“He’ll break into no house, sir. I give you my solemn word upon that.But he will never trouble anyone in this country again. I assure you, Sir Henry,that in a very few days the necessary arrangements will have been made and he will be on his way to South America.For God’s sake, sir, I beg of you not to let the police know that he is still on the moor.They have given up the chase there, and he can lie quiet until the ship is ready for him.You can’t tell on him without getting my wife and me into trouble. I beg you, sir, to say nothing to the police.”
“What do you say, Watson?”
I shrugged my shoulders. “If he were safely out of the country it would relieve the tax-payer of a burden. ”
“But how about the chance of his holding someone up before he goes?”
“He would not do anything so mad, sir. We have provided him with all that he can want.To commit a crime would be to show where he was hiding.”
“That is true,” said Sir Henry. “Well, Barrymore—”
“God bless you, sir, and thank you from my heart!It would have killed my poor wife had he been taken again.”
“I guess we are aiding and abetting a felony, Watson?But, after what we have heard I don’t feel as if I could give the man up, so there is an end of it. All right, Barrymore, you can go.”
With a few broken words of gratitude the man turned, but he hesitated and then came back.
“You’ve been so kind to us, sir, that I should like to do the best I can for you in return.I know something, Sir Henry, and perhaps I should have said it before,but it was long after the inquest that I found it out.I’ve never breathed a word about it yet to mortal man. It’s about poor Sir Charles’s death.”
The baronet and I were both upon our feet. “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. It was to meet a woman.”
“To meet a woman!He?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And the woman’s name?”
“I can’t give you the name, sir, but I can give you the initials. Her initials were L. L.”
“How do you know this, Barrymore?”
“Well, Sir Henry, your uncle had a letter that morning. He had usually a great many letters,for he was a public man and well known for his kind heart,so that everyone who was in trouble was glad to turn to him. But that morning, as it chanced,there was only this one letter, so I took the more notice of it. It was from Coombe Tracey,and it was addressed in a woman’s hand.”
“Well?”
“Well, sir, I thought no more of the matter, and never would have done had it not been for my wife.Only a few weeks ago she was cleaning out Sir Charles’s study—it had never been touched since his death—and she found the ashes of a burned letter in the back of the grate. The greater part of it was charred to pieces, but one little slip, the end of a page, hung together, and the writing could still be read, though it was grey on a black ground. It seemed to us 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 signed the initials L. L.”
“Have you got that slip?”
“No, sir, it crumbled all to bits after we moved it.”
“Had Sir Charles received any other letters in the same writing?”
“Well, sir, I took no particular notice of his letters. I should not have noticed this one, only it happened to come alone.”
“And you have no idea who L. L. is?”
“No, sir. No more than you have. But I expect if we could lay our hands upon that lady we should know more about Sir Charles’s death. ”
“I cannot understand, Barrymore, how you came to conceal this important information.”
“Well, sir, it was immediately after that our own trouble came to us. And then again, sir,we were both of us very fond of Sir Charles,as we well might be considering all that he has done for us.To rake this up couldn’t help our poor master,and it’s well to go carefully when there’s a lady in the case. Even the best of us—”
“You thought it might injure his reputation?”
“Well, sir, I thought no good could come of it. But now you have been kind to us,and I feel as if it would be treating you unfairly not to tell you all that I know about the matter. ”
“Very good, Barrymore; you can go.” When the butler had left us Sir Henry turned to me. “Well,Watson, what do you think of this new light?”
“It seems to leave the darkness rather blacker than before.”
“So I think. But if we can only trace L. L. it should clear up the whole business.We have gained that much. We know that there is someone who has the facts if we can only find her. What do you think we should do?”
“Let Holmes know all about it at once. It will give him the clue for which he has been seeking.I am much mistaken if it does not bring him down.”
I went at once to my room and drew up my report of the morning’s conversation for Holmes.It was evident to me that he had been very busy of late,for the notes which I had from Baker Street were few and short,with no comments upon the information which I had supplied and hardly any reference to my mission.No doubt his blackmailing case is absorbing all his faculties.And yet this new factor must surely arrest his attention and renew his interest. I wish that he were here.
