The Hound of the Baskervilles – first edition 1902
Sherlock Holmes has been rated as one of the most popular fictional characters in history. His claim to fame is backed by an official world record. According to Guinness, Holmes is the “most portrayed literary human character in film & TV,” having been depicted on screen in over 250 films and hundreds of TV episodes. The stories have been translated into over 60 languages and Braille. Some iconic portrayals are by Basil Rathbone in the forties, and Jeremy Brett in the 80s and 90s. The enduring appeal of Holmes for over a century is a testament to his lasting impact. He consistently ranks at the top of “greatest character” lists and is an enduring literary figure. His stories have never gone out of print, and he has inspired one of the world's first and most dedicated fan communities.
Basil Rathbone and Jeremy Brett are both iconic Sherlock Holmes portrayals
His quixotic qualities, his unique enthusiasms, and vast range of expertise on esoteric subjects have contributed to his becoming an almost mythical figure. In the present novella, the third of four Conan Doyle wrote, a dark mystery presents itself and he has to put himself and his client in danger’s way to entrap the villain behind the baying hound on the moor that is heard during the ‘hours of darkness when the powers of evil are exalted.’ Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard, who has by now become an admirer of Holmes’ methods, is called upon to assist in the planned denouement when Holmes hopes to catch the villain red-handed.
Portrait of Arthur Conan Doyle from the official website conandoyleestate.com
One of the charms of Conan Doyle’s writing is his use of words that have by now become archaic, such as Farrier (one who shoes horses), Almoner (an official responsible for distributing alms on behalf of another individual), Roysterer (a noisy and boisterous reveller), Pannikin (a small pan or drinking vessel of earthenware, what we would call a ‘khullar’ in Hindi), Tor (a high rock; a pile of rocks, gen. on the top of a hill), Goyal (a deep trench, a ravine). Then there are obsolete uses of verbs such as this:
the beast spring upon its victim, hurl him to the ground, and worry at his throat.
‘worry’ meaning to seize by the throat with the teeth and tear or lacerate; to kill or injure by biting and shaking. It is said, for example, of dogs or wolves attacking sheep, or of hounds when they seize their quarry. (OED definition).
Sherlock Holmes with revolver and Watson in the Hound of the Baskervilles
The powers of observation of Holmes are the foremost among his detective skills. “The world is full of obvious things which nobody by any chance ever observes,” he says. When the portrait of Hugo the Roysterer, who became the first known victim of a hound among the Baskervilles, is before them, Holmes observes an uncanny resemblance to Stapleton, and cries out to Watson: “Ha, you see it now. My eyes have been trained to examine faces and not their trimmings. It is the first quality of a criminal investigator that he should see through a disguise.”
The Grimpen Mire with its Tors is very atmospheric, full of boulders and mist and eerily open spaces, which help set the mood
Next to observation is his ability to frame a series of hypotheses after collecting as many facts as possible. Facts are the underpinning of every one of his deductions. Indeed the word ‘facts’ occurs 23 times in the novel. “An investigator needs facts and not legends or rumours,” Holmes says. A third and perhaps crowning part of his intellectual apparatus is described in this famous saying of his: “When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.” (from The Sign of Four). His method of logical deduction works by ruling out all possibilities that are not feasible, based on the facts.
The novel is full of interesting characters like the butterfly hunter Stapleton who has discovered a species on the moor and is quite famous in entomological circles. There is a litigious community worker, Mr Frankland, who has filed cases to open up private lands for common access to walkers, and also done the opposite, close off his own land to public trails. Of course, Holmes himself takes centre-stage with his sharp powers of observation and deduction, combined with an eschewal of unverified assumptions, which give him a penetrating access to detective solutions. Some of the descriptions give a Gothic cast to the novel, for instance:
– the hours of darkness when the powers of evil are exalted,
– two great stones worn and sharpened until they looked like the huge corroding fangs of some monstrous beast,
– slimy water-plants sent an odour of decay and a heavy miasmatic vapour onto our faces,
Arthur Conan Doyle (1859 – 1930) a brief biography
Portrait of Doyle by Herbert Rose Barraud, 1893
Arthur Conan Doyle was born on 22 May 1859 in Edinburgh into a prosperous Irish Catholic family. He trained as a doctor, gaining his degree from Edinburgh University in 1881. A professor he met there, Dr. Joseph Bell , became the model for Sherlock Holmes’ deductive method. He worked as a surgeon on a whaling boat and also as a medical officer on a steamer travelling between Liverpool and West Africa. He then settled in Portsmouth on the English south coast and divided his time between medicine and writing.
Sherlock Holmes made his first appearance in A Study of Scarlet, published in Beeton's Christmas Annual in 1887. It includes Holmes's famous line, “There's the scarlet thread of murder running through the colourless skein of life, and our duty is to unravel it.” Its success encouraged Conan Doyle to write more stories involving Holmes. The four Sherlock Holmes novels he wrote are A Study in Scarlet, The Sign of the Four, The Hound of the Baskervilles, and The Valley of Fear. These novels were written alongside the 56 short stories that feature the famous detective. But, in 1893, Conan Doyle killed off Holmes in The Final Problem when he struggles with Professor Moriarty and falls off a cliff near the Reichenbach Falls in Switzerland. Doyle hoped to concentrate on “more serious” writing. A public outcry later made him resurrect Holmes. In addition, Conan Doyle wrote a number of other novels, including The Lost World (which inspired the film Jurassic Park) and various non-fictional works.
