Chapter 3. The Problem

von Arthur Conan Doyle

I have to admit, a chill ran through me at those words. There was an intensity in the doctor’s voice that revealed he was deeply affected by what he was sharing. Holmes leaned in, his excitement palpable, and his eyes sparkled with that sharp, dry gleam that signaled his keen interest.

“You saw this?” he asked.

“As clearly as I see you,” the doctor replied.

“And you didn’t say anything?”

“What would have been the point?”

“How is it that no one else noticed?”

“The marks were about twenty yards from the body, and no one thought to look. I doubt I would have either if I hadn’t known the legend.”

“There are many sheepdogs on the moor?” Holmes inquired.

“Sure, but this wasn’t a sheepdog.”

“You say it was large?”

“Enormous.”

“But it didn’t approach the body?”

“No.”

“What was the night like?”

“Damp and chilly.”

“But it wasn’t actually raining?”

“No.”

“What’s the alley like?”

“There are two lines of old yew hedges, twelve feet high and impenetrable. The path in the middle is about eight feet wide.”

“Is there anything between the hedges and the path?”

“Yes, there’s a strip of grass about six feet wide on either side.”

“I see that the yew hedge has a gate at one point?”

“Yes, the wicket gate that leads to the moor.”

“Any other openings?”

“None.”

“So, to get to the yew alley, one has to either walk down from the house or enter through the moor gate?”

“There’s an exit through a summer house at the far end.”

“Did Sir Charles make it there?”

“No; he was about fifty yards away from it.”

“Now, tell me, Dr. Mortimer—and this is important—were the marks you saw on the path and not on the grass?”

“No marks could show on the grass.”

“Were they on the same side of the path as the moor gate?”

“Yes; they were on the edge of the path, on the same side as the moor gate.”

“You’re really piquing my interest. One more thing. Was the wicket gate closed?”

“Closed and padlocked.”

“How high was it?”

“About four feet.”

“Then anyone could have climbed over it?”

“Yes.”

“And what marks did you see by the wicket gate?”

“None that stood out.”

“Good heavens! Did no one investigate?”

“Yes, I did myself.”

“And found nothing?”

“It was all quite muddled. Sir Charles had clearly stood there for five or ten minutes.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because the ash had fallen from his cigar twice.”

“Excellent! This is a colleague, Watson, after our own heart. But what about the marks?”

“He left his own marks all over that small patch of gravel. I couldn’t see any others.”

Sherlock Holmes struck his knee in frustration.

“If only I had been there!” he exclaimed. “This is clearly a case of extraordinary interest, one that offers immense opportunities for a scientific expert. That gravel page, which could have revealed so much, has long since been smudged by rain and trampled by curious villagers. Oh, Dr. Mortimer, to think you didn’t call me in! You have much to answer for.”

“I couldn’t call you in, Mr. Holmes, without revealing these facts to the world, and I’ve already explained why I didn’t want to do that. Besides—”

“Why do you hesitate?”

“There’s a realm in which even the sharpest and most experienced detectives are powerless.”

“You mean it’s supernatural?”

“I didn’t say that outright.”

“No, but you clearly believe it.”

“Since the tragedy, Mr. Holmes, I’ve heard several accounts that are hard to reconcile with the natural order.”

“For example?”

“I’ve learned that before the terrible event, several people saw a creature on the moor that matches the description of this Baskerville demon, which couldn’t possibly be any known animal. They all described it as a huge, glowing, ghastly, spectral figure. I’ve questioned these witnesses—one a practical farmer, another a farrier, and one a moorland farmer—and they all tell the same story about this dreadful apparition, exactly like the hellhound of the legend. I assure you, there’s a reign of terror in the area, and it takes a brave man to cross the moor at night.”

“And you, a trained scientist, believe it’s supernatural?”

“I don’t know what to believe.”

Holmes shrugged. “I’ve always limited my investigations to this world,” he said. “In my own way, I’ve fought against evil, but taking on the Father of Evil himself might be a bit ambitious. Still, you must admit the footprint is real.”

“The original hound was real enough to tear a man’s throat out, yet it was also diabolical.”

“I see you’ve fully embraced the supernaturalists’ view. But now, Dr. Mortimer, tell me this: if you hold these beliefs, why did you come to consult me at all? You say it’s pointless to investigate Sir Charles’s death, yet you want me to do it.”

