The Hound of the Baskervilles Page 14

  Chapter 14

  The Hound of the Baskervilles

  One of Sherlock Holmes's defects--if, indeed, one may call it adefect--was that he was exceedingly loath to communicate his fullplans to any other person until the instant of their fulfilment.Partly it came no doubt from his own masterful nature, whichloved to dominate and surprise those who were around him. Partlyalso from his professional caution, which urged him never to takeany chances. The result, however, was very trying for those whowere acting as his agents and assistants. I had often sufferedunder it, but never more so than during that long drive in thedarkness. The great ordeal was in front of us; at last we wereabout to make our final effort, and yet Holmes had said nothing,and I could only surmise what his course of action would be. Mynerves thrilled with anticipation when at last the cold wind uponour faces and the dark, void spaces on either side of the narrowroad told me that we were back upon the moor once again. Everystride of the horses and every turn of the wheels was taking usnearer to our supreme adventure.

  Our conversation was hampered by the presence of the driver ofthe hired wagonette, so that we were forced to talk of trivialmatters when our nerves were tense with emotion and anticipation.It was a relief to me, after that unnatural restraint, when we atlast passed Frankland's house and knew that we were drawing nearto the Hall and to the scene of action. We did not drive up tothe door but got down near the gate of the avenue. The wagonettewas paid off and ordered to return to Coombe Tracey forthwith,while we started to walk to Merripit House.

  "Are you armed, Lestrade?"

  The little detective smiled.

  "As long as I have my trousers I have a hip-pocket, and as longas I have my hip-pocket I have something in it."

  "Good! My friend and I are also ready for emergencies."

  "You're mighty close about this affair, Mr. Holmes. What's thegame now?"

  "A waiting game."

  "My word, it does not seem a very cheerful place," said thedetective with a shiver, glancing round him at the gloomy slopesof the hill and at the huge lake of fog which lay over theGrimpen Mire. "I see the lights of a house ahead of us."

  "That is Merripit House and the end of our journey. I mustrequest you to walk on tiptoe and not to talk above a whisper."

  We moved cautiously along the track as if we were bound for thehouse, but Holmes halted us when we were about two hundred yardsfrom it.

  "This will do," said he. "These rocks upon the right make anadmirable screen."

  "We are to wait here?"

  "Yes, we shall make our little ambush here. Get into this hollow,Lestrade. You have been inside the house, have you not, Watson?Can you tell the position of the rooms? What are those latticedwindows at this end?"

  "I think they are the kitchen windows."

  "And the one beyond, which shines so brightly?"

  "That is certainly the dining-room."

  "The blinds are up. You know the lie of the land best. Creepforward quietly and see what they are doing--but for heaven'ssake don't let them know that they are watched!"

  I tiptoed down the path and stooped behind the low wall whichsurrounded the stunted orchard. Creeping in its shadow I reacheda point whence I could look straight through the uncurtainedwindow.

  There were only two men in the room, Sir Henry and Stapleton.They sat with their profiles towards me on either side of theround table. Both of them were smoking cigars, and coffee andwine were in front of them. Stapleton was talking with animation,but the baronet looked pale and distrait. Perhaps the thought ofthat lonely walk across the ill-omened moor was weighing heavilyupon his mind.

  As I watched them Stapleton rose and left the room, while SirHenry filled his glass again and leaned back in his chair,puffing at his cigar. I heard the creak of a door and the crispsound of boots upon gravel. The steps passed along the path onthe other side of the wall under which I crouched. Looking over,I saw the naturalist pause at the door of an out-house in thecorner of the orchard. A key turned in a lock, and as he passedin there was a curious scuffling noise from within. He was only aminute or so inside, and then I heard the key turn once more andhe passed me and re-entered the house. I saw him rejoin hisguest, and I crept quietly back to where my companions werewaiting to tell them what I had seen.

  "You say, Watson, that the lady is not there?" Holmes asked, whenI had finished my report.

  "No."

  "Where can she be, then, since there is no light in any otherroom except the kitchen?"

  "I cannot think where she is."

  I have said that over the great Grimpen Mire there hung a dense,white fog. It was drifting slowly in our direction, and bankeditself up like a wall on that side of us, low, but thick and welldefined. The moon shone on it, and it looked like a greatshimmering ice-field, with the heads of the distant tors as rocksborne upon its surface. Holmes's face was turned towards it, andhe muttered impatiently as he watched its sluggish drift.

  "It's moving towards us, Watson."

  "Is that serious?"

  "Very serious, indeed--the one thing upon earth which could havedisarranged my plans. He can't be very long, now. It is alreadyten o'clock. Our success and even his life may depend upon hiscoming out before the fog is over the path."

