes."
"To see Mrs. Laura Lyons?"
"Exactly."
"Well done! Our researches have evidently been running on parallel lines, and
when we unite our results I expect we shall have a fairly full knowledge of the
case."
"Well, I am glad from my heart that you are here, for indeed the responsibility
and the mystery were both becoming too much for my nerves. But how in the
name of wonder did you come here, and what have you been doing? I thought
that you were in Baker Street working out that case of blackmailing."
"That was what I wished you to think."
"Then you use me, and yet do not trust me!" I cried with some bitterness. "I
think that I have deserved better at your hands, Holmes."
"My dear fellow, you have been invaluable to me in this as in many other
cases, and I beg that you will forgive me if I have seemed to play a trick upon
you. In truth, it was partly for your own sake that I did it, and it was my
appreciation of the danger which you ran which led me to come down and
examine the matter for myself. Had I been with Sir Henry and you it is
confident that my point of view would have been the same as yours, and my
presence would have warned our very formidable opponents to be on their
guard. As it is, I have been able to get about as I could not possibly have done
had I been living in the Hall, and I remain an unknown factor in the business,
ready to throw in all my weight at a critical moment."
"But why keep me in the dark?"
"For you to know could not have helped us and might possibly have led to my
discovery. You would have wished to tell me something, or in your kindness
you would have brought me out some comfort or other, and so an unnecessary
risk would be run. I brought Cartwright down with me—you remember the
little chap at the express office—and he has seen after my simple wants: a loaf
of bread and a clean collar. What does man want more? He has given me an
extra pair of eyes upon a very active pair of feet, and both have been
invaluable."
"Then my reports have all been wasted!"—My voice trembled as I recalled the
pains and the pride with which I had composed them.
Holmes took a bundle of papers from his pocket.
"Here are your reports, my dear fellow, and very well thumbed, I assure you. I
made excellent arrangements, and they are only delayed one day upon their
way. I must compliment you exceedingly upon the zeal and the intelligence
which you have shown over an extraordinarily difficult case."
I was still rather raw over the deception which had been practised upon me,
but the warmth of Holmes's praise drove my anger from my mind. I felt also in
my heart that he was right in what he said and that it was really best for our
purpose that I should not have known that he was upon the moor.
"That's better," said he, seeing the shadow rise from my face. "And now tell
me the result of your visit to Mrs. Laura Lyons—it was not difficult for me to
guess that it was to see her that you had gone, for I am already aware that she
is the one person in Coombe Tracey who might be of service to us in the
matter. In fact, if you had not gone today it is exceedingly probable that I
should have gone tomorrow."
The sun had set and dusk was settling over the moor. The air had turned chill
and we withdrew into the hut for warmth. There, sitting together in the
twilight, I told Holmes of my conversation with the lady. So interested was he
that I had to repeat some of it twice before he was satisfied.
"This is most important," said he when I had concluded. "It fills up a gap
which I had been unable to bridge in this most complex affair. You are aware,
perhaps, that a close intimacy exists between this lady and the man
Stapleton?"
"I did not know of a close intimacy."
"There can be no doubt about the matter. They meet, they write, there is a
complete understanding between them. Now, this puts a very powerful weapon
into our hands. If I could only use it to detach his wife—"
"His wife?"
"I am giving you some information now, in return for all that you have given
me. The lady who has passed here as Miss Stapleton is in reality his wife."
"Good heavens, Holmes! Are you sure of what you say? How could he have
permitted Sir Henry to fall in love with her?"
"Sir Henry's falling in love could do no harm to anyone except Sir Henry. He
took particular care that Sir Henry did not make love to her, as you have
yourself observed. I repeat that the lady is his wife and not his sister."
"But why this elaborate deception?"
"Because he foresaw that she would be very much more useful to him in the
character of a free woman."
All my unspoken instincts, my vague suspicions, suddenly took shape and
centred upon the naturalist. In that impassive colourless man, with his straw
hat and his butterfly-net, I seemed to see something terrible—a creature of
infinite patience and craft, with a smiling face and a murderous heart.
"It is he, then, who is our enemy—it is he who dogged us in London?"
"So I read the riddle."
"And the warning—it must have come from her!"
"Exactly."
