Chapter 10. Extract from the Diary of Dr. Watson

by Arthur Conan Doyle

So far, I’ve been able to share the reports I sent to Sherlock Holmes during those early days. Now, however, I’ve reached a point in my story where I must set aside that method and rely on my memories, supported by the diary I kept at the time. A few excerpts from it will help me recount the scenes that are etched in my mind.

**October 16th.** It was a dreary, foggy day, with a light drizzle falling. The house was shrouded in thick clouds, which occasionally lifted to reveal the bleak contours of the moor, with thin, silver streams tracing the hillsides and distant boulders glistening where the light hit their damp surfaces. It felt melancholic both outside and inside. The baronet was in a dark mood after the excitement of the previous night. I, too, felt a heaviness in my chest and a sense of looming danger—an ever-present threat that was all the more terrifying because I couldn’t quite put my finger on it.

And why shouldn’t I feel this way? Just think of the series of events that have pointed to some malevolent force at work around us. There’s the death of the last occupant of the Hall, which matched the family legend perfectly, and the repeated reports from locals about a strange creature roaming the moor. I’ve heard the sound that resembled the distant baying of a hound twice with my own ears. It’s hard to believe that it could exist outside the realm of natural law. A ghostly hound that leaves physical footprints and fills the air with its howling is simply too far-fetched. Stapleton might buy into such a superstition, and so might Mortimer, but if there’s one thing I pride myself on, it’s my common sense. I refuse to believe in such nonsense. To do so would mean stooping to the level of those poor peasants who can’t be satisfied with just a devilish dog; they have to describe it with hellfire shooting from its mouth and eyes. Holmes wouldn’t entertain such ideas, and I’m his agent. But facts are facts, and I’ve heard that cry on the moor twice.

What if there really is a massive hound out there? That could explain everything. But where could such a hound hide? Where does it get its food? Where did it come from? How is it that no one has seen it during the day? Admittedly, the natural explanation poses almost as many challenges as the supernatural one. And aside from the hound, there’s the matter of human involvement in London—the man in the cab and the letter that warned Sir Henry about the moor. That was real, but it could have been sent by a protective friend just as easily as by an enemy. Where is that friend or enemy now? Are they still in London, or have they followed us here? Could they be the stranger I spotted on the tor?

It’s true that I’ve only seen him once, but I’m certain of a few things. He’s not anyone I’ve encountered here; I’ve met all the neighbors. The figure was much taller than Stapleton and much thinner than Frankland. It could have been Barrymore, but we left him behind, and I’m sure he couldn’t have followed us. So, a stranger is still trailing us, just as a stranger did in London. We’ve never managed to shake him off. If I could just get my hands on that man, we might finally find a resolution to our troubles. I must now dedicate all my energy to this one goal.

My first instinct was to share all my plans with Sir Henry. My second, and wiser, instinct is to keep my cards close to my chest and say as little as possible. He’s been unusually quiet and distracted. His nerves have been rattled by that sound on the moor. I won’t add to his worries, but I’ll take my own steps to achieve my objectives.

This morning, after breakfast, we had a small scene. Barrymore asked to speak with Sir Henry, and they were shut away in his study for a while. While sitting in the billiard room, I heard their voices raised more than once, and I had a pretty good idea of what they were discussing. Eventually, the baronet opened his door and called for me. “Barrymore feels he has a grievance,” he said. “He thinks it was unfair of us to hunt down his brother-in-law when he voluntarily revealed the secret to us.”

The butler stood before us, pale but composed.

“I might have been a bit too enthusiastic, sir,” he said, “and if that’s the case, I sincerely apologize. Still, I was quite taken aback when I heard you two gentlemen return this morning and learned that you had been pursuing Selden. The poor man has enough to deal with without me adding to his troubles.”

“If you had shared this willingly, it would have been different,” the baronet replied. “But you only mentioned it, or rather your wife did, when it was forced out of you and you had no choice.”

“I didn’t think you would take advantage of it, Sir Henry—truly, I didn’t.”

“The man is a public threat. There are isolated houses scattered across the moor, and he’s the kind of person who would stop at nothing. Just look at Mr. Stapleton’s house, for instance, with only himself to defend it. No one is safe until he’s locked away.”

“He won’t break into any house, sir. I give you my word on that. But he won’t trouble anyone in this area again. I assure you, Sir Henry, that in just a few days, everything will be arranged, and he’ll be on his way to South America. Please, sir, I beg you not to inform the police that he’s still on the moor. They’ve given up the chase, and he can stay hidden until the ship is ready for him. If you expose him, you’ll put my wife and me in danger. I implore you, sir, say nothing to the police.”

“What do you think, Watson?”

I shrugged. “If he were safely out of the country, it would relieve the taxpayers of a burden.”

“But what about the chance of him holding someone up before he leaves?”

“He wouldn’t do anything so reckless, sir. We’ve provided him with everything he needs. To commit a crime would only reveal where he’s hiding.”

