Chapter 9

The First Morning in Devonshire

The fresh beauty of the morning helped us to get over the first gloomy gray impression of Baskerville Hall. As Sir Henry and I sat at breakfast, it was hard to realize that this was the same room which had looked so gloomy on the evening before.

“We were tired and cold, so the place seemed gloomy. Now we are fresh and well, so it is all cheerful once more,” said the baronet.

“It was not only a question of imagination,” I answered. “Did you hear a woman sobbing in the night?”

“Why, yes, when I was half asleep I thought that I heard something of the sort. I waited quite a time, but there was no more of it, so I thought that it was all a dream.”

“I heard it clearly, and I am sure that it was really the sob of a woman.”

“We must ask about this.” He rang the bell for Barrymore. It seemed to me that the pale butler turned even paler as he listened to his master’s question.

“There are only two women in the house, Sir Henry,” he answered. “One is a maid, who sleeps in the other wing. The other is my wife, and I can give my word for it that the sound did not come from her.”

And yet he lied as he said it, for after breakfast I met Mrs. Barrymore in the long corridor with the sun full upon her face. Her eyes were red and swollen. It was she, then, who had cried at night, and if she did so her husband must know it. Why had he lied? And why did she sob so bitterly? There was an atmosphere of mystery and of gloom round this pale-faced, handsome, black-bearded man. It was he who had been the first to find the body of Sir Charles, and we had only his word for all the circumstances of the old man’s death. Was it possible that it was Barrymore, after all, whom we had seen in the cab in Regent Street? The first thing to do was to see the Grimpen postmaster and find whether the telegram had really been delivered in Barrymore’s own hands.

Sir Henry had some papers to examine after breakfast, so that the time was good for my visit to Grimpen. It was a pleasant walk of four miles along the moor, leading me at last to a small gray village, in which two larger buildings were, the inn and the house of Dr. Mortimer.

“Certainly, sir,” said the postmaster, “I had the telegram delivered to Mr. Barrymore.”

“Into his own hands?” I asked.

“Well, he was up in the loft at the time, so I could not put it into his own hands, but I gave it into Mrs. Barrymore’s hands, and she promised to deliver it at once.”

“Did you see Mr. Barrymore?”

“No, sir; I tell you he was in the loft.”

“If you didn’t see him, how do you know he was in the loft?”

“Well, surely his own wife knew where he was,” said the postmaster.

It was clear that we could not be sure that Barrymore had not been in London at the time.

The same man had been the last who had seen Sir Charles alive, and if he followed the heir when he returned to England, what did it mean? What interest could he have? The only possible motive was that if the family could be scared away the Barrymores would have a comfortable and permanent home. But this motive could hardly explain this complicated scheming.

As I walked back along the gray, lonely road, my thoughts were suddenly interrupted by the sound of running feet behind me and by a voice which called me by name. I turned, expecting to see Dr. Mortimer, but to my surprise I saw a stranger. He was a small, slim, cleanshaven, fair-haired man between thirty and forty years of age, dressed in a gray suit and wearing a straw hat. He carried a green butterfly-net in his hand.

“You will, excuse me, Dr. Watson,” said he. “Here on the moor we are simple people and do not wait for formal introductions. You may possibly have heard my name from Dr. Mortimer. I am Stapleton, of Merripit House.”

“Your net can tell me it,” said I, “for I knew that Mr. Stapleton was a naturalist. But how did you know me?”

“I was calling on Mortimer, and he pointed you out to me from the window. I hope that Sir Henry is well?”

“He is very well, thank you.”

“We were all rather afraid that after the sad death of Sir Charles the new baronet might refuse to live here. Sir Henry has, I suppose, no superstitious fears?”

“I do not think so.”

“Of course you know the legend of the dog which plagues the family?”

“I have heard it.”

“It is extraordinary how ready people are to believe anything! A number of them say that they have seen such a creature on the moor.” He spoke with a smile, but I read in his eyes that he took the matter more seriously. “Sir Charles believed the legend, and I have no doubt that it led to his tragic end.”

“But how?”

“He was so frightened at the appearance of any dog that it could have a fatal effect upon his heart. I believe that he really saw a dog on that last night in the yew alley. I was very fond of the old man, and I knew that his heart was weak.”

“How did you know that?”

“My friend Mortimer told me.”

“You think, then, that Sir Charles saw a dog and died of fear?”

“Have you any better explanation?”

“I have not come to any conclusion.”

“Has Mr. Sherlock Holmes?”

I was too surprised to speak.

“When Mortimer told me your name I knew at once who you are. Your records have reached us here. If you are here, then it follows that Mr. Sherlock Holmes is interested in the matter, and I naturally wish to know what he thinks of it.”

“I am afraid that I cannot answer that question.”

“Is he going to visit us himself?”

“He cannot leave town at present. He has other cases.”

“What a pity! He might throw some light on what is so dark to us. But as to your own investigations, I should like to help you.”

“I am simply here on a visit to my friend, Sir Henry, and I need no help.”

“Excellent!” said Stapleton. “You are perfectly right to be on your guard. I promise you that I will not mention the matter again.”

We had come to a point where a narrow path ran across the moor.

“A short walk along this path brings us to Merripit House,” said he. “Perhaps you will call on us and I may introduce you to my sister.”

My first thought was that I should be with Sir Henry. But then I remembered that Holmes had said that I should study the neighbours and I accepted Stapleton’s invitation, and we went together down the path.

