“I have one manuscript in my pocket,” said Dr. James Mortimer.
“I noticed it as soon as you came in,” said Holmes.
The manuscript is very ancient.
Early eighteenth century, unless it's a fake.
How do you know this, sir?
While talking to me, you always show me the edge of this manuscript, about two inches wide. A bad expert is one who cannot determine the date of a document with an accuracy of one or two decades. Perhaps you have read my short work on this issue? I date your manuscript to the year one thousand seven hundred and thirty.
The exact date is one thousand seven hundred and forty-two. - Doctor Mortimer took the manuscript out of the side pocket of his jacket. “This family heirloom was given to me for safekeeping by Sir Charles Baskerville, whose sudden and tragic death so excited all Devonshire three months ago. I considered myself not only Sir Charles' physician, but also his personal friend. He was a powerful, intelligent, very practical man and by no means a dreamer, like your humble servant. Yet he took this document very seriously and was prepared for the end that befell him.
Holmes reached out, took the manuscript and straightened it out on his lap.
Watson, take a closer look at the spelling of the letter "d". This is one of the features that helped me date the document.
I looked over his shoulder at the yellowed sheets with half-erased lines. At the top of the page was written: "Baskerville Hall", and below were large, sweeping numbers: "1742".
This appears to be some kind of recording.
Yes, a record of one legend that lives in the Baskerville family.
But, as far as I understand, you came to consult with me on a more practical issue and closer to us in time.
Yes, vitally close! It cannot be delayed; it must be resolved within 24 hours. The manuscript is very short, and it is directly relevant. With your permission, I will read it to you.
Leaning back in his chair. Holmes closed his fingers and closed his eyes with an air of complete submission to fate. Doctor Mortimer turned towards the light and in a high, rasping voice began to read to us the following curious tale of ancient times:
“There is a lot of evidence about the dog of the Baskervilles, but, being a direct descendant of Hugo Baskerville and having heard a lot about this dog from my father, and he from my grandfather, I decided to write down this story, the authenticity of which cannot be doubted. And I want you, my children, to believe that the highest judge, who punishes us for our sins, is free to release them to us with his inherent mercy, and that there is no curse so grave that cannot be atone for by prayer and repentance. So, consign to oblivion the terrible fruits of the past, but beware of sinning in the future, so that again, to the destruction of all of us, we do not give freedom to the dark passions that have caused so much evil to our entire family.
Know, then, that at the time of the Great Rebellion (the history of which was written by Lord Clarendon, a man of great learning, I strongly advise you to read) the owner of the estate of Baskerville was Hugh, of the same family, and this Hugh can with all justice be called an unbridled, impious and godless man . His neighbors would have forgiven him all his sins, for saints were never to be found in our area, but Hugo’s nature had a penchant for reckless and cruel jokes, which made his name a byword throughout Devon. It so happened that this Hugo fell in love (if one can call his dark passion by such a pure name) the daughter of a farmer, whose lands lay close to the Baskerville estate. But the young girl, known for her modesty and virtue, was afraid of his name alone and avoided him in every possible way. And then one day, and this was on Michaelmas Day, Hugo Baskerville selected six of his comrades, the most desperate and dissolute, sneaked to the farm and, knowing that the girl’s father and brothers were away, took her away. Returning to Baskerville Hall, he hid his captive in one of the upper chambers, and he, according to his custom, began to feast with his comrades. The unfortunate woman almost lost her mind, hearing singing, screaming and terrible curses coming from below, for, according to the testimony of those who knew Hugh Baskerville, he was so intemperate with his tongue when drunk that it seemed that such blasphemous words could incinerate the person who desecrated them your lips. In the end, fear brought the girl to the point that she dared to do something that even the most dexterous and courageous man would have refused, namely: she climbed onto the ledge, descended to the ground along the ivy that entwined (and still entwines) the southern wall of the castle , and ran across the swamp to her father’s house, which was three miles from the Baskerville estate.
After some time, Hugo left the guests with the intention of taking food and drink to his captive, and perhaps he had something worse in mind, but he saw that the cage was empty and the bird had flown free. And then the devil seized him, for, running down the stairs into the banquet hall, he jumped up on the table, scattered the flasks and dishes and swore publicly to give his body and soul to the forces of evil, if only to overtake the fugitive. And while his dinner companions stood, amazed by the rage raging within him, one of them, the most heartless or the most intoxicated, shouted that the dogs must be set on the trail. Hearing such words, Hugo ran out of the castle, ordered the grooms to saddle his black mare and lower the dogs and, letting them sniff the scarf dropped by the girl, galloped after the loudly barking pack across the flooded moonlight swamp.
His dining companions stood silently for some time, not immediately understanding why such a commotion had arisen. But then their minds, fogged by wine fumes, realized what a dirty deed would be done in the vast expanses of peat bogs. Then everyone shouted: some demanded a horse, some a pistol, some another flask of wine. Then, having come to their senses somewhat, the whole company, thirteen in number, jumped on their horses and joined the chase. The moon shone brightly, the pursuers galloped all in a row along the path in which, according to their calculations, the girl should have run if she had any intention of getting to her father’s house.
Having traveled a mile or two, they met a shepherd with his flock and asked him if he had seen the chase. And he, as they say, at first could not utter a word out of fear, but then he nevertheless admitted that he had seen the unfortunate maiden, in whose footsteps the dogs were rushing. “But I also saw something else,” he added. “Hugo Baskerville galloped past me on a black mare, and a dog silently chased him, and God forbid I ever see such a fiend of hell behind me!”
The drunken squires cursed the shepherd and rode on. But soon a chill ran through their skins, for they heard the clatter of hooves, and after that a black mare, covered in foam, rushed past them without a rider and with abandoned reins. The dissolute revelers huddled together, overwhelmed with fear, but still continued on their way, although each of them, if he were here alone, without comrades, would gladly turn his horse back. They moved forward slowly and finally saw the dogs. The entire pack, long famous for its purity of breed and ferocity, squealed pitifully, crowding along the descent into a deep ravine, some dogs ran stealthily to the side, while others, bristling and sparkling in their eyes, tried to crawl into the narrow crevice that opened in front of them.
The riders stopped, as one might guess, much more sober than they were when they set off. Most of them did not dare to take a single step forward, but the three bravest or most intoxicated sent their horses into the depths of the ravine. And there a wide lawn opened up to their eyes, and on it could be seen two large stone pillars, placed here in time immemorial. Such pillars can still be found in swamps to this day. The moon brightly illuminated the lawn, in the middle of which lay the unfortunate girl, who had died of fear and loss of strength. But it was not at the sight of her lifeless body and not at the sight of the body of Hugo Baskerville lying nearby that the three reckless revelers felt the hairs on their heads move. No! Above Hugo stood a vile monster - a huge, black beast, similar in appearance to a dog, but taller and larger than all the dogs that a mortal had ever seen. And this monster, before their eyes, tore the throat of Hugo Baskerville and, turning its bloody muzzle towards them, flashed its burning eyes. Then they screamed, overwhelmed with fear, and, without ceasing to scream, rushed at full speed through the swamps. One of them, as they say, died that same night, unable to bear what he had to witness, and the other two could not recover from such a severe shock until the end of their days.
This, my children, is the legend about the dog that has caused so much trouble to our family ever since. And if I decided to write it down, it was only in the hope that what we know torments us with horror less than omissions and conjectures.
Is there any need to deny that many in our family died a sudden, terrible and mysterious death? So let providence not abandon us with its ineffable mercy, for it will not strike the innocent, born after the third and fourth generation, who are threatened with vengeance, as stated in the Gospel. And to this providence I entrust you, my children, and I conjure: beware of going out into the swamp at night, when the forces of evil reign supreme.
(Written by the hand of Hugh Baskerville for the sons of Roger and John, and I order them to keep all this secret from their sister, Elizabeth)."
After reading this strange narrative, Dr. Mortimer pushed his glasses onto his forehead and stared at Mr. Sherlock Holmes. He yawned and threw the cigarette butt into the fireplace.
So what? - he said.
Do you think this is not interesting?
Interesting for fairy tale lovers.
Dr. Mortimer took a newspaper folded into four from his pocket:
Okay, Mr. Holmes. Now we will introduce you to more modern material. Here is the number of the Devonshire Chronicle dated the fourteenth of June this year. It contains a short account of the facts established in connection with the death of Sir Charles Baskerville, which befell him a few days previously.
My friend leaned forward a little, and his gaze immediately became attentive. Adjusting his glasses, Dr. Mortimer began:
- “The sudden death of Sir Charles Baskerville, a possible candidate for the Liberal party in the upcoming elections, made a very difficult impression on the whole of Mid Devonshire. Although Sir Charles had only recently settled at Baskerville Hall, his cordiality and generosity had earned him the love and respect of all who had to deal with him. In these days of the rule of the nouveau riche, it is pleasant to know that a descendant of an ancient family that has seen better times was able to make a fortune with his own hands and use it to restore the former greatness of his name. As you know, Sir Charles made very profitable transactions in South Africa. Unlike those people who do not stop until the wheel of fortune turns against them, he, with his characteristic sobriety of mind, realized his income and returned to England with a substantial capital. Sir Charles had only moved into Baskerville Hall two years ago, but rumors of various improvements and plans to rebuild the estate, interrupted by his death, had spread far and wide. Being childless, he more than once expressed his intention to benefit his fellow countrymen during his lifetime, and many of the local residents have a personal reason to mourn his untimely death. Sir Charles's generous donations to charities both locally and throughout the county have been featured in our newspaper on numerous occasions.
It cannot be said that the investigation was able to fully clarify the circumstances of the death of Sir Charles Baskerville, although it did put an end to the rumors born of local superstitious minds. We have no reason to suspect that death was not due to natural causes. Sir Charles was a widower and, so to speak, an odd man. Despite his great fortune, he lived very modestly, and the entire staff of domestic servants at Baskerville Hall consisted of the Barrymores. The husband acted as a butler, the wife as a housekeeper. In their testimony, which coincides with the testimony of close friends of the deceased, the Barrymores note that Sir Charles's health has recently deteriorated noticeably. According to them, he suffered from heart disease, as evidenced by sudden changes complexion, shortness of breath and depressed state of mind. Dr. James Mortimer, a close friend and family physician of the deceased, confirmed this in his testimony.
