Chapter 13

Fixing the Nets

  Sir Henry was more pleased than surprised to see Sherlock Holmes,
  for he had for some days been expecting that recent events would
  bring him down from London. He did raise his eyebrows, however,
  when he found that my friend had neither any luggage nor any
  explanations for its absence. Between us we soon supplied his
  wants, and then over a belated supper we explained to the baronet
  as much of our experience as it seemed desirable that he should
  know. But first I had the unpleasant duty of breaking the news to
  Barrymore and his wife. To him it may have been an unmitigated
  relief, but she wept bitterly in her apron. To all the world he
  was the man of violence, half animal and half demon; but to her
  he always remained the little wilful boy of her own girlhood, the
  child who had clung to her hand. Evil indeed is the man who has
  not one woman to mourn him.

  “I’ve been moping in the house all day since Watson went off in
  the morning,” said the baronet. “I guess I should have some
  credit, for I have kept my promise. If I hadn’t sworn not to go
  about alone I might have had a more lively evening, for I had a
  message from Stapleton asking me over there.”

  “I have no doubt that you would have had a more lively evening,”
  said Holmes drily. “By the way, I don’t suppose you appreciate
  that we have been mourning over you as having broken your neck?”

  Sir Henry opened his eyes. “How was that?”

  “This poor wretch was dressed in your clothes. I fear your
  servant who gave them to him may get into trouble with the
  police.”

  “That is unlikely. There was no mark on any of them, as far as I
  know.”

  “That’s lucky for him—in fact, it’s lucky for all of you, since
  you are all on the wrong side of the law in this matter. I am not
  sure that as a conscientious detective my first duty is not to
  arrest the whole household. Watson’s reports are most
  incriminating documents.”

  “But how about the case?” asked the baronet. “Have you made
  anything out of the tangle? I don’t know that Watson and I are
  much the wiser since we came down.”

  “I think that I shall be in a position to make the situation
  rather more clear to you before long. It has been an exceedingly
  difficult and most complicated business. There are several points
  upon which we still want light—but it is coming all the same.”

  “We’ve had one experience, as Watson has no doubt told you. We
  heard the hound on the moor, so I can swear that it is not all
  empty superstition. I had something to do with dogs when I was
  out West, and I know one when I hear one. If you can muzzle that
  one and put him on a chain I’ll be ready to swear you are the
  greatest detective of all time.”

  “I think I will muzzle him and chain him all right if you will
  give me your help.”

  “Whatever you tell me to do I will do.”

  “Very good; and I will ask you also to do it blindly, without
  always asking the reason.”

  “Just as you like.”

  “If you will do this I think the chances are that our little
  problem will soon be solved. I have no doubt—”

  He stopped suddenly and stared fixedly up over my head into the
  air. The lamp beat upon his face, and so intent was it and so
  still that it might have been that of a clear-cut classical
  statue, a personification of alertness and expectation.

  “What is it?” we both cried.

  I could see as he looked down that he was repressing some
  internal emotion. His features were still composed, but his eyes
  shone with amused exultation.

  “Excuse the admiration of a connoisseur,” said he as he waved his
  hand towards the line of portraits which covered the opposite
  wall. “Watson won’t allow that I know anything of art but that is
  mere jealousy because our views upon the subject differ. Now,
  these are a really very fine series of portraits.”

  “Well, I’m glad to hear you say so,” said Sir Henry, glancing
  with some surprise at my friend. “I don’t pretend to know much
  about these things, and I’d be a better judge of a horse or a
  steer than of a picture. I didn’t know that you found time for
  such things.”

  “I know what is good when I see it, and I see it now. That’s a
  Kneller, I’ll swear, that lady in the blue silk over yonder, and
  the stout gentleman with the wig ought to be a Reynolds. They are
  all family portraits, I presume?”

  “Every one.”

  “Do you know the names?”

  “Barrymore has been coaching me in them, and I think I can say my
  lessons fairly well.”

  “Who is the gentleman with the telescope?”

  “That is Rear-Admiral Baskerville, who served under Rodney in the
  West Indies. The man with the blue coat and the roll of paper is
  Sir William Baskerville, who was Chairman of Committees of the
  House of Commons under Pitt.”

