Chapter 9. The Light upon the Moor [Second Report of Dr. Watson]

von Arthur Conan Doyle

Baskerville Hall, October 15th.

Dear Holmes,

I know I’ve kept you in the dark for a while during my mission, but I’m making up for it now. Events are unfolding rapidly, and I have quite a bit to share that I think will surprise you. Things have taken an unexpected turn. In some ways, everything has become clearer in the last forty-eight hours, but in others, it’s more complicated. I’ll lay it all out for you, and you can draw your own conclusions.

The morning after my last adventure, I wandered down the corridor to check out the room where Barrymore had been the night before. I noticed something interesting about the western window he had been staring out of—it offers the best view of the moor compared to any other window in the house. There’s a gap between two trees that allows a clear sightline down to the moor, while the other windows only provide a distant view. This made me think that Barrymore must have been looking for something or someone out there. The night was pitch black, so it’s hard to imagine how he thought he could see anything.

I started to wonder if there might be some sort of romantic affair going on. That would explain his sneaky behavior and his wife’s anxious demeanor. Barrymore is quite a striking man, well-suited to win the heart of a country girl, so this theory seemed plausible. The sound of the door I heard after returning to my room could mean he slipped out for a secret meeting. That’s where my mind was at that morning, even if my suspicions turned out to be unfounded.

Regardless of the true reason behind Barrymore’s late-night wanderings, I felt I couldn’t keep this to myself until I had a clearer explanation. After breakfast, I met with Sir Henry in his study and shared everything I had observed. To my surprise, he didn’t seem as shocked as I expected.

“I knew Barrymore was wandering around at night,” he said. “I meant to talk to him about it. A few times, I’ve heard him moving in the hallway around the time you mentioned.”

“Maybe he visits that window every night,” I suggested.

“Maybe he does. If that’s the case, we could follow him and find out what he’s up to. I wonder what your friend Holmes would do if he were here.”

“I think he’d do exactly what you’re suggesting,” I replied. “He’d follow Barrymore and see what he was up to.”

“Then let’s do it together.”

“But won’t he hear us?”

“Barrymore is a bit hard of hearing, and we’ll just have to take our chances. We’ll sit in my room tonight and wait for him to pass by.” Sir Henry rubbed his hands together in excitement, clearly looking forward to the adventure as a break from his otherwise quiet life on the moor.

Sir Henry has been in touch with the architect who drew up plans for Sir Charles and a contractor from London, so we can expect some significant changes around here soon. Decorators and furnishers have come up from Plymouth, and it’s clear that our friend has grand ambitions and is willing to spare no expense to restore his family’s former glory. Once the house is renovated and furnished, all he’ll need is a wife to complete the picture. Between you and me, it’s obvious he’s smitten with our beautiful neighbor, Miss Stapleton. However, the path of true love isn’t running as smoothly as one might expect. Today, for instance, a surprising twist has added to his confusion and frustration.

After our conversation about Barrymore, Sir Henry put on his hat and got ready to head out. Naturally, I did the same.

“Are you coming, Watson?” he asked, looking at me curiously.

“That depends on whether you’re going out onto the moor,” I replied.

“Yes, I am.”

“Well, you know my instructions. I hate to intrude, but you heard how adamantly Holmes insisted that I shouldn’t leave you, especially not alone on the moor.”

Sir Henry placed a hand on my shoulder, smiling warmly.

“My dear friend,” he said, “even with all of Holmes's brilliance, he didn’t anticipate some of the things that have happened since I arrived on the moor. You understand what I mean? I know you’re the last person who would want to ruin this for me. I have to go out alone.”

This put me in a very awkward position. I didn’t know what to say or do, and before I could gather my thoughts, he picked up his cane and left.

As I reflected on the situation, guilt gnawed at me for letting him slip out of my sight, even for a moment. I imagined how I would feel if I had to come back to you and admit that something terrible happened because I ignored your instructions. Just the thought of it made my cheeks burn. It might not be too late to catch up with him, so I set off immediately toward Merripit House.

I rushed along the road as fast as I could, not spotting Sir Henry until I reached the point where the moor path split off. There, worried that I might have taken a wrong turn, I climbed a hill that offered a good view—the same hill that had been carved into the dark quarry. From there, I spotted him right away. He was on the moor path about a quarter of a mile ahead, and a woman was with him—Miss Stapleton. It was clear they had an understanding and had met intentionally. They walked slowly, deep in conversation, and I noticed her hands moving animatedly, as if she were passionately making a point, while he listened intently, shaking his head in disagreement now and then.