From the factual side, everything was quite simple. Sir Charles Baskerville used to take a walk before bed along the famous yew avenue of Baskerville Hall. The Barrymores show that he never changed this habit. On the fourth of June Sir Charles announced his intention of leaving for London the next day and ordered Barrymore to prepare his things for his departure, and in the evening he went for a walk, as usual, during which he always smoked a cigar. Sir Charles never returned home. At midnight, seeing that the door to the hall was still open, Barrymore became alarmed, lit a lantern and went in search of his master. It was damp that day, and Sir Charles's footprints were clearly visible in the alley. In the middle of this alley there is a gate that leads to peat bogs. Judging by some reports, Sir Charles stood near her for several minutes, then moved on... and at the very end of the alley his corpse was discovered.
One circumstance remains unclear here. Barrymore shows that as soon as Sir Charles walked away from the gate, the nature of his tracks changed - apparently he walked further on tiptoes. At that time, a gypsy dealer, a certain Murphy, was passing through the swamp, not far from the alley. He heard screams, but could not determine in which direction they came, since, by his own admission, he was very drunk. No signs of violence were found on Sir Charles's body. True, the medical examination notes that the face of the deceased has changed beyond recognition - Dr. Mortimer even refused at first to believe that his friend and patient was lying in front of him, but such a phenomenon often accompanies death from suffocation and loss of cardiac activity. This was confirmed by an autopsy, which gave a complete picture of an old organic heart defect. Based on the data of the medical examination, the investigation came to the conclusion of a sudden death, which greatly simplifies the situation, since it is desirable for Sir Charles’s heir to settle in Baskerville Hall and continue the wonderful undertakings of his predecessor, interrupted by such a tragic end. If the prosaically accurate conclusions of the investigator had not put an end to the romantic speculation in connection with the death of Sir Charles, which was transmitted throughout the county from mouth to mouth, it would have been difficult for Baskerville Hall to find an owner. Sir Charles's nearest relative is said to be Mr. Henry Baskerville (if living), son of the deceased's middle brother. According to the latest information we have, this young man is in America. Now measures have been taken to find him and inform him of the large inheritance he received.”
Dr. Mortimer folded the newspaper and put it in his pocket.
This is all that has been reported regarding the death of Sir Charles Baskerville, Mr. Holmes.
“You have introduced me to a case that is certainly not without some interest, and I am very grateful to you for this,” said Sherlock Holmes. “At one time I had to read about him in the newspapers, but then I was so busy with the story of the Vatican cameos and trying so hard to please the pope that I missed several interesting cases in England. So this is all that has been reported about Sir Charles's death?
Then introduce me to those facts that were not published. - He leaned back in his chair, closed his fingertips and assumed the air of a stern and impartial judge.
“I haven’t had to talk about this with anyone yet,” Dr. Mortimer began, clearly worried. “I kept silent about a lot of things during the investigation for the simple reason that it is inconvenient for a man of science to support rumors born of superstition. And I believe that the newspaper is right: to aggravate the already gloomy reputation of Baskerville Hall is to doom it to vegetate without an owner. Guided by these considerations, I chose to remain silent about something, because excessive frankness would still not bring any benefit. But I can talk to you directly.
Peat bogs are a rather deserted place, so more or less close neighbors try to meet each other more often. For my part, I spent quite a lot of time in the company of Sir Charles Baskerville. Apart from Mr. Frankland of Lefter Hall, and the naturalist Mr. Stapleton, there is not a single educated person to be found in our country for many miles. Sir Charles loved privacy, but his illness brought us closer together, and our common interests strengthened this closeness even further. He brought back very valuable scientific materials from South Africa, and we spent many pleasant evenings discussing the comparative anatomy of the Bushmen and Hottentots.
Lately it has become clearer to me with each passing month that Sir Charles's nerves are strained to the limit. He believed in this legend that I read to you, and, walking around his domain, he did not dare to go out into the swamps at night. This may seem absurd to you, Mr. Holmes, but Sir Charles was firmly convinced that a terrible curse was looming over his family, and, indeed, the examples that he gave from the past of his family were disappointing. He was haunted by an obsession about some ghostly creature, and he kept asking me if I had seen anything strange when visiting the sick, or if I had heard a dog barking. Sir Charles asked me this last question especially often, and his voice trembled with emotion.
I remember how it is now, three weeks before tragic event I drove up to Baskerville Hall in the evening. Sir Charles stood in the doorway of the house. I got out of the car and, approaching him, suddenly noticed that he was looking somewhere over my shoulder with an expression of extreme horror in his eyes. I turned around abruptly and only managed to catch a glimpse at the very end of the alley of some kind of animal like a large black calf. Sir Charles was in such excitement and fear that I had to go where it had flashed and see where it had gone. But there was nothing there.
This incident made a very difficult impression on my friend. I spent the whole evening with him, and it was then, having decided to explain to me the reason for his anxiety, that he asked me to take this manuscript for safekeeping, which I considered necessary to acquaint you with first of all. I mentioned this unimportant incident only because it acquired some significance in the subsequent tragedy, but at the time it all seemed to me pure nonsense, in no way justifying the excitement of my friend.
Sir Charles, on my advice, was going to London. His heart was not in order, and the fear, which did not give him a moment of peace, clearly affected his health, although the reasons for this fear were, in my opinion, simply fictitious. I hoped that a few months of city life would have a refreshing effect on Sir Charles and that he would return back a new man. Mr. Stapleton, who always showed great concern for the health of our mutual friend, was of the same opinion. And right at the very last minute this terrible misfortune broke out.
The butler Barrymore, who found the body of Sir Charles at night, immediately sent groom Perkins to me on horseback. I stayed up late at work and therefore made it to Baskerville Hall quickly, in an hour at most. All the facts that were mentioned during the investigation were verified by me and compared one with another. I followed Sir Charles's tracks all along the yew avenue, examined the place at the gate where he apparently stopped, noticed the changed character of his tracks, became convinced that, apart from them, only Barrymore's tracks were visible on the soft gravel, and, finally, I carefully examined the body, which no one had touched before my arrival. Sir Charles lay prone, his arms outstretched, his fingers clutching the ground, and a spasm distorted his face so much that I could not immediately identify the corpse. There were no physical injuries on him. But Barrymore gave erroneous testimony during the investigation. According to him, there were no traces visible on the ground near the body. He just didn't notice them, but I did. At a short distance from Sir Charles, completely fresh and clear...
Male or female?
Doctor Mortimer looked at us strangely and answered almost in a whisper:
Mr. Holmes, these were the paw prints of a huge dog!
One of the shortcomings of Sherlock Holmes - if it can be called a flaw - was that he never shared his plans with anyone until they were completed. Such secrecy was explained partly by the domineering nature of this man, who loved to command those around him and amaze their imagination, and partly by professional caution, which did not allow him to take unnecessary risks. Be that as it may, this character trait of Sherlock Holmes caused a lot of trouble to those who worked with him as his agents or assistants. I myself have often suffered from it, but what I had to endure during this long journey in the dark surpassed all my previous sufferings. We had a difficult test ahead of us, we were ready to strike the final, decisive blow, but Holmes remained stubbornly silent, and I could only guess about his plans. My nervous tension reached its limit, when suddenly a cold wind blew in our faces, and, looking into the darkness, at the deserted expanses stretching on both sides of the narrow road, I realized that we again found ourselves in the swamps. Every step of the horses, every turn of the wheels brought us closer to the denouement of all these events.
In the presence of the driver hired in Kumbi Tresi, it was impossible to talk about business, and we, despite all our excitement, talked about some trifles. I breathed a sigh of relief when Frankland's cottage appeared at the side of the road, from which it was two or three miles to Baskerville Hall and to the place where the final scene of the tragedy was to take place. Without stopping at the entrance, we drove to the gate in the yew drive, paid the driver, sent him back to Coombie Trecy, and walked in the direction of Merripit House.
Are you armed, Lestrade?
The little detective smiled:
Since I’m wearing trousers, that means they have a back pocket, and since there’s a back pocket, that means it’s not empty.
That's fine! Watson and I also prepared for all sorts of surprises.
I see you are very serious, Mr. Holmes. What is required of us now in this game?
Patience is required. Will wait.
Really, this place is not very fun! - The detective shrugged his shoulders, looking at the gloomy hillsides and the fog that spread like a lake over the Grimpen bog. - And somewhere there is a light burning.
This is Merripit House - the final destination of our journey. Now I ask you to walk as quietly as possible and speak in a whisper.
We walked carefully along the path that led to the house, but about two hundred yards away Holmes stopped.
Are we going to wait here?
Yes, we'll set up an ambush. Stand here, Lestrade. Watson, you've been to the house? Do you know the location of the rooms? Those sash windows over there - what are they?
I think it's the kitchen.
And the next one, brightly lit?
This is the dining room.
The curtains are up. You know better than me how to get there. Look out the window - what are they doing there? Just, for God's sake, be quiet. As if they wouldn't hear you.
I crept on tiptoe to the low stone wall surrounding the Stapletons' shabby garden, and, making my way in its shadow, reached a place from which I could look through an uncurtained window.
There were two men in the room - Sir Henry and Stapleton. They sat opposite each other round table, to my profile, and smoked cigars. Cups of coffee and wine stood in front of them. Stapleton was talking animatedly about something, but the baronet sat pale and listened to him inattentively. He was probably haunted by the thought of returning home soon through the ominous swamps.
But then Stapleton stood up and left the room, and Sir Henry poured himself a glass of wine and leaned back in his chair, puffing on his cigar. I heard the creak of a door, then the crunching of gravel on the path. Footsteps were approaching me. Looking over the wall, I saw that the naturalist had stopped at a small shed in the corner of the garden. The key jingled in the lock, and some commotion was heard in the barn. Stapleton stayed there no more than two minutes, then jingled the key again, walked past me and disappeared into the house. I saw that he had returned to his guest; Having carefully made my way to my comrades, I told them all this.
So the woman is not with them? - Holmes asked when I had finished.
Then where is she? After all, except for the kitchen and dining room, all the windows are dark.
Really, I don't know.
I have already said that a thick white fog hung over the Grimpen Mire. It slowly crawled towards us, surrounding us both to the right and to the left with a low but dense rampart. The moonlight streaming from above turned it into a shimmering ice field, above which the tops of distant granite pillars rose like black peaks. Holmes turned in that direction and, looking at this slowly creeping white wall, muttered impatiently:
Look, Watson, the fog is heading straight towards us.
Is this bad?
Worse than ever! Fog is the only thing that can disrupt my plans. But Sir Henry won't stay there. It's already ten o'clock. Now everything - our success and even his life - depends on whether he gets out before the fog creeps up to the path or not.
The night sky was clear, without a single cloud. The stars glittered coldly in the heights, the moon flooded the swamps with a soft, uncertain light. Directly in front of us were the vaguely black outlines of a house with a pointed roof, as if bristling with pipes that clearly protruded against the starry sky. Wide golden stripes fell from the windows of the lower floor into the garden and beyond, onto the swamps. One of them suddenly went out. The servants left the kitchen. Now the lamp was burning only in the dining room, where those two - the murderous owner and the unsuspecting guest - smoked cigars and continued their conversation.
