Chapter 7. The Stapletons of Merripit House

by Arthur Conan Doyle

The bright beauty of the next morning helped to wash away the dark and dreary feeling that had settled over both of us after our first night at Baskerville Hall. As Sir Henry and I sat down for breakfast, sunlight streamed through the tall, mullioned windows, casting colorful patches on the floor from the coats of arms that adorned the glass. The dark wood paneling glowed like bronze in the golden light, making it hard to believe this was the same room that had filled us with such dread the night before.

“I think we have to blame ourselves, not the house,” Sir Henry said. “We were exhausted from our journey and chilled by the drive, so we viewed the place through a gloomy lens. Now that we’re rested and warm, everything feels cheerful again.”

“Still, it wasn’t just our imagination,” I replied. “Did you hear someone—a woman, I think—sobbing during the night?”

“That’s interesting. I thought I heard something like that while I was half asleep. I waited for a while, but when it didn’t happen again, I figured it was just a dream.”

“I heard it clearly, and I’m certain it was the sound of a woman crying.”

“We need to ask about this right away.” He rang the bell and inquired with Barrymore if he could explain our experience. I noticed the butler’s pale face seemed to grow even paler as he listened to Sir Henry’s question.

“There are only two women in the house, Sir Henry,” he replied. “One is the scullery maid, who sleeps in the other wing. The other is my wife, and I can assure you that the sound couldn’t have come from her.”

Yet he was lying as he spoke, for after breakfast, I encountered Mrs. Barrymore in the long corridor, sunlight illuminating her face. She was a large, impassive woman with a stern expression, but her eyes were red and puffy, betraying her recent tears. So it was she who had cried during the night, and if she had, her husband must have known. Why would he risk being discovered by denying it? And why was she crying so intensely? Already, this pale-faced, handsome man with the black beard was surrounded by an air of mystery and gloom. He had been the first to find Sir Charles’s body, and we had only his word for the events leading up to the old man’s death. Could it be that Barrymore was the man we had seen in the cab on Regent Street? The beard could certainly match. The cab driver had described a shorter man, but that could easily have been a mistake. How could I find out for sure? Clearly, my first step should be to visit the Grimpen postmaster and confirm whether the telegram had really been delivered into Barrymore’s hands. Whatever the answer, I would at least have something to report back to Sherlock Holmes.

Sir Henry had a stack of papers to go through after breakfast, so it was the perfect time for my trip. I enjoyed a pleasant four-mile walk along the edge of the moor, eventually arriving at a small grey village where two larger buildings—the inn and Dr. Mortimer’s house—stood out. The postmaster, who also ran the village grocery store, remembered the telegram clearly.

“Of course, sir,” he said. “I delivered the telegram to Mr. Barrymore just as directed.”

“Who delivered it?” I asked.

“My boy here. James, you delivered that telegram to Mr. Barrymore at the Hall last week, didn’t you?”

“Yes, father, I delivered it.”

“Did you give it directly to him?” I probed.

“Well, he was up in the loft at the time, so I couldn’t hand it to him directly, but I gave it to Mrs. Barrymore, and she promised to pass it on right away.”

“Did you see Mr. Barrymore?”

“No, sir; I told you he was in the loft.”

“If you didn’t see him, how do you know he was in the loft?”

“Well, surely his own wife should know where he is,” the postmaster replied, a bit irritated. “Didn’t he receive the telegram? If there’s any mistake, it’s up to Mr. Barrymore to complain.”

It felt futile to dig any deeper into the investigation, yet it was obvious that despite Holmes’s clever tricks, we had no real evidence to confirm that Barrymore hadn’t been in London all along. What if he had been? What if he was the last person to see Sir Charles alive and the first to follow the new heir upon his return to England? What did that mean? Was he working for someone else, or did he have his own dark agenda? What could possibly motivate him to target the Baskerville family?

I recalled the strange warning clipped from a _Times_ article. Was that his doing, or was it the work of someone trying to thwart him? The only plausible motive I could think of was the one Sir Henry suggested: if they could scare the family away, the Barrymores could secure a comfortable and permanent home. But surely, that explanation fell short of accounting for the intricate and subtle plotting that seemed to be ensnaring the young baronet. Holmes himself had remarked that no case had ever been as complex as this one in his long career of sensational investigations. As I walked back along the grey, lonely road, I hoped my friend would soon be free from his distractions and able to relieve me of this heavy burden of responsibility.

