am myself. Yet he took this document very seriously, and his mind was
prepared for just such an end as did eventually overtake him."
Holmes stretched out his hand for the manuscript and flattened it
upon his knee.
"You will observe, Watson, the alternative use of the long s and the
short. It is one of several indications which enabled me to fix the
date."
I looked over his shoulder at the yellow paper and the faded script.
At the head was written: "Baskerville Hall," and below in large,
scrawling figures: "1742."
"It appears to be a statement of some sort."
"Yes, it is a statement of a certain legend which runs in the
Baskerville family."
"But I understand that it is something more modern and practical upon
which you wish to consult me?"
"Most modern. A most practical, pressing matter, which must be
decided within twenty-four hours. But the manuscript is short and is
intimately connected with the affair. With your permission I will
read it to you."
Holmes leaned back in his chair, placed his finger-tips together, and
closed his eyes, with an air of resignation. Dr. Mortimer turned the
manuscript to the light and read in a high, cracking voice the
following curious, old-world narrative:--
"Of the origin of the Hound of the Baskervilles there have been many
statements, yet as I come in a direct line from Hugo Baskerville, and
as I had the story from my father, who also had it from his, I have
set it down with all belief that it occurred even as is here set
forth. And I would have you believe, my sons, that the same Justice
which punishes sin may also most graciously forgive it, and that no
ban is so heavy but that by prayer and repentance it may be removed.
Learn then from this story not to fear the fruits of the past, but
rather to be circumspect in the future, that those foul passions
whereby our family has suffered so grievously may not again be loosed
to our undoing.
"Know then that in the time of the Great Rebellion (the history of
which by the learned Lord Clarendon I most earnestly commend to your
attention) this Manor of Baskerville was held by Hugo of that name,
nor can it be gainsaid that he was a most wild, profane, and godless
man. This, in truth, his neighbours might have pardoned, seeing that
saints have never flourished in those parts, but there was in him a
certain wanton and cruel humour which made his name a byword through
the West. It chanced that this Hugo came to love (if, indeed, so dark
a passion may be known under so bright a name) the daughter of a
yeoman who held lands near the Baskerville estate. But the young
maiden, being discreet and of good repute, would ever avoid him, for
she feared his evil name. So it came to pass that one Michaelmas this
Hugo, with five or six of his idle and wicked companions, stole down
upon the farm and carried off the maiden, her father and brothers
being from home, as he well knew. When they had brought her to the
Hall the maiden was placed in an upper chamber, while Hugo and his
friends sat down to a long carouse, as was their nightly custom. Now,
the poor lass upstairs was like to have her wits turned at the
singing and shouting and terrible oaths which came up to her from
below, for they say that the words used by Hugo Baskerville, when he
was in wine, were such as might blast the man who said them. At last
in the stress of her fear she did that which might have daunted the
bravest or most active man, for by the aid of the growth of ivy which
covered (and still covers) the south wall she came down from under
the eaves, and so homeward across the moor, there being three leagues
betwixt the Hall and her father's farm.
"It chanced that some little time later Hugo left his guests to carry
food and drink--with other worse things, perchance--to his captive,
and so found the cage empty and the bird escaped. Then, as it would
seem, he became as one that hath a devil, for, rushing down the
stairs into the dining-hall, he sprang upon the great table, flagons
and trenchers flying before him, and he cried aloud before all the
company that he would that very night render his body and soul to the
Powers of Evil if he might but overtake the wench. And while the
revellers stood aghast at the fury of the man, one more wicked or, it
may be, more drunken than the rest, cried out that they should put
the hounds upon her. Whereat Hugo ran from the house, crying to his
grooms that they should saddle his mare and unkennel the pack, and
giving the hounds a kerchief of the maid's, he swung them to the
line, and so off full cry in the moonlight over the moor.
"Now, for some space the revellers stood agape, unable to understand
all that had been done in such haste. But anon their bemused wits
awoke to the nature of the deed which was like to be done upon the
moorlands. Everything was now in an uproar, some calling for their
pistols, some for their horses, and some for another flask of wine.
But at length some sense came back to their crazed minds, and the
whole of them, thirteen in number, took horse and started in pursuit.
The moon shone clear above them, and they rode swiftly abreast,
taking that course which the maid must needs have taken if she were
to reach her own home.
"They had gone a mile or two when they passed one of the night
shepherds upon the moorlands, and they cried to him to know if he had
seen the hunt. And the man, as the story goes, was so crazed with
fear that he could scarce speak, but at last he said that he had
indeed seen the unhappy maiden, with the hounds upon her track. 'But
I have seen more than that,' said he, 'for Hugo Baskerville passed me
upon his black mare, and there ran mute behind him such a hound of
hell as God forbid should ever be at my heels.' So the drunken
squires cursed the shepherd and rode onward. But soon their skins
turned cold, for there came a galloping across the moor, and the
black mare, dabbled with white froth, went past with trailing bridle
and empty saddle. Then the revellers rode close together, for a great
fear was on them, but they still followed over the moor, though each,
had he been alone, would have been right glad to have turned his
horse's head. Riding slowly in this fashion they came at last upon
the hounds. These, though known for their valour and their breed,
were whimpering in a cluster at the head of a deep dip or goyal, as
we call it, upon the moor, some slinking away and some, with starting
hackles and staring eyes, gazing down the narrow valley before them.