A white fibrous veil, covering almost the entire swamp, was moving closer to the house every minute. The first transparent wisps were already curling around the golden square of the illuminated window. The far wall of the garden completely disappeared in this swirling darkness, above which only the tops of the trees were visible. Now whitish rings appeared on both sides of the house and slowly merged into a dense shaft, and the top floor with a roof floated above it, like a magic ship on the waves of a ghostly sea. Holmes slammed his fist furiously on the stone behind which we stood and stamped his foot beside himself with impatience.
If he does not appear in a quarter of an hour, the path will be covered in fog, and after half an hour we will no longer be able to see own hand in this darkness.
Let's move back a little, higher up there.
Yes, we'll probably do that.
As the fog closed in on us, we retreated further and further until we found ourselves within half a mile of the house. But the solid whitish sea, silvered on top by the moon, was creeping there too, continuing its slow, steady advance.
We've gone too far,” Holmes said. “This is already risky: he may be overtaken before he reaches us.” Well, come what may, we'll stay here.
He knelt down and put his ear to the ground.
God bless! It seems to be coming!
In the silence of the swamps, quick steps were heard. Crouching behind the boulders, we peered intently at the dull silver wall approaching us. The steps kept getting closer, and then out of the fog, as if opening a curtain in front of him, the one we were waiting for stepped out. Seeing the clear starry sky above him, he looked around in surprise. Then he quickly walked along the path, passed us and began to climb up the gentle slope that began immediately behind the boulders. As he walked, he kept looking over his shoulder, apparently wary of something.
Shh! - Holmes whispered and clicked the trigger, - Look! Here she is!
In the very thick of the fog creeping towards us, a measured, fractional stomp was heard. The white wall was already about fifty yards away from us, and the three of us stared at it, not knowing what kind of monster would appear from there. Standing next to Holmes, I glanced at his face - pale, excited, with eyes glowing in the moonlight. And suddenly it was transformed: the gaze became concentrated and stern, the mouth parted in amazement. At that same second, Lestrade screamed in horror and fell face down to the ground. I straightened up and, almost paralyzed by the sight that appeared before my eyes, reached with my weakened hand towards the revolver. Yes! It was a dog, huge, pitch black. But none of us mortals have ever seen such a dog. Flames erupted from her open mouth, her eyes threw sparks, and flickering fire shimmered across her muzzle and nape. No one’s feverish brain could have imagined a more terrible, more disgusting vision than this hellish creature that jumped out of the fog at us.
The monster rushed along the path with huge leaps, sniffing at the tracks of our friend. We came to our senses only after it rushed past. Holmes and I then fired simultaneously, and the deafening roar that followed convinced us that at least one of the bullets had hit the target. But the dog did not stop and continued to rush forward. We saw Sir Henry look back, deathly pale in the moonlight, raise his hands in horror and freeze in that helpless pose, not taking his eyes off the monster that was overtaking him.
But the voice of a dog howling in pain dispelled all our fears. Whoever is vulnerable is mortal, and if she is wounded, then she can be killed. God, how Holmes ran that night! I have always been considered a good runner, but he was ahead of me by the same distance as I was ahead of the little detective. We rushed along the path and heard the incessant screams of Sir Henry and the dull roar of the dog. I arrived in time at the moment when she rushed at her victim, knocked him to the ground and was already trying to grab him by the throat. But Holmes put five bullets into her side, one after another. The dog howled for the last time, snapped his teeth furiously, fell on his back and, convulsively jerking all four paws, froze. I bent over it, out of breath from running, and put the barrel of the revolver to that terrible luminous muzzle, but I didn’t have to shoot - the gigantic dog was dead.
Sir Henry lay unconscious where she overtook him. We tore off his collar, and Holmes thanked fate, making sure that he was not wounded and that our help arrived in time. And then Sir Henry's eyelids fluttered and he moved weakly. Lestrade stuck the neck of a flask of cognac between his teeth, and a second later two frightened eyes looked at us.
My God! - whispered the baronet. - What was it? Where is it?
“He’s gone,” Holmes said. - The ghost that haunted your family is finished forever.
The monster that lay before us could truly frighten anyone with its size and power. It was not a purebred bloodhound or a purebred mastiff, but, apparently, a crossbreed - a lean, scary dog the size of a young lioness. Its huge mouth still glowed with a bluish flame, its deep-set wild eyes were surrounded by fiery circles. I touched this luminous head and, taking my hand away, saw that my fingers also glowed in the dark.
Phosphorus, I said.
Yes, and some special drug, - Holmes confirmed, pulling his nose. - Without smell, so that the dog’s sense of smell does not disappear. Forgive us, Sir Henry, for subjecting you to such a terrible test. I was preparing to see the dog, but I never expected it to be such a monster. In addition, the fog interfered with us, and we were unable to give the dog a worthy welcome.
You saved my life.
Having first exposed her to danger... Well, can you get up?
Give me one more sip of cognac, and then everything will be all right. Here you go! Now with your help I will rise. What do you intend to do next?
We’ll leave you here for now—you’ve already suffered enough tonight—and then one of us will return home with you.
The baronet tried to rise, but could not. He was as pale as a sheet and trembling all over. We took him to the boulder. He sat there, trembling all over, and covered his face with his hands.
And now we have to leave,” said Holmes. - We need to finish what we started. Every minute is precious. The elements of the crime are now obvious, all that remains is to capture the criminal... I bet he won’t be in the house anymore,” Holmes continued, quickly walking along the path next to us. “He couldn’t help but hear the shots and realized that the game was lost.
Come on! It was far from home, and the fog muffled sounds.
You can be sure that he rushed after the dog, because it had to be pulled away from the body. No, we won’t find him again! But just in case, you need to search all the corners.
The front door was wide open, and, running into the house, we quickly examined room after room, to the surprise of the decrepit servant who met us in the corridor. The light was only on in the dining room, but Holmes took a lamp from there and walked around all the nooks and crannies in the house with it. The man we were looking for disappeared without a trace. However, on the second floor, the door to one of the bedrooms was locked.
There's someone there! - Lestrade shouted.
A faint groan and rustling was heard in the room. Holmes kicked just above the lock, and the door swung wide open. With our revolvers at the ready, we rushed in.
But the impudent scoundrel we were hunting for was not here either. Instead, our eyes saw something so strange and unexpected that we froze in place.
This room was a small museum. Its walls were completely lined with glass boxes containing a collection of moths and butterflies - the favorite child of this complex and criminal nature. A thick support rose in the middle, placed under the rotten balusters of the ceiling. And at this support stood a man, tied to it with sheets that wrapped him from head to toe, so that at first it was impossible to even make out whether it was a man or a woman. One piece of cloth went around the throat, the other covered the lower part of the face, leaving open only the eyes, which looked at us with a silent question, full of horror and shame. In the blink of an eye we had broken the bonds, removed the gag, and it was none other than Mrs. Stapleton who fell at our feet. Her head dropped to her chest, and I saw a red welt on her neck from the lash.
Scoundrel! - Holmes shouted. - Lestrade, where is the cognac? Place her on a chair. Such torture will make anyone faint!
Mrs. Stapleton opened her eyes.
Was he saved? - she asked. - Did he run away?
He won't run away from us, madam.
No, no, I'm not talking about my husband. Sir Henry... saved?
And the dog?
She let out a long sigh of relief:
God bless! God bless! Scoundrel! Look what he did to me! “She rolled up both sleeves, and we saw that her arms were all bruised. - But that’s nothing... it’s nothing. He tormented, he desecrated my soul. While I had a glimmer of hope that this man loved me, I endured everything, everything: mistreatment, loneliness, a life full of deception... But he lied to me, I was a tool in his hands! “She couldn’t stand it and burst into tears.
Yes, madam, you have no reason to wish him well,” said Holmes. - So discover where to look for him. If you were his accomplice, take this opportunity to make amends - help us.
“He can only hide in one place, he has nowhere else to go,” she answered. - In the very heart of the bog there is an island on which there was once a mine. There he kept his dog, and there he had everything prepared in case he had to escape.
Holmes shone a lamp through the window. The fog, like white cotton wool, stuck to the glass.
Look, he said. “No one will be able to get into the Grimpen Mire tonight.”
Mrs. Stapleton laughed and clapped her hands. Her eyes sparkled with an unkind fire.
He will find his way there, but won’t get back! - she exclaimed. - Can you really see the milestones on a night like this? We placed them together to mark a path through the bog. Oh, why didn’t I think of removing them today! Then he would be at your mercy!
With such fog there was no point in thinking about a pursuit. We left Lestrade as sovereign master of Merripit House, and we ourselves and Sir Henry returned to Baskerville Hall. It was no longer possible to hide the Stapleton story from him. Having learned the whole truth about the woman he loved, he bravely accepted this blow.
However, the shock experienced at night was not in vain for the baronet. By morning he lay unconscious in a fever under the supervision of Doctor Mortimer. Later they were both destined to commit trip around the world, and only after him Sir Henry became the same cheerful again, healthy person, who once came to England as the heir to this ill-fated estate.
And now my strange story is quickly coming to an end. While writing it down, I tried to have the reader share with us all those fears and vague guesses that darkened our lives for so long and ended in such a tragedy.
By morning the fog cleared, and Mrs. Stapleton led us to the place where the path leading through the bog began. This woman so willingly and joyfully guided us in the footsteps of her husband that only then did it become clear to us how terrible her life was. We parted with her on a narrow strip of peat, a peninsula jutting out into the quagmire. Small twigs stuck here and there marked a path, meandering in a zigzag from hummock to hummock, between windows covered with greenery, which would block the path of anyone who was unfamiliar with these places. Heavy vapors rose from rotting reeds and silt-covered algae over the bog. Every now and then we stumbled, plunging knee-deep into the dark, unsteady swamp, which spread out in soft circles on the surface. The viscous liquid clung to our feet, and its grip was so strong that it seemed as if someone’s tenacious hand was pulling us into these vile depths. We came across only one single piece of evidence that we were not the first to follow this dangerous path. Something dark lay on a hummock overgrown with marsh grass. Reaching there. Holmes immediately sank waist-deep into the mud, and if it weren’t for us, it’s unlikely he would ever have been able to feel solid ground under his feet. He held an old black shoe in his hand. Inside was marked: "Meyers. Toronto."
This find made it worth taking a mud bath. Here it is, our friend's missing shoe!
Abandoned in a hurry by Stapleton?
