The Hound of the Baskervilles Read online

  Chapter 10

  Extract from the Diary of Dr. Watson

  So far I have been able to quote from the reports which I haveforwarded during these early days to Sherlock Holmes. Now,however, I have arrived at a point in my narrative where I amcompelled to abandon this method and to trust once more to myrecollections, aided by the diary which I kept at the time. A fewextracts from the latter will carry me on to those scenes whichare indelibly fixed in every detail upon my memory. I proceed,then, from the morning which followed our abortive chase of theconvict and our other strange experiences upon the moor.

  OCTOBER 16TH.--A dull and foggy day with a drizzle of rain. Thehouse is banked in with rolling clouds, which rise now and thento show the dreary curves of the moor, with thin, silver veinsupon the sides of the hills, and the distant boulders gleamingwhere the light strikes upon their wet faces. It is melancholyoutside and in. The baronet is in a black reaction after theexcitements of the night. I am conscious myself of a weight at myheart and a feeling of impending danger--ever present danger,which is the more terrible because I am unable to define it.

  And have I not cause for such a feeling? Consider the longsequence of incidents which have all pointed to some sinisterinfluence which is at work around us. There is the death of thelast occupant of the Hall, fulfilling so exactly the conditionsof the family legend, and there are the repeated reports frompeasants of the appearance of a strange creature upon the moor.Twice I have with my own ears heard the sound which resembled thedistant baying of a hound. It is incredible, impossible, that itshould really be outside the ordinary laws of nature. A spectralhound which leaves material footmarks and fills the air with itshowling is surely not to be thought of. Stapleton may fall inwith such a superstition, and Mortimer also; but if I have onequality upon earth it is common-sense, and nothing will persuademe to believe in such a thing. To do so would be to descend tothe level of these poor peasants, who are not content with a merefiend dog but must needs describe him with hell-fire shootingfrom his mouth and eyes. Holmes would not listen to such fancies,and I am his agent. But facts are facts, and I have twice heardthis crying upon the moor. Suppose that there were really somehuge hound loose upon it; that would go far to explaineverything. But where could such a hound lie concealed, where didit get its food, where did it come from, how was it that no onesaw it by day? It must be confessed that the natural explanationoffers almost as many difficulties as the other. And always,apart from the hound, there is the fact of the human agency inLondon, the man in the cab, and the letter which warned Sir Henryagainst the moor. This at least was real, but it might have beenthe work of a protecting friend as easily as of an enemy. Whereis that friend or enemy now? Has he remained in London, or has hefollowed us down here? Could he--could he be the stranger whom Isaw upon the tor?

  It is true that I have had only the one glance at him, and yetthere are some things to which I am ready to swear. He is no onewhom I have seen down here, and I have now met all theneighbours. The figure was far taller than that of Stapleton, farthinner than that of Frankland. Barrymore it might possibly havebeen, but we had left him behind us, and I am certain that hecould not have followed us. A stranger then is still dogging us,just as a stranger dogged us in London. We have never shaken himoff. If I could lay my hands upon that man, then at last we mightfind ourselves at the end of all our difficulties. To this onepurpose I must now devote all my energies.

  My first impulse was to tell Sir Henry all my plans. My secondand wisest one is to play my own game and speak as little aspossible to anyone. He is silent and distrait. His nerves havebeen strangely shaken by that sound upon the moor. I will saynothing to add to his anxieties, but I will take my own steps toattain my own end.

  We had a small scene this morning after breakfast. Barrymoreasked leave to speak with Sir Henry, and they were closeted inhis study some little time. Sitting in the billiard-room I morethan once heard the sound of voices raised, and I had a prettygood idea what the point was which was under discussion. After atime the baronet opened his door and called for me.

  "Barrymore considers that he has a grievance," he said. "Hethinks that it was unfair on our part to hunt his brother-in-lawdown when he, of his own free will, had told us the secret."

  The butler was standing very pale but very collected before us.

  "I may have spoken too warmly, sir," said he, "and if I have, Iam sure that I beg your pardon. At the same time, I was very muchsurprised when I heard you two gentlemen come back this morningand learned that you had been chasing Selden. The poor fellow hasenough to fight against without my putting more upon his track."

