Sherlock Holmes - Hound of the Baskervilles

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Chapter 11
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Chapter 11 - The Man on the Tor

The extract from my private diary which forms the last chapter has brought my
narrative up to the eighteenth of October, a time when these strange events began
to move swiftly towards their terrible conclusion. The incidents of the next few days
are indelibly graven upon my recollection, and I can tell them without reference to
the notes made at the time. I start them from the day which succeeded that upon
which I had established two facts of great importance, the one that Mrs. Laura
Lyons of Coombe Tracey had written to Sir Charles Baskerville and made an
appointment with him at the very place and hour that he met his death, the other
that the lurking man upon the moor was to be found among the stone huts upon the
hillside. With these two facts in my possession I felt that either my intelligence or
my courage must be deficient if I could not throw some further light upon these
dark places.

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

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

The first impression left by Mrs. Lyons was one of extreme beauty. Her eyes and
hair were of the same rich hazel colour, and her cheeks, though considerably
freckled, were flushed with the exquisite bloom of the brunette, the dainty pink
which lurks at the heart of the sulphur rose. Admiration was, I repeat, the first
impression. But the second was criticism. There was something subtly wrong with
the face, some coarseness of expression, some hardness, perhaps, of eye, some
looseness of lip which marred its perfect beauty. But these, of course, are
after-thoughts. At the moment I was simply conscious that I was in the presence of
a very handsome woman, and that she was asking me the reasons for my visit. I
had not quite understood until that instant how delicate my mission was.

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

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

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

The freckles started out on the lady's face.

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

"You knew him, did you not?"

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

"Did you correspond with him?"

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

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

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

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

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

"Did you correspond with Sir Charles?"

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

"Have you the dates of those letters?"

"No."

"Have you ever met him?"

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

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

She met my difficulty with the utmost readiness.

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

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

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

Mrs. Lyons flushed with anger again.

"Really, sir, this is a very extraordinary question."

"I am sorry, madam, but I must repeat it."

"Then I answer, certainly not."

"Not on the very day of Sir Charles's death?"

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes, I did write it," she cried, pouring out her soul in a torrent of words. "I did write
it. Why should I deny it? I have no reason to be ashamed of it. I wished him to help
me. I believed that if I had an interview I could gain his help, so I asked him to meet
me."

"But why at such an hour?"

"Because I had only just learned that he was going to London next day and might
be away for months. There were reasons why I could not get there earlier."

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

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

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

"I never went."

"Mrs. Lyons!"

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

"What was that?"

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

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

"That is the truth."

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

"Mrs. Lyons," said I as I rose from this long and inconclusive interview, "you are
taking a very great responsibility and putting yourself in a very false position by not
making an absolutely clean breast of all that you know. If I have to call in the aid of
the police you will find how seriously you are compromised. If your position is
innocent, why did you in the first instance deny having written to Sir Charles upon
that date?"

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

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

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

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

"You quoted some of it."

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

"The matter is a very private one."

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

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

"I have heard so much."

"My life has been one incessant persecution from a husband whom I abhor. The
law is upon his side, and every day I am faced by the possibility that he may force
me to live with him. At the time that I wrote this letter to Sir Charles I had learned
that there was a prospect of my regaining my freedom if certain expenses could
be met. It meant everything to me -- peace of mind, happiness, self-respect --
everything. I knew Sir Charles's generosity, and I thought that if he heard the story
from my own lips he would help me."

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

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

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

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

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

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

And that was a most vague direction. I realized it as I drove back and noted how
hill after hill showed traces of the ancient people. Barrymore's only indication had
been that the stranger lived in one of these abandoned huts, and many hundreds
of them are scattered throughout the length and breadth of the moor. But I had my
own experience for a guide since it had shown me the man himself standing upon
the summit of the Black Tor. That, then, should be the centre of my search. From
there I should explore every hut upon the moor until I lighted upon the right one. If
this man were inside it I should find out from his own lips, at the point of my
revolver if necessary, who he was and why he had dogged us so long. He might
slip away from us in the crowd of Regent Street, but it would puzzle him to do so
upon the lonely moor. On the other hand, if I should find the hut and its tenant
should not be within it I must remain there, however long the vigil, until he returned.
Holmes had missed him in London. It would indeed be a triumph for me if I could
run him to earth where my master had failed.

