The Hound of the Baskervilles

by Arthur Conan Doyle

  Chapter 11

  The Man on the Tor

  The extract from my private diary which forms the last chapterhas brought my narrative up to the 18th of October, a time whenthese strange events began to move swiftly towards their terribleconclusion. The incidents of the next few days are indeliblygraven upon my recollection, and I can tell them withoutreference to the notes made at the time. I start then from theday which succeeded that upon which I had established two factsof great importance, the one that Mrs. Laura Lyons of CoombeTracey had written to Sir Charles Baskerville and made anappointment with him at the very place and hour that he met hisdeath, the other that the lurking man upon the moor was to befound among the stone huts upon the hill-side. With these twofacts in my possession I felt that either my intelligence or mycourage must be deficient if I could not throw some further lightupon these dark places.

  I had no opportunity to tell the baronet what I had learned aboutMrs. Lyons upon the evening before, for Dr. Mortimer remainedwith him at cards until it was very late. At breakfast, however,I informed him about my discovery, and asked him whether he wouldcare to accompany me to Coombe Tracey. At first he was very eagerto come, but on second thoughts it seemed to both of us that if Iwent alone the results might be better. The more formal we madethe visit the less information we might obtain. I left Sir Henrybehind, therefore, not without some prickings of conscience, anddrove off upon my new quest.

  When I reached Coombe Tracey I told Perkins to put up the horses,and I made inquiries for the lady whom I had come to interrogate.I had no difficulty in finding her rooms, which were central andwell appointed. A maid showed me in without ceremony, and as Ientered the sitting-room a lady, who was sitting before aRemington typewriter, sprang up with a pleasant smile of welcome.Her face fell, however, when she saw that I was a stranger, andshe sat down again and asked me the object of my visit.

  The first impression left by Mrs. Lyons was one of extremebeauty. Her eyes and hair were of the same rich hazel colour, andher cheeks, though considerably freckled, were flushed with theexquisite bloom of the brunette, the dainty pink which lurks atthe heart of the sulphur rose. Admiration was, I repeat, thefirst impression. But the second was criticism. There wassomething subtly wrong with the face, some coarseness ofexpression, some hardness, perhaps, of eye, some looseness of lipwhich marred its perfect beauty. But these, of course, areafter-thoughts. At the moment I was simply conscious that I wasin the presence of a very handsome woman, and that she was askingme the reasons for my visit. I had not quite understood untilthat instant how delicate my mission was.

  "I have the pleasure," said I, "of knowing your father." It was aclumsy introduction, and the lady made me feel it.

  "There is nothing in common between my father and me," she said."I owe him nothing, and his friends are not mine. If it were notfor the late Sir Charles Baskerville and some other kind hearts Imight have starved for all that my father cared."

  "It was about the late Sir Charles Baskerville that I have comehere to see you."

  The freckles started out on the lady's face.

  "What can I tell you about him?" she asked, and her fingersplayed nervously over the stops of her typewriter.

  "You knew him, did you not?"

  "I have already said that I owe a great deal to his kindness. IfI am able to support myself it is largely due to the interestwhich he took in my unhappy situation."

  "Did you correspond with him?"

  The lady looked quickly up with an angry gleam in her hazel eyes.

  "What is the object of these questions?" she asked sharply.

  "The object is to avoid a public scandal. It is better that Ishould ask them here than that the matter should pass outside ourcontrol."

  She was silent and her face was still very pale. At last shelooked up with something reckless and defiant in her manner.

  "Well, I'll answer," she said. "What are your questions?"

  "Did you correspond with Sir Charles?"

  "I certainly wrote to him once or twice to acknowledge hisdelicacy and his generosity."

  "Have you the dates of those letters?"

  "No."

  "Have you ever met him?"

  "Yes, once or twice, when he came into Coombe Tracey. He was avery retiring man, and he preferred to do good by stealth."

  "But if you saw him so seldom and wrote so seldom, how did heknow enough about your affairs to be able to help you, as you saythat he has done?"

  She met my difficulty with the utmost readiness.