  "If you had told us of your own free will it would have been adifferent thing," said the baronet, "you only told us, or ratheryour wife only told us, when it was forced from you and you couldnot help yourself."

  "I didn't think you would have taken advantage of it, SirHenry--indeed I didn't."

  "The man is a public danger. There are lonely houses scatteredover the moor, and he is a fellow who would stick at nothing. Youonly want to get a glimpse of his face to see that. Look at Mr.Stapleton's house, for example, with no one but himself to defendit. There's no safety for anyone until he is under lock and key."

  "He'll break into no house, sir. I give you my solemn word uponthat. But he will never trouble anyone in this country again. Iassure you, Sir Henry, that in a very few days the necessaryarrangements will have been made and he will be on his way toSouth America. For God's sake, sir, I beg of you not to let thepolice know that he is still on the moor. They have given up thechase there, and he can lie quiet until the ship is ready forhim. You can't tell on him without getting my wife and me intotrouble. I beg you, sir, to say nothing to the police."

  "What do you say, Watson?"

  I shrugged my shoulders. "If he were safely out of the country itwould relieve the tax-payer of a burden."

  "But how about the chance of his holding someone up before hegoes?"

  "He would not do anything so mad, sir. We have provided him withall that he can want. To commit a crime would be to show where hewas hiding."

  "That is true," said Sir Henry. "Well, Barrymore --"

  "God bless you, sir, and thank you from my heart! It would havekilled my poor wife had he been taken again."

  "I guess we are aiding and abetting a felony, Watson? But, afterwhat we have heard I don't feel as if I could give the man up, sothere is an end of it. All right, Barrymore, you can go."

  With a few broken words of gratitude the man turned, but hehesitated and then came back.

  "You've been so kind to us, sir, that I should like to do thebest I can for you in return. I know something, Sir Henry, andperhaps I should have said it before, but it was long after theinquest that I found it out. I've never breathed a word about ityet to mortal man. It's about poor Sir Charles's death."

  The baronet and I were both upon our feet. "Do you know how hedied?"

  "No, sir, I don't know that."

  "What then?"

  "I know why he was at the gate at that hour. It was to meet awoman."

  "To meet a woman! He?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "And the woman's name?"

  "I can't give you the name, sir, but I can give you the initials.Her initials were L. L."

  "How do you know this, Barrymore?"

  "Well, Sir Henry, your uncle had a letter that morning. He hadusually a great many letters, for he was a public man and wellknown for his kind heart, so that everyone who was in trouble wasglad to turn to him. But that morning, as it chanced, there wasonly this one letter, so I took the more notice of it. It wasfrom Coombe Tracey, and it was addressed in a woman's hand."

  "Well?"

  "Well, sir, I thought no more of the matter, and never would havedone had it not been for my wife. Only a few weeks ago she wascleaning out Sir Charles's study--it had never been touched sincehis death--and she found the ashes of a burned letter in the backof the grate. The greater part of it was charred to pieces, butone lit
tle slip, the end of a page, hung together, and thewriting could still be read, though it was gray on a blackground. It seemed to us to be a postscript at the end of theletter, and it said: 'Please, please, as you are a gentleman,burn this letter, and be at the gate by ten o clock. Beneath itwere signed the initials L. L."

  "Have you got that slip?"

  "No, sir, it crumbled all to bits after we moved it."

  "Had Sir Charles received any other letters in the same writing?"

  "Well, sir, I took no particular notice of his letters. I shouldnot have noticed this one, only it happened to come alone."

  "And you have no idea who L. L. is?"

  "No, sir. No more than you have. But I expect if we could lay ourhands upon that lady we should know more about Sir Charles'sdeath."

  "I cannot understand, Barrymore, how you came to conceal thisimportant information."

  "Well, sir, it was immediately after that our own trouble came tous. And then again, sir, we were both of us very fond of SirCharles, as we well might be considering all that he has done forus. To rake this up couldn't help our poor master, and it's wellto go carefully when there's a lady in the case. Even the best ofus ----"

  "You thought it might injure his reputation?"