_October_ 17_th_.—All day today the rain poured down,rustling on the ivy and dripping from the eaves. I thought of the convict out upon the bleak, cold, shelterless moor. Poor devil!Whatever his crimes, he has suffered something to atone for them.And then I thought of that other one—the face in the cab, the figure against the moon.Was he also out in that deluge—the unseen watcher, the man of darkness?In the evening I put on my waterproof and I walked far upon the sodden moor,full of dark imaginings, the rain beating upon my face and the wind whistling about my ears.God help those who wander into the great mire now, for even the firm uplands are becoming a morass.I found the black tor upon which I had seen the solitary watcher,and from its craggy summit I looked out myself across the melancholy downs.Rain squalls drifted across their russet face, and the heavy,slate-coloured clouds hung low over the landscape,trailing in grey wreaths down the sides of the fantastic hills. In the distant hollow on the left,half hidden by the mist, the two thin towers of Baskerville Hall rose above the trees.They were the only signs of human life which I could see,save only those prehistoric huts which lay thickly upon the slopes of the hills.Nowhere was there any trace of that lonely man whom I had seen on the same spot two nights before.
As I walked back I was overtaken by Dr. Mortimer driving in his dog-cart over a rough moorland track which led from the outlying farmhouse of Foulmire.He has been very attentive to us, and hardly a day has passed that he has not called at the Hall to see how we were getting on.He insisted upon my climbing into his dog-cart, and he gave me a lift homeward.I found him much troubled over the disappearance of his little spaniel.It had wandered on to the moor and had never come back. I gave him such consolation as I might,but I thought of the pony on the Grimpen Mire,and I do not fancy that he will see his little dog again.
“By the way, Mortimer,” said I as we jolted along the rough road,“I suppose there are few people living within driving distance of this whom you do not know?”
“Hardly any, I think.”
“Can you, then, tell me the name of any woman whose initials are L. L.?”
He thought for a few minutes.
“No,” said he. “There are a few gipsies and labouring folk for whom I can’t answer,but among the farmers or gentry there is no one whose initials are those. Wait a bit 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 is Frankland’s daughter.”
“What!Old Frankland the crank?”
“Exactly. She married an artist named Lyons, who came sketching on the moor.He proved to be a blackguard and deserted her.The fault from what I hear may not have been entirely on one side.Her father refused to have anything to do with her because she had married without his consent and perhaps for one or two other reasons as well.So, between the old sinner and the young one the girl has had a pretty bad time.”
“How does she live?”
“I fancy old Frankland allows her a pittance, but it cannot be more,for his own affairs are considerably involved.Whatever she may have deserved one could not allow her to go hopelessly to the bad.Her story got about, and several of the people here did something to enable her to earn an honest living.Stapleton did for one, and Sir Charles for another. I gave a trifle myself.It was to set her up in a typewriting business.”
He wanted to know the object of my inquiries,but I managed to satisfy his curiosity without telling him too much,for there is no reason why we should take anyone into our confidence.Tomorrow morning I shall find my way to Coombe Tracey, and if I can see this Mrs. Laura Lyons,of equivocal reputation, a long step will have been made towards clearing one incident in this chain of mysteries.I am certainly developing the wisdom of the serpent,for when Mortimer pressed his questions to an inconvenient extent I asked him casually to what type Frankland’s skull belonged,and so heard nothing but craniology for the rest of our drive.I have not lived for years with Sherlock Holmes for nothing.
I have only one other incident to record upon this tempestuous and melancholy day.This was my conversation with Barrymore just now,which gives me one more strong card which I can play in due time.
Mortimer had stayed to dinner, and he and the baronet played écarté afterwards.The butler brought me my coffee into the library, and I took the chance to ask him a few questions.
“Well,” said I, “has this precious relation of yours departed, or is he still lurking out yonder?”
“I don’t know, sir. I hope to heaven that he has gone, for he has brought nothing but trouble here!I’ve not heard of him since I left out food for him last, and that was three days ago.”
“Did you see him then?”
“No, sir, but the food was gone when next I went that way.”
“Then he was certainly there?”
“So you would think, sir, unless it was the other man who took it.”
I sat with my coffee-cup halfway to my lips and stared at Barrymore.
“You know that there is another man then?”
“Yes, sir; there is another man upon the moor.”
“Have you seen him?”
“No, sir.”
“How do you know of him then?”
“Selden told me of him, sir, a week ago or more. He’s in hiding, too,but he’s not a convict as far as I can make out. I don’t like it, Dr. Watson—I tell you straight,sir, that I don’t like it.” He spoke with a sudden passion of earnestness.
“Now, listen to me, Barrymore!I have no interest in this matter but that of your master.I have come here with no object except to help him. Tell me, frankly, what it is that you don’t like.”
