Chapter 6. Baskerville Hall

by Arthur Conan Doyle

Sir Henry Baskerville and Dr. Mortimer were ready on the day we had planned, and we set off for Devonshire as scheduled. Mr. Sherlock Holmes drove with me to the station, offering his final words of advice.

“I won’t influence your thinking by suggesting any theories or suspicions, Watson,” he said. “I want you to report the facts to me as thoroughly as possible. Leave the theorizing to me.”

“What kind of facts?” I asked.

“Anything that might relate to the case, no matter how indirect. Pay special attention to the relationship between young Baskerville and his neighbors, and gather any new details about Sir Charles's death. I've made some inquiries over the past few days, but unfortunately, they haven’t yielded much. One thing is clear: Mr. James Desmond, the next heir, is a kind and gentle man, so he’s not the source of this trouble. I believe we can completely rule him out. Our focus should be on those who will be around Sir Henry Baskerville on the moor.”

“Shouldn’t we first eliminate the Barrymores?” I suggested.

“Not at all. That would be a serious mistake. If they’re innocent, it would be a grave injustice; if they’re guilty, we’d lose our chance to prove it. No, we must keep them on our list of suspects. Then there’s a groom at the Hall, if I remember correctly. Two farmers from the moor. Our friend Dr. Mortimer, whom I trust completely, and his wife, about whom we know nothing. There’s also the naturalist, Stapleton, and his sister, who is said to be quite attractive. And let’s not forget Mr. Frankland from Lafter Hall, another unknown factor, along with a couple of other neighbors. These are the people you need to study closely.”

“I’ll do my best.”

“You have weapons, I assume?”

“Yes, I thought it wise to bring them.”

“Absolutely. Keep your revolver close at hand, day and night, and never let your guard down.”

Our friends had already secured a first-class carriage and were waiting for us on the platform.

“No, we haven’t heard anything new,” Dr. Mortimer replied to Holmes’s inquiries. “I can assure you that we haven’t been followed in the last two days. We’ve been vigilant, and no one could have slipped past us.”

“You’ve stayed together, I presume?”

“Except for yesterday afternoon. I usually take one day for leisure when I come to town, so I spent it at the Museum of the College of Surgeons.”

“And I went to watch the people in the park,” Sir Henry added.

“But we encountered no trouble at all.”

“It was still unwise,” Holmes said, shaking his head with a serious expression. “I urge you, Sir Henry, not to go out alone. Something terrible could happen if you do. Did you manage to find your other boot?”

“No, sir, it’s gone for good.”

“Interesting. Well, goodbye,” he said as the train began to move. “Remember, Sir Henry, one of the phrases from that strange old legend Dr. Mortimer shared with us: avoid the moor during the dark hours when evil is at its peak.”

I glanced back at the platform as we pulled away, catching sight of Holmes’s tall, serious figure standing still, watching us.

The journey was quick and enjoyable. I took the time to get to know my two companions better and played with Dr. Mortimer’s spaniel. In just a few hours, the brown earth turned to rich red, brick transformed into granite, and red cows grazed in well-kept fields where the lush grass and vibrant vegetation hinted at a richer, albeit wetter, climate. Young Baskerville leaned eagerly out the window, exclaiming with joy as he recognized the familiar Devon landscape.

“I’ve traveled a good part of the world since I left here, Dr. Watson,” he said, “but I’ve never seen a place that compares to this.”

“I’ve never met a Devonshire man who didn’t swear by his county,” I remarked.

“It’s as much about the people as it is about the land,” Dr. Mortimer replied. “Just look at our friend here; he has the rounded head of a Celt, full of enthusiasm and loyalty. Poor Sir Charles had a very rare head type, a mix of Gaelic and Ivernian traits. But you were quite young when you last saw Baskerville Hall, weren’t you?”

“I was just a teenager when my father passed away, and I had never seen the Hall. He lived in a small cottage on the South Coast. After that, I went straight to a friend in America. Everything here is as new to me as it is to Dr. Watson, and I’m eager to see the moor.”

“Are you? Then your wish is easily granted. There’s your first view of the moor,” Dr. Mortimer said, gesturing out the carriage window.

Beyond the green fields and the gentle curve of the woods, a grey, somber hill rose in the distance, its jagged peak faint and hazy, like a surreal landscape from a dream. Baskerville sat in silence for a long time, his gaze fixed on it. I could see the excitement on his face; this was the first glimpse of the strange place where his ancestors had ruled for generations, leaving their mark on the land. There he was, dressed in a tweed suit and speaking with an American accent, sitting in the corner of a mundane railway carriage. Yet, as I looked at his dark, expressive features, I felt more than ever that he was a true descendant of that proud lineage of strong, fiery men. His thick brows, sensitive nostrils, and large hazel eyes spoke of pride, courage, and strength. If a challenging and perilous journey lay ahead on that forbidding moor, at least I had a companion who would face it with bravery.

