Chapter 12. Death on the Moor

von Arthur Conan Doyle

For a moment, I sat there, breathless, struggling to process what I had just heard. Then, as if a heavy weight had been lifted from my shoulders, my senses returned, and I found my voice. That sharp, ironic tone could only belong to one person in the world.

“Holmes!” I exclaimed. “Holmes!”

“Come out,” he replied, “but be careful with that revolver.”

I ducked under the low doorway, and there he was, sitting on a stone outside, his gray eyes sparkling with amusement as they met my astonished expression. He looked thin and worn, yet sharp and alert, his face tanned by the sun and roughened by the wind. Dressed in a tweed suit and a cloth cap, he resembled any other tourist wandering the moor. Yet, true to his meticulous nature, his chin was smooth, and his shirt was pristine, as if he were still in Baker Street.

“I’ve never been so glad to see anyone in my life,” I said, shaking his hand vigorously.

“Or more surprised, I suppose?”

“I can’t deny it.”

“The surprise wasn’t all on your side, I assure you. I had no idea you’d discovered my little hideaway, let alone that you were inside it, until I was just twenty paces from the door.”

“My footprint, I assume?”

“No, Watson, I’m afraid I wouldn’t recognize your footprint among all the others. If you truly want to fool me, you’ll need to change your tobacconist. When I see a cigarette stub marked Bradley, Oxford Street, I know my friend Watson is nearby. You’ll find it beside the path. You must have tossed it down when you charged into the empty hut.”

“Exactly.”

“I thought as much. Knowing your admirable persistence, I was convinced you were lying in wait, weapon at the ready, for the owner to return. So, you actually thought I was the criminal?”

“I didn’t know who you were, but I was determined to find out.”

“Excellent, Watson! How did you track me down? Did you see me on the night of the convict hunt when I foolishly let the moon rise behind me?”

“Yes, I saw you then.”

“And I take it you searched all the huts until you found this one?”

“No, your boy had been spotted, which gave me a clue about where to look.”

“The old gentleman with the telescope, I presume. I couldn’t make sense of the light flashing on the lens when I first saw it.” He stood and peered into the hut. “Ah, I see Cartwright has brought some supplies. What’s this paper? So you’ve been to Coombe Tracey, have you?”

“Yes.”

“To see Mrs. Laura Lyons?”

“Exactly.”

“Well done! It seems our investigations have been running parallel, and when we combine our findings, I expect we’ll have a pretty thorough understanding of the case.”

“I’m truly relieved you’re here, as the weight of responsibility and the mystery were becoming too much for my nerves. But how on earth did you get here, and what have you been doing? I thought you were in Baker Street working on that blackmail case.”

“That’s what I wanted you to think.”

“So you use me but don’t trust me!” I said, a hint of bitterness creeping into my voice. “I believe I deserve better from you, Holmes.”

“My dear fellow, you’ve been invaluable to me in this and many other cases. I hope you can forgive me if I’ve seemed to play a trick on you. In truth, I did it partly for your own sake. I was aware of the danger you faced, which is why I came down to investigate myself. Had I been with Sir Henry and you, I’m confident my perspective would have mirrored yours, and my presence would have alerted our formidable opponents to be on guard. As it stands, I’ve been able to move around freely in a way I couldn’t have if I’d been living at the Hall, remaining an unknown factor in the situation, ready to step in at a crucial moment.”

“But why keep me in the dark?”

“Knowing wouldn’t have helped us and could have led to my discovery. You might have wanted to share something with me, or out of kindness, you would have brought me some comfort, which would have posed an unnecessary risk. I brought Cartwright with me—you remember the little chap from the express office? He’s been taking care of my simple needs: a loaf of bread and a clean collar. What more does a man want? He’s provided me with an extra pair of eyes and a very active pair of feet, both of which have been invaluable.”

“Then all my reports were for nothing!” My voice quivered as I recalled the effort and pride I had poured into them.

Holmes pulled a bundle of papers from his pocket.

“Here are your reports, my friend, and I assure you, they’ve been thoroughly reviewed. I made excellent arrangements, and they were only delayed by a day on their journey. I must commend you on the enthusiasm and intelligence you've shown in tackling such a challenging case.”

