Текст книги "Собака Баскервилей / The Hound of the Baskervilles"

Chapter 5
Sir Henry Baskerville

Our clients were punctual, for the clock had just struck ten when Dr. Mortimer was shown in, followed by the young baronet. Sir Henry Baskerville was a small, dark-eyed man of about thirty, very strongly built, with thick black eyebrows and a strong, lively face. He had the weather-beaten appearance of a man who has spent most of his time in the open air.

“This is Sir Henry Baskerville,” said Dr. Mortimer.

“Yes,” said he, “and the strange thing is, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, that if my friend had not suggested coming to you this morning I should have come myself. I understand that you solve little puzzles, and I’ve had one this morning which I am not able to solve.”

“Take a seat, Sir Henry. Do I understand that something has happened since you arrived in London?”

“Nothing important, Mr. Holmes. Only a joke, I think. It was this letter, which reached me this morning.”

He laid an envelope upon the table, and we all looked at it. It was of common quality, grayish in colour. The address was “Sir Henry Baskerville, Northumberland Hotel”.

“Who knew that you were going to the Northumberland Hotel?” asked Holmes.

“No one. We only decided after I met Dr. Mortimer.”

“Hum! Someone seems to be very deeply interested in you.” Out of the envelope he took a sheet of paper. Across it one sentence was formed of printed words pasted on it. It ran:

If you value your life keep away from the moor.

The word “moor” only was written by hand.

“Now,” said Sir Henry Baskerville sharply, “perhaps you will tell me, Mr. Holmes, what it means, and who takes so much interest in my affairs? It seems to me that all you gentlemen know a great deal more than I do about my own affairs.”

“I shall tell you everything before you leave here today. And now, this very interesting document must have been composed and posted yesterday evening. Have you yesterday’s Times, Watson?” said Sherlock Holmes.

“It is here.”

He looked over it.

“What do you think of that, Watson?” cried Holmes.”These words have been taken from here.”

“You’re right! Well, isn’t it smart!” cried Sir Henry.

“So, Mr. Holmes,” said Sir Henry Baskerville, “someone cut out these words with a pair of scissors and pasted them with gum. But I want to know why the word ‘moor’ was written by hand.”

“Because he could not find it in the newspaper. The other words were all simple and might be found easily, but ‘moor’ is less common.”

“Why, of course, that explains it. Have you read anything else in this letter, Mr. Holmes?”

“There are one or two things. The Times is a paper which is only read by the highly educated. We may say, therefore, that the letter was composed by an educated man. The words are not gummed on in an accurate line, some are much higher than others. It may point to hurry in which he was. And now, Sir Henry, has anything else of interest happened to you since you have been in London?”

“Why, no, Mr. Holmes. I think not.”

“You have not observed anyone follow or watch you?”

“Why should anyone follow or watch me?” said our visitor.

“You have nothing else to tell us?”

Sir Henry smiled.

“I don’t know much of British life yet, for I have spent nearly all my time in the States and in Canada. But I hope that to lose one of your boots is not part of the ordinary routine of life over here.”

“You have lost one of your boots?”

“My dear sir,” cried Dr. Mortimer, “You will find it when you return to the hotel. What is the use of troubling Mr. Holmes with trifles of this kind?”

“I only bought the pair last night in the Strand, and I have never worn them. I did a good deal of shopping. Among other things I bought these brown boots—and one of them was stolen before I had them on my feet.”

“It seems a strange thing to steal,” said Sherlock Holmes.

“And, now, gentlemen,” said the baronet, “it seems it is time for you to give me a full account of what you know.”

Dr. Mortimer presented the whole case as he had done on the morning before. Sir Henry Baskerville listened with the deepest attention.

“Of course, I’ve heard of the hound ever since I was a boy,” said he. “It’s a favourite story of the family, though I never thought of taking it seriously before. But as to my uncle’s death—well, you have not made up your mind whether it’s a case for a policeman or a clergyman.”

“And the letter to you at the hotel shows that someone knows more than we do about what goes on upon the moor,” said Dr. Mortimer.

“We now have to decide, Sir Henry, whether it is good for you to go to Baskerville Hall.”

“Why should I not go?”

“It may be dangerous.”

“Do you mean danger from this supernatural hound or do you mean danger from man?”

“Well, that is what we have to find out.”

