Chapter 11. The Man on the Tor

by Arthur Conan Doyle

The entry from my private diary that wraps up my story brings us to October 18th, a time when everything began to spiral toward a chilling conclusion. The events of the following days are etched in my memory, and I can recount them without needing to refer to my notes. I’ll start from the day after I uncovered two crucial facts: first, that Mrs. Laura Lyons from Coombe Tracey had written to Sir Charles Baskerville and arranged to meet him at the exact time and place where he met his end; second, that the mysterious figure lurking on the moor could be found among the stone huts on the hillside. Armed with this information, I felt it was either my intellect or my bravery that was lacking if I couldn’t shed more light on these dark matters.

I hadn’t had the chance to share what I’d learned about Mrs. Lyons with Sir Henry the night before, as Dr. Mortimer had stayed with him for cards until late. However, at breakfast, I shared my discovery and asked if he’d like to join me in visiting Coombe Tracey. At first, he was eager to come along, but after some thought, we both agreed that I might get better results if I went alone. A more formal visit could limit the information we might gather. So, with a twinge of guilt, I left Sir Henry behind and set off on my new mission.

Upon arriving in Coombe Tracey, I instructed Perkins to stable the horses and began my inquiries about the lady I intended to question. It was easy to find her rooms; they were centrally located and well-appointed. A maid ushered me in without any fuss, and as I entered the sitting room, a woman sitting in front of a Remington typewriter sprang up with a warm smile. However, her expression changed when she realized I was a stranger. She sat back down and asked what brought me there.

My first impression of Mrs. Lyons was one of striking beauty. Her eyes and hair shared a rich hazel hue, and although her cheeks were dotted with freckles, they glowed with the radiant flush of a brunette, reminiscent of the delicate pink at the heart of a sulfur rose. Admiration was my initial reaction. But soon, I found myself critiquing her features. There was something subtly off about her face—perhaps a coarseness in her expression, a hardness in her gaze, or a looseness in her lips that marred her otherwise perfect beauty. Yet, at that moment, I was simply aware that I was in the presence of an exceptionally attractive woman, and she was inquiring about the purpose of my visit. I hadn’t fully grasped how delicate my mission was until that instant.

“I have the pleasure of knowing your father,” I said, stumbling through my introduction.

It was a clumsy way to start, and she made that clear. “There’s nothing in common between my father and me,” she replied. “I owe him nothing, and his friends are not mine. If it weren’t for the late Sir Charles Baskerville and a few other kind souls, I might have starved for all my father cared.”

“I came to talk to you about the late Sir Charles Baskerville,” I said.

Her freckles seemed to stand out even more.

“What can I tell you about him?” she asked, her fingers nervously tapping the keys of her typewriter.

“You knew him, didn’t you?”

“I’ve already mentioned that I owe a great deal to his kindness. If I’m able to support myself, it’s largely due to the interest he took in my unfortunate situation.”

“Did you correspond with him?”

She looked up quickly, anger flashing in her hazel eyes. “What’s the purpose of these questions?” she shot back.

“The purpose is to avoid a public scandal. It’s better for me to ask them here than to let this matter spiral out of our control.”

She fell silent, her face pale. Finally, she looked up, her demeanor shifting to something reckless and defiant.

“Well, I’ll answer,” she said. “What do you want to know?”

“Did you correspond with Sir Charles?”

“I certainly wrote to him once or twice to acknowledge his kindness and generosity.”

“Do you have the dates of those letters?”

“No.”

“Have you ever met him?”

“Yes, a couple of times when he came to Coombe Tracey. He was a very private man and preferred to do good quietly.”

“But if you saw him so rarely and wrote to him so infrequently, how did he know enough about your situation to help you, as you claim he did?”

She met my question with surprising ease. “There were several gentlemen who knew my sad history and came together to help me. One was Mr. Stapleton, a neighbor and close friend of Sir Charles. He was incredibly kind, and it was through him that Sir Charles learned about my circumstances.”

I already knew that Sir Charles Baskerville had often relied on Stapleton to assist others, so her statement seemed to carry the weight of truth.

“Did you ever write to Sir Charles asking him to meet you?” I pressed.

Mrs. Lyons flushed with anger again. “That’s quite an extraordinary question.”

“I’m sorry, but I have to ask it again.”

“Then my answer is a definite no.”

“Not on the very day Sir Charles died?”

Her color drained instantly, leaving her pale. Her dry lips struggled to form the word “No,” but I could see her silence spoke volumes.

“Surely you must be mistaken,” I said. “I could even quote a part of your letter. It said, ‘Please, please, as you are a gentleman, burn this letter, and be at the gate by ten o’clock.’”

I thought she might faint, but she pulled herself together with a tremendous effort.