Suddenly, my thoughts were interrupted by the sound of footsteps behind me and a voice calling my name. I turned, expecting to see Dr. Mortimer, but to my surprise, it was a stranger chasing after me. He was a small, slim man with a clean-shaven face, flaxen hair, and a lean jaw, likely between thirty and forty years old. He wore a grey suit and a straw hat, and a tin box for botanical specimens hung over his shoulder, while he carried a green butterfly net in one hand.

“I hope you’ll forgive my boldness, Dr. Watson,” he said, panting as he reached me. “Out here on the moor, we’re a straightforward bunch and don’t bother with formal introductions. You might have heard my name from our mutual friend, Mortimer. I’m Stapleton, from Merripit House.”

“Your net and box would have given me a clue,” I replied. “I knew Mr. Stapleton was a naturalist. But how did you recognize me?”

“I was visiting Mortimer, and he pointed you out from the window of his office as you walked by. Since our paths were the same, I thought I’d catch up and introduce myself. I trust Sir Henry is doing well after his journey?”

“He’s doing very well, thank you.”

“We were all a bit worried that after the tragic death of Sir Charles, the new baronet might choose not to live here. It’s a lot to ask of a wealthy man to come down and settle in a place like this, but I don’t need to tell you how much it means to the community. I assume Sir Henry has no superstitions about the matter?”

“I don’t think that’s likely.”

“Of course, you’re aware of the legend of the hellhound that haunts the family?”

“I’ve heard about it.”

“It’s remarkable how gullible the locals are around here! Many of them would swear they’ve seen such a creature on the moor.” He smiled, but I sensed a seriousness in his eyes. “The story had a profound effect on Sir Charles, and I believe it contributed to his tragic end.”

“But how?”

“His nerves were so frayed that the sight of any dog could have had a fatal impact on his weak heart. I suspect he really did see something that last night in the yew alley. I feared for him, as I was quite fond of the old man and knew his heart was fragile.”

“How did you know that?”

“My friend Mortimer mentioned it.”

“So you think a dog chased Sir Charles, and he died of fright?”

“Do you have a better explanation?”

“I haven’t reached any conclusions yet.”

“Has Mr. Sherlock Holmes?”

The words caught me off guard for a moment, but a glance at the calm face and steady eyes of my companion showed he meant no surprise.

“It’s pointless for us to pretend we don’t know you, Dr. Watson,” he said. “Your detective’s exploits have reached us here, and you couldn’t celebrate him without being recognized yourself. When Mortimer told me your name, he couldn’t deny your identity. If you’re here, it follows that Mr. Sherlock Holmes is involved in this case, and I’m naturally curious about his perspective.”

“I’m afraid I can’t answer that.”

“May I ask if he plans to pay us a visit?”

“He can’t leave London right now. He has other cases that require his attention.”

“What a shame! He could shed some light on what remains so mysterious to us. But regarding your own investigations, if there’s any way I can assist you, please don’t hesitate to ask. If I had even a hint of your suspicions or your plan for looking into this case, I might be able to offer some help or advice.”

“I assure you, I’m just here visiting my friend, Sir Henry, and I don’t need any assistance.”

“Excellent!” Stapleton replied. “You’re absolutely right to be cautious and discreet. I realize now that I overstepped, and I promise not to bring it up again.”

We reached a point where a narrow grassy path diverged from the road, winding its way across the moor. To our right, a steep hill, littered with boulders, had once been a granite quarry. The cliff face loomed darkly, with ferns and brambles sprouting from its crevices. In the distance, a plume of gray smoke drifted lazily into the sky.

“A pleasant walk along this path will take us to Merripit House,” he said. “I hope you’ll spare an hour so I can introduce you to my sister.”

At first, I thought of staying by Sir Henry’s side. But then I remembered the stack of papers and bills cluttering his study table. There was no way I could help with those. Besides, Holmes had specifically instructed me to get to know the neighbors on the moor. So, I accepted Stapleton’s invitation, and we headed down the path together.