Absolutely right. He let the dog smell it when he was putting it on the trail of Sir Henry, and so he ran away with it, and then abandoned it. Now we at least know that he got to this place safely.
But we were unable to find out anything more, although we could guess about a lot. There was no way to see the footprints on the path - they were immediately covered in mud. We decided that they would be found in a drier place, but all searches were in vain. If the earth spoke the truth, then Stapleton never managed to reach his refuge on the island, to which he strived on that memorable foggy night. This cold, cruel man was buried forever in the very heart of the fetid Grimpen bog, which sucked him into its bottomless depths.
We found many traces of him on the island surrounded by swamp, where he hid his terrible accomplice. A huge gate and a shaft, half filled with rubble, indicated that there had once been a mine here. Next to it stood the collapsed shacks of miners, who were probably driven out of here by the poisonous swamp fumes. In one of these huts we found a ring in the wall, a chain and many gnawed bones. This is probably where Stapleton kept his dog. Among the garbage lay the skeleton of a dog with a piece of red fur remaining on it.
My God! - Holmes exclaimed. - Yes, this is a spaniel! Poor Mortimer never takes his pet away again. Well, now, I think, this island has revealed all its secrets to us. It was not difficult to hide the dog, but try to keep it silent! This is where this howl came from, which made people feel uneasy even during the day. When emergency Stapleton could have moved the dog to a barn, closer to the house, but such a risk could only be taken at the most critical moment, counting on a close outcome. But this paste in the tin is the same luminous composition with which he lubricated his dog. He was prompted to this idea by nothing other than the legend of the monstrous Hound of the Baskervilles, and he decided to deal with Sir Charles in this way. Now it is not surprising that the unfortunate convict ran away screaming when such a monster jumped out at him from the darkness. Our friend did exactly the same thing, and we ourselves were not far from this. Stapleton had a clever idea! Not to mention the fact that the dog would help him kill his victim, which of the local farmers would dare to get to know it better? One meeting with such a creature is enough. But many saw her in the swamps. I spoke about it in London, Watson, and I repeat it again: we have never had to deal with a man more dangerous than the one who lies there now! - And he pointed to a green-brown quagmire that went into the distance, towards the gentle slopes of peat bogs.
Gray steel skies, incessant rain, mists that cover the frozen ground, frightening swamps and penetrate into all the cracks of ancient Baskerville Hall. And above all this is an ominous howl that makes you shiver. How often the imagination painted this picture when it plunged into this story about old secrets and new crimes, treachery and revenge, love and betrayal.
I still love The Hound of the Bastirvilles. I love that Conan Doyle moved the action from foggy London to the equally foggy and damp outback, for the descriptions of this unhurried and outwardly peaceful, but filled with Shakespearean passions, life of a small town. I love for such colorful characters: the “ideal” butler Barrymore, who has become a favorite character in jokes, and his exalted wife, for the tragic Laura Lyons and for the simple-minded Doctor Mortimer and, of course, for Stapleton, who, of course, is a villain, but a romantic villain.
Who, if not a romantic, and even with a wild imagination, could think of bringing to life an ancient legend to organize the murder of a rival, using not poison or a hired killer - fear of a mysterious fate in the form of a giant dog. It was always amazing how much work such a crime cost Stapleton!
But the best thing about the novel is the contrast between the mystical and mysterious atmosphere and Holmes' pragmatism and logic. And even deep down, it’s a pity that the latter wins, and such a bewitching secret turns out to be just a clever hoax for the sake of money.
Rating: 10
Of the entire series of works about Sherlock Holmes, the novel “The Hound of the Baskervilles” is undoubtedly the most popular. What is the secret of such success of a book written more than a hundred years ago?
Of course, in our area, the brilliant film adaptation of the novel by Igor Maslennikov contributed to it. However, for me, the appeal of the film is that the director did not deviate from the plot of the book in the main points. But enough about the movie. Even without him, the book is worthy of all interest and considerable praise.
Well, who can remain indifferent to the image of the brilliant detective Sherlock Holmes, who easily unravels mysterious cases and is always able to expose the culprit of crime thanks to his exceptional observation, resourcefulness, logical thinking, sharp mind and enormous knowledge, and of course the famous deductive method? For a more complete and successful construction of the plot, Conan Doyle gave Holmes a partner - our good friend Doctor Watson (however, thanks to the film for “Watson”; in my book the doctor’s last name is Watson). Of course, how else would Sherlock Holmes - a rational and taciturn man - tell us about the course of his thoughts, time after time bringing villains to clean water, if not in communication with the good doctor, how would he outline the essence of his famous method? A technique that was used even before Conan Doyle, for example, by Edgar Poe - detective and partner. And the naivety of Watson, a positive character in all respects, who was once again amazed by the insight of his friend, only to then understand that “this is elementary”, is also unusually sweet to our hearts and minds.
But in “The Hound of the Baskervilles” the author introduced into the narrative a mystical component that is extremely attractive to the reader (especially a fan of science fiction), a mystery that emanates an otherworldly cold. I confess: while reading the legend of the Baskerville family, this coldness washed over me too, causing frost to walk across my skin and feel real horror. “Do not go out into the swamps at night, when the forces of evil reign supreme!” - remember? Well, did you get goosebumps? Yes? Then you understand me!
It is precisely because of this component that I consider “The Dog” a work that seems to border on the mystical genre, although in essence it is a detective story.
If the riddle is so significant and interesting, then it cannot be resolved quickly. Moreover, it is necessary to skillfully stir up an atmosphere of anxiety, creating an appropriate surroundings - and then the dull deserted swamps and the ancient gloomy Baskerville Hall appear as the scene of the story; a person from the outside is also needed, unaccustomed to the slow and measured life of the places described in the novel - Sir Henry Baskerville - to whom everything around him should be new, surprising. But Holmes himself needs to be removed from the stage for a while - otherwise, in his presence, the mystery would be resolved much faster. Then the narrative should be filled with other characters, and preferably not extras, but people in one way or another connected with the main mystery, who, each in their own time, will add their necessary piece to the answer to main question, and inexplicable events that add more and more tension to the intrigue. And finally - the climax and denouement - a trap for the hunter and well-deserved retribution for the villain.
Why have I now listed everything that Conan Doyle resorted to when creating his famous work?; but it is precisely the masterful execution and combination of all these techniques that is precisely what has made “The Dog” so famous, valued and loved by many readers over these hundred or so years, and I have no doubt that in the future the novel will remain the same popular. My Conan Doyle book with this novel... It looks very old and well-read. It’s me who keeps her like this for all these years - I don’t give her any peace. But you know - if a book that is not new looks shabby and decrepit, this may be a minus for its owner, but a huge plus for its author.
And here’s something else I thought about (but this is already a joke). But very little needs to be changed in the book for it to cross the border of genres and become a full-fledged mystical work, and not one of the worst:
Spoiler (plot reveal)
it is only necessary that Stapleton does not buy this dog somewhere, but, poking around among old books, perhaps even in Baskerville Hall, discovers one strange and very ancient one, for example, in black binding and, say, with an inverted pentagram on the cover , and then read several lines from it in an unknown guttural language, which were printed on the page under a drawing of a strange and terrible creature that looked like a huge dog... Well, then the bullets in the revolvers of Holmes, Lestrade and Watson in the end simply had to be silver. And there’s no need to change anything else in the story:wink:
Rating: 10
Actually, the situation with this novel is quite interesting. It is one of Conan Doyle's best and, without a doubt, most famous novels. But it was written by the author after he “killed” Holmes, under pressure from publishers and readers. This circumstance does honor to the author - firstly, he was able to create such a hero, a well-known and beloved hero, and secondly, even without wanting to write more about the English detective, he produces an incredibly gorgeous work.
My impressions, of course, are strictly positive. An intricate story that contains not one, but half a dozen secrets, each of which has its own unexpected ending, and all these stories are neatly connected into one, actually, main one.
I share the opinion of readers - one of Arthur’s best works.
10 points!
Rating: 10
This may be the best thing in the entire Holmes series. Conan Doyle wrote it after a ten-year break, in the interval between the death of Holmes and his return. The events take place a year or two before Watson's marriage. There was no thought of reviving Holmes yet. But it was after the release of “The Dog” that the British unanimously demanded the return of the hero, and the author had to give up.
The Hound of the Baskervilles is not exactly a detective story. Something from a detective story, something from a gothic novel of yesteryear, something from future thrillers. Holmes, as we know, only acts in the first and last chapters. At first he fails, and the ending is not brilliant. Almost fed the client to the dog. And yet it turned out to be a real masterpiece. Whoever disagrees, let him remember his very first impressions of the book.
What is the secret of such stunning success? There are many versions that can be offered. The characters here are extremely convincing, both main and secondary. For a detective, this is even a luxury, as it can reveal the intrigue prematurely. The investigation constantly encounters obstacles in the form of everyday trifles and unexpected actions of others. These little things are natural, but it is almost impossible to take them into account in advance. As usually happens.
And, of course, the most important thing is the atmosphere of the novel. If any of us were now asked to name an English county, most would probably name Devonshire. Under the author's pen, the country of swamps and low granite cliffs has turned into a magical kingdom. Moreover, this kingdom fits organically into Victorian England with its cabs, steam locomotives, unarmed policemen and mail that delivered letters on the day they were sent.
Actually, the version of events proposed by Holmes is almost as fantastic as the old legend about the monster from the swamps. But thanks to the writer’s talent, they equally gained immortality and angry dog from 1887, and a demonic dog that has haunted the Baskerville family for centuries.
Rating: 10
I'm afraid of being biased, because I consider myself a fan of Sir Arthur and his literary characters. But “The Hound of the Baskervilles” is one of the best, if not the best work English literature in general and Conan Doyle's novels. How subtly and interestingly the English landscapes are depicted, into which the chilling legends and traditions of Old England are inscribed! What are the descriptions of the heroes worth? Honestly, that same mysterious fugitive, who turned out to be an escaped convict, was written out no worse than the detective himself!
You can compare Arthur Conan Doyle with the great painters, for whom it did not matter what they painted on canvas - a portrait of a person from high society or a street girl.
Rating: 10
How many reprints, how many film adaptations of this novel! There is everything here that attracts the reader so much: a lot of intrigue, a love story, mysticism (which in fact turns out to be the very reality), a picturesque legend about an ancient curse. The heroes are constantly walking on the edge, we don’t know who will die next, the eerie howling in the swamps makes our blood run cold. And even if we know everything in advance and have learned the plot by heart, as soon as the next film adaptation appears, we watch it again, and again we become numb with fear. This novel is truly a gem among all the works about Sherlock Holmes. It is a pity that now there are no at least slightly similar authors who would be able to create a similar atmosphere without unnecessarily gory details, so subtly playing on human fears and vices.
