Sherlock Holmes complete collection by sir arthur conan doyle

The Hound of the Baskervilles Chapter 14 THE HOUND OF THE BASKERVILLES

ONE of Sherlock Holmes's defects-if, indeed, one may call it a defect-was that he was exceedingly loath to communicate his full plans to anyother person until the instant of their fulfilment. Partly it came no doubtfrom his own masterful nature, which loved to dominate and surprisethose who were around him. Partly also from his professional caution,which urged him never to take any chances. The result, however, wasvery trying for those who were acting as his agents and assistants. I hadoften suffered under it, but never more so than during that long drive inthe darkness. The great ordeal was in front of us; at last we were about tomake our final effort, and yet Holmes had said nothing, and I could onlysurmise what his course of action would be. My nerves thrilled withanticipation when at last the cold wind upon our faces and the dark, voidspaces on either side of the narrow road told me that we were back uponthe moor once again. Every stride of the horses and every turn of thewheels was taking us nearer to our supreme adventure.Our conversation was hampered by the presence of the driver of thehired wagonette, so that we were forced to talk of trivial matters when ournerves were tense with emotion and anticipation. It was a relief to me,after that unnatural restraint, when we at last passed Frankland's houseand knew that we were drawing near to the Hall and to the scene ofaction. We did not drive up to the door but got down near the gate of theavenue. The wagonette was paid off and ordered to return to CoombeTracey forthwith, while we started to walk to Merripit House."Are you armed, Lestrade?"The little detective smiled."As long as I have my trousers I have a hip-pocket, and as long as Ihave my hip-pocket I have something in it.""Good! My friend and I are also ready for emergencies."[755] "You're mighty close about this affair, Mr. Holmes. What's thegame now?""A waiting game.""My word, it does not seem a very cheerful place," said the detectivewith a shiver, glancing round him at the gloomy slopes of the hill and atthe huge lake of fog which lay over the Grimpen Mire. "I see the lights ofa house ahead of us.""That is Merripit House and the end of our journey. I must request youto walk on tiptoe and not to talk above a whisper."We moved cautiously along the track as if we were bound for thehouse, but Holmes halted us when we were about two hundred yards from it."This will do," said he. "These rocks upon the right make an admirablescreen.""We are to wait here?""Yes, we shall make our little ambush here. Get into this hollow,Lestrade. You have been inside the house, have you not, Watson? Canyou tell the position of the rooms? What are those latticed windows at thisend?""I think they are the kitchen windows.""And the one beyond, which shines so brightly?""That is certainly the dining-room.""The blinds are up. You know the lie of the land best. Creep forwardquietly and see what they are doing-but for heaven's sake don't let themknow that they are watched!"I tiptoed down the path and stooped behind the low wall whichsurrounded the stunted orchard. Creeping in its shadow I reached a pointwhence I could look straight through the uncurtained window.There were only two men in the room, Sir Henry and Stapleton. Theysat with their profiles towards me on either side of the round table. Bothof them were smoking cigars, and coffee and wine were in front of them.Stapleton was talking with animation, but the baronet looked pale anddistrait. Perhaps the thought of that lonely walk across the ill-omenedmoor was weighing heavily upon his mind.As I watched them Stapleton rose and left the room, while Sir Henryfilled his glass again and leaned back in his chair, puffing at his cigar. Iheard the creak of a door and the crisp sound of boots upon gravel. Thesteps passed along the path on the other side of the wall under which Icrouched. Looking over, I saw the naturalist pause at the door of an outhouse in the corner of the orchard. A key turned in a lock, and as hepassed in there was a curious scuffling noise from within. He was only aminute or so inside, and then I heard the key turn once more and hepassed me and reentered the house. I saw him rejoin his guest, and I creptquietly back to where my companions were waiting to tell them what Ihad seen."You say, Watson, that the lady is not there?" Holmes asked when Ihad finished my report."No.""Where can she be, then, since there is no light in any other roomexcept the kitchen?""I cannot think where she is."I have said that over the great Grimpen Mire there hung a dense, whitefog. It was drifting slowly in our direction and banked itself up like a wallon that side of us, low but thick and well defined. The moon shone on it,and it looked like a great shimmering ice-field, with the heads of thedistant tors as rocks borne upon its surface. Holmes's face was turnedtowards it, and he muttered impatiently as he watched its sluggish drift.