Chapter 7

The Stapletons of Merripit House

  The fresh beauty of the following morning did something to efface
  from our minds the grim and grey impression which had been left
  upon both of us by our first experience of Baskerville Hall. As
  Sir Henry and I sat at breakfast the sunlight flooded in through
  the high mullioned windows, throwing watery patches of colour
  from the coats of arms which covered them. The dark panelling
  glowed like bronze in the golden rays, and it was hard to realise
  that this was indeed the chamber which had struck such a gloom
  into our souls upon the evening before.

  “I guess it is ourselves and not the house that we have to
  blame!” said the baronet. “We were tired with our journey and
  chilled by our drive, so we took a grey view of the place. Now we
  are fresh and well, so it is all cheerful once more.”

  “And yet it was not entirely a question of imagination,” I
  answered. “Did you, for example, happen to hear someone, a woman
  I think, sobbing in the night?”

  “That is curious, for I did when I was half asleep fancy that I
  heard something of the sort. I waited quite a time, but there was
  no more of it, so I concluded that it was all a dream.”

  “I heard it distinctly, and I am sure that it was really the sob
  of a woman.”

  “We must ask about this right away.” He rang the bell and asked
  Barrymore whether he could account for our experience. It seemed
  to me that the pallid features of the butler turned a shade paler
  still as he listened to his master’s question.

  “There are only two women in the house, Sir Henry,” he answered.
  “One is the scullery-maid, who sleeps in the other wing. The
  other is my wife, and I can answer for it that the sound could
  not have come from her.”

  And yet he lied as he said it, for it chanced that after
  breakfast I met Mrs. Barrymore in the long corridor with the sun
  full upon her face. She was a large, impassive, heavy-featured
  woman with a stern set expression of mouth. But her telltale eyes
  were red and glanced at me from between swollen lids. It was she,
  then, who wept in the night, and if she did so her husband must
  know it. Yet he had taken the obvious risk of discovery in
  declaring that it was not so. Why had he done this? And why did
  she weep so bitterly? Already round this pale-faced, handsome,
  black-bearded man there was gathering an atmosphere of mystery
  and of gloom. It was he who had been the first to discover the
  body of Sir Charles, and we had only his word for all the
  circumstances which led up to the old man’s death. Was it
  possible that it was Barrymore, after all, whom we had seen in
  the cab in Regent Street? The beard might well have been the
  same. The cabman had described a somewhat shorter man, but such
  an impression might easily have been erroneous. How could I
  settle the point forever? Obviously the first thing to do was to
  see the Grimpen postmaster and find whether the test telegram had
  really been placed in Barrymore’s own hands. Be the answer what
  it might, I should at least have something to report to Sherlock
  Holmes.

  Sir Henry had numerous papers to examine after breakfast, so that
  the time was propitious for my excursion. It was a pleasant walk
  of four miles along the edge of the moor, leading me at last to a
  small grey hamlet, in which two larger buildings, which proved to
  be the inn and the house of Dr. Mortimer, stood high above the
  rest. The postmaster, who was also the village grocer, had a
  clear recollection of the telegram.

  “Certainly, sir,” said he, “I had the telegram delivered to Mr.
  Barrymore exactly as directed.”

  “Who delivered it?”

  “My boy here. James, you delivered that telegram to Mr. Barrymore
  at the Hall last week, did you not?”

  “Yes, father, I delivered it.”

  “Into his own hands?” I asked.

  “Well, he was up in the loft at the time, so that I could not put
  it into his own hands, but I gave it into Mrs. Barrymore’s hands,
  and she promised to deliver it at once.”

  “Did you see Mr. Barrymore?”

  “No, sir; I tell you he was in the loft.”

  “If you didn’t see him, how do you know he was in the loft?”

  “Well, surely his own wife ought to know where he is,” said the
  postmaster testily. “Didn’t he get the telegram? If there is any
  mistake it is for Mr. Barrymore himself to complain.”

