Chapter 12

Death on the Moor

  For a moment or two I sat breathless, hardly able to believe my
  ears. Then my senses and my voice came back to me, while a
  crushing weight of responsibility seemed in an instant to be
  lifted from my soul. That cold, incisive, ironical voice could
  belong to but one man in all the world.

  “Holmes!” I cried—“Holmes!”

  “Come out,” said he, “and please be careful with the revolver.”

  I stooped under the rude lintel, and there he sat upon a stone
  outside, his grey eyes dancing with amusement as they fell upon
  my astonished features. He was thin and worn, but clear and
  alert, his keen face bronzed by the sun and roughened by the
  wind. In his tweed suit and cloth cap he looked like any other
  tourist upon the moor, and he had contrived, with that catlike
  love of personal cleanliness which was one of his
  characteristics, that his chin should be as smooth and his linen
  as perfect as if he were in Baker Street.

  “I never was more glad to see anyone in my life,” said I as I
  wrung him by the hand.

  “Or more astonished, eh?”

  “Well, I must confess to it.”

  “The surprise was not all on one side, I assure you. I had no
  idea that you had found my occasional retreat, still less that
  you were inside it, until I was within twenty paces of the door.”

  “My footprint, I presume?”

  “No, Watson, I fear that I could not undertake to recognize your
  footprint amid all the footprints of the world. If you seriously
  desire to deceive me you must change your tobacconist; for when I
  see the stub of a cigarette marked Bradley, Oxford Street, I know
  that my friend Watson is in the neighbourhood. You will see it
  there beside the path. You threw it down, no doubt, at that
  supreme moment when you charged into the empty hut.”

  “Exactly.”

  “I thought as much—and knowing your admirable tenacity I was
  convinced that you were sitting in ambush, a weapon within reach,
  waiting for the tenant to return. So you actually thought that I
  was the criminal?”

  “I did not know who you were, but I was determined to find out.”

  “Excellent, Watson! And how did you localise me? You saw me,
  perhaps, on the night of the convict hunt, when I was so
  imprudent as to allow the moon to rise behind me?”

  “Yes, I saw you then.”

  “And have no doubt searched all the huts until you came to this
  one?”

  “No, your boy had been observed, and that gave me a guide where
  to look.”

  “The old gentleman with the telescope, no doubt. I could not make
  it out when first I saw the light flashing upon the lens.” He
  rose and peeped into the hut. “Ha, I see that Cartwright has
  brought up some supplies. What’s this paper? So you have been to
  Coombe Tracey, have you?”

  “Yes.”

  “To see Mrs. Laura Lyons?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Well done! Our researches have evidently been running on
  parallel lines, and when we unite our results I expect we shall
  have a fairly full knowledge of the case.”

  “Well, I am glad from my heart that you are here, for indeed the
  responsibility and the mystery were both becoming too much for my
  nerves. But how in the name of wonder did you come here, and what
  have you been doing? I thought that you were in Baker Street
  working out that case of blackmailing.”

  “That was what I wished you to think.”

  “Then you use me, and yet do not trust me!” I cried with some
  bitterness. “I think that I have deserved better at your hands,
  Holmes.”

  “My dear fellow, you have been invaluable to me in this as in
  many other cases, and I beg that you will forgive me if I have
  seemed to play a trick upon you. In truth, it was partly for your
  own sake that I did it, and it was my appreciation of the danger
  which you ran which led me to come down and examine the matter
  for myself. Had I been with Sir Henry and you it is confident
  that my point of view would have been the same as yours, and my
  presence would have warned our very formidable opponents to be on
  their guard. As it is, I have been able to get about as I could
  not possibly have done had I been living in the Hall, and I
  remain an unknown factor in the business, ready to throw in all
  my weight at a critical moment.”

  “But why keep me in the dark?”

  “For you to know could not have helped us and might possibly have
  led to my discovery. You would have wished to tell me something,
  or in your kindness you would have brought me out some comfort or
  other, and so an unnecessary risk would be run. I brought
  Cartwright down with me—you remember the little chap at the
  express office—and he has seen after my simple wants: a loaf of
  bread and a clean collar. What does man want more? He has given
  me an extra pair of eyes upon a very active pair of feet, and
  both have been invaluable.”

  “Then my reports have all been wasted!”—My voice trembled as I
  recalled the pains and the pride with which I had composed them.

  Holmes took a bundle of papers from his pocket.

  “Here are your reports, my dear fellow, and very well thumbed, I
  assure you. I made excellent arrangements, and they are only
  delayed one day upon their way. I must compliment you exceedingly
  upon the zeal and the intelligence which you have shown over an
  extraordinarily difficult case.”