  "Well, sir, I thought no good could come of it. But now you havebeen kind to us, and I feel as if it would be treating youunfairly not to tell you all that I know about the matter."

  "Very good, Barrymore; you can go." When the butler had left usSir Henry turned to me. "Well, Watson, what do you think of thisnew light?"

  "It seems to leave the darkness rather blacker than before."

  "So I think. But if we can only trace L. L. it should clear upthe whole business. We have gained that much. We know that thereis someone who has the facts if we can only find her. What do youthink we should do?"

  "Let Holmes know all about it at once. It will give him the cluefor which he has been seeking. I am much mistaken if it does notbring him down."

  I went at once to my room and drew up my report of the morning'sconversation for Holmes. It was evident to me that he had beenvery busy of late, for the notes which I had from Baker Streetwere few and short, with no comments upon the information which Ihad supplied and hardly any reference to my mission. No doubt hisblackmailing case is absorbing all his faculties. And yet thisnew factor must surely arrest his attention and renew hisinterest. I wish that he were here.

  OCTOBER 17TH.--All day to-day the rain poured down, rustling onthe ivy and dripping from the eaves. I thought of the convict outupon the bleak, cold, shelterless moor. Poor devil! Whatever hiscrimes, he has suffered something to atone for them. And then Ithought of that other one--the face in the cab, the figureagainst the moon. Was he also out in that deluged--the unseenwatcher, the man of darkness? In the evening I put on mywaterproof and I walked far upon the sodden moor, full of darkimaginings, the rain beating upon my face and the wind whistlingabout my ears. God help those who wander into the great mire now,for even the firm uplands are becoming a morass. I found theblack tor upon which I had seen the solitary watcher, and fromits craggy summit I looked out myself across the melancholydowns. Rain squalls drifted across their russet face, and theheavy, slate-coloured clouds hung low over the landscape,trailing in gray wreaths down the sides of the fantastic hills.In the distant hollow on the left, half hidden by the mist, thetwo thin towers of Baskerville Hall rose above the trees. Theywere the only signs of human life which I could see, save onlythose prehistoric huts which lay thickly upon the slopes of thehills. Nowhere was there any trace of that lonely man whom I hadseen on the same spot two nights before.

  As I walked back I was overtaken by Dr. Mortimer driving in hisdog-cart over a rough moorland track which led from the outlyingfarmhouse of Foulmire. He has been very attentive to us, andhardly a day has passed that he has not called at the Hall to seehow we were getting on. He insisted upon my climbing into hisdog-cart, and he gave me a lift homeward. I found him muchtroubled over the disappearance of his little spaniel. It hadwandered on to the moor and had never come back. I gave him suchconsolation as I might, but I thought of the pony on the GrimpenMire, and I do not fancy that he will see his little dog again.

  "By the way, Mortimer," said I as we jolted along the rough road,"I suppose there are few people living within driving distance ofthis whom you do not know?"

  "Hardly any, I think."

  "Can you, then, tell me the name of any woman whose initials areL. L.?"

  He thought for a few minutes.

  "No," said he. "There are a few gipsies and labouring folk forwhom I can't answer, but among the farmers or gentry there is noone whose initials are those. Wait a bit though," he added aftera pause. "There is Laura Lyons--her initials are L. L.--but shelives in Coombe Tracey."

  "Who is she?" I asked.

  "She is Frankland's daughter."

  "What! Old Frankland the crank?"

  "Exactly. She married an artist named Lyons, who came sketchingon the moor. He proved to be a blackguard and deserted her. Thefault from what I hear may not have been entirely on one side.Her father refused to have anything to do with her because shehad married without his consent, and perhaps for one or two otherreasons as well. So, between the old sinner and the young one thegirl has had a pretty bad time."

  "How does she live?"

  "I fancy old Frankland allows her a pittance, but it cannot bemore, for his own affairs are considerably involved. Whatever shemay have deserved one could not allow her to go hopelessly to thebad. Her story got about, and several of the people here didsomething to enable her to earn an honest living. Stapleton didfor one, and Sir Charles for another. I gave a trifle myself. Itwas to set her up in a typewriting business."