[756] "It's moving towards us, Watson.""Is that serious?""Very serious, indeed-the one thing upon earth which could havedisarranged my plans. He can't be very long, now. It is already teno'clock. Our success and even his life may depend upon his coming outbefore the fog is over the path."The night was clear and fine above us. The stars shone cold and bright,while a half-moon bathed the whole scene in a soft, uncertain light.Before us lay the dark bulk of the house, its serrated roof and bristlingchimneys hard outlined against the silver-spangled sky. Broad bars ofgolden light from the lower windows stretched across the orchard and themoor. One of them was suddenly shut off. The servants had left thekitchen. There only remained the lamp in the dining-room where the twomen, the murderous host and the unconscious guest, still chatted overtheir cigars.Every minute that white woolly plain which covered one-half of themoor was drifting closer and closer to the house. Already the first thinwisps of it were curling across the golden square of the lighted window.The farther wall of the orchard was already invisible, and the trees were standing out of a swirl of white vapour. As we watched it the fog-wreathscame crawling round both corners of the house and rolled slowly into onedense bank, on which the upper floor and the roof floated like a strangeship upon a shadowy sea. Holmes struck his hand passionately upon therock in front of us and stamped his feet in his impatience."If he isn't out in a quarter of an hour the path will be covered. In halfan hour we won't be able to see our hands in front of us.""Shall we move farther back upon higher ground?""Yes, I think it would be as well."So as the fog-bank flowed onward we fell back before it until we werehalf a mile from the house, and still that dense white sea, with the moonsilvering its upper edge, swept slowly and inexorably on."We are going too far," said Holmes. "We dare not take the chance ofhis being overtaken before he can reach us. At all costs we must hold ourground where we are." He dropped on his knees and clapped his ear to theground. "Thank God, I think that I hear him coming."A sound of quick steps broke the silence of the moor. Crouching amongthe stones we stared intently at the silver-tipped bank in front of us. Thesteps grew louder, and through the fog, as through a curtain, there steppedthe man whom we were awaiting. He looked round him in surprise as heemerged into the clear, starlit night. Then he came swiftly along the path,passed close to where we lay, and went on up the long slope behind us.As he walked he glanced continually over either shoulder, like a man whois ill at ease. "Hist!" cried Holmes, and I heard the sharp click of a cocking pistol."Look out! It's coming!"There was a thin, crisp, continuous patter from somewhere in the heartof that crawling bank. The cloud was within fifty yards of where we lay,and we glared at it, all three, uncertain what horror was about to breakfrom the heart of it. I was at Holmes's elbow, and I glanced for an instantat his face. It was pale and exultant, his eyes shining brightly in themoonlight. But suddenly they started forward in a rigid, fixed stare, andhis lips parted in amazement. At the same instant Lestrade gave a yell ofterror and threw himself face downward upon the ground. I sprang to myfeet, my inert hand grasping my pistol, my mind paralyzed by [757] thedreadful shape which had sprung out upon us from the shadows of thefog. A hound it was, an enormous coal-black hound, but not such a houndas mortal eyes have ever seen. Fire burst from its open mouth, its eyesglowed with a smouldering glare, its muzzle and hackles and dewlap wereoutlined in flickering flame. Never in the delirious dream of a disorderedbrain could anything more savage, more appalling, more hellish beconceived than that dark form and savage face which broke upon us outof the wall of fog.With long bounds the huge black creature was leaping down the track,following hard upon the footsteps of our friend. So paralyzed were we by the apparition that we allowed him to pass before we had recovered ournerve. Then Holmes and I both fired together, and the creature gave ahideous howl, which showed that one at least had hit him. He did notpause, however, but bounded onward. Far away on the path we saw SirHenry looking back, his face white in the moonlight, his hands raised inhorror, glaring helplessly at the frightful thing which was hunting himdown.But that cry of pain from the hound had blown all our fears to thewinds. If he was vulnerable he was mortal, and if we could wound himwe could kill him. Never have I seen a man run as Holmes ran that night.I am reckoned fleet of foot, but he outpaced me as much as I outpaced thelittle professional. In front of us as we flew up the track we heard screamafter scream from Sir Henry and the deep roar of the hound. I was in timeto see the beast spring upon its victim, hurl him to the ground, and worryat his throat. But the next instant Holmes had emptied five barrels of hisrevolver into the creature's flank. With a last howl of agony and a vicioussnap in the air, it rolled upon its back, four feet pawing furiously, and thenfell limp upon its side. I stooped, panting, and pressed my pistol to thedreadful, shimmering head, but it was useless to press the trigger. Thegiant hound was dead.Sir Henry lay insensible where he had fallen. We tore away his collar, and Holmes breathed a prayer of gratitude when we saw that there was nosign of a wound and that the rescue had been in time. Already our friend'seyelids shivered and he made a feeble effort to move. Lestrade thrust hisbrandy-flask between the baronet's teeth, and two frightened eyes werelooking up at us."My God!" he whispered. "What was it? What, in heaven's name, wasit?""It's dead, whatever it is," said Holmes. "We've