The Hound of the Baskervilles

by A. Conan Doyle




Chapter 1
Mr. Sherlock Holmes



Mr. Sherlock Holmes, who was usually very late in the mornings,
save upon those not infrequent occasions when he was up all night,
was seated at the breakfast table.  I stood upon the hearth-rug
and picked up the stick which our visitor had left behind him the
night before.  It was a fine, thick piece of wood, bulbous-headed,
of the sort which is known as a "Penang lawyer."  Just under the
head was a broad silver band nearly an inch across.  "To James
Mortimer, M.R.C.S., from his friends of the C.C.H.," was engraved
upon it, with the date "1884."  It was just such a stick as the
old-fashioned family practitioner used to carry--dignified, solid,
and reassuring.

"Well, Watson, what do you make of it?"

Holmes was sitting with his back to me, and I had given him no
sign of my occupation.

"How did you know what I was doing?  I believe you have eyes in
the back of your head."

"I have, at least, a well-polished, silver-plated coffee-pot in
front of me," said he.  "But, tell me, Watson, what do you make
of our visitor's stick?  Since we have been so unfortunate as to
miss him and have no notion of his errand, this accidental souvenir
becomes of importance.  Let me hear you reconstruct the man by an
examination of it."

"I think," said I, following as far as I could the methods of my
companion, "that Dr. Mortimer is a successful, elderly medical
man, well-esteemed since those who know him give him this mark
of their appreciation."

"Good!" said Holmes.  "Excellent!"

"I think also that the probability is in favour of his being a
country practitioner who does a great deal of his visiting on foot."

"Why so?"

"Because this stick, though originally a very handsome one has been
so knocked about that I can hardly imagine a town practitioner
carrying it.  The thick-iron ferrule is worn down, so it is evident
that he has done a great amount of walking with it."

"Perfectly sound!" said Holmes.

"And then again, there is the 'friends of the C.C.H.'  I should
guess that to be the Something Hunt, the local hunt to whose
members he has possibly given some surgical assistance, and which
has made him a small presentation in return."

"Really, Watson, you excel yourself," said Holmes, pushing back
his chair and lighting a cigarette.  "I am bound to say that in
all the accounts which you have been so good as to give of my
own small achievements you have habitually underrated your own
abilities.  It may be that you are not yourself luminous, but
you are a conductor of light.  Some people without possessing
genius have a remarkable power of stimulating it.  I confess, my
dear fellow, that I am very much in your debt."

He had never said as much before, and I must admit that his words
gave me keen pleasure, for I had often been piqued by his
indifference to my admiration and to the attempts which I had
made to give publicity to his methods.  I was proud, too, to
think that I had so far mastered his system as to apply it in a
way which earned his approval.  He now took the stick from my
hands and examined it for a few minutes with his naked eyes.
Then with an expression of interest he laid down his cigarette,
and carrying the cane to the window, he looked over it again with
a convex lens.

"Interesting, though elementary," said he as he returned to his
favourite corner of the settee.  "There are certainly one or two
indications upon the stick.  It gives us the basis for several
deductions."

"Has anything escaped me?"  I asked with some self-importance.
"I trust that there is nothing of consequence which I have
overlooked?"

"I am afraid, my dear Watson, that most of your conclusions were
erroneous.  When I said that you stimulated me I meant, to be
frank, that in noting your fallacies I was occasionally guided
towards the truth.  Not that you are entirely wrong in this
instance.  The man is certainly a country practitioner.  And he
walks a good deal."

"Then I was right."

"To that extent."

"But that was all."

"No, no, my dear Watson, not all--by no means all.  I would
suggest, for example, that a presentation to a doctor is more
likely to come from a hospital than from a hunt, and that when
the initials 'C.C.' are placed before that hospital the words
'Charing Cross' very naturally suggest themselves."

"You may be right."

"The probability lies in that direction.  And if we take this as
a working hypothesis we have a fresh basis from which to start
our construction of this unknown visitor."

"Well, then, supposing that 'C.C.H.' does stand for 'Charing Cross
Hospital,' what further inferences may we draw?"

"Do none suggest themselves?  You know my methods.  Apply them!"

"I can only think of the obvious conclusion that the man has
practised in town before going to the country."

"I think that we might venture a little farther than this.  Look
at it in this light.  On what occasion would it be most probable
that such a presentation would be made?  When would his friends
unite to give him a pledge of their good will?  Obviously at the
moment when Dr. Mortimer withdrew from the service of the hospital
in order to start a practice for himself.  We know there has been
a presentation.  We believe there has been a change from a town
hospital to a country practice.  Is it, then, stretching our
inference too far to say that the presentation was on the occasion
of the change?"

"It certainly seems probable."