I was still feeling a bit raw from the deception I had experienced, but the warmth of Holmes's praise pushed my anger aside. Deep down, I knew he was right in what he said; it was probably for the best that I hadn’t known he was on the moor.

“That’s better,” he said, noticing the shadow lift from my face. “Now, tell me about your visit to Mrs. Laura Lyons. It wasn’t hard for me to guess that you went to see her, as she is the one person in Coombe Tracey who could help us with this matter. In fact, if you hadn’t gone today, I likely would have gone tomorrow.”

The sun had set, and dusk was settling over the moor. The air had grown chilly, prompting us to retreat into the hut for warmth. There, in the twilight, I recounted my conversation with the lady. Holmes was so engaged that I had to repeat parts of it before he was satisfied.

“This is crucial,” he said when I finished. “It fills a gap I hadn’t been able to bridge in this complex case. You’re aware, I assume, that there’s a close relationship between this lady and the man Stapleton?”

“I didn’t know it was that close.”

“There’s no doubt about it. They meet, they correspond, and there’s a complete understanding between them. This gives us a powerful advantage. If only I could use it to separate him from his wife—”

“His wife?”

“I’m sharing this information with you in return for everything you’ve provided me. The woman who has been passing as Miss Stapleton is actually his wife.”

“Good heavens, Holmes! Are you certain? How could he let Sir Henry fall in love with her?”

“Sir Henry’s feelings could harm no one but himself. Stapleton was careful to ensure that Sir Henry didn’t pursue her, as you’ve noticed. I repeat, the lady is his wife, not his sister.”

“But why this elaborate deception?”

“Because he anticipated that she would be much more useful to him as a free woman.”

All my unspoken instincts and vague suspicions suddenly crystallized around the naturalist. In that calm, colorless man with his straw hat and butterfly net, I began to see something sinister—a creature of infinite patience and cunning, with a smiling face and a murderous heart.

“So he is our enemy—he followed us in London?”

“That’s how I interpret the riddle.”

“And the warning—it must have come from her!”

“Exactly.”

The shape of some monstrous villainy, half-seen and half-formed, loomed in the darkness that had surrounded me for so long.

“But are you sure of this, Holmes? How do you know the woman is his wife?”

“Because he inadvertently revealed a true piece of his past when he first met you, and I’m sure he’s regretted it since. He was once a schoolmaster in the north of England. There’s no one easier to trace than a schoolmaster. There are educational agencies that can identify anyone who has been in that profession. A little investigation revealed that a school had collapsed under terrible circumstances, and the man who owned it—under a different name—had vanished with his wife. The descriptions matched. When I learned that the missing man was devoted to entomology, the identification was complete.”

The darkness was deepening, but much remained hidden in the shadows.

“If this woman is indeed his wife, where does Mrs. Laura Lyons fit in?” I asked.

“That’s one of the points your own research has illuminated. Your conversation with her has clarified the situation significantly. I wasn’t aware of her plans for a divorce from her husband. In that case, considering Stapleton as an unmarried man, she likely hoped to become his wife.”

“And when she finds out the truth?”

“Well, then she may become useful to us. It’s our first duty to see her—both of us—tomorrow. Don’t you think, Watson, that you’ve been away from your charge for too long? You should be at Baskerville Hall.”

The last red streaks of sunlight had vanished in the west, and night had enveloped the moor. A few faint stars twinkled in the violet sky.

“One last question, Holmes,” I said as I stood up. “Surely there’s no need for secrecy between us. What does it all mean? What is he after?”

Holmes’s voice dropped as he replied:

“It’s murder, Watson—cold, calculated, and deliberate murder. Don’t ask me for details. My trap is closing in on him, just as his is closing in on Sir Henry. With your help, he’s almost in my grasp. But there’s one danger that could threaten us: he might strike before we’re ready to act. Just one more day—two at the most—and I’ll have everything I need. Until then, guard your charge as closely as a worried mother watches over her sick child. Your mission today has proven itself, but I almost wish you hadn’t left his side. Listen!”

A terrible scream—a long, piercing cry filled with horror and despair—shattered the stillness of the moor. That horrifying sound froze the blood in my veins.

“Oh my God!” I gasped. “What is happening? What does it mean?”

