Over eighty years have passed since The Hound of the Baskervilles was first published, ad it is still one of the most gripping mystery stories ever written. Its hero is the great detective Sherlock Holmes, whose deductive powers are famous. Some of the methods used by Sherlock Holmes were later adopted by criminal investigation departments throughout the world.

The Hound of the Baskervilles

by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

My friend Sherlock Holmes was involved in some very unusual cases of detection, but never one as strange as that I am about to tell.

It began ordinarily enough one morning in late September 1890, at his London flat in Baker Street. Holmes had in his hand a faded yellow document of some age, for it was dated "Baskerville Hall 1742". He told me that it had been left for him to look at by a James Mortimer. "Like you, Watson," said Holmes, "he is a doctor, and he is calling on me in person later this morning." The faded parchment told of the curse on the Baskerville family and how it had begun ... 

Long ago, Baskerville Hall on the edge of the Devon Moor had been held by Sir Hugo Baskerville, a wild and cruel man. Sir Hugo had taken a fancy to the daughter of a farmer who lived across the moor a few miles from the Baskerville estate. The girl however was afraid of Hugo for she knew of his bad character, and would have nothing to do with him.

One bleak afternoon, when the girl's father and brothers were away from their farm, Hugo and some of his friends kidnapped her. They took her to Baskerville Hall and locked her in an upstairs room. During the evening the sounds of singing and shouting from Hugo and his drunken companions in the hall below terrified her. She opened the windows, climbed down the ivy on the stone wall and started to run across the moonlit moor towards her home.

When Hugo found she had escaped he was filled with rage. He shouted that he would give his body and soul to the Powers of Evil if he could recapture the maid, and his drunken followers shrank from him in horror.

Hugo rushed to the stables, set loose his pack of hounds, mounted his horse and galloped wildly after the girl.

After a time his friends found their courage once more. Several of them fetched their horses and rode after Hugo, hoping that they would be in time to save the girl.

When they had gone a mile or two they met a night shepherd on the moorlands. The man was almost too shocked to speak, but he told them, "Hugo Baskerville passed me on his mare, and behind him ran an enormous black hound of hell."

On they went. Soon they heard the sound of galloping, and Hugo's mare came alone out of the night, its mouth dabbled with froth and its saddle empty.

Now they rode close together, for a great fear was on them. At the entrance to a clearing they found the hounds huddled together, shivering with terror.

In the middle of the clearing lay the dead body of the girl. Lying near her was Hugo Baskerville, and over him stood a great black beast, shaped like a hound. As the horsemen watched, it tore the throat out of its victim, then turned its blazing eyes and dripping jaws on them. They turned and fled, shrieking, across the moor.

Ever since that night the Baskerville Curse has passed from father to son. Many have died violent and mysterious deaths and those who are to come are warned never to cross the moor alone in those dark hours when the devil hound is about. Here the document ended.

When Dr Mortimer arrived, Holmes gave him back the manuscript and said that he did not concern himself with fairy tales.

"Be patient, Mr Holmes," replied Mortimer. "It is important that you know the contents of the document before I tell you details of the death of the last of the Baskervilles: my friend Sir Charles, just three months ago." He went on to tell us that Sir Charles' behaviour, in the weeks before his death, had been very odd. Sir Charles was convinced that the curse of the hound was upon him. He dared not go on the moor at night. Often he had asked Mortimer whether he had seen any strange creatures or heard the baying of a hound. Mortimer felt that in addition to his heart trouble Sir Charles was straining his nervous system to breaking point. He had also become a man of habit. Every night he walked from Baskerville Hall along the gravel drive to the moor gate, but he would never go any further.

One night in June, his body was found near the moor gate by his butler, Barrymore. The soft gravel drive showed two sets of footprints: those of Sir Charles and Barrymore. Towards the spot where Sir Charles had died, it seemed that he had started to walk on his toes.

