บทที่ บทที่ 12 · Death on the Moor

. Death on the Moor

For a moment or two I sat breathless, hardly able to believe my

ears. Then my senses and my voice came back to me, while a

crushing weight of responsibility seemed in an instant to be

lifted from my soul. That cold, incisive, ironical voice could

belong to but one man in all the world.

“Holmes!” I cried—“Holmes!”

“Come out,” said he, “and please be careful with the revolver.”

I stooped under the rude lintel, and there he sat upon a stone

outside, his grey eyes dancing with amusement as they fell upon

my astonished features. He was thin and worn, but clear and

alert, his keen face bronzed by the sun and roughened by the

wind. In his tweed suit and cloth cap he looked like any other

tourist upon the moor, and he had contrived, with that catlike

love of personal cleanliness which was one of his

characteristics, that his chin should be as smooth and his linen

as perfect as if he were in Baker Street.

“I never was more glad to see anyone in my life,” said I as I

wrung him by the hand.

“Or more astonished, eh?”

“Well, I must confess to it.”

“The surprise was not all on one side, I assure you. I had no

idea that you had found my occasional retreat, still less that

you were inside it, until I was within twenty paces of the door.”

“My footprint, I presume?”

“No, Watson, I fear that I could not undertake to recognize your

footprint amid all the footprints of the world. If you seriously

desire to deceive me you must change your tobacconist; for when I

see the stub of a cigarette marked Bradley, Oxford Street, I know

that my friend Watson is in the neighbourhood. You will see it

there beside the path. You threw it down, no doubt, at that

supreme moment when you charged into the empty hut.”

“Exactly.”

“I thought as much—and knowing your admirable tenacity I was

convinced that you were sitting in ambush, a weapon within reach,

waiting for the tenant to return. So you actually thought that I

was the criminal?”

“I did not know who you were, but I was determined to find out.”

“Excellent, Watson! And how did you localise me? You saw me,

perhaps, on the night of the convict hunt, when I was so

imprudent as to allow the moon to rise behind me?”

“Yes, I saw you then.”

“And have no doubt searched all the huts until you came to this

one?”

“No, your boy had been observed, and that gave me a guide where

to look.”

“The old gentleman with the telescope, no doubt. I could not make

it out when first I saw the light flashing upon the lens.” He

rose and peeped into the hut. “Ha, I see that Cartwright has

brought up some supplies. What’s this paper? So you have been to

Coombe Tracey, have you?”

“Yes.”

“To see Mrs. Laura Lyons?”

“Exactly.”

“Well done! Our researches have evidently been running on

parallel lines, and when we unite our results I expect we shall

have a fairly full knowledge of the case.”

“Well, I am glad from my heart that you are here, for indeed the

responsibility and the mystery were both becoming too much for my

nerves. But how in the name of wonder did you come here, and what

have you been doing? I thought that you were in Baker Street

working out that case of blackmailing.”

“That was what I wished you to think.”

“Then you use me, and yet do not trust me!” I cried with some

bitterness. “I think that I have deserved better at your hands,

Holmes.”

“My dear fellow, you have been invaluable to me in this as in

many other cases, and I beg that you will forgive me if I have

seemed to play a trick upon you. In truth, it was partly for your

own sake that I did it, and it was my appreciation of the danger

which you ran which led me to come down and examine the matter

for myself. Had I been with Sir Henry and you it is confident

that my point of view would have been the same as yours, and my

presence would have warned our very formidable opponents to be on

their guard. As it is, I have been able to get about as I could

not possibly have done had I been living in the Hall, and I

remain an unknown factor in the business, ready to throw in all

my weight at a critical moment.”

“But why keep me in the dark?”

“For you to know could not have helped us and might possibly have

led to my discovery. You would have wished to tell me something,

or in your kindness you would have brought me out some comfort or

other, and so an unnecessary risk would be run. I brought

Cartwright down with me—you remember the little chap at the

express office—and he has seen after my simple wants: a loaf of

bread and a clean collar. What does man want more? He has given

me an extra pair of eyes upon a very active pair of feet, and

both have been invaluable.”

“Then my reports have all been wasted!”—My voice trembled as I

recalled the pains and the pride with which I had composed them.

Holmes took a bundle of papers from his pocket.

“Here are your reports, my dear fellow, and very well thumbed, I

assure you. I made excellent arrangements, and they are only

delayed one day upon their way. I must compliment you exceedingly

upon the zeal and the intelligence which you have shown over an

extraordinarily difficult case.”