Holmes leapt to his feet, his dark, athletic figure silhouetted against the door of the hut. He leaned forward, straining to see into the darkness.

“Quiet!” he whispered. “Quiet!”

The cry had been loud because of its intensity, but it echoed from somewhere far off in the shadowy landscape. Now it rang out again, closer, louder, more urgent than before.

“Where is it?” Holmes whispered, and I could hear the tremor in his voice, a rare crack in his iron demeanor. “Where is it, Watson?”

“There, I think.” I pointed into the darkness.

“No, over there!”

Once more, the anguished cry pierced the silent night, louder and much nearer than before. A new sound joined it—a deep, rumbling growl, both melodic and threatening, rising and falling like the steady murmur of the sea.

“The hound!” Holmes exclaimed. “Come on, Watson, hurry! Good heavens, if we’re too late!”

He took off running across the moor, and I followed closely behind. But then, from somewhere among the uneven ground ahead of us, came one last desperate scream, followed by a dull, heavy thud. We stopped and listened. The heavy silence of the windless night was unbroken.

I saw Holmes press his hand to his forehead, looking as if he were losing his mind. He stomped his feet in frustration.

“He’s beaten us, Watson. We’re too late.”

“No, no, that can’t be true!”

“Fool that I was to hold back! And you, Watson, see what happens when you abandon your charge! But by Heaven, if the worst has happened, we’ll make him pay!”

We stumbled blindly through the darkness, crashing into boulders, forcing our way through thorny bushes, panting up hills and racing down slopes, always heading toward the source of those dreadful sounds. At every rise, Holmes looked around eagerly, but the shadows were thick on the moor, and nothing stirred in the desolate landscape.

“Can you see anything?”

“Nothing.”

“But wait, what’s that?”

A low moan reached our ears. There it was again, this time from our left! On that side, a ridge of rocks ended in a sheer cliff overlooking a slope littered with stones. On its jagged face lay a dark, irregular shape. As we approached, the vague outline solidified into a clear form. It was a man lying face down on the ground, his head twisted at a grotesque angle, his shoulders hunched, as if he had been thrown violently to the ground. The absurdity of his position made it hard to grasp that the moan had been the last breath escaping his body.

Not a whisper, not a rustle, came from the dark figure we hovered over. Holmes touched him, then pulled his hand back with a gasp of horror. The match he struck illuminated the bloodied fingers and the ghastly pool spreading slowly from the crushed skull of the victim. It also revealed something else that made our hearts sink—the body of Sir Henry Baskerville!

There was no mistaking that distinctive reddish tweed suit—the very one he had worn on the first morning we met him in Baker Street. We caught a fleeting glimpse of it before the match flickered and died, just as hope faded from our souls. Holmes groaned, his face pale in the darkness.

“The beast! The beast!” I cried, my fists clenched. “Oh Holmes, I’ll never forgive myself for leaving him to face this alone.”

“I’m more to blame than you, Watson. In my quest for a complete case, I’ve sacrificed my client’s life. This is the greatest blow I’ve faced in my career. But how could I have known—how could I have known—that he would risk his life alone on the moor despite all my warnings?”

“That we should have heard his screams—my God, those screams!—and yet been powerless to save him! Where is this monstrous hound that drove him to his death? It could be lurking among these rocks right now. And Stapleton, where is he? He will pay for this crime.”

“He will. I’ll make sure of that. Uncle and nephew have been killed—the uncle terrified to death by the sight of a creature he believed to be supernatural, and the nephew meeting his end in a desperate attempt to escape. But now we need to prove the connection between the man and the beast. Aside from what we’ve heard, we can’t even swear to the existence of the latter, since Sir Henry clearly died from the fall. But mark my words, clever as he is, that man will be in my grasp before another day passes!”

We stood there, hearts heavy, on either side of the mangled body, overwhelmed by the sudden and irrevocable disaster that had brought our long and exhausting efforts to such a tragic conclusion. As the moon rose, we climbed to the top of the rocks over which our poor friend had fallen, and from the summit, we gazed out over the shadowy moor, half silver and half shadow. In the distance, miles away toward Grimpen, a single steady yellow light shone. It could only be coming from the lonely home of the Stapletons. With a bitter curse, I shook my fist at it.

