Chapter 2. The Curse of the Baskervilles

von Arthur Conan Doyle

“I have a manuscript in my pocket,” Dr. James Mortimer said.

“I noticed it when you walked in,” Holmes replied.

“It’s an old manuscript.”

“Early eighteenth century, unless it’s a forgery.”

“How can you tell that?” Dr. Mortimer asked, surprised.

“You’ve shown me a bit of it while you’ve been talking. It wouldn’t take much skill to date a document within a decade or so. You might have read my little paper on the subject; I estimated it to be from around 1730.”

“The exact date is 1742.” Dr. Mortimer pulled it from his breast pocket. “This family document was entrusted to me by Sir Charles Baskerville, whose sudden and tragic death three months ago stirred quite a commotion in Devonshire. I was not only his doctor but also a personal friend. He was a strong-willed man—practical and as unimaginative as I am. Still, he took this document very seriously, and he was prepared for the kind of end that ultimately came to him.”

Holmes reached for the manuscript and laid it flat on his knee. “You’ll notice, Watson, the alternating use of the long _s_ and the short one. It’s one of several clues that helped me determine the date.”

I leaned over his shoulder, examining the yellowed paper and faded handwriting. At the top, it read: “Baskerville Hall,” followed by large, scrawling numbers: “1742.”

“It looks like a statement of some kind.”

“Yes, it’s a statement of a legend that runs in the Baskerville family.”

“But I gather there’s something more modern and urgent that you want to discuss?”

“Absolutely. A very pressing matter that needs to be resolved within twenty-four hours. However, the manuscript is brief and closely tied to the situation. If you don’t mind, I’d like to read it to you.”

Holmes leaned back in his chair, steepled his fingers, and closed his eyes, adopting an air of resignation. Dr. Mortimer turned the manuscript toward the light and began to read in a high, cracking voice the following curious, old-fashioned narrative:

“Many accounts exist regarding the origin of the Hound of the Baskervilles, yet as I come directly from Hugo Baskerville, and as I received the story from my father, who in turn had it from his, I have recorded it here, fully believing that it happened exactly as described. I urge you, my sons, to understand that the same Justice that punishes sin can also graciously forgive it, and that no curse is so heavy that it cannot be lifted through prayer and repentance. Learn from this tale not to fear the consequences of the past, but to be cautious about the future, so that the dark passions that have caused our family such suffering do not rise again to our destruction.

“Know that during the time of the Great Rebellion (the history of which I highly recommend you read, as detailed by the learned Lord Clarendon), this Manor of Baskerville was held by Hugo of that name. It cannot be denied that he was a wild, profane, and godless man. His neighbors might have forgiven him, as saints have never thrived in that region, but he possessed a certain cruel humor that made his name infamous throughout the West.

“It happened that Hugo fell in love (if such a dark passion can truly be called love) with the daughter of a yeoman who owned land near the Baskerville estate. The young woman, being wise and of good reputation, avoided him at all costs, fearing his notorious reputation. One Michaelmas, Hugo, along with five or six of his idle and wicked friends, descended upon the farm and abducted the maiden, knowing her father and brothers were away.

“Once they brought her to the Hall, she was locked in an upper chamber while Hugo and his friends settled in for a long night of drinking, as was their custom. The poor girl upstairs was nearly driven mad by the raucous singing, shouting, and terrible curses that echoed up from below, for it was said that the words Hugo Baskerville uttered when drunk could curse a man for life.

“In her desperation, she did what might have daunted even the bravest of men. With the help of the ivy that covered (and still covers) the south wall, she climbed down from the eaves and made her way home across the moor, a journey of three leagues between the Hall and her father’s farm.”

A little while later, Hugo stepped away from his guests to bring food and drink—along with some darker intentions, perhaps—to his captive. When he reached the cage, he found it empty, the bird had flown. In that moment, he seemed to lose all reason. He dashed down the stairs into the dining hall, leaping onto the grand table, sending flagons and plates flying. He shouted to everyone present that he would willingly sell his soul to the devil if it meant he could catch the girl.

