Arthur Doyle - Essential Novelists - Arthur Conan Doyle

“No, this is my friend Dr. Watson.”

“Glad to meet you, sir. I have heard your name mentioned in connection with that of your friend. You interest me very much, Mr. Holmes. I had hardly expected so dolichocephalic a skull or such well-marked supra-orbital development. Would you have any objection to my running my finger along your parietal fissure? A cast of your skull, sir, until the original is available, would be an ornament to any anthropological museum. It is not my intention to be fulsome, but I confess that I covet your skull.”

Sherlock Holmes waved our strange visitor into a chair. “You are an enthusiast in your line of thought, I perceive, sir, as I am in mine,” said he. “I observe from your forefinger that you make your own cigarettes. Have no hesitation in lighting one.”

The man drew out paper and tobacco and twirled the one up in the other with surprising dexterity. He had long, quivering fingers as agile and restless as the antennae of an insect.

Holmes was silent, but his little darting glances showed me the interest which he took in our curious companion. “I presume, sir,” said he at last, “that it was not merely for the purpose of examining my skull that you have done me the honour to call here last night and again today?”

“No, sir, no; though I am happy to have had the opportunity of doing that as well. I came to you, Mr. Holmes, because I recognized that I am myself an unpractical man and because I am suddenly confronted with a most serious and extraordinary problem. Recognizing, as I do, that you are the second highest expert in Europe—”

“Indeed, sir! May I inquire who has the honour to be the first?” asked Holmes with some asperity.

“To the man of precisely scientific mind the work of Monsieur Bertillon must always appeal strongly.”

“Then had you not better consult him?”

“I said, sir, to the precisely scientific mind. But as a practical man of affairs it is acknowledged that you stand alone. I trust, sir, that I have not inadvertently—”

“Just a little,” said Holmes. “I think, Dr. Mortimer, you would do wisely if without more ado you would kindly tell me plainly what the exact nature of the problem is in which you demand my assistance.”

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“I HAVE IN MY POCKET a manuscript,” said Dr. James Mortimer.

“I observed it as you entered the room,” said Holmes.

“It is an old manuscript.”

“Early eighteenth century, unless it is a forgery.”

“How can you say that, sir?”

“You have presented an inch or two of it to my examination all the time that you have been talking. It would be a poor expert who could not give the date of a document within a decade or so. You may possibly have read my little monograph upon the subject. I put that at 1730.”

“The exact date is 1742.” Dr. Mortimer drew it from his breast-pocket. “This family paper was committed to my care by Sir Charles Baskerville, whose sudden and tragic death some three months ago created so much excitement in Devonshire. I may say that I was his personal friend as well as his medical attendant. He was a strong-minded man, sir, shrewd, practical, and as unimaginative as I 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 by-word 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