Chapter 10

The Stapletons

“It is a wonderful place, the moor,” said he, looking round. “You are never tired of the moor. It has wonderful secrets. It is so vast, and so barren, and so mysterious.”

“You know it well, then?”

“Though I have only been here two years, I have explored every part of it, and I think that there are few men who know it better than I do. Do you observe anything remarkable about that?”

“Well, no.”

“Do you notice those bright green spots over it? That is the great Grimpen Mire,” said he. “A false step there means death to man or beast. Only yesterday I saw a pony walk into it. He never came out. I saw his head for quite a long time, but it sucked him down at last. Even in dry seasons it is dangerous to cross it, but after these autumn rains it is an awful place. And yet I can find my way to the very heart of it and return alive. Oh, there is another of those poor ponies!” Something brown was rolling and tossing among the green grass. Then a dreadful cry rose over the moor. It turned me cold with horror.

“It’s gone!” said my companion. “The mire has him. Two in two days, and many more, perhaps. It’s a bad place, the great Grimpen Mire.”

“And you say you can walk there?”

“Yes, there are some paths. I have found them.”

“But why do you wish to go into this horrible place?”

“Well, you see the hills there? That is where the rare plants and the butterflies are.”

“Halloa!” I cried. “What is that?”

A long, low, sad moan filled the air over the moor. It was impossible to say where it came from.

“What is it?”

“They say it is the Hound of the Baskervilles. I’ve heard it once or twice before.”

I looked round, with fear in my heart, at the huge moor.

“You are an educated man. Do you believe such nonsense?” said I. “What do you think is the cause of the sound?”

“The mire can make strange noises sometimes. It’s the water rising, or something.”

“No, no, that was a living voice.”

“Well, perhaps it was a bird.”

“It’s the strangest thing I have heard in my life.”

“Yes. Look at the hillside over there.”

The whole slope was covered with stone huts. “What are they?”

“The homes of pre-historic man who lived on the moor, and we can find these huts exactly as he left them.”

“But it is quite a town. When were they built?”

“By Neolithic man—no date. Oh, excuse me, Dr. Watson!”

A small butterfly flew across our path, and in a moment Stapleton ran after it. The butterfly flew to the mire, and Stapleton jumped from tuft to tuft after it.

I heard the sound of steps and, turning round, found a woman near me on the path. She had come from the direction of Merripit House.

I could not doubt that this was Miss Stapleton, and I remembered that I had heard someone describe her as a beauty. The woman was certainly beautiful. There could not be a greater contrast between brother and sister, for Stapleton had light hair and gray eyes, while she was darker than any brunette whom I have seen in England—slim, elegant, and tall. With her perfect figure and elegant dress she looked strange on a moor path.

“Go back!” she said. “Go straight back to London, at once.”

I could only look at her in stupid surprise.

“Why should I go back?” I asked.

“I cannot explain.” She spoke in a low voice. “But for God’s sake do what I ask you. Go back and never set foot upon the moor again.”

“But I have only just come.”

“Go back to London!” she cried. “Get away from this place! Hush, my brother is coming! Not a word to him.”

Stapleton came back to us breathing hard.

“Beryl!” said he, and it seemed to me that his tone was cold.

“I was telling Sir Henry about the beauties of the moor.”

“Why, who do you think this is?”

“I think it must be Sir Henry Baskerville.”

“No, no,” said I. “I’m his friend. My name is Dr. Watson.”

A flush passed over her face. “Will you not come and see Merripit House?”

A short walk brought us to it, a poor house. Inside, however, there were large elegant rooms in which I recognized the taste of the lady. As I looked from their windows at the great moor I could not help wondering what could bring this highly educated man and this beautiful woman to live in such a place.

“We are quite happy here, are we not, Beryl?” said he as if in answer to my thought.

“Quite happy,” said she.

“I had a school in the north,” said Stapleton. “However, a serious epidemic broke out in the school and three of the boys died. It never recovered from the blow, and much of my capital was lost. We came to live here, and with my tastes for botany and zoology, I find a lot of work here, and my sister is as fond of Nature as I am.”

“It might be a little dull for your sister to live here.”

“No, no, I am never dull,” said she quickly.

“We have books, and we have interesting neighbours. Dr. Mortimer is an educated man. Poor Sir Charles was also a good companion. We knew him well and miss him very much. Do you think that I could call this afternoon on Sir Henry?”

“I am sure that he would be glad.”

But I wished to get back to Sir Henry. The melancholy of the moor, the death of the pony, the queer sound, all these things made me sad. Moreover, the warning of Miss Stapleton left me no doubt that Sir Henry was in danger. I refused their invitation to lunch, and started for Baskerville Hall.

It seems, however, that there was some short path, for when I had reached the road I saw Miss Stapleton.

“I have run hard to talk to you, Dr. Watson,” said she. “I wanted to say how sorry I am about the stupid mistake I made thinking that you were Sir Henry. Please forget the words I said.”

“I am Sir Henry’s friend,” said I. “Tell me why you wanted Sir Henry to return to London.”

“My brother and I were very much shocked by the death of Sir Charles,” said she. “He was deeply impressed with the curse which hung over the family, and when this tragedy came I felt that his fears were not groundless. Therefore when another member of the family came to live here, I felt that I should warn him of the danger. That was all what I meant.”

“If you meant only this, why did you not wish your brother to hear it?”

“My brother wishes the Baskervilles to live at the Hall, for he thinks it is good for the poor people on the moor. He would be very angry if he knew that I have said anything which might make Sir Henry go away. Goodbye!” She turned and disappeared among the boulders, while I walked to Baskerville Hall.