I stood among the rocks, unsure of what to do next. Following them and interrupting their private moment felt wrong, yet my duty was to keep him in sight at all costs. Acting like a spy on a friend was a distasteful task, but I saw no better option than to watch from the hill and later confess to him what I had done. True, if any sudden danger had arisen, I would be too far away to help, but I was sure you would agree that my position was complicated, and there was little else I could do.

Sir Henry and the lady had stopped on the path, engrossed in their conversation, when I suddenly realized I wasn’t the only one observing them. A flash of green caught my eye, and I turned to see a man moving among the rocky terrain, holding a stick with something fluttering on it. It was Stapleton with his butterfly net. He was much closer to them than I was and seemed to be heading in their direction.

At that moment, Sir Henry suddenly pulled Miss Stapleton closer. His arm was around her, but it looked like she was trying to pull away, her face turned away from him. He leaned down to her, and she raised a hand as if to protest. In the next instant, they sprang apart, clearly startled. Stapleton was the cause of the disruption, running toward them with his net trailing behind him. He gestured wildly and almost danced with excitement in front of the couple. I couldn’t make sense of the scene, but it appeared that Stapleton was confronting Sir Henry, who was trying to explain himself, growing more agitated as Stapleton refused to listen. The lady stood by, silent and aloof. Finally, Stapleton turned sharply and beckoned his sister, who, after a hesitant glance at Sir Henry, walked away beside her brother. The naturalist’s angry gestures indicated that she was also the target of his frustration. Sir Henry stood there for a moment, watching them leave, then slowly turned back the way he had come, his head down, looking utterly dejected.

I couldn’t fathom what had just happened, but I felt deeply ashamed to have witnessed such a private moment without my friend knowing. I hurried down the hill and met Sir Henry at the bottom. His face was flushed with anger, and his brows were furrowed, as if he were at a loss for what to do.

“Hey, Watson! Where did you come from?” he exclaimed. “You didn’t really follow me after all, did you?”

I explained everything: how I couldn’t stay behind, how I had followed him, and how I had seen everything unfold. For a brief moment, his eyes flashed with anger, but my honesty softened his irritation, and he finally broke into a rueful laugh.

“You’d think the middle of that moor would be a safe place for a man to have some privacy,” he said, “but it seems like the whole countryside turned out to watch me fumble through my courtship—and a pretty poor courtship at that! Where were you watching from?”

“I was on that hill,” I replied.

“Stuck in the back row, huh? But her brother was right up front. Did you see him come at us?”

“Yes, I did.”

“Did you ever think he was a bit off—this brother of hers?”

“I can’t say that I ever did.”

“I figured as much. I always thought he was sane enough until today, but I’ll tell you, either he or I should be locked up. What’s wrong with me, anyway? You’ve been around me for weeks, Watson. Be honest! Is there anything that would stop me from being a good husband to a woman I loved?”

“I wouldn’t think so.”

“He can’t have a problem with my social standing, so it must be something about me that he doesn’t like. What does he have against me? I’ve never harmed a soul in my life that I know of. And yet, he wouldn’t even let me touch the tips of her fingers.”

“Did he say that?”

“That, and a whole lot more. I swear, Watson, I’ve only known her for a few weeks, but from the very start, I felt like she was meant for me. And she felt it too—she was happy when she was with me, I know that for sure. There’s a spark in a woman’s eyes that says more than words ever could. But he’s never let us be together, and today was the first time I thought I might get a moment alone with her. She was glad to see me, but when we talked, it wasn’t about love, and she wouldn’t let me steer the conversation there either if she could help it. She kept insisting that this place was dangerous and that she wouldn’t be happy until I left. I told her that since I met her, I had no desire to leave, and if she really wanted me to go, she’d have to come with me. I practically proposed right then and there, but before she could respond, her brother came charging at us, looking like a madman. He was pale with rage, and his light eyes were blazing. What was I doing with his sister? How dared I offer her any attention that she didn’t want? Did I think that just because I was a baronet, I could do whatever I liked? If he hadn’t been her brother, I would have known how to handle him better. As it was, I told him that my feelings for his sister were genuine and that I hoped she might honor me by becoming my wife. That didn’t help matters at all, and I lost my temper, responding more heatedly than I probably should have, especially with her standing there. So, he took her away, just like you saw, and here I am, as confused as anyone in this county. Just tell me what it all means, Watson, and I’ll owe you more than I can ever repay.”