  The night was clear and fine above us. The stars shone cold andbright, while a half-moon bathed the whole scene in a soft,uncertain light. Before us lay the dark bulk of the house, itsserrated roof and bristling chimneys hard outlined against thesilver-spangled sky. Broad bars of golden light from the lowerwindows stretched across the orchard and the moor. One of themwas suddenly shut off. The servants had left the kitchen. Thereonly remained the lamp in the dining-room where the two men, themurderous host and the unconscious guest, still chatted overtheir cigars.

  Every minute that white woolly plain which covered one half ofthe moor was drifting closer and closer to the house. Already thefirst thin wisps of it were curling across the golden square ofthe lighted window. The farther wall of the orchard was alreadyinvisible, and the trees were standing out of a swirl of whitevapour. As we watched it the fog-wreaths came crawling round bothcorners of the house and rolled slowly into one dense bank, onwhich the upper floor and the roof floated like a strange shipupon a shadowy sea. Holmes struck his hand passionately upon therock in front of us and stamped his feet in his impatience.

  "If he isn't out in a quarter of an hour the path will becovered. In half an hour we won't be able to see our hands infront of us."

  "Shall we move farther back upon higher ground?"

  "Yes, I think it would be as well."

  So as the fog-bank flowed onward we fell back before it until wewere half a mile from the house, and still that dense white sea,with the moon silvering its upper edge, swept slowly andinexorably on.

  "We are going too far," said Holmes. "We dare not take the chanceof his being overtaken before he can reach us. At all costs wemust hold our ground where we are." He dropped on his knees andclapped his ear to the ground. "Thank God, I think that I hearhim coming."

  A sound of quick steps broke the silence of the moor. Crouchingamong the stones we stared intently at the silver-tipped bank infront of us. The steps grew louder, and through the fog, asthrough a curtain, there stepped the man whom we were awaiting.He looked round him in surprise as he emerged into the clear,starlit night. Then he came swiftly along the path, passed closeto where we lay, and went on up the long slope behind us. As hewalked he glanced continually over either shoulder, like a manwho is ill at ease.

  "Hist!" cried Holmes, and I heard the sharp click of a cockingpistol. "Look out! It's coming!"

  There was a thin, crisp, continuous patter from somewhere in theheart of that crawling bank. The cloud was within fifty yards ofwhere we lay, and we glared at it, all three, uncertain whathorror was about to break from the heart of it. I was at Holmes'selbow, and I glanced for an instant at his face. It was pale andexultant, his eyes shining brightly in the moonlight. Butsuddenly they started forward in a rigid, fixed stare, and
hislips parted in amazement. At the same instant Lestrade gave ayell of terror and threw himself face downward upon the ground. Isprang to my feet, my inert hand grasping my pistol, my mindparalyzed by the dreadful shape which had sprung out upon us fromthe shadows of the fog. A hound it was, an enormous coal-blackhound, but not such a hound as mortal eyes have ever seen. Fireburst from its open mouth, its eyes glowed with a smoulderingglare, its muzzle and hackles and dewlap were outlined inflickering flame. Never in the delirious dream of a disorderedbrain could anything more savage, more appalling, more hellish beconceived than that dark form and savage face which broke upon usout of the wall of fog.

  With long bounds the huge black creature was leaping down thetrack, following hard upon the footsteps of our friend. Soparalyzed were we by the apparition that we allowed him to passbefore we had recovered our nerve. Then Holmes and I both firedtogether, and the creature gave a hideous howl, which showed thatone at least had hit him. He did not pause, however, but boundedonward. Far away on the path we saw Sir Henry looking back, hisface white in the moonlight, his hands raised in horror, glaringhelplessly at the frightful thing which was hunting him down.

  But that cry of pain from the hound had blown all our fears tothe winds. If he was vulnerable he was mortal, and if we couldwound him we could kill him. Never have I seen a man run asHolmes ran that night. I am reckoned fleet of foot, but heoutpaced me as much as I outpaced the little professional. Infront of us as we flew up the track we heard scream after screamfrom Sir Henry and the deep roar of the hound. I was in time tosee the beast spring upon its victim, hurl him to the ground, andworry at his throat. But the next instant Holmes had emptied fivebarrels of his revolver into the creature's flank. With a lasthowl of agony and a vicious snap in the air, it rolled upon itsback, four feet pawing furiously, and then fell limp upon itsside. I stooped, panting, and pressed my pistol to the dreadful,shimmering head, but it was useless to press the trigger. Thegiant hound was dead.

  Sir Henry lay insensible where he had fallen. We tore away hiscollar, and Holmes breathed a prayer of gratitude when we sawthat there was no sign of a wound and that the rescue had been intime. Already our friend's eyelids shivered and he made a feebleeffort to move. Lestrade thrust his brandy-flask between thebaronet's teeth, and two frightened eyes were looking up at us.

  "My God!" he whispered. "What was it? What, in heaven's name, wasit?"