The train came to a stop at a small wayside station, and we all disembarked. Outside, beyond a low white fence, a wagonette pulled by a pair of cobs awaited us. Our arrival was clearly a significant occasion, as the stationmaster and porters gathered around to handle our luggage. It was a charming, simple country spot, but I was taken aback to see two soldiers in dark uniforms standing by the gate, leaning on their short rifles and watching us closely as we passed. The coachman, a weathered little man with a hard face, saluted Sir Henry Baskerville, and soon we were speeding down the wide, white road. Rolling pastures rose on either side, and old gabled houses peeked out from the lush greenery. Yet, looming darkly against the evening sky was the long, dreary curve of the moor, interrupted by jagged, ominous hills.

The wagonette turned onto a side road, climbing through deep lanes worn smooth by centuries of wheels, flanked by high banks heavy with dripping moss and lush hart’s-tongue ferns. The bronzed bracken and mottled brambles glimmered in the light of the setting sun. As we continued to ascend, we crossed a narrow granite bridge and followed a lively stream that rushed down, foaming and roaring among the grey boulders. Both the road and the stream wound through a valley thick with scrub oak and fir. At every bend, Baskerville exclaimed in delight, eagerly taking in his surroundings and asking countless questions. To him, everything seemed beautiful, but I couldn’t shake the feeling of melancholy that hung over the landscape, clearly marked by the fading year. Yellow leaves carpeted the lanes, fluttering down upon us as we drove through drifts of decaying vegetation—sad offerings, it seemed, for Nature to lay before the returning heir of the Baskervilles.

“Hey!” Dr. Mortimer called out, “What’s that?”

Ahead of us, a steep stretch of heath-covered land, an outlying spur of the moor, came into view. On its summit stood a mounted soldier, dark and stern, his rifle held ready over his forearm, watching the road we traveled.

“What’s going on, Perkins?” Dr. Mortimer asked.

Our driver turned slightly in his seat. “There’s a convict who escaped from Princetown, sir. He’s been on the run for three days now, and the warders are watching every road and station, but they haven’t spotted him yet. The farmers around here aren’t too happy about it, that’s for sure.”

“Well, I hear they get five pounds for any information.”

“Yes, sir, but the chance of five pounds isn’t worth much compared to the risk of having your throat cut. This isn’t just any ordinary convict. This is a man who wouldn’t hesitate to do anything.”

“Who is he, then?”

“It’s Selden, the Notting Hill murderer.”

I remembered the case vividly, as it had captured Holmes's attention due to the brutal nature of the crime and the sheer savagery displayed by the killer. His death sentence had been commuted because there were doubts about his sanity, given how horrific his actions had been.

Our wagonette crested a rise, revealing the vast expanse of the moor ahead, dotted with twisted cairns and rocky outcrops. A cold wind swept down, making us shiver. Somewhere out there, on that desolate land, was this monstrous man, hiding like a wild animal, filled with hatred for the world that had rejected him. The grim atmosphere of the barren landscape, the biting wind, and the darkening sky only added to the sense of dread. Even Baskerville fell silent, pulling his overcoat tighter around himself.

We had left the fertile countryside behind us, now just a memory. Looking back, we could see the low sun casting golden rays on the streams, illuminating the freshly plowed red earth and the tangled woodlands. The road ahead grew bleaker and wilder, winding over large russet and olive slopes, scattered with massive boulders. Occasionally, we passed a stone cottage, its harsh lines unsoftened by any climbing plants.

Suddenly, we looked down into a hollow, where stunted oaks and firs had been twisted and battered by years of storms. Two tall, narrow towers rose above the trees. The driver pointed with his whip.

“Baskerville Hall,” he said.

Its master had risen, his cheeks flushed and eyes bright with excitement. A few minutes later, we reached the lodge gates, a maze of intricate wrought iron, flanked by weathered pillars covered in lichen, topped with the boar heads of the Baskerville family. The lodge itself was a crumbling ruin of black granite, its rafters exposed, but across from it stood a new building, half-finished—the first sign of Sir Charles’s fortune from South Africa.

As we passed through the gateway, the sound of the wheels faded among the leaves, and the ancient trees arched their branches overhead, creating a dark tunnel. Baskerville shuddered as he looked up the long, shadowy drive toward the house, which seemed to shimmer like a ghost at the far end.

“Was it here?” he asked quietly.

“No, no, the yew alley is on the other side.”

The young heir glanced around with a troubled expression.

“It’s no wonder my uncle felt like trouble was looming in a place like this,” he said. “It’s enough to scare anyone. I’ll have a row of electric lamps installed here within six months, and you won’t recognize it, with a thousand-candlepower Swan and Edison right at the front door.”

The avenue opened into a wide stretch of grass, and the house lay before us. In the fading light, I could see that the center was a solid block of stone with a porch extending from it. The entire front was draped in ivy, with patches stripped bare where windows or coats of arms peeked through the dark greenery. Rising from this central structure were twin towers, ancient and crenelated, dotted with narrow openings. To the sides of the turrets were more modern wings made of black granite. A dim light glowed through the heavy mullioned windows, and a single column of smoke rose from the high, steep roof.

“Welcome, Sir Henry! Welcome to Baskerville Hall!”