  I was still rather raw over the deception which had been
  practised upon me, but the warmth of Holmes’s praise drove my
  anger from my mind. I felt also in my heart that he was right in
  what he said and that it was really best for our purpose that I
  should not have known that he was upon the moor.

  “That’s better,” said he, seeing the shadow rise from my face.
  “And now tell me the result of your visit to Mrs. Laura Lyons—it
  was not difficult for me to guess that it was to see her that you
  had gone, for I am already aware that she is the one person in
  Coombe Tracey who might be of service to us in the matter. In
  fact, if you had not gone today it is exceedingly probable that I
  should have gone tomorrow.”

  The sun had set and dusk was settling over the moor. The air had
  turned chill and we withdrew into the hut for warmth. There,
  sitting together in the twilight, I told Holmes of my
  conversation with the lady. So interested was he that I had to
  repeat some of it twice before he was satisfied.

  “This is most important,” said he when I had concluded. “It fills
  up a gap which I had been unable to bridge in this most complex
  affair. You are aware, perhaps, that a close intimacy exists
  between this lady and the man Stapleton?”

  “I did not know of a close intimacy.”

  “There can be no doubt about the matter. They meet, they write,
  there is a complete understanding between them. Now, this puts a
  very powerful weapon into our hands. If I could only use it to
  detach his wife—”

  “His wife?”

  “I am giving you some information now, in return for all that you
  have given me. The lady who has passed here as Miss Stapleton is
  in reality his wife.”

  “Good heavens, Holmes! Are you sure of what you say? How could he
  have permitted Sir Henry to fall in love with her?”

  “Sir Henry’s falling in love could do no harm to anyone except
  Sir Henry. He took particular care that Sir Henry did not make
  love to her, as you have yourself observed. I repeat that the
  lady is his wife and not his sister.”

  “But why this elaborate deception?”

  “Because he foresaw that she would be very much more useful to
  him in the character of a free woman.”

  All my unspoken instincts, my vague suspicions, suddenly took
  shape and centred upon the naturalist. In that impassive
  colourless man, with his straw hat and his butterfly-net, I
  seemed to see something terrible—a creature of infinite patience
  and craft, with a smiling face and a murderous heart.

  “It is he, then, who is our enemy—it is he who dogged us in
  London?”

  “So I read the riddle.”

  “And the warning—it must have come from her!”

  “Exactly.”

  The shape of some monstrous villainy, half seen, half guessed,
  loomed through the darkness which had girt me so long.

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

  “Because he so far forgot himself as to tell you a true piece of
  autobiography upon the occasion when he first met you, and I dare
  say he has many a time regretted it since. He was once a
  schoolmaster in the north of England. Now, there is no one more
  easy to trace than a schoolmaster. There are scholastic agencies
  by which one may identify any man who has been in the profession.
  A little investigation showed me that a school had come to grief
  under atrocious circumstances, and that the man who had owned
  it—the name was different—had disappeared with his wife. The
  descriptions agreed. When I learned that the missing man was
  devoted to entomology the identification was complete.”

  The darkness was rising, but much was still hidden by the
  shadows.

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

  “That is one of the points upon which your own researches have
  shed a light. Your interview with the lady has cleared the
  situation very much. I did not know about a projected divorce
  between herself and her husband. In that case, regarding
  Stapleton as an unmarried man, she counted no doubt upon becoming
  his wife.”

  “And when she is undeceived?”

  “Why, then we may find the lady of service. It must be our first
  duty to see her—both of us—tomorrow. Don’t you think, Watson,
  that you are away from your charge rather long? Your place should
  be at Baskerville Hall.”

  The last red streaks had faded away in the west and night had
  settled upon the moor. A few faint stars were gleaming in a
  violet sky.

  “One last question, Holmes,” I said as I rose. “Surely there is
  no need of secrecy between you and me. What is the meaning of it
  all? What is he after?”

  Holmes’s voice sank as he answered:

  “It is murder, Watson—refined, cold-blooded, deliberate murder.
  Do not ask me for particulars. My nets are closing upon him, even
  as his are upon Sir Henry, and with your help he is already
  almost at my mercy. There is but one danger which can threaten
  us. It is that he should strike before we are ready to do so.
  Another day—two at the most—and I have my case complete, but
  until then guard your charge as closely as ever a fond mother
  watched her ailing child. Your mission today has justified
  itself, and yet I could almost wish that you had not left his
  side. Hark!”

  A terrible scream—a prolonged yell of horror and anguish—burst
  out of the silence of the moor. That frightful cry turned the
  blood to ice in my veins.