“No one can prevent me from going to the home of my family. Now, look here, Mr. Holmes, could you and your friend, Dr. Watson, come and lunch with us at two. I’ll be able to tell you more clearly then about my plans.”

“You may expect us.”

“Then we meet again at two o’clock. Good morning!”

We heard our visitors go down the stairs and the front door bang. In a moment Holmes changed from the dreamer to the man of action.

“Watson, quick! Not a moment to lose!” We hurried together down the stairs and into the street. Dr. Mortimer and Baskerville were walking a little distance ahead of us in the direction of Oxford Street.

We followed into Oxford Street and down Regent Street. When our friends stopped and looked into a shop window, Holmes did the same. A moment later he gave a little cry of satisfaction, and I saw that a cab with a man inside which had stopped on the other side of the street was now driving again.

“There’s our man, Watson! Come along! We’ll have a good look at him.”

At that moment I saw a black beard and a pair of piercing eyes turned upon us through the window of the cab. He screamed something, and the cab drove off down Regent Street. Holmes looked round for another cab, but there were no empty cabs in sight.

“Who was the man?”

“I have not an idea.”

“A spy?”

“Well, it was evident from what we have heard that Baskerville has been followed by someone since he has been in town. How else could it be known so quickly about the Northumberland Hotel?

“When our friends left I at once followed them in the hopes of seeing the spy. So clever was he that he did not follow them on foot, but he had got a cab so that they did not notice him. If they took a cab he was ready to follow them. We are dealing with a clever man, Watson.”

“What a pity we did not get the number!”

“My dear Watson, you don’t really think so! No. 2704 is our man. And now it only remains for us to find the cabman.”

Chapter 6
At the Northumberland Hotel

At two o’clock that afternoon we found ourselves at the Northumberland Hotel.

“Sir Henry Baskerville is upstairs expecting you,” said the clerk. “He asked me to show you up at once when you came.”

As we came to the top of the stairs we saw Sir Henry Baskerville himself. His face was red with anger, and he held an old boot in his hand. So furious was he that he could hardly speak.

“By thunder, if that fellow can’t find my missing boot there will be trouble,” he cried.

“Still looking for your boot?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You said that it was a new brown boot?”

“So it was, sir. And now it’s an old black one.”

“What!”

“Exactly. I only have three pairs of boots—new brown, old black, and the ones, which I am wearing. Last night they took one of my brown ones, and today they have stolen one of the black. Well, have you got it? Speak out, man!”

A clerk had appeared.

“No, sir; I have looked for it all over the hotel, but I have not found it.”

“Well, either that boot comes back today or I’ll see the manager and tell him that I leave this hotel.”

“I shall find it, sir—I promise you that.”

“Well, Mr. Holmes, you’ll excuse my troubling you about such a trifle—”

“I do not think it is a trifle.”

“Why, you take it very seriously. What do you make of it?”

“Well, I don’t say I understand it yet. Your case is very complex, Sir Henry.”

We had a pleasant lunch in which little was said of the business which had brought us together.

After lunch we went to Sir Henry’s room, where Holmes asked Baskerville about his plans.

“To go to Baskerville Hall.”

“And when?”

“At the end of the week.”

“I think,” said Holmes, “that your decision is a good one. I have evidence that you are being followed in London, and in this great city it is difficult to discover who these people are or why they are doing it. You did not know, Dr. Mortimer, that you were followed this morning from my house?”

“Followed! By whom?”

“I have no idea. Do you know any man with a black, full beard?”

“No—or, let me see—why, yes. Barrymore, Sir Charles’s butler, is a man with a full, black beard.”

“Ha! Where is Barrymore?”

“He is at the Hall.”

“We had better make sure that he is really there, or if he may be in London.”

“How can you do that?”

“Give me a telegraph form. ‘Is all ready for Sir Henry?’ That will do. Address to Mr. Barrymore, Baskerville Hall. What is the nearest telegraph-office? Grimpen. Very good, we will send a second wire to the postmaster, Grimpen: ‘Telegram to Mr. Barrymore must be delivered into his own hand. If absent, please return wire to Sir Henry Baskerville, Northumberland Hotel.’ That will let us know before evening whether Barrymore is in Devonshire or not.”

“By the way,” said Baskerville. “Dr. Mortimer, who is this Barrymore?”

“He is the son of the old caretaker, who is dead. They have looked after the Hall for four generations now. He and his wife are a very respectable couple.”