“I didn’t say I wanted you to do it.”

“Then how can I assist you?”

“Dr. Mortimer, what should I do about Sir Henry Baskerville? He’s arriving at Waterloo Station in exactly one hour and fifteen minutes,” he said, glancing at his watch.

“He’s the heir, right?”

“Yes. After Sir Charles passed away, we looked for this young man and discovered he had been farming in Canada. From what we’ve heard, he’s a great guy. I’m speaking not just as a doctor but as a trustee and executor of Sir Charles’s will.”

“There aren’t any other claimants, I assume?”

“None at all. The only other relative we could trace was Rodger Baskerville, the youngest of three brothers, with poor Sir Charles being the eldest. The second brother died young and was Henry’s father. The third brother, Rodger, was the black sheep of the family. He had the old Baskerville spirit and supposedly looked just like the family portrait of old Hugo. He made life unbearable in England, fled to Central America, and died there in 1876 from yellow fever. Henry is the last of the Baskervilles. In one hour and five minutes, I’ll meet him at Waterloo Station. I received a wire that he arrived in Southampton this morning. So, Mr. Holmes, what do you suggest I do with him?”

“Why shouldn’t he go to his family home?”

“It seems natural, doesn’t it? But think about it: every Baskerville who goes there meets an unfortunate fate. I’m convinced that if Sir Charles could have spoken to me before his death, he would have warned me against bringing this last heir, who stands to inherit a fortune, to that cursed place. Yet, we can’t ignore that the entire struggling countryside relies on his presence. All the good work Sir Charles did will fall apart if there’s no one to take over the Hall. I worry that my own interests might cloud my judgment, which is why I’m bringing this to you for advice.”

Holmes thought for a moment.

“To put it simply, you believe there’s a sinister force that makes Dartmoor an unsafe place for a Baskerville. Is that correct?”

“I’d say there’s some evidence to support that idea.”

“Exactly. But if your supernatural theory holds true, it could harm the young man in London just as easily as in Devonshire. A devil with only local powers would be too absurd to consider.”

“You’re making light of this, Mr. Holmes, more than you would if you were face-to-face with these issues. So your advice is that the young man would be just as safe in Devonshire as in London? He arrives in fifty minutes. What do you recommend?”

“I suggest you take a cab, call off your spaniel scratching at my front door, and head to Waterloo to meet Sir Henry Baskerville.”

“And then?”

“And then, don’t say anything to him until I’ve made my decision.”

“How long will that take?”

“Twenty-four hours. At ten o’clock tomorrow, Dr. Mortimer, I’d appreciate it if you could come back here with Sir Henry Baskerville.”

“I’ll do that, Mr. Holmes.” He quickly jotted down the appointment on his shirt cuff and hurried off in his usual distracted manner. Holmes stopped him at the top of the stairs.

“One more question, Dr. Mortimer. You mentioned that before Sir Charles Baskerville died, several people saw this apparition on the moor?”

“Three people did.”

“Did anyone see it afterward?”

“I haven’t heard of any.”

“Thank you. Good morning.”

Holmes returned to his seat, a satisfied look on his face, indicating he had an intriguing task ahead.

“Going out, Watson?”

“Unless I can help you.”

“No, my dear fellow. It’s during action that I turn to you for assistance. But this is truly fascinating, unique from several perspectives. When you pass Bradley’s, could you ask him to send up a pound of the strongest shag tobacco? Thank you. It would be best if you could manage not to return until evening. I’d love to compare notes on this intriguing problem we’ve been presented with today.”

I understood that solitude was essential for Holmes during those intense hours of mental focus, where he weighed every piece of evidence, constructed different theories, and decided which points were crucial and which were not. So, I spent the day at my club and didn’t return to Baker Street until evening. It was nearly nine o’clock when I found myself back in the sitting room.

As I pushed the door open, my first thought was that a fire had broken out. The room was so thick with smoke that the light from the lamp on the table was nearly obscured. But as I stepped inside, my worries faded; it was just the sharp, pungent smell of strong tobacco that caught in my throat and made me cough. Through the haze, I could just make out Holmes, wrapped in his dressing gown, curled up in an armchair with his black clay pipe in his mouth. Papers were scattered around him.

“Caught a cold, Watson?” he asked, his voice casual.

“No, it’s this toxic atmosphere,” I replied, waving my hand in front of my face.

“I suppose it is pretty thick, now that you mention it,” he acknowledged.