I tried to come up with a few explanations, but honestly, I was just as baffled. Our friend’s title, his wealth, his age, his character, and his looks all worked in his favor, and I couldn’t think of anything against him except for this dark fate that seemed to hang over his family. It was astonishing that his advances were rejected so abruptly without any regard for the lady’s own feelings, and that she accepted the situation without protest was equally surprising.

However, our questions were soon answered by a visit from Stapleton himself that very afternoon. He came to apologize for his rudeness that morning, and after a long private conversation with Sir Henry in his study, they managed to clear the air. The result was that the rift was healed, and we were invited to dinner at Merripit House next Friday as a gesture of goodwill.

“I won’t say he isn’t a bit unhinged,” Sir Henry said. “I can’t shake the look in his eyes when he came at me this morning, but I have to admit, he made a very gracious apology.”

“Did he explain his behavior?”

“He said his sister is everything to him. That makes sense, and I’m glad he recognizes her worth. They’ve always been inseparable, and according to him, he’s been quite lonely with only her for company, so the thought of losing her was truly terrifying. He hadn’t realized, he said, that I was developing feelings for her, but when he saw it for himself, and understood that she could be taken away from him, it shocked him to the core. He was genuinely sorry for everything that happened and recognized how foolish and selfish it was to think he could keep a beautiful woman like his sister all to himself for her entire life. If she had to leave him, he would prefer it be to someone like me rather than anyone else. But it was still a blow to him, and he needed time to come to terms with it. He agreed to drop his objections if I promised to let things rest for three months, during which I would focus on building a friendship with the lady without claiming her love. I agreed, and so that’s where we stand.”

One of our small mysteries has finally been solved. It’s a relief to have reached the bottom of this murky bog we’ve been navigating. Now we understand why Stapleton disapproved of his sister’s suitor, even when that suitor was as respectable as Sir Henry. With that cleared up, I want to move on to another thread I’ve unraveled: the mystery of the sobs in the night, the tear-streaked face of Mrs. Barrymore, and the butler’s secret trips to the western window. Celebrate with me, my dear Holmes, and assure me that I haven’t let you down as your agent—that you don’t regret the trust you placed in me when you sent me here. All of these questions have been resolved in just one night’s work.

I say “one night’s work,” but in reality, it took two nights. The first night was a complete bust. I stayed up with Sir Henry in his rooms until nearly three in the morning, but we didn’t hear a single sound apart from the clock chiming on the stairs. It was a dismal vigil, and we both ended up dozing off in our chairs. Thankfully, we didn’t let that discourage us, and we decided to give it another shot. The next night, we dimmed the lamp and sat smoking cigarettes in silence. The hours dragged on painfully, but we endured it with the same kind of patient anticipation a hunter feels while waiting for his prey to wander into a trap.

Just as we were about to give up in despair for the second time, we both suddenly sat up straight in our chairs, our senses sharpened. We had heard the creak of footsteps in the hallway.

We listened carefully as the sound faded into the distance. Then, Sir Henry gently opened his door, and we set off in pursuit. Our quarry had already rounded the gallery, and the corridor was cloaked in darkness. We moved quietly, inching our way into the other wing. Just in time, we caught a glimpse of a tall figure with a black beard, his shoulders hunched as he tiptoed down the passage. He slipped through the same door as before, and the flickering candlelight framed it in the darkness, casting a single yellow beam across the gloomy corridor.

We crept forward cautiously, testing each floorboard before committing our weight to it. We had left our boots behind to minimize noise, but even so, the old boards creaked beneath our feet. At times, it seemed impossible that he wouldn’t hear us approaching. Fortunately, the man is rather hard of hearing and was completely absorbed in whatever he was doing. When we finally reached the door and peered inside, we found him crouched at the window, candle in hand, his pale face pressed against the glass, just as I had seen him two nights earlier.

