Chapter 7

Everything Goes Against Us

So we had a series of small mysteries, strange incidents all in two days, which included the letter, the black-bearded spy in the cab, the loss of the new brown boot, the loss of the old black boot, and now the return of the new brown boot. Holmes sat in silence in the cab as we drove back to Baker Street, and I saw he was deep in thought.

Just before dinner a telegram was brought. It ran:

Have just heard that Barrymore is at the Hall. BASKERVILLE.

“In this case everything goes against us, Watson.”

“We have still the cabman who drove the spy.”

“Exactly. I have wired to get his name and address from the Official Registry. Let’s wait for an answer to my question.”

Later in the evening we heard the bell ring, the door opened and a fellow entered.

“I got a message that a gent at this address had been inquiring for No. 2704,” said he. “I’ve driven my cab this seven years and never a word of complaint. I came here straight to ask you what you had against me.”

“I have nothing against you, my good man,” said Holmes. “On the contrary, I have half a sovereign for you if you give me a clear answer to my questions.”

“What was it you wanted to ask, sir?” said the cabman.

“First of all your name and address.”

“John Clayton, 3 Turpey Street.”

Sherlock Holmes made a note of it.

“Now, Clayton, tell me all about the man who came and watched this house at ten o’clock this morning and afterwards followed the two gentlemen down Regent Street.”

The man looked surprised. “You seem to know as much as I do already,” said he. “The truth is that the gentleman told me that he was a detective and that I was to say nothing about him to anyone.”

“My good fellow; this is a very serious business, and you may find yourself in a bad position if you try to hide anything from me. You say that the man told you that he was a detective?”

“Yes, he did. And he mentioned his name.”

“Oh, he mentioned his name, did he? What was his name?”

“His name,” said the cabman, “was Mr. Sherlock Holmes.”

Never have I seen my friend more completely taken aback than by the cabman’s reply. For a moment he sat in silence. Then he burst laughing.

“So his name was Sherlock Holmes, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, sir, that was the gentleman’s name.”

“Excellent! Tell me where you picked him up and all that occurred.”

“He stopped me at half-past nine in Trafalgar Square. He said that he was a detective, and he offered me two guineas if I did exactly what he wanted all day and asked no questions. First we drove to the Northumberland Hotel and waited there until two gentlemen came out and took a cab. We followed their cab until it stopped somewhere near here. We waited an hour and a half. Then the two gentlemen passed us, and we followed down Baker Street and along—”

“I know,” said Holmes.

“Then my gentleman cried to me to drive to Waterloo Station as hard as I could go. At the station he paid his two guineas, and away he went into the station. Only just as he was leaving he turned round and he said: ‘It might interest you to know that you have been driving Mr. Sherlock Holmes.’”

“I see. And how would you describe Mr. Sherlock Holmes?”

“Well, he wasn’t such an easy gentleman to describe. I think he is forty years of age, and he was shorter than you, sir. He was dressed like a gent, and he had a black beard, and a pale face. I can’t say more than that.”

“Well, then, here is your half-sovereign. Goodnight!”

“Good night, sir, and thank you!”

John Clayton left, and Holmes gave me his instructions and advice.

“I wish you simply to report facts in the fullest possible manner to me, and you can leave me to do the theorizing, Watson,” said he.

“What sort of facts?” I asked.

“Anything which may have any connection with the case, and especially the relations between young Baskerville and his neighbours or any fresh details of the death of Sir Charles. You have to make inquiries about the people who surround Sir Henry Baskerville upon the moor.”

“Besides the Barrymore couple there is a groom at the Hall, if I remember right. There are two farmers. There is our friend Dr. Mortimer, whom I believe to be entirely honest, and there is his wife, of whom we know nothing. There is this naturalist, Stapleton, and there is his sister, who is an attractive young lady, they say. There is Mr. Frankland, of Lafter Hall, who is also an unknown factor, and there are one or two other neighbours.”

“I will do my best.”

“Keep your revolver near you night and day, and be on your guard.”

“I’ve been defeated in London. I can only wish you better luck in Devonshire. But I’m worried about it,” said Holmes.

“About what?”

“About sending you. It’s an ugly business, Watson, an ugly dangerous business, and the more I think of it the less I like it. Yes, my dear fellow, I shall be very glad to have you back safe and sound in Baker Street once more.”

Chapter 8

Baskerville Hall

Sir Henry Baskerville and Dr. Mortimer were ready on Saturday, and we started for Devonshire. Mr. Sherlock Holmes drove with me to the station. Our friends were waiting for us on the platform.

“No, we have no news,” said Dr. Mortimer in answer to my friend’s questions. “I can be sure of one thing, that we have not been followed during the last two days.”

“You have always kept together, I presume?”

“Except yesterday afternoon. I spent it at the Museum of the College of Surgeons.”

“And I went to look at the people in the park,” said Baskerville. “But we had no trouble of any kind.”

“I beg, Sir Henry, that you will not go anywhere alone,” said Holmes, shaking his head and looking very alarmed. “Did you get your other boot?”

“No, sir.”

