Chapter 17

Death on the Moor

As I told Holmes of my conversation with the lady, he was greatly interested.

“This is most important,” said he when I had finished. “Do you know that this lady and Stapleton are close friends?”

“I did not know that.”

“There can be no doubt about it. I am going to give you some information now, in return for all that you have given me. The lady, who is known here as Miss Stapleton, is his wife.”

“Good heavens, Holmes! Are you sure of that? How could he let Sir Henry fall in love with her?”

“It could do no harm to anyone except Sir Henry. Stapleton foresaw that she would be more useful to him as a free woman.”

All my vague suspicions suddenly focused on the naturalist. In that colourless man, with his straw hat and his butterfly-net, I saw something terrible—a creature with a smiling face and a murderous heart.

“Is he, then, our enemy—did he follow us in London?”

“I think so.”

“And she wanted to warn Sir Henry!”

“Exactly.”

“But are you sure of this, Holmes? How do you know that the woman is his wife?”

“Because he told you a true piece of his biography when he first met you. He was once a schoolmaster in the north of England. It is very easy to find information about a schoolmaster. A little investigation showed me that a school had had some trouble, and that the man who had owned it—the name was different—had disappeared with his wife. When I learned that the schoolmaster was fond of botany and entomology I knew it was Stapleton.”

“If this woman is his wife, where does Mrs. Laura Lyons come in?” I asked.

“Your conversation with the lady has cleared the situation very much. I did not know that she wanted a divorce. She believed Stapleton to be unmarried, she wished no doubt to become his wife.

“We must see her tomorrow. Don’t you think, Watson, that you are away from Sir Henry rather long? Your place should be at Baskerville Hall.”

“One last question, Holmes,” I said as I rose. “What is the meaning of it all? What does Stapleton want?”

“It is murder, Watson—cold-blooded, deliberate murder. There is one danger which can threaten us. He may strike before we are ready. I need another day—two at the most.”

A terrible scream—a scream of horror and pain—burst the silence of the moor.

“Oh, my God!” I whispered. “What is it?”

Holmes sprang to his feet.

“Hush!” he whispered. “Hush!”

Now the scream was nearer and louder than before.

“Where is it?” Holmes whispered.

“There, I think.” I pointed into the darkness.

“No, there!”

Again the agonized cry rose in the silent night, louder and much nearer than before.

“Come, Watson, come! I am afraid we are too late!” cried Holmes.

We started running swiftly over the moor. From somewhere in front of us there came one last scream, and then a sound as if something had fallen. We stopped and listened. No sound broke the heavy silence of the night.

“He has beaten us, Watson. We are too late,” said Holmes.

“No, surely not!”

We ran through the dark, forcing our way through bushes. Soon we saw a man, lying with his face to the ground. The light of the match which Holmes struck shone on the pool of blood under the man’s head. And it was the body of Sir Henry Baskerville!

We recognized the tweed suit, which he had worn on the first morning that we had seen him in Baker Street. We saw it clearly.

“Oh Holmes, I shall never forgive myself for having left him alone!” I cried

“It is the greatest blow in my career. But how could I know that he would risk his life alone on the moor after all my warnings?”

“And Stapleton, where is he? He must answer for this.”

“He will. I will see to that. Uncle and nephew have been murdered—one frightened to death by the beast which he thought to be supernatural, the other broke his neck falling while he was trying to escape from it. But now we have to prove the connection between the man and the beast. But we have not even seen the hound.”

“Why cannot Stapleton be arrested at once?”

“We know a lot, but we cannot prove it yet. The fellow is cunning. If we make a mistake, he may escape us.”

“What can we do?”

“There will be plenty for us to do tomorrow. Tonight we can only see to our poor friend.”

“We must send for help, Holmes! We cannot carry him all the way to the Hall. Good heavens, are you mad?”

He had bent over the body. Now he was dancing and laughing!

“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!”

We turned the body over. It was indeed the same face which had looked at me in the light of the candle over the rock – the face of Selden, the criminal.

Then in a moment it was all clear to me. I remembered how the baronet had told me that he had given his old clothes to Barrymore. Barrymore had given them to Selden. Boots, shirt, cap—it was all Sir Henry’s. I told Holmes how it all had occurred.

“It is clear that the hound has been given some thing of Sir Henry’s—the boot which was stolen in the hotel, probably—and so hunted this man down,” said he. “Watson, what’s this? It’s the man himself! Not a word to show your suspicions—not a word!” A figure was approaching us over the moor. The moon shone upon him, and I could recognize the naturalist. He stopped when he saw us, and then came on again.

“Why, Dr. Watson, you are the last man that I expected to see on the moor at this time of night. But, dear me, what’s this? Somebody hurt? Don’t tell me that it is our friend Sir Henry!” He hurried past me and bent over the dead man.

“Who—who’s this?” he asked.

“It is Selden, the man who escaped from Princetown.”

Stapleton turned his pale face upon us, but by a great effort he had overcome his astonishment and disappointment. He looked from Holmes to me. “What a very shocking affair! How did he die?”

“It seems he broke his neck by falling over these rocks. My friend and I were walking on the moor when we heard a cry.”

“I heard a cry also. It brought me here. I was worried about Sir Henry.”

“Why about Sir Henry?” I could not help asking.

“Because I had invited him to come. When he did not come I was surprised, and I naturally became alarmed when I heard cries on the moor. By the way, what do you think about it, Mr. Sherlock Holmes?”