The partygoers stared in shock at his rage, but one particularly wicked—or perhaps just very drunk—man suggested they should set the hounds on her. Fueled by this idea, Hugo bolted from the house, shouting for his grooms to saddle his mare and unleash the hunting dogs. He gave the hounds a piece of the girl’s clothing, and with a fierce cry, they took off into the moonlit moor.

For a moment, the guests stood there, bewildered, unable to comprehend the chaos that had just unfolded. But soon, their dazed minds began to grasp the gravity of the situation. The atmosphere shifted into a frenzy, with some calling for their pistols, others for their horses, and a few simply wanting another drink. Eventually, clarity returned, and the thirteen of them mounted their horses, setting off in pursuit. The moon illuminated their path as they rode swiftly, taking the route the girl would likely have taken to get home.

After riding a mile or two, they encountered a shepherd on the moor. They called out to him, asking if he had seen the hunt. The shepherd, trembling with fear, could barely respond, but eventually managed to say he had indeed seen the poor maiden, with the hounds on her trail. “But I’ve seen more than that,” he added, “for Hugo Baskerville passed me on his black mare, and behind him ran a hellish beast that I pray I never have to face.”

The drunken squires cursed the shepherd and continued on, but soon their bravado faded. They heard the sound of galloping hooves across the moor, and the black mare, covered in white foam, raced past them with an empty saddle. Fear gripped the group, and they huddled closer together, though none would have turned back if they were alone. They pressed on, albeit slowly, until they finally came upon the hounds. Known for their bravery, they were now cowering together at the edge of a deep dip in the moor, some slinking away, while others stood with raised hackles and wide eyes, staring down into the narrow valley.

The group halted, sobered by the unfolding events. Most of them hesitated to move forward, but three of the bolder—or perhaps more intoxicated—men rode down into the dip. It opened into a wide clearing, where two ancient stones stood, remnants of a forgotten time. The moon shone brightly over the scene, illuminating the lifeless body of the girl who lay there, dead from fear and exhaustion. But it wasn’t just her body—or even that of Hugo Baskerville, lying nearby—that sent chills down the spines of these three reckless men. It was the monstrous creature looming over Hugo, clawing at his throat. It was a massive, black beast, resembling a hound but larger than any dog they had ever seen.

As they watched in horror, the creature ripped into Hugo’s throat. When it turned its blazing eyes and dripping jaws toward them, the three men screamed in terror and fled for their lives across the moor. One of them reportedly died that very night from the shock, while the other two were left broken for the rest of their days.

And so goes the tale of the hound that has haunted the Baskerville family ever since. I share this story not because the known is less frightening than the hinted, but because the truth can be just as terrifying. Many in the family have met untimely, bloody, and mysterious ends. Yet we must find solace in the infinite goodness of Providence, which does not punish the innocent beyond a few generations, as warned in Holy Scripture. To that Providence, my sons, I commend you, and I urge you to avoid crossing the moor during those dark hours when evil is at its strongest.

—Hugo Baskerville to his sons, Rodger and John, with strict instructions to keep this from their sister, Elizabeth.

After Dr. Mortimer finished reading the unusual account, he pushed his glasses up onto his forehead and looked over at Mr. Sherlock Holmes. Holmes yawned and flicked the end of his cigarette into the fire.

“Well?” he asked.

“Don’t you find it interesting?”

“Only if you’re a collector of fairy tales.”

Dr. Mortimer pulled a folded newspaper from his pocket.

“Now, Mr. Holmes, let’s give you something a bit more recent. This is the Devon County Chronicle from May 14th of this year. It contains a brief report on the circumstances surrounding the death of Sir Charles Baskerville, which happened just a few days ago.”

