Chapter 14. The Hound of the Baskervilles

by Arthur Conan Doyle

One of Sherlock Holmes's quirks—if you could call it that—was his reluctance to share his plans with anyone until the very moment they were about to unfold. This trait stemmed partly from his commanding personality, which thrived on surprising those around him, and partly from his professional caution, which urged him to avoid taking unnecessary risks. The downside of this was that it often left his assistants and agents in the dark. I had experienced this frustration many times, but never more acutely than during that long, tense drive through the darkness. The moment of truth was approaching; we were on the brink of our final effort, yet Holmes remained silent, leaving me to guess what his next move would be. My heart raced with anticipation as the cold wind whipped against our faces and the dark, empty spaces on either side of the narrow road signaled that we were back on the moor. Each stride of the horses and every turn of the wheels brought us closer to our ultimate adventure.

Our conversation was stifled by the presence of the driver of the hired wagonette, forcing us to discuss trivial matters while our nerves were taut with emotion and expectation. It was a relief when we finally passed Frankland’s house and realized we were nearing the Hall, the scene of action. We didn’t drive up to the door but got out near the entrance to the avenue. After paying off the wagonette and instructing it to return to Coombe Tracey, we began our walk to Merripit House.

“Are you armed, Lestrade?” I asked.

The little detective grinned. “As long as I have my trousers, I have a hip pocket, and as long as I have a hip pocket, I have something in it.”

“Good! My friend and I are also prepared for emergencies.”

“You’re being awfully secretive about this, Mr. Holmes. What’s the plan now?”

“A waiting game.”

“My word, it doesn’t seem like a cheerful place,” Lestrade said, shivering as he glanced around at the gloomy hillside and the thick fog blanketing the Grimpen Mire. “I see lights from a house up ahead.”

“That’s Merripit House, the end of our journey. I must ask you to walk quietly and keep your voices down.”

We moved cautiously along the path as if we were heading straight for the house, but Holmes stopped us about two hundred yards away.

“This will do,” he said. “These rocks on the right provide excellent cover.”

“We’re waiting here?” I asked.

“Yes, we’ll set up our little ambush here. Get into this hollow, Lestrade. Watson, you’ve been inside the house, haven’t you? Can you tell me the layout of the rooms? What are those latticed windows at this end?”

“I believe they are the kitchen windows.”

“And the one beyond, the one shining so brightly?”

“That’s definitely the dining room.”

“The blinds are up. You know the area best. Creep forward quietly and see what they’re doing—but for heaven’s sake, don’t let them know they’re being watched!”

I tiptoed down the path and crouched behind the low wall surrounding the stunted orchard. Moving in its shadow, I reached a spot where I could peer straight through the uncurtained window.

Inside, there were only two men: Sir Henry and Stapleton. They sat with their profiles toward me on either side of a round table. Both were smoking cigars, with coffee and wine in front of them. Stapleton spoke animatedly, while Sir Henry appeared pale and distracted. Perhaps the thought of that lonely walk across the ominous moor weighed heavily on his mind.

As I observed them, Stapleton stood up and left the room. Sir Henry refilled his glass and leaned back in his chair, puffing on his cigar. I heard the creak of a door and the crisp sound of boots on gravel. The footsteps passed along the path on the other side of the wall where I crouched. Looking over, I saw the naturalist pause at the door of an outbuilding in the corner of the orchard. A key turned in a lock, and as he stepped inside, I heard a curious scuffling noise from within. He was only inside for a minute or so before I heard the key turn again, and he rejoined his guest in the house. I quietly crept back to where my companions waited to share what I had seen.

“You say, Watson, that the lady is not there?” Holmes asked after I finished my report.

“No.”

“Where could she be, then, since there’s no light in any other room except the kitchen?”

“I can’t imagine where she is.”

I had mentioned that a dense, white fog hung over the Grimpen Mire. It drifted slowly toward us, forming a thick, well-defined wall on that side. The moonlight illuminated it, making it look like a vast, shimmering ice field, with the distant tors appearing like rocks floating on its surface. Holmes gazed at it, muttering impatiently as he watched its sluggish movement.

“It’s coming toward us, Watson.”

“Is that serious?”

“Very serious indeed. It’s the one thing that could ruin my plans. He can’t be far off now. It’s already ten o’clock. Our success—and even his life—might depend on him getting out before the fog covers the path.”