  “Oh, my God!” I gasped. “What is it? What does it mean?”

  Holmes had sprung to his feet, and I saw his dark, athletic
  outline at the door of the hut, his shoulders stooping, his head
  thrust forward, his face peering into the darkness.

  “Hush!” he whispered. “Hush!”

  The cry had been loud on account of its vehemence, but it had
  pealed out from somewhere far off on the shadowy plain. Now it
  burst upon our ears, nearer, louder, more urgent than before.

  “Where is it?” Holmes whispered; and I knew from the thrill of
  his voice that he, the man of iron, was shaken to the soul.
  “Where is it, Watson?”

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

  “No, there!”

  Again the agonised cry swept through the silent night, louder and
  much nearer than ever. And a new sound mingled with it, a deep,
  muttered rumble, musical and yet menacing, rising and falling
  like the low, constant murmur of the sea.

  “The hound!” cried Holmes. “Come, Watson, come! Great heavens, if
  we are too late!”

  He had started running swiftly over the moor, and I had followed
  at his heels. But now from somewhere among the broken ground
  immediately in front of us there came one last despairing yell,
  and then a dull, heavy thud. We halted and listened. Not another
  sound broke the heavy silence of the windless night.

  I saw Holmes put his hand to his forehead like a man distracted.
  He stamped his feet upon the ground.

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

  “No, no, surely not!”

  “Fool that I was to hold my hand. And you, Watson, see what comes
  of abandoning your charge! But, by Heaven, if the worst has
  happened we’ll avenge him!”

  Blindly we ran through the gloom, blundering against boulders,
  forcing our way through gorse bushes, panting up hills and
  rushing down slopes, heading always in the direction whence those
  dreadful sounds had come. At every rise Holmes looked eagerly
  round him, but the shadows were thick upon the moor, and nothing
  moved upon its dreary face.

  “Can you see anything?”

  “Nothing.”

  “But, hark, what is that?”

  A low moan had fallen upon our ears. There it was again upon our
  left! On that side a ridge of rocks ended in a sheer cliff which
  overlooked a stone-strewn slope. On its jagged face was
  spread-eagled some dark, irregular object. As we ran towards it
  the vague outline hardened into a definite shape. It was a
  prostrate man face downward upon the ground, the head doubled
  under him at a horrible angle, the shoulders rounded and the body
  hunched together as if in the act of throwing a somersault. So
  grotesque was the attitude that I could not for the instant
  realise that that moan had been the passing of his soul. Not a
  whisper, not a rustle, rose now from the dark figure over which
  we stooped. Holmes laid his hand upon him and held it up again
  with an exclamation of horror. The gleam of the match which he
  struck shone upon his clotted fingers and upon the ghastly pool
  which widened slowly from the crushed skull of the victim. And it
  shone upon something else which turned our hearts sick and faint
  within us—the body of Sir Henry Baskerville!

  There was no chance of either of us forgetting that peculiar
  ruddy tweed suit—the very one which he had worn on the first
  morning that we had seen him in Baker Street. We caught the one
  clear glimpse of it, and then the match flickered and went out,
  even as the hope had gone out of our souls. Holmes groaned, and
  his face glimmered white through the darkness.

  “The brute! The brute!” I cried with clenched hands. “Oh Holmes,
  I shall never forgive myself for having left him to his fate.”

  “I am more to blame than you, Watson. In order to have my case
  well rounded and complete, I have thrown away the life of my
  client. It is the greatest blow which has befallen me in my
  career. But how could I know—how _could_ I know—that he would
  risk his life alone upon the moor in the face of all my
  warnings?”

  “That we should have heard his screams—my God, those screams!—and
  yet have been unable to save him! Where is this brute of a hound
  which drove him to his death? It may be lurking among these rocks
  at this instant. And Stapleton, where is he? He shall answer for
  this deed.”

  “He shall. I will see to that. Uncle and nephew have been
  murdered—the one frightened to death by the very sight of a beast
  which he thought to be supernatural, the other driven to his end
  in his wild flight to escape from it. But now we have to prove
  the connection between the man and the beast. Save from what we
  heard, we cannot even swear to the existence of the latter, since
  Sir Henry has evidently died from the fall. But, by heavens,
  cunning as he is, the fellow shall be in my power before another
  day is past!”