  "There were several gentlemen who knew my sad history and unitedto help me. One was Mr. Stapleton, a neighbour and intimatefriend of Sir Charles's. He was exceedingly kind, and it wasthrough him that Sir Charles learned about my affairs."

  I knew already that Sir Charles Baskerville had made Stapletonhis almoner upon several occasions, so the lady's statement borethe impress of truth upon it.

  "Did you ever write to Sir Charles asking him to meet you?" Icontinued.

  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?"

  The flush had faded in an instant, and a deathly face was beforeme. Her dry lips could not speak the "No" which I saw rather thanheard.

  "Surely your memory deceives you," said I. "I could even quote apassage of your letter. It ran 'Please, please, as you are agentleman, burn this letter, and be at the gate by ten o'clock.'"

  I thought that she had fainted, but she recovered herself by asupreme effort.

  "Is there no such thing as a gentleman?" she gasped.

  "You do Sir Charles an injustice. He did burn the letter. Butsometimes a letter may be legible even when burned. Youacknowledge now that you wrote it?"

  "Yes, I did write it," she cried, pouring out her soul in atorrent of words. "I did write it. Why should I deny it? I haveno reason to be ashamed of it. I wished him to help me. Ibelieved that if I had an interview I could gain his help, so Iasked him to meet me."

  "But why at such an hour?"

  "Because I had only just learned that he was going to London nextday and might be away for months. There were reasons why I couldnot get there earlier."

  "But why a rendezvous in the garden instead of a visit to thehouse?"

  "Do you think a woman could go alone at that hour to a bachelor'shouse?"

  "Well, what happened when you did get there?"

  "I never went."

  "Mrs. Lyons!"

  "No, I swear it to you on all I hold sacred. I never went.Something intervened to prevent my going."

  "What was that?"

  "That is a private matter. I cannot tell it."

  "You acknowledge then that you made an appointment with SirCharles at the very hour and place at which he met his death, butyou deny that you kept the appointment."

  "That is the truth."

  Again and again I cross-questioned her, but I could never getpast that point.

  "Mrs. Lyons," said I, as I rose from this long and inconclusiveinterview, "you are taking a very great responsibility andputting yourself in a very false position by not making anabsolutely clean breast of all that you know. If I have to callin the aid of the police you will find how seriously you arecompromised. If your position is innocent, why did you in thefirst instance deny having written to Sir Charles upon thatdate?"

  "Because I feared that some false conclusion might be drawn fromit and that I might find myself involved in a scandal."

  "And why were you so pressing that Sir Charles should destroyyour letter?"

  "If you have read the letter you will know."

  "I did not say that I had read all the letter."

  "You quoted some of it."

  "I quoted the postscript. The letter had, as I said, been burnedand it was not all legible. I ask you once again why it was thatyou were so pressing tha
t Sir Charles should destroy this letterwhich he received on the day of his death."

  "The matter is a very private one."

  "The more reason why you should avoid a public investigation."

  "I will tell you, then. If you have heard anything of my unhappyhistory you will know that I made a rash marriage and had reasonto regret it."

  "I have heard so much."

  "My life has been one incessant persecution from a husband whom Iabhor. The law is upon his side, and every day I am faced by thepossibility that he may force me to live with him. At the timethat I wrote this letter to Sir Charles I had learned that therewas a prospect of my regaining my freedom if certain expensescould be met. It meant everything to me--peace of mind,happiness, self-respect--everything. I knew Sir Charles'sgenerosity, and I thought that if he heard the story from my ownlips he would help me."

  "Then how is it that you did not go?"

  "Because I received help in the interval from another source."

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

  "So I should have done had I not seen his death in the paper nextmorning."

  The woman's story hung coherently together, and all my questionswere unable to shake it. I could only check it by finding if shehad, indeed, instituted divorce proceedings against her husbandat or about the time of the tragedy.