  It seemed hopeless to pursue the inquiry any farther, but it was
  clear that in spite of Holmes’s ruse we had no proof that
  Barrymore had not been in London all the time. Suppose that it
  were so—suppose that the same man had been the last who had seen
  Sir Charles alive, and the first to dog the new heir when he
  returned to England. What then? Was he the agent of others or had
  he some sinister design of his own? What interest could he have
  in persecuting the Baskerville family? I thought of the strange
  warning clipped out of the leading article of the _Times_. Was
  that his work or was it possibly the doing of someone who was
  bent upon counteracting his schemes? The only conceivable motive
  was that which had been suggested by Sir Henry, that if the
  family could be scared away a comfortable and permanent home
  would be secured for the Barrymores. But surely such an
  explanation as that would be quite inadequate to account for the
  deep and subtle scheming which seemed to be weaving an invisible
  net round the young baronet. Holmes himself had said that no more
  complex case had come to him in all the long series of his
  sensational investigations. I prayed, as I walked back along the
  grey, lonely road, that my friend might soon be freed from his
  preoccupations and able to come down to take this heavy burden of
  responsibility from my shoulders.

  Suddenly my thoughts were interrupted by the sound of running
  feet behind me and by a voice which called me by name. I turned,
  expecting to see Dr. Mortimer, but to my surprise it was a
  stranger who was pursuing me. He was a small, slim, clean-shaven,
  prim-faced man, flaxen-haired and lean-jawed, between thirty and
  forty years of age, dressed in a grey suit and wearing a straw
  hat. A tin box for botanical specimens hung over his shoulder and
  he carried a green butterfly-net in one of his hands.

  “You will, I am sure, excuse my presumption, Dr. Watson,” said he
  as he came panting up to where I stood. “Here on the moor we are
  homely folk and do not wait for formal introductions. You may
  possibly have heard my name from our mutual friend, Mortimer. I
  am Stapleton, of Merripit House.”

  “Your net and box would have told me as much,” said I, “for I
  knew that Mr. Stapleton was a naturalist. But how did you know
  me?”

  “I have been calling on Mortimer, and he pointed you out to me
  from the window of his surgery as you passed. As our road lay the
  same way I thought that I would overtake you and introduce
  myself. I trust that Sir Henry is none the worse for his
  journey?”

  “He is very well, thank you.”

  “We were all rather afraid that after the sad death of Sir
  Charles the new baronet might refuse to live here. It is asking
  much of a wealthy man to come down and bury himself in a place of
  this kind, but I need not tell you that it means a very great
  deal to the countryside. Sir Henry has, I suppose, no
  superstitious fears in the matter?”

  “I do not think that it is likely.”

  “Of course you know the legend of the fiend dog which haunts the
  family?”

  “I have heard it.”

  “It is extraordinary how credulous the peasants are about here!
  Any number of them are ready to swear that they have seen such a
  creature upon the moor.” He spoke with a smile, but I seemed to
  read in his eyes that he took the matter more seriously. “The
  story took a great hold upon the imagination of Sir Charles, and
  I have no doubt that it led to his tragic end.”

  “But how?”

  “His nerves were so worked up that the appearance of any dog
  might have had a fatal effect upon his diseased heart. I fancy
  that he really did see something of the kind upon that last night
  in the yew alley. I feared that some disaster might occur, for I
  was very fond of the old man, and I knew that his heart was
  weak.”

  “How did you know that?”

  “My friend Mortimer told me.”

  “You think, then, that some dog pursued Sir Charles, and that he
  died of fright in consequence?”

  “Have you any better explanation?”

  “I have not come to any conclusion.”

  “Has Mr. Sherlock Holmes?”

  The words took away my breath for an instant but a glance at the
  placid face and steadfast eyes of my companion showed that no
  surprise was intended.

  “It is useless for us to pretend that we do not know you, Dr.
  Watson,” said he. “The records of your detective have reached us
  here, and you could not celebrate him without being known
  yourself. When Mortimer told me your name he could not deny your
  identity. If you are here, then it follows that Mr. Sherlock
  Holmes is interesting himself in the matter, and I am naturally
  curious to know what view he may take.”

