“It was very essential for Stapleton to get some article of Sir Henry’s attire so that, in case he was driven to use the dog, he might always have the means of setting him upon his track. With characteristic promptness and audacity he set about this at once, and we cannot doubt that the boots or chambermaid of the hotel was well bribed to help him in his design. By chance, however, the first boot which was procured for him was a new one and, therefore, useless for his purpose. He then had it returned and obtained another—a most instructive incident, since it proved conclusively to my mind that we were dealing with a real hound, as no other supposition could explain this anxiety to obtain an old boot and this indifference to a new one. The more outré and grotesque an incident is the more carefully it deserves to be examined, and the very point which appears to complicate a case is, when duly considered and scientifically handled, the one which is most likely to elucidate it.
“Then we had the visit from our friends next morning, shadowed always by Stapleton in the cab. From his knowledge of our rooms and of my appearance, as well as from his general conduct, I am inclined to think that Stapleton’s career of crime has been by no means limited to this single Baskerville affair. It is suggestive that during the last three years there have been four considerable burglaries in the west country, for none of which was any criminal ever arrested. The last of these, at Folkestone Court, in May, was remarkable for the cold-blooded pis-tolling of the page, who surprised the masked and solitary burglar. I cannot doubt that Stapleton recruited his waning resources in this fashion, and that for years he has been a desperate and dangerous man.
“We had an example of his readiness of resource that morning when he got away from us so successfully, and also of his audacity in sending back my own name to me through the cabman. From that moment he understood that I had taken over the case in London, and that therefore there was no chance for him there. He returned to Dartmoor and awaited the arrival of the baronet.”
“One moment!” said I. “You have, no doubt, described the sequence of events correctly, but there is one point which you have left unexplained. What became of the hound when its master was in London?”
“I have given some attention to this matter and it is undoubtedly of importance. There can be no question that Stapleton had a confidant, though it is unlikely that he ever placed himself in his power by sharing all his plans with him. There was an old manservant at Merripit House, whose name was Anthony. His connection with the Stapletons can be traced for several years, as far back as the school mastering days, so that he must have been aware that his master and mistress were really husband and wife. This man has disappeared and has escaped from the country. It is suggestive that Anthony is not a common name in England, while Antonio is so in all Spanish or Spanish-American countries. The man, like Mrs. Stapleton herself, spoke good English, but with a curious lisping accent. I have myself seen this old man cross the Grimpen Mire by the path which Stapleton had marked out. It is very probable, therefore, that in the absence of his master it was he who cared for the hound, though he may never have known the purpose for which the beast was used.
“The Stapletons then went down to Devonshire, whither they were soon followed by Sir Henry and you. One word now as to how I stood myself at that time. It may possibly recur to your memory that when I examined the paper upon which the printed words were fastened I made a close inspection for the water-mark. In doing so I held it within a few inches of my eyes, and was conscious of a faint smell of the scent known as white jessamine. There are seventy-five perfumes, which it is very necessary that a criminal expert should be able to distinguish from each other, and cases have more than once within my own experience depended upon their prompt recognition. The scent suggested the presence of a lady, and already my thoughts began to turn towards the Stapletons. Thus I had made certain of the hound, and had guessed at the criminal before ever we went to the west country.
“It was my game to watch Stapleton. It was evident, however, that I could not do this if I were with you, since he would be keenly on his guard. I deceived everybody, therefore, yourself included, and I came down secretly when I was supposed to be in London. My hardships were not so great as you imagined, though such trifling details must never interfere with the investigation of a case. I stayed for the most part at Coombe Tracey, and only used the hut upon the moor when it was necessary to be near the scene of action. Cartwright had come down with me, and in his disguise as a country boy he was of great assistance to me. I was dependent upon him for food and clean linen. When I was watching Stapleton, Cartwright was frequently watching you, so that I was able to keep my hand upon all the strings.
“I have already told you that your reports reached me rapidly, being forwarded instantly from Baker Street to Coombe Tracey. They were of great service to me, and especially that one incidentally truthful piece of biography of Stapleton’s. I was able to establish the identity of the man and the woman and knew at last exactly how I stood. The case had been considerably complicated through the incident of the escaped convict and the relations between him and the Barrymores. This also you cleared up in a very effective way, though I had already come to the same conclusions from my own observations.
“By the time that you discovered me upon the moor I had a complete knowledge of the whole business, but I had not a case which could go to a jury. Even Stapleton’s attempt upon Sir Henry that night which ended in the death of the unfortunate convict did not help us much in proving murder against our man. There seemed to be no alternative but to catch him red-handed, and to do so we had to use Sir Henry, alone and apparently unprotected, as a bait. We did so, and at the cost of a severe shock to our client we succeeded in completing our case and driving Stapleton to his destruction. That Sir Henry should have been exposed to this is, I must confess, a reproach to my management of the case, but we had no means of foreseeing the terrible and paralyzing spectacle which the beast presented, nor could we predict the fog which enabled him to burst upon us at such short notice. We succeeded in our object at a cost which both the specialist and Dr. Mortimer assure me will be a temporary one. A long journey may enable our friend to recover not only from his shattered nerves but also from his wounded feelings. His love for the lady was deep and sincere, and to him the saddest part of all this black business was that he should have been deceived by her.