Rating: 10
Country doctor James Mortimer turns to Sherlock Holmes for help. It tells of a sinister legend associated with the Baskerville family, written down by one of the family, a direct descendant of Hugo Baskerville, whose terrible crime brought a curse upon Hugo and his family. According to legend, all the offspring of the family will encounter a huge devilish dog at the fatal hour of death.
This novel, along with The Speckled Band, is for me one of the two most memorable works about Sherlock Holmes, with which the detective’s name has been associated since childhood.
The unique atmosphere of the mysterious Grimpen, the stone remains of the dwellings of ancient people, the gloomy wastelands and ominous moors of Dartmoor, covered with fog, the silence over which is torn by the otherworldly howl of a hellish creature - all this is described by the author so picturesquely that the reader will not have any difficulty immersing himself in the story with his head and to become a witness to all the events, the eyewitness of which, by the will of the author, is Watson. Now it seems that the atmosphere in the novel plays such a significant role that it pushes aside the detective plot and the figure of Holmes, even without taking into account the dark backstory that builds up the tension.
As for the detective element, I can't say I enjoyed it. The first two thirds are really interesting to follow the plot twists: quietly following on the heels of Barrymore, listening to sounds from the heath, glancing warily towards the swamps and waiting in an ancient stone shack for a mysterious stranger - but by the beginning of the final third you already know who criminal. The only unknown variable now concerns whether young Henry Baskerville will be saved. And although you hope that Conan Doyle has hidden a clever twist that will surprise Holmes himself, this does not happen.
However, as I wrote above, this book is firmly stuck in my head. And the point here is not that I knew the plot from an early age, quite the contrary - I only read “The Hound of the Baskervilles” now. However, there are stories that are remembered due to certain persistent associations. They become a cultural phenomenon and whether you like it or not, you can’t escape them. This happens in in this case: from under the spine of this book at night, fog creeps out, fills the room, obscuring the moonlight, and from somewhere out of the whitish darkness a lurking beast looks at you, you can only hold your breath and listen intently to the gloomy song of the wasteland, afraid to hear the familiar chilling cry.
Rating: 10
A textbook example of a detective story and one of Conan Doyle's best works. A cold-blooded and cunning criminal and master of deduction, defeating criminals with intelligence and determination. It is noteworthy that
Spoiler (plot reveal) (click on it to see)
that one villain in the story dies by accident (Seldon), and the other is punished by nature itself (Stapleton dies in a swamp)
.How well the ominous swamps are described - it’s as if you see them with your own eyes. Very good (
Spoiler (plot reveal) (click on it to see)
although it plays little role in the plot
) old man Frankland, fighting either for community rights or for private property. This is called litigious syndrome. It’s funny to read about this in a book, but God forbid such a neighbor in reality: smile:.
There are many legends about hellhounds in England. Conan Doyle made great use of one of them.
The story was written in 1902. Great Britain is at the height of its power, England is a “peaceful and cheerful island,” and although the swamps remember the gloomy primitive people and remember the villains of the Middle Ages, Sherlock Holmes, the embodiment of a rational era, exorcises the ghosts of the past.
Spoiler (plot reveal) (click on it to see)
I wonder if Sir Charles had only pity for Laura or also some kind of tenderness: smile:? It hurts to read that this feeling ruined him - he came to the gate to meet Laura.
.There is an episode in the story that could not frighten its first readers, but which for us looks like a harbinger of future evil. The good Doctor Mortimer says: “One glance at the round skull of our friend is enough to discover in him a representative of the Celtic race, with its enthusiasm, with its tendency to strong feelings" The first readers of the story could not have known that forty years later Britain would be at war with a power obsessed (among other things) with measuring skulls.
The film with Livanov and Solomin is also a classic. My father and I watched it at the village club, and it was scary to return through the forest. But the phrase: “Oatmeal, sir” is not in the story.:smile::smile::smile:
Rating: 10
Brilliant! Bravo!
One of the few books that, without remorse, I am ready to give ten or even eleven points out of ten!
But, I’ll try to describe my feelings in more detail.
What is unusual is that the novel grabs you literally from the first words. There is no build-up, no resorption of the backstory. Everything is clear and to the point, without losing artistic weight. Insignificant and strange at first glance details play a major role in the end! How many times has this technique appeared in Doyle’s works, but it has not lost its effect! I immediately drew attention to them, but I didn’t even imagine that it would come to this.
The atmosphere throughout the novel is dark and unpredictable. Constantly waiting for the blow hellhound from a centuries-old legend, who hunts the scions of an ancient family. And the solution turns out to be so vital and prosaic.
The novel is structured perfectly. There are no gaps or unnecessary details that do not play any role. Even the fugitive criminal played his own, albeit inconsolable, but very important part. Holmes enters the scene interestingly.
I enjoyed it very much. Respect to the author.:appl:
Rating: 10
The expanses of ancient England were shrouded in fog. As always, as now. The marshy land on the southwestern tip of this island has been inhabited by people since ancient times. So they erect fragile huts on the outskirts of deadly swamps, cut down dwellings in strong bones lands of rocky hills. The marvelous hands of craftsmen create bizarre tools from stone, sew clothes from skins, they erect menhirs and erect dolmens - something that centuries later will be explored by generations of scientists, among whom was a certain Doctor Mortimer. Here is one of them, a tall, red-haired artisan, perhaps even the ancestor of those people who, many centuries later, would settle in a huge, from his point of view, stone structure, and call themselves the name Baskervilles. He is making something on the edge of his home, by the light of a fire, and peers with wary eyes into the rustling silence of the swamps. The darkness and the quiet rustling of an unknown life alarms him... And then the fog is torn apart by an eerie howl - who knows whose, maybe a wolf, maybe a dog... If not a more terrible and eerie creature, shining with a deathly pale light, galloping through darkness and looking for his victim...
I apologize for this slightly lyrical digression, but this is precisely the atmosphere that develops around the Dartmoor marshes and the ancient family legend; against the backdrop of the ancient remains of human life, they seem to be just a moment against the backdrop of silent millennia. This is not even a detective story, since Holmes appears here exactly where it is necessary to “bring” the plot into the clear framework of a detective story. And so - this is mysticism, and to portray it, the impressionable and romantic Doctor Watson was needed. Ancient swamps, an ancient silent castle, strange people living around, a feeling of something dense, threatening and oppressive - this is what creates the unique atmosphere of this unusual thing. The mysterious is the main character of this novel, and Conan Doyle knows perfectly well how to play with the reader’s imagination, throwing him one vaguely recognizable image after another, playing with his secret fears, embedded deep, deep in the essence of his consciousness...
Although as a detective it is very good, because here it looks very organic. A sophisticated murder requires a truly great imagination for both the criminal and the detective, and the author perfectly interweaves Gothic mystery with the cold logic of Sherlock Holmes, forming an almost “dialectical unity” from them.
Overall, this is a wonderful cross-genre experiment, well thought out and beautifully written. This is probably Arthur Conan Doyle's best novel ever. creative life, since, as I remember, he was unable to find such a balance of various elements...
Rating: 9
“Of the 500 cases I have, this is the most difficult and confusing,” Holmes says in this novel, and it is difficult to disagree with him. And the great detective repeats more than once about his opponent that this is his most worthy enemy. What a Professor Moriarty! It was invented with only one purpose - to finally rid the author of the annoying hero. In The Hound of the Baskervilles there is a whole gallery of very colorful characters and they are all quite alive, full-blooded people. I think this is the secret of the enormous success of this book. And there is also an amazing atmosphere here, and even if you know the plot in detail, you can re-read the novel on a cold autumn rainy evening (I would like to add after the author: “when the forces of evil reign supreme”), and again you will believe in the legend of the Hound of the Baskervilles and that England, which is long gone...
Rating: 10
Quite often it happens that after reading laudatory reviews, listening to enthusiastic reviews from friends and acquaintances, you decide to read this or that book, but in the end you feel complete disappointment. Fortunately, The Hound of the Baskervilles does not fall into this category. To be honest, it’s even difficult for me to imagine a person who might not like this book, it is so fascinating, diverse and verified to the smallest detail that it’s hardly possible to limit yourself to just one reading, and when you open familiar pages, you experience the excitement again and again , fear and growing tension, it doesn’t matter that the ending is already known, the name of the killer itself comes to mind, and the secret of the family curse has already become the talk of the town - there is some kind of magic here, the charm of the unknown, which even the author’s rational explanations cannot destroy.
This time Holmes is investigating the mysterious death of the owner of Baskerville Hall, an estate in Devonshire, at the request of his heir, who may also be in danger. The plot centers on an ancient legend about family curse- the hellish dog inevitably pursues the Baskervilles for the sins of their distant ancestor, who died in the swamps from the fangs of an unknown creature. Here an immediate association arises with Tindal’s dogs, created by the imagination of Frank Belknap Long, who was part of the circle of admirers of G.F. Lovecraft. In general, the motive of inevitable supernatural retribution - from the myths of Hellas with their relentless Erinyes, to modern psychological horror - invariably awakens the deepest fears of the human subconscious, and this is not surprising, because each of us is sinful.
The novel takes place both in the urban bustle of metropolitan London and in the provincial quiet of patriarchal Devonshire. London serves as a setting for the plot and epilogue of the work, where Holmes plays the first violin, and the main action takes place in the countryside and there, suddenly, Dr. Watson comes to the fore, who is trying to conduct an investigation on his own, in the absence of Sherlock, and it cannot be said that He's bad at it. The Devonshire setting deserves the highest praise - such gloomy gothic, filled with hopelessness, is rarely found even in specialized works of this genre.
The oppressive atmosphere of Baskerville Hall is akin to medieval haunted castles; here, every creaking floorboard, every howling of the wind, in which a woman’s cry is heard, makes you pull your head into your shoulders in horror. The endless peat expanses of the Grimpen bog, colored by the daytime charm of the autumn forest, at night spread around the area a demonic howl that makes the blood run cold, and the moon is about to highlight the ominous silhouettes of unknown monsters. Everything here breathes the spirit of antiquity - the ruins of megalithic buildings, mysterious stone monoliths and many unexplored caves, in the depths of which anything can be hidden.
