Chapter 2
The Curse of the Baskervilles
“I have in my pocket a manuscript,” said Dr. James Mortimer.
“I observed it as you entered the room,” said Holmes.
“It is an old manuscript.”
“Early eighteenth century, unless it is a forgery.”
“How can you say that, sir?”
“You have presented an inch or two of it to my examination all
the time that you have been talking. It would be a poor expert
who could not give the date of a document within a decade or so.
You may possibly have read my little monograph upon the subject.
I put that at 1730.”
“The exact date is 1742.” Dr. Mortimer drew it from his
breast-pocket. “This family paper was committed to my care by Sir
Charles Baskerville, whose sudden and tragic death some three
months ago created so much excitement in Devonshire. I may say
that I was his personal friend as well as his medical attendant.
He was a strong-minded man, sir, shrewd, practical, and as
unimaginative as I am myself. Yet he took this document very
seriously, and his mind was prepared for just such an end as did
eventually overtake him.”
Holmes stretched out his hand for the manuscript and flattened it
upon his knee. “You will observe, Watson, the alternative use of
the long _s_ and the short. It is one of several indications
which enabled me to fix the date.”
I looked over his shoulder at the yellow paper and the faded
script. At the head was written: “Baskerville Hall,” and below in
large, scrawling figures: “1742.”
“It appears to be a statement of some sort.”
“Yes, it is a statement of a certain legend which runs in the
Baskerville family.”
“But I understand that it is something more modern and practical
upon which you wish to consult me?”
“Most modern. A most practical, pressing matter, which must be
decided within twenty-four hours. But the manuscript is short and
is intimately connected with the affair. With your permission I
will read it to you.”
Holmes leaned back in his chair, placed his finger-tips together,
and closed his eyes, with an air of resignation. Dr. Mortimer
turned the manuscript to the light and read in a high, cracking
voice the following curious, old-world narrative:
“Of the origin of the Hound of the Baskervilles there have been
many statements, yet as I come in a direct line from Hugo
Baskerville, and as I had the story from my father, who also
had it from his, I have set it down with all belief that it
occurred even as is here set forth. And I would have you
believe, my sons, that the same Justice which punishes sin may
also most graciously forgive it, and that no ban is so heavy
but that by prayer and repentance it may be removed. Learn
then from this story not to fear the fruits of the past, but
rather to be circumspect in the future, that those foul
passions whereby our family has suffered so grievously may not
again be loosed to our undoing.
“Know then that in the time of the Great Rebellion (the
history of which by the learned Lord Clarendon I most
earnestly commend to your attention) this Manor of
Baskerville was held by Hugo of that name, nor can it be
gainsaid that he was a most wild, profane, and godless man.
This, in truth, his neighbours might have pardoned, seeing
that saints have never flourished in those parts, but there
was in him a certain wanton and cruel humour which made his
name a by-word through the West. It chanced that this Hugo
came to love (if, indeed, so dark a passion may be known
under so bright a name) the daughter of a yeoman who held
lands near the Baskerville estate. But the young maiden,
being discreet and of good repute, would ever avoid him,
for she feared his evil name. So it came to pass that one
Michaelmas this Hugo, with five or six of his idle and
wicked companions, stole down upon the farm and carried off
the maiden, her father and brothers being from home, as he
well knew. When they had brought her to the Hall the
maiden was placed in an upper chamber, while Hugo and his
friends sat down to a long carouse, as was their nightly
custom. Now, the poor lass upstairs was like to have her
wits turned at the singing and shouting and terrible oaths
which came up to her from below, for they say that the
words used by Hugo Baskerville, when he was in wine, were
such as might blast the man who said them. At last in the
stress of her fear she did that which might have daunted
the bravest or most active man, for by the aid of the
growth of ivy which covered (and still covers) the south
wall she came down from under the eaves, and so homeward
across the moor, there being three leagues betwixt the Hall
and her father’s farm.
“It chanced that some little time later Hugo left his
guests to carry food and drink—with other worse things,
perchance—to his captive, and so found the cage empty and
the bird escaped. Then, as it would seem, he became as one
that hath a devil, for, rushing down the stairs into the
dining-hall, he sprang upon the great table, flagons and
trenchers flying before him, and he cried aloud before all
the company that he would that very night render his body
and soul to the Powers of Evil if he might but overtake the
wench. And while the revellers stood aghast at the fury of
the man, one more wicked or, it may be, more drunken than
the rest, cried out that they should put the hounds upon
her. Whereat Hugo ran from the house, crying to his grooms
that they should saddle his mare and unkennel the pack, and
giving the hounds a kerchief of the maid’s, he swung them
to the line, and so off full cry in the moonlight over the
moor.