“Is there no such thing as a gentleman?” she gasped.

“You’re doing Sir Charles a disservice. He did burn the letter, but sometimes a letter can still be read even after it’s burned. So, you admit you wrote it?”

“Yes, I wrote it,” she cried, her words spilling out in a rush. “Why should I deny it? I have nothing to be ashamed of. I wanted his help. I believed that if I could meet him, he would assist me, so I asked him to come.”

“But why at such an hour?”

“Because I had just learned he was leaving for London the next day and might be gone for months. There were reasons I couldn’t get there earlier.”

“But why meet in the garden instead of going to his house?”

“Do you think a woman could just walk into a bachelor’s house alone at that hour?”

“Well, what happened when you got there?”

“I never went.”

“Mrs. Lyons!”

“No, I swear to you on everything I hold dear. I never went. Something came up that stopped me.”

“What was it?”

“That’s a private matter. I can’t tell you.”

“So you admit you made an appointment with Sir Charles at the exact time and place where he met his death, but you deny that you kept that appointment?”

“That’s the truth.”

I pressed her again and again, but I couldn’t get past that point.

“Mrs. Lyons,” I said as I stood up from our long, inconclusive conversation, “you’re taking on a huge responsibility and putting yourself in a very precarious position by not being completely honest about everything you know. If I have to involve the police, you’ll see how serious your situation is. If you’re innocent, why did you initially deny writing to Sir Charles on that date?”

“Because I was afraid that someone might jump to the wrong conclusions and I’d find myself caught up in a scandal.”

“And why were you so insistent that Sir Charles destroy your letter?”

“If you’ve read the letter, you’d understand.”

“I didn’t say I had read the entire letter.”

“You quoted part of it.”

“I quoted the postscript. The letter had been burned, and not everything was legible. I ask you again: why were you so adamant that Sir Charles destroy this letter he received on the day he died?”

“The matter is very private.”

“Even more reason to avoid a public investigation.”

“Alright, I’ll tell you. If you know anything about my unfortunate history, you’ll know that I made a hasty marriage and have regretted it ever since.”

“I’ve heard enough.”

“My life has been a constant torment from a husband I despise. The law is on his side, and every day I face the possibility of being forced to live with him. When I wrote this letter to Sir Charles, I had just learned that there was a chance I could regain my freedom if certain expenses were covered. It meant everything to me—peace of mind, happiness, self-respect—everything. I knew Sir Charles was generous, and I thought if he heard my story directly from me, he would help.”

“Then why didn’t you go?”

“Because I received help from another source in the meantime.”

“Why didn’t you write to Sir Charles and explain this?”

“I would have, had I not seen his death in the paper the next morning.”

Her story held together, and none of my questions could shake it. The only way to verify her claims would be to find out if she had indeed started divorce proceedings against her husband around the time of the tragedy.

It was hard to believe she would claim she hadn’t been to Baskerville Hall if she actually had. Getting there would have required a trap, and she couldn’t have returned to Coombe Tracey until the early hours of the morning. Such a trip would be impossible to keep under wraps. So, it seemed likely she was telling the truth—or at least part of it. I left feeling confused and disheartened. Once again, I had hit a dead end, a wall blocking every path I tried to take in pursuit of my mission.

Yet, the more I thought about the woman’s face and her demeanor, the more I sensed she was withholding something. Why had she gone so pale? Why did she resist every question until it was forced from her? Why had she been so tight-lipped during the tragedy? Surely, the reasons behind all this couldn’t be as innocent as she wanted me to believe. For now, I couldn’t push any further in that direction and had to turn back to the other lead I needed to follow among the stone huts scattered across the moor.

That was a vague direction, I realized as I drove back, noting how each hill bore signs of ancient inhabitants. Barrymore had only indicated that the stranger lived in one of these abandoned huts, and there were hundreds of them spread across the moor. But I had my own experience to guide me; it had shown me the man himself standing atop the Black Tor. That would be the center of my search. From there, I would explore every hut on the moor until I found the right one. If he was inside, I would get answers straight from him, even if I had to use my revolver to make him talk. He might slip away in the crowd of Regent Street, but it would be hard for him to do so on the lonely moor. On the other hand, if I found the hut and its occupant wasn’t there, I would wait, no matter how long it took, until he returned. Holmes had missed him in London. It would be a triumph for me if I could track him down where my master had failed.

Luck had turned against us time and again in this investigation, but finally, it seemed to be on my side. The messenger of good fortune was none other than Mr. Frankland, who stood outside his garden gate, his grey whiskers and red face brightening the day.

“Good day, Dr. Watson!” he called out with unexpected cheer. “You really must give your horses a break and come in for a glass of wine to congratulate me.”