“That’s true,” Sir Henry said. “Well, Barrymore—”

“God bless you, sir, and thank you from the bottom of my heart! It would have devastated my poor wife if he had been caught again.”

“I suppose we’re aiding and abetting a crime, Watson? But after what we’ve heard, I don’t feel I can turn the man in, so that’s that. All right, Barrymore, you can go.”

With a few stammered words of gratitude, the man turned to leave but hesitated and came back.

“You’ve been so kind to us, sir, that I’d like to do my best to repay you. I know something, Sir Henry, and perhaps I should have mentioned it earlier, but I only discovered it long after the inquest. I’ve never breathed a word about it to anyone. It’s about poor Sir Charles’s death.”

Both the baronet and I stood up. “Do you know how he died?”

“No, sir, I don’t know that.”

“What then?”

“I know why he was at the gate at that hour. He was there to meet a woman.”

“To meet a woman! He?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And what was the woman’s name?”

“I can’t give you her name, sir, but I can tell you her initials. They were L. L.”

“How do you know this, Barrymore?”

“Well, Sir Henry, your uncle received a letter that morning. He usually got many letters, being a public figure known for his kindness, so everyone in trouble turned to him. But that morning, there was only this one letter, which caught my attention. It was from Coombe Tracey and written in a woman’s hand.”

“Well?”

“Well, sir, I didn’t think much of it at the time, and I wouldn’t have thought of it again if it hadn’t been for my wife. Just a few weeks ago, she was cleaning out Sir Charles’s study—it hadn’t been touched since his death—and she found the ashes of a burned letter in the back of the grate. Most of it was charred beyond recognition, but one small piece, the end of a page, remained intact, and the writing was still legible, though it was faded against the black background. It seemed to be a postscript at the end of the letter, and it said: ‘Please, please, as you are a gentleman, burn this letter, and be at the gate by ten o’clock.’ Beneath it were the initials L. L.”

“Do you still have that slip?”

“No, sir, it crumbled to bits after we moved it.”

“Did Sir Charles receive any other letters in the same handwriting?”

“Well, sir, I didn’t pay much attention to his letters. I wouldn’t have noticed this one if it hadn’t been the only one that morning.”

“And you have no idea who L. L. is?”

“No, sir. No more than you do. But I suspect that if we could find that lady, we might learn more about Sir Charles’s death.”

“I can’t understand, Barrymore, why you chose to keep this important information to yourself.”

“Well, sir, it was right after that when our own troubles began. And again, sir, we were both very fond of Sir Charles, as we had every reason to be considering all he had done for us. Bringing this up wouldn’t help our poor master, and it’s wise to tread carefully when a lady is involved. Even the best of us—”

“You thought it might tarnish his reputation?”

"Well, sir, I didn’t think anything good would come of it. But now that you’ve been so kind to us, I feel it would be unfair not to share everything I know about the situation."

"Very well, Barrymore; you can go." Once the butler left, Sir Henry turned to me. "So, Watson, what do you make of this new information?"

"It seems to make the darkness even darker."

"That’s how I see it too. But if we can trace L. L., it should clear up the entire situation. We’ve at least learned that someone out there knows the facts; we just need to find her. What do you think we should do next?"

"We should inform Holmes immediately. This could be the clue he’s been searching for. I wouldn’t be surprised if it brings him down here."

I hurried to my room and drafted a report of our conversation for Holmes. It was clear he had been busy lately; the notes I received from Baker Street were brief and lacked any commentary on the information I had provided, hardly mentioning my mission at all. His blackmail case must be consuming all his attention. Still, this new lead should certainly capture his interest. I wish he were here.

_October 17th._—Today, the rain poured relentlessly, rustling the ivy and dripping from the eaves. I thought of the convict out on the bleak, cold, and shelterless moor. Poor man! No matter what his crimes were, he has paid a price for them. Then I remembered the other one—the face in the cab, the figure against the moon. Was he also out in this downpour—the unseen watcher, the man of darkness?

In the evening, I put on my waterproof jacket and walked far across the sodden moor, filled with dark thoughts, the rain pelting my face and the wind howling around me. God help those who wander into the great mire now, for even the solid uplands are turning into a swamp. I found the black tor where I had seen the solitary watcher, and from its rocky peak, I gazed out over the desolate landscape. Rain squalls swept across the russet hills, and heavy, slate-colored clouds hung low, trailing gray ribbons down the sides of the strange hills. In the distant hollow to my left, half-hidden by mist, the two slender towers of Baskerville Hall rose above the trees. They were the only signs of human life I could see, aside from the ancient huts scattered across the slopes. There was no sign of that lonely man I had spotted in the same place two nights before.

As I made my way back, I was caught up by Dr. Mortimer, who was driving his dog-cart along a rough track leading from the nearby farmhouse of Foulmire. He had been very attentive to us, and hardly a day went by without him checking in at the Hall to see how we were doing. He insisted I climb into his dog-cart, and he gave me a ride home. He seemed quite troubled about the disappearance of his little spaniel, which had wandered onto the moor and hadn’t returned. I offered him what comfort I could, but I couldn’t shake the thought of the pony lost in Grimpen Mire; I doubted he would see his little dog again.