“The moor is a remarkable place,” he said, surveying the rolling landscape, with its long, green hills and jagged granite peaks rising like wild waves. “You can never tire of it. You wouldn’t believe the secrets it holds. It’s so vast, so barren, and so full of mystery.”

“You know it well, then?”

“I’ve only been here for two years. The locals would still call me a newcomer. We arrived shortly after Sir Charles settled here. But I’ve made it a point to explore every inch of the surrounding area, and I’d wager there are few who know it better than I do.”

“Is it difficult to navigate?”

“Very difficult. Take, for instance, that vast plain to the north with its strange hills jutting out. Do you notice anything unusual about it?”

“It looks like a great spot for a ride.”

“You’d think so, but that assumption has cost several their lives over the years. Do you see those bright green patches scattered across it?”

“Yes, they seem more fertile than the rest.”

Stapleton chuckled. “That’s the infamous Grimpen Mire,” he explained. “A single misstep there means death for man or beast. Just yesterday, I watched one of the moor ponies wander into it. He never made it out. I could see his head for a while, straining above the bog, but eventually, it pulled him under. Even in dry seasons, it’s treacherous, but after these autumn rains, it’s a nightmare. Yet I can find my way to its very heart and come back alive. By George, look at that poor pony!”

Something brown was thrashing among the green sedges. Then a long, tortured neck shot up, and a horrifying cry echoed across the moor. It sent a chill down my spine, but my companion seemed unfazed.

“It’s gone!” he said. “The mire has claimed it. That’s two in two days, and there will be many more, as they wander there during dry weather and don’t realize the danger until it’s too late. The Grimpen Mire is a dreadful place.”

“And you say you can navigate it?”

“Yes, there are a couple of paths that a very agile person can take. I’ve discovered them.”

“But why would you want to go into such a dreadful place?”

“Well, you see those hills in the distance? They’re actually islands, completely surrounded by the impassable mire that has crept around them over the years. That’s where the rare plants and butterflies are, if you’re clever enough to reach them.”

“I’ll have to try my luck someday.”

He looked at me, surprised. “For heaven’s sake, forget that idea,” he said. “Your blood would be on my hands. I assure you, there’s no chance you’d come back alive. I only manage it by remembering certain complex landmarks.”

“Wait!” I exclaimed. “What’s that?”

A long, low moan, filled with indescribable sadness, swept over the moor. It filled the air, yet it was impossible to determine its source. From a dull murmur, it swelled into a deep roar, then faded back into a melancholy thrum. Stapleton regarded me with an odd expression.

“Strange place, the moor!” he remarked.

“But what is it?”

“The locals say it’s the Hound of the Baskervilles calling for its prey. I’ve heard it a few times before, but never this loud.”

I glanced around, a chill of fear creeping into my chest as I took in the vast, undulating plain, speckled with patches of green rushes. The only movement across the expansive landscape came from a pair of ravens, cawing loudly from a rocky outcrop behind us.

“You’re an educated man. You don’t really believe in that nonsense, do you?” I asked. “What do you think could cause such a strange sound?”

“Bogs can make odd noises sometimes. It’s probably just the mud settling or the water rising, or something like that.”

“No, no, that was definitely a living voice.”

“Well, maybe it was. Have you ever heard a bittern booming?”

“No, I haven’t.”

“It’s a very rare bird—almost extinct in England now—but anything is possible on the moor. I wouldn’t be surprised if what we heard was the cry of the last bittern.”

“It’s the weirdest, strangest thing I’ve ever heard in my life.”

“Yes, this place has an uncanny feel to it. Look at that hillside over there. What do you make of those?”

The steep slope was dotted with grey circular stone rings, at least twenty of them.

“What are they? Sheep pens?”

“No, those are the homes of our ancestors. Prehistoric people lived here in abundance, and since no one has occupied this land since, we find everything just as they left it. Those are their wigwams, minus the roofs. You can even see their hearths and couches if you’re curious enough to go inside.”

“But it looks like a whole town. When was it inhabited?”

“By Neolithic man—no specific date.”

“What did they do?”

“They grazed their cattle on these slopes and learned to dig for tin when bronze swords began to replace stone axes. Look at that great trench on the opposite hill. That’s their mark. You’ll discover some very interesting things about the moor, Dr. Watson. Oh, excuse me for a moment! I think I see a Cyclopides.”