“Now, for some space the revellers stood agape, unable to
understand all that had been done in such haste. But anon
their bemused wits awoke to the nature of the deed which
was like to be done upon the moorlands. Everything was now
in an uproar, some calling for their pistols, some for
their horses, and some for another flask of wine. But at
length some sense came back to their crazed minds, and the
whole of them, thirteen in number, took horse and started
in pursuit. The moon shone clear above them, and they rode
swiftly abreast, taking that course which the maid must
needs have taken if she were to reach her own home.
“They had gone a mile or two when they passed one of the
night shepherds upon the moorlands, and they cried to him
to know if he had seen the hunt. And the man, as the story
goes, was so crazed with fear that he could scarce speak,
but at last he said that he had indeed seen the unhappy
maiden, with the hounds upon her track. ‘But I have seen
more than that,’ said he, ‘for Hugo Baskerville passed me
upon his black mare, and there ran mute behind him such a
hound of hell as God forbid should ever be at my heels.’
So the drunken squires cursed the shepherd and rode onward.
But soon their skins turned cold, for there came a
galloping across the moor, and the black mare, dabbled with
white froth, went past with trailing bridle and empty
saddle. Then the revellers rode close together, for a
great fear was on them, but they still followed over the
moor, though each, had he been alone, would have been right
glad to have turned his horse’s head. Riding slowly in
this fashion they came at last upon the hounds. These,
though known for their valour and their breed, were
whimpering in a cluster at the head of a deep dip or goyal,
as we call it, upon the moor, some slinking away and some,
with starting hackles and staring eyes, gazing down the
narrow valley before them.
“The company had come to a halt, more sober men, as you may
guess, than when they started. The most of them would by
no means advance, but three of them, the boldest, or it may
be the most drunken, rode forward down the goyal. Now, it
opened into a broad space in which stood two of those great
stones, still to be seen there, which were set by certain
forgotten peoples in the days of old. The moon was shining
bright upon the clearing, and there in the centre lay the
unhappy maid where she had fallen, dead of fear and of
fatigue. But it was not the sight of her body, nor yet was
it that of the body of Hugo Baskerville lying near her,
which raised the hair upon the heads of these three
dare-devil roysterers, but it was that, standing over Hugo,
and plucking at his throat, there stood a foul thing, a
great, black beast, shaped like a hound, yet larger than
any hound that ever mortal eye has rested upon. And even
as they looked the thing tore the throat out of Hugo
Baskerville, on which, as it turned its blazing eyes and
dripping jaws upon them, the three shrieked with fear and
rode for dear life, still screaming, across the moor. One,
it is said, died that very night of what he had seen, and
the other twain were but broken men for the rest of their
days.
“Such is the tale, my sons, of the coming of the hound
which is said to have plagued the family so sorely ever
since. If I have set it down it is because that which is
clearly known hath less terror than that which is but
hinted at and guessed. Nor can it be denied that many of
the family have been unhappy in their deaths, which have
been sudden, bloody, and mysterious. Yet may we shelter
ourselves in the infinite goodness of Providence, which
would not forever punish the innocent beyond that third or
fourth generation which is threatened in Holy Writ. To
that Providence, my sons, I hereby commend you, and I
counsel you by way of caution to forbear from crossing the
moor in those dark hours when the powers of evil are
exalted.
“[This from Hugo Baskerville to his sons Rodger and John,
with instructions that they say nothing thereof to their
sister Elizabeth.]”
When Dr. Mortimer had finished reading this singular narrative he
pushed his spectacles up on his forehead and stared across at Mr.
Sherlock Holmes. The latter yawned and tossed the end of his
cigarette into the fire.
“Well?” said he.
“Do you not find it interesting?”
“To a collector of fairy tales.”
Dr. Mortimer drew a folded newspaper out of his pocket.
“Now, Mr. Holmes, we will give you something a little more
recent. This is the _Devon County Chronicle_ of May 14th of this
year. It is a short account of the facts elicited at the death of
Sir Charles Baskerville which occurred a few days before that
date.”