We hadn’t devised a plan, but Sir Henry is the kind of man who naturally takes the most straightforward approach. He walked into the room, and as he did, Barrymore jumped up from the window, hissing sharply as he stood before us, pale and trembling. His dark eyes, wide with horror and shock, darted between Sir Henry and me.

“What are you doing here, Barrymore?”

“Nothing, sir.” His voice trembled with agitation, and the shadows danced wildly from the flickering candle. “I was checking the window, sir. I go around at night to make sure they’re secure.”

“On the second floor?”

“Yes, sir, all the windows.”

“Listen, Barrymore,” Sir Henry said sternly, “we’ve decided we’re going to get the truth out of you, so it’s better for you to tell us now rather than later. No more lies! What were you doing at that window?”

Barrymore looked at us helplessly, wringing his hands as if caught in a web of doubt and despair.

“I wasn’t doing any harm, sir. I was just holding a candle to the window.”

“And why were you holding a candle to the window?”

“Please don’t ask me, Sir Henry—don’t ask me! I swear to you, sir, it’s not my secret, and I can’t tell you. If it were only about me, I wouldn’t try to keep it from you.”

A sudden thought struck me, and I took the candle from the trembling butler’s hand.

“He must have been using it as a signal,” I said. “Let’s see if there’s a response.” I held it up as he had done and peered into the darkness outside. I could vaguely make out the dark outline of the trees and the lighter stretch of the moor, the moon hidden behind clouds. Then I let out a cry of triumph, for a tiny pinpoint of yellow light had suddenly pierced the darkness, glowing steadily in the center of the black square framed by the window.

“There it is!” I exclaimed.

“No, no, sir, it’s nothing—nothing at all!” Barrymore interrupted, panic rising in his voice. “I assure you, sir—”

“Move your light across the window, Watson!” the baronet shouted. “Look, the other one is moving too! Now, you scoundrel, do you deny that it’s a signal? Speak up! Who’s your accomplice out there, and what’s this conspiracy all about?”

The man’s expression turned defiantly stubborn. “That’s my business, not yours. I won’t say a word.”

“Then you’re leaving my service immediately.”

“Fine by me, sir. If I must, I must.”

“And you leave in disgrace. Good heavens, you should be ashamed of yourself. Your family has lived under this roof with mine for over a hundred years, and here I find you tangled up in some dark scheme against me.”

“No, no, sir; not against you!” A woman’s voice broke in, and Mrs. Barrymore, looking paler and more horrified than her husband, stood at the door. Her large figure, wrapped in a shawl and skirt, might have seemed comical if it weren’t for the intensity of her expression.

“We have to go, Eliza. This is it. You can pack our things,” the butler said.

“Oh, John, John, have I brought you to this? It’s my fault, Sir Henry—all mine. He’s done nothing except for me and because I asked him to.”

“Then speak up! What does it mean?”

“My poor brother is starving on the moor. We can’t let him die right at our doorstep. The light is a signal for him that food is ready, and his light out there shows him where to bring it.”

“Then your brother is—”

“The escaped convict, sir—Selden, the criminal.”

“That’s the truth, sir,” Barrymore added. “I said it wasn’t my secret and that I couldn’t tell you. But now you know, and you’ll see that if there was a plot, it wasn’t against you.”

So this was the explanation for the secretive nighttime trips and the light in the window. Sir Henry and I exchanged astonished glances. Could it be that this respectable woman was related to one of the country’s most infamous criminals?

“Yes, sir, my name was Selden, and he is my younger brother. We spoiled him when he was a child, letting him have his way until he thought the world revolved around him, that he could do whatever he pleased. As he grew older, he fell in with the wrong crowd, and darkness took hold of him until he broke my mother’s heart and dragged our family name through the mud. He sank deeper into crime until only God’s mercy saved him from the gallows. But to me, sir, he was always that little curly-haired boy I cared for and played with as an older sister would. That’s why he escaped from prison, sir. He knew I was here, and he thought we couldn’t refuse to help him. When he showed up one night, exhausted and starving, with the warders right behind him, what could we do? We took him in, fed him, and cared for him. Then you returned, sir, and my brother thought he’d be safer on the moor until the search was over, so he hid there. But every other night, we checked on him by putting a light in the window, and if he responded, my husband would take him some bread and meat. Every day we hoped he’d be gone, but as long as he was there, we couldn’t abandon him. That’s the whole truth, as I’m an honest Christian woman, and you’ll see that if there’s blame here, it lies with me, for whom he has done all this.”