laid the family ghostonce and forever."In mere size and strength it was a terrible creature which was lyingstretched before us. It was not a pure bloodhound and it was not a puremastiff; but it appeared to be a combination of the two-gaunt, savage, andas large as a small lioness. Even now, in the stillness of death, the hugejaws seemed to be dripping with a bluish flame and the small, deep-set,cruel eyes were ringed with fire. I placed my hand upon the glowingmuzzle, and as I held them up my own fingers smouldered and gleamedin the darkness."Phosphorus," I said."A cunning preparation of it," said Holmes, sniffing at the dead animal."There is no smell which might have interfered with his power of scent.We owe you a deep apology, Sir Henry, for having exposed you to thisfright. I was prepared for a hound, but not for such a creature as this. Andthe fog gave us little time to receive him." "You have saved my life.""Having first endangered it. Are you strong enough to stand?"[758] "Give me another mouthful of that brandy and I shall be ready foranything. So! Now, if you will help me up. What do you propose to do?""To leave you here. You are not fit for further adventures to-night. Ifyou will wait, one or other of us will go back with you to the Hall."He tried to stagger to his feet; but he was still ghastly pale andtrembling in every limb. We helped him to a rock, where he sat shiveringwith his face buried in his hands."We must leave you now," said Holmes. "The rest of our work must bedone, and every moment is of importance. We have our case, and now weonly want our man."It's a thousand to one against our finding him at the house," hecontinued as we retraced our steps swiftly down the path. "Those shotsmust have told him that the game was up.""We were some distance off, and this fog may have deadened them.""He followed the hound to call him off-of that you may be certain. No,no, he's gone by this time! But we'll search the house and make sure."The front door was open, so we rushed in and hurried from room toroom to the amazement of a doddering old manservant, who met us in thepassage. There was no light save in the dining-room, but Holmes caughtup the lamp and left no corner of the house unexplored. No sign could wesee of the man whom we were chasing. On the upper floor, however, oneof the bedroom doors was locked."There's someone in here," cried Lestrade. "I can hear a movement.Open this door!"A faint moaning and rustling came from within. Holmes struck the doorjust over the lock with the flat of his foot and it flew open. Pistol in hand,we all three rushed into the room.But there was no sign within it of that desperate and defiant villainwhom we expected to see. Instead we were faced by an object so strangeand so unexpected that we stood for a moment staring at it in amazement.The room had been fashioned into a small museum, and the walls werelined by a number of glass-topped cases full of that collection ofbutterflies and moths the formation of which had been the relaxation ofthis complex and dangerous man. In the centre of this room there was anupright beam, which had been placed at some period as a support for theold worm-eaten baulk of timber which spanned the roof. To this post afigure was tied, so swathed and muffled in the sheets which had beenused to secure it that one could not for the moment tell whether it was thatof a man or a woman. One towel passed round the throat and was securedat the back of the pillar. Another covered the lower part of the face, andover it two dark eyes-eyes full of grief and shame and a dreadfulquestioning-stared back at us. In a minute we had torn off the gag,unswathed the bonds, and Mrs. Stapleton sank upon the floor in front ofus. As her beautiful head fell upon her chest I saw the clear red weal of awhiplash across her neck."The brute!" cried Holmes. "Here, Lestrade, your brandy-bottle! Puther in the chair! She has fainted from ill-usage and exhaustion."She opened her eyes again."Is he safe?" she asked. "Has he escaped?""He cannot escape us, madam.""No, no, I did not mean my husband. Sir Henry? Is he safe?""Yes."[759] "And the hound?""It is dead."She gave a long sigh of satisfaction."Thank God! Thank God! Oh, this villain! See how he has treated me!"She shot her arms out from her sleeves, and we saw with horror that theywere all mottled with bruises. "But this is nothing-nothing! It is my mindand soul that he has tortured and defiled. I could endure it all, ill-usage,solitude, a life of deception, everything, as long as I could still cling to thehope that I had his love, but now I know that in this also I have been hisdupe and his tool." She broke into passionate sobbing as she spoke."You bear him no good will, madam," said Holmes. "Tell us thenwhere we shall find him. If you have ever aided him in evil, help us nowand so atone.""There is but one place where he can have fled," she answered. "Thereis an old tin mine on an island in the heart of the mire. It was there that hekept his hound and there also he had made preparations so that he mighthave a refuge. That is where he would fly."The fog-bank lay like white wool against the window. Holmes held thelamp towards it. "See," said he. "No one could find his way into the Grimpen Mire tonight."She laughed and clapped her hands. Her eyes and teeth gleamed withfierce merriment."He may find his way in, but never out," she cried. "How can he seethe guiding wands to-night? We planted them together, he