There was silence for some minutes after this comment, and the interview drew to a close when Mrs. Mortimer knocked to inform her husband that a patient was there to see him. I have set the conversation down in full, and confess that when read over, as words on paper, it loses some of the power of the narrative that unfolded in Dr. Mortimer’s surgery. However, I cannot be shaken from a belief in the story he told me; which belief I know you, Holmes, will not share, and will laugh me out of when next we meet.
Here the letter extract ends. When I recall the meeting it describes, I am once more in Dr. Mortimer’s office, the mundane surroundings at such odds with his fantastic tale, yet the whole story hanging together, bearing the stamp of truth. And I realise that the answer to my question was there all along, before my very eyes.
Four days after this interview, on 17 October, Sir Henry and I tracked Selden, the convict, to his hiding-place on the moor, only to have him elude us. On our return to Baskerville Hall I glimpsed the figure of a man on a nearby tor, standing as if in deep contemplation of the surrounding landscape, which was bathed in moonlight. When I saw this figure, with the nearly full moon behind him, I was irresistibly reminded of Dr. Mortimer’s story, and realised why he had been at such pains to speak with me before many days had elapsed. The strange events surrounding us were, I felt, drawing to a head, although I could not have foreseen how terrible the end would be.
I must now discuss the events of 18 October: the day on which I visited Laura Lyons in Coombe Tracy, and tracked the man on the tor, whom I had seen the night before, to his lair. That man was my friend Sherlock Holmes, who had been living, unbeknownst to me, upon the moor for some days. I was, I confess, somewhat piqued at his deception, but was glad to have my friend there, for I felt certain that he would quickly disabuse me of any belief I had in the fantastic theories of Dr. Mortimer, and bring my feet firmly back to earth. Until this point my original tale has been guilty of omission only; it is now guilty of deception, which I have waited thirty long years to correct.
As I waited in the hut, I wrote that “As I looked, my soul shared none of the peace of Nature, but quivered at the vagueness and the terror”, and stated that it was the forthcoming encounter with the hut’s inhabitant which filled me with dread. It was not; it was the knowledge that the sun was setting, the near full moon would soon be up, and I would be alone on the moor. I was glad when I heard my friend’s voice, but far from reassured when I heard what he had to say.
For he did not laugh at my fears, or my story; did not instantly put forward a score of reasons why they were absurd. He was thoughtful and silent for some moments, and then said, with a sigh, “I fear, Watson, that Dr. Mortimer is quite correct in his surmises. I said that he was a colleague after our own hearts, and his research and deductions have been exemplary. Oh yes” —I was about to speak, but he held up his hand— “the story you related was an incredible one, and I understand your reluctance to tell me of it; but I am glad indeed that you did, for my own researches were leading me inexorably along the same path. You know my maxim, that when one has eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. During my time in the East I saw much that I would previously have considered impossible; enough that it has taught me to retain an open mind. In only one respect has Dr. Mortimer failed, and that is in surmising who it is, among the local population, who is the guilty party; or the victim, depending on how one considers the matter. It is Stapleton.”
“Stapleton?” I gasped, in some disbelief. “You are not serious, Holmes! It cannot be. He can have no connection with this matter. He is a relative newcomer to the area himself, which puts paid to Dr. Mortimer’s theory of some illegitimate Baskerville heir who has unknowingly inherited the family curse.”
“Dr. Mortimer’s theory was a fine one, as far as it went; but my researches have shown that Stapleton is not the man he appears to be. Neither, for that matter, is the lady whom he presents to the world as his sister.” Here he sketched his findings, and I listened, dumbfounded, as Holmes detailed the steps by which he had traced the true identity of Stapleton. It was when my friend spoke of the reason for Stapleton leaving the school which he had owned that I felt the pieces clicking into place with horrible certainty.
“The official explanation for the closure of the school was that it had come to grief under atrocious circumstances, and little more than that was made public. However, my investigation revealed that one of the students had been savagely mauled, and killed, as by a wild animal. The event occurred within the grounds of the school, which were proven, on the night in question, to be completely secured; it was thought almost impossible that an animal capable of such action could make its way into the grounds, but in the absence of any animals on the school property itself it was felt that this was the only explanation. Further investigation showed that on the night on which the attack occurred, the moon was full.”
A thrill of horror ran through me. I recalled my first meeting with Stapleton, and as if he read my thoughts, Holmes nodded.
“It was all there in your own notes, Watson,” he said. “His laughing acknowledgement of the legend, and the local belief in it; his eagerness to know how, and upon what lines, the investigation was proceeding; his talk of the wonderful secrets the moor contains, and his intimate knowledge of it.”
“He said” —I struggled to recall the precise words— “that his tastes led him to explore every part of the country round, and that few men knew it better than he. Dear God, Holmes!”
“Indeed. I told you before you left London that this was an ugly, dangerous business, and that I should be glad to see you back in Baker Street. Imagine my feelings when, a few days later, you related to me Dr. Mortimer’s theory, and I recalled the words that Stapleton had spoken to you in warning, when you expressed a wish to explore the Mire: ‘Your blood would be upon my head.’ “
“And yet you said nothing to me of the danger we were in?” I could not keep the indignation from my voice.