"Now, you will observe that he could not have been on the staff
of the hospital, since only a man well-established in a London
practice could hold such a position, and such a one would not
drift into the country.  What was he, then?  If he was in the
hospital and yet not on the staff he could only have been a
house-surgeon or a house-physician--little more than a senior
student.  And he left five years ago--the date is on the stick.
So your grave, middle-aged family practitioner vanishes into thin
air, my dear Watson, and there emerges a young fellow under thirty,
amiable, unambitious, absent-minded, and the possessor of a
favourite dog, which I should describe roughly as being larger
than a terrier and smaller than a mastiff."

I laughed incredulously as Sherlock Holmes leaned back in his
settee and blew little wavering rings of smoke up to the ceiling.

"As to the latter part, I have no means of checking you," said I,
"but at least it is not difficult to find out a few particulars
about the man's age and professional career."  From my small
medical shelf I took down the Medical Directory and turned up
the name.  There were several Mortimers, but only one who could
be our visitor.  I read his record aloud.

        "Mortimer, James, M.R.C.S., 1882, Grimpen, Dartmoor, Devon.
        House-surgeon, from 1882 to 1884, at Charing Cross Hospital.
        Winner of the Jackson prize for Comparative Pathology,
        with essay entitled 'Is Disease a Reversion?'  Corresponding
        member of the Swedish Pathological Society.  Author of
        'Some Freaks of Atavism' (Lancet 1882).  'Do We Progress?'
        (Journal of Psychology, March, 1883).  Medical Officer
        for the parishes of Grimpen, Thorsley, and High Barrow."

"No mention of that local hunt, Watson," said Holmes with a
mischievous smile, "but a country doctor, as you very astutely
observed.  I think that I am fairly justified in my inferences.
As to the adjectives, I said, if I remember right, amiable,
unambitious, and absent-minded.  It is my experience that it is
only an amiable man in this world who receives testimonials, only
an unambitious one who abandons a London career for the country,
and only an absent-minded one who leaves his stick and not his
visiting-card after waiting an hour in your room."

"And the dog?"

"Has been in the habit of carrying this stick behind his master.
Being a heavy stick the dog has held it tightly by the middle,
and the marks of his teeth are very plainly visible.  The dog's
jaw, as shown in the space between these marks, is too broad in
my opinion for a terrier and not broad enough for a mastiff.  It
may have been--yes, by Jove, it is a curly-haired spaniel."

He had risen and paced the room as he spoke.  Now he halted in
the recess of the window.  There was such a ring of conviction
in his voice that I glanced up in surprise.

"My dear fellow, how can you possibly be so sure of that?"

"For the very simple reason that I see the dog himself on our
very door-step, and there is the ring of its owner.  Don't move,
I beg you, Watson.  He is a professional brother of yours, and
your presence may be of assistance to me.  Now is the dramatic
moment of fate, Watson, when you hear a step upon the stair which
is walking into your life, and you know not whether for good or
ill.  What does Dr. James Mortimer, the man of science, ask of
Sherlock Holmes, the specialist in crime?  Come in!"

The appearance of our visitor was a surprise to me, since I had
expected a typical country practitioner.  He was a very tall,
thin man, with a long nose like a beak, which jutted out between
two keen, gray eyes, set closely together and sparkling brightly
from behind a pair of gold-rimmed glasses.  He was clad in a
professional but rather slovenly fashion, for his frock-coat was
dingy and his trousers frayed.  Though young, his long back was
already bowed, and he walked with a forward thrust of his head
and a general air of peering benevolence.  As he entered his eyes
fell upon the stick in Holmes's hand, and he ran towards it with
an exclamation of joy.  "I am so very glad," said he.  "I was not
sure whether I had left it here or in the Shipping Office.  I
would not lose that stick for the world."

"A presentation, I see," said Holmes.

"Yes, sir."

"From Charing Cross Hospital?"

"From one or two friends there on the occasion of my marriage."

"Dear, dear, that's bad!" said Holmes, shaking his head.

Dr. Mortimer blinked through his glasses in mild astonishment.
"Why was it bad?"

"Only that you have disarranged our little deductions.  Your
marriage, you say?"

"Yes, sir.  I married, and so left the hospital, and with it all
hopes of a consulting practice.  It was necessary to make a home
of my own."

"Come, come, we are not so far wrong, after all," said Holmes.
"And now, Dr. James Mortimer--"

"Mister, sir, Mister--a humble M.R.C.S."

"And a man of precise mind, evidently."

"A dabbler in science, Mr. Holmes, a picker up of shells on the
shores of the great unknown ocean.  I presume that it is
Mr. Sherlock Holmes whom I am addressing and not--"

"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."




Chapter 2
The Curse of the Baskervilles



"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
        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 dare-devil 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.