and I, to markthe pathway through the mire. Oh, if I could only have plucked them outto-day. Then indeed you would have had him at your mercy!"It was evident to us that all pursuit was in vain until the fog had lifted.Meanwhile we left Lestrade in possession of the house while Holmes andI went back with the baronet to Baskerville Hall. The story of theStapletons could no longer be withheld from him, but he took the blowbravely when he learned the truth about the woman whom he had loved.But the shock of the night's adventures had shattered his nerves, andbefore morning he lay delirious in a high fever under the care of Dr.Mortimer. The two of them were destined to travel together round theworld before Sir Henry had become once more the hale, hearty man thathe had been before he became master of that ill-omened estate.And now I come rapidly to the conclusion of this singular narrative, inwhich I have tried to make the reader share those dark fears and vaguesurmises which clouded our lives so long and ended in so tragic a manner.On the morning after the death of the hound the fog had lifted and wewere guided by Mrs. Stapleton to the point where they had found apathway through the bog. It helped us to realize the horror of thiswoman's life when we saw the eagerness and joy with which she laid uson her husband's track. We left her standing upon the thin peninsula offirm, peaty soil which tapered out into the widespread bog. From the endof it a small wand planted here and there showed where the pathzigzagged from tuft to tuft of rushes among those green-scummed pitsand foul quagmires which barred the way to the stranger. Rank reeds andlush, slimy water-plants sent an odour of decay and a heavy miasmaticvapour onto our faces, while a false step plunged us more than once thighdeep into the dark, quivering mire, which [760] shook for yards in softundulations around our feet. Its tenacious grip plucked at our heels as wewalked, and when we sank into it it was as if some malignant hand wastugging us down into those obscene depths, so grim and purposeful wasthe clutch in which it held us. Once only we saw a trace that someone hadpassed that perilous way before us. From amid a tuft of cotton-grasswhich bore it up out of the slime some dark thing was projecting. Holmessank to his waist as he stepped from the path to seize it, and had we notbeen there to drag him out he could never have set his foot upon firm landagain. He held an old black boot in the air. "Meyers, Toronto," wasprinted on the leather inside."It is worth a mud bath," said he. "It is our friend Sir Henry's missingboot.""Thrown there by Stapleton in his flight.""Exactly. He retained it in his hand after using it to set the hound uponthe track. He fled when he knew the game was up, still clutching it. Andhe hurled it away at this point of his flight. We know at least that he cameso far in safety."But more than that we were never destined to know, though there wasmuch which we might surmise. There was no chance of finding footstepsin the mire, for the rising mud oozed swiftly in upon them, but as we atlast reached firmer ground beyond the morass we all looked eagerly forthem. But no slightest sign of them ever met our eyes. If the earth told atrue story, then Stapleton never reached that island of refuge towardswhich he struggled through the fog upon that last night. Somewhere in theheart of the great Grimpen Mire, down in the foul slime of the hugemorass which had sucked him in, this cold and cruel-hearted man isforever buried.Many traces we found of him in the bog-girt island where he had hidhis savage ally. A huge driving-wheel and a shaft half-filled with rubbishshowed the position of an abandoned mine. Beside it were the crumblingremains of the cottages of the miners, driven away no doubt by the foulreek of the surrounding swamp. In one of these a staple and chain with aquantity of gnawed bones showed where the animal had been confined. Askeleton with a tangle of brown hair adhering to it lay among the débris."A dog!" said Holmes. "By Jove, a curly-haired spaniel. Poor Mortimerwill never see his pet again. Well, I do not know that this place containsany secret which we have not already fathomed. He could hide his hound,but he could not hush its voice, and hence came those cries which even indaylight were not pleasant to hear. On an emergency he could keep thehound in the out-house at Merripit, but it was always a risk, and it wasonly on the supreme day, which he regarded as the end of all his efforts,that he dared do it. This paste in the tin is no doubt the luminous mixturewith which the creature was daubed. It was suggested, of course, by thestory of the family hell-hound, and by the desire to frighten old SirCharles to death. No wonder the poor devil of a convict ran and screamed,even as our friend did, and as we ourselves might have done, when hesaw such a creature bounding through the darkness of the moor upon histrack. It was a cunning device, for, apart from the chance of driving yourvictim to his death, what peasant would venture to inquire too closely intosuch a creature should he get sight of it, as many have done, upon themoor? I said it in London, Watson, and I say it again now, that never yethave we helped to hunt down a more dangerous man than he who is lyingyonder"-he swept his long arm towards the huge mottled expanse ofgreen-splotched bog which stretched away until it merged into the russetslopes of the moor.