Chapter 8. First Report of Dr. Watson

by Arthur Conan Doyle

From this point on, I’ll share the events as they unfolded by transcribing my letters to Mr. Sherlock Holmes, which are laid out before me on the table. One page is missing, but aside from that, they reflect my feelings and suspicions at the time more accurately than my memory, vivid as it is regarding these tragic events.

Baskerville Hall, October 13th.

MY DEAR HOLMES,

My earlier letters and telegrams have kept you fairly updated on everything that’s happened in this desolate corner of the world. The longer I stay here, the more the spirit of the moor seeps into my soul, with its vastness and grim allure. Once you step out onto its expanse, you leave behind all traces of modern England. Yet, everywhere you walk, you’re reminded of the homes and lives of prehistoric people. Surrounding you are the remnants of these forgotten folk, their graves, and the massive stones that likely marked their temples. When you see their grey stone huts against the scarred hills, you feel as if you’ve stepped back in time. If a hairy, skin-clad man were to emerge from one of those low doors, fitting a flint-tipped arrow onto his bowstring, you’d find his presence more natural than your own. It’s strange to think they thrived in such an unyielding landscape. I’m no historian, but I can imagine they were a peaceful, beleaguered people who settled where no one else would.

However, all this is irrelevant to the mission you sent me on and will probably bore your practical mind. I still remember your indifference about whether the sun revolves around the earth or vice versa. So, let me get back to the facts concerning Sir Henry Baskerville.

If you haven’t received any reports in the last few days, it’s because, until today, there was nothing significant to share. Then something surprising happened, which I’ll explain in due time. But first, I need to update you on some other factors in the situation.

One of these, which I haven’t mentioned much, is the escaped convict on the moor. There’s now strong reason to believe he has truly gotten away, which is a relief to the isolated residents of this area. It’s been two weeks since he escaped, during which he hasn’t been seen or heard from. It’s hard to believe he could have survived out there for so long. Of course, hiding wouldn’t be a problem; any of these stone huts would provide cover. But there’s nothing to eat unless he managed to catch one of the moor sheep. We think he’s gone, and the nearby farmers are sleeping a little easier as a result.

We have four capable men in this household, so we can take care of ourselves, but I admit I’ve had uneasy moments thinking about the Stapletons. They live far from any help. It’s just one maid, an old servant, the sister, and the brother, who isn’t a particularly strong man. They would be vulnerable in the hands of a desperate criminal like this Notting Hill fugitive if he managed to get inside. Both Sir Henry and I were worried about their safety, and it was suggested that Perkins the groom should go over to stay with them, but Stapleton refused.

The truth is, our friend the baronet has begun to show a keen interest in our lovely neighbor. It’s not surprising; time drags in this lonely place for an active man like him, and she is undeniably captivating. There’s something exotic about her that contrasts sharply with her cool and unemotional brother. Yet, he too seems to have hidden depths. He certainly exerts a strong influence over her; I’ve noticed her glancing at him for approval as she speaks. I hope he treats her well. There’s a dry gleam in his eyes and a tightness in his thin lips that suggests a strong, possibly harsh nature. You would find him an intriguing character.

On that first day, he came to visit Baskerville, and the very next morning, he took both of us to see the place where the legend of the wicked Hugo supposedly began. It was quite a trek across the moor to a location so bleak it could have inspired the tale itself. We found a narrow valley nestled between rugged hills that opened up into a grassy clearing dotted with white cotton grass. In the center stood two massive stones, worn and pointed at the top, resembling the jagged fangs of some monstrous creature. Everything about it matched the scene of the old tragedy.

Sir Henry was clearly intrigued and asked Stapleton several times if he truly believed in the possibility of supernatural forces interfering in human affairs. He spoke lightly, but it was clear he was serious. Stapleton was cautious in his responses, and it was obvious he held back more than he wanted to say, likely out of respect for the baronet’s feelings. He shared stories of other families plagued by some malevolent influence, leaving us with the impression that he leaned toward the common belief on the subject.

On our way back, we stopped for lunch at Merripit House, where Sir Henry met Miss Stapleton. From the moment he laid eyes on her, he seemed captivated, and I would be surprised if she didn’t feel the same way. He mentioned her repeatedly during our walk home, and since then, hardly a day has gone by without us seeing something of the brother and sister. They’re coming for dinner tonight, and there’s talk of us visiting them next week. One might think such a match would be welcomed by Stapleton, yet I’ve caught him casting disapproving looks whenever Sir Henry shows interest in his sister. He clearly cares for her and would lead a lonely life without her, but it seems selfish for him to hinder her chance at such a brilliant marriage. Still, I’m convinced he doesn’t want their friendship to blossom into love, and I’ve noticed he makes an effort to keep them from being alone together. By the way, your instruction to me to never let Sir Henry go out alone will become even more challenging if a romance complicates our situation. My popularity would take a hit if I strictly followed your orders.

Just the other day—Thursday, to be precise—Dr. Mortimer joined us for lunch. He’s been digging at a barrow on Long Down and has uncovered a prehistoric skull that has him over the moon. There’s never been a more single-minded enthusiast than him! The Stapletons arrived afterward, and at Sir Henry’s request, the good doctor took us all to the yew alley to show us exactly how everything unfolded on that fateful night.