Barrymore hesitated for a moment, as if he regretted his outburst or found it difficult to express his own feelings in words.
“It’s all these goings-on, sir,” he cried at last,waving his hand towards the rain-lashed window which faced the moor. “There’s foul play somewhere,and there’s black villainy brewing, to that I’ll swear!Very glad I should be, sir, to see Sir Henry on his way back to London again!”
“But what is it that alarms you?”
“Look at Sir Charles’s death!That was bad enough, for all that the coroner said. Look at the noises on the moor at night.There’s not a man would cross it after sundown if he was paid for it.Look at this stranger hiding out yonder, and watching and waiting!What’s he waiting for?What does it mean?It means no good to anyone of the name of Baskerville,and very glad I shall be to be quit of it all on the day that Sir Henry’s new servants are ready to take over the Hall. ”
“But about this stranger,” said I. “Can you tell me anything about him?What did Selden say?Did he find out where he hid, or what he was doing?”
“He saw him once or twice, but he is a deep one and gives nothing away.At first he thought that he was the police, but soon he found that he had some lay of his own.A kind of gentleman he was, as far as he could see, but what he was doing he could not make out.”
“And where did he say that he lived?”
“Among the old houses on the hillside—the stone huts where the old folk used to live.”
“But how about his food?”
“Selden found out that he has got a lad who works for him and brings all he needs.I dare say he goes to Coombe Tracey for what he wants.”
“Very good, Barrymore. We may talk further of this some other time.” When the butler had gone I walked over to the black window,and I looked through a blurred pane at the driving clouds and at the tossing outline of the wind-swept trees.It is a wild night indoors, and what must it be in a stone hut upon the moor.What passion of hatred can it be which leads a man to lurk in such a place at such a time!And what deep and earnest purpose can he have which calls for such a trial!There, in that hut upon the moor, seems to lie the very centre of that problem which has vexed me so sorely.I swear that another day shall not have passed before I have done all that man can do to reach the heart of the mystery.
Chapter 11. The Man on the Tor
The extract from my private diary which forms the last chapter has brought my narrative up to the eighteenth of October,a time when these strange events began to move swiftly towards their terrible conclusion.The incidents of the next few days are indelibly graven upon my recollection,and I can tell them without reference to the notes made at the time.I start them from the day which succeeded that upon which I had established two facts of great importance,the one that Mrs. Laura Lyons of Coombe Tracey had written to Sir Charles Baskerville and made an appointment with him at the very place and hour that he met his death, the other that the lurking man upon the moor was to be found among the stone huts upon the hillside. With these two facts in my possession I felt that either my intelligence or my courage must be deficient if I could not throw some further light upon these dark places.
I had no opportunity to tell the baronet what I had learned about Mrs.Lyons upon the evening before, for Dr. Mortimer remained with him at cards until it was very late.At breakfast, however, I informed him about my discovery and asked him whether he would care to accompany me to Coombe Tracey.At first he was very eager to come, but on second thoughts it seemed to both of us that if I went alone the results might be better.The more formal we made the visit the less information we might obtain. I left Sir Henry behind,therefore, not without some prickings of conscience, and drove off upon my new quest.
When I reached Coombe Tracey I told Perkins to put up the horses,and I made inquiries for the lady whom I had come to interrogate.I had no difficulty in finding her rooms, which were central and well appointed.A maid showed me in without ceremony, and as I entered the sitting-room a lady,who was sitting before a Remington typewriter, sprang up with a pleasant smile of welcome.Her face fell, however, when she saw that I was a stranger,and she sat down again and asked me the object of my visit.
The first impression left by Mrs. Lyons was one of extreme beauty.Her eyes and hair were of the same rich hazel colour, and her cheeks, though considerably freckled,were flushed with the exquisite bloom of the brunette,the dainty pink which lurks at the heart of the sulphur rose. Admiration was, I repeat,the first impression. But the second was criticism. There was something subtly wrong with the face,some coarseness of expression, some hardness, perhaps, of eye,some looseness of lip which marred its perfect beauty. But these, of course, are afterthoughts.At the moment I was simply conscious that I was in the presence of a very handsome woman,and that she was asking me the reasons for my visit.I had not quite understood until that instant how delicate my mission was.
“I have the pleasure,” said I, “of knowing your father.”
It was a clumsy introduction, and the lady made me feel it.“There is nothing in common between my father and me,” she said. “I owe him nothing,and his friends are not mine. If it were not for the late Sir Charles Baskerville and some other kind hearts I might have starved for all that my father cared. ”
“It was about the late Sir Charles Baskerville that I have come here to see you.”