  “And this Cavalier opposite to me—the one with the black velvet
  and the lace?”

  “Ah, you have a right to know about him. That is the cause of all
  the mischief, the wicked Hugo, who started the Hound of the
  Baskervilles. We’re not likely to forget him.”

  I gazed with interest and some surprise upon the portrait.

  “Dear me!” said Holmes, “he seems a quiet, meek-mannered man
  enough, but I dare say that there was a lurking devil in his
  eyes. I had pictured him as a more robust and ruffianly person.”

  “There’s no doubt about the authenticity, for the name and the
  date, 1647, are on the back of the canvas.”

  Holmes said little more, but the picture of the old roysterer
  seemed to have a fascination for him, and his eyes were
  continually fixed upon it during supper. It was not until later,
  when Sir Henry had gone to his room, that I was able to follow
  the trend of his thoughts. He led me back into the
  banqueting-hall, his bedroom candle in his hand, and he held it
  up against the time-stained portrait on the wall.

  “Do you see anything there?”

  I looked at the broad plumed hat, the curling love-locks, the
  white lace collar, and the straight, severe face which was framed
  between them. It was not a brutal countenance, but it was prim,
  hard, and stern, with a firm-set, thin-lipped mouth, and a coldly
  intolerant eye.

  “Is it like anyone you know?”

  “There is something of Sir Henry about the jaw.”

  “Just a suggestion, perhaps. But wait an instant!” He stood upon
  a chair, and, holding up the light in his left hand, he curved
  his right arm over the broad hat and round the long ringlets.

  “Good heavens!” I cried in amazement.

  The face of Stapleton had sprung out of the canvas.

  “Ha, you see it now. My eyes have been trained to examine faces
  and not their trimmings. It is the first quality of a criminal
  investigator that he should see through a disguise.”

  “But this is marvellous. It might be his portrait.”

  “Yes, it is an interesting instance of a throwback, which appears
  to be both physical and spiritual. A study of family portraits is
  enough to convert a man to the doctrine of reincarnation. The
  fellow is a Baskerville—that is evident.”

  “With designs upon the succession.”

  “Exactly. This chance of the picture has supplied us with one of
  our most obvious missing links. We have him, Watson, we have him,
  and I dare swear that before tomorrow night he will be fluttering
  in our net as helpless as one of his own butterflies. A pin, a
  cork, and a card, and we add him to the Baker Street collection!”
  He burst into one of his rare fits of laughter as he turned away
  from the picture. I have not heard him laugh often, and it has
  always boded ill to somebody.

  I was up betimes in the morning, but Holmes was afoot earlier
  still, for I saw him as I dressed, coming up the drive.

  “Yes, we should have a full day today,” he remarked, and he
  rubbed his hands with the joy of action. “The nets are all in
  place, and the drag is about to begin. We’ll know before the day
  is out whether we have caught our big, lean-jawed pike, or
  whether he has got through the meshes.”

  “Have you been on the moor already?”

  “I have sent a report from Grimpen to Princetown as to the death
  of Selden. I think I can promise that none of you will be
  troubled in the matter. And I have also communicated with my
  faithful Cartwright, who would certainly have pined away at the
  door of my hut, as a dog does at his master’s grave, if I had not
  set his mind at rest about my safety.”

  “What is the next move?”

  “To see Sir Henry. Ah, here he is!”

  “Good-morning, Holmes,” said the baronet. “You look like a
  general who is planning a battle with his chief of the staff.”

  “That is the exact situation. Watson was asking for orders.”

  “And so do I.”

  “Very good. You are engaged, as I understand, to dine with our
  friends the Stapletons tonight.”

  “I hope that you will come also. They are very hospitable people,
  and I am sure that they would be very glad to see you.”

  “I fear that Watson and I must go to London.”

  “To London?”

  “Yes, I think that we should be more useful there at the present
  juncture.”

  The baronet’s face perceptibly lengthened.

  “I hoped that you were going to see me through this business. The
  Hall and the moor are not very pleasant places when one is
  alone.”

  “My dear fellow, you must trust me implicitly and do exactly what
  I tell you. You can tell your friends that we should have been
  happy to have come with you, but that urgent business required us
  to be in town. We hope very soon to return to Devonshire. Will
  you remember to give them that message?”

