THE COMPLETE SHERLOCK HOLMES

                         THE HOUND OF THE BASKERVILLES


                                  Chapter 12

                               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 gray 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 localize 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 to-day it is exceedingly probable
that I should have gone to-morrow."
     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--to-morrow.  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 to-day 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 agonized 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 realize 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 to-morrow.  To-night 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 to-night.  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 to-night."
     "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
to-morrow."
     "Oh, you return to-morrow?"
     "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.