Her words came with such earnestness that they felt undeniably true.

“Is this true, Barrymore?”

“Yes, Sir Henry. Every word.”

“Well, I can’t blame you for standing by your wife. Forget what I said. You two go to your room, and we’ll discuss this further in the morning.”

Once they left, we looked out the window again. Sir Henry threw it open, and the cold night air rushed in, chilling our faces. In the distance, that single point of yellow light still glowed.

“I wonder how he dares,” Sir Henry mused.

“It might be positioned so it’s only visible from here.”

“Very likely. How far do you think it is?”

“Out by the Cleft Tor, I suspect.”

“Not more than a mile or two away.”

“Hardly that.”

“Well, it can’t be far if Barrymore had to carry food to it. And that villain is waiting by that candle. By thunder, Watson, I’m going out to get that man!”

The same thought had crossed my mind. The Barrymores hadn’t confided in us; their secret had been forced out. This man was a danger to the community, a scoundrel without pity or excuse. We were only doing our duty by taking this chance to put him back where he couldn’t do any harm. With his brutal nature, others would pay the price if we held back. Our neighbors, the Stapletons, could be at risk from him any night, and perhaps that thought fueled Sir Henry’s eagerness for the adventure.

“I’ll come with you,” I said.

“Grab your revolver and put on your boots. The sooner we head out, the better. He might turn off his light and disappear.”

In just five minutes, we stepped outside, ready for our mission. We rushed through the dark shrubbery, the autumn wind moaning softly around us and the leaves rustling as they fell. The night air was thick with the scent of damp earth and decay. Occasionally, the moon peeked through the clouds, but they quickly swept across the sky, and just as we reached the moor, a light rain began to fall. The light ahead flickered steadily.

“Are you armed?” I asked.

“I have a hunting crop,” he replied.

“We need to close in on him quickly. They say he’s a dangerous man. We’ll catch him off guard and have him at our mercy before he can fight back.”

“Watson,” the baronet said, “what would Holmes think of this? What about that hour of darkness when evil is at its strongest?”

As if in response to his words, a strange cry echoed out of the vast darkness of the moor, a sound I had heard before near the Grimpen Mire. It came with the wind, a deep rumble that rose into a howl and then faded into a mournful moan. Again and again, it reverberated through the air, wild and threatening. The baronet grabbed my sleeve, his face pale in the shadows.

“My God, what is that, Watson?”

“I don’t know. It’s a sound that comes from the moor. I heard it once before.”

The noise faded, leaving us in complete silence. We strained our ears, but nothing followed.

“Watson,” the baronet said, “that was the cry of a hound.”

A chill ran through me; I could hear the tremor in his voice, the sudden fear that had gripped him.

“What do they call that sound?” he asked.

“Who?”

“The people around here.”

“Oh, they’re just superstitious folk. Why does it matter what they call it?”

“Tell me, Watson. What do they say?”

I hesitated but couldn’t avoid the question.

“They say it’s the cry of the Hound of the Baskervilles.”

He groaned and fell silent for a moment.

“It was a hound,” he finally said, “but it seemed to come from far away, over there, I think.”

“It’s hard to tell where it came from.”

“It rose and fell with the wind. Isn’t that the direction of the Grimpen Mire?”

“Yes, it is.”

“Well, it was up there. Come on, Watson, didn’t you think it sounded like a hound? I’m not a child; you can tell me the truth.”

“Stapleton was with me when I heard it last. He suggested it might be a strange bird calling.”

“No, no, it was a hound. My God, could there be some truth to these stories? Am I really in danger from something so dark? You don’t believe it, do you, Watson?”

“No, no.”

“And yet, it was one thing to laugh about it in London, and it’s another to stand out here in the dark of the moor and hear that cry. And my uncle! There was a hound’s footprint beside him when he lay there. It all connects. I don’t think of myself as a coward, Watson, but that sound chilled me to the bone. Feel my hand!”

It was as cold as stone.

“You’ll be fine by tomorrow.”

“I don’t think I’ll shake that cry from my mind. What do you suggest we do now?”

“Should we turn back?”

