Chapter 15

Mrs Laura Lyons

October 18th.

I had no opportunity to tell the baronet what I had learned about Mrs. Lyons on the evening before, for he had gone to bed early. At breakfast, however, I informed him about my discovery and we discussed a visit to Coombe Tracey. It seemed to both of us that if I went alone the results might be better.

I had no difficulty in finding the rooms of Mrs. Laura Lyons. A maid showed me in without ceremony, and as I entered the sitting-room a lady, who was sitting before a Remington typewriter, sprang up with a pleasant smile of welcome.

The first impression of Mrs. Lyons was that she was a real beauty. Admiration was the first impression. But the second was criticism. There was something wrong with the face, it had a coarse expression, and her eyes were hard.

But at the first moment I realized that I was looking at a very beautiful woman, and that she was asking me the reasons for my visit.

“I have the pleasure,” said I, “of knowing your father.”

“There is nothing in common between my father and me,” she said. “And his friends are not mine. If it were not for the late Sir Charles Baskerville and some other kind hearts I should have nothing to eat. My father has not done anything to help me.”

“I have come here to see you about the late Sir Charles Baskerville.”

The lady’s face flushed.

“You knew him, did you not?”

“I have already said that he was very kind to me in my unhappy situation.”

“Did you correspond with him?”

The lady looked up angrily.

“Why are you asking?” she asked sharply.

“I wish to avoid a public scandal. It is better that I should ask them here than you were asked by the police.”

She was silent and her face turned very pale. “Well, I’ll answer,” she said. “What do you want to know?”

“Did you correspond with Sir Charles?”

“I certainly wrote to him once or twice to thank him for his generosity.”

“Have you ever met him?”

“Yes, once or twice, when he came to Coombe Tracey.”

“But if you saw him so seldom and wrote so seldom, how did he know enough about your affairs to be able to help you?”

“There were several gentlemen who knew my sad history and helped me. One was Mr. Stapleton, a neighbour and friend of Sir Charles’s. It was through him that Sir Charles learned about my affairs.”

“Did you ever write to Sir Charles asking him to meet you?” I continued.

Mrs. Lyons flushed with anger again.

“Really, sir, this is a very extraordinary question.”

“I am sorry, madam, but I must repeat it.”

“Then I answer, certainly not.”

“Not on the very day of Sir Charles’s death? Your memory deceives you,” said I. “I can even quote your letter. It ran ‘Please, please, as you are a gentleman, burn this letter, and be at the gate by ten o’clock.’”

She turned so pale that I thought she might faint.

“Then he was not a gentleman,” she said.

“Sir Charles did burn the letter. But sometimes a letter may be read even when burned. Did you write it?”

“Yes, I wrote it,” she cried, pouring out her soul in a torrent of words. “I have no reason to be ashamed of it. I wished him to help me. I believed that if I talked to him he would help me, so I asked him to meet me.”

“But why at such an hour?”

“Because I had only just learned that he was going to London next day and might be away for months.”

“But why a meeting in the garden instead of a visit to the house?”

“Do you think a woman could go alone at that hour to a bachelor’s house?”

“Well, what happened when you got there?”

“I never went.”

“Mrs. Lyons!”

“I never went. Something occurred and I did not go.”

“What was that?”

“That is a private matter. I cannot tell it.” Again and again I asked her, but I could not get the answer.

“Mrs. Lyons,” said I, “if I have to call the police you will find how serious your position is.”

“I will tell you, then. Probably, you have heard anything of my unhappy marriage.”

“I have heard of it.”

“I have had a lot of trouble from my husband whom I hate. The law is on his side, and he may force me to live with him. At the time that I wrote this letter to Sir Charles I had learned that I could get a divorce if I could pay. It meant everything to me—peace of mind, happiness, self-respect—everything. I thought that if Sir Charles heard the story from my own lips he would help me.”

“Then how is it that you did not go?”

“Because I received help from another person.”

“Why then, did you not write to Sir Charles and explain this?”

“I was going to do so, but I read about his death in the paper next morning.”

The woman’s story seemed true, but I did not feel satisfied as I was leaving Mrs. Lyons. The more I thought of the lady’s face and of her manner the more I felt that she had not told me the whole truth.

For the moment I could do nothing more in that direction, but I could look for the stranger among the stone huts on the moor. Probably, he is our unknown enemy or friend. Holmes had missed him in London. It would indeed be a triumph for me if I could catch him here.

Chapter 16

The Man on the Rock

Luck was against us again and again in this case, but now at last things have changed.

I saw Mr. Frankland, who was standing outside the gate at the side of the road along which I travelled.

“Good day, Dr. Watson,” cried he, “you must give your horses a rest and come in to have a glass of wine and to congratulate me.”

My feelings towards him were very far from being friendly after what I had heard of his treatment of his daughter, but I wanted to send Perkins and the carriage home, and the opportunity was good. I followed Frankland into his dining-room.

“It is a great day for me, sir,” he cried. “Two cases have been decided, Dr. Watson, and both in my favour. I haven’t had such a day for years. I am proud to say that I act only from a sense of public duty. And it is a shame that the county police are not friendly to me! I told them that they would regret their treatment of me, and already my words have come true.”

