The New Annotated Sherlock Holmes

by Arthur Conan Doyle

  We stumbled slowly along in the darkness, with the black loom of the craggy hills around us, and the yellow speck of light burning steadily in front. There is nothing so deceptive as the distance of a light upon a pitch-dark night, and sometimes the glimmer seemed to be far away upon the horizon and sometimes it might have been within a few yards of us. But at last we could see whence it came, and then we knew that we were indeed very close. A guttering candle was stuck in a crevice of the rocks which flanked it on each side so as to keep the wind from it, and also to prevent it from being visible, save in the direction of Baskerville Hall. A boulder of granite concealed our approach, and crouching behind it we gazed over it at the signal light. It was strange to see this single candle burning there in the middle of the moor, with no sign of life near it—just the one straight, yellow flame and the gleam of the rock on each side of it.

  “What shall we do now?” whispered Sir Henry.

  “Wait here. He must be near his light. Let us see if we can get a glimpse of him.”

  The words were hardly out of my mouth when we both saw him. Over the rocks, in the crevice of which the candle burned, there was thrust out an evil, yellow face, a terrible animal face, all seamed and scored with vile passions.133 Foul with mire, with a bristling beard, and hung with matted hair, it might well have belonged to one of those old savages who dwelt in the burrows on the hillsides. The light beneath him was reflected in his small, cunning eyes, which peered fiercely to right and left through the darkness, like a crafty and savage animal who has heard the steps of the hunters.

  Something had evidently aroused his suspicions. It may have been that Barrymore had some private signal which we had neglected to give, or the fellow may have had some other reason for thinking that all was not well, but I could read his fears upon his wicked face. Any instant he might dash out the light and vanish in the darkness. I sprang forward, therefore, and Sir Henry did the same. At the same moment the convict screamed out a curse at us and hurled a rock which splintered up against the boulder which had sheltered us. I caught one glimpse of his short, squat, strongly-built figure as he sprang to his feet and turned to run. At the same moment by a lucky chance the moon broke through the clouds. We rushed over the brow of the hill, and there was our man running with great speed down the other side, springing over the stones in his way with the activity of a mountain goat. A lucky long shot of my revolver might have crippled him, but I had brought it only to defend myself if attacked, and not to shoot an unarmed man who was running away.

  “Over the rocks was thrust out an evil yellow face.”

  Sidney Paget, Strand Magazine, 1901

  “I sprang forward therefore, and Sir Henry did the same.”

  Richard Gutschmidt, Der Hund von Baskerville (Stuttgart: Robert Lutz Verlag, 1903)

  We were both swift runners and in fairly good training,134 but we soon found that we had no chance of overtaking him. We saw him for a long time in the moonlight until he was only a small speck moving swiftly among the boulders upon the side of a distant hill. We ran and ran until we were completely blown,135 but the space between us grew ever wider. Finally we stopped and sat panting on two rocks, while we watched him disappearing in the distance.

  And it was at this moment that there occurred a most strange and unexpected thing. We had risen from our rocks and were turning to go home, having abandoned the hopeless chase. The moon was low upon the right, and the jagged pinnacle of a granite tor stood up against the lower curve of its silver disc. There, outlined as black as an ebony statue on that shining background, I saw the figure of a man upon the tor. Do not think that it was a delusion, Holmes. I assure you that I have never in my life seen anything more clearly. As far as I could judge, the figure was that of a tall, thin man. He stood with his legs a little separated, his arms folded, his head bowed, as if he were brooding over that enormous wilderness of peat and granite which lay before him. He might have been the very spirit of that terrible place. It was not the convict. This man was far from the place where the latter had disappeared. Besides, he was a much taller man. With a cry of surprise I pointed him out to the baronet, but in the instant during which I had turned to grasp his arm the man was gone. There was the sharp pinnacle of granite still cutting the lower edge of the moon, but its peak bore no trace of that silent and motionless figure.

  “I saw the figure of a man upon the tor.”