"The company had come to a halt, more sober men, as you may guess,
than when they started. The most of them would by no means advance,
but three of them, the boldest, or it may be the most drunken, rode
forward down the goyal. Now, it opened into a broad space in which
stood two of those great stones, still to be seen there, which were
set by certain forgotten peoples in the days of old. The moon was
shining bright upon the clearing, and there in the centre lay the
unhappy maid where she had fallen, dead of fear and of fatigue. But
it was not the sight of her body, nor yet was it that of the body of
Hugo Baskerville lying near her, which raised the hair upon the heads
of these three daredevil roysterers, but it was that, standing over
Hugo, and plucking at his throat, there stood a foul thing, a great,
black beast, shaped like a hound, yet larger than any hound that ever
mortal eye has rested upon. And even as they looked the 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,
it is said, died that very night of what he had seen, and the other
twain were but broken men for the rest of their days.
"Such is the tale, my sons, of the coming of the hound which is said
to have plagued the family so sorely ever since. If I have set it
down it is because that which is clearly known hath less terror than
that which is but hinted at and guessed. Nor can it be denied that
many of the family have been unhappy in their deaths, which have been
sudden, bloody, and mysterious. Yet may we shelter ourselves in the
infinite goodness of Providence, which would not forever punish the
innocent beyond that third or fourth generation which is threatened
in Holy Writ. To that Providence, my sons, I hereby commend you, and
I counsel you by way of caution to forbear from crossing the moor in
those dark hours when the powers of evil are exalted.
"[This from Hugo Baskerville to his sons Rodger and John, with
instructions that they say nothing thereof to their sister
Elizabeth.]"
When Dr. Mortimer had finished reading this singular narrative he
pushed his spectacles up on his forehead and stared across at Mr.
Sherlock Holmes. The latter yawned and tossed the end of his
cigarette into the fire.
"Well?" said he.
"Do you not find it interesting?"
"To a collector of fairy tales."
Dr. Mortimer drew a folded newspaper out of his pocket.
"Now, Mr. Holmes, we will give you something a little more recent.
This is the Devon County Chronicle of May 14th of this year. It is a
short account of the facts elicited at the death of Sir Charles
Baskerville which occurred a few days before that date."
My friend leaned a little forward and his expression became intent.
Our visitor readjusted his glasses and began:--
"The recent sudden death of Sir Charles Baskerville, whose name has
been mentioned as the probable Liberal candidate for Mid-Devon at the
next election, has cast a gloom over the county. Though Sir Charles
had resided at Baskerville Hall for a comparatively short period his
amiability of character and extreme generosity had won the affection
and respect of all who had been brought into contact with him. In
these days of nouveaux riches it is refreshing to find a case where
the scion of an old county family which has fallen upon evil days is
able to make his own fortune and to bring it back with him to restore
the fallen grandeur of his line. Sir Charles, as is well known, made
large sums of money in South African speculation. More wise than
those who go on until the wheel turns against them, he realized his
gains and returned to England with them. It is only two years since
he took up his residence at Baskerville Hall, and it is common talk
how large were those schemes of reconstruction and improvement which
have been interrupted by his death. Being himself childless, it was
his openly expressed desire that the whole country-side should,
within his own lifetime, profit by his good fortune, and many will
have personal reasons for bewailing his untimely end. His generous
donations to local and county charities have been frequently
chronicled in these columns.
"The circumstances connected with the death of Sir Charles cannot be
said to have been entirely cleared up by the inquest, but at least
enough has been done to dispose of those rumours to which local
superstition has given rise. There is no reason whatever to suspect
foul play, or to imagine that death could be from any but natural
causes. Sir Charles was a widower, and a man who may be said to have
been in some ways of an eccentric habit of mind. In spite of his
considerable wealth he was simple in his personal tastes, and his
indoor servants at Baskerville Hall consisted of a married couple
named Barrymore, the husband acting as butler and the wife as
housekeeper. Their evidence, corroborated by that of several friends,
tends to show that Sir Charles's health has for some time been
impaired, and points especially to some affection of the heart,
manifesting itself in changes of colour, breathlessness, and acute
attacks of nervous depression. Dr. James Mortimer, the friend and
medical attendant of the deceased, has given evidence to the same
effect.
"The facts of the case are simple. Sir Charles Baskerville was in the
habit every night before going to bed of walking down the famous Yew
Alley of Baskerville Hall. The evidence of the Barrymores shows that
this had been his custom. On the 4th of May Sir Charles had declared
his intention of starting next day for London, and had ordered
Barrymore to prepare his luggage. That night he went out as usual for
his nocturnal walk, in the course of which he was in the habit of
smoking a cigar. He never returned. At twelve o'clock Barrymore,
finding the hall door still open, became alarmed, and, lighting a
lantern, went in search of his master. The day had been wet, and Sir
Charles's footmarks were easily traced down the Alley. Half-way down
this walk there is a gate which leads out on to the moor. There were
indications that Sir Charles had stood for some little time here. He
then proceeded down the Alley, and it was at the far end of it that
his body was discovered. One fact which has not been explained is the
statement of Barrymore that his master's footprints altered their