“It only remains to indicate the part which she had played throughout. There can be no doubt that Stapleton exercised an influence over her which may have been love or may have been fear, or very possibly both, since they are by no means incompatible emotions. It was, at least, absolutely effective. At his command she consented to pass as his sister, though he found the limits of his power over her when he endeavoured to make her the direct accessory to murder. She was ready to warn Sir Henry so far as she could without implicating her husband, and again and again she tried to do so. Stapleton himself seems to have been capable of jealousy, and when he saw the baronet paying court to the lady, even though it was part of his own plan, still he could not help interrupting with a passionate outburst which revealed the fiery soul which his self-contained manner so cleverly concealed. By encouraging the intimacy he made it certain that Sir Henry would frequently come to Merripit House and that he would sooner or later get the opportunity which he desired. On the day of the crisis, however, his wife turned suddenly against him. She had learned something of the death of the convict, and she knew that the hound was being kept in the out-house on the evening that Sir Henry was coming to dinner. She taxed her husband with his intended crime, and a furious scene followed in which he showed her for the first time that she had a rival in his love. Her fidelity turned in an instant to bitter hatred, and he saw that she would betray him. He tied her up, therefore, that she might have no chance of warning Sir Henry, and he hoped, no doubt, that when the whole countryside put down the baronet’s death to the curse of his family, as they certainly would do, he could win his wife back to accept an accomplished
fact and to keep silent upon what she knew. In this I fancy that in any case he made a miscalculation, and that, if we had not been there, his doom would none the less have been sealed. A woman of Spanish blood does not condone such an injury so lightly. And now, my dear Watson, without referring to my notes, I cannot give you a more detailed account of this curious case. I do not know that anything essential has been left unexplained.”
“He could not hope to frighten Sir Henry to death as he had done the old uncle with his bogie hound.”
“The beast was savage and half-starved. If its appearance did not frighten its victim to death, at least it would paralyze the resistance which might be offered.”
“No doubt. There only remains one difficulty. If Stapleton came into the succession, how could he explain the fact that he, the heir, had been living unannounced under another name so close to the property? How could he claim it without causing suspicion and inquiry?”
“It is a formidable difficulty, and I fear that you ask too much when you expect me to solve it. The past and the present are within the field of my inquiry, but what a man may do in the future is a hard question to answer. Mrs. Stapleton has heard her husband discuss the problem on several occasions. There were three possible courses. He might claim the property from South America, establish his identity before the British authorities there, and so obtain the fortune without ever coming to England at all; or he might adopt an elaborate disguise during the short time that he need be in London; or, again, he might furnish an accomplice with the proofs and papers, putting him in as heir, and retaining a claim upon some proportion of his income. We cannot doubt from what we know of him that he would have found some way out of the difficulty. And now, my dear Watson, we have had some weeks of severe work, and for one evening, I think, we may turn our thoughts into more pleasant channels. I have a box for ‘Les Huguenots. ’ Have you heard the De Reszkes? Might I trouble you then to be ready in half an hour, and we can stop at Marcini’s for a little dinner on the way?”
Afterword
I am writing an afterword for the centenary edition of Conan Doyle’s The Hound of the Baskervilles. Surely the fact that it is required at all is a testament to the power of the story. Would we not all like our work to live such a long and healthy life?
Why do some stories survive and become classics while others enjoy a respectable few years and then disappear? There are thousands of rattling good yarns that give pleasure in their time. I read Boys’ Own avidly when I was twelve or thirteen and was thrilled and entertained, but cannot lay my hands on any of those adventures now.
I think it is not only that Hound has all the elements of brilliant storytelling; mystery and the supernatural, suspense, evil and innocence, intellect, romance, human villainy, adventure, and the ultimate in terror are woven seamlessly into it. It also has a deeper symbolism of the elements of life that lie within the experience of all of us. We recognize them, consciously or not, and take a different kind of pleasure, which can be repeated over and over again.
In Watson we have a type of “everyman.” He has the virtues we all aspire to, without any single extraordinary ability that might exclude some. He is honest, loyal, and unquestionably brave, although, like all of us, he certainly knows fear. Quickly moved to compassion and often confused, he makes understandable mistakes. He knows embarrassment, pride, and chagrin. We can so easily identify with him because he is essentially decent, and we all like to think of ourselves as basically good, even if we have the occasional flaw.
His feelings are hurt when Holmes, whom he respects intensely, slights his attempts to deduce from Dr. Mortimer’s stick left behind in Baker Street the nature of their caller. And yet his generosity of spirit is quick to admire Holmes when he demonstrates the truth. He is perhaps quicker to forgive than most of us, but wouldn’t we like to be as he is?
Perhaps, too, we would like a friend as uncritical as Watson. It might not be good for us, but there are times when we imagine we could do very well with one! It is a nice thought: someone to chronicle our doings as generously as he does those of Holmes.