The selection of minor characters in the novel is simply perfect - each of them hides their own secrets, each in turn will play a key role in the plot of the work. The butler Barrymore and his wife are like flesh and blood of Baskerville Hall, they have their own story, their own drama, worthy of a separate story. The plot is given additional spice by the presence of the fugitive criminal Seldon, who is hiding in the swamps and can attack the local inhabitants at any moment. Henry Baskerville's neighbors are especially interesting - each of them is a bright, extraordinary personality with a non-trivial hobby. The brother and sister Stapleton, so different in appearance, living in Merripit House, the friend of the late Sir Charles, Doctor Mortimer, the quarrelsome old man Frankland and his daughter Laura Lyons, who lives separately from the old man in Coombe Trecy - they all shimmer with rich original colors that are part of the palette master of his craft - Arthur Conan Doyle.
Mr Stapleton is a keen entomologist and knows the Grimpen Moors like the back of his hand. Old Frankland is a professional litigator and part-time amateur astronomer. A victim of unhappy love, Laura Lyons, striving for independence, is forced to earn a meager livelihood by typing texts on a typewriter. Dr. Mortimer, in turn, is interested in comparative anthropology, armed with a craniometer, he examines the skulls of both the long-dead ancestors of the Anglo-Saxon race and his contemporaries - in those fertile times, these studies could still be done freely, without fear of seeing a “black funnel” under the windows.
The structure of the work is quite interesting, the linear narrative is presented in quite a variety of ways - after leaving London, the events first take on an epistolary form - Watson writes lengthy reports to Holmes about his activities - and then the author resorts to the format of diary entries written on behalf of the Doctor. The author's usual style seems to have become even richer - such imagery, atmosphere and even poetry in prose can hardly be found in other works of the Sherlock Holmes series. The plot is fascinating and rich throughout, the narrative does not sag anywhere, and every detail, no matter how insignificant, can later turn out to be key.
If there are some shortcomings in the novel, I couldn’t see them - no matter what aspect of the work you touch on, it’s completely positive emotions and impressions. This book can be recommended to almost everyone, regardless of age, especially to connoisseurs of high-quality adventure, detective and even mystical literature. For me, The Hound of the Baskervilles is not primarily a detective story, but, despite the complete lack of mysticism, it is a magnificent Gothic novel in the spirit of E.A. Poe and G.F. Lovecraft. Anyone who liked the classic Soviet film adaptation “based on” - the book should be read without fail - the film is certainly good, but still, for complete immersion in the atmosphere, for a clear understanding of all the nuances and placement of pitfalls, reading the original work is simply necessary. As a result, we have before us a timeless classic of the adventure genre that will never lose its relevance and dark charm.
nikalexey, October 17, 2009Without a doubt, the best work in the Holmes series. This was facilitated, in my opinion, by several factors. Firstly, this is a novel, while most of the works in the series are short stories. In the novel, Doyle was able to fully reveal all aspects of his talent, and therefore the skills of detective Sherlock Holmes, who again skillfully unraveled a seemingly completely unimaginable situation. Secondly, the genre is a mixture of detective and some kind of mystical element. This technique - on the one hand, is always the sensible Holmes, and on the other hand, superstitions, ancient legends, family curses and strange murders capture the reader and do not leave him until the very end. The reader has to choose between the mystical and the rational. And this skillful balancing, alternating evidence in one direction or another, does not leave the reader indifferent, forcing him to come up with more and more new versions of what happened.
This exciting story about a certain hellish, evil and mystical creature living in the peat bogs - the family curse of the Baskerville family - hardly needs any comments: its plot and characters are familiar to everyone! Family secrets, jealousy, the struggle for inheritance, the appearance of a ghost dog, an intriguing investigation of mysterious events - all this creates a unique flavor of one of the best works of the detective genre. This is not a detective pure form- in it you can notice elements of a psychological novel, diary prose and, of course, a Gothic horror novel.
Enjoy reading!
Rating: 10
"The Hound of the Baskervilles 14 (Sherlock Holmes) - The Hound of the Baskervilles."
One of the faults of Sherlock Holmes, if it can be called a fault, was that he was extremely reluctant to communicate his plans to another person until they were carried out. Part of this undoubtedly stemmed from his own imperious character, inclined to dominate and surprise those around him. Part of the reason for this was professional caution, which forced him to never risk anything. But be that as it may, the result was that this trait proved very difficult for those who acted as his agents and assistants. I often suffered from it, but never did it oppress me so much as during our long ride in the dark. We had a great test ahead of us, we were finally close to our final effort, and yet Holmes said nothing, and I could only guess what the course of his actions would be. Every nerve in me trembled with anticipation when, finally, the cold wind that blew towards us and the dark desert space proved to me that we found ourselves in a swamp. Every step of the horses, every turn of the wheel brought us closer to our final adventure.
Our conversation was hampered by a presence. hackney coachman, and we were forced to talk of trifles while our nerves were strained with excitement and expectation. I felt relieved by this unnatural restraint when we passed Frankland's house, and I knew that we were already close to the hall and the scene of action. We did not reach the entrance, but stopped at the gate of the alley. We paid the coachman and told him to go immediately back to Tamil Coombe, while we ourselves went in the direction of Merripit House.
Are you armed, Lestrade?
The little detective smiled.
While I'm wearing trousers, they have a top pocket, and while they have a top pocket, there's something in it.
Fine. My friend and I are prepared for any eventuality.
You seem to be closely acquainted with this matter, Mr. Holmes? What will the game be now?
Pending.
“Honestly, I don’t find this place very cheerful,” said the detective, tremblingly looking around at the gloomy slopes of the hills and the huge lake of fog descending over the Grimpen bog. I see the lights of a house ahead of us.
This is Merripit House, the final destination of our journey. I will ask you to walk on tiptoe and speak in a whisper.
We moved carefully along the path towards the house, but about two hundred yards from it Holmes stopped us.
These stones to the right can serve as the most beautiful screens,” he said.
Should we wait here?
Yes, this is where we will set ourselves up in ambush. Enter this hole, Lestrade. You've been to the house, Vatoon, haven't you? Can you advise the location of the rooms? What are those lattice windows from this corner?
These appear to be the kitchen windows.
And what is there that is so brightly lit?
This is, of course, a dining room.
The curtain is up. You are more familiar with the area - creep quietly to the windows and see what they are doing there, but, for heaven's sake, do not give them your presence.
I tiptoed along the path and stopped behind a low wall that surrounded a liquid orchard. Making my way under the shadow of this wall, I reached a place from which I could look straight out of an uncurtained window.
There were only two men in the room - Sir Henry and Stapleton. They sat opposite each other at a round table and faced me in profile. They were both smoking cigars and had coffee and wine in front of them. Stapleton spoke with animation, but the baronet was pale and absent-minded. Perhaps he was depressed by the thought of the lonely path ahead of him through the ominous swamp.
While I was watching them, Stapleton rose and left the room, and Sir Henry filled a glass with wine and leaned against the back of his chair, smoking a cigar. I heard the creak of the door and the crunching sound of footsteps along the edge. The steps were directed along the path on the other side of the wall under which I stood, crouched; looking over it, I saw how the naturalist stopped at the door of some shed that stood in the corner of the orchard. There was the sound of a key turning in the lock, and when Stapleton entered the barn, a strange noise of struggle was heard from there. He had been in the shed for no more than a minute, after which the sound of the key being turned was heard again, and Stapleton walked past me and entered the house. I saw him return to his guest, and then I slowly crawled back to my comrades and told them what I had seen.
Are you saying, Watson, that the lady was not with them? - Holmes asked when I finished my report.
Where can she be, since not a single room except the kitchen is lit.
I can not imagine.
I said that a thick white fog hung over the Grimpen bog. He slowly moved towards us and gave the impression of a wall - low, but dense and clearly defined. The moon illuminated it, and it had the front of a large shimmering ice field, above which the tops of distant peaks rose, as if lying on its surface.
He's moving towards us, Watson.
Is this important?
Very important - the only thing that can upset my plans. But Sir Henry must not slow down now. It's already ten o'clock. Our success and even his life may depend on whether he leaves the house before the fog reaches the path.
Above us the night was bright and beautiful. The stars shone brightly and coldly, and full moon illuminated the entire area with a soft, vague light. Before us stood the dark shell of a house, its jagged roof and chimneys outlined sharply against a star-studded sky. Wide streaks of golden light from the low windows stretched across the garden onto the marsh. One of them suddenly went out. The servants left the kitchen. All that remained was the window of the dining room, in which two men - the murderous owner and the unsuspecting guest - continued to chat, smoking their cigars.
Every minute the white plane, covering half of the swamp, moved closer and closer to the house. Already the first thin shreds of it curled in the golden square of the illuminated window. The far part of the garden wall had already become invisible, and the trees were rising from a strip of white steam. While we were watching this, the fog had already surrounded, like garlands, both corners of the house and was slowly curling up into a dense shaft, above which the upper floor of the house and the roof floated like a fantastic ship. Holmes struck the rock with his fist with passionate vehemence and stamped his foot in impatience.
If he doesn't come out in a quarter of an hour, the path will be hidden by fog. In half an hour we will not be able to see our hands.
Wouldn't it be better for us to move back to higher ground?
Yes, I think it will be good.
So, as the foggy bank moved forward, we retreated back from it, until we found ourselves half a mile from the house; meanwhile, a thick white sea, with a silvered moon-silvered surface, was slowly and mercilessly advancing on us.
We're going too far,” Holmes said. We can't risk Sir Henry being overtaken before he can reach us. We must maintain our position in this place at all costs.
Holmes knelt down and put his ear to the ground.
Thank God he seems to be coming.
The silence of the swamp was broken by quick steps. Hiding between the stones, we peered intently into the foggy strip ahead of us. The sound of footsteps became more audible, and out of the fog, as if through a curtain, came the man we were expecting. He looked back in surprise when he stepped out into the bright space and saw the starry night. Then he quickly walked along the path, passed close by our ambush and began to climb the long slope behind us. He constantly turned his head and looked around, like a man who was not at ease.
Shh! - Holmes exclaimed, and I heard the cocked trigger click. Look! She's running here.
From the middle of this slowly creeping foggy shaft, rare, continuous crunching blows were heard. The fog lay fifty yards away, and all three of us peered into it, not knowing what horror would emerge from it. I was right next to Holmes's elbow and looked at his face. It was pale and triumphant, and its eyes sparkled brightly in the moonlight. But suddenly they stared forward with a motionless, stern gaze, and his mouth opened in surprise. At the same moment, Lestrade let out a cry of horror and threw himself face down on the ground. I jumped to my feet, clutching the revolver with my heavy hand, and was paralyzed by the most terrible figure that jumped out at us from the fog. It was a dog, a huge dog, black as coal, but such as no mortal eye had ever seen. Her mouth spewed flames, her eyes burned like hot coals, her muzzle, scruff and chest were surrounded by flickering flames. Never could a mind in the most disordered delirium have imagined anything more wild, more terrible, more hellish than this dark figure with an animal muzzle, jumping out at us from the wall of fog.