"I was sent for," continued Dr Mortimer. "I examined the body. It had no physical injuries on it, but the face was twisted with terror. He had died from heart failure. Barrymore told me that there were no marks on the ground around the body but I saw some about twenty yards away, on the grass, before they were destroyed by the steady rain."

Holmes looked at Mortimer with a hard glitter of interest in his eyes. "Were they footprints?"

"Yes."

"A man's or a woman's?"

Dr Mortimer looked at us in a curious way, and his voice sank to a whisper as he answered, "Mr Holmes, they were the footprints of a gigantic hound."

At these words a shudder went through me.

Holmes looked at him. "What exactly have you come to see me about, Dr Mortimer?"

"I want you to advise me. In one hour Sir Henry Baskerville arrives in London from Canada. He is the son of Sir Charles' younger brother, and the last of the Baskervilles." Dr Mortimer added that the only other Baskerville, Rodger, had died in Brazil of yellow fever some years before. Rodger was descended from Sir Hugo of the legend.

"In your opinion, Mr Holmes, is Dartmoor a safe place for a Baskerville? We want Sir Henry to live among us and carry on the good work his uncle, Sir Charles, did for the poor of the district."

"My advice is to meet Sir Henry and bring him to see me this afternoon. Just one more question: several people saw a hound on the moor before Sir Charles' death, but have any see it since?"

"No, Mr Holmes."

When Dr Mortimer had gone, I asked Holmes why Sir Charles had walked on tiptoe down the gravel path. "That's nonsense, Watson. He was running for his life. But running from what? That's our problem."

Now we awaited the arrival of Sir Henry Baskerville. In the middle of the afternoon Dr Mortimer returned with him. He was a pleasant, strongly built man of about thirty.

Sir Henry listened carefully as Dr Mortimer told him all the details of the Baskerville Curse. Then he said quietly, but firmly, that there was no devil in Hell and no man on earth who could stop him going to Baskerville Hall. "Good. That settles the matter," said Holmes, "but Watson must go with you."

The next day Sir Henry, Dr Mortimer and I, travelled to Devon by train. Holmes had to stay in London for a few days on an important case. The journey was a pleasant one and, as we talked, I formed a great liking for both Sir Henry and Dr Mortimer.

When we reached the small village station in Devon, an open carriage pulled by two horses awaited us. Soon the driver was taking us through the evening twilight to the edge of the moor. It rose up in front of us in the sinking sun, and a cold wind sweeping across it made us shiver. The grim wasteland, the chill wind and the darkening sky made us silent. In front of us were rocks, wild scenery and twisted trees.

Suddenly the driver pointed with his whip and said, "Baskerville Hall." A few minutes later we had reached the lodge gates. We passed into a private road bordered by trees, with Baskerville Hall glimmering like a ghost at the other end.

The butler, Barrymore, stepped from the porch to welcome us, then the driver went on to take Dr Mortimer home.

Inside, the house was a place of shadow and gloom. "It isn't very cheerful," said Sir Henry. We had a meal and then went straight to bed. When I looked out from my bedroom window over the moor, it seemed cold, grey and unfriendly. In the deathly silence of the old house, I lay for some time before sleep came.

When Sir Henry and I sat at breakfast next morning, with the sunlight streaming through the windows, our spirits were much higher. After breakfast Sir Henry had some business to attend to, so I took a walk along the edge of the moor. I had gone two or three miles, when someone called my name. It was a man between thirty and forty and he was carrying a butterfly net an a tin specimen box.

He introduced himself as Jack Stapleton. His friend Dr Mortimer had told him about me. "I love the moor," he said. "but I have only lived here for two years."

As he spoke a dreadful cry of agony echoed across the moor. It turned me cold with horror. Stapleton's nerves seemed stronger than mine for he said calmly, "It's a moor pony caught in the Grimpen Marsh." I looked into the distance and saw the pony being gradually sucked down. Its neck rolled and twitched for some time, as it slowly disappeared.

