Chapter 13. Fixing the Nets

by Arthur Conan Doyle

Sir Henry was more pleased than surprised to see Sherlock Holmes. He had been expecting that recent events would bring Holmes down from London. However, he raised an eyebrow when he noticed that Holmes had arrived without any luggage or explanation for its absence. Together, they quickly sorted out what Holmes needed, and over a late supper, they shared as much of their experiences as seemed appropriate for the baronet to know.

But first, I had the uncomfortable task of breaking the news to Barrymore and his wife. For him, it might have been a relief, but she wept bitterly into her apron. To the world, he was a man of violence, a creature half animal and half demon, but to her, he remained the little willful boy from her youth, the child who had clung to her hand. Truly, it is a sad man who has no woman to mourn him.

“I’ve been moping around the house all day since Watson left this morning,” Sir Henry said. “I think I deserve some credit for keeping my promise. If I hadn’t sworn not to go out alone, I might have had a more exciting evening. Stapleton sent me a message inviting me over.”

“I have no doubt you would have had a livelier evening,” Holmes replied dryly. “By the way, I don’t suppose you realize that we’ve been mourning you, thinking you’d broken your neck?”

Sir Henry’s eyes widened. “What do you mean?”

“This poor wretch was dressed in your clothes. I’m afraid your servant who gave them to him might get into trouble with the police.”

“That seems unlikely. I don’t think there were any identifying marks on them.”

“That’s fortunate for him—and for all of you, since you’re all on the wrong side of the law in this matter. I’m not sure that my first duty as a conscientious detective isn’t to arrest the entire household. Watson’s reports are quite incriminating.”

“But what about the case?” Sir Henry asked. “Have you figured anything out? I don’t think Watson and I are much wiser since we arrived.”

“I believe I’ll be able to clarify the situation for you soon. It’s been an incredibly challenging and complex case. There are still several points we need to illuminate—but we’re getting there.”

“We’ve had one experience, as Watson has probably told you. We heard the hound on the moor, so I can swear it’s not just empty superstition. I dealt with dogs when I was out West, and I know one when I hear one. If you can muzzle that one and put him on a chain, I’ll be ready to swear you’re the greatest detective of all time.”

“I think I can muzzle him and chain him, but I’ll need your help.”

“Whatever you tell me to do, I’ll do it.”

“Very good. I’ll also ask you to do it without questioning me all the time.”

“Just as you like.”

“If you can do that, I think the chances are good that we’ll solve our little problem soon. I have no doubt—”

He suddenly stopped and stared intently over my head into the air. The lamp cast a warm glow on his face, and he was so focused and still that he resembled a classical statue, a personification of alertness and expectation.

“What is it?” we both exclaimed.

As he looked down, I could see he was holding back some internal emotion. His features remained composed, but his eyes sparkled with amused excitement.

“Forgive the admiration of a connoisseur,” he said, waving his hand toward the line of portraits on the opposite wall. “Watson won’t admit that I know anything about art, but that’s just jealousy because our opinions differ. Now, these are a truly fine series of portraits.”

“Well, I’m glad to hear you say that,” Sir Henry replied, glancing at my friend with some surprise. “I don’t pretend to know much about art; I’d be a better judge of a horse or a cow than a painting. I didn’t know you took the time for such things.”

“I know what’s good when I see it, and I see it now. That’s a Kneller, I’ll bet, the lady in the blue silk over there, and the stout gentleman with the wig must be a Reynolds. They’re all family portraits, I assume?”

“Every one of them.”

“Do you know their names?”

“Barrymore has been teaching me about them, and I think I can recite my lessons fairly well.”

“Who’s the gentleman with the telescope?”

“That’s Rear-Admiral Baskerville, who served under Rodney in the West Indies. The man in the blue coat with the roll of paper is Sir William Baskerville, who was the Chairman of Committees of the House of Commons under Pitt.”

“And this Cavalier opposite me—the one in black velvet and lace?”

“Ah, you have the right to know about him. That’s the source of all the trouble, the wicked Hugo, who started the Hound of the Baskervilles. We’re not likely to forget him.”

I gazed at the portrait with interest and some surprise.

“Goodness!” Holmes exclaimed, “he seems like such a quiet, mild-mannered man, but I can sense a devil lurking in his eyes. I had imagined him to be more rugged and rough around the edges.”

“There’s no doubt about its authenticity; the name and the date, 1647, are on the back of the canvas.”

Holmes didn’t say much more, but the portrait of the old reveler seemed to captivate him. His gaze remained fixed on it throughout dinner. It wasn’t until later, after Sir Henry had retired to his room, that I could follow his thoughts. He led me back into the banquet hall, holding his bedroom candle aloft, and directed the light toward the timeworn portrait on the wall.

“Do you see anything there?”

I studied the broad plumed hat, the flowing curls, the lace collar, and the stern face framed between them. It wasn’t a brutal face, but it was rigid, hard, and severe, with thin lips pressed together and a cold, unyielding gaze.