A huge black creature rushed along the path in long leaps, following on the heels of our friend. We were so paralyzed by this sudden appearance that before we knew it, she galloped past us. Then Holmes and I fired at the same time, and the terrible roar proved to us that one of us at least hit the target. However, she continued to rush forward. We saw how far from us on the path Sir Henry looked back: his face, illuminated by the moon, was pale, his hands were raised in horror, and he looked helplessly at the terrible creature that was pursuing him.
But the cry of pain uttered by the dog dispelled all our fears. If she was vulnerable, that meant she was mortal, and if we could hurt her, we could kill her. I have never seen a man run as fast as Holmes ran that night. I'm supposed to be easy on the run, but he was as ahead of me as I was ahead of the little detective. As we ran along the path we heard Sir Henry's repeated cries and the low howl of a dog. I saw the animal jump on its victim, throw him to the ground and rush towards his throat; but at that very moment Holmes fired five charges from his revolver into the side of the ferocious creature. Letting out a final dying roar and angrily snapping her teeth at the air, she fell onto her back, frantically twitching all four paws, and then fell powerlessly on her side. Gasping, I ran up and put my revolver to the terrible glowing head, but it was useless to pull the trigger. The gigantic dog was dead.
Sir Henry lay unconscious. We tore his collar, and Holmes whispered a prayer of thanks when it turned out that there was no wound on the neck and that we had arrived in time. Our friend's eyelids had already begun to twitch, and he made a weak attempt to move. Lestrade poured some vodka from his flask into the baronet's mouth, and then a pair of frightened eyes stared at us.
My God! - he whispered. What was that? King of heaven! What was that?
Whatever it was, it's dead now, Holmes replied. We have put your ancestral ghost to rest forever.
The creature stretched out before us was terrifying in its size and strength alone. It was not a purebred bloodhound or a purebred mastiff, but seemed to be a cross between these two breeds, thin, wild and the size of a small lioness. Even now, in the peace of death, a bluish flame seemed to be dripping from the huge jaws, and the small, deep-set, fierce eyes were surrounded by a fiery radiance. I lowered my hand to the sparkling muzzle, and when I took it away, my fingers also glowed in the darkness.
Phosphorus! - I said.
Yes, a tricky preparation of phosphorus,” Holmes confirmed, sniffing the dead animal. It does not have any odor that could interfere with the dog's sense of smell. We are very guilty before you, Sir Henry, for subjecting you to such fright. I expected to meet a dog, but not such a creature as this. Moreover, the fog did not give us time to accept it.
You saved my life.
By putting her in danger first. Do you feel strong enough to stand up?
Give me another sip of vodka and I'll be ready for anything. So! Now won't you help me up? What are you going to do?
Leave you here. You are unfit for further adventures this night. If you wait, one of us will return to the hall with you.
Sir Henry tried to move, but he was still terribly pale, and all his limbs were trembling. We led him to a rock, near which he sat down, trembling and covering his face with his hands.
Now we must leave you,” said Holmes. We have to finish our job, and every minute counts. We have established the fact of the crime, all that remains is to capture the criminal.
“There’s a thousand chances against one of finding him at home now,” Holmes continued as we quickly walked back along the path. The shots probably made it clear to him that his game was lost.
We were quite far away, and the fog could muffle the sound of gunfire.
You can be sure that he followed the dog to call it away. No, no, he must have disappeared! But we will still search the house to make sure.
The front door was unlocked; We rushed into the house and ran from room to room, to the surprise of a servant who met us in the corridor, staggering from old age. There was no light anywhere except the dining room, but Holmes took down the lamp and left no corner of the house unexplored. There was no sign of the man we were looking for. But on the top floor the door of one of the bedrooms was locked.
There’s someone here!” Lestrade exclaimed. I hear movement. Open this door.
We could hear faint groans and rustling sounds coming from inside. Holmes struck the door with his foot just above the lock, and it opened wide. With revolvers at the ready, we all rushed into the room.
But there were no signs in her of the desperate and infuriated scoundrel we expected to see. Instead, our eyes met with something so strange and so unexpected that we stared in surprise for several seconds.
The room had the appearance of a small museum, and along the walls were placed whole rows of boxes with glass lids, filled with a collection of butterflies and moths, the collection of which was the entertainment of this complex and dangerous person. In the middle of the room stood a vertical log, which had once been placed here to support the worm-eaten beams that supported the roof. Tied to this post was a figure, so tightly wrapped and head covered with sheets that at first glance it was impossible to tell whether it was a man or a woman. One towel wrapped around the head and was attached to a post. Dryroe covered the lower part of the face, and above it two black eyes, full of expressions of grief, shame and a terrible question, looked intently at us. In an instant we broke all bonds, and Mrs. Stapleton fell to the floor. As her beautiful head fell on her chest, I saw around her neck a distinct red mark from the lash.
Animal! - Holmes exclaimed. Lestrade, give me your flask here! Put her on a chair! She fainted from the abuse and weakness.
She opened her eyes again.
Is he saved? - she asked. Did he run away?
He cannot escape from us, madam.
No, no, I'm not talking about my husband. Sir Henry? Is he saved?
Saved. And the dog?
She let out a deep sigh of relief.
God bless! God bless! O scoundrel! Look what he did to me,” she exclaimed, rolling up her sleeves, and we saw with horror that her arms were covered in bruises. But that's okay! Nothing! He tormented and desecrated my soul! I could bear everything: mistreatment, loneliness, a life full of disappointments, everything, as long as I could cherish the hope that he loved me, but now I know that I was only his tool and that he deceived me.
Apparently you don’t treat him kindly,” Holmes said. So tell us where to find it. If you ever helped him do evil, now, for the sake of atonement, help us.
There is only one place where he could run away,” she answered. In the very center of Tryenna there is an old abandoned tin mine on an island. There he kept his dog and there he prepared a refuge for himself. That was the only place he could hide.
A wall of fog reached right up to the window. Holmes brought the lamp to him.
Look, he said. No one could find their way into the Grimpen Mire today.
She laughed and clapped her hands. Her eyes and teeth flared up with fierce joy.
He could find his way there, but never from there. How can he see the milestones tonight? Together with him, we placed them to mark a path through the quagmire. Oh, if only I could take them out today. Then he would be in your hands.
It was obvious to us that any pursuit would be in vain until the fog cleared. We left Lestrade to guard the house, and we ourselves went with the baronet to Baskerville Hall. It was no longer possible to hide the Stapleton story from him, but he bravely bore the blow when he learned the truth about the woman he loved. However, the adventures of that night shook his nerves, and by morning he lay delirious, in the grip of a severe fever, and Doctor Mortimer sat next to him. They were destined to travel together around the world before Sir Henry became again the healthy, vigorous man he had been before he became the owner of the ill-fated estate.
And now I quickly finish this original story, in which I tried to have the reader share with us the fears and vague guesses that darkened our lives for so long and ended so tragically. By morning the fog cleared, and Mrs. Stapleton accompanied us to the point where the path through the bog began. When we saw with what ardor and joy this woman guided us in the footsteps of her husband, we realized how terrible her life was. We left her on a narrow peninsula of hard peat that jutted out into the mire. From its end, small rods, stuck here and there, indicated where the path, winding, passed from one group of reeds to another, between the abysses of the quagmire covered with green mold, impassable for an ignorant person. The rotting reeds and mud gave off a smell of decay, and heavy, miasmic steam hit us in the face, while a false step more than once plunged us knee-deep into the black trembling quagmire, which spread out in soft waves for yards around our feet. When we walked, she grabbed our heels like pincers; when we plunged into it, it seemed as if an enemy hand was forcibly dragging us into this ominous depth. Only once did we see that someone had passed along this dangerous path before us. Some dark object could be seen among a patch of marsh grass. Holmes, stepping out of the path to grab him, sank up to his waist, and if we had not been there to pull him out, he would never have set foot on solid ground again. He was holding an old black boot in his hand. The inside of it had "Meyers, Toronto" printed on the leather.
This find is worth a mud bath,” Holmes said. This is the missing boot of our friend Sir Henry.
Which Stapleton abandoned here to escape us.
Exactly. The boot remained in his hands after he used it to set the dog on Sir Henry's tracks. He ran when he saw that his game was lost, and at this point he threw his boot. We know, at least, that he reached this place safely.
But we were never destined to know more than this, although we could guess a lot. There was no way to see footprints in the bog, because the rising mud instantly covered them; when we reached solid ground and began to eagerly look for these traces, we did not find the slightest sign of them. If the earth did not deceive, then Stapleton never managed to reach his refuge on the island, to which he strove through the fog on that last night.
This cold and cruel man is buried in the center of the Grimpen Mire, in the depths of the fetid silt of a huge swamp.
We found many traces of him on the island where he hid his wild ally. A huge engine wheel and a shaft half filled with rubble indicated that there had once been a mine. Scattered around it were the ruins of miners' huts, who were probably driven out of here by the foul fumes of the surrounding swamp. In one of them, a bracket and a chain, with many gnawed bones, indicated the place where the dog was placed. On the floor lay a skeleton with a tuft of brown fur stuck to it.
Dog! - said Holmes. My gods, this is a curly spaniel! Poor Mortimer will never see his pet again. Well, now I think this place no longer contains such secrets that we would not have penetrated. Stapleton could hide his dog, but could not drown out its voices, and that’s where these screams came from, which were unpleasant to hear even during the day. In case of emergency he could have kept the dog in the barn in Merripit, but it was risky, and only on the last day, when he thought that the end of all his labors, did he dare to do it. The dough in this tin is, without a doubt, the luminous mixture with which he smeared the animal. He was, of course, prompted to this idea by the family legend about the hellhound and the desire to scare old Sir Charles to death. It is not surprising that the unfortunate convict ran and screamed (just as our friend, and as we ourselves would have done) when he saw such a creature galloping in the darkness of the swamp in his tracks. It was a cunning invention, because what peasant would dare to get to know such a creature better after catching a glimpse of it in the swamp, and we know that many saw it. I said in London, Watson, and I repeat now, that we have never had the opportunity to pursue a more dangerous man than the one who now lies there.
Having said this, Holmes extended his hand towards the vast expanse of the bog, mottled with green spots and merging on the horizon with the swamp.
Arthur Conan Doyle - The Hound of the Baskervilles 14 (Sherlock Holmes) - The Hound of the Baskervilles., read the text
See also Arthur Conan Doyle (Arthur Ignatius Conan Doyle) - Prose (stories, poems, novels...):
The Hound of the Baskervilles 15 (Sherlock Holmes) - A look back.