The night was clear and beautiful above us. The stars shone cold and bright, while a half-moon cast a soft, uncertain light over everything. Before us loomed the dark silhouette of the house, its jagged roof and protruding chimneys sharply defined against the silver-speckled sky. Broad bars of golden light spilled from the lower windows, stretching across the orchard and the moor. Suddenly, one of those beams was cut off. The servants had left the kitchen. Only the lamp in the dining room remained lit, where the two men—the murderous host and the unsuspecting guest—continued their conversation over cigars.

With each passing minute, the white, woolly fog that blanketed half the moor drifted closer to the house. The first thin tendrils of it were already curling across the golden square of the illuminated window. The far wall of the orchard had vanished, and the trees stood out like shadows in a swirling mist. As we watched, the fog crept around the corners of the house, rolling into a dense mass that made the upper floor and roof appear like a strange ship adrift on a shadowy sea. Holmes slammed his hand against the rock in front of us and stamped his feet in frustration.

“If he isn’t out in a quarter of an hour, the path will be covered. In half an hour, we won’t be able to see our hands in front of us.”

“Should we move back to higher ground?” I suggested.

“Yes, I think that would be wise.”

So, as the fog bank advanced, we retreated until we were half a mile from the house, yet that thick white sea, with the moon glinting off its upper edge, continued to creep forward relentlessly.

“We’re going too far,” Holmes said. “We can’t risk him being caught before he reaches us. We must hold our ground here.” He dropped to his knees and pressed his ear to the ground. “Thank God, I think I hear him coming.”

A sound of hurried footsteps broke the silence of the moor. Crouching among the stones, we stared intently at the silver-tipped fog ahead. The steps grew louder, and through the mist, as if parting a curtain, the man we had been waiting for emerged. He looked around in surprise as he stepped into the clear, starlit night. Then he hurried along the path, passing close to where we lay, and continued up the long slope behind us. As he walked, he frequently glanced over his shoulder, clearly uneasy.

“Quiet!” Holmes hissed, and I heard the sharp click of a cocked pistol. “Look out! It’s coming!”

A thin, crisp patter echoed from somewhere within the heart of that creeping fog. The cloud was within fifty yards of us, and we stared at it, all three of us, uncertain of what horror was about to emerge. I was at Holmes’s side, and I stole a glance at his face. It was pale and exultant, his eyes shining brightly in the moonlight. But suddenly, they widened in a rigid, fixed stare, and his lips parted in astonishment. At that same moment, Lestrade let out a terrified yell and threw himself face down on the ground. I sprang to my feet, my hand instinctively gripping my pistol, my mind frozen in shock at the dreadful shape that had appeared from the shadows of the fog.

It was a hound—an enormous, coal-black hound, but not like any creature mortal eyes had ever seen. Fire erupted from its open mouth, its eyes glowed with a smoldering intensity, and its muzzle, hackles, and dewlap flickered with flames. Never in the wildest dreams of a disordered mind could anything more savage, more terrifying, more hellish be imagined than that dark form and ferocious face that emerged from the fog.

The massive black creature bounded down the path, its powerful legs propelling it forward as it chased after our friend. We were so stunned by the sight that we let it pass before we regained our composure. Then, Holmes and I fired simultaneously. The creature let out a horrifying howl, indicating that at least one of us had struck it. Yet it didn’t stop; it continued to leap forward.

In the distance, we saw Sir Henry looking back, his face pale in the moonlight, hands raised in terror as he helplessly stared at the monstrous beast pursuing him. But that cry of pain from the hound shattered our fears. If it could be hurt, it could be killed.

I had never seen anyone run like Holmes did that night. I considered myself quick on my feet, but he outpaced me as easily as I outpaced the little professional. As we raced up the path, we heard Sir Henry’s screams and the deep growl of the hound echoing behind us. I caught a glimpse of the beast leaping onto its victim, throwing him to the ground and going for his throat. In an instant, Holmes had fired five shots into the creature’s side.

With a final, agonizing howl and a desperate snap of its jaws, the hound rolled onto its back, its legs thrashing wildly before it fell limp. I bent down, gasping for breath, and pressed my pistol against its dreadful, shimmering head, but I knew it was pointless to pull the trigger. The giant hound was dead.

Sir Henry lay unconscious where he had fallen. We tore off his collar, and Holmes breathed a sigh of relief when we saw there were no wounds and that we had arrived just in time. Already, Sir Henry’s eyelids fluttered, and he made a weak attempt to move. Lestrade shoved his brandy flask between the baronet’s lips, and two frightened eyes looked up at us.