  We stood with bitter hearts on either side of the mangled body,
  overwhelmed by this sudden and irrevocable disaster which had
  brought all our long and weary labours to so piteous an end. Then
  as the moon rose we climbed to the top of the rocks over which
  our poor friend had fallen, and from the summit we gazed out over
  the shadowy moor, half silver and half gloom. Far away, miles
  off, in the direction of Grimpen, a single steady yellow light
  was shining. It could only come from the lonely abode of the
  Stapletons. With a bitter curse I shook my fist at it as I gazed.

  “Why should we not seize him at once?”

  “Our case is not complete. The fellow is wary and cunning to the
  last degree. It is not what we know, but what we can prove. If we
  make one false move the villain may escape us yet.”

  “What can we do?”

  “There will be plenty for us to do tomorrow. Tonight we can only
  perform the last offices to our poor friend.”

  Together we made our way down the precipitous slope and
  approached the body, black and clear against the silvered stones.
  The agony of those contorted limbs struck me with a spasm of pain
  and blurred my eyes with tears.

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

  He had uttered a cry and bent over the body. Now he was dancing
  and laughing and wringing my hand. Could this be my stern,
  self-contained friend? These were hidden fires, indeed!

  “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!”

  With feverish haste we had turned the body over, and that
  dripping beard was pointing up to the cold, clear moon. There
  could be no doubt about the beetling forehead, the sunken animal
  eyes. It was indeed the same face which had glared upon me in the
  light of the candle from over the rock—the face of Selden, the
  criminal.

  Then in an instant it was all clear to me. I remembered how the
  baronet had told me that he had handed his old wardrobe to
  Barrymore. Barrymore had passed it on in order to help Selden in
  his escape. Boots, shirt, cap—it was all Sir Henry’s. The tragedy
  was still black enough, but this man had at least deserved death
  by the laws of his country. I told Holmes how the matter stood,
  my heart bubbling over with thankfulness and joy.

  “Then the clothes have been the poor devil’s death,” said he. “It
  is clear enough that the hound has been laid on from some article
  of Sir Henry’s—the boot which was abstracted in the hotel, in all
  probability—and so ran this man down. There is one very singular
  thing, however: How came Selden, in the darkness, to know that
  the hound was on his trail?”

  “He heard him.”

  “To hear a hound upon the moor would not work a hard man like
  this convict into such a paroxysm of terror that he would risk
  recapture by screaming wildly for help. By his cries he must have
  run a long way after he knew the animal was on his track. How did
  he know?”

  “A greater mystery to me is why this hound, presuming that all
  our conjectures are correct—”

  “I presume nothing.”

  “Well, then, why this hound should be loose tonight. I suppose
  that it does not always run loose upon the moor. Stapleton would
  not let it go unless he had reason to think that Sir Henry would
  be there.”

  “My difficulty is the more formidable of the two, for I think
  that we shall very shortly get an explanation of yours, while
  mine may remain forever a mystery. The question now is, what
  shall we do with this poor wretch’s body? We cannot leave it here
  to the foxes and the ravens.”

  “I suggest that we put it in one of the huts until we can
  communicate with the police.”

  “Exactly. I have no doubt that you and I could carry it so far.
  Halloa, Watson, what’s this? It’s the man himself, by all that’s
  wonderful and audacious! Not a word to show your suspicions—not a
  word, or my plans crumble to the ground.”

  A figure was approaching us over the moor, and I saw the dull red
  glow of a cigar. The moon shone upon him, and I could distinguish
  the dapper shape and jaunty walk of the naturalist. He stopped
  when he saw us, and then came on again.

  “Why, Dr. Watson, that’s not you, is it? You are the last man
  that I should have expected to see out on the moor at this time
  of night. But, dear me, what’s this? Somebody hurt? Not—don’t
  tell me that it is our friend Sir Henry!” He hurried past me and
  stooped over the dead man. I heard a sharp intake of his breath
  and the cigar fell from his fingers.

  “Who—who’s this?” he stammered.

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

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

  “He appears to have broken his neck by falling over these rocks.
  My friend and I were strolling on the moor when we heard a cry.”

  “I heard a cry also. That was what brought me out. I was uneasy
  about Sir Henry.”

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

  “Because I had suggested that he should come over. When he did
  not come I was surprised, and I naturally became alarmed for his
  safety when I heard cries upon the moor. By the way”—his eyes
  darted again from my face to Holmes’s—“did you hear anything else
  besides a cry?”

  “No,” said Holmes; “did you?”

  “No.”

  “What do you mean, then?”

  “Oh, you know the stories that the peasants tell about a phantom
  hound, and so on. It is said to be heard at night upon the moor.
  I was wondering if there were any evidence of such a sound
  tonight.”

  “We heard nothing of the kind,” said I.

  “And what is your theory of this poor fellow’s death?”