My friend leaned a little forward and his expression became
intent. Our visitor readjusted his glasses and began:
“The recent sudden death of Sir Charles Baskerville, whose name
has been mentioned as the probable Liberal candidate for
Mid-Devon at the next election, has cast a gloom over the
county. Though Sir Charles had resided at Baskerville Hall for
a comparatively short period his amiability of character and
extreme generosity had won the affection and respect of all who
had been brought into contact with him. In these days of
_nouveaux riches_ it is refreshing to find a case where the
scion of an old county family which has fallen upon evil days
is able to make his own fortune and to bring it back with him
to restore the fallen grandeur of his line. Sir Charles, as is
well known, made large sums of money in South African
speculation. More wise than those who go on until the wheel
turns against them, he realised his gains and returned to
England with them. It is only two years since he took up his
residence at Baskerville Hall, and it is common talk how large
were those schemes of reconstruction and improvement which have
been interrupted by his death. Being himself childless, it was
his openly expressed desire that the whole countryside should,
within his own lifetime, profit by his good fortune, and many
will have personal reasons for bewailing his untimely end. His
generous donations to local and county charities have been
frequently chronicled in these columns.
“The circumstances connected with the death of Sir Charles
cannot be said to have been entirely cleared up by the
inquest, but at least enough has been done to dispose of
those rumours to which local superstition has given rise.
There is no reason whatever to suspect foul play, or to
imagine that death could be from any but natural causes.
Sir Charles was a widower, and a man who may be said to
have been in some ways of an eccentric habit of mind. In
spite of his considerable wealth he was simple in his
personal tastes, and his indoor servants at Baskerville
Hall consisted of a married couple named Barrymore, the
husband acting as butler and the wife as housekeeper. Their
evidence, corroborated by that of several friends, tends to
show that Sir Charles’s health has for some time been
impaired, and points especially to some affection of the
heart, manifesting itself in changes of colour,
breathlessness, and acute attacks of nervous depression.
Dr. James Mortimer, the friend and medical attendant of the
deceased, has given evidence to the same effect.
“The facts of the case are simple. Sir Charles Baskerville
was in the habit every night before going to bed of walking
down the famous yew alley of Baskerville Hall. The
evidence of the Barrymores shows that this had been his
custom. On the fourth of May Sir Charles had declared his
intention of starting next day for London, and had ordered
Barrymore to prepare his luggage. That night he went out
as usual for his nocturnal walk, in the course of which he
was in the habit of smoking a cigar. He never returned.
At twelve o’clock Barrymore, finding the hall door still
open, became alarmed, and, lighting a lantern, went in
search of his master. The day had been wet, and Sir
Charles’s footmarks were easily traced down the alley.
Halfway down this walk there is a gate which leads out on
to the moor. There were indications that Sir Charles had
stood for some little time here. He then proceeded down
the alley, and it was at the far end of it that his body
was discovered. One fact which has not been explained is
the statement of Barrymore that his master’s footprints
altered their character from the time that he passed the
moor-gate, and that he appeared from thence onward to have
been walking upon his toes. One Murphy, a gipsy
horse-dealer, was on the moor at no great distance at the
time, but he appears by his own confession to have been the
worse for drink. He declares that he heard cries but is
unable to state from what direction they came. No signs of
violence were to be discovered upon Sir Charles’s person,
and though the doctor’s evidence pointed to an almost
incredible facial distortion—so great that Dr. Mortimer
refused at first to believe that it was indeed his friend
and patient who lay before him—it was explained that that
is a symptom which is not unusual in cases of dyspnœa and
death from cardiac exhaustion. This explanation was borne
out by the post-mortem examination, which showed
long-standing organic disease, and the coroner’s jury
returned a verdict in accordance with the medical evidence.
It is well that this is so, for it is obviously of the
utmost importance that Sir Charles’s heir should settle at
the Hall and continue the good work which has been so sadly
interrupted. Had the prosaic finding of the coroner not
finally put an end to the romantic stories which have been
whispered in connection with the affair, it might have been
difficult to find a tenant for Baskerville Hall. It is
understood that the next of kin is Mr. Henry Baskerville,
if he be still alive, the son of Sir Charles Baskerville’s
younger brother. The young man when last heard of was in
America, and inquiries are being instituted with a view to
informing him of his good fortune.”
Dr. Mortimer refolded his paper and replaced it in his pocket.
“Those are the public facts, Mr. Holmes, in connection with the
death of Sir Charles Baskerville.”