  “If you insist upon it.”

  “There is no alternative, I assure you.”

  I saw by the baronet’s clouded brow that he was deeply hurt by
  what he regarded as our desertion.

  “When do you desire to go?” he asked coldly.

  “Immediately after breakfast. We will drive in to Coombe Tracey,
  but Watson will leave his things as a pledge that he will come
  back to you. Watson, you will send a note to Stapleton to tell
  him that you regret that you cannot come.”

  “I have a good mind to go to London with you,” said the baronet.
  “Why should I stay here alone?”

  “Because it is your post of duty. Because you gave me your word
  that you would do as you were told, and I tell you to stay.”

  “All right, then, I’ll stay.”

  “One more direction! I wish you to drive to Merripit House. Send
  back your trap, however, and let them know that you intend to
  walk home.”

  “To walk across the moor?”

  “Yes.”

  “But that is the very thing which you have so often cautioned me
  not to do.”

  “This time you may do it with safety. If I had not every
  confidence in your nerve and courage I would not suggest it, but
  it is essential that you should do it.”

  “Then I will do it.”

  “And as you value your life do not go across the moor in any
  direction save along the straight path which leads from Merripit
  House to the Grimpen Road, and is your natural way home.”

  “I will do just what you say.”

  “Very good. I should be glad to get away as soon after breakfast
  as possible, so as to reach London in the afternoon.”

  I was much astounded by this programme, though I remembered that
  Holmes had said to Stapleton on the night before that his visit
  would terminate next day. It had not crossed my mind however,
  that he would wish me to go with him, nor could I understand how
  we could both be absent at a moment which he himself declared to
  be critical. There was nothing for it, however, but implicit
  obedience; so we bade good-bye to our rueful friend, and a couple
  of hours afterwards we were at the station of Coombe Tracey and
  had dispatched the trap upon its return journey. A small boy was
  waiting upon the platform.

  “Any orders, sir?”

  “You will take this train to town, Cartwright. The moment you
  arrive you will send a wire to Sir Henry Baskerville, in my name,
  to say that if he finds the pocketbook which I have dropped he is
  to send it by registered post to Baker Street.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And ask at the station office if there is a message for me.”

  The boy returned with a telegram, which Holmes handed to me. It
  ran:

  Wire received. Coming down with unsigned warrant. Arrive
  five-forty. Lestrade.

  “That is in answer to mine of this morning. He is the best of the
  professionals, I think, and we may need his assistance. Now,
  Watson, I think that we cannot employ our time better than by
  calling upon your acquaintance, Mrs. Laura Lyons.”

  His plan of campaign was beginning to be evident. He would use
  the baronet in order to convince the Stapletons that we were
  really gone, while we should actually return at the instant when
  we were likely to be needed. That telegram from London, if
  mentioned by Sir Henry to the Stapletons, must remove the last
  suspicions from their minds. Already I seemed to see our nets
  drawing closer around that lean-jawed pike.

  Mrs. Laura Lyons was in her office, and Sherlock Holmes opened
  his interview with a frankness and directness which considerably
  amazed her.

  “I am investigating the circumstances which attended the death of
  the late Sir Charles Baskerville,” said he. “My friend here, Dr.
  Watson, has informed me of what you have communicated, and also
  of what you have withheld in connection with that matter.”

  “What have I withheld?” she asked defiantly.

  “You have confessed that you asked Sir Charles to be at the gate
  at ten o’clock. We know that that was the place and hour of his
  death. You have withheld what the connection is between these
  events.”

  “There is no connection.”

  “In that case the coincidence must indeed be an extraordinary
  one. But I think that we shall succeed in establishing a
  connection, after all. I wish to be perfectly frank with you,
  Mrs. Lyons. We regard this case as one of murder, and the
  evidence may implicate not only your friend Mr. Stapleton but his
  wife as well.”

  The lady sprang from her chair.

  “His wife!” she cried.

  “The fact is no longer a secret. The person who has passed for
  his sister is really his wife.”

  Mrs. Lyons had resumed her seat. Her hands were grasping the arms
  of her chair, and I saw that the pink nails had turned white with
  the pressure of her grip.