“How so?” I asked.

“Because I could tell them what they want to know; but nothing will make me help them.”

“What is it?” said I.

“The convict on the moor.”

“Do you know where he is?”

“I may not know exactly where he is, but I am sure that I could help the police to catch him. I have seen with my own eyes the messenger who takes him his food.”

I thought of Barrymore immediately. It was a serious thing to be in the power of this spiteful busybody. But his next remark struck me.

“His food is taken to him by a child. I see him every day through my telescope on the roof. He passes along the same path at the same hour, and to whom can he go except to the convict?”

Here was luck indeed! But I did not show my interest. A child! Barrymore had said that our stranger was helped by a boy.

“Come, sir, come!” cried Frankland, rushing upstairs. “You will see with your own eyes! It’s the right time!”

The telescope stood on the roof of the house. Frankland looked and gave a cry of satisfaction.

“Quick, Dr. Watson, see for yourself before he passes over the hill!”

There was a boy with a bundle on his shoulder, walking slowly up the hill. When he reached the top he looked round him, as one who is afraid of being seen.

“Well! Am I right?”

“Certainly, there is a boy who seems to have some secret task.”

“And what the task is even a county constable could guess. But they said such awful things about me in court, as if I am a criminal, and nobody stopped them. No, they will have not a word from me, and, Dr. Watson, not a word! You understand!”

“Just as you wish.”

On leaving Mr. Frankland’s house I kept the road as long as his eye was on me, and then I went to the hill over which the boy had disappeared.

The sun was already setting when I reached the top of the hill. Over the wide moor there was no sound and no movement. The boy was nowhere to be seen. But down below me there were some old stone huts, and among them there was one which still had a roof. This must be the place where the stranger was hiding.

As I approached the hut, I saw that the place had indeed been used by man. All was silent in the hut. The stranger might be inside, or he might be out on the moor. Throwing my cigarette, I took out my revolver and I looked in. The place was empty.

There were some blankets, and the ashes of a fire. Beside it was a bucket half-full of water. A number of empty tins showed that the place had been lived in for some time. In the middle of the hut a flat stone served as a table, and on this stood a small bundle—the same, no doubt, which I had seen through the telescope on the shoulder of the boy. It contained a loaf of bread, and tinned meat. Under it there lay a sheet of paper where it was written: “Dr. Watson has gone to Coombe Tracey.”

It was I, and not Sir Henry, who was being followed by this stranger. He had not followed me himself, but he had an agent—the boy, and this was his report. Perhaps every my step had been observed and reported.

Outside the sun was setting. All was peaceful in the golden evening light, only there was no peace in my heart but rather terror of the coming meeting with the stranger. I sat in the dark hut and waited.

And then at last I heard him. I moved back into the darkest corner and cocked the pistol in my pocket. There was a long pause which showed that he had stopped. Then the footsteps approached and a shadow fell across the opening of the hut.

“It is a lovely evening, my dear Watson,” said a well-known voice. “I really think that it is better outside than in.”

For a moment or two I was hardly able to believe my ears. That cold, ironical voice could belong to only one man in all the world.

“Holmes!” I cried. “Holmes!”

“Come out,” said he.

He sat on a stone outside. In his tweed suit and cap he looked like any other tourist on the moor, and he looked as clean and neat as if he were in Baker Street.

“I have never been more glad to see anyone in my life,” said I as I shook his hand.

“Or more astonished, eh?”

“Well, yes.”

“I am also surprised to find you in the hut. I had no idea that you had found it, until I was twenty steps away from the door.”

“Did you see my footprints?”

“No, Watson, your cigarette. I saw your cigarette beside the path. You threw it down, no doubt, before you came into the hut.”

“Exactly.”

“So you thought that I was the criminal?”

“I did not know who you were, but I wished to find out.”

“Excellent, Watson! And how did you find me? You saw me, perhaps, on the night when you looked for the convict?”

“Yes, I saw you then, and your boy has been observed.”

“The old gentleman with the telescope, no doubt.” He rose and looked into the hut. “Ha, I see that Cartwright has brought something. What’s this paper? So you have been to Coombe Tracey, haven’t you?”

“Yes.”

“To see Mrs. Laura Lyons?”

“Exactly. I am glad that you are here. But how did you come here, and what have you been doing? I thought that you were in Baker Street.”

“I wished you to think so.”

“You do not trust me!” I cried with some bitterness.

“My dear fellow, it was partly for your own sake that I did it, and I knew you were in danger, so I came here and examined the matter myself. I did not wish our enemy to know what I was doing.”

“But why keep me in the dark?”

“If you had known it could not have helped us, but our enemy might have discovered me. You would have wished to tell me something, or you would have brought me food or something, and you might have been followed.”

“Then you did not need my reports!” My voice trembled.

Holmes took some papers from his pocket.

“Here are your reports, I have studied them very thoroughly, and they helped me a lot. And now tell me the result of your visit to Mrs. Laura Lyons.”