The yew alley is a long, dreary path flanked by high hedges, with a narrow strip of grass on either side. At the far end stands an old, crumbling summer house. Halfway down is the moor-gate, where the old gentleman left his cigar ash. It’s a white wooden gate with a latch, and beyond it lies the vast moor. I recalled your theory about the incident and tried to visualize what had happened. As the old man stood there, he saw something approaching across the moor, something so terrifying that it drove him to madness, making him run until he collapsed from sheer horror and exhaustion. There was the long, gloomy path he fled down. But from what? A sheepdog from the moor? Or a spectral hound, dark, silent, and monstrous? Was there a human hand in this? Did the pale, watchful Barrymore know more than he was letting on? Everything felt hazy and uncertain, yet the looming shadow of crime was always present.

Since my last letter, I’ve met another neighbor: Mr. Frankland of Lafter Hall, who lives about four miles south of us. He’s an older man, with a red face, white hair, and a quick temper. His obsession is British law, and he has spent a fortune on legal battles. He seems to enjoy the thrill of the fight more than anything else, ready to argue either side of an issue, which explains why his hobby has become so expensive.

Sometimes he’ll block a right of way and dare the parish to make him open it. Other times, he’ll personally tear down someone’s gate, claiming that a path has existed there since time immemorial, challenging the owner to take him to court for trespassing. He knows a lot about old manorial and communal rights, using his knowledge to either help or hinder the villagers of Fernworthy. Because of this, he’s often celebrated or condemned, depending on his latest antics. Right now, he’s juggling about seven lawsuits, which will likely consume the rest of his fortune and leave him harmless in the future.

Despite his legal battles, he seems like a decent guy, and I mention him because you wanted to know about the people around us. Interestingly, he’s currently preoccupied with his hobby as an amateur astronomer. He has a fantastic telescope and spends his days lying on the roof of his house, scanning the moor in hopes of spotting the escaped convict. If he would just focus on that, it would be fine, but there are whispers that he plans to sue Dr. Mortimer for exhuming a Neolithic skull from a barrow on Long Down without the next of kin’s consent. He certainly adds some excitement to our lives and provides a bit of comic relief when we need it most.

Now that I’ve caught you up on the escaped convict, the Stapletons, Dr. Mortimer, and Mr. Frankland, let me share the most important news about the Barrymores, especially the surprising turn of events from last night.

First, about the test telegram you sent from London to confirm that Barrymore was indeed here. I’ve already mentioned that the postmaster’s testimony shows the test was inconclusive, leaving us with no solid proof either way. I informed Sir Henry of the situation, and in his straightforward manner, he called Barrymore in to ask if he had received the telegram himself. Barrymore confirmed that he had.

“Did the boy deliver it directly to you?” Sir Henry asked.

Barrymore looked taken aback and thought for a moment.

“No,” he replied. “I was in the box room at the time, and my wife brought it to me.”

“Did you respond to it yourself?” Sir Henry pressed.

“No; I told my wife what to say, and she went down to write it.”

Later that evening, Barrymore brought up the topic again on his own.

“I didn’t quite understand the purpose of your questions this morning, Sir Henry,” he said. “I hope it doesn’t mean I’ve done anything to lose your trust?”

Sir Henry reassured him that wasn’t the case and calmed him down by giving him a good portion of his old wardrobe since the London clothes had finally arrived.

I find Mrs. Barrymore intriguing. She’s a heavyset, solid woman, very proper and somewhat puritanical. It’s hard to imagine someone less emotional. Yet, I’ve told you how I heard her sobbing on my first night here, and I’ve noticed tear stains on her face more than once since then. There’s some deep sorrow that seems to gnaw at her heart. Sometimes I wonder if she carries a guilty secret, and other times I suspect Barrymore of being a domineering husband. I’ve always sensed something odd and questionable about his character, but the events of last night have intensified my suspicions.

It might seem like a small matter, but as you know, I’m not a deep sleeper, and since I’ve been on guard in this house, my sleep has been lighter than ever. Last night, around two in the morning, I was awakened by a soft footstep passing my room. I got up, opened my door, and peeked out. A long black shadow was creeping down the corridor, cast by a man walking quietly with a candle in his hand. He was dressed only in a shirt and trousers, barefoot. I couldn’t see his face, but his height told me it was Barrymore. He moved slowly and cautiously, and there was something unmistakably guilty and secretive about his entire demeanor.

I’ve mentioned before that the corridor is interrupted by a balcony that wraps around the hall, but it picks up again on the other side. I waited until he was out of sight, then I followed him. As I rounded the balcony, I saw that he had reached the end of the corridor, and a faint light spilled from an open door, revealing that he had entered one of the rooms. All these rooms are empty and unfurnished, which made his actions even more mysterious. The light flickered steadily, as if he were standing still.

I moved down the passage as quietly as I could and peeked around the corner of the door.

Barrymore was crouched at the window, holding a candle against the glass. His profile was partially turned toward me, and his face was tense with anticipation as he stared into the dark expanse of the moor. He stood there, watching intently for several minutes. Then he let out a deep groan and, with an impatient motion, extinguished the candle.

I quickly made my way back to my room, and soon after, I heard the soft sound of footsteps returning down the corridor. Much later, as I drifted into a light sleep, I heard a key turning in a lock somewhere, though I couldn’t tell where the sound came from. I can’t make sense of it all, but there’s definitely some secretive business happening in this gloomy house that we will uncover sooner or later.

I won’t burden you with my theories since you asked for facts only. This morning, I had a long conversation with Sir Henry, and we’ve devised a plan based on what I observed last night. I won’t go into details now, but I think my next report will be quite intriguing.