  "It's dead, whatever it is," said Holmes. "We've laid the familyghost once and forever."

  In mere size and strength it was a terrible creature which waslying stretched before us. It was not a pure bloodhound and itwas not a pure mastiff; but it appeared to be a combination ofthe two--gaunt, savage, and as large as a small lioness. Evennow, in the stillness of death, the huge jaws seemed to bedripping with a bluish flame and the small, deep-set, cruel eyeswere ringed with fire. I placed my hand upon the glowing muzzle,and as I held them up my own fingers smouldered and gleamed inthe darkness.

  "Phosphorus," I said.

  "A cunning preparation of it," said Holmes, sniffing at the deadanimal. "There is no smell which might have interfered with hispower of scent. We owe you a deep apology, Sir Henry, for havingexposed you to this fright. I was prepared for a hound, but notfor such a creature as this. And the fog gave us little time toreceive him."

  "You have saved my life."

  "Having first endangered it. Are you strong enough to stand?"

  "Give me another mouthful of that brandy and I shall be ready foranything. So! Now, if you will help me up. What do you propose todo?"

  "To leave you here. You are not fit for further adventuresto-night. If you will wait, one or other of us will go back withyou to the Hall."

  He tried to stagger to his feet; but he was still ghastly paleand trembling in every limb. We helped him to a rock, where hesat shivering with his face buried in his hands.

  "We must leave you now," said Holmes. "The rest of our work mustbe done, and every moment is of importance. We have our case, andnow we only want our man.

  "It's a thousand to one against our finding him at the house," hecontinued as we retraced our steps swiftly down the path. "Thoseshots must have told him that the game was up."

  "We were some distance off, and this fog may have deadened them."

  "He followed the hound to call him off--of that you may becertain. No, no, he's gone by this time! But we'll search thehouse and make sure."

  The front door was open, so we rushed in and hurried from room toroom to the amazement of a doddering old manservant, who met usin the passage. There was no light save in the dining-room, butHolmes caught up the lamp and left no corner of the houseunexplored. No sign could we see of the man whom we were chasing.On the upper floor, however, one of the bedroom doors was locked.

  "There's someone in here," cried Lestrade. "I can hear amovement. Open this door!"

  A faint moaning and rustling came from within. Holmes struck thedoor just over the lock with the flat of his foot and it flewopen. Pistol in hand, we all three rushed into the room.

  But there was no sign within it of that desperate and defiantvillain whom we expected to see. Instead we were faced by anobject so strange and so unexpected that we stood for a momentstaring at it in amazement.

  The room had been fashioned into a small museum, and the wallswere lined by a number of glass-topped cases full of thatcollection of butterflies and moths the formation of which hadbeen the relaxation of this complex and dangerous man. In thecentre of this room there was an upright beam, which had beenplaced at some period as a support for the old worm-eaten baulkof timber which spanned the roof. To this post a figure was tied,so swathed and muffled in the sheets which had been used tosecure it that one could not for the moment tell whether it wasthat of a man or a woman. One towel passed round the throat andwas secured at the back of the pillar. Another covered the lowerpart of the face, and over it two dark eyes--eyes full of griefand shame and a dreadful questioning--stared back at us. In aminute we had torn off the gag, unswathed the bonds, and Mrs.Stapleton sank upon the floor in front of us. As her beautifulhead fell upon her chest I saw the clear red weal of a whiplashacross her neck.

  "The brute!" cried Holmes. "Here, Lestrade, your brandy-bottle!Put her in the chair! She has fainted from ill-usage andexhaustion."

  She opened her eyes again.

  "Is he safe?" she asked. "Has he escaped?"

  "He cannot escape us, madam."

  "No, no, I did not mean my husband. Sir Henry? Is he safe?"

  "Yes."

  "And the hound?"

  "It is dead."

  She gave a long sigh of satisfaction.

  "Thank God! Thank God! Oh, this villain! See how he has treatedme!" She shot her arms out from her sleeves, and we saw withhorror that they were all mottled with bruises. "But this isnothing--nothing! It is my mind and soul that he has tortured anddefiled. I could endure it all, ill-usage, solitude, a life ofdeception, everything, as long as I could still cling to the hopethat I had his love, but now I know that in this also I have beenhis dupe and his tool." She broke into passionate sobbing as shespoke.

  "You bear him no good will, madam," said Holmes. "Tell us thenwhere we shall find him. If you have ever aided him in evil, helpus now and so atone."

  "There is but one place where he can have fled," she answered."There is an old tin mine on an island in the heart of the mire.It was there that he kept his hound and there also he had madepreparations so that he might have a refuge. That is where hewould fly."

  The fog-bank lay like white wool against the window. Holmes heldthe lamp towards it.

  "See," said he. "No one could find his way into the Grimpen Mireto-night."

  She laughed and clapped her hands. Her eyes and teeth gleamedwith fierce merriment.