I was still rather raw over the deception which had been

practised upon me, but the warmth of Holmes’s praise drove my

anger from my mind. I felt also in my heart that he was right in

what he said and that it was really best for our purpose that I

should not have known that he was upon the moor.

“That’s better,” said he, seeing the shadow rise from my face.

“And now tell me the result of your visit to Mrs. Laura Lyons—it

was not difficult for me to guess that it was to see her that you

had gone, for I am already aware that she is the one person in

Coombe Tracey who might be of service to us in the matter. In

fact, if you had not gone today it is exceedingly probable that I

should have gone tomorrow.”

The sun had set and dusk was settling over the moor. The air had

turned chill and we withdrew into the hut for warmth. There,

sitting together in the twilight, I told Holmes of my

conversation with the lady. So interested was he that I had to

repeat some of it twice before he was satisfied.

“This is most important,” said he when I had concluded. “It fills

up a gap which I had been unable to bridge in this most complex

affair. You are aware, perhaps, that a close intimacy exists

between this lady and the man Stapleton?”

“I did not know of a close intimacy.”

“There can be no doubt about the matter. They meet, they write,

there is a complete understanding between them. Now, this puts a

very powerful weapon into our hands. If I could only use it to

detach his wife—”

“His wife?”

“I am giving you some information now, in return for all that you

have given me. The lady who has passed here as Miss Stapleton is

in reality his wife.”

“Good heavens, Holmes! Are you sure of what you say? How could he

have permitted Sir Henry to fall in love with her?”

“Sir Henry’s falling in love could do no harm to anyone except

Sir Henry. He took particular care that Sir Henry did not make

love to her, as you have yourself observed. I repeat that the

lady is his wife and not his sister.”

“But why this elaborate deception?”

“Because he foresaw that she would be very much more useful to

him in the character of a free woman.”

All my unspoken instincts, my vague suspicions, suddenly took

shape and centred upon the naturalist. In that impassive

colourless man, with his straw hat and his butterfly-net, I

seemed to see something terrible—a creature of infinite patience

and craft, with a smiling face and a murderous heart.

“It is he, then, who is our enemy—it is he who dogged us in

London?”

“So I read the riddle.”

“And the warning—it must have come from her!”

“Exactly.”

The shape of some monstrous villainy, half seen, half guessed,

loomed through the darkness which had girt me so long.

“But are you sure of this, Holmes? How do you know that the woman

is his wife?”

“Because he so far forgot himself as to tell you a true piece of

autobiography upon the occasion when he first met you, and I dare

say he has many a time regretted it since. He was once a

schoolmaster in the north of England. Now, there is no one more

easy to trace than a schoolmaster. There are scholastic agencies

by which one may identify any man who has been in the profession.

A little investigation showed me that a school had come to grief

under atrocious circumstances, and that the man who had owned

it—the name was different—had disappeared with his wife. The

descriptions agreed. When I learned that the missing man was

devoted to entomology the identification was complete.”

The darkness was rising, but much was still hidden by the

shadows.

“If this woman is in truth his wife, where does Mrs. Laura Lyons

come in?” I asked.

“That is one of the points upon which your own researches have

shed a light. Your interview with the lady has cleared the

situation very much. I did not know about a projected divorce

between herself and her husband. In that case, regarding

Stapleton as an unmarried man, she counted no doubt upon becoming

his wife.”

“And when she is undeceived?”

“Why, then we may find the lady of service. It must be our first

duty to see her—both of us—tomorrow. Don’t you think, Watson,

that you are away from your charge rather long? Your place should

be at Baskerville Hall.”

The last red streaks had faded away in the west and night had

settled upon the moor. A few faint stars were gleaming in a

violet sky.

“One last question, Holmes,” I said as I rose. “Surely there is

no need of secrecy between you and me. What is the meaning of it

all? What is he after?”

Holmes’s voice sank as he answered:

“It is murder, Watson—refined, cold-blooded, deliberate murder.

Do not ask me for particulars. My nets are closing upon him, even

as his are upon Sir Henry, and with your help he is already

almost at my mercy. There is but one danger which can threaten

us. It is that he should strike before we are ready to do so.

Another day—two at the most—and I have my case complete, but

until then guard your charge as closely as ever a fond mother

watched her ailing child. Your mission today has justified

itself, and yet I could almost wish that you had not left his

side. Hark!”

A terrible scream—a prolonged yell of horror and anguish—burst

out of the silence of the moor. That frightful cry turned the

blood to ice in my veins.

“Oh, my God!” I gasped. “What is it? What does it mean?”