My feelings toward him were far from friendly after hearing about his treatment of his daughter, but I was eager to send Perkins and the wagonette home, and this was a good opportunity. I got down and sent a message to Sir Henry that I would walk over in time for dinner. Then I followed Frankland into his dining room.

“It’s a great day for me, sir—one of the highlights of my life!” he exclaimed, chuckling. “I’ve pulled off a double event. I’m going to teach them around here that the law is the law, and there’s a man who isn’t afraid to enforce it. I’ve established a right of way right through the center of old Middleton’s park, just a hundred yards from his front door. What do you think of that? We’ll show these big shots that they can’t trample on the rights of the common people, confound them! And I’ve closed the woods where the Fernworthy folks used to picnic. These insufferable people seem to think they can just swarm wherever they please with their papers and bottles. Both cases decided, Dr. Watson, and both in my favor. I haven’t had a day like this since I took Sir John Morland to court for trespassing because he shot in his own warren.”

“How on earth did you manage that?” I asked.

“Look it up in the books, sir. It’s worth reading—Frankland v. Morland, Court of Queen’s Bench. It cost me £200, but I got my verdict.”

“Did it do you any good?”

“None, sir, none at all. I’m proud to say I had no personal stake in it. I act entirely out of a sense of public duty. I have no doubt the Fernworthy people will burn me in effigy tonight. I told the police last time they did it that they should put a stop to such disgraceful displays. The County Constabulary is in a scandalous state, sir, and hasn’t given me the protection I deserve. The case of Frankland v. Regina will bring this matter to the public’s attention. I warned them they would regret their treatment of me, and already my words are coming true.”

“How so?” I asked.

The old man wore a knowing expression. “Because I could tell them what they’re dying to know, but nothing would make me help those rascals.”

I had been trying to think of a way to escape his endless chatter, but now I found myself wanting to hear more. I knew enough about the old man’s nature to realize that showing too much interest would only make him stop talking.

“Some poaching case, I suppose?” I said, trying to sound casual.

“Ha! Much more important than that! What about the convict on the moor?”

I blinked in surprise. “You don’t mean you know where he is?”

“I might not know his exact location, but I’m confident I could help the police find him. Have you ever thought that the key to catching him is figuring out where he gets his food?”

He was getting uncomfortably close to the truth. “Sure,” I replied, “but how do you know he’s anywhere on the moor?”

“I know because I’ve seen the messenger who brings him food.”

My heart sank for Barrymore. It was serious to be at the mercy of this spiteful old man. But then Frankland said something that eased my mind.

“You’ll be surprised to hear that the food is delivered by a child. I see him every day through my telescope from the roof. He takes the same path at the same hour. Who else could he be going to but the convict?”

What luck! Yet I kept my excitement hidden. A child! Barrymore had mentioned that our unknown was being supplied by a boy. It seemed Frankland had stumbled upon the right lead. If I could get more information from him, it might save me a long and exhausting search. But I knew I had to play it cool.

“I’d say it’s more likely the son of one of the shepherds bringing his father’s lunch.”

The slightest hint of disagreement ignited Frankland’s temper. His eyes narrowed, and his grey whiskers bristled like a cat ready to pounce.

“Indeed! Do you see that Black Tor over there? And the low hill with the thornbush? It’s the stoniest part of the moor. Do you really think a shepherd would set up there? Your suggestion is utterly ridiculous.”

I quickly replied that I had spoken without knowing all the facts. My submission seemed to please him, and he continued with his revelations.

“You can be sure I have solid reasons for my opinions. I’ve seen the boy time and again with his bundle. Every day, sometimes twice a day—but wait, Dr. Watson. Am I seeing things, or is there something moving on that hillside right now?”

It was several miles away, but I could make out a small dark figure against the dull green and grey.

“Come on, hurry!” Frankland urged, rushing upstairs. “You need to see this for yourself.”

The telescope, a hefty instrument mounted on a tripod, was set up on the flat roof. Frankland quickly looked through it and let out a cry of satisfaction.

“Quick, Dr. Watson, before he disappears over the hill!”

There he was—a small boy with a bundle on his shoulder, trudging slowly up the slope. When he reached the top, I saw his ragged figure outlined against the cold blue sky. He glanced around furtively, as if he feared being followed, then vanished over the hill.

“Well! Am I right?”

“Definitely, there’s a boy with some secret mission.”

“And what that mission is, even a county constable could guess. But not a word will I share with them, and I expect you to keep this to yourself too, Dr. Watson. Not a single word! Do you understand?”

“Just as you wish.”