  “I am afraid that I cannot answer that question.”

  “May I ask if he is going to honour us with a visit himself?”

  “He cannot leave town at present. He has other cases which engage
  his attention.”

  “What a pity! He might throw some light on that which is so dark
  to us. But as to your own researches, if there is any possible
  way in which I can be of service to you I trust that you will
  command me. If I had any indication of the nature of your
  suspicions or how you propose to investigate the case, I might
  perhaps even now give you some aid or advice.”

  “I assure you that I am simply here upon a visit to my friend,
  Sir Henry, and that I need no help of any kind.”

  “Excellent!” said Stapleton. “You are perfectly right to be wary
  and discreet. I am justly reproved for what I feel was an
  unjustifiable intrusion, and I promise you that I will not
  mention the matter again.”

  We had come to a point where a narrow grassy path struck off from
  the road and wound away across the moor. A steep,
  boulder-sprinkled hill lay upon the right which had in bygone
  days been cut into a granite quarry. The face which was turned
  towards us formed a dark cliff, with ferns and brambles growing
  in its niches. From over a distant rise there floated a grey
  plume of smoke.

  “A moderate walk along this moor-path brings us to Merripit
  House,” said he. “Perhaps you will spare an hour that I may have
  the pleasure of introducing you to my sister.”

  My first thought was that I should be by Sir Henry’s side. But
  then I remembered the pile of papers and bills with which his
  study table was littered. It was certain that I could not help
  with those. And Holmes had expressly said that I should study the
  neighbours upon the moor. I accepted Stapleton’s invitation, and
  we turned together down the path.

  “It is a wonderful place, the moor,” said he, looking round over
  the undulating downs, long green rollers, with crests of jagged
  granite foaming up into fantastic surges. “You never tire of the
  moor. You cannot think the wonderful secrets which it contains.
  It is so vast, and so barren, and so mysterious.”

  “You know it well, then?”

  “I have only been here two years. The residents would call me a
  newcomer. We came shortly after Sir Charles settled. But my
  tastes led me to explore every part of the country round, and I
  should think that there are few men who know it better than I
  do.”

  “Is it hard to know?”

  “Very hard. You see, for example, this great plain to the north
  here with the queer hills breaking out of it. Do you observe
  anything remarkable about that?”

  “It would be a rare place for a gallop.”

  “You would naturally think so and the thought has cost several
  their lives before now. You notice those bright green spots
  scattered thickly over it?”

  “Yes, they seem more fertile than the rest.”

  Stapleton laughed. “That is the great Grimpen Mire,” said he. “A
  false step yonder means death to man or beast. Only yesterday I
  saw one of the moor ponies wander into it. He never came out. I
  saw his head for quite a long time craning out of the bog-hole,
  but it sucked him down at last. Even in dry seasons it is a
  danger to cross it, but after these autumn rains it is an awful
  place. And yet I can find my way to the very heart of it and
  return alive. By George, there is another of those miserable
  ponies!”

  Something brown was rolling and tossing among the green sedges.
  Then a long, agonised, writhing neck shot upward and a dreadful
  cry echoed over the moor. It turned me cold with horror, but my
  companion’s nerves seemed to be stronger than mine.

  “It’s gone!” said he. “The mire has him. Two in two days, and
  many more, perhaps, for they get in the way of going there in the
  dry weather and never know the difference until the mire has them
  in its clutches. It’s a bad place, the great Grimpen Mire.”

  “And you say you can penetrate it?”

  “Yes, there are one or two paths which a very active man can
  take. I have found them out.”

  “But why should you wish to go into so horrible a place?”

  “Well, you see the hills beyond? They are really islands cut off
  on all sides by the impassable mire, which has crawled round them
  in the course of years. That is where the rare plants and the
  butterflies are, if you have the wit to reach them.”

  “I shall try my luck some day.”

  He looked at me with a surprised face. “For God’s sake put such
  an idea out of your mind,” said he. “Your blood would be upon my
  head. I assure you that there would not be the least chance of
  your coming back alive. It is only by remembering certain complex
  landmarks that I am able to do it.”