“At the same time,” said Baskerville, “it’s clear enough that so long as there are none of the family at the Hall these people have a fine home and nothing to do.”

“That is true.”

“Did Barrymore get anything by Sir Charles’s will?” asked Holmes.

“He and his wife had five hundred pounds each.”

“Ha! Did they know that they would receive this?”

“Yes; Sir Charles was very fond of talking about his will.”

“That is very interesting.”

“I hope,” said Dr. Mortimer, “that you do not look with suspicious eyes upon everyone who received any money from Sir Charles, for he also left me a thousand pounds.”

“Indeed! And anyone else?”

“There were many small sums to a large number of people and organizations. The rest went to Sir Henry.”

“And how much was the rest?”

“Seven hundred and forty thousand pounds.”

Holmes looked surprised. “I had no idea that it was such a gigantic sum,” said he.

“The total value of the estate was close on to a million.”

“It is a sum for which a man might play a risky game!”

“And have you made your will, Sir Henry?”

“No, Mr. Holmes, I have not. I’ve had no time, for it was only yesterday that I arrived.”

“Well, Sir Henry, I think you’d better go to Devonshire without delay. But you certainly must not go alone.”

“Dr. Mortimer returns with me.”

“But Dr. Mortimer has his practice, and his house is miles away from yours. He may be unable to help you. No, Sir Henry, you must take with you someone, who will be always by your side.”

“Could come yourself, Mr. Holmes?”

“If matters came to a crisis I should try to be present; but you can understand that, with my consulting practice and with the other cases on hand, it is impossible for me to be absent from London for a long time.”

“Whom would you recommend, then?”

Holmes laid his hand upon my arm.

“If my friend agrees there is no man who is better to have at your side when you are in trouble.”

“That is real kind of you, Dr. Watson,” said Sir Henry. “You know just as much about the matter as I do. If you come down to Baskerville Hall I’ll never forget it.”

I felt the promise of adventure, and I was complimented by the words of Holmes and by the readiness with which the baronet invited me to be his companion.

“I will come with pleasure,” said I.

“And you will report very carefully to me,” said Holmes. “When a crisis comes, I will tell you what to do. Will Saturday be good for you?”

“Perfectly.”

“Then on Saturday we shall meet at the ten-thirty train from Paddington.”

We were about to leave when Baskerville gave a cry of triumph, and drew a brown boot from the corner of the room.

“My missing boot!” he cried.

“That is impossible,” Dr. Mortimer remarked. “I searched this room carefully before lunch.”

“And so did I,” said Baskerville.

“There was certainly no boot in it then.”

“In that case the clerk must have put it there while we were lunching.”

The clerk was sent for but he said he knew nothing of it.

Chapter 7
Everything Goes Against Us

So we had a series of small mysteries, strange incidents all in two days, which included the letter, the black-bearded spy in the cab, the loss of the new brown boot, the loss of the old black boot, and now the return of the new brown boot. Holmes sat in silence in the cab as we drove back to Baker Street, and I saw he was deep in thought.

Just before dinner a telegram was brought. It ran:

Have just heard that Barrymore is at the Hall. BASKERVILLE.

“In this case everything goes against us, Watson.”

“We have still the cabman who drove the spy.”

“Exactly. I have wired to get his name and address from the Official Registry. Let’s wait for an answer to my question.”

Later in the evening we heard the bell ring, the door opened and a fellow entered.

“I got a message that a gent at this address had been inquiring for No. 2704,” said he. “I’ve driven my cab this seven years and never a word of complaint. I came here straight to ask you what you had against me.”

“I have nothing against you, my good man,” said Holmes. “On the contrary, I have half a sovereign for you if you give me a clear answer to my questions.”

“What was it you wanted to ask, sir?” said the cabman.

“First of all your name and address.”

“John Clayton, 3 Turpey Street.”

Sherlock Holmes made a note of it.

“Now, Clayton, tell me all about the man who came and watched this house at ten o’clock this morning and afterwards followed the two gentlemen down Regent Street.”

The man looked surprised. “You seem to know as much as I do already,” said he. “The truth is that the gentleman told me that he was a detective and that I was to say nothing about him to anyone.”

“My good fellow; this is a very serious business, and you may find yourself in a bad position if you try to hide anything from me. You say that the man told you that he was a detective?”