Holmes leaned forward, his expression sharpening with interest. Dr. Mortimer adjusted his glasses and began to read:

“The sudden death of Sir Charles Baskerville, who was considered a likely Liberal candidate for Mid-Devon in the upcoming election, has cast a shadow over the county. Although Sir Charles had only lived at Baskerville Hall for a short time, his kind nature and remarkable generosity had earned him the affection and respect of everyone he encountered. In an era dominated by newly wealthy individuals, it’s refreshing to see someone from an old county family, which has fallen on hard times, manage to create his own fortune and return to restore the legacy of his family. Sir Charles, as many know, made a significant amount of money through investments in South Africa. Unlike others who gamble until they lose everything, he wisely realized his profits and returned to England with them. It’s only been two years since he moved into Baskerville Hall, and there’s much talk about the ambitious plans for renovations and improvements that have now been cut short by his untimely death. As he had no children, he openly wished for the entire community to benefit from his good fortune during his lifetime, and many will have personal reasons to mourn his passing. His generous contributions to local charities have often been reported in these columns.

“The details surrounding Sir Charles’s death haven’t been completely clarified by the inquest, but enough has been revealed to dispel the local superstitions. There’s no reason to suspect foul play or to believe that his death was anything but natural. Sir Charles was a widower and had a somewhat eccentric personality. Despite his considerable wealth, he led a simple life, and his household staff at Baskerville Hall consisted of a married couple named Barrymore, with the husband serving as butler and the wife as housekeeper. Their testimonies, supported by several friends, indicate that Sir Charles had been in declining health for some time, particularly suffering from a heart condition that caused changes in his complexion, breathlessness, and severe bouts of anxiety. Dr. James Mortimer, who was both a friend and the physician for the deceased, has corroborated this evidence.”

The details of the case are straightforward. Sir Charles Baskerville had a nightly routine of walking down the famous yew alley at Baskerville Hall before going to bed. The Barrymores, his household staff, confirmed this was his habit. On May 4th, Sir Charles announced he would be leaving for London the next day and instructed Barrymore to pack his bags. That evening, he went out for his usual walk, cigar in hand, but he never came back.

At midnight, Barrymore noticed the front door was still open and grew worried. He grabbed a lantern and set out to find his master. The day had been rainy, so Sir Charles's footprints were easy to follow down the alley. About halfway down, there was a gate that led out to the moor, and it looked like Sir Charles had paused there for a moment. He continued down the alley, and it was at the far end that his body was found.

One puzzling detail was Barrymore's observation that Sir Charles's footprints changed after he passed through the moor gate; it seemed he had started walking on his toes. A horse dealer named Murphy, who was nearby at the time, admitted he had been drinking and claimed he heard cries but couldn’t tell where they came from. There were no signs of violence on Sir Charles, and although the doctor noted a shocking distortion of his face—so severe that Dr. Mortimer initially doubted it was his friend—the doctor explained that such symptoms could occur with respiratory failure and heart exhaustion.

The post-mortem confirmed this diagnosis, revealing long-standing heart disease, and the coroner’s jury concluded the case in line with the medical findings. This was fortunate, as it was crucial for Sir Charles's heir to take over the Hall and continue the legacy that had been so abruptly interrupted. Had the coroner’s findings not dispelled the romantic rumors surrounding the incident, it might have been hard to find someone willing to rent Baskerville Hall. The next of kin is believed to be Mr. Henry Baskerville, the son of Sir Charles's younger brother, who was last known to be in America. Efforts are underway to inform him of his inheritance.

Dr. Mortimer folded the paper and tucked it back into his pocket. “Those are the public facts, Mr. Holmes, regarding Sir Charles Baskerville’s death.”

“Thank you,” Sherlock Holmes replied. “This case certainly has some intriguing elements. I had seen some newspaper coverage at the time, but I was deeply engrossed in that matter involving the Vatican cameos, and in my eagerness to assist the Pope, I lost track of several interesting cases back home. This article contains all the public facts?”