  “Halloa!” I cried. “What is that?”

  A long, low moan, indescribably sad, swept over the moor. It
  filled the whole air, and yet it was impossible to say whence it
  came. From a dull murmur it swelled into a deep roar, and then
  sank back into a melancholy, throbbing murmur once again.
  Stapleton looked at me with a curious expression in his face.

  “Queer place, the moor!” said he.

  “But what is it?”

  “The peasants say it is the Hound of the Baskervilles calling for
  its prey. I’ve heard it once or twice before, but never quite so
  loud.”

  I looked round, with a chill of fear in my heart, at the huge
  swelling plain, mottled with the green patches of rushes. Nothing
  stirred over the vast expanse save a pair of ravens, which
  croaked loudly from a tor behind us.

  “You are an educated man. You don’t believe such nonsense as
  that?” said I. “What do you think is the cause of so strange a
  sound?”

  “Bogs make queer noises sometimes. It’s the mud settling, or the
  water rising, or something.”

  “No, no, that was a living voice.”

  “Well, perhaps it was. Did you ever hear a bittern booming?”

  “No, I never did.”

  “It’s a very rare bird—practically extinct—in England now, but
  all things are possible upon the moor. Yes, I should not be
  surprised to learn that what we have heard is the cry of the last
  of the bitterns.”

  “It’s the weirdest, strangest thing that ever I heard in my
  life.”

  “Yes, it’s rather an uncanny place altogether. Look at the
  hillside yonder. What do you make of those?”

  The whole steep slope was covered with grey circular rings of
  stone, a score of them at least.

  “What are they? Sheep-pens?”

  “No, they are the homes of our worthy ancestors. Prehistoric man
  lived thickly on the moor, and as no one in particular has lived
  there since, we find all his little arrangements exactly as he
  left them. These are his wigwams with the roofs off. You can even
  see his hearth and his couch if you have the curiosity to go
  inside.”

  “But it is quite a town. When was it inhabited?”

  “Neolithic man—no date.”

  “What did he do?”

  “He grazed his cattle on these slopes, and he learned to dig for
  tin when the bronze sword began to supersede the stone axe. Look
  at the great trench in the opposite hill. That is his mark. Yes,
  you will find some very singular points about the moor, Dr.
  Watson. Oh, excuse me an instant! It is surely Cyclopides.”

  A small fly or moth had fluttered across our path, and in an
  instant Stapleton was rushing with extraordinary energy and speed
  in pursuit of it. To my dismay the creature flew straight for the
  great mire, and my acquaintance never paused for an instant,
  bounding from tuft to tuft behind it, his green net waving in the
  air. His grey clothes and jerky, zigzag, irregular progress made
  him not unlike some huge moth himself. I was standing watching
  his pursuit with a mixture of admiration for his extraordinary
  activity and fear lest he should lose his footing in the
  treacherous mire, when I heard the sound of steps and, turning
  round, found a woman near me upon the path. She had come from the
  direction in which the plume of smoke indicated the position of
  Merripit House, but the dip of the moor had hid her until she was
  quite close.

  I could not doubt that this was the Miss Stapleton of whom I had
  been told, since ladies of any sort must be few upon the moor,
  and I remembered that I had heard someone describe her as being a
  beauty. The woman who approached me was certainly that, and of a
  most uncommon type. There could not have been a greater contrast
  between brother and sister, for Stapleton was neutral tinted,
  with light hair and grey eyes, while she was darker than any
  brunette whom I have seen in England—slim, elegant, and tall. She
  had a proud, finely cut face, so regular that it might have
  seemed impassive were it not for the sensitive mouth and the
  beautiful dark, eager eyes. With her perfect figure and elegant
  dress she was, indeed, a strange apparition upon a lonely
  moorland path. Her eyes were on her brother as I turned, and then
  she quickened her pace towards me. I had raised my hat and was
  about to make some explanatory remark when her own words turned
  all my thoughts into a new channel.

  “Go back!” she said. “Go straight back to London, instantly.”