The freckles started out on the lady’s face.
“What can I tell you about him?” she asked, and her fingers played nervously over the stops of her typewriter.
“You knew him, did you not?”
“I have already said that I owe a great deal to his kindness.If I am able to support myself it is largely due to the interest which he took in my unhappy situation. ”
“Did you correspond with him?”
The lady looked quickly up with an angry gleam in her hazel eyes.
“What is the object of these questions?” she asked sharply.
“The object is to avoid a public scandal.It is better that I should ask them here than that the matter should pass outside our control.”
She was silent and her face was still very pale.At last she looked up with something reckless and defiant in her manner.
“Well, I’ll answer,” she said. “What are your questions?”
“Did you correspond with Sir Charles?”
“I certainly wrote to him once or twice to acknowledge his delicacy and his generosity.”
“Have you the dates of those letters?”
“No.”
“Have you ever met him?”
“Yes, once or twice, when he came into Coombe Tracey. He was a very retiring man,and he preferred to do good by stealth.”
“But if you saw him so seldom and wrote so seldom,how did he know enough about your affairs to be able to help you, as you say that he has done?”
She met my difficulty with the utmost readiness.
“There were several gentlemen who knew my sad history and united to help me. One was Mr. Stapleton,a neighbour and intimate friend of Sir Charles’s. He was exceedingly kind,and it was through him that Sir Charles learned about my affairs.”
I knew already that Sir Charles Baskerville had made Stapleton his almoner upon several occasions,so the lady’s statement bore the impress of truth upon it.
“Did you ever write to Sir Charles asking him to meet you?” I continued.
Mrs. Lyons flushed with anger again. “Really, sir, this is a very extraordinary question.”
“I am sorry, madam, but I must repeat it.”
“Then I answer, certainly not.”
“Not on the very day of Sir Charles’s death?”
The flush had faded in an instant, and a deathly face was before me.Her dry lips could not speak the “No” which I saw rather than heard.
“Surely your memory deceives you,” said I. “I could even quote a passage of your letter.It ran ‘Please, please, as you are a gentleman, burn this letter, and be at the gate by ten o’clock.’”
I thought that she had fainted, but she recovered herself by a supreme effort.
“Is there no such thing as a gentleman?” she gasped.
“You do Sir Charles an injustice. He _did_ burn the letter.But sometimes a letter may be legible even when burned. You acknowledge now that you wrote it?”
“Yes, I did write it,” she cried, pouring out her soul in a torrent of words. “I did write it. Why should I deny it?I have no reason to be ashamed of it. I wished him to help me.I believed that if I had an interview I could gain his help, so I asked him to meet me.”
“But why at such an hour?”
“Because I had only just learned that he was going to London next day and might be away for months.There were reasons why I could not get there earlier.”
“But why a rendezvous in the garden instead of a visit to the house?”
“Do you think a woman could go alone at that hour to a bachelor’s house?”
“Well, what happened when you did get there?”
“I never went.”
“Mrs. Lyons!”
“No, I swear it to you on all I hold sacred. I never went. Something intervened to prevent my going. ”
“What was that?”
“That is a private matter. I cannot tell it.”
“You acknowledge then that you made an appointment with Sir Charles at the very hour and place at which he met his death,but you deny that you kept the appointment.”
“That is the truth.”
Again and again I cross-questioned her, but I could never get past that point.
“Mrs. Lyons,” said I as I rose from this long and inconclusive interview,“you are taking a very great responsibility and putting yourself in a very false position by not making an absolutely clean breast of all that you know.If I have to call in the aid of the police you will find how seriously you are compromised.If your position is innocent, why did you in the first instance deny having written to Sir Charles upon that date?”
“Because I feared that some false conclusion might be drawn from it and that I might find myself involved in a scandal. ”
“And why were you so pressing that Sir Charles should destroy your letter?”
“If you have read the letter you will know.”
“I did not say that I had read all the letter.”
“You quoted some of it.”
“I quoted the postscript. The letter had, as I said, been burned and it was not all legible.I ask you once again why it was that you were so pressing that Sir Charles should destroy this letter which he received on the day of his death. ”
“The matter is a very private one.”
“The more reason why you should avoid a public investigation.”
“I will tell you, then. If you have heard anything of my unhappy history you will know that I made a rash marriage and had reason to regret it. ”
“I have heard so much.”