  He wanted to know the object of my inquiries, but I managed tosatisfy his curiosity without telling him too much, for there isno reason why we should take anyone into our confidence.To-morrow morning I shall find my way to Coombe Tracey, and if Ican see this Mrs. Laura Lyons, of equivocal reputation, a longstep will have been made towards clearing one incident in thischain of mysteries. I am certainly developing the wisdom of theserpent, for when Mortimer pressed his questions to aninconvenient extent I asked him casually to what type Frankland'sskull belonged, and so heard nothing but craniology for the restof our drive. I have not lived for years with Sherlock Holmes fornothing.

  I have only one other incident to record upon this tempestuousand melancholy day. This was my conversation with Barrymore justnow, which gives me one more strong card which I can play in duetime.

  Mortimer had stayed to dinner, and he and the baronet playedecarte afterwards. The butler brought me my coffee into thelibrary, and I took the chance to ask him a few questions.

  "Well," said I, "has this precious relation of yours departed, oris he still lurking out yonder?"

  "I don't know, sir. I hope to heaven that he has gone, for he hasbrought nothing but trouble here! I've not heard of him since Ileft out food for him last, and that was three days ago."

  "Did you see him then?"

  "No, sir, but the food was gone when next I went that way."

  "Then he was certainly there?"

  "So you would think, sir, unless it was the other man who tookit."

  I sat with my coffee-cup halfway to my lips and stared atBarrymore.

  "You know that there is another man then?"

  "Yes, sir; there is another man upon the moor."

  "Have you seen him?"

  "No, sir."

  "How do you know of him then?"

  "Selden told me of him, sir, a week ago or more. He's in hiding,too, but he's not a convict as far as I can make out. I don'tlike it, Dr. Watson--I tell you straight, sir, that I don't likeit." He spoke with a sudden passion of earnestness.

  "Now, listen to me, Barrymore! I have no interest in this matterbut that of your master. I have come here with no object exceptto help him. Tell me, frankly, what it is that you don't like."

  Barrymore hesitated for a moment, as
if he regretted hisoutburst, or found it difficult to express his own feelings inwords.

  "It's all these goings-on, sir," he cried at last, waving hishand towards the rain-lashed window which faced the moor. "There'sfoul play somewhere, and there's black villainy brewing, to thatI'll swear! Very glad I should be, sir, to see Sir Henry on hisway back to London again!"

  "But what is it that alarms you?"

  "Look at Sir Charles's death! That was bad enough, for all thatthe coroner said. Look at the noises on the moor at night.There's not a man would cross it after sundown if he was paid forit. Look at this stranger hiding out yonder, and watching andwaiting! What's he waiting for? What does it mean? It means nogood to anyone of the name of Baskerville, and very glad I shallbe to be quit of it all on the day that Sir Henry's new servantsare ready to take over the Hall."

  "But about this stranger," said I. "Can you tell me anythingabout him? What did Selden say? Did he find out where he hid, orwhat he was doing?"

  "He saw him once or twice, but he is a deep one, and givesnothing away. At first he thought that he was the police, butsoon he found that he had some lay of his own. A kind ofgentleman he was, as far as he could see, but what he was doinghe could not make out."

  "And where did he say that he lived?"

  "Among the old houses on the hillside--the stone huts where theold folk used to live."

  "But how about his food?"

  "Selden found out that he has got a lad who works for him andbrings him all he needs. I dare say he goes to Coombe Tracey forwhat he wants."

  "Very good, Barrymore. We may talk further of this some othertime." When the butler had gone I walked over to the blackwindow, and I looked through a blurred pane at the driving cloudsand at the tossing outline of the wind-swept trees. It is a wildnight indoors, and what must it be in a stone hut upon the moor.What passion of hatred can it be which leads a man to lurk insuch a place at such a time! And what deep and earnest purposecan he have which calls for such a trial! There, in that hut uponthe moor, seems to lie the very centre of that problem which hasvexed me so sorely. I swear that another day shall not havepassed before I have done all that man can do to reach the heartof the mystery.