  “His wife!” she said again. “His wife! He is not a married man.”

  Sherlock Holmes shrugged his shoulders.

  “Prove it to me! Prove it to me! And if you can do so—!”

  The fierce flash of her eyes said more than any words.

  “I have come prepared to do so,” said Holmes, drawing several
  papers from his pocket. “Here is a photograph of the couple taken
  in York four years ago. It is indorsed ‘Mr. and Mrs. Vandeleur,’
  but you will have no difficulty in recognizing him, and her also,
  if you know her by sight. Here are three written descriptions by
  trustworthy witnesses of Mr. and Mrs. Vandeleur, who at that time
  kept St. Oliver’s private school. Read them and see if you can
  doubt the identity of these people.”

  She glanced at them, and then looked up at us with the set, rigid
  face of a desperate woman.

  “Mr. Holmes,” she said, “this man had offered me marriage on
  condition that I could get a divorce from my husband. He has lied
  to me, the villain, in every conceivable way. Not one word of
  truth has he ever told me. And why—why? I imagined that all was
  for my own sake. But now I see that I was never anything but a
  tool in his hands. Why should I preserve faith with him who never
  kept any with me? Why should I try to shield him from the
  consequences of his own wicked acts? Ask me what you like, and
  there is nothing which I shall hold back. One thing I swear to
  you, and that is that when I wrote the letter I never dreamed of
  any harm to the old gentleman, who had been my kindest friend.”

  “I entirely believe you, madam,” said Sherlock Holmes. “The
  recital of these events must be very painful to you, and perhaps
  it will make it easier if I tell you what occurred, and you can
  check me if I make any material mistake. The sending of this
  letter was suggested to you by Stapleton?”

  “He dictated it.”

  “I presume that the reason he gave was that you would receive
  help from Sir Charles for the legal expenses connected with your
  divorce?”

  “Exactly.”

  “And then after you had sent the letter he dissuaded you from
  keeping the appointment?”

  “He told me that it would hurt his self-respect that any other
  man should find the money for such an object, and that though he
  was a poor man himself he would devote his last penny to removing
  the obstacles which divided us.”

  “He appears to be a very consistent character. And then you heard
  nothing until you read the reports of the death in the paper?”

  “No.”

  “And he made you swear to say nothing about your appointment with
  Sir Charles?”

  “He did. He said that the death was a very mysterious one, and
  that I should certainly be suspected if the facts came out. He
  frightened me into remaining silent.”

  “Quite so. But you had your suspicions?”

  She hesitated and looked down.

  “I knew him,” she said. “But if he had kept faith with me I
  should always have done so with him.”

  “I think that on the whole you have had a fortunate escape,” said
  Sherlock Holmes. “You have had him in your power and he knew it,
  and yet you are alive. You have been walking for some months very
  near to the edge of a precipice. We must wish you good-morning
  now, Mrs. Lyons, and it is probable that you will very shortly
  hear from us again.”

  “Our case becomes rounded off, and difficulty after difficulty
  thins away in front of us,” said Holmes as we stood waiting for
  the arrival of the express from town. “I shall soon be in the
  position of being able to put into a single connected narrative
  one of the most singular and sensational crimes of modern times.
  Students of criminology will remember the analogous incidents in
  Godno, in Little Russia, in the year ’66, and of course there are
  the Anderson murders in North Carolina, but this case possesses
  some features which are entirely its own. Even now we have no
  clear case against this very wily man. But I shall be very much
  surprised if it is not clear enough before we go to bed this
  night.”

  The London express came roaring into the station, and a small,
  wiry bulldog of a man had sprung from a first-class carriage. We
  all three shook hands, and I saw at once from the reverential way
  in which Lestrade gazed at my companion that he had learned a
  good deal since the days when they had first worked together. I
  could well remember the scorn which the theories of the reasoner
  used then to excite in the practical man.

  “Anything good?” he asked.

  “The biggest thing for years,” said Holmes. “We have two hours
  before we need think of starting. I think we might employ it in
  getting some dinner and then, Lestrade, we will take the London
  fog out of your throat by giving you a breath of the pure night
  air of Dartmoor. Never been there? Ah, well, I don’t suppose you
  will forget your first visit.”