It was the end of November, and Holmes and I were sitting on a damp, foggy evening by a blazing...
The Boscombe Valley Mystery (Sherlock Holmes).
Translation by M. Bessarab One morning, when my wife and I were having breakfast, the maid...
Having acquired substantial capital, you make mortal enemies for yourself. It was this bitter truth that Sir Charles Baskerville, who made his fortune in South Africa and settled in Baskerville Hall, had to become familiar with. During a pleasant evening walk along an alley, he suddenly dies, leaving behind a million pounds. Who is guilty? - poor health or someone's malicious intent? Since we are reading a detective story, it’s clearly the latter. In addition, traces of a huge dog were found near the body, and legend says that a monster in the form of a dog pursued, is pursuing and will continue to pursue the Baskerville family. The money and estate go to Henry Baskerville, whose shoes begin to disappear immediately upon his arrival in London. Obviously, the attacker or benefactor (a certain guy with a beard who watches every step of the heir) calculated that without shoes Sir Henry would not be able to go to Baskerville Hall, but he was determined to end up in the family nest no matter what. And here he is... However, I won’t tell everyone famous story. I will stop at the moment in the story when Sherlock Holmes, tracked down by Dr. Watson in the swamps, is ready to explain the essence of everything that is happening. So, I’ll put myself in Watson’s place and think about what conclusions a reader might come to if he read the story up to this fateful moment. Who is behind the death of Sir Charles, who is hunting for Sir Henry? So…
Suspects:
1. The Progenitor of Evil(aka the devil, aka Satan, aka Beelzebub, aka Lucifer (but not from the series). Of course, Sherlock Holmes jokes that the devil could have dealt with Sir Henry anywhere, not just in Devonshire (“It’s hard to imagine the devil with such a narrow power"), well, the devil’s ways are inscrutable.
2. The Hound of the Baskervilles. After all, why don't we take the old legend at face value? However, point 2. is almost equivalent to point one, since the dog is then a fiend of hell, not Satan himself, of course, but one of his minions - this, by the way, explains the “narrow local power”.
3. Barrymore- because of the beard.
4. Barrymore's wife. Because of heredity. We know little about her, but we know that her brother is a murderous maniac, and that, despite this, she continues to love him dearly and, in general, it was she who raised him. As they say, the apple tree does not grow far from the apple. Barrymore, in this case, is simply her accomplice.
5. Doctor Mortimer. Without a doubt, suspect number one. Motivation? Remember Dr. Mortimer's first reaction when meeting Sherlock Holmes - he immediately began to admire his skull:
- You interest me extremely, Mr. Holmes. I never expected that you had such an elongated skull and so strongly developed brow ridges. Let me feel your parietal suture. A cast of your skull, sir, could serve as an ornament to any anthropological museum until the original can be obtained. Don't take this as flattery, but I'm just jealous of that skull.
He has exactly the same scientific attitude towards Sir Henry; moreover, by making a remark about the relationship of Sir Henry’s skull, Dr. Mortimer reveals himself in a completely unforgivable way (with his head, or, well, with his skull):
“One glance at our friend’s round skull is enough to reveal in him a representative of the Celtic race, with its enthusiasm, with its tendency to strong feelings. The late Sir Charles had a completely rare skull structure - half Gaulish, half Iberian.
Well, everything is clear, Sir Charles’ skull has obviously haunted the doctor for a long time and, alas, there is no doubt that he will be able to get the original (he is probably already looking forward to creating a whole collection of Baskerville skulls, literally licking his lips at Sir Henry’s skull - not I doubt that he is engaged in excavations precisely for the purpose of searching for family skulls). What role the dog plays in this whole story is not very clear, but remember that Dr. Mortimer is a big dog lover. In addition, he was Sir Charles’s personal doctor (and this is a huge help), and let’s not forget the money received under the will (a thousand pounds) - also not superfluous - it’s useful to complement the useful with the pleasant. Oh, if only I could get Sherlock Holmes' skull - probably no one was as disappointed with Sherlock's decision to send Dr. Watson in his place as Dr. Mortimer. Watson's skull obviously has no scientific value. In general, the only argument in favor of Dr. Mortimer’s innocence is that he is too obviously a suspect, and obvious suspects in detective stories rarely turn out to be criminals.
6. Doctor Mortimer's wife. Nothing is known about her (Sherlock Holmes says: "...and his wife, about whom we know nothing"), except that she undoubtedly exists (unless she also has a very interesting skull). This mystery is quite suspicious - maybe Doctor Mortimer's wife will reveal herself in the end - as the main villain?
7. Frankland. From the man who keeps track of everyone in telescope, everything can be expected.
8. Stapleton's sister. Perhaps, after Dr. Mortimer, it is Baryl Stapleton who is most suspicious. From the very beginning it is obvious that Baryl is not herself, and she herself does not hide it, telling Watson (mistaking him for Sir Henry)
When we get to know you better, you will see that I cannot always explain my words and actions.
Yes, but you will say that she is trying in every possible way to protect Sir Henry, she wants him to leave these ominous places as soon as possible. I have no doubt that this is exactly what she wants, the fact is that most likely she cannot be called a villain, she is simply insane. This appears to be the case. Everyone who falls in love with Baryl Stapleton (and everyone falls in love with her) must die, she kills them against her will, she just “gets it.” That is why she lives with her brother, he somehow keeps her in line. But, apparently, since the strange events at the school where Stapleton taught and where several minors died ( “An epidemic broke out at school, three boys died”, says Stapleton, but we understand what kind of “epidemic” it was, they simply fell victims to the charms of a mature woman), Stapleton realized that they could only live in solitude in some godforsaken place. Their choice fell on Devonshire, plus, for complete safety, they chose the most secluded house - Merripit House - as their habitat. But even here something fatal happens - Sir Charles, despite his advanced years, also could not resist and fell in love with the fatal beauty. The result is death. Now Sir Henry arrives, and Baryl, exhausted by fate, wants in every possible way to ensure that he gets out of these places as quickly as possible, but, as we know, Sir Henry will also fall in love, taking an almost inevitable step towards death. You can ask another question: why then is Baryl so afraid of his brother, because they are together? But, you understand, their relationship is, to put it mildly, non-standard, approximately the same as that of Norman Bates with his mother. Baryl undoubtedly wants Sir Henry to leave, but she also wants him to fall in love with her, she is all woven from contradictions. Her brother dreams of one thing, that she should not intersect with anyone at all and that no one would see her. Hence the tension in relationships. Hence his rage when he found Sir Henry and his sister in the swamps. Yes, she’s back to her old ways again, nothing can be done about her! There would be no need to study science...
9. Laura Lyons. Like Barrymore, she can only be suspected of complicity, but, like Barrymore, she cannot help but be suspected, since precisely because of her letter to Sir Charles "the ash fell off his cigar twice" at the gate in Privet Alley.
10. James Desmond- a distant relative of the Baskervilles, to whom the estate will pass in the event of Sir Henry's death. It is true that it is said about him that he
a man of very respectable appearance and impeccable lifestyle. I remember that Sir Charles wanted to provide for him, but he flatly refused this, despite all the persuasion.
A respectable appearance is not a bad mask, the impeccability of a lifestyle speaks of a carefully hidden vicious underside. Well, those who want to get the whole don’t need a part, moreover, what rage such a “gracious” offer from Sir Charles must have caused in James! Offer him his own money as alms! And James decides to organize the perfect crime. It also says that
he would have received the money only if its current owner had not disposed of it in some other way.
therefore, he must hurry desperately before Sir Henry makes his will.
11. Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock's mania for manipulativeness reaches its climax in The Hound of the Baskervilles. He uses everyone - treating no one as an end and treating everyone as a means to an end. But what goal does he himself pursue in this case - to unravel the greatest case of all time, of course! We generally know that the further it goes, the more boring Sherlock becomes - Professor Moriarty apparently has not yet identified himself as the main intellectual rival (or there is now a break in their battles), so Sherlock is forced to unravel all sorts of banal matters “on the fly.” From here, he could have a completely natural desire to fabricate a truly worthwhile case himself, so that he could then triumphantly reveal it himself. By the way, in the modern series about Sherlock, exactly the same idea is pursued. At the same time, Holmes' secret stay in the swamps is more than suspicious. I’m just starting to think at the moment when Watson caught Sherlock red-handed. I wonder how he will somehow get out? However, his ability to fool poor Watson is beyond doubt.
Having examined the circle of suspects, we will also outline the circle of those who are beyond any suspicion.
1. Sir Henry Baskerville. As a potential murderer, he can hardly be a murderer himself.
2. Killer Selden. Although he is a murderer, he escaped from prison only on the eve of Sir Henry’s arrival, therefore, he definitely had nothing to do with the death of Sir Charles, unless the progenitor of evil uses him for his own purposes (by setting him on Sir Henry - along with a dog), but then you can suspect everyone at all (that’s exactly how it should be).
3. Naturalist Jack Stapleton. If my hypotheses regarding his sister are correct, then his only fault is that he does not hand her over to the authorities. There is no question of complicity; Stapleton, on the contrary, is trying in every possible way to protect society from his sister. Stapleton has no motives of his own for eradicating the Baskerville family; Sir Charles was actually his friend. He says this directly: “He and I were very close, and I can’t even tell you how hard this loss is for us.” Why would he kill Sir Charles? He is indifferent to skulls, but no one bothers him to catch butterflies. Moreover, Jack Stapleton is not some amateur entomologist - he enjoys authority in scientific circles, and genius and villainy, as we know, are two incompatible things. Here comes Professor Moriarty...
4. Mrs. Hudson. Mrs. Hudson is always above suspicion, but in this story she is completely absent, although we see her in the film.
5. Doctor Watson. Suspecting Watson of something is the same as suspecting Mrs. Hudson. And yet there is something suspicious in his behavior. We read:
From this day forward I will set forth the course of events from my letters to Mr. Sherlock Holmes, which now lie before me on the table. They have been completely preserved, except for one lost piece of paper, and will convey all my thoughts and suspicions more accurately than I could do it myself, relying only on my memory.
What kind of “lost” leaf is this? What was written there? This question is not clarified further. I think there was something there that depicted Sherlock Holmes “from the wrong side,” and then this piece of paper naturally got “lost.” Watson cannot allow the ideal image of Sherlock Holmes to be shaken in any way. And it’s not about the readers, it’s about him. The real Watson exists only while the ideal Holmes lives.
So, all suspicions are summarized, it remains to answer the question:
Who killed Sir Charles Baskerville (and is hunting for Sir Henry), given that the portrait of Hugo Baskerville looks a lot like Oleg Yankovsky?
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