  It was unlikely that she would dare to say that she had not beento Baskerville Hall if she really had been, for a trap would benecessary to take her there, and could not have returned toCoombe Tracey until the early hours of the morning. Such anexcursion could not be kept secret. The probability was,therefore, that she was telling the truth, or, at least, a partof the truth. I came away baffled and disheartened. Once again Ihad reached that dead wall which seemed to be built across everypath by which I tried to get at the object of my mission. And yetthe more I thought of the lady's face and of her manner the moreI felt that something was being held back from me. Why should sheturn so pale? Why should she fight against every admission untilit was forced from her? Why should she have been so reticent atthe time of the tragedy? Surely the explanation of all this couldnot be as innocent as she would have me believe. For the moment Icould proceed no farther in that direction, but must turn back tothat other clue which was to be sought for among the stone hutsupon the moor.

  And that was a most vague direction. I realized it as I droveback and noted how hill after hill showed traces of the ancientpeople. Barrymore's only indication had been that the strangerlived in one of these abandoned huts, and many hundreds of themare scattered throughout the length and breadth of the moor. ButI had my own experience for a guide since it had shown me the manhimself standing upon the summit of the Black Tor. That thenshould be the centre of my search. From there I should exploreevery hut upon the moor until I lighted upon the right one. Ifthis man were inside it I should find out from his own lips, atthe point of my revolver if necessary, who he was and why he haddogged us so long. He might slip away from us in the crowd ofRegent Street, but it would puzzle him to do so upon the lonelymoor. On the other hand, if I should find the hut and its tenantshould not be within it I must remain there, however long thevigil, until he returned. Holmes had missed him in London. Itwould indeed be a triumph for me if I could run him to earth,where my master had failed.

  Luck had been against us again and again in this inquiry, but nowat last it came to my aid. And the messenger of good fortune wasnone other than Mr. Frankland, who was standing, gray-whiskeredand red-faced, outside the gate of his garden, which opened on tothe high road along which I travelled.

  "Good-day, Dr. Watson," cried he with unwonted good humour, "youmust really give your horses a rest, and come in to have a glassof wine and to congratulate me."

  My feelings towards him were very far from being friendly afterwhat I had heard of his treatment of his daughter, but I wasanxious to send Perkins and the wagonette home, and theopportunity was a good one. I alighted and sent a message to SirHenry that I should walk over in time for dinner. Then I followedFrankland into his dining-room.

  "It is a great day for me, sir--one of the red-letter days of mylife," he cried with many chuckles. "I have brought off a doubleevent. I mean to teach them in these parts that law is law, andthat there is a man here who does not fear to invoke it. I haveestablished a right of way through the centre of old Middleton'spark, slap across it, sir, within a hundred yards of his ownfront door. What do you think of that? We'll teach these magnatesthat they cannot ride roughshod over the rights of thecommoners, confound them! And I've closed the wood where theFernworthy folk used to picnic. These infernal people seem tothink that there are no rights of property, and that they canswarm where they like with their papers and their bottles. Bothcases decided, Dr. Watson, and both in my favour. I haven't hadsuch a day since I had Sir John Morland for trespass, because heshot in his own warren."

  "How on earth did you do that?"

  "Look it up in the books, sir. It will repay reading--Franklandv. Morland, Court of Queen's Bench. It cost me 200 pounds, but Igot my verdict."

  "Did it do you any good?"

  "None, sir, none. I am proud to say that I had no interest in thematter. I act entirely from a sense of public duty. I have nodoubt, for example, that the Fernworthy people will burn me ineffigy to-night. I told the police last time they did it thatthey should stop these disgraceful exhibitions. The CountyConstabulary is in a scandalous state, sir, and it has notafforded me the protection to which I am entitled. The case ofFrankland v. Regina will bring the matter before the attention ofthe public. I told them that they would have occasion to regrettheir treatment of me, and already my words have come true."

  "How so?" I asked.

  The old man put on a very knowing expression.

  "Because I could tell them what they are dying to know; butnothing would induce me to help the rascals in any way."

  I had been casting round for some excuse by which I could getaway from his gossip, but now I began to wish to hear more of it.I had seen enough of the contrary nature of the old sinner tounderstand that any strong sign of interest would be the surestway to stop his confidences.

  "Some poaching case, no doubt?" said I, with an indifferentmanner.

  "Ha, ha, my boy, a very much more important matter than that!What about the convict on the moor?"

  I started. "You don't mean that you know where he is?" said I.