The shape of some monstrous villainy, half seen, half guessed, loomed through
the darkness which had girt me so long.
"But are you sure of this, Holmes? How do you know that the woman is his
wife?"
"Because he so far forgot himself as to tell you a true piece of autobiography
upon the occasion when he first met you, and I dare say he has many a time
regretted it since. He was once a schoolmaster in the north of England. Now,
there is no one more easy to trace than a schoolmaster. There are scholastic
agencies by which one may identify any man who has been in the profession.
A little investigation showed me that a school had come to grief under
atrocious circumstances, and that the man who had owned it—the name was
different—had disappeared with his wife. The descriptions agreed. When I
learned that the missing man was devoted to entomology the identification
was complete."
The darkness was rising, but much was still hidden by the shadows.
"If this woman is in truth his wife, where does Mrs. Laura Lyons come in?" I
asked.
"That is one of the points upon which your own researches have shed a light.
Your interview with the lady has cleared the situation very much. I did not
know about a projected divorce between herself and her husband. In that case,
regarding Stapleton as an unmarried man, she counted no doubt upon
becoming his wife."
"And when she is undeceived?"
"Why, then we may find the lady of service. It must be our first duty to see her
—both of us—tomorrow. Don't you think, Watson, that you are away from
your charge rather long? Your place should be at Baskerville Hall."
The last red streaks had faded away in the west and night had settled upon the
moor. A few faint stars were gleaming in a violet sky.
"One last question, Holmes," I said as I rose. "Surely there is no need of
secrecy between you and me. What is the meaning of it all? What is he after?"
Holmes's voice sank as he answered:
"It is murder, Watson—refined, cold-blooded, deliberate murder. Do not ask
me for particulars. My nets are closing upon him, even as his are upon Sir
Henry, and with your help he is already almost at my mercy. There is but one
danger which can threaten us. It is that he should strike before we are ready to
do so. Another day—two at the most—and I have my case complete, but until
then guard your charge as closely as ever a fond mother watched her ailing
child. Your mission today has justified itself, and yet I could almost wish that
you had not left his side. Hark!"
A terrible scream—a prolonged yell of horror and anguish—burst out of the
silence of the moor. That frightful cry turned the blood to ice in my veins.
"Oh, my God!" I gasped. "What is it? What does it mean?"
Holmes had sprung to his feet, and I saw his dark, athletic outline at the door
of the hut, his shoulders stooping, his head thrust forward, his face peering
into the darkness.
"Hush!" he whispered. "Hush!"
The cry had been loud on account of its vehemence, but it had pealed out from
somewhere far off on the shadowy plain. Now it burst upon our ears, nearer,
louder, more urgent than before.
"Where is it?" Holmes whispered; and I knew from the thrill of his voice that
he, the man of iron, was shaken to the soul. "Where is it, Watson?"
"There, I think." I pointed into the darkness.
"No, there!"
Again the agonized cry swept through the silent night, louder and much nearer
than ever. And a new sound mingled with it, a deep, muttered rumble, musical
and yet menacing, rising and falling like the low, constant murmur of the sea.
"The hound!" cried Holmes. "Come, Watson, come! Great heavens, if we are
too late!"
He had started running swiftly over the moor, and I had followed at his heels.
But now from somewhere among the broken ground immediately in front of
us there came one last despairing yell, and then a dull, heavy thud. We halted
and listened. Not another sound broke the heavy silence of the windless night.
I saw Holmes put his hand to his forehead like a man distracted. He stamped
his feet upon the ground.
"He has beaten us, Watson. We are too late."
"No, no, surely not!"
"Fool that I was to hold my hand. And you, Watson, see what comes of
abandoning your charge! But, by Heaven, if the worst has happened we'll
avenge him!"
Blindly we ran through the gloom, blundering against boulders, forcing our
way through gorse bushes, panting up hills and rushing down slopes, heading
always in the direction whence those dreadful sounds had come. At every rise
Holmes looked eagerly round him, but the shadows were thick upon the moor,
and nothing moved upon its dreary face.
"Can you see anything?"
"Nothing."
"But, hark, what is that?"
A low moan had fallen upon our ears. There it was again upon our left! On
that side a ridge of rocks ended in a sheer cliff which overlooked a stonestrewn slope. On its jagged face was spread-eagled some dark, irregular
object. As we ran towards it the vague outline hardened into a definite shape.