“Yes, he did. And he mentioned his name.”

“Oh, he mentioned his name, did he? What was his name?”

“His name,” said the cabman, “was Mr. Sherlock Holmes.”

Never have I seen my friend more completely taken aback than by the cabman’s reply. For a moment he sat in silence. Then he burst laughing.

“So his name was Sherlock Holmes, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, sir, that was the gentleman’s name.”

“Excellent! Tell me where you picked him up and all that occurred.”

“He stopped me at half-past nine in Trafalgar Square. He said that he was a detective, and he offered me two guineas if I did exactly what he wanted all day and asked no questions. First we drove to the Northumberland Hotel and waited there until two gentlemen came out and took a cab. We followed their cab until it stopped somewhere near here. We waited an hour and a half. Then the two gentlemen passed us, and we followed down Baker Street and along—”

“I know,” said Holmes.

“Then my gentleman cried to me to drive to Waterloo Station as hard as I could go. At the station he paid his two guineas, and away he went into the station. Only just as he was leaving he turned round and he said: ‘It might interest you to know that you have been driving Mr. Sherlock Holmes.’”

“I see. And how would you describe Mr. Sherlock Holmes?”

“Well, he wasn’t such an easy gentleman to describe. I think he is forty years of age, and he was shorter than you, sir. He was dressed like a gent, and he had a black beard, and a pale face. I can’t say more than that.”

“Well, then, here is your half-sovereign. Goodnight!”

“Good night, sir, and thank you!”

John Clayton left, and Holmes gave me his instructions and advice.

“I wish you simply to report facts in the fullest possible manner to me, and you can leave me to do the theorizing, Watson,” said he.

“What sort of facts?” I asked.

“Anything which may have any connection with the case, and especially the relations between young Baskerville and his neighbours or any fresh details of the death of Sir Charles. You have to make inquiries about the people who surround Sir Henry Baskerville upon the moor.”

“Besides the Barrymore couple there is a groom at the Hall, if I remember right. There are two farmers. There is our friend Dr. Mortimer, whom I believe to be entirely honest, and there is his wife, of whom we know nothing. There is this naturalist, Stapleton, and there is his sister, who is an attractive young lady, they say. There is Mr. Frankland, of Lafter Hall, who is also an unknown factor, and there are one or two other neighbours.”

“I will do my best.”

“Keep your revolver near you night and day, and be on your guard.”

“I’ve been defeated in London. I can only wish you better luck in Devonshire. But I’m worried about it,” said Holmes.

“About what?”

“About sending you. It’s an ugly business, Watson, an ugly dangerous business, and the more I think of it the less I like it. Yes, my dear fellow, I shall be very glad to have you back safe and sound in Baker Street once more.”

Chapter 8
Baskerville Hall

Sir Henry Baskerville and Dr. Mortimer were ready on Saturday, and we started for Devonshire. Mr. Sherlock Holmes drove with me to the station. Our friends were waiting for us on the platform.

“No, we have no news,” said Dr. Mortimer in answer to my friend’s questions. “I can be sure of one thing, that we have not been followed during the last two days.”

“You have always kept together, I presume?”

“Except yesterday afternoon. I spent it at the Museum of the College of Surgeons.”

“And I went to look at the people in the park,” said Baskerville. “But we had no trouble of any kind.”

“I beg, Sir Henry, that you will not go anywhere alone,” said Holmes, shaking his head and looking very alarmed. “Did you get your other boot?”

“No, sir.”

“Indeed. That is very interesting. Well, goodbye,” he added as the train began to move. “Sir Henry, avoid the moor in those hours of darkness when the powers of evil are the strongest.”

The journey was a quick and pleasant one. Young Baskerville looked out of the window and cried aloud with delight as he recognized the Devonshire landscape.

“You were very young when you last saw Baskerville Hall, were you not?” Dr. Mortimer asked him.

“I was a boy in my teens at the time of my father’s death and had never seen the Hall, for he lived in a little cottage on the South Coast. From there I went to a friend in America. I tell you it is all as new to me as it is to Dr. Watson, and I’m keen to see the moor.”

“Are you? Look, for there is your first sight of the moor,” said Dr. Mortimer, pointing out of the carriage window.

Over the green fields there rose in the distance a gray, melancholy hill, like some fantastic landscape in a dream. Baskerville sat for a long time, his eyes fixed on it, and I read on his face how much it meant to him, this first sight of that place where his family had lived so long.