“Does it remind you of anyone?”

“There’s a hint of Sir Henry in the jawline.”

“Just a suggestion, perhaps. But wait a moment!” He climbed onto a chair, holding the candle in his left hand while curving his right arm over the broad hat and around the long ringlets.

“Good heavens!” I gasped in astonishment.

The face of Stapleton seemed to leap from the canvas.

“Ah, now you see it. My eyes have been trained to scrutinize faces, not their adornments. A criminal investigator must see beyond disguises.”

“But this is incredible. It could be his portrait.”

“Yes, it’s a fascinating example of a throwback, both physically and spiritually. Studying family portraits could easily convince someone of the idea of reincarnation. He’s a Baskerville, that much is clear.”

“With intentions on the inheritance.”

“Exactly. This chance discovery has given us one of our most obvious missing links. We have him, Watson, we have him! I’m willing to bet that by tomorrow night, he’ll be caught in our net, as helpless as one of his own butterflies. A pin, a cork, and a card, and we’ll add him to the Baker Street collection!” He broke into one of his rare fits of laughter as he turned away from the portrait. I hadn’t heard him laugh often, and it always seemed to foreshadow trouble for someone.

I was up early the next morning, but Holmes was already on the move, as I saw him walking up the drive while I dressed.

“Yes, we have a full day ahead,” he said, rubbing his hands together with excitement. “The traps are all set, and the hunt is about to begin. By the end of the day, we’ll know if we’ve caught our big, lean-jawed pike or if he’s slipped through our fingers.”

“Have you already been to the moor?”

“I sent a report from Grimpen to Princetown about Selden’s death. I can assure you that none of you will be troubled by it. I’ve also contacted my loyal Cartwright, who would have surely pined away at the door of my hut, like a dog at his master’s grave, if I hadn’t reassured him about my safety.”

“What’s our next move?”

“First, we need to see Sir Henry. Ah, here he comes!”

“Good morning, Holmes,” the baronet greeted. “You look like a general strategizing with his chief of staff.”

“That’s exactly the situation. Watson was asking for orders.”

“And so am I.”

“Very well. I understand you’re set to dine with our friends, the Stapletons, tonight.”

“I hope you’ll join us. They’re very hospitable, and I’m sure they’d love to see you.”

“I’m afraid Watson and I must head to London.”

“To London?”

“Yes, I believe we’ll be more useful there at this time.”

The baronet’s expression fell noticeably.

“I had hoped you would help me through this situation. The Hall and the moor aren’t very welcoming when one is alone.”

“My dear fellow, you must trust me completely and do exactly as I say. You can tell your friends that we would have loved to join you, but urgent business requires us to be in town. We hope to return to Devonshire soon. Will you remember to pass on that message?”

“If you insist.”

“There’s no other option, I assure you.”

I could see the disappointment on the baronet’s face; he felt abandoned by what he saw as our desertion.

“When do you want to leave?” he asked coldly.

“Right after breakfast. We’ll drive to Coombe Tracey, but Watson will leave his belongings as a promise that he’ll return to you. Watson, you’ll need to send a note to Stapleton explaining that you regret you can’t make it.”

“I’m tempted to go to London with you,” the baronet said. “Why should I stay here alone?”

“Because it’s your duty. Because you promised you would follow my instructions, and I’m telling you to stay.”

“Fine, then. I’ll stay.”

"One more thing! I need you to drive to Merripit House. But send the carriage back and let them know you plan to walk home."

"Walk across the moor?"

"Yes."

"But that's exactly what you've warned me against so many times."

"This time, you can do it safely. If I didn't trust your nerve and courage, I wouldn't suggest it. But it's crucial that you go."

"Then I will."

"And for your own safety, stick to the straight path from Merripit House to Grimpen Road. That’s the way home."

"I’ll do exactly as you say."

"Good. I’d like to leave as soon after breakfast as possible so we can reach London by afternoon."

I was taken aback by this plan. I remembered Holmes telling Stapleton the night before that his visit would end the next day, but it hadn’t occurred to me that he wanted me to accompany him. I couldn’t understand how we could both be away at a time he deemed critical. Still, I had no choice but to comply, so we said goodbye to our troubled friend. A couple of hours later, we arrived at the Coombe Tracey station and sent the carriage back.

A small boy was waiting on the platform.

"Any orders, sir?"

"You’ll take this train to town, Cartwright. As soon as you arrive, send a telegram to Sir Henry Baskerville in my name, telling him that if he finds the pocketbook I dropped, he should send it by registered post to Baker Street."

"Yes, sir."

"And check at the station office to see if there’s a message for me."

The boy returned with a telegram, which Holmes handed to me. It read:

Wire received. Coming down with unsigned warrant. Arrive five-forty. Lestrade.

"That’s in response to my message from this morning. I believe he’s the best of the professionals, and we might need his help. Now, Watson, I think we should spend our time wisely by visiting your acquaintance, Mrs. Laura Lyons."