“How did you recognize me?” asked my friend. “We have been expecting you since Dr. Watson came down. You are in time to see a tragedy.”

“Yes, indeed. I have to go back to London tomorrow.”

“Oh, you return tomorrow?”

“That is my intention.”

“I hope your visit has thrown some light on the mysterious events here?”

Holmes shrugged his shoulders.

“A detective needs facts and not legends. It has not been a satisfactory case.”

We put something over Selden’s face and left him there until morning.

Holmes and I set off to Baskerville Hall.

Chapter 18

The Portrait

“What a nerve the fellow has!” said Holmes as we walked together across the moor. “How he pulled himself together, when he found that the wrong man had died. I told you in London, Watson, and I tell you now again, that we have never had a more dangerous enemy.”

“Why cannot we arrest him at once?”

“My dear Watson, we can prove nothing against him. If he acted through a man we could get some evidence, but the dog would not help us to put a rope round the neck of its master. They would laugh at us in court.”

“There is Sir Charles’s death.”

“He was found dead without any injury on him. You and I know that he died of fear, and we know also what frightened him. But we have to prove all this, and we cannot do it.”

“Well, and tonight?”

“Again, there was no direct connection between the hound and the man’s death. We never saw the hound. There is no motive.”

“And how do you hope to get evidence?”

“I have great hopes of what Mrs. Laura Lyons may say when she learns some facts. And I have my own plan as well.”

Holmes said no more, as we walked to Baskerville Hall.

Sir Henry was more pleased than surprised to see Sherlock Holmes, for he had for some days been expecting that recent events would bring him down from London. At supper we explained to the baronet what had happened. But first I had to tell the news to Barrymore and his wife. To him it was a relief, but she cried bitterly. To all the world Selden was the man of violence, half animal and half demon; but to her he always remained the little boy.

“I’ve been in the house all day since Watson went off in the morning,” said the baronet. “I have kept my promise. If I hadn’t promised not to go about alone I might have had a more interesting evening, for I had a letter from Stapleton asking me over there.”

“I have no doubt that you would have had a more interesting evening,” said Holmes drily. “By the way, this poor fellow was dressed in your clothes. I fear your servant who gave them to him may get into trouble with the police.”

“But how about the case?” asked the baronet. “Have you made any progress?”

“I think that I shall be able to make the situation clearer to you soon. It has been a very difficult and complicated business. I think I will finish the case if you give me your help.”

“I will do anything you tell me to do.”

“Very good; and I will ask you also to do it, without asking the reason.”

“Just as you like.”

“If you do this, I think our little problem will soon be solved. I have no doubt—”

He stopped suddenly and looked fixedly up over my head.

“What is it?” we both cried.

“These are really very fine portraits,” said he as he waved his hand towards the line of portraits which covered the opposite wall.

“I’m glad to hear you say so,” said Sir Henry, looking with some surprise at my friend.

“They are all family portraits, I presume?”

“They are.”

“Who is the gentleman opposite me?”

“That is the cause of all the trouble, the wicked Hugo, who started the Hound of the Baskervilles.”

“Dear me!” said Holmes, “he seems a quiet man.” Holmes said little more, but his eyes were continually fixed on the picture during supper. When Sir Henry had gone to his room, he led me back into the dining-room and held the candle to the portrait on the wall.

“Do you see anything there?”

I looked at the broad hat, the curling hair, the white lace collar, the severe face, the thin-lipped mouth, and cold eyes.

“Is it like anyone you know?”

“There is something of Sir Henry about him.”

“Wait a moment!” He stood on a chair and covered the broad hat with his hand.

“Good heavens!” I cried in amazement.

The face of Stapleton had appeared in the picture.

“Ha, you see it now. The fellow is a Baskerville—that is evident.”

“And he wishes to have Baskerville Hall and the money.”

“Exactly. The picture has shown us the motive. We have him, Watson, we have him!”

I was up early in the morning, but Holmes was up still earlier.

“I have sent a report from Grimpen to Princetown about the death of Selden,” said Holmes. “What are you going to do next?”

“To see Sir Henry. Ah, here he is!”

“Good morning, Holmes,” said the baronet. “You look like a general who is planning a battle.”

“Exactly. You are invited, as I understand, to have dinner with the Stapletons tonight.”

“I hope that you will come also. They are very nice people, and I am sure that they will be very glad to see you.”

“I fear that Watson and I must go to London.”

“To London?”

The baronet’s face showed his disappointment. “I hoped that you were going to see me through this business. The Hall and the moor are not very pleasant places when you are alone.”

“My dear fellow, you must trust me and do exactly what I tell you. You can tell your friends that we should be happy to come with you next time. We hope very soon to return to Devonshire.”

I saw that the baronet was deeply hurt and disappointed.

“When do you plan to go?” he asked coldly. “Immediately after breakfast.”

“I wish to go to London with you,” said the baronet. “Why should I stay here alone?”

“Because you gave me your word that you would do as you were told, and I tell you to stay.”

“All right, then, I’ll stay.”

“One more thing! I wish you to drive to Merripit House. Send back your carriage, and let them know that you will walk home.”

“To walk across the moor?”

“Yes.”

“But you have so often told me not to do it.”

“This time you may do it.”

“Then I will do it.”

“And as you value your life, go across the moor only along the path which leads from Merripit House to the Grimpen Road, and this is your natural way home.”

“I will do what you say.”