“My God!” he whispered. “What was that? What in heaven’s name was it?”

“It’s dead, whatever it was,” Holmes replied. “We’ve put the family ghost to rest once and for all.”

Before us lay a creature of terrifying size and strength. It wasn’t a pure bloodhound or a pure mastiff; it seemed to be a mix of both—gaunt, savage, and as large as a small lioness. Even in death, its massive jaws appeared to drip with a bluish flame, and its small, deep-set eyes glowed with a fierce light. I placed my hand on its glowing muzzle, and as I lifted my fingers, they shimmered in the dark.

“Phosphorus,” I said.

“A clever concoction of it,” Holmes said, sniffing at the dead beast. “There’s no scent that could have interfered with its sense of smell. We owe you a huge apology, Sir Henry, for putting you through this fright. I expected a hound, but not something like this. The fog didn’t give us much time to prepare.”

“You saved my life.”

“After nearly endangering it. Are you strong enough to stand?”

“Just give me another sip of that brandy, and I’ll be ready for anything. Now, help me up. What do you plan to do?”

“To leave you here. You’re not fit for any more adventures tonight. If you wait, one of us will go back with you to the Hall.”

He tried to rise but was still pale and trembling. We helped him to a rock, where he sat, shivering with his face buried in his hands.

“We must leave you now,” Holmes said. “We have more work to do, and every moment counts. We have our case, and now we just need our man.”

“It’s a long shot that we’ll find him at the house,” he continued as we hurried back down the path. “Those shots must have told him that the game was up.”

“We were quite a distance away, and this fog might have muffled the sound.”

“He followed the hound to call it off—of that you can be sure. No, he’s gone by now! But we’ll search the house and make sure.”

The front door stood open, so we rushed inside and moved quickly from room to room, startling an elderly servant who met us in the hallway. There was little light except in the dining room, but Holmes grabbed the lamp and left no corner of the house unexplored. We found no sign of the man we were pursuing. However, on the upper floor, one of the bedroom doors was locked.

“There’s someone in there,” Lestrade exclaimed. “I can hear movement. Open this door!”

A faint moan and rustling came from within. Holmes kicked the door just above the lock, and it swung open. With our pistols drawn, we rushed into the room.

But instead of the desperate villain we expected, we found something so strange and unexpected that we stood there for a moment, staring in disbelief.

The room had been transformed into a small museum, with walls lined by glass-topped cases showcasing a collection of butterflies and moths. This delicate display had been the passion of a man who was both complex and dangerous. In the center of the room stood a sturdy beam, a remnant of the old, rotting timber that supported the roof. To this post, a figure was tied, so tightly wrapped in sheets that it was impossible to tell if it was a man or a woman at first glance.

One towel was wrapped around the figure's throat, secured at the back of the pillar, while another covered the lower part of the face. Two dark eyes—eyes filled with grief, shame, and a haunting question—stared back at us. Within moments, we had torn off the gag and unwrapped the bindings, revealing Mrs. Stapleton, who sank to the floor before us. As her beautiful head drooped onto her chest, I noticed a vivid red mark across her neck, a clear sign of a whip.

“The monster!” Holmes exclaimed. “Lestrade, grab the brandy! Help her into the chair! She’s fainted from mistreatment and exhaustion.”

She opened her eyes again, panic etched on her face.

“Is he safe?” she asked. “Has he escaped?”

“He can’t escape us, madam.”

“No, no, I meant my husband. Sir Henry? Is he safe?”

“Yes.”

“And the hound?”

“It’s dead.”

She let out a long sigh of relief.

“Thank God! Thank God! Oh, this villain! Look at what he’s done to me!” She thrust her arms out of her sleeves, revealing a horrifying array of bruises. “But this is nothing—nothing! It’s my mind and soul he has tortured and defiled. I could endure it all—abuse, isolation, a life of lies—as long as I believed I had his love. But now I see that I’ve been nothing but his pawn and his tool.” She broke down into passionate sobs.

“You don’t have any goodwill toward him, do you?” Holmes asked. “Then tell us where we can find him. If you’ve ever helped him in his wrongdoing, help us now to make amends.”

“There’s only one place he could have gone,” she replied. “There’s an old tin mine on an island in the heart of the mire. That’s where he kept his hound, and he made arrangements to use it as a refuge. That’s where he would run.”

The fog outside pressed against the window like a thick blanket. Holmes held the lamp up to it.

“Look,” he said. “No one could navigate the Grimpen Mire tonight.”