“It does.”

“Then I’d like to hear the private ones.” He leaned back in his chair, steepled his fingers, and adopted his most composed and analytical demeanor.

Dr. Mortimer hesitated, showing signs of strong emotion. “In sharing this, I’m revealing something I haven’t told anyone else. I held back during the coroner’s inquiry because a scientist doesn’t want to appear to endorse a popular superstition. I also feared that if anything were done to enhance Baskerville Hall’s already grim reputation, it would remain unoccupied. For these reasons, I thought it best to keep some details to myself, as no good would come from sharing them. But with you, I can be completely honest.

“The moor is sparsely populated, and those who live nearby tend to be quite close. Because of this, I spent a lot of time with Sir Charles. Aside from Mr. Frankland of Lafter Hall and Mr. Stapleton, the naturalist, there aren’t many educated men around for miles. Sir Charles was a reserved man, but his illness brought us together, and our shared interests in science kept us connected. He had returned from South Africa with a wealth of scientific knowledge, and we enjoyed many delightful evenings discussing the comparative anatomy of the Bushman and the Hottentot.”

In the past few months, it became increasingly clear to me that Sir Charles was on the edge of a breakdown. He had taken the legend I shared with you to heart—so much so that, even though he would stroll around his own estate, he wouldn’t step onto the moor at night. It might sound unbelievable, Mr. Holmes, but he truly believed that a terrible fate loomed over his family. The history he shared about his ancestors certainly didn’t help his fears. The thought of some horrifying presence haunted him, and more than once, he asked me if, during my late-night medical rounds, I had ever seen anything strange or heard the sound of a hound howling. He asked me about the hound several times, his voice trembling with excitement each time.

I vividly remember driving up to his house about three weeks before his tragic death. He happened to be standing at his front door when I arrived. I had just gotten out of my carriage and was facing him when I noticed his eyes fixate over my shoulder, staring past me with sheer terror. I turned around just in time to catch a glimpse of what I thought was a large black calf moving along the driveway. He was so shaken that I felt compelled to go to where the animal had been and look for it. But it was gone, and the incident clearly left a lasting impression on him. I spent the evening with him, and it was during that visit, trying to explain his distress, that he entrusted me with the story I shared with you when I first arrived. I mention this small incident because it becomes significant in light of the tragedy that followed, but at the time, I believed it was entirely trivial and that his anxiety was unwarranted.

I had advised Sir Charles to go to London. I knew his heart was troubled, and the constant anxiety he lived with, no matter how unfounded it might have been, was clearly taking a toll on his health. I thought a few months in the bustling city would rejuvenate him. Mr. Stapleton, a mutual friend who was also worried about Sir Charles’s condition, agreed with my assessment. But then, at the last moment, this terrible tragedy struck.

On the night of Sir Charles’s death, Barrymore, the butler who discovered the body, sent Perkins the groom on horseback to fetch me. Since I was up late, I was able to reach Baskerville Hall within an hour of the incident. I verified all the details mentioned at the inquest. I followed the footprints down the yew alley, saw the spot at the moor-gate where he seemed to have paused, noted the change in the shape of the prints from that point onward, and observed that there were no other footprints in the soft gravel except for Barrymore’s. Finally, I examined the body, which had not been disturbed until I arrived. Sir Charles lay face down, arms outstretched, fingers clawing at the ground, his features twisted in a way that made it hard to recognize him. There were no visible injuries. However, Barrymore made one false statement during the inquest. He claimed there were no traces on the ground around the body. He hadn’t seen any, but I did—some distance away, but fresh and clear.

“Footprints?”

“Footprints.”

“A man’s or a woman’s?”

Dr. Mortimer looked at us with a strange expression, his voice dropping to a whisper as he replied, “Mr. Holmes, they were the footprints of a gigantic hound!”