"By the way, Mortimer," I said as we bumped along the rough road, "I suppose there are very few people living within driving distance of here that you don’t know?"

"Hardly any, I think."

"Can you tell me the name of any woman whose initials are L. L.?"

He paused for a moment, thinking.

"No," he replied. "There are a few gypsies and laborers I can’t account for, but among the farmers or gentry, there’s no one with those initials. Wait a moment, though," he added after a pause. "There is Laura Lyons—her initials are L. L.—but she lives in Coombe Tracey."

"Who is she?" I asked.

"She’s Frankland’s daughter."

"What? Old Frankland the crank?"

"Exactly. She married an artist named Lyons, who came to sketch on the moor. He turned out to be a scoundrel and abandoned her. From what I hear, the blame might not lie entirely on one side. Her father cut ties with her because she married without his consent, among other reasons. So, between the old sinner and the young one, the girl has had a pretty rough time."

"How does she get by?"

"I believe old Frankland gives her a small allowance, but it can’t be much, as his own affairs are quite tangled. Regardless of what she may have done, we can’t let her fall completely into despair. Her story got around, and several people here have done what they could to help her earn a living. Stapleton contributed, and Sir Charles helped too. I gave a little myself to help her start a typewriting business."

He wanted to know what I was investigating, but I managed to satisfy his curiosity without revealing too much. There was no reason to share our secrets with anyone else. Tomorrow morning, I planned to head to Coombe Tracey, and if I could meet this Mrs. Laura Lyons, whose reputation was questionable, it would be a significant step toward unraveling one part of this tangled mystery. I was certainly learning to be as clever as a snake; when Mortimer pressed me with too many questions, I casually asked him about the type of skull Frankland had, and from that point on, I was stuck listening to him talk about craniology for the rest of our drive. After all, I had spent years with Sherlock Holmes for a reason.

I have one more incident to recount from this stormy and gloomy day: my conversation with Barrymore, which gave me another valuable piece of information to use when the time is right.

Mortimer had stayed for dinner, and afterward, he and the baronet played cards. The butler brought my coffee into the library, and I seized the opportunity to ask him a few questions.

“Well,” I said, “has your troublesome relative left, or is he still lurking out there?”

“I don’t know, sir. I can only hope he’s gone, because he’s brought nothing but trouble! I haven’t heard from him since I left food out for him three days ago.”

“Did you see him then?”

“No, sir, but the food was gone the next time I checked.”

“Then he was definitely there?”

“You would think so, sir, unless it was the other man who took it.”

I paused with my coffee cup halfway to my lips, staring at Barrymore.

“So you know there’s another man?”

“Yes, sir; there is another man on the moor.”

“Have you seen him?”

“No, sir.”

“How do you know about him then?”

“Selden told me about him a week ago or more. He’s hiding too, but he doesn’t seem to be a convict, as far as I can tell. I don’t like it, Dr. Watson—I’ll tell you straight, I don’t like it.” His sudden passion was striking.

“Now, listen to me, Barrymore! I have no interest in this matter other than your master’s well-being. I’m here solely to help him. Tell me honestly, what is it that you don’t like?”

Barrymore hesitated for a moment, as if regretting his outburst or struggling to find the right words.

“It’s all these strange happenings, sir,” he finally exclaimed, gesturing toward the rain-lashed window facing the moor. “There’s foul play afoot, and I swear there’s black villainy brewing! I would be very glad to see Sir Henry back in London!”

“But what is it that alarms you?”

“Look at Sir Charles’s death! That was bad enough, despite what the coroner said. Look at the noises on the moor at night. No man would dare cross it after dark, even for money. And then there’s this stranger hiding out there, watching and waiting! What’s he waiting for? What does it mean? It spells trouble for anyone with the name Baskerville, and I’ll be glad to be rid of it all the day Sir Henry’s new servants take over the Hall.”

“But about this stranger,” I pressed. “Can you tell me anything more? What did Selden say? Did he find out where he was hiding or what he was doing?”

“He saw him a couple of times, but he’s clever and doesn’t give anything away. At first, he thought he was the police, but soon realized he had his own agenda. He seemed like a gentleman, as far as Selden could tell, but what he was up to was unclear.”

“And where did he say the man lived?”

“Among the old houses on the hillside—the stone huts where the old folk used to live.”

“But what about his food?”

“Selden discovered that he has a boy who works for him and brings him what he needs. I suspect he goes to Coombe Tracey for supplies.”

“Very good, Barrymore. We can discuss this further another time.” After the butler left, I walked over to the dark window and looked through the foggy glass at the swirling clouds and the swaying trees. It was a wild night inside, and I could only imagine how fierce it was in a stone hut on the moor. What kind of hatred drives a man to hide in such a place at such a time? And what deep purpose could compel him to endure such hardship? That hut on the moor seemed to hold the key to the very mystery that had troubled me for so long. I vowed that another day would not pass before I did everything in my power to uncover the truth.