  “I have no doubt that anxiety and exposure have driven him off
  his head. He has rushed about the moor in a crazy state and
  eventually fallen over here and broken his neck.”

  “That seems the most reasonable theory,” said Stapleton, and he
  gave a sigh which I took to indicate his relief. “What do you
  think about it, Mr. Sherlock Holmes?”

  My friend bowed his compliments. “You are quick at
  identification,” said he.

  “We have been expecting you in these parts since Dr. Watson came
  down. You are in time to see a tragedy.”

  “Yes, indeed. I have no doubt that my friend’s explanation will
  cover the facts. I will take an unpleasant remembrance back to
  London with me tomorrow.”

  “Oh, you return tomorrow?”

  “That is my intention.”

  “I hope your visit has cast some light upon those occurrences
  which have puzzled us?”

  Holmes shrugged his shoulders.

  “One cannot always have the success for which one hopes. An
  investigator needs facts and not legends or rumours. It has not
  been a satisfactory case.”

  My friend spoke in his frankest and most unconcerned manner.
  Stapleton still looked hard at him. Then he turned to me.

  “I would suggest carrying this poor fellow to my house, but it
  would give my sister such a fright that I do not feel justified
  in doing it. I think that if we put something over his face he
  will be safe until morning.”

  And so it was arranged. Resisting Stapleton’s offer of
  hospitality, Holmes and I set off to Baskerville Hall, leaving
  the naturalist to return alone. Looking back we saw the figure
  moving slowly away over the broad moor, and behind him that one
  black smudge on the silvered slope which showed where the man was
  lying who had come so horribly to his end.

  “We’re at close grips at last,” said Holmes as we walked together
  across the moor. “What a nerve the fellow has! How he pulled
  himself together in the face of what must have been a paralyzing
  shock when he found that the wrong man had fallen a victim to his
  plot. I told you in London, Watson, and I tell you now again,
  that we have never had a foeman more worthy of our steel.”

  “I am sorry that he has seen you.”

  “And so was I at first. But there was no getting out of it.”

  “What effect do you think it will have upon his plans now that he
  knows you are here?”

  “It may cause him to be more cautious, or it may drive him to
  desperate measures at once. Like most clever criminals, he may be
  too confident in his own cleverness and imagine that he has
  completely deceived us.”

  “Why should we not arrest him at once?”

  “My dear Watson, you were born to be a man of action. Your
  instinct is always to do something energetic. But supposing, for
  argument’s sake, that we had him arrested tonight, what on earth
  the better off should we be for that? We could prove nothing
  against him. There’s the devilish cunning of it! If he were
  acting through a human agent we could get some evidence, but if
  we were to drag this great dog to the light of day it would not
  help us in putting a rope round the neck of its master.”

  “Surely we have a case.”

  “Not a shadow of one—only surmise and conjecture. We should be
  laughed out of court if we came with such a story and such
  evidence.”

  “There is Sir Charles’s death.”

  “Found dead without a mark upon him. You and I know that he died
  of sheer fright, and we know also what frightened him, but how
  are we to get twelve stolid jurymen to know it? What signs are
  there of a hound? Where are the marks of its fangs? Of course we
  know that a hound does not bite a dead body and that Sir Charles
  was dead before ever the brute overtook him. But we have to prove
  all this, and we are not in a position to do it.”

  “Well, then, tonight?”

  “We are not much better off tonight. Again, there was no direct
  connection between the hound and the man’s death. We never saw
  the hound. We heard it, but we could not prove that it was
  running upon this man’s trail. There is a complete absence of
  motive. No, my dear fellow; we must reconcile ourselves to the
  fact that we have no case at present, and that it is worth our
  while to run any risk in order to establish one.”

  “And how do you propose to do so?”

  “I have great hopes of what Mrs. Laura Lyons may do for us when
  the position of affairs is made clear to her. And I have my own
  plan as well. Sufficient for tomorrow is the evil thereof; but I
  hope before the day is past to have the upper hand at last.”

  I could draw nothing further from him, and he walked, lost in
  thought, as far as the Baskerville gates.

  “Are you coming up?”

  “Yes; I see no reason for further concealment. But one last word,
  Watson. Say nothing of the hound to Sir Henry. Let him think that
  Selden’s death was as Stapleton would have us believe. He will
  have a better nerve for the ordeal which he will have to undergo
  tomorrow, when he is engaged, if I remember your report aright,
  to dine with these people.”

  “And so am I.”

  “Then you must excuse yourself and he must go alone. That will be
  easily arranged. And now, if we are too late for dinner, I think
  that we are both ready for our suppers.”