"It's a bad place, the Grimpen Marsh," said Stapleton, quietly. "I know my way through it, to where the rare butterflies are, but take my advice and keep away from it." Nothing moved, apart from two ravens on a rock behind us. Then a very long moaning sound swept the moor and died away. "Good God!" I said. "What was that?"

Stapleton looked at me with a strange expression. "They say it is the hound of the Baskervilles calling for its prey. "I've heard it before, but never so loud." I looked around with a chill of fear in my heart. Stapleton seemed unmoved and after saying that he would like to meet Sir Henry, he walked off towards the old farmhouse where he lived.

The death of the pony, and the curious sound like a hound, had upset me. I returned to Baskerville Hall with my head full of vague fears.

Next day Stapleton called. He took Sir Henry and me on the moor, and he showed us the spot where the legend said that the wicked Hugo had died. It was a dismal place. Stapleton seemed very eager to be friendly with Sir Henry.

On the following day Sir Henry and I walked to the nearby village of Grimpen. We stayed at Dr Mortimer's house for some time, talking, and it was twilight before we started home along the moor path. As darkness fell Sir Henry said jokingly that the legend warned all Baskervilles never to cross the moor at night. As if in answer to his words, there arose out of the gloom that same strange cry I had heard with Stapleton. "Good heavens, Watson! That was a hound!" From the break in his voice I could tell he was frightened. "It's one thing to laugh about it in London, Watson, and another to stand out here in the darkness of the moor and hear that cry. I feel very cold. Am I really in danger?"

Immediately I began to hurry him back to Baskerville Hall. As we walked I glanced upwards. Some distance away was a large rock and standing on it, outlined in black against the sky, was the figure of a man, watching us. With a cry of surprise I pointed him out to Sir Henry. In the moment it took for Sir Henry to turn his head, the man had disappeared. But I was not mistaken. I had seen him, and I was soon to have proof of this from Barrymore.

When we reached Baskerville Hall, I found Barrymore waiting for me. He said that a man was in hiding on the moor, living in one of the empty stone cottages. I asked him how he knew that and he replied that one of the village boys went daily to the stranger, taking food.

Barrymore was upset. He said that the moor was frightening enough without a stranger hiding and watching at night. It seemed that Barrymore and I were both thinking along the same lines. Had the stranger anything to do with the hound? We were both worried for Sir Henry's safety.

I decided what to do. The following afternoon I went out straight after lunch, taking my revolver with my. Slowly I crossed the moor in the direction of Black Tor, where the stone cottages were. I searched each in turn until in one of them I found some blankets, a bucket of water, some empty tins, food and a bottle of brandy. I was certain I had tracked down the stranger's hiding place.

It was mid-afternoon. I sat down to wait, with my revolver handy. About an hour had passed when I heard someone coming. I got into the darkest corner and held the pistol ready, with my finger on the trigger.

Whoever it was stopped outside the open doorway. There was a long pause. Then a voice said, "Why don't you come outside, Watson? It's a beautiful evening!" For a moment I was hardly able to believe my ears.

"Holmes!" I cried.

"Come out," he said, "and be careful with that pistol!"

I was overjoyed to see him. He told me he had wanted everyone, including myself, to think he was in London. In fact, he had followed us to Devon by the train after ours. Then he had gone into hiding on the moor, so that he could watch and wait.

Holmes questioned me about where I had been, what I had done and who I had met. He listened carefully and when I mentioned Stapleton, Holmes said that he was not the harmless person he pretended to be.

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"Behind that smiling, friendly face he is calmly plotting murder," said Holmes. "Cold-blooded and deliberate murder. I can't explain the details now. My plans are closing in on him, just as his are on Sir Henry. The only danger is that he will strike first. In a day or so my case against him will be complete."

He said there was now no longer any need for him to remain in hiding, and we went back together to Baskerville Hall.