It was a prostrate man face downward upon the ground, the head doubled
under him at a horrible angle, the shoulders rounded and the body hunched
together as if in the act of throwing a somersault. So grotesque was the attitude
that I could not for the instant realize that that moan had been the passing of
his soul. Not a whisper, not a rustle, rose now from the dark figure over which
we stooped. Holmes laid his hand upon him and held it up again with an
exclamation of horror. The gleam of the match which he struck shone upon his
clotted fingers and upon the ghastly pool which widened slowly from the
crushed skull of the victim. And it shone upon something else which turned
our hearts sick and faint within us—the body of Sir Henry Baskerville!
There was no chance of either of us forgetting that peculiar ruddy tweed suit—
the very one which he had worn on the first morning that we had seen him in
Baker Street. We caught the one clear glimpse of it, and then the match
flickered and went out, even as the hope had gone out of our souls. Holmes
groaned, and his face glimmered white through the darkness.
"The brute! The brute!" I cried with clenched hands. "Oh Holmes, I shall
never forgive myself for having left him to his fate."
"I am more to blame than you, Watson. In order to have my case well rounded
and complete, I have thrown away the life of my client. It is the greatest blow
which has befallen me in my career. But how could I know—how could I
know—that he would risk his life alone upon the moor in the face of all my
warnings?"
"That we should have heard his screams—my God, those screams!—and yet
have been unable to save him! Where is this brute of a hound which drove him
to his death? It may be lurking among these rocks at this instant. And
Stapleton, where is he? He shall answer for this deed."
"He shall. I will see to that. Uncle and nephew have been murdered—the one
frightened to death by the very sight of a beast which he thought to be
supernatural, the other driven to his end in his wild flight to escape from it.
But now we have to prove the connection between the man and the beast. Save
from what we heard, we cannot even swear to the existence of the latter, since
Sir Henry has evidently died from the fall. But, by heavens, cunning as he is,
the fellow shall be in my power before another day is past!"
We stood with bitter hearts on either side of the mangled body, overwhelmed
by this sudden and irrevocable disaster which had brought all our long and
weary labours to so piteous an end. Then as the moon rose we climbed to the
top of the rocks over which our poor friend had fallen, and from the summit
we gazed out over the shadowy moor, half silver and half gloom. Far away,
miles off, in the direction of Grimpen, a single steady yellow light was
shining. It could only come from the lonely abode of the Stapletons. With a
bitter curse I shook my fist at it as I gazed.
"Why should we not seize him at once?"
"Our case is not complete. The fellow is wary and cunning to the last degree.
It is not what we know, but what we can prove. If we make one false move the
villain may escape us yet."
"What can we do?"
"There will be plenty for us to do tomorrow. Tonight we can only perform the
last offices to our poor friend."
Together we made our way down the precipitous slope and approached the
body, black and clear against the silvered stones. The agony of those contorted
limbs struck me with a spasm of pain and blurred my eyes with tears.
"We must send for help, Holmes! We cannot carry him all the way to the Hall.
Good heavens, are you mad?"
He had uttered a cry and bent over the body. Now he was dancing and
laughing and wringing my hand. Could this be my stern, self-contained friend?
These were hidden fires, indeed!
"A beard! A beard! The man has a beard!"
"A beard?"
"It is not the baronet—it is—why, it is my neighbour, the convict!"
With feverish haste we had turned the body over, and that dripping beard was
pointing up to the cold, clear moon. There could be no doubt about the
beetling forehead, the sunken animal eyes. It was indeed the same face which
had glared upon me in the light of the candle from over the rock—the face of
Selden, the criminal.
Then in an instant it was all clear to me. I remembered how the baronet had
told me that he had handed his old wardrobe to Barrymore. Barrymore had
passed it on in order to help Selden in his escape. Boots, shirt, cap—it was all
Sir Henry's. The tragedy was still black enough, but this man had at least
deserved death by the laws of his country. I told Holmes how the matter stood,
my heart bubbling over with thankfulness and joy.
"Then the clothes have been the poor devil's death," said he. "It is clear
enough that the hound has been laid on from some article of Sir Henry's—the
boot which was abstracted in the hotel, in all probability—and so ran this man
down. There is one very singular thing, however: How came Selden, in the
darkness, to know that the hound was on his trail?"