His strategy was becoming clear. He intended to use the baronet to convince the Stapletons that we had truly left, while we would actually return at the moment we were most needed. That telegram from London, if mentioned by Sir Henry to the Stapletons, would surely dispel any lingering doubts they had. I could already envision our trap tightening around that lean-jawed predator.

Mrs. Laura Lyons was in her office when we arrived. Sherlock Holmes began the conversation with a directness that clearly surprised her.

"I’m investigating the circumstances surrounding the death of the late Sir Charles Baskerville," he said. "My friend here, Dr. Watson, has told me what you shared and what you’ve kept to yourself regarding this matter."

"What have I kept to myself?" she challenged.

"You admitted you asked Sir Charles to be at the gate at ten o’clock. We know that was the time and place of his death. You’ve withheld the connection between these events."

"There is no connection."

"In that case, the coincidence is indeed remarkable. But I believe we will uncover a connection after all. I want to be completely honest with you, Mrs. Lyons. We view this case as a murder, and the evidence may implicate not just your friend Mr. Stapleton, but his wife as well."

She jumped from her chair.

"His wife!" she exclaimed.

"The truth is out now. The person you thought was his sister is actually his wife."

Mrs. Lyons sat back down, her hands gripping the arms of her chair so tightly that her pink nails turned white.

"His wife!" she repeated, incredulous. "He’s not a married man."

Holmes shrugged.

"Prove it to me! Prove it! And if you can—"

The fierce look in her eyes spoke volumes.

"I came prepared to do just that," Holmes said, pulling several papers from his pocket. "Here’s a photograph of the couple taken in York four years ago. It’s labeled 'Mr. and Mrs. Vandeleur,' but you’ll easily recognize them both if you know her. Here are three written descriptions from reliable witnesses of Mr. and Mrs. Vandeleur, who ran St. Oliver’s private school at that time. Read them and see if you can doubt their identities."

She glanced at the documents, then looked up at us with the tense, rigid expression of a desperate woman.

“Mr. Holmes,” she said, “this man proposed marriage to me on the condition that I could get a divorce from my husband. He has deceived me in every possible way. Not a single word he spoke was true. And why? I thought it was all for my benefit. But now I realize I was nothing more than a pawn in his game. Why should I remain loyal to someone who has never been loyal to me? Why should I protect him from the consequences of his own wicked actions? Ask me anything, and I promise I won’t hold back. One thing I swear to you is that when I wrote that letter, I never intended any harm to the old gentleman, who had always been my kindest friend.”

“I completely believe you, madam,” Sherlock Holmes replied. “Recounting these events must be very painful for you. Perhaps it would help if I share what happened, and you can correct me if I make any significant errors. Was it Stapleton who suggested you send this letter?”

“He dictated it.”

“I assume he told you that Sir Charles would help with the legal expenses for your divorce?”

“Exactly.”

“And after you sent the letter, he convinced you not to keep the appointment?”

“He said it would hurt his pride if any other man paid for such a thing. He claimed that even though he was poor, he would spend his last penny to remove the obstacles between us.”

“He seems to be quite consistent in his character. And then you heard nothing until you read about the death in the newspaper?”

“No.”

“And he made you promise not to mention your appointment with Sir Charles?”

“He did. He said the death was very mysterious, and I would certainly be suspected if the truth came out. He scared me into silence.”

“Of course. But you had your suspicions?”

She hesitated, looking down.

“I knew him,” she said. “But if he had been faithful to me, I would have been faithful to him.”

“I think, overall, you’ve had a lucky escape,” Sherlock Holmes said. “You had him in your power, and he knew it, yet you’re still alive. You’ve been walking very close to the edge of a precipice for months. We must say good morning now, Mrs. Lyons, and you’ll likely hear from us again soon.”

“Our case is coming together, and the obstacles are starting to clear,” Holmes said as we waited for the express from town. “I’ll soon be able to weave together a single narrative of one of the most remarkable and sensational crimes of our time. Students of criminology will remember similar incidents in Godno, Little Russia, in ’66, and of course the Anderson murders in North Carolina, but this case has some unique features. Even now, we don’t have a solid case against this clever man. But I’d be very surprised if it isn’t clear enough before we go to bed tonight.”

The London express thundered into the station, and a small, wiry bulldog of a man jumped from a first-class carriage. We all shook hands, and I noticed immediately the way Lestrade looked at Holmes with respect, showing how much he had learned since their early days working together. I remembered how the practical man had once scoffed at the theories of the reasoner.

“Anything good?” he asked.

“The biggest thing in years,” Holmes replied. “We have two hours before we need to think about leaving. I suggest we use that time to grab some dinner, and then, Lestrade, we’ll clear the London fog from your throat with a breath of the fresh night air of Dartmoor. You’ve never been there? Well, I doubt you’ll forget your first visit.”