“Thick? It’s unbearable.”

“Then open the window! I see you’ve been at your club all day.”

“My dear Holmes!”

“Am I right?”

“Absolutely, but how did you know?”

He chuckled at my puzzled expression. “There’s a certain freshness about you, Watson, that makes it a joy to exercise my small powers of deduction at your expense. A gentleman goes out on a rainy, muddy day. He returns in the evening looking pristine, his hat still shiny and his boots polished. Clearly, he’s been somewhere without friends. So, where could he have been? It’s obvious, isn’t it?”

“Well, yes, it is rather obvious.”

“The world is filled with obvious things that no one ever notices. So, where do you think I’ve been?”

“A fixture as well?”

“On the contrary, I’ve been to Devonshire.”

“In spirit?”

“Exactly. My body has stayed in this chair, and I regret to say it has consumed two large pots of coffee and an astonishing amount of tobacco in my absence. After you left, I sent to Stamford’s for the Ordnance map of this part of the moor, and my spirit has been hovering over it all day. I flatter myself that I could navigate it quite well.”

“A large-scale map, I assume?”

“Very large.”

He unrolled a section and laid it over his knee. “Here’s the area we’re interested in. That’s Baskerville Hall right in the center.”

“With a wood surrounding it?”

“Exactly. I suspect the yew alley, though it isn’t labeled as such, runs along this line, with the moor on its right. This small cluster of buildings here is the hamlet of Grimpen, where our friend Dr. Mortimer has his base. Within a five-mile radius, as you can see, there are only a few scattered homes. Here’s Lafter Hall, mentioned in the narrative. There’s also a house marked here that might belong to the naturalist—Stapleton, if I remember correctly. And here are two moorland farmhouses, High Tor and Foulmire. Then, fourteen miles away, there’s the notorious convict prison at Princetown. Between and around these scattered points lies the desolate, lifeless moor. This is the stage where tragedy has unfolded, and where we may help to unfold it again.”

“It must be a wild place.”

“Yes, the setting is certainly fitting. If the devil were to meddle in human affairs—”

“Then you’re leaning toward a supernatural explanation?”

“The devil’s agents can be flesh and blood, can’t they? We have two questions to consider right from the start. First, has any crime been committed at all? Second, if so, what is the crime and how was it carried out? Of course, if Dr. Mortimer’s theory is correct and we’re dealing with forces beyond the ordinary laws of nature, then our investigation ends here. But we must explore all other possibilities before resorting to that one. I think I’ll close that window again, if you don’t mind. It’s a curious thing, but I find that a concentrated atmosphere aids my concentration. I haven’t gone so far as to lock myself in a box to think, but that would be the logical conclusion of my beliefs. Have you given the case any thought?”

“Yes, I’ve considered it quite a bit today.”

“What do you think?”

“It’s very confusing.”

“It certainly has its own character. There are distinctive points about it. For instance, the change in the footprints. What do you make of that?”

“Mortimer mentioned that the man had walked on tiptoe down that part of the alley.”

“He merely repeated what some fool said at the inquest. Why would a man walk on tiptoe down the alley?”

“What then?”

“He was running, Watson—running for his life, running desperately until he collapsed from exhaustion and fell dead on his face.”

“Running from what?”

“That’s our problem. There are signs that the man was already crazed with fear before he even started to run.”

“How can you say that?”

“I suspect the source of his fears came from across the moor. If that’s the case—and it seems likely—only someone who had completely lost their mind would have run away from the house instead of toward it. If we can believe the gypsy’s account, he was shouting for help while heading in the direction where help was least likely to be found. And then there’s the question of who he was waiting for that night. Why was he standing in the yew alley instead of being inside his own home?”

“You think he was waiting for someone?”

“The man was old and frail. We can understand him taking an evening stroll, but the ground was wet and the night was unpleasant. Is it really normal for him to stand there for five or ten minutes, as Dr. Mortimer deduced from the cigar ash?”

“But he went out every evening.”

“I find it hard to believe he waited at the moor gate every night. In fact, all evidence suggests he avoided the moor. Yet that night, he chose to wait there. It was the night before he was supposed to leave for London. Everything is starting to make sense, Watson. It’s coming together. Could you please hand me my violin? Let’s put this matter aside for now and focus on meeting Dr. Mortimer and Sir Henry Baskerville in the morning.”