A small fly or moth flitted across our path, and in an instant, Stapleton was off, moving with surprising energy and speed in pursuit. To my dismay, the creature headed straight for the marshy mire, and Stapleton didn’t hesitate, leaping from tuft to tuft behind it, his green net waving in the air. His grey clothes and erratic, zigzagging movements made him look like a giant moth himself. I stood there, torn between admiration for his agility and concern that he might lose his footing in the treacherous mud, when I heard footsteps and turned to find a woman approaching on the path. She had come from the direction of the plume of smoke that marked Merripit House, but the dip in the moor had hidden her until she was almost upon me.

I had no doubt that this was Miss Stapleton, the woman I had heard about. Ladies were rare on the moor, and I remembered someone describing her as beautiful. The woman who approached was certainly striking, and in a way that was quite unusual. The contrast between her and her brother was remarkable; Stapleton had a neutral complexion, light hair, and grey eyes, while she was darker than any brunette I had seen in England—slim, elegant, and tall. Her proud, finely shaped face was so symmetrical that it might have seemed impassive, if not for her sensitive mouth and her beautiful, eager dark eyes. With her perfect figure and stylish attire, she was indeed an extraordinary sight on a lonely moorland path. Her gaze was fixed on her brother as I turned, and then she quickened her pace toward me. I raised my hat and was about to say something when her words shifted my thoughts entirely.

“Go back!” she said. “Go straight back to London, right now.”

I could only stare at her in stunned surprise. Her eyes blazed with intensity, and she tapped her foot impatiently on the ground.

“Why should I go back?” I asked.

“I can’t explain,” she said, her voice low and urgent, with a slight lisp. “But for God’s sake, please do what I ask. Go back and never set foot on the moor again.”

“But I just got here.”

“Man, man!” she exclaimed. “Can’t you see when a warning is for your own good? Go back to London! Leave tonight! Get away from this place at all costs! Hush, my brother is coming! Not a word of what I’ve said. Would you mind getting that orchid for me among the mare’s-tails over there? We have a wealth of orchids on the moor, though, of course, you’re a bit late to see the best of them.”

Stapleton had given up the chase and returned to us, breathing heavily and flushed from his exertions.

“Hello, Beryl!” he said, and I couldn’t help but notice that his tone wasn’t entirely warm.

“Well, Jack, you look very hot.”

“Yes, I was chasing a Cyclopides. They’re quite rare and seldom seen in late autumn. What a shame I missed him!” He spoke casually, but his small, light eyes darted back and forth between his sister and me.

“I see you’ve introduced yourselves,” he remarked.

“Yes, I was just telling Sir Henry that it was a bit late for him to appreciate the true beauty of the moor.”

“Who do you think this is?”

“I assume it must be Sir Henry Baskerville.”

“No, no,” I replied. “Just a humble commoner, but a friend. My name is Dr. Watson.”

A flash of annoyance crossed her expressive face. “We’ve been talking past each other,” she said.

“Well, you didn’t have much time to talk,” her brother noted, his eyes questioning.

“I spoke as if Dr. Watson lived here instead of just visiting,” she explained. “It doesn’t really matter to him whether it’s early or late for the orchids. But you will come along, won’t you, and see Merripit House?”

A short walk brought us to the house, a bleak structure on the moor that had once been a farm during better times. Now it had been repaired and turned into a modern dwelling. An orchard surrounded it, but the trees were stunted and twisted, typical of the moor, giving the whole place a dreary and forlorn feel. We were greeted by a strange, wiry old manservant in a rusty coat, who seemed to fit right in with the house. Inside, however, the large rooms were furnished with a grace that felt distinctly like the lady’s touch. As I gazed out at the endless, granite-speckled moor stretching to the horizon, I couldn’t help but wonder what had led this educated man and his beautiful sister to live in such a desolate place.

“Odd place to choose, isn’t it?” he said, as if reading my thoughts. “And yet we manage to find a bit of happiness here, don’t we, Beryl?”

“Quite happy,” she replied, though her tone lacked conviction.