Why does Holmes matter so much, across the whole reading world, that Baker Street is still, a century later, a Mecca for tourists from as far away as Japan? Why does the office at 221B still receive letters addressed to Sherlock Holmes? For the succeeding eight years after Conan Doyle sent him over the Reichenbach Falls in his struggle with Moriarty, he was begged daily by letter and cablegram to resurrect him.
Life is full of puzzles we cannot solve, dangers we need to fight, yet cannot see clearly enough to know where or how to strike. We need to believe in the Knight Errant who will ride in and do battle for us, with superior knowledge, untiring energy, and ask from us in reward no more than we can give. His existence gives us that bridge of hope sufficient for us to continue until we have begun to win for ourselves.
Sherlock Holmes is the perfect figure to fill this space. He lives for the puzzle. He longs for “a foeman worthy of our steel.” As he says to Watson early in the tale, “A touch, Watson—an undeniable touch! I feel a foil as quick and supple as my own.” “There is nothing more stimulating than a case where everything goes against you.” And a few moments later, “It’s an ugly business, Watson, an ugly, dangerous business.” But that is an added incentive, not a cause to flinch or turn away. He will not give up the chase, even if for the long spell when Watson seems to be alone at Baskerville Hall, he may appear to have. We half think it, and yet we know better. There is a deep assurance that he watches over things, no matter what appearances may be to the contrary.
Watson does all the observing that we read, he tells us of people, places, and events. He believes Sherlock Holmes is in London attending to some affair we know nothing of. But surely we do not believe it? Do we not really know that the lonely figure on the Tor is Holmes?
And yet he is not without vulnerabilities. There are times when he more than wishes for Watson’s approval—he needs it. The genius hungers for the solid friendship of the ordinary man. It is his touchstone with reality and without it he would drift away from his roots in humanity.
On rare occasions he makes mistakes. It gives us a frisson of fear that perhaps the case will not all resolve well, but that is a spice to the mixture, just in case we should become complacent, a shiver of a different fear, to keep us up to the mark.
And speaking of fear, the hound itself is a multidimensional nightmare brought to life. It is more than a possibly supernatural beast; it is the embodiment of an evil that has a personal vengeance for all past misdeeds. It represents Mephistopheles come to collect the soul of the man, or in this case, the last of the family whose sins cannot be escaped down the ages. It is Hell’s justice, the nightmare of all guilt in the form of “a foul thing, a great black beast, shaped like a hound, yet larger than any hound that ever mortal eye has rested upon. . . . [T]he thing tore the throat out of Hugo Baskerville, on which, as it turned its blazing eyes and dripping jaws upon them, the three shrieked with fear and rode for dear life, still screaming, across the moor.” One died that night; the others were driven insane by what they had seen.
We have seen, in one of the immortal phrases of detective literature, “the footsteps of a gigantic hound,” but this is no ordinary beast, even the size of a donkey. It is the embodiment of the evil within the Baskerville family, turned upon them, ripping out the throat and silencing forever the human voice in them. You cannot argue with it. There is no reasoning, no bargain to be made. It is a primal force from without, and yet is it not more fundamentally from within?
Then we hear it ourselves, through Watson’s ears:“What would Holmes say to this? How about that hour of darkness in which the power of evil is exalted?”
As if in answer to his words there rose suddenly out of the vast gloom of the moor that strange cry which I had already heard upon the borders of the great Grimpen Mire. It came with the wind through the silence of the night, a long, deep mutter, then a rising howl, and then the sad moa
n in which it died away. Again and again it sounded, the whole air throbbing with it, strident, wild, and menacing. . . .
Perhaps we are sophisticated enough now that we all know why Sir Henry’s boots were stolen, first the new one, then the worn one. But the fact that we know hounds follow the scent of an individual surely adds to the peculiarly personal kind of evil involved. This hound is not a random death, a hideous but chance demon. It is uniquely personal. It has one man’s scent in a way only an animal can. It is inescapable vengeance for the past, a Hell that does not know mercy, repentance, or forgiveness—except with the intervention of Sherlock Holmes. A modern St. George for our personal dragons?
The moor itself is described with such haunting detail, it is more than merely a locality. It is a symbol of life, almost Dantesque. “There rose in the distance a gray, melancholy hill, with a strange jagged summit, dim and vague in the distance, like some fantastic landscape in a dream.” Or “I walked far upon the sodden moor, full of dark imaginings, the rain beating upon my face and the wind whistling about my ears. . . . Rain squalls drifted across their russet face, and the heavy, slate-coloured clouds hung low over the landscape, trailing in gray wreaths down the sides of the fantastic hills.” One could fill the page with quotes. There is beauty in it as well as horror and mystery. “[T]he slanting rays of a low sun turning the streams to threads of gold and glowing on the red earth new turned by the plough and the broad tangle of the woodlands.” Orchids grow there, and rare, wonderful butterflies. Perhaps it is not accidental that the villain, the harmless seeming Stapleton, hunts and catches these glories of nature, thereby destroying them. Is he simply an enthusiast, or a man without perception of the value of life, or any wants but his own? Is evil really a blindness to all else but self?