Holmes had sprung to his feet, and I saw his dark, athletic

outline at the door of the hut, his shoulders stooping, his head

thrust forward, his face peering into the darkness.

“Hush!” he whispered. “Hush!”

The cry had been loud on account of its vehemence, but it had

pealed out from somewhere far off on the shadowy plain. Now it

burst upon our ears, nearer, louder, more urgent than before.

“Where is it?” Holmes whispered; and I knew from the thrill of

his voice that he, the man of iron, was shaken to the soul.

“Where is it, Watson?”

“There, I think.” I pointed into the darkness.

“No, there!”

Again the agonised cry swept through the silent night, louder and

much nearer than ever. And a new sound mingled with it, a deep,

muttered rumble, musical and yet menacing, rising and falling

like the low, constant murmur of the sea.

“The hound!” cried Holmes. “Come, Watson, come! Great heavens, if

we are too late!”

He had started running swiftly over the moor, and I had followed

at his heels. But now from somewhere among the broken ground

immediately in front of us there came one last despairing yell,

and then a dull, heavy thud. We halted and listened. Not another

sound broke the heavy silence of the windless night.

I saw Holmes put his hand to his forehead like a man distracted.

He stamped his feet upon the ground.

“He has beaten us, Watson. We are too late.”

“No, no, surely not!”

“Fool that I was to hold my hand. And you, Watson, see what comes

of abandoning your charge! But, by Heaven, if the worst has

happened we’ll avenge him!”

Blindly we ran through the gloom, blundering against boulders,

forcing our way through gorse bushes, panting up hills and

rushing down slopes, heading always in the direction whence those

dreadful sounds had come. At every rise Holmes looked eagerly

round him, but the shadows were thick upon the moor, and nothing

moved upon its dreary face.

“Can you see anything?”

“Nothing.”

“But, hark, what is that?”

A low moan had fallen upon our ears. There it was again upon our

left! On that side a ridge of rocks ended in a sheer cliff which

overlooked a stone-strewn slope. On its jagged face was

spread-eagled some dark, irregular object. As we ran towards it

the vague outline hardened into a definite shape. It was a

prostrate man face downward upon the ground, the head doubled

under him at a horrible angle, the shoulders rounded and the body

hunched together as if in the act of throwing a somersault. So

grotesque was the attitude that I could not for the instant

realise that that moan had been the passing of his soul. Not a

whisper, not a rustle, rose now from the dark figure over which

we stooped. Holmes laid his hand upon him and held it up again

with an exclamation of horror. The gleam of the match which he

struck shone upon his clotted fingers and upon the ghastly pool

which widened slowly from the crushed skull of the victim. And it

shone upon something else which turned our hearts sick and faint

within us—the body of Sir Henry Baskerville!

There was no chance of either of us forgetting that peculiar

ruddy tweed suit—the very one which he had worn on the first

morning that we had seen him in Baker Street. We caught the one

clear glimpse of it, and then the match flickered and went out,

even as the hope had gone out of our souls. Holmes groaned, and

his face glimmered white through the darkness.

“The brute! The brute!” I cried with clenched hands. “Oh Holmes,

I shall never forgive myself for having left him to his fate.”

“I am more to blame than you, Watson. In order to have my case

well rounded and complete, I have thrown away the life of my

client. It is the greatest blow which has befallen me in my

career. But how could I know—how _could_ I know—that he would

risk his life alone upon the moor in the face of all my

warnings?”

“That we should have heard his screams—my God, those screams!—and

yet have been unable to save him! Where is this brute of a hound

which drove him to his death? It may be lurking among these rocks

at this instant. And Stapleton, where is he? He shall answer for

this deed.”

“He shall. I will see to that. Uncle and nephew have been

murdered—the one frightened to death by the very sight of a beast

which he thought to be supernatural, the other driven to his end

in his wild flight to escape from it. But now we have to prove

the connection between the man and the beast. Save from what we

heard, we cannot even swear to the existence of the latter, since

Sir Henry has evidently died from the fall. But, by heavens,

cunning as he is, the fellow shall be in my power before another

day is past!”

We stood with bitter hearts on either side of the mangled body,

overwhelmed by this sudden and irrevocable disaster which had

brought all our long and weary labours to so piteous an end. Then

as the moon rose we climbed to the top of the rocks over which

our poor friend had fallen, and from the summit we gazed out over

the shadowy moor, half silver and half gloom. Far away, miles

off, in the direction of Grimpen, a single steady yellow light

was shining. It could only come from the lonely abode of the

Stapletons. With a bitter curse I shook my fist at it as I gazed.