“Indeed. That is very interesting. Well, goodbye,” he added as the train began to move. “Sir Henry, avoid the moor in those hours of darkness when the powers of evil are the strongest.”

The journey was a quick and pleasant one. Young Baskerville looked out of the window and cried aloud with delight as he recognized the Devonshire landscape.

“You were very young when you last saw Baskerville Hall, were you not?” Dr. Mortimer asked him.

“I was a boy in my teens at the time of my father’s death and had never seen the Hall, for he lived in a little cottage on the South Coast. From there I went to a friend in America. I tell you it is all as new to me as it is to Dr. Watson, and I’m keen to see the moor.”

“Are you? Look, for there is your first sight of the moor,” said Dr. Mortimer, pointing out of the carriage window.

Over the green fields there rose in the distance a gray, melancholy hill, like some fantastic landscape in a dream. Baskerville sat for a long time, his eyes fixed on it, and I read on his face how much it meant to him, this first sight of that place where his family had lived so long.

The train stopped at a small station. A carriage with a pair of horses was waiting. It was a simple country station, but I was surprised to see two soldiers with rifles by the gate, who looked keenly at us. The driver saluted Sir Henry Baskerville, and in a few minutes we were driving down the broad, white road. Old houses were seen among trees, but behind the peaceful countryside there was dark, gloomy moor, broken by hills.

To Sir Henry’s eyes all seemed beautiful, but to me melancholy lay upon the countryside.

“Halloa!” cried Dr. Mortimer, “what is this?”

On a hill was another soldier with a rifle. He was watching the road along which we travelled.

“What is this, Perkins?” asked Dr. Mortimer.

Our driver half turned in his seat.

“A convict escaped from Princetown, sir. He’s been out three days now, and the soldiers watch every road and every station, but they’ve had no sight of him yet. The farmers about here don’t like it, sir. You see, it isn’t an ordinary convict. This is a man that will stick at nothing.”

“Who is he, then?”

“It is Selden, the Notting Hill murderer.”

I remembered the case well, for it was one in which Holmes had taken an interest because of the unusual brutality of the murderer. Our carriage got to the top of the hill and in front of us was the huge moor. A cold wind blew from it. Somewhere there, on that desolate moor, was hiding this devil of a man, hiding like a wild beast, his heart full of fury against the whole world which had thrown him out. It needed only this knowledge to complete the gloomy atmosphere of the barren moor. Even Baskerville fell silent.

The road in front of us grew wilder, with giant boulders on either side. Suddenly we saw two high, narrow towers over the trees.

“Baskerville Hall,” said the driver.

The young heir looked round with a gloomy face.

“It’s no wonder my uncle felt as if trouble were coming on him in such a place as this,” said he. “It’s enough to scare any man. I’ll have a row of electric lamps here in six months, and you won’t recognize it.”

The house lay before us. The whole front was covered by ivy. From this central block rose the ancient towers. To right and left were more modern wings of black granite.

“Welcome, Sir Henry! Welcome to Baskerville Hall!”

A tall man had stepped forward to open the door of the carriage. A woman came out and helped the man with our bags.

“You don’t mind my driving home, Sir Henry?” said Dr. Mortimer. “My wife is expecting me. Goodbye, and send for me if you need me.”

Sir Henry and I turned into the hall, and the door closed heavily behind us. It was a fine hall, large, with a great old-fashioned fireplace. We looked round us at the high, thin window, the oak panelling, the coats of arms on the walls, all dark and gloomy in the light of the central lamp.

“It’s just as I imagined it,” said Sir Henry. “Just think that this is the same hall in which for five hundred years my people have lived.”

I saw his dark face lit up with a boyish enthusiasm as he looked about him.

Barrymore had returned from taking our luggage to our rooms. He stood in front of us, a remarkable-looking man, tall, handsome, with a black beard and a pale face.

“Will you have dinner at once, sir?”

“Is it ready?”

“In a very few minutes, sir. My wife and I will be happy, Sir Henry, to stay with you for some time.”

“Do you mean that your wife and you wish to leave?”

“Only when it is convenient to you, sir.”

“But your family have been with us for several generations. Why should you break the old family tradition?”

“I feel that also, sir, and so does my wife. But to tell the truth, sir, the death of Sir Charles gave us a shock and made this place very painful to us. I fear that we shall never again feel easy at Baskerville Hall.”

“But what do you intend to do?”

“We shall start some business. Sir Charles left us some money to do so. And now, sir, perhaps I shall show you to the dining-room.”

The dining-room was a long room with a smoke-darkened ceiling. A line of ancestors looked down upon us from the walls. We talked little, and I was glad when the meal was over.

“It isn’t a very cheerful place,” said Sir Henry. “I suppose one can get used to it, but I am not surprised that my uncle got a little nervous if he lived all alone in such a house as this. We’d better go to bed early to-night, and perhaps things may seem more cheerful in the morning.”

Before I went to bed, I looked out from my window. In the cold light of the moon I saw beyond the trees some rocks, and the melancholy moor.

I was tired, but the sleep would not come. And then suddenly, I heard a sound. It was the sob of a woman. I sat up in bed and listened. The noise could not be far away and was certainly in the house. For half an hour I waited, but there came no other sound.