  "I may not know exactly where he is, but I am quite sure that Icould help the police to lay their hands on him. Has it neverstruck you that the way to catch that man was to find out wherehe got his food, and so trace it to him?"

  He certainly seemed to be getting uncomfortably near the truth."No doubt," said I; "but how do you know that he is anywhere uponthe moor?"

  "I know it because I have seen with my own eyes the messenger whotakes him his food."

  My heart sank for Barrymore. It was a serious thing to be in thepower of this spiteful old busybody. But his next remark took aweight from my mind.

  "You'll be surprised to hear that his food is taken to him by achild. I see him every day through my telescope upon the roof. Hepasses along the same path at the same hour, and to whom shouldhe be going except to the convict?"

  Here was luck indeed! And yet I suppressed all appearance ofinterest. A child! Barrymore had said that our unknown wassupplied by a boy. It was on his track, and not upon theconvict's, that Frankland had stumbled. If I could get hisknowledge it might save me a long and weary hunt. But incredulityand indifference were evidently my strongest cards.

  "I should say that it was much more likely that it was the son ofone of the moorland shepherds taking out his father's dinner."

  The least appearance of opposition struck fire out of the oldautocrat. His eyes looked malignantly at me, and his graywhiskers bristled like those of an angry cat.

  "Indeed, sir!" said he, pointing out over the wide-stretchingmoor. "Do you see that Black Tor over yonder? Well, do you seethe low hill beyond
with the thornbush upon it? It is thestoniest part of the whole moor. Is that a place where a shepherdwould be likely to take his station? Your suggestion, sir, is amost absurd one."

  I meekly answered that I had spoken without knowing all thefacts. My submission pleased him and led him to furtherconfidences.

  "You may be sure, sir, that I have very good grounds before Icome to an opinion. I have seen the boy again and again with hisbundle. Every day, and sometimes twice a day, I have beenable--but wait a moment, Dr. Watson. Do my eyes deceive me, or isthere at the present moment something moving upon that hill-side?"

  It was several miles off, but I could distinctly see a small darkdot against the dull green and gray.

  "Come, sir, come!" cried Frankland, rushing upstairs. "You willsee with your own eyes and judge for yourself."

  The telescope, a formidable instrument mounted upon a tripod,stood upon the flat leads of the house. Frankland clapped his eyeto it and gave a cry of satisfaction.

  "Quick, Dr. Watson, quick, before he passes over the hill!"

  There he was, sure enough, a small urchin with a little bundleupon his shoulder, toiling slowly up the hill. When he reachedthe crest I saw the ragged uncouth figure outlined for an instantagainst the cold blue sky. He looked round him with a furtive andstealthy air, as one who dreads pursuit. Then he vanished overthe hill.

  "Well! Am I right?"

  "Certainly, there is a boy who seems to have some secret errand."

  "And what the errand is even a county constable could guess. Butnot one word shall they have from me, and I bind you to secrecyalso, Dr. Watson. Not a word! You understand!"

  "Just as you wish."

  "They have treated me shamefully--shamefully. When the facts comeout in Frankland v. Regina I venture to think that a thrill ofindignation will run through the country. Nothing would induce meto help the police in any way. For all they cared it might havebeen me, instead of my effigy, which these rascals burned at thestake. Surely you are not going! You will help me to empty thedecanter in honour of this great occasion!"

  But I resisted all his solicitations and succeeded in dissuadinghim from his announced intention of walking home with me. I keptthe road as long as his eye was on me, and then I struck offacross the moor and made for the stony hill over which the boyhad disappeared. Everything was working in my favour, and I sworethat it should not be through lack of energy or perseverance thatI should miss the chance which fortune had thrown in my way.