“I trusted to your common sense, Watson. And when you related Dr. Mortimer’s story, I knew that you would be particularly cautious of venturing out on the moor when the powers of darkness are exalted. I did not foresee you and Sir Henry going in search of Selden; but I was watching over you, never fear.”
“But … Stapleton?” I said, my mind still trying to come to terms with this turn of events. I cast my mind back over my meetings with him, and one point stood out. “I heard the hound when I was with him, Holmes, that day on the moor! How could that be?”
“His own suggestion, Watson, was that it was the cry of a bittern. He said that bitterns are nearly extinct upon the moor, and he is quite correct; but I myself saw the distinctive nest of one during my explorations.”
Another objection had occurred to me. “How can he be related to the Baskervilles?”
Holmes shrugged. “Doubtless that will become clear upon further investigation. It may well be that Dr. Mortimer’s theory is correct, and Stapleton found to be the descendant of some wayward Baskerville from centuries past. For the present, however, we must think of Sir Henry. I could almost wish that you had not left his side — Hark!”
Those familiar with the story will know the events which followed: the terrible screams ringing across the moor, our breathless, fearful chase through the pale light cast by the rising moon, the dreadful fears which assailed us both as we ran in search of we knew not what. Mixed in with all was the dreadful rise and fall of another sound, distinct from the screams, and yet striking us both as more frightening: the cry of a beast, primitive, ancient, soulless. When we encountered the body on the stone-strewn slope under the ridge, and believed it to be Sir Henry, our thoughts were bitter enough; but imagine our feelings when a closer examination of the body showed that it was not the young baronet, but Selden, the escaped convict.
And that he was still alive.
Even after all these years, I cannot contemplate the scene without a shudder. Although t
he man lived, even the most cursory glance showed that his injuries were dreadful. He had fallen from a great height onto a stone slope, but worse still were the marks on his arms and upper back: great tears and gouges, as though he had been mauled by some great beast. As the full import of his wounds became clear, I drew back in horror, and Holmes glanced at me.
“Has he…” my friend began; but one look at my face halted his words.
“Yes,” I replied, my voice low. “He has been bitten. Here, and here, and here.” I pointed.
“Will he live?”
I bent down once more to the pitiful figure before us. It did not move, but a horrid gurgling noise was issuing from it. I had seen men terribly injured in the course of battle, and well knew that Selden’s time was drawing near; but how long it would be before he succumbed, I could not tell. I straightened up.
“No, he will not live; not with the injuries he has. With care, he might last a few hours, possibly; but no longer.”
“We have not time,” muttered Holmes. “We might be discovered at any moment, and if he lives, even for a short while, who knows what he might do?”
I confess that my blood ran cold when I heard this statement. I recalled Dr. Mortimer’s words: For werewolf lore is unanimous on one point: that anyone who is bitten by a werewolf, but does not die, is destined for the same ghastly fate as his attacker, and is doomed to become a werewolf himself, and possibly inflict the curse on others. “What do you mean, Holmes?” I cried.
“I mean that he cannot live, Watson. You have said yourself that he will not survive more than a short time, even with medical attention. I tell you, we cannot afford even that. At this moment, our enemy may be upon our scent, and if that is the case — no, the risk is too great.”
The full import of my friend’s words struck me, and I drew in my breath with a sharp hiss. “You do not mean—”
“Yes, Watson. We must end his life now, before he has an opportunity to perpetuate this circle of violence and misery and fear.”
I knew Holmes to be right, even as my humanity recoiled from the idea. Whatever this man had done, he did not deserve to die at our hands. My medical training rebelled at the thought; and yet I knew my friend was correct. If he were allowed to live, if only for a short time, what might he inflict on innocent people, helping him in all good faith? Holmes, so sensitive at detecting my thoughts, nodded.
“Yes, Watson. We must do it, and quickly.” I nodded dumbly, and made to reach for the pistol I carried with me, but my companion stopped me. “Ordinary bullets will not do.” He pulled his own pistol from his pocket. “I took the precaution of having special bullets made, of silver. They are the only ones which will suffice.”
“I will do it, Holmes.”
“No. I have already placed you in grave peril, my friend; I would never have forgiven myself had anything happened to you. This is my duty.”
For a moment we both stood, looking down at the man lying beneath us, his face silvered in the moonlight; then, before I could say anything, Sherlock Holmes levelled his revolver and fired, square at the man’s chest. Selden gave one convulsion, then lay still, and all was silent upon the moor once more.
“A question,” I said at last, breaking the stillness. “What shall we say, when the man’s injuries are examined and the gunshot wound found?”
“That we acted in self-defence,” said Holmes. “The man flew at us out of the dark, and we recognised him from his description, and knew him to be a dangerous criminal. We were in fear of our lives. The question now is, what shall we do with this poor wretch’s body? We cannot leave it here for the foxes and the ravens.”
“I suggest that we put it in one of the huts until we can communicate with the police,” I said.
“Exactly,” replied Holmes. “I have no doubt that you and I could carry it so far. Hullo, Watson, what’s this? It’s the man himself, by all that’s wonderful and audacious! Not a word to show your suspicions — not a word, or my plans crumble to the ground.”