  I could only stare at her in stupid surprise. Her eyes blazed at
  me, and she tapped the ground impatiently with her foot.

  “Why should I go back?” I asked.

  “I cannot explain.” She spoke in a low, eager voice, with a
  curious lisp in her utterance. “But for God’s sake do what I ask
  you. Go back and never set foot upon the moor again.”

  “But I have only just come.”

  “Man, man!” she cried. “Can you not tell when a warning is for
  your own good? Go back to London! Start tonight! Get away from
  this place at all costs! Hush, my brother is coming! Not a word
  of what I have said. Would you mind getting that orchid for me
  among the mare’s-tails yonder? We are very rich in orchids on the
  moor, though, of course, you are rather late to see the beauties
  of the place.”

  Stapleton had abandoned the chase and came back to us breathing
  hard and flushed with his exertions.

  “Halloa, Beryl!” said he, and it seemed to me that the tone of
  his greeting was not altogether a cordial one.

  “Well, Jack, you are very hot.”

  “Yes, I was chasing a Cyclopides. He is very rare and seldom
  found in the late autumn. What a pity that I should have missed
  him!” He spoke unconcernedly, but his small light eyes glanced
  incessantly from the girl to me.

  “You have introduced yourselves, I can see.”

  “Yes. I was telling Sir Henry that it was rather late for him to
  see the true beauties of the moor.”

  “Why, who do you think this is?”

  “I imagine that it must be Sir Henry Baskerville.”

  “No, no,” said I. “Only a humble commoner, but his friend. My
  name is Dr. Watson.”

  A flush of vexation passed over her expressive face. “We have
  been talking at cross purposes,” said she.

  “Why, you had not very much time for talk,” her brother remarked
  with the same questioning eyes.

  “I talked as if Dr. Watson were a resident instead of being
  merely a visitor,” said she. “It cannot much matter to him
  whether it is early or late for the orchids. But you will come
  on, will you not, and see Merripit House?”

  A short walk brought us to it, a bleak moorland house, once the
  farm of some grazier in the old prosperous days, but now put into
  repair and turned into a modern dwelling. An orchard surrounded
  it, but the trees, as is usual upon the moor, were stunted and
  nipped, and the effect of the whole place was mean and
  melancholy. We were admitted by a strange, wizened, rusty-coated
  old manservant, who seemed in keeping with the house. Inside,
  however, there were large rooms furnished with an elegance in
  which I seemed to recognize the taste of the lady. As I looked
  from their windows at the interminable granite-flecked moor
  rolling unbroken to the farthest horizon I could not but marvel
  at what could have brought this highly educated man and this
  beautiful woman to live in such a place.

  “Queer spot to choose, is it not?” said he as if in answer to my
  thought. “And yet we manage to make ourselves fairly happy, do we
  not, Beryl?”

  “Quite happy,” said she, but there was no ring of conviction in
  her words.

  “I had a school,” said Stapleton. “It was in the north country.
  The work to a man of my temperament was mechanical and
  uninteresting, but the privilege of living with youth, of helping
  to mould those young minds, and of impressing them with one’s own
  character and ideals was very dear to me. However, the fates were
  against us. A serious epidemic broke out in the school and three
  of the boys died. It never recovered from the blow, and much of
  my capital was irretrievably swallowed up. And yet, if it were
  not for the loss of the charming companionship of the boys, I
  could rejoice over my own misfortune, for, with my strong tastes
  for botany and zoology, I find an unlimited field of work here,
  and my sister is as devoted to Nature as I am. All this, Dr.
  Watson, has been brought upon your head by your expression as you
  surveyed the moor out of our window.”

  “It certainly did cross my mind that it might be a little
  dull—less for you, perhaps, than for your sister.”

  “No, no, I am never dull,” said she quickly.

  “We have books, we have our studies, and we have interesting
  neighbours. Dr. Mortimer is a most learned man in his own line.
  Poor Sir Charles was also an admirable companion. We knew him
  well and miss him more than I can tell. Do you think that I
  should intrude if I were to call this afternoon and make the
  acquaintance of Sir Henry?”