“No way; we came out to find our man, and we will. We’re after the convict, and a hell-hound is likely after us too. Let’s go! We’ll see this through, even if all the demons of the pit are loose on the moor.”

We stumbled forward in the darkness, surrounded by the looming crags, with the yellow light flickering steadily ahead. Nothing is more deceptive than the distance of a light on a pitch-black night; sometimes it seemed far off on the horizon, and other times it felt just a few yards away. But eventually, we could see where it came from, and then we knew we were very close. A flickering candle was wedged in a crack in the rocks, shielded from the wind and hidden from view except toward Baskerville Hall. A large boulder concealed our approach, and crouching behind it, we peered over at the signal light. It was strange to see that single candle burning in the middle of the moor, with no sign of life nearby—just that one straight yellow flame and the gleam of the rock surrounding it.

“What should we do now?” Sir Henry whispered.

“Let’s wait here. He must be close to his light. Let’s see if we can catch a glimpse of him.”

The moment I finished speaking, we both spotted him. Over the rocks, where the candle flickered, a sinister yellow face emerged—a grotesque, animalistic visage, marred by deep lines of wickedness. Covered in mud, sporting a wild beard, and tangled hair, he looked like one of those ancient savages who once roamed the hills. The light from below glinted off his small, shrewd eyes, which darted left and right through the darkness like a cunning beast sensing the approach of hunters.

Something had clearly set off his alarm. Perhaps Barrymore had missed a private signal we were supposed to give, or maybe the man had some other reason to suspect that things weren’t right. I could see the fear etched on his malevolent face. At any moment, he might snuff out the light and vanish into the shadows. Without hesitation, I lunged forward, and Sir Henry followed suit. Just then, the convict let out a furious curse and hurled a rock that smashed against the boulder shielding us. I caught a brief glimpse of his squat, muscular figure as he sprang to his feet and bolted away. By a stroke of luck, the moon broke through the clouds at that moment.

We raced over the hilltop and spotted him sprinting down the other side, leaping over stones like a mountain goat. A well-aimed shot from my revolver could have brought him down, but I had only brought it for self-defense, not to shoot an unarmed man fleeing in fear.

We were both fit and fast, but it quickly became clear that we wouldn’t catch him. We watched him for a while, a mere speck darting among the boulders on a distant hill. We ran until we were breathless, but the gap between us only widened. Finally, we collapsed onto two rocks, panting, as we watched him disappear into the distance.

It was then that something truly strange and unexpected happened. We had just risen from our resting place, ready to head home after giving up the futile chase. The moon hung low to our right, and the jagged peak of a granite tor stood stark against its silver glow. Suddenly, I spotted a figure—a man—standing on the tor, silhouetted like a dark statue against the bright backdrop. Don’t think I was imagining it, Holmes. I’ve never seen anything more clearly.

From what I could tell, he was tall and thin, standing with his legs slightly apart, arms crossed, and head bowed, as if lost in thought over the vast wilderness of peat and granite stretching before him. He seemed like the very spirit of that desolate place. This wasn’t the convict; he was far from where the other man had vanished and was much taller. I gasped in surprise and pointed him out to Sir Henry, but by the time I turned to grab his arm, the figure had vanished. The sharp peak of granite still cut into the moon, but there was no sign of that silent, still man.

I wanted to go investigate the tor, but it was quite a distance away. Sir Henry’s nerves were still rattled from the earlier encounter, which reminded him of his family’s dark history, and he wasn’t in the mood for more adventures. He hadn’t seen the lone figure on the tor and couldn’t share in the thrill that his strange presence had given me. “Just a warder,” he said dismissively. “The moor has been crawling with them since this guy escaped.” Maybe he was right, but I wanted more proof. Today, we planned to inform the people in Princetown about where to search for their missing man, but it felt frustrating not to have captured him ourselves.

So, those were the events of last night, and you must admit, my dear Holmes, that I’ve given you a thorough report. Much of what I’ve shared may seem irrelevant, but I believe it’s best to provide all the details and let you decide what’s most useful for your conclusions. We’re certainly making progress. As for the Barrymores, we’ve uncovered their motives, which has clarified things significantly. Yet, the moor, with its mysteries and strange inhabitants, remains as enigmatic as ever. Perhaps in my next letter, I’ll shed more light on that. It would be wonderful if you could come down to us. In any case, you’ll hear from me again in the next few days.