She laughed, her eyes sparkling with a fierce joy.

“He might find his way in, but he’ll never find his way out,” she declared. “How can he see the guiding wands tonight? We planted them together to mark the path through the mire. Oh, if only I could have pulled them out today! Then you would have had him at your mercy!”

It was clear to us that any pursuit would be futile until the fog lifted. In the meantime, we left Lestrade to guard the house while Holmes and I returned with Sir Henry to Baskerville Hall. We could no longer keep the story of the Stapletons from him, but he took the news bravely when he learned the truth about the woman he had loved. However, the shock of the night’s events had taken a toll on his nerves, and by morning, he lay delirious with a high fever under Dr. Mortimer’s care. The two of them would end up traveling the world together before Sir Henry would regain his health and strength, returning to the man he had been before inheriting that cursed estate.

As I wrap up this unusual story, I want to share the dark fears and unsettling suspicions that clouded our lives for so long, culminating in such a tragic end. The morning after the hound's death, the fog had finally lifted, and Mrs. Stapleton led us to the spot where a path had been discovered through the bog. It was heartbreaking to see the eagerness and joy on her face as she pointed us toward her husband’s trail.

We left her standing on a narrow strip of solid, peaty ground that jutted out into the vast bog. From the end of this peninsula, small markers showed where the path twisted and turned from tuft to tuft of rushes, navigating through the green-scummed pits and foul quagmires that would deter any stranger. The air was thick with the stench of decay, and the rank reeds and slimy water plants released a heavy, miasmatic vapor that clung to our faces. More than once, a misstep sent us plunging thigh-deep into the dark, quivering mire, which trembled beneath our feet. Its relentless grip tugged at our heels, and when we sank into it, it felt as though some malevolent force was pulling us down into those grotesque depths.

We caught only one glimpse of evidence that someone had traversed this treacherous path before us. Amid a tuft of cotton grass, something dark jutted out, suspended above the muck. Holmes stepped off the path to grab it and sank to his waist in the mire. If we hadn’t been there to pull him out, he would have been lost to the bog. He held up an old black boot, the words “Meyers, Toronto” stamped on the leather inside.

“It’s worth a mud bath,” he said. “This is Sir Henry’s missing boot.”

“Thrown there by Stapleton during his escape,” I suggested.

“Exactly. He must have held onto it after using it to send the hound on its way. When he realized he was cornered, he clung to it and tossed it aside as he fled. At least we know he made it this far.”

But beyond that, we were left to speculate. There was no hope of finding footprints in the mire, as the rising mud quickly swallowed any trace. As we finally reached solid ground beyond the swamp, we searched eagerly for signs of Stapleton, but nothing met our eyes. If the earth could tell its story, then Stapleton never made it to the refuge he sought through the fog on that last night. Somewhere deep in the heart of Grimpen Mire, down in the foul muck that had consumed him, this cold-hearted man would remain forever buried.

We found many remnants of him on the bog-encircled island where he had hidden his savage ally. A massive driving wheel and a shaft half-filled with debris marked the site of an abandoned mine. Nearby lay the crumbling remains of miners’ cottages, likely abandoned due to the stench of the surrounding swamp. In one of these, a staple and chain, along with a pile of gnawed bones, indicated where the animal had been confined. Among the wreckage, a skeleton with a tangled mass of brown hair lay.

“A dog!” Holmes exclaimed. “By Jove, a curly-haired spaniel. Poor Mortimer will never see his pet again. Well, I doubt this place holds any secrets we haven’t already uncovered. He could hide his hound, but he couldn’t silence its voice, which is why those cries were so unsettling, even in daylight. In an emergency, he could keep the hound in the outbuilding at Merripit, but that was always a risk. It was only on that fateful day, which he saw as the culmination of all his efforts, that he dared to do it. This paste in the tin is likely the glowing mixture he used to coat the creature. It was inspired, of course, by the family legend of the hell-hound and his desire to terrify old Sir Charles to death. No wonder the poor convict ran and screamed, just as our friend did, and as we might have, when faced with such a creature bounding through the darkness of the moor. It was a clever ruse; apart from the chance of driving your victim to their death, what peasant would dare to investigate such a creature if they caught sight of it, as many have done on the moor?

I said it in London, Watson, and I’ll say it again now: we’ve never helped hunt down a more dangerous man than the one lying yonder.” He gestured toward the vast, mottled expanse of the green-splotched bog that stretched out until it faded into the russet slopes of the moor.