  "He may find his way in, but never out," she cried. "How can hesee the guiding wands to-night? We planted them together, he andI, to mark the pathway through the mire. Oh, if I could only haveplucked them out to-day. Then indeed you would hav
e had him atyour mercy!"

  It was evident to us that all pursuit was in vain until the foghad lifted. Meanwhile we left Lestrade in possession of the housewhile Holmes and I went back with the baronet to BaskervilleHall. The story of the Stapletons could no longer be withheldfrom him, but he took the blow bravely when he learned the truthabout the woman whom he had loved. But the shock of the night'sadventures had shattered his nerves, and before morning he laydelirious in a high fever, under the care of Dr. Mortimer. Thetwo of them were destined to travel together round the worldbefore Sir Henry had become once more the hale, hearty man thathe had been before he became master of that ill-omened estate.

  And now I come rapidly to the conclusion of this singularnarrative, in which I have tried to make the reader share thosedark fears and vague surmises which clouded our lives so long andended in so tragic a manner. On the morning after the death ofthe hound the fog had lifted and we were guided by Mrs. Stapletonto the point where they had found a pathway through the bog. Ithelped us to realize the horror of this woman's life when we sawthe eagerness and joy with which she laid us on her husband'strack. We left her standing upon the thin peninsula of firm,peaty soil which tapered out into the widespread bog. From theend of it a small wand planted here and there showed where thepath zigzagged from tuft to tuft of rushes among thosegreen-scummed pits and foul quagmires which barred the way to thestranger. Rank reeds and lush, slimy water-plants sent an odourof decay and a heavy miasmatic vapour onto our faces, while afalse step plunged us more than once thigh-deep into the dark,quivering mire, which shook for yards in soft undulations aroundour feet. Its tenacious grip plucked at our heels as we walked,and when we sank into it it was as if some malignant hand wastugging us down into those obscene depths, so grim and purposefulwas the clutch in which it held us. Once only we saw a trace thatsomeone had passed that perilous way before us. From amid a tuftof cotton grass which bore it up out of the slime some dark thingwas projecting. Holmes sank to his waist as he stepped from thepath to seize it, and had we not been there to drag him out hecould never have set his foot upon firm land again. He held anold black boot in the air. "Meyers, Toronto," was printed on theleather inside.

  "It is worth a mud bath," said he. "It is our friend Sir Henry'smissing boot."

  "Thrown there by Stapleton in his flight."

  "Exactly. He retained it in his hand after using it to set thehound upon the track. He fled when he knew the game was up, stillclutching it. And he hurled it away at this point of his flight.We know at least that he came so far in safety."

  But more than that we were never destined to know, though therewas much which we might surmise. There was no chance of findingfootsteps in the mire, for the rising mud oozed swiftly in uponthem, but as we at last reached firmer ground beyond the morasswe all looked eagerly for them. But no slightest sign of themever met our eyes. If the earth told a true story, then Stapletonnever reached that island of refuge towards which he struggledthrough the fog upon that last night. Somewhere in the heart ofthe great Grimpen Mire, down in the foul slime of the huge morasswhich had sucked him in, this cold and cruel-hearted man isforever buried.

  Many traces we found of him in the bog-girt island where he hadhid his savage ally. A huge driving-wheel and a shaft half-filledwith rubbish showed the position of an abandoned mine. Beside itwere the crumbling remains of the cottages of the miners, drivenaway no doubt by the foul reek of the surrounding swamp. In oneof these a staple and chain with a quantity of gnawed bonesshowed where the animal had been confined. A skeleton with atangle of brown hair adhering to it lay among the debris.

  "A dog!" said Holmes. "By Jove, a curly-haired spaniel. PoorMortimer will never see his pet again. Well, I do not know thatthis place contains any secret which we have not alreadyfathomed. He could hide his hound, but he could not hush itsvoice, and hence came those cries which even in daylight were notpleasant to hear. On an emergency he could keep the hound in theout-house at Merripit, but it was always a risk, and it was onlyon the supreme day, which he regarded as the end of all hisefforts, that he dared do it. This paste in the tin is no doubtthe luminous mixture with which the creature was daubed. It wassuggested, of course, by the story of the family hell-hound, andby the desire to frighten old Sir Charles to death. No wonder thepoor devil of a convict ran and screamed, even as our friend did,and as we ourselves might have done, when he saw such a creaturebounding through the darkness of the moor upon his track. It wasa cunning device, for, apart from the chance of driving yourvictim to his death, what peasant would venture to inquire tooclosely into such a creature should he get sight of it, as manyhave done, upon the moor? I said it in London, Watson, and I sayit again now, that never yet have we helped to hunt down a moredangerous man than he who is lying yonder"--he swept his long armtowards the huge mottled expanse of green-splotched bog whichstretched away until it merged into the russet slopes of themoor.