“Why don’t we just grab him now?”

“Our case isn’t complete. The man is as cunning as they come. It’s not just what we know, but what we can prove. If we make one wrong move, the villain could slip away.”

“What can we do?”

“There will be plenty for us to do tomorrow. Tonight, we can only pay our last respects to our poor friend.”

Together, we made our way down the steep slope and approached the body, stark against the silvered stones. The sight of those contorted limbs hit me with a wave of pain and blurred my eyes with tears.

“We need to call for help, Holmes! We can’t carry him all the way to the Hall. Are you out of your mind?”

He had cried out and bent over the body. Now he was dancing and laughing, gripping my hand. Could this really be my stern, composed friend? There were hidden fires indeed!

“A beard! A beard! The man has a beard!”

“A beard?”

“It’s not the baronet—it’s—wait, it’s my neighbor, the convict!”

With feverish urgency, we turned the body over, and that dripping beard pointed up to the cold, clear moon. There was no doubt about the jutting forehead, the sunken animal eyes. It was indeed the same face that had glared at me from the candlelight over the rock—the face of Selden, the criminal.

In an instant, everything became clear. I remembered how the baronet had told me he had given his old clothes to Barrymore. Barrymore had passed them on to help Selden escape. The boots, shirt, cap—it was all Sir Henry’s. The tragedy was still dark enough, but this man had at least deserved death by the laws of his country. I explained everything to Holmes, my heart overflowing with gratitude and relief.

“Then the clothes were the poor devil’s downfall,” he said. “It’s clear that the hound was set on him because of some article of Sir Henry’s—the boot that was taken from the hotel, most likely—and that’s how it hunted him down. There’s one very strange thing, though: How did Selden, in the dark, know that the hound was on his trail?”

“He heard it.”

“Just hearing a hound on the moor wouldn’t send a hardened criminal like this into such a panic that he would risk being caught by screaming for help. He must have run a long way after realizing the animal was after him. How did he know?”

“A bigger mystery to me is why this hound, assuming all our theories are correct—”

“I assume nothing.”

“Well, then, why is this hound loose tonight? I doubt it roams freely on the moor all the time. Stapleton wouldn’t let it go unless he had reason to believe Sir Henry would be there.”

“My problem is the more daunting of the two, because I think we’ll soon get an explanation for yours, while mine may remain a mystery forever. The question now is, what do we do with this poor wretch’s body? We can’t leave it here for the foxes and ravens.”

“I suggest we put it in one of the huts until we can contact the police.”

“Exactly. I’m sure you and I could carry it that far. Wait, Watson, what’s this? It’s him, the man himself, as bold as brass! Not a word to show your suspicions—not a word, or my plans will fall apart.”

A figure was approaching us across the moor, and I saw the dull red glow of a cigar. The moon illuminated him, and I recognized the dapper shape and jaunty stride of the naturalist. He stopped when he saw us, then came closer.

“Why, Dr. Watson, is that you? You’re the last person I expected to see out on the moor at this hour. But, dear me, what’s this? Is someone hurt? Don’t tell me it’s our friend Sir Henry!” He hurried past me and bent over the dead man. I heard a sharp intake of breath, and the cigar slipped from his fingers.

“Who—who is this?” he stammered.

“It’s Selden, the man who escaped from Princetown.”

Stapleton’s face went pale, but he quickly masked his shock and disappointment. He glanced sharply between Holmes and me. “Goodness! What a terrible situation! How did he die?”

“It looks like he broke his neck after falling over these rocks. My friend and I were walking on the moor when we heard a scream.”

“I heard a scream too. That’s what made me come out. I was worried about Sir Henry.”

“Why were you particularly worried about Sir Henry?” I couldn’t help but ask.

“Because I suggested he come over. When he didn’t show up, I was surprised, and naturally, I got anxious when I heard cries on the moor. By the way”—his eyes flicked back and forth between Holmes and me—“did you hear anything else besides the scream?”

“No,” Holmes replied. “Did you?”

“No.”

“What do you mean, then?”

“Oh, you know the stories the locals tell about a phantom hound and all that. They say it can be heard at night on the moor. I was wondering if there was any sign of such a sound tonight.”