“I used to run a school up north,” Stapleton continued. “For someone like me, the work became mechanical and dull, but the chance to be around young minds, to help shape them and share my ideals, was precious. Unfortunately, fate had other plans. A serious epidemic hit the school, and three boys died. It never really recovered, and I lost a lot of my savings. Still, if it weren’t for the loss of those wonderful boys, I’d be able to celebrate my misfortune. With my passion for botany and zoology, I’ve found endless opportunities for work here, and my sister shares my love for nature. All of this, Dr. Watson, was inspired by your expression as you looked out at the moor from our window.”

“It did cross my mind that it might be a bit dull—perhaps less so for you than for your sister.”

“No, no, I’m never bored,” she interjected quickly.

“We have books, our studies, and interesting neighbors. Dr. Mortimer is quite knowledgeable in his field. Poor Sir Charles was a wonderful companion. We knew him well and miss him more than I can express. Do you think it would be intrusive if I called this afternoon to meet Sir Henry?”

“I’m sure he would be delighted.”

“Then perhaps you could mention that I plan to do so. We might be able to help him settle in until he gets used to his new surroundings. Would you like to come upstairs, Dr. Watson, and see my collection of butterflies? I believe it’s the most complete collection in the southwest of England. By the time you’ve looked through them, lunch will be nearly ready.”

But I was eager to return to my charge. The melancholy of the moor, the death of the unfortunate pony, and the eerie sounds linked to the grim legend of the Baskervilles all weighed heavily on my mind. On top of these vague impressions was the clear and serious warning from Miss Stapleton, delivered with such intensity that I couldn’t doubt there was a significant reason behind it. I resisted all pressure to stay for lunch and set off on my return journey, taking the grass-covered path we had come.

However, it seemed there was a shortcut known to locals, as I was astonished to see Miss Stapleton sitting on a rock by the side of the path before I reached the road. Her face was flushed from her exertions, and she held her hand to her side.

“I ran all the way to catch you, Dr. Watson,” she said. “I didn’t even have time to put on my hat. I can’t stop, or my brother will wonder where I am. I just wanted to apologize for the silly mistake I made thinking you were Sir Henry. Please forget what I said; it doesn’t apply to you at all.”

“But I can’t forget it, Miss Stapleton,” I replied. “I’m a friend of Sir Henry, and his well-being is very important to me. Please tell me why you were so eager for him to return to London.”

“A woman’s intuition, Dr. Watson. When you get to know me better, you’ll see that I can’t always explain what I say or do.”

“No, no. I remember the excitement in your voice. I remember the look in your eyes. Please, be honest with me, Miss Stapleton. Ever since I arrived here, I’ve felt surrounded by shadows. Life feels like that vast Grimpen Mire, with patches of green that seem safe but could swallow you whole, and no clear path to follow. Just tell me what you meant, and I promise to pass your warning to Sir Henry.”

For a moment, uncertainty flickered across her face, but her expression hardened again when she spoke.

“You’re making too much of this, Dr. Watson,” she said. “My brother and I were deeply shaken by Sir Charles’s death. We knew him well; he often walked over the moor to our house. He was very aware of the curse that loomed over his family, and when this tragedy struck, I felt there had to be some truth to the fears he expressed. I was troubled when another family member moved here, and I felt he should be warned about the danger he faces. That’s all I wanted to convey.”

“But what is the danger?”

“You know the story of the hound?”

“I don’t believe in such nonsense.”

“But I do. If you have any sway with Sir Henry, convince him to leave a place that has always brought misfortune to his family. The world is vast. Why would he choose to stay in a dangerous spot?”

“Because it _is_ dangerous. That’s Sir Henry’s nature. I’m afraid that unless you can give me something more concrete than this, it’ll be impossible to persuade him to leave.”

“I can’t provide anything concrete because I don’t know anything for sure.”

“I have one more question, Miss Stapleton. If you meant nothing more than this when you first spoke to me, why wouldn’t you want your brother to overhear what you said? There’s nothing he or anyone else could object to.”

“My brother is very keen on having the Hall occupied; he believes it’s good for the local people. He would be furious if he knew I said anything that might make Sir Henry want to leave. But I’ve done my part now, and I won’t say more. I must go back, or he’ll notice I’m missing and suspect I’ve seen you. Goodbye!”

With that, she turned and quickly vanished among the scattered boulders, leaving me with a heart full of vague fears as I continued my way to Baskerville Hall.