“They’ve treated me terribly—abominably. When the facts come out in Frankland v. Regina, I believe there will be a wave of outrage across the country. I won’t lift a finger to help the police. For all they cared, it could have been me, not my effigy, that those rascals burned at the stake. Surely you’re not leaving! You’ll help me finish this decanter in honor of this momentous occasion!”

I resisted his pleas and managed to convince him not to walk home with me. I kept to the road as long as he could see me, then I veered off across the moor, heading toward the rocky hill where the boy had disappeared. Everything was falling into place, and I vowed that I wouldn’t let this opportunity slip away due to a lack of effort or determination.

The sun was already dipping below the horizon when I finally reached the top of the hill. Below me, the long slopes shimmered in shades of golden-green on one side and cast deep shadows on the other. A haze hung low over the distant skyline, where the strange shapes of Belliver and Vixen Tor rose up against the sky. The vast landscape was silent, devoid of movement. A solitary grey bird, either a gull or a curlew, soared high in the blue above. It felt like we were the only two living beings in this immense space between the sky’s arch and the barren ground below.

The desolate scene, combined with a profound sense of loneliness and the urgency of my mission, sent a chill through me. The boy was nowhere in sight. But down below, nestled in a cleft of the hills, I spotted a circle of old stone huts. In the center stood one that still had enough of a roof to shield against the elements. My heart raced as I realized this must be the hideout of the stranger. At last, I was on the threshold of his secret—his mystery was within my reach.

As I approached the hut, I moved cautiously, much like Stapleton would when he stealthily crept up on a butterfly with his net poised. I confirmed that this place had indeed been lived in. A faint path among the boulders led to the crumbling entrance that served as a door. Inside, all was silent. The unknown could be hiding there, or perhaps he was wandering the moor. My nerves tingled with the thrill of adventure. I tossed aside my cigarette, gripped the butt of my revolver, and strode quickly to the door, peering inside. The place was empty.

Yet, there were plenty of signs that I hadn’t followed a false lead. This was definitely where the man had made his home. Some blankets rolled in a waterproof cover lay on the very stone slab where Neolithic man had once slept. Ashes from a fire were piled in a rough grate. Beside it were some cooking utensils and a bucket half-filled with water. A mess of empty tins indicated that the hut had been occupied for a while. As my eyes adjusted to the dim light, I noticed a small cup and a half-full bottle of spirits sitting in the corner.

In the center of the hut, a flat stone served as a table, and on it rested a small cloth bundle—the same one I had seen through the telescope on the boy’s shoulder. Inside, I found a loaf of bread, a tinned tongue, and two cans of preserved peaches. As I set the bundle down after inspecting it, my heart raced when I noticed a sheet of paper tucked beneath it. I picked it up and read the hastily scrawled message: “Dr. Watson has gone to Coombe Tracey.”

For a moment, I stood there, the paper in my hands, trying to decipher the meaning of this brief note. It was I, not Sir Henry, who was being followed by this mysterious man. He hadn’t trailed me himself but had sent an agent—perhaps the boy—to keep tabs on me, and this was the report. It seemed that every move I made since arriving on the moor had been watched and reported back. There was a constant feeling of an unseen force, like a delicate net woven around us, holding us so lightly that it was only in critical moments that one realized they were caught in its grasp.

If there was one report, there could be others, so I scanned the hut for more clues. However, I found no trace of anything else, nor could I uncover any indication of the character or intentions of the man who lived in this strange place, except that he must have Spartan habits and cared little for the comforts of life. As I considered the heavy rains and glanced at the gaping roof, I understood how strong and resolute his purpose must be to remain in such an inhospitable spot. Was he our enemy, or perhaps our unexpected protector? I vowed not to leave the hut until I had answers.

Outside, the sun was sinking lower, and the western sky blazed with shades of scarlet and gold. The distant pools in the Grimpen Mire reflected the fiery hues in patches. I could see the two towers of Baskerville Hall and a faint blur of smoke marking the village of Grimpen. Between them, hidden behind the hill, was the Stapletons’ house. Everything looked serene and beautiful in the golden evening light, yet as I gazed at the scene, my soul felt none of that peace. Instead, it quivered at the uncertainty and dread of the encounter that was drawing closer with each passing moment. With my nerves tingling but my resolve firm, I settled into the dark corner of the hut and waited patiently for its occupant to arrive.

Finally, I heard him. In the distance, I caught the sharp sound of a boot striking against stone. One step, then another, each one getting closer. I pressed myself into the darkest corner of the room and quietly cocked the pistol in my pocket, resolved to remain hidden until I could see the stranger for myself.

There was a long pause, indicating he had stopped moving. Then, the footsteps resumed, and a shadow fell across the entrance of the hut.

“It’s a lovely evening, my dear Watson,” came a familiar voice. “I truly believe you’ll be more comfortable outside than in.”