The train stopped at a small station. A carriage with a pair of horses was waiting. It was a simple country station, but I was surprised to see two soldiers with rifles by the gate, who looked keenly at us. The driver saluted Sir Henry Baskerville, and in a few minutes we were driving down the broad, white road. Old houses were seen among trees, but behind the peaceful countryside there was dark, gloomy moor, broken by hills.

To Sir Henry’s eyes all seemed beautiful, but to me melancholy lay upon the countryside.

“Halloa!” cried Dr. Mortimer, “what is this?”

On a hill was another soldier with a rifle. He was watching the road along which we travelled.

“What is this, Perkins?” asked Dr. Mortimer.

Our driver half turned in his seat.

“A convict escaped from Princetown, sir. He’s been out three days now, and the soldiers watch every road and every station, but they’ve had no sight of him yet. The farmers about here don’t like it, sir. You see, it isn’t an ordinary convict. This is a man that will stick at nothing.”

“Who is he, then?”

“It is Selden, the Notting Hill murderer.”

I remembered the case well, for it was one in which Holmes had taken an interest because of the unusual brutality of the murderer. Our carriage got to the top of the hill and in front of us was the huge moor. A cold wind blew from it. Somewhere there, on that desolate moor, was hiding this devil of a man, hiding like a wild beast, his heart full of fury against the whole world which had thrown him out. It needed only this knowledge to complete the gloomy atmosphere of the barren moor. Even Baskerville fell silent.

The road in front of us grew wilder, with giant boulders on either side. Suddenly we saw two high, narrow towers over the trees.

“Baskerville Hall,” said the driver.

The young heir looked round with a gloomy face.

“It’s no wonder my uncle felt as if trouble were coming on him in such a place as this,” said he. “It’s enough to scare any man. I’ll have a row of electric lamps here in six months, and you won’t recognize it.”

The house lay before us. The whole front was covered by ivy. From this central block rose the ancient towers. To right and left were more modern wings of black granite.

“Welcome, Sir Henry! Welcome to Baskerville Hall!”

A tall man had stepped forward to open the door of the carriage. A woman came out and helped the man with our bags.

“You don’t mind my driving home, Sir Henry?” said Dr. Mortimer. “My wife is expecting me. Goodbye, and send for me if you need me.”

Sir Henry and I turned into the hall, and the door closed heavily behind us. It was a fine hall, large, with a great old-fashioned fireplace. We looked round us at the high, thin window, the oak panelling, the coats of arms on the walls, all dark and gloomy in the light of the central lamp.

“It’s just as I imagined it,” said Sir Henry. “Just think that this is the same hall in which for five hundred years my people have lived.”

I saw his dark face lit up with a boyish enthusiasm as he looked about him.

Barrymore had returned from taking our luggage to our rooms. He stood in front of us, a remarkable-looking man, tall, handsome, with a black beard and a pale face.

“Will you have dinner at once, sir?”

“Is it ready?”

“In a very few minutes, sir. My wife and I will be happy, Sir Henry, to stay with you for some time.”

“Do you mean that your wife and you wish to leave?”

“Only when it is convenient to you, sir.”

“But your family have been with us for several generations. Why should you break the old family tradition?”

“I feel that also, sir, and so does my wife. But to tell the truth, sir, the death of Sir Charles gave us a shock and made this place very painful to us. I fear that we shall never again feel easy at Baskerville Hall.”

“But what do you intend to do?”

“We shall start some business. Sir Charles left us some money to do so. And now, sir, perhaps I shall show you to the dining-room.”

The dining-room was a long room with a smoke-darkened ceiling. A line of ancestors looked down upon us from the walls. We talked little, and I was glad when the meal was over.

“It isn’t a very cheerful place,” said Sir Henry. “I suppose one can get used to it, but I am not surprised that my uncle got a little nervous if he lived all alone in such a house as this. We’d better go to bed early to-night, and perhaps things may seem more cheerful in the morning.”

Before I went to bed, I looked out from my window. In the cold light of the moon I saw beyond the trees some rocks, and the melancholy moor.

I was tired, but the sleep would not come. And then suddenly, I heard a sound. It was the sob of a woman. I sat up in bed and listened. The noise could not be far away and was certainly in the house. For half an hour I waited, but there came no other sound.