Luck had been against us again and again in this inquiry, but now at last it came to
my aid. And the messenger of good fortune was none other than Mr. Frankland,
who was standing, gray-whiskered and red-faced, outside the gate of bis garden,
which opened on to the highroad along which I travelled.

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

My feelings towards him were very far from being friendly after what I had heard of
his treatment of his daughter, but I was anxious to send Perkins and the wagonette
home, and the opportunity was a good one. I alighted and sent a message to Sir
Henry that I should walk over in time for dinner. Then I followed Frankland into his
dining-room.

"It is a great day for me, sir -- one of the red-letter days of my life," he cried with
many chuckles. "I have brought off a double event. I mean to teach them in these
parts that law is law, and that there is a man here who does not fear to invoke it. I
have established a right of way through the centre of old Middleton's park, slap
across it, sir, within a hundred yards of his own front door. What do you think of
that? We'll teach these magnates that they cannot ride roughshod over the rights
of the commoners, confound them! And I've closed the wood where the Fernworthy
folk used to picnic. These infernal people seem to think that there are no rights of
property, and that they can swarm where they like with their papers and their
bottles. Both cases decided Dr. Watson, and both in my favour. I haven't had such
a day since I had Sir John Morland for trespass because he shot in his own
warren."

"How on earth did you do that?"

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

"Did it do you any good?"

"None, sir, none. I am proud to say that I had no interest in the matter. I act entirely
from a sense of public duty. I have no doubt, for example, that the Fernworthy
people will burn me in effigy to-night. I told the police last time they did it that they
should stop these disgraceful exhibitions. The County Constabulary is in a
scandalous state, sir, and it has not afforded me the protection to which I am
entitled. The case of Frankland v. Regina will bring the matter before the attention
of the public. I told them that they would have occasion to regret their treatment of
me, and already my words have come true."

"How so?" I asked.

The oId man put on a very knowing expression.

"Because I could tell them what they are dying to know; but nothing would induce
me to help the rascals in any way."

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

"Some poaching case, no doubt?" said I with an indifferent manner~

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

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

"I may not know exactly where he is, but I am quite sure that I could help the police
to lay their hands on him. Has it never struck you that the way to catch that man
was to find out where he got his food and so trace it to him?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I meekly answered that I had spoken without knowing all the facts. My submission
pleased him and led him to further confidences.

"You may be sure, sir, that I have very good grounds before I come to an opinion. I
have seen the boy again and again with his bundle. Every day, and sometimes
twice a day, I have been able -- but wait a moment, Dr. Watson. Do my eyes
deceive me, or is there at the present moment something moving upon that
hillside?"

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

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

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

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

There he was, sure enough, a small urchin with a little bundle upon his shoulder,
toiling slowly up the hill. When he reached the crest I saw the ragged uncouth
figure outlined for an instant against the cold blue sky. He looked round him with a
furtive and stealthy air, as one who dreads pursuit. Then he vanished over the hill.

"Well! Am I right?"

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

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

"Just as you wish."

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

But I resisted all his solicitations and succeeded in dissuading him from his
announced intention of walking home with me. I kept the road as long as his eye
was on me, and then I struck off across the moor and made for the stony hill over
which the boy had disappeared. Everything was working in my favour, and I swore
that it should not be through lack of energy or perseverance that I should miss the
chance which fortune had thrown in my way.