“I must thank you,” said Sherlock Holmes, “for calling my
attention to a case which certainly presents some features of
interest. I had observed some newspaper comment at the time, but
I was exceedingly preoccupied by that little affair of the
Vatican cameos, and in my anxiety to oblige the Pope I lost touch
with several interesting English cases. This article, you say,
contains all the public facts?”
“It does.”
“Then let me have the private ones.” He leaned back, put his
finger-tips together, and assumed his most impassive and judicial
expression.
“In doing so,” said Dr. Mortimer, who had begun to show signs of
some strong emotion, “I am telling that which I have not confided
to anyone. My motive for withholding it from the coroner’s
inquiry is that a man of science shrinks from placing himself in
the public position of seeming to indorse a popular superstition.
I had the further motive that Baskerville Hall, as the paper
says, would certainly remain untenanted if anything were done to
increase its already rather grim reputation. For both these
reasons I thought that I was justified in telling rather less
than I knew, since no practical good could result from it, but
with you there is no reason why I should not be perfectly frank.
“The moor is very sparsely inhabited, and those who live near
each other are thrown very much together. For this reason I saw a
good deal of Sir Charles Baskerville. With the exception of Mr.
Frankland, of Lafter Hall, and Mr. Stapleton, the naturalist,
there are no other men of education within many miles. Sir
Charles was a retiring man, but the chance of his illness brought
us together, and a community of interests in science kept us so.
He had brought back much scientific information from South
Africa, and many a charming evening we have spent together
discussing the comparative anatomy of the Bushman and the
Hottentot.
“Within the last few months it became increasingly plain to me
that Sir Charles’s nervous system was strained to the breaking
point. He had taken this legend which I have read you exceedingly
to heart—so much so that, although he would walk in his own
grounds, nothing would induce him to go out upon the moor at
night. Incredible as it may appear to you, Mr. Holmes, he was
honestly convinced that a dreadful fate overhung his family, and
certainly the records which he was able to give of his ancestors
were not encouraging. The idea of some ghastly presence
constantly haunted him, and on more than one occasion he has
asked me whether I had on my medical journeys at night ever seen
any strange creature or heard the baying of a hound. The latter
question he put to me several times, and always with a voice
which vibrated with excitement.
“I can well remember driving up to his house in the evening some
three weeks before the fatal event. He chanced to be at his hall
door. I had descended from my gig and was standing in front of
him, when I saw his eyes fix themselves over my shoulder and
stare past me with an expression of the most dreadful horror. I
whisked round and had just time to catch a glimpse of something
which I took to be a large black calf passing at the head of the
drive. So excited and alarmed was he that I was compelled to go
down to the spot where the animal had been and look around for
it. It was gone, however, and the incident appeared to make the
worst impression upon his mind. I stayed with him all the
evening, and it was on that occasion, to explain the emotion
which he had shown, that he confided to my keeping that narrative
which I read to you when first I came. I mention this small
episode because it assumes some importance in view of the tragedy
which followed, but I was convinced at the time that the matter
was entirely trivial and that his excitement had no
justification.
“It was at my advice that Sir Charles was about to go to London.
His heart was, I knew, affected, and the constant anxiety in
which he lived, however chimerical the cause of it might be, was
evidently having a serious effect upon his health. I thought that
a few months among the distractions of town would send him back a
new man. Mr. Stapleton, a mutual friend who was much concerned at
his state of health, was of the same opinion. At the last instant
came this terrible catastrophe.
“On the night of Sir Charles’s death Barrymore the butler, who
made the discovery, sent Perkins the groom on horseback to me,
and as I was sitting up late I was able to reach Baskerville Hall
within an hour of the event. I checked and corroborated all the
facts which were mentioned at the inquest. I followed the
footsteps down the yew alley, I saw the spot at the moor-gate
where he seemed to have waited, I remarked the change in the
shape of the prints after that point, I noted that there were no
other footsteps save those of Barrymore on the soft gravel, and
finally I carefully examined the body, which had not been touched
until my arrival. Sir Charles lay on his face, his arms out, his
fingers dug into the ground, and his features convulsed with some
strong emotion to such an extent that I could hardly have sworn
to his identity. There was certainly no physical injury of any
kind. But one false statement was made by Barrymore at the
inquest. He said that there were no traces upon the ground round
the body. He did not observe any. But I did—some little distance
off, but fresh and clear.”
“Footprints?”
“Footprints.”
“A man’s or a woman’s?”
Dr. Mortimer looked strangely at us for an instant, and his voice
sank almost to a whisper as he answered.
“Mr. Holmes, they were the footprints of a gigantic hound!”