  “I am sure that he would be delighted.”

  “Then perhaps you would mention that I propose to do so. We may
  in our humble way do something to make things more easy for him
  until he becomes accustomed to his new surroundings. Will you
  come upstairs, Dr. Watson, and inspect my collection of
  Lepidoptera? I think it is the most complete one in the
  south-west of England. By the time that you have looked through
  them lunch will be almost ready.”

  But I was eager to get back to my charge. The melancholy of the
  moor, the death of the unfortunate pony, the weird sound which
  had been associated with the grim legend of the Baskervilles, all
  these things tinged my thoughts with sadness. Then on the top of
  these more or less vague impressions there had come the definite
  and distinct warning of Miss Stapleton, delivered with such
  intense earnestness that I could not doubt that some grave and
  deep reason lay behind it. I resisted all pressure to stay for
  lunch, and I set off at once upon my return journey, taking the
  grass-grown path by which we had come.

  It seems, however, that there must have been some short cut for
  those who knew it, for before I had reached the road I was
  astounded to see Miss Stapleton sitting upon a rock by the side
  of the track. Her face was beautifully flushed with her exertions
  and she held her hand to her side.

  “I have run all the way in order to cut you off, Dr. Watson,”
  said she. “I had not even time to put on my hat. I must not stop,
  or my brother may miss me. I wanted to say to you how sorry I am
  about the stupid mistake I made in thinking that you were Sir
  Henry. Please forget the words I said, which have no application
  whatever to you.”

  “But I can’t forget them, Miss Stapleton,” said I. “I am Sir
  Henry’s friend, and his welfare is a very close concern of mine.
  Tell me why it was that you were so eager that Sir Henry should
  return to London.”

  “A woman’s whim, Dr. Watson. When you know me better you will
  understand that I cannot always give reasons for what I say or
  do.”

  “No, no. I remember the thrill in your voice. I remember the look
  in your eyes. Please, please, be frank with me, Miss Stapleton,
  for ever since I have been here I have been conscious of shadows
  all round me. Life has become like that great Grimpen Mire, with
  little green patches everywhere into which one may sink and with
  no guide to point the track. Tell me then what it was that you
  meant, and I will promise to convey your warning to Sir Henry.”

  An expression of irresolution passed for an instant over her
  face, but her eyes had hardened again when she answered me.

  “You make too much of it, Dr. Watson,” said she. “My brother and
  I were very much shocked by the death of Sir Charles. We knew him
  very intimately, for his favourite walk was over the moor to our
  house. He was deeply impressed with the curse which hung over the
  family, and when this tragedy came I naturally felt that there
  must be some grounds for the fears which he had expressed. I was
  distressed therefore when another member of the family came down
  to live here, and I felt that he should be warned of the danger
  which he will run. That was all which I intended to convey.”

  “But what is the danger?”

  “You know the story of the hound?”

  “I do not believe in such nonsense.”

  “But I do. If you have any influence with Sir Henry, take him
  away from a place which has always been fatal to his family. The
  world is wide. Why should he wish to live at the place of
  danger?”

  “Because it _is_ the place of danger. That is Sir Henry’s nature.
  I fear that unless you can give me some more definite information
  than this it would be impossible to get him to move.”

  “I cannot say anything definite, for I do not know anything
  definite.”

  “I would ask you one more question, Miss Stapleton. If you meant
  no more than this when you first spoke to me, why should you not
  wish your brother to overhear what you said? There is nothing to
  which he, or anyone else, could object.”

  “My brother is very anxious to have the Hall inhabited, for he
  thinks it is for the good of the poor folk upon the moor. He
  would be very angry if he knew that I have said anything which
  might induce Sir Henry to go away. But I have done my duty now
  and I will say no more. I must go back, or he will miss me and
  suspect that I have seen you. Good-bye!” She turned and had
  disappeared in a few minutes among the scattered boulders, while
  I, with my soul full of vague fears, pursued my way to
  Baskerville Hall.