The sun was already sinking when I reached the summit of the hill, and the long
slopes beneath me were all golden-green on one side and gray shadow on the
other. A haze lay low upon the farthest sky-line, out of which jutted the fantastic
shapes of Belliver and Vixen Tor. Over the wide expanse there was no sound and
no movement. One great gray bird, a gull or curlew, soared aloft in the blue
heaven. He and I seemed to be the only living things between the huge arch of the
sky and the desert beneath it. The barren scene, the sense of loneliness, and the
mystery and urgency of my task all struck a chill into my heart. The boy was
nowhere to be seen. But down beneath me in a cleft of the hills there was a circle
of the old stone huts, and in the middle of them there was one which retained
sufficient roof to act as a screen against the weather. My heart leaped within me
as I saw it. This must be the burrow where the stranger lurked. At last my foot was
on the threshold of his hiding place -- his secret was within my grasp.

As I approached the hut, walking as warily as Stapleton would do when with
poised net he drew near the settled butterfly, I satisfied myself that the place had
indeed been used as a habitation. A vague pathway among the boulders led to
the dilapidated opening which served as a door. All was silent within. The
unknown might be lurking there, or he might be prowling on the moor. My nerves
tingled with the sense of adventure. Throwing aside my cigarette, I closed my hand
upon the butt of my revolver and, walking swiftly up to the door, I looked in. The
place was empty.

But there were ample signs that I had not come upon a false scent. This was
certainly where the man lived. Some blankets rolled in a waterproof lay upon that
very stone slab upon which neolithic man had once slumbered. The ashes of a fire
were heaped in a rude grate. Beside it lay some cooking utensils and a bucket
half-full of water. A litter of empty tins showed that the place had been occupied for
some time, and I saw, as my eyes became accustomed to the checkered light, a
pannikin and a half-full bottle of spirits standing in the corner. In the middle of the
hut a flat stone served the purpose of a table, and upon this stood a small cloth
bundle -- the same, no doubt, which I had seen through the telescope upon the
shoulder of the boy. It contained a loaf of bread, a tinned tongue, and two tins of
preserved peaches. As I set it down again, after having examined it, my heart
leaped to see that beneath it there lay a sheet of paper with writing upon it. I raised
it, and this was what I read, roughly scrawled in pencil: "Dr. Watson has gone to
Coombe Tracey."

For a minute I stood there with the paper in my hands thinking out the meaning of
this curt message. It was I, then, and not Sir Henry, who was being aogged by this
secret man. He had not followed me himself, but he had set an agent -- the boy,
perhaps -- upon my track, and this was his report. Possibly I had taken no step
since I had been upon the moor which had not been observed and reported.
Always there was this feeling of an unseen force, a fine net drawn round us with
infinite skill and delicacy, holding us so lightly that it was only at some supreme
moment that one realized that one was indeed-entangled in its meshes.

If there was one report there might be others, so I looked round the hut in search of
them. There was no trace, however, of anything of the kind, nor could I discover
any sign which might indicate the character or intentions of the man who lived in
this singular place, save that he must be of Spartan habits and cared little for the
comforts of life. When I thought of the heavy rains and looked at the gaping roof I
understood how strong and immutable must be the purpose which had kept him in
that inhospitable abode. Was he our malignant enemy, or was he by chance our
guardian angel? I swore that I would not leave the hut until I knew.

Outside the sun was sinking low and the west was blazing with scarlet and gold. Its
reflection was shot back in ruddy patches by the distant pools which lay amid the
great Grimpen Mire. There were the two towers of Baskerville Hall, and there a
distant blur of smoke which marked the village of Grimpen. Between the two,
behind the hill, was the house of the Stapletons. All was sweet and mellow and
peaceful in the golden evening light, and yet as I looked at them my soul shared
none of the peace of Nature but quivered at the vagueness and the terror of that
interview which every instant was bringing nearer. With tingling nerves but a fixed
purpose, I sat in the dark recess of the hut and waited with sombre patience for
the coming of its tenant.

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

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

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