It was indeed Stapleton approaching us. For a moment, as I looked on the familiar figure, dapper and jaunty as always, I confess that I wondered if we were all — Mortimer and Holmes and I — grossly deluded; for how could the man himself be standing before us, only minutes after the attack on Selden? Holmes must have discerned my thoughts, for I felt his hand upon my sleeve. I glanced at my friend, and saw him nod once in Stapleton’s direction, his eyes fixed on the other’s face. I looked too, and could see, now that the naturalist was closer, that there were traces of some dark stain — faint, but discernible — about his mouth. Even as I watched, he licked his lips in a way that was almost feral, and for a moment his eyes seemed to glow as he tasted what was there.
I caught my breath, and it was all I could do to not recoil from that prim, colourless figure, knowing as I did what horrors it concealed. Had Stapleton been looking at me, I fear that all would have been up; but his attention was focussed on the body at our feet. The ghastly face he turned towards us — containing as it did amazement and disappointment in equal measures — would have convinced even the most obtuse onlooker of his guilt, but he made a supreme effort, and when he stood up again he looked almost as normal. His eyes darted between us, however, throughout our conversation, as if assessing what we might know or suspect, but we neither of us gave anything away. Nor did he; his self-assurance was spectacular. The only question which indicated his doubts about the story we told him — the terrible cries, the running man, the fall, the death — came when he asked, suddenly, “By the way, did you hear anything else besides a cry?”
“No,” said Holmes; “did you?”
“No.”
It was obvious that the man was not completely reassured; but he could say nothing without revealing himself. He seemed relieved when Holmes mentioned that he would be returning to London on the morrow, but there was an anxious moment when the naturalist seemed to suggest that we should remove the body to his own residence. It was decided to cover Selden’s face and leave him where he was until morning, and we went our separate ways: Holmes and I to Baskerville Hall, and Stapleton to Merripit House. He did not appear to linger near the body, but as soon as we were a safe distance away I asked what we would do if he discovered the gunshot wound. Holmes shrugged.
“There is little we can do, Watson. Even if he noticed it, he cannot very well say anything about it, without inviting awkward questions. He may have his suspicions, but no more than that. And tomorrow night the moon is full; he will be occupied with other matters in the intervening hours, I daresay.”
My friend’s tone was normal, but beneath it I detected a horror, a revulsion, which struck fear into me more than anything I had thus far heard. It was at that moment I fully grasped what our adversary was, how desperate a game we were playing, and the possible fate which awaited one or more of us on the moor. Above this, however, was another question, which had been on the tip of my tongue since the moment we had first seen Stapleton approaching.
“How — how was it possible for him to … change in so short a time? It could have been a matter of minutes only between the attack, and us seeing him.”
Holmes shook his head. “That, I confess, I do not know. However, we know that Stapleton is both naturalist and botanist. There are certain plants — wolfsbane chief among them — which are said to have an effect upon werewolves. Generally the effect is detrimental to the werewolf, but wolfsbane, or aconite, has long been used in witchcraft to induce a lycanthropic state, amongst other things. It could well be that Stapleton has, in his researches, discovered a way to use this or some other plant to quickly enable him to return from his bestial state to a human one. The danger to him when he is in his animal form must be immense; if he cannot help the transformation, he can at least ensure that he remains in that state for as short a time as possible. It would explain why Sir Charles’s body was not molested. We have seen from the state of the convict what the creature is capable of; the fact that Sir Charles was unmarke
d would indicate that Stapleton returned to his human form soon after the initial encounter, which frightened Sir Charles to death.”
“There were folk about on the moor,” I pointed out. “The gipsy, for one. And of course the proximity to Baskerville Hall, and the Barrymores, meant considerable danger to him should he linger in his bestial form.”
“I would not be surprised if you were proved right, Watson,” said Holmes. “Yet another reason why we must tread carefully. Had Sir Charles been mauled savagely, we might perhaps be able to persuade someone of the truth of our story, although not without considerable danger of being clapped into a madhouse before we had proceeded far. We have no case at present, and it is worth our while to run any risk in order to establish one, even if the case we establish is as much a fiction as any hell hound legend.”
We were by now at the gates of Baskerville Hall, and Holmes halted. “Say nothing of — we shall call it a hound — to Sir Henry, Watson. Let him think that Selden’s death was as Stapleton would have us believe: a mere accident. He will have a better nerve for the ordeal which he will have to undergo tomorrow.”
The events of the rest of the evening are accurately recorded in my narrative; I need only mention the portrait of Sir Hugo Baskerville, in which my friend took such an interest. When, after Sir Henry retired, Holmes led me back into the banqueting-hall, and showed me the resemblance between Sir Hugo and Stapleton, I could not repress a cry of amazement.
“Yes, it is an interesting instance of a throw-back, which appears to be both physical and spiritual. A study of family portraits is enough to convert a man to the doctrine of reincarnation. The fellow is a Baskerville — that is evident.”
Gaslight Grotesque: Nightmare Tales of Sherlock Holmes Page 28