  Sidney Paget, Strand Magazine, 1901

  I wished to go in that direction and to search the tor, but it was some distance away. The baronet’s nerves were still quivering from that cry, which recalled the dark story of his family, and he was not in the mood for fresh adventures. He had not seen this lonely man upon the tor, and could not feel the thrill which his strange presence and his commanding attitude had given to me. “A warder, no doubt,” said he. “The moor has been thick with them since this fellow escaped.” Well, perhaps his explanation may be the right one, but I should like to have some further proof of it. Today we mean to communicate to the Princetown people where they should look for their missing man, but it is hard lines136 that we have not actually had the triumph of bringing him back as our own prisoner. Such are the adventures of last night, and you must acknowledge, my dear Holmes, that I have done you very well in the matter of a report. Much of what I tell you is no doubt quite irrelevant, but still I feel that it is best that I should let you have all the facts and leave you to select for yourself those which will be of most service to you in helping you to your conclusions. We are certainly making some progress. So far as the Barrymores go, we have found the motive of their actions, and that has cleared up the situation very much. But the moor with its mysteries and its strange inhabitants remains as inscrutable as ever. Perhaps in my next I may be able to throw some light upon this also. Best of all would it be if you could come down to us. In any case you will hear from me again in the course of the next few days.137

  130 Apparently a favourite phrase of Watson’s, for Arthur Conan Doyle’s notebooks reveal that Watson gave this as the original title of A Study in Scarlet.

  131 How did Dr. Watson know this landmark? Had someone pointed it out to him in an unmentioned conversation?

  Although all editions of The Hound of the Baskervilles capitalise the “C” and “T” in “Cleft Tor,” it may well have been a description that Watson later recalled as a place name. William S. Baring-Gould identifies the landmark as the Cleft Rock, a tourist attraction.

  132 This was of course Holmes’s favourite weapon—he brings his hunting-crop down on John Clay’s wrist in “The Red-Headed League” before Clay can produce a revolver; threatens Windibank with it in “A Case of Identity”; and carries the “loaded” variety in “The Six Napoleons.”

  133 Compare the description of the face of the villainous Dr. Grimesby Roylott: “A large face, seared with a thousand wrinkles, burned yellow with the sun and marked with every evil passion …” (“The Speckled Band”). Watson seems here and elsewhere to embrace the popular conception, epitomised by the work of criminologist Cesare Lombroso (see note 12, above), that criminals could be identified by certain physical characteristics. In “The Empty House,” Watson writes of Colonel Moran: “But one could not look upon his cruel blue eyes, with their drooping, cynical lids, or upon the fierce, aggressive nose and the threatening, deep-lined brow, without reading Nature’s plainest danger-signals.”

  134 The Strand Magazine text (identical to that of the George Newnes edition) reads, “We were both fair runners and in good condition …” The text given appears first in the 1902 McClure, Phillips edition of The Hound of the Baskervilles.

  135 Exhausted, winded.

  136 According to the 1865 Slang Dictionary, this is a soldier’s term for hardship or difficulty, derived from “hard duty on the lines in front of the enemy.” Synonymous phrases include “hard lot” and “hard luck.”

  137 This sentence is not found in the Strand Magazine and various early English book texts (but is included in the 19
29 John Murray text).

  CHAPTER

  X

  EXTRACT FROM THE DIARY OF DR. WATSON

  SO FAR I have been able to quote from the reports which I have forwarded during these early days to Sherlock Holmes. Now, however, I have arrived at a point in my narrative where I am compelled to abandon this method and to trust once more to my recollections, aided by the diary which I kept at the time.138 A few extracts from the latter will carry me on to those scenes which are indelibly fixed in every detail upon my memory. I proceed, then, from the morning which followed our abortive chase of the convict and our other strange experiences upon the moor.

  October 16th. A dull and foggy day, with a drizzle of rain. The house is banked in with rolling clouds, which rise now and then to show the dreary curves of the moor, with thin, silver veins upon the sides of the hills, and the distant boulders gleaming where the light strikes upon their wet faces. It is melancholy outside and in. The baronet is in a black reaction after the excitements of the night. I am conscious myself of a weight at my heart 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 long sequence of incidents which have all pointed to some sinister influence which is at work around us. There is the death of the last occupant of the Hall, fulfilling so exactly the conditions of the family legend, and there are the repeated reports from peasants of the appearance of a strange creature upon the moor. Twice I have with my own ears heard the sound which resembled the distant baying of a hound. It is incredible, impossible, that it should really be outside the ordinary laws of Nature. A spectral hound which leaves material footmarks and fills the air with its howling is surely not to be thought of. Stapleton may fall in with such a superstition, and Mortimer also; but if I have one quality upon earth it is common sense, and nothing will persuade me to believe in such a thing. To do so would be to descend to the level of these poor peasants who are not content with a mere fiend-dog, but must needs describe him with hell-fire shooting from his mouth and eyes. Holmes would not listen to such fancies, and I am his agent. But facts are facts, and I have twice heard this crying upon the moor. Suppose that there were really some huge hound loose upon it; that would go far to explain everything. But where could such a hound lie concealed, where did it get its food, where did it come from, how was it that no one saw it by day? It must be confessed that the natural explanation offers almost as many difficulties as the other. And always, apart from the hound, there was the fact of the human agency in London, the man in the cab, and the letter which warned Sir Henry against the moor. This at least was real, but it might have been the work of a protecting friend as easily as an enemy. Where was that friend or enemy now? Had he remained in London, or had he followed us down here? Could he—could he be the stranger whom I had seen upon the tor?