“Why should we not seize him at once?”

“Our case is not complete. The fellow is wary and cunning to the

last degree. It is not what we know, but what we can prove. If we

make one false move the villain may escape us yet.”

“What can we do?”

“There will be plenty for us to do tomorrow. Tonight we can only

perform the last offices to our poor friend.”

Together we made our way down the precipitous slope and

approached the body, black and clear against the silvered stones.

The agony of those contorted limbs struck me with a spasm of pain

and blurred my eyes with tears.

“We must send for help, Holmes! We cannot carry him all the way

to the Hall. Good heavens, are you mad?”

He had uttered a cry and bent over the body. Now he was dancing

and laughing and wringing my hand. Could this be my stern,

self-contained friend? These were hidden fires, indeed!

“A beard! A beard! The man has a beard!”

“A beard?”

“It is not the baronet—it is—why, it is my neighbour, the

convict!”

With feverish haste we had turned the body over, and that

dripping beard was pointing up to the cold, clear moon. There

could be no doubt about the beetling forehead, the sunken animal

eyes. It was indeed the same face which had glared upon me in the

light of the candle from over the rock—the face of Selden, the

criminal.

Then in an instant it was all clear to me. I remembered how the

baronet had told me that he had handed his old wardrobe to

Barrymore. Barrymore had passed it on in order to help Selden in

his escape. Boots, shirt, cap—it was all Sir Henry’s. The tragedy

was still black enough, but this man had at least deserved death

by the laws of his country. I told Holmes how the matter stood,

my heart bubbling over with thankfulness and joy.

“Then the clothes have been the poor devil’s death,” said he. “It

is clear enough that the hound has been laid on from some article

of Sir Henry’s—the boot which was abstracted in the hotel, in all

probability—and so ran this man down. There is one very singular

thing, however: How came Selden, in the darkness, to know that

the hound was on his trail?”

“He heard him.”

“To hear a hound upon the moor would not work a hard man like

this convict into such a paroxysm of terror that he would risk

recapture by screaming wildly for help. By his cries he must have

run a long way after he knew the animal was on his track. How did

he know?”

“A greater mystery to me is why this hound, presuming that all

our conjectures are correct—”

“I presume nothing.”

“Well, then, why this hound should be loose tonight. I suppose

that it does not always run loose upon the moor. Stapleton would

not let it go unless he had reason to think that Sir Henry would

be there.”

“My difficulty is the more formidable of the two, for I think

that we shall very shortly get an explanation of yours, while

mine may remain forever a mystery. The question now is, what

shall we do with this poor wretch’s body? We cannot leave it here

to the foxes and the ravens.”

“I suggest that we put it in one of the huts until we can

communicate with the police.”

“Exactly. I have no doubt that you and I could carry it so far.

Halloa, Watson, what’s this? It’s the man himself, by all that’s

wonderful and audacious! Not a word to show your suspicions—not a

word, or my plans crumble to the ground.”

A figure was approaching us over the moor, and I saw the dull red

glow of a cigar. The moon shone upon him, and I could distinguish

the dapper shape and jaunty walk of the naturalist. He stopped

when he saw us, and then came on again.

“Why, Dr. Watson, that’s not you, is it? You are the last man

that I should have expected to see out on the moor at this time

of night. But, dear me, what’s this? Somebody hurt? Not—don’t

tell me that it is our friend Sir Henry!” He hurried past me and

stooped over the dead man. I heard a sharp intake of his breath

and the cigar fell from his fingers.

“Who—who’s this?” he stammered.

“It is Selden, the man who escaped from Princetown.”

Stapleton turned a ghastly face upon us, but by a supreme effort

he had overcome his amazement and his disappointment. He looked

sharply from Holmes to me. “Dear me! What a very shocking affair!

How did he die?”

“He appears to have broken his neck by falling over these rocks.

My friend and I were strolling on the moor when we heard a cry.”

“I heard a cry also. That was what brought me out. I was uneasy

about Sir Henry.”

“Why about Sir Henry in particular?” I could not help asking.

“Because I had suggested that he should come over. When he did

not come I was surprised, and I naturally became alarmed for his

safety when I heard cries upon the moor. By the way”—his eyes

darted again from my face to Holmes’s—“did you hear anything else

besides a cry?”

“No,” said Holmes; “did you?”

“No.”

“What do you mean, then?”

“Oh, you know the stories that the peasants tell about a phantom

hound, and so on. It is said to be heard at night upon the moor.