  The sun was already sinking when I reached the summit of thehill, and the long slopes beneath me were all golden-green on oneside and gray shadow on the other. A haze lay low upon thefarthest sky-line, out of which jutted the fantastic shapes ofBelliver and Vixen Tor. Over the wide expanse there was no soundand no movement. One great gray bird, a gull or curlew, soaredaloft in the blue heaven. He and I seemed to be the only livingthings between the huge arch of the sky and the desert beneathit. The barren scene, the sense of loneliness, and the mysteryand urgency of my task all struck a chill into my heart. The boywas nowhere to be seen. But down beneath me in a cleft of thehills there was a circle of the old stone huts, and in the middleof them there was one which retained sufficient roof to act as ascreen against the weather. My heart leaped within me as I sawit. This must be the burrow where the stranger lurked. At last myfoot was on the threshold of his hiding place--his secret waswithin my grasp.

  As I approached the hut, walking as warily as Stapleton would dowhen with poised net he drew near the settled butterfly, Isatisfied myself that the place had indeed been used as ahabitation. A vague pathway among the boulders led to thedilapidated opening which served as a door. All was silentwithin. The unknown might be lurking there, or he might beprowling on the moor. My nerves tingled with the sense ofadventure. Throwing aside my cigarette, I closed my hand upon thebutt of my revolver and, walking swiftly up to the door, I lookedin. The place was empty.

  But there were ample signs that I had not come upon a falsescent. This was certainly where the man lived. Some blanketsrolled in a waterproof lay upon that very stone slab upon whichNeolithic man had once slumbered. The ashes of a fire were heapedin a rude grate. Beside it lay some cooking utensils and a buckethalf-full of water. A litter of empty tins showed that the placehad been occupied for some time, and I saw, as my eyes becameaccustomed to the checkered light, a pannikin and a half-fullbottle of spirits standing in the corner. In the middle of thehut a flat stone served the purpose of a table, and upon thisstood a small cloth bundle--the same, no doubt, which I had seenthrough the telescope upon the shoulder of the boy. It containeda loaf of bread, a tinned tongue, and two tins of preservedpeaches. As I set it down again, after having examined it, myheart leaped to see that beneath it there lay a sheet of paperwith writing upon it. I raised it, and this was what I read,roughly scrawled in pencil:--

  Dr. Watson has gone to Coombe Tracey.

  For a minute I stood there with the paper in my hands thinkingout the meaning of this curt message. It was I, then, and not SirHenry, who was being dogged by this secret man. He had notfollowed me himself, but he had set an agent--the boy,perhaps--upon my track, and this was his report. Possibly I hadtaken no step since I had been upon the moor which had not beenobserved and reported. Always there was this feeling of an unseenforce, a fine net drawn round us with infinite skill anddelicacy, holding us so lightly that it was only at some suprememoment that one realized that one was indeed entangled in itsmeshes.

  If there was one report there might be others, so I looked roundthe hut in search of them. There was no trace, however, ofanything of the kind, nor could I discover any sign which mightindicate the character or intentions of the man who lived in thissingular place, save that he must be of Spartan habits and caredlittle for the comforts of life. When I thought of the heavyrains and looked at the gaping roof I understood how strong andimmutable must be the purpose which had kept him in thatinhospitable abode. Was he our malignant enemy, or was he bychance our guardian angel? I swore that I would not leave the hutuntil I knew.

  Outside the sun was sinking low and the west was blazing withscarlet and gold. Its reflection was shot back in ruddy patchesby the distant pools which lay amid the great Grimpen Mire. Therewere the two towers of Baskerville Hall, and there a distant blurof smoke which marked the village of Grimpen. Between the two,behind the hill, was the house of the Stapletons. All was sweetand mellow and peaceful in the golden evening light, and yet as Ilooked at them my soul shared none of the peace of nature butquivered at the vagueness and the terror of that interview whichevery instant was bringing nearer. With tingling nerves, but afixed purpose, I sat in the dark recess of the hut and waitedwith sombre patience for the coming of its tenant.

  And then at last I heard him. Far away came the sharp clink of aboot striking upon a stone. Then another and yet another, comingnearer and nearer. I shrank back into the darkest corner, andcocked the pistol in my pocket, determined not to discover myselfuntil I had an opportunity of seeing something of the stranger.There was a long pause which showed that he had stopped. Thenonce more the footsteps approached and a shadow fell across theopening of the hut.

  "It is a lovely evening, my dear Watson," said a well-knownvoice. "I really think that you will be more comfortable outsidethan in."