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

  My first impulse was to tell Sir Henry all my plans. My second and wisest one is to play my own game and speak as little as possible to anyone. He is silent and distrait. His nerves have been strangely shaken by that sound upon the moor. I will say nothing to add to his anxieties, but I will take my own steps to attain my own end.

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

  “Barrymore considers that he has a grievance,” he said. “He thinks that it was unfair on our part to hunt his brother-in-law down 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 I am sure that I beg your pardon. At the same time, I was very much surprised when I heard you two gentlemen come back this morning and learned that you had been chasing Selden. The poor fellow has enough to fight against without my putting more upon his track.”

  “If you had told us of you own free will it would have been a different thing.” said the baronet. “You only told us, or rather your wife only told us, when it was forced from you and you could not help yourself.”

  “I didn’t think you would have taken advantage of it, Sir Henry—indeed I didn’t.”

  “The man is a public danger. There are lonely houses scattered over the moor, and he is a fellow who would stick at nothing. You only 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 defend it. 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 upon that. And he will never trouble anyone in this country again. I assure you, Sir Henry, that in a very few days the necessary arrangements will have been made and he will be on his way to South America.139 For God’s sake, sir, I beg of you not to let the police know that he is still on the moor. They have given up the chase there, and he can lie quiet until the ship is ready for him. You can’t tell on him without getting my wife and me into trouble. I beg you, sir, to say nothing to the police.”

  “The butler was standing, very pale but very collected, before us.”

  Sidney Paget, Strand Magazine, 1902

  “What do you say, Watson?”

  I shrugged my shoulders. “If he were safely out of the country140 it would relieve the taxpayer of a burden.”

  “But how about the chance of his holding someone up before he goes?”

  “He would not do anything so mad, sir. We have provided him with all that he can want. To commit a crime would be to show where he was hiding.”

  “That is true,” said Sir Henry. “Well, Barrymore—”

  “God bless you, sir, and thank you from my heart! It would have killed my poor wife had he been taken again.”

  “I guess we are aiding and abetting a felony, Watson?141 But, after what we’ve heard,142 I don’t feel as if I could give the man up, so there is an end of it. All right, Barrymore, you can go.”

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

  “You’ve been so kind to us, sir, that I should like to do the best I can for you in return. I know something, Sir Henry, and perhaps I should have said it before, but it was long after the inquest that I found it out. I’ve never breathed a word about it yet to mortal man. It’s about poor Sir Charles’s death.”

  The baronet and I were both upon our feet.

  “Do you know how he died?”

  “No, sir, I don’t know that.”

  “What, then?”

  “I know why he was at the gate at that hour. It was to meet a woman.”

  “The butler was standing, very pale but very collected, before us.”

  Richard Gutschmidt, Der Hund von Baskerville (Stuttgart: Robert Lutz Verlag, 1903)

  “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 had usually a great
many letters, for he was a public man and well known for his kind heart, so that everyone who was in trouble was glad to turn to him. But that morning, as it chanced, there was only this one letter, so I took the more notice of it. It was from Coombe Tracey,143 and it was addressed in a woman’s hand.”

  “Well?”

  “Well, sir, I thought no more of the matter, and never would have done had it not been for my wife. Only a few weeks ago she was cleaning out Sir Charles’s study—it had never been touched since his death—and she found the ashes of a burned letter in the back of the grate. The greater part of it was charred to pieces, but one little slip, the end of a page, hung together, and the writing could still be read, though it was grey on a black ground. It seemed to us to be a postscript at the end of the letter, and it said: ‘Please, please, as you are a gentleman, burn this letter, and be at the gate by ten o’clock.’ Beneath it were 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 should not 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 our hands upon that lady we should know more about Sir Charles’s death.”

  “I cannot understand, Barrymore, how you came to conceal this important information.”

  “Well, sir, it was immediately after that our own trouble came to us. And then again, sir, we were both of us very fond of Sir Charles, as we well might be considering all that he has done for us. To rake this up couldn’t help our poor master, and it’s well to go carefully when there’s a lady in the case. Even the best of us—”