“My life has been one incessant persecution from a husband whom I abhor. The law is upon his side,and every day I am faced by the possibility that he may force me to live with him.At the time that I wrote this letter to Sir Charles I had learned that there was a prospect of my regaining my freedom if certain expenses could be met.It meant everything to me—peace of mind, happiness, self-respect—everything.I knew Sir Charles’s generosity, and I thought that if he heard the story from my own lips he would help me. ”
“Then how is it that you did not go?”
“Because I received help in the interval from another source.”
“Why then, did you not write to Sir Charles and explain this?”
“So I should have done had I not seen his death in the paper next morning.”
The woman’s story hung coherently together, and all my questions were unable to shake it.I could only check it by finding if she had, indeed,instituted divorce proceedings against her husband at or about the time of the tragedy.
It was unlikely that she would dare to say that she had not been to Baskerville Hall if she really had been,for a trap would be necessary to take her there,and could not have returned to Coombe Tracey until the early hours of the morning.Such an excursion could not be kept secret. The probability was, therefore,that she was telling the truth, or, at least, a part of the truth.I came away baffled and disheartened. Once again I had reached that dead wall which seemed to be built across every path by which I tried to get at the object of my mission. And yet the more I thought of the lady’s face and of her manner the more I felt that something was being held back from me. Why should she turn so pale?Why should she fight against every admission until it was forced from her?Why should she have been so reticent at the time of the tragedy?Surely the explanation of all this could not be as innocent as she would have me believe.For the moment I could proceed no farther in that direction,but must turn back to that other clue which was to be sought for among the stone huts upon the moor.
And that was a most vague direction. I realised it as I drove back and noted how hill after hill showed traces of the ancient people.Barrymore’s only indication had been that the stranger lived in one of these abandoned huts,and many hundreds of them are scattered throughout the length and breadth of the moor.But I had my own experience for a guide since it had shown me the man himself standing upon the summit of the Black Tor.That, then, should be the centre of my search.From there I should explore every hut upon the moor until I lighted upon the right one.If this man were inside it I should find out from his own lips,at the point of my revolver if necessary, who he was and why he had dogged us so long.He might slip away from us in the crowd of Regent Street,but it would puzzle him to do so upon the lonely moor. On the other hand,if I should find the hut and its tenant should not be within it I must remain there,however long the vigil, until he returned. Holmes had missed him in London.It would indeed be a triumph for me if I could run him to earth where my master had failed.
Luck had been against us again and again in this inquiry, but now at last it came to my aid.And the messenger of good fortune was none other than Mr. Frankland, who was standing,grey-whiskered and red-faced, outside the gate of his garden,which opened on to the highroad along which I travelled.
“Good-day, Dr. Watson,” cried he with unwonted good humour,“you must really give your horses a rest and come in to have a glass of wine and to congratulate me. ”
My feelings towards him were very far from being friendly after what I had heard of his treatment of his daughter,but I was anxious to send Perkins and the wagonette home, and the opportunity was a good one.I alighted and sent a message to Sir Henry that I should walk over in time for dinner.Then I followed Frankland into his dining-room.
“It is a great day for me, sir—one of the red-letter days of my life,” he cried with many chuckles.“I have brought off a double event. I mean to teach them in these parts that law is law,and that there is a man here who does not fear to invoke it.I have established a right of way through the centre of old Middleton’s park, slap across it, sir,within a hundred yards of his own front door. What do you think of that?We’ll teach these magnates that they cannot ride roughshod over the rights of the commoners, confound them!And I’ve closed the wood where the Fernworthy folk used to picnic.These infernal people seem to think that there are no rights of property,and that they can swarm where they like with their papers and their bottles. Both cases decided,Dr. Watson, and both in my favour. I haven’t had such a day since I had Sir John Morland for trespass because he shot in his own warren. ”
“How on earth did you do that?”
“Look it up in the books, sir. It will repay 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. I am proud to say that I had no interest in the matter.I act entirely from a sense of public duty. I have no doubt, for example,that the Fernworthy people will burn me in effigy tonight.I told the police last time they did it that they should stop these disgraceful exhibitions.The County Constabulary is in a scandalous state, sir,and it has not afforded me the protection to which I am entitled. The case of Frankland _v_.Regina will bring the matter before the attention of the public.I told them that they would have occasion to regret their treatment of me, and already my words have come true.”
“How so?” I asked.
The old man put on a very knowing expression.“Because I could tell them what they are dying to know;but nothing would induce me to help the rascals in any way.”