“We didn’t hear anything like that,” I said.

“And what’s your theory about this poor fellow’s death?”

“I’m convinced that anxiety and exposure drove him mad. He must have been running around the moor in a frenzy and eventually fell here, breaking his neck.”

“That seems like the most reasonable explanation,” Stapleton said, letting out a sigh that I took as relief. “What do you think, Mr. Sherlock Holmes?”

My friend acknowledged him with a nod. “You’re quite perceptive,” he said.

“We’ve been expecting you here since Dr. Watson arrived. You’re just in time to witness a tragedy.”

“Yes, indeed. I’m sure my friend’s explanation will account for the facts. I’ll be taking an unpleasant memory back to London with me tomorrow.”

“Oh, you’re leaving tomorrow?”

“That’s my plan.”

“I hope your visit has shed some light on the events that have puzzled us?”

Holmes shrugged.

“One can’t always achieve the success one hopes for. An investigator needs facts, not legends or rumors. This hasn’t been a satisfactory case.”

He spoke in his most straightforward and relaxed manner. Stapleton continued to scrutinize him before turning to me.

“I’d suggest we take this poor fellow to my house, but it would frighten my sister too much, so I don’t think that’s justified. If we cover his face, he should be safe until morning.”

And so we agreed. Declining Stapleton’s offer of hospitality, Holmes and I set off for Baskerville Hall, leaving the naturalist to return alone. Looking back, we saw his figure moving slowly across the vast moor, and behind him, the dark shape on the silvered slope where the man had met such a tragic end.

“We’re finally closing in on him,” Holmes said as we walked across the moor. “What nerve that man has! He managed to compose himself after what must have been a shocking realization that the wrong man had fallen victim to his scheme. I told you in London, Watson, and I’ll say it again: we’ve never faced an opponent more worthy of our efforts.”

“I regret that he’s seen you.”

“I felt the same at first. But there was no way to avoid it.”

“What do you think this will do to his plans now that he knows you’re here?”

“It could make him more cautious, or it might push him to act desperately. Like many clever criminals, he might be overconfident in his own cleverness, thinking he has completely fooled us.”

“Why shouldn’t we arrest him right now?”

“My dear Watson, you were born to take action. Your instinct is always to do something decisive. But let’s consider this: if we arrested him tonight, what good would it do us? We wouldn’t have any proof against him. That’s the tricky part! If he were working through a human accomplice, we could gather some evidence, but dragging this great dog into the light wouldn’t help us put a noose around its master’s neck.”

“Surely we have a case.”

“Not a shred of one—just speculation and guesswork. We’d be laughed out of court if we presented such a story with such flimsy evidence.”

“There’s Sir Charles’s death.”

“Found dead without a mark on him. You and I know he died of sheer fright, and we know what frightened him, but how can we convince twelve solid jurors of that? What evidence do we have of a hound? Where are the bite marks? Of course, we know that a hound doesn’t bite a dead body and that Sir Charles was dead before the beast ever caught up with him. But we need to prove all of this, and we’re not in a position to do it.”

“Well, then, what about tonight?”

“We’re not any better off tonight. Once again, there’s no clear link between the hound and the man’s death. We never actually saw the hound. We heard it, but we can’t prove it was following this man. There’s a complete lack of motive. No, my friend, we have to accept that we don’t have a case right now, and it’s worth taking some risks to build one.”

“And how do you plan to do that?”

“I have high hopes for what Mrs. Laura Lyons might reveal once she understands the situation. I also have my own strategy. We’ll deal with tomorrow’s troubles when we get there, but I hope to finally gain the upper hand before the day is over.”

I couldn’t get anything more from him, and he walked, deep in thought, until we reached the Baskerville gates.

“Are you coming inside?”

“Yes; I don’t see any reason to hide anymore. But one last thing, Watson. Don’t mention the hound to Sir Henry. Let him believe that Selden’s death was just as Stapleton wants us to think. He’ll be better prepared for the ordeal he has to face tomorrow, especially since he’s supposed to dine with those people, if I remember your report correctly.”

“I’ll be there too.”

“Then you need to excuse yourself, and he should go alone. That can be arranged easily. And now, if we’ve missed dinner, I think we’re both ready for some supper.”