"He heard him."
"To hear a hound upon the moor would not work a hard man like this convict
into such a paroxysm of terror that he would risk recapture by screaming
wildly for help. By his cries he must have run a long way after he knew the
animal was on his track. How did he know?"
"A greater mystery to me is why this hound, presuming that all our conjectures
are correct—"
"I presume nothing."
"Well, then, why this hound should be loose tonight. I suppose that it does not
always run loose upon the moor. Stapleton would not let it go unless he had
reason to think that Sir Henry would be there."
"My difficulty is the more formidable of the two, for I think that we shall very
shortly get an explanation of yours, while mine may remain forever a mystery.
The question now is, what shall we do with this poor wretch's body? We
cannot leave it here to the foxes and the ravens."
"I suggest that we put it in one of the huts until we can communicate with the
police."
"Exactly. I have no doubt that you and I could carry it so far. Halloa, Watson,
what's this? It's the man himself, by all that's wonderful and audacious! Not a
word to show your suspicions—not a word, or my plans crumble to the
ground."
A figure was approaching us over the moor, and I saw the dull red glow of a
cigar. The moon shone upon him, and I could distinguish the dapper shape and
jaunty walk of the naturalist. He stopped when he saw us, and then came on
again.
"Why, Dr. Watson, that's not you, is it? You are the last man that I should have
expected to see out on the moor at this time of night. But, dear me, what's this?
Somebody hurt? Not—don't tell me that it is our friend Sir Henry!" He hurried
past me and stooped over the dead man. I heard a sharp intake of his breath
and the cigar fell from his fingers.
"Who—who's this?" he stammered.
"It is Selden, the man who escaped from Princetown."
Stapleton turned a ghastly face upon us, but by a supreme effort he had
overcome his amazement and his disappointment. He looked sharply from
Holmes to me. "Dear me! What a very shocking affair! How did he die?"
"He appears to have broken his neck by falling over these rocks. My friend
and I were strolling on the moor when we heard a cry."
"I heard a cry also. That was what brought me out. I was uneasy about Sir
Henry."
"Why about Sir Henry in particular?" I could not help asking.
"Because I had suggested that he should come over. When he did not come I
was surprised, and I naturally became alarmed for his safety when I heard
cries upon the moor. By the way"—his eyes darted again from my face to
Holmes's—"did you hear anything else besides a cry?"
"No," said Holmes; "did you?"
"No."
"What do you mean, then?"
"Oh, you know the stories that the peasants tell about a phantom hound, and so
on. It is said to be heard at night upon the moor. I was wondering if there were
any evidence of such a sound tonight."
"We heard nothing of the kind," said I.
"And what is your theory of this poor fellow's death?"
"I have no doubt that anxiety and exposure have driven him off his head. He
has rushed about the moor in a crazy state and eventually fallen over here and
broken his neck."
"That seems the most reasonable theory," said Stapleton, and he gave a sigh
which I took to indicate his relief. "What do you think about it, Mr. Sherlock
Holmes?"
My friend bowed his compliments. "You are quick at identification," said he.
"We have been expecting you in these parts since Dr. Watson came down. You
are in time to see a tragedy."
"Yes, indeed. I have no doubt that my friend's explanation will cover the facts.
I will take an unpleasant remembrance back to London with me tomorrow."
"Oh, you return tomorrow?"
"That is my intention."
"I hope your visit has cast some light upon those occurrences which have
puzzled us?"
Holmes shrugged his shoulders.
"One cannot always have the success for which one hopes. An investigator
needs facts and not legends or rumours. It has not been a satisfactory case."
My friend spoke in his frankest and most unconcerned manner. Stapleton still
looked hard at him. Then he turned to me.
"I would suggest carrying this poor fellow to my house, but it would give my
sister such a fright that I do not feel justified in doing it. I think that if we put
something over his face he will be safe until morning."
And so it was arranged. Resisting Stapleton's offer of hospitality, Holmes and I
set off to Baskerville Hall, leaving the naturalist to return alone. Looking back
we saw the figure moving slowly away over the broad moor, and behind him
that one black smudge on the silvered slope which showed where the man was
lying who had come so horribly to his end.