A tall man stepped out from the shadows of the porch to open the door of the wagonette. A woman’s silhouette appeared against the warm glow of the hall as she came out to help him with our bags.

“Do you mind if I drive straight home, Sir Henry?” Dr. Mortimer asked. “My wife is expecting me.”

“Surely you’ll stay for dinner?”

“No, I must go. I’ll probably have work waiting for me. I would stay to show you around the house, but Barrymore will be a better guide than I. Goodbye, and don’t hesitate to call for me if you need anything.”

As the sound of the wheels faded down the drive, Sir Henry and I stepped into the hall, and the heavy door closed behind us. We found ourselves in a grand room, spacious and lofty, with massive oak beams overhead, darkened with age. A log fire crackled in the large, old-fashioned fireplace, and we held our hands out to its warmth, grateful to thaw out after our long journey.

We took in the high, narrow windows of stained glass, the oak paneling, the mounted stags’ heads, and the coats of arms on the walls, all dim and shadowy in the soft light of the central lamp.

“It’s just as I imagined it,” Sir Henry said. “Isn’t it the perfect picture of an old family home? To think that this hall has been home to my family for five hundred years. It feels so solemn to think about.”

I watched as his dark face lit up with a youthful excitement while he took in his surroundings. The light fell on him where he stood, but long shadows stretched down the walls, creating a dark canopy above. Barrymore had just returned from taking our luggage to our rooms. He stood before us now, his demeanor calm and composed, like a well-trained servant. He was an impressive figure—tall and handsome, with a square black beard and pale, distinguished features.

“Would you like dinner to be served right away, sir?” he asked.

“Is it ready?” I replied.

“It will be ready in just a few minutes, sir. You’ll find hot water in your rooms. My wife and I would be happy to stay with you until you’ve settled in, but you should know that under the new circumstances, this house will require a larger staff.”

“What new circumstances?” I asked, puzzled.

“I only meant, sir, that Sir Charles led a very quiet life, and we were able to cater to his needs. Naturally, you’ll want more company, which means changes in your household.”

“Are you saying that you and your wife want to leave?”

“Only when it’s convenient for you, sir.”

“But your family has been here for generations, hasn’t it? I would hate to start my time here by breaking such a long-standing connection.”

I thought I saw a flicker of emotion on the butler’s pale face.

“I feel the same way, sir, and so does my wife. But to be honest, we were both very attached to Sir Charles, and his death has left us shaken. This place has become too painful for us. I fear we won’t ever feel comfortable at Baskerville Hall again.”

“What do you plan to do?” I asked.

“I have no doubt, sir, that we will find a way to establish ourselves in some business. Sir Charles’s generosity has given us the means to do so. Now, if you’ll allow me, I can show you to your rooms.”

A square balustraded gallery wrapped around the top of the old hall, accessed by a double staircase. From this central point, two long corridors stretched the length of the building, with all the bedrooms opening off them. My room was in the same wing as Baskerville’s, almost right next door. These rooms felt much more modern than the central part of the house, and the bright wallpaper and numerous candles helped to lift the heavy atmosphere that had settled over me upon our arrival.

However, the dining room that opened off the hall was a place of shadows and gloom. It was a long chamber, with a step separating the raised area where the family sat from the lower section reserved for their servants. At one end, a minstrel’s gallery overlooked the room. Dark beams crossed above us, and the ceiling was blackened by smoke. With rows of flickering torches to illuminate it and the colors and boisterousness of a bygone banquet, it might have felt more inviting. But now, with two somber gentlemen seated in the small circle of light cast by a shaded lamp, the atmosphere felt hushed and subdued. A dim line of ancestors, dressed in everything from Elizabethan armor to Regency finery, stared down at us, their silent presence intimidating. We spoke little, and I was relieved when the meal was over, allowing us to retreat to the modern billiard room for a cigarette.

“My word, this isn’t a very cheerful place,” Sir Henry remarked. “I suppose one could get used to it, but I feel a bit out of place right now. I can understand why my uncle might have felt uneasy living alone in a house like this. Still, if it works for you, let’s turn in early tonight. Maybe things will feel brighter in the morning.”

Before going to bed, I pulled aside my curtains and looked out the window. It opened onto the grassy area in front of the hall door. Beyond that, two clusters of trees swayed and groaned in the rising wind. A half-moon broke through the racing clouds, casting a cold light that revealed a jagged line of rocks and the long, low curve of the desolate moor. I closed the curtains, feeling that my last impression matched the rest of the evening.

Yet it wasn’t quite the last. I found myself exhausted but unable to sleep, tossing restlessly from side to side, searching for slumber that wouldn’t come. In the distance, a clock chimed the quarters of the hour, but otherwise, a heavy silence enveloped the old house. Then, suddenly, in the dead of night, I heard a sound—clear, resonant, and unmistakable. It was the sob of a woman, a muffled, choking gasp of someone overwhelmed by sorrow. I sat up in bed, listening intently. The sound couldn’t have been far away and was definitely coming from within the house. I waited for half an hour, every nerve on edge, but no other sound came, save for the chiming clock and the rustle of ivy against the wall.