I was wondering if there were any evidence of such a sound

tonight.”

“We heard nothing of the kind,” said I.

“And what is your theory of this poor fellow’s death?”

“I have no doubt that anxiety and exposure have driven him off

his head. He has rushed about the moor in a crazy state and

eventually fallen over here and broken his neck.”

“That seems the most reasonable theory,” said Stapleton, and he

gave a sigh which I took to indicate his relief. “What do you

think about it, Mr. Sherlock Holmes?”

My friend bowed his compliments. “You are quick at

identification,” said he.

“We have been expecting you in these parts since Dr. Watson came

down. You are in time to see a tragedy.”

“Yes, indeed. I have no doubt that my friend’s explanation will

cover the facts. I will take an unpleasant remembrance back to

London with me tomorrow.”

“Oh, you return tomorrow?”

“That is my intention.”

“I hope your visit has cast some light upon those occurrences

which have puzzled us?”

Holmes shrugged his shoulders.

“One cannot always have the success for which one hopes. An

investigator needs facts and not legends or rumours. It has not

been a satisfactory case.”

My friend spoke in his frankest and most unconcerned manner.

Stapleton still looked hard at him. Then he turned to me.

“I would suggest carrying this poor fellow to my house, but it

would give my sister such a fright that I do not feel justified

in doing it. I think that if we put something over his face he

will be safe until morning.”

And so it was arranged. Resisting Stapleton’s offer of

hospitality, Holmes and I set off to Baskerville Hall, leaving

the naturalist to return alone. Looking back we saw the figure

moving slowly away over the broad moor, and behind him that one

black smudge on the silvered slope which showed where the man was

lying who had come so horribly to his end.

“We’re at close grips at last,” said Holmes as we walked together

across the moor. “What a nerve the fellow has! How he pulled

himself together in the face of what must have been a paralyzing

shock when he found that the wrong man had fallen a victim to his

plot. I told you in London, Watson, and I tell you now again,

that we have never had a foeman more worthy of our steel.”

“I am sorry that he has seen you.”

“And so was I at first. But there was no getting out of it.”

“What effect do you think it will have upon his plans now that he

knows you are here?”

“It may cause him to be more cautious, or it may drive him to

desperate measures at once. Like most clever criminals, he may be

too confident in his own cleverness and imagine that he has

completely deceived us.”

“Why should we not arrest him at once?”

“My dear Watson, you were born to be a man of action. Your

instinct is always to do something energetic. But supposing, for

argument’s sake, that we had him arrested tonight, what on earth

the better off should we be for that? We could prove nothing

against him. There’s the devilish cunning of it! If he were

acting through a human agent we could get some evidence, but if

we were to drag this great dog to the light of day it would not

help us in putting a rope round the neck of its master.”

“Surely we have a case.”

“Not a shadow of one—only surmise and conjecture. We should be

laughed out of court if we came with such a story and such

evidence.”

“There is Sir Charles’s death.”

“Found dead without a mark upon him. You and I know that he died

of sheer fright, and we know also what frightened him, but how

are we to get twelve stolid jurymen to know it? What signs are

there of a hound? Where are the marks of its fangs? Of course we

know that a hound does not bite a dead body and that Sir Charles

was dead before ever the brute overtook him. But we have to prove

all this, and we are not in a position to do it.”

“Well, then, tonight?”

“We are not much better off tonight. Again, there was no direct

connection between the hound and the man’s death. We never saw

the hound. We heard it, but we could not prove that it was

running upon this man’s trail. There is a complete absence of

motive. No, my dear fellow; we must reconcile ourselves to the

fact that we have no case at present, and that it is worth our

while to run any risk in order to establish one.”

“And how do you propose to do so?”

“I have great hopes of what Mrs. Laura Lyons may do for us when

the position of affairs is made clear to her. And I have my own

plan as well. Sufficient for tomorrow is the evil thereof; but I

hope before the day is past to have the upper hand at last.”

I could draw nothing further from him, and he walked, lost in

thought, as far as the Baskerville gates.

“Are you coming up?”

“Yes; I see no reason for further concealment. But one last word,

Watson. Say nothing of the hound to Sir Henry. Let him think that

Selden’s death was as Stapleton would have us believe. He will

have a better nerve for the ordeal which he will have to undergo

tomorrow, when he is engaged, if I remember your report aright,

to dine with these people.”

“And so am I.”

“Then you must excuse yourself and he must go alone. That will be

easily arranged. And now, if we are too late for dinner, I think

that we are both ready for our suppers.”