Blue Plaque commemorating Conan Doyle in London
Conan Doyle's historical novels include Micah Clarke (1888), The White Company (1891), The Great Shadow (1892), The Refugees (1893), Rodney Stone (1896), Uncle Bernac (1897), and Sir Nigel (1906). These books cover a range of periods, with The White Company and Sir Nigel focusing on 14th-century chivalry. He also wrote other historical fiction, such as the Brigadier Gerard stories, which follow a Napoleonic soldier.
These included a pamphlet justifying Britain's involvement in the Boer War, for which he was knighted and histories of the Boer War and World War One, in which his son, brother and two of his nephews were killed. Conan Doyle also twice ran unsuccessfully for parliament. In later life he became very interested in spiritualism.
Conan Doyle died of a heart attack on 7 July 1930.
This biograohy is partly based on: https://www.bbc.co.uk/history/historic_figures/conan_sir_arthur_doyle.shtml
Devika recalled her mother was in school in the 40s when she read the immortal stories of Sherlock Holmes. Saras said her husband Rajendran was a big fan of Sherlock Holmes and when the children were small he would tell them these stories – in simplified form – it was part of his bedtime stories duties. Sherlock Holmes was one of his inspirations, and the other one was stories from the Aithihyamaala (English Version called The Great Legends Of Kerala).
Aithihyamaala – translation with 56 stories out of the 126 original
These were the two collections between which he used to keep going back and forth. Rajendran wouldn't remember all the details; he would gloss over a lot of things, and change the story line. When her daughter grew up and read The Blue Carbuncle herself she was upset: “But it's not like what Achan said, it's not like that.”
KumKum said she really enjoyed this lovely book, deceptively simple as it is. The previous night she and Joe saw the 1939 movie; it is the older version with Basil Rathbone as Sherlock Holmes and Nigel Bruce as Dr. Watson. They speak beautiful English, KumKum said. Even the Jeremy Brett series of the 80s and 90s was very popular – they used to be shown on Doordarshan, one episode every week.
Blue Plaque commemorating Sherlock Holmes
As a child Pamela used to think Sherlock Holmes was a real person. When she travelled to London Saras went to Baker Street 221B to view all those Baker Street scenes – it's actually there as a museum with artefacts on sale, but no street number. It's between two buildings. The Jeremy Brett series was made by Granada TV, but they are on Youtube, said Saras. Pamela watched the link Joe sent.
Sherlock Holmes Museum at 221B Baker Street
Thomo
Thomo started from chapter 1 – Joe claimed that anybody who chooses a passage from chapter one or the last chapter may not have read the book recently.
Thomo chose chapter 1 simply because he had read this book at least twice before and remembers a whole lot. He didn't want to read it again so he chose chapter 1, the very opening passage because that's got something quite interesting. The scene introduces Sherlock Holmes to those who don't know him and from first you get a good idea of his powers of observation and deduction. It also introduces Watson as the ardent student listening to his mentor. There’s a lot of exchange between them. and there’s an intriguing conundrum about the cane left behind by a visitor. The tooth marks left on the cane by a canine is the topic of discourse.
When Thomo read that passage he was reminded of Rebecca by Daphne du Maurier and he could see some similarities. Thomo went on chatGPT and asked it to compare the two novels. What Thomo gleaned was that both novels feature a strong sense of place that dominates the mood – the eerie foggy moors in The Hound of the Baskervilles and the misty imposing Mandalay estate in Rebecca – both create an atmospheric backdrop of mystery and psychological tension. Each story involves a haunting presence from the past, the spectral hound being linked to a family curse in the case of The Hound of the Baskervilles, and the lingering oppressive memory of the Mandalay house likewise casts a shadow on the present residence. They also explore themes of legacy, fear, and the influence of the past on identity. The protagonists in both novels navigate a world shaped by powerful often malevolent forces tied to family or marital history. The Hound of the Baskervilles focuses more on rational detective logic dispelling superstition, while Rebecca delves deeper into psychological and emotional suspense. Both convey a Gothic tone and use suspense to engage readers.
In summary, while stylistically and structurally distinct the novels are connected through their Gothic atmosphere and the central mysteries involving the past and haunting the present. The exploration of psychological tension and legacy also is present in both novels. It reminded Priya more of Feluda, Satyajit Ray's detective who is consciously modelled on Sherlock Holmes. The scenes on the moors are evocative of Feluda seeing a tiger approaching in a jungle. We read the Feluda stories, of course when our reader Preeti chose them in 2016. Satyajit Ray really loved Sherlock Holmes.
Watson examines the walking stick to decipher its clues
time he comes to some conclusion. He is proved wrong and finally Sherlock Holmes hazards a guess about what kind of dog left the toothmarks – “larger than a terrier and smaller than a mastiff.”
Joe
The kind of esoteric knowledge that Holmes exhibits is fascinating. Joe’s passage describes the drive from London after the trio have got off the train: they are Sir Henry Baskerville, Dr. Mortimer one of his neighbours, and Dr. Watson who has been charged by Holmes to protect Henry Baskerville who, he suspects, is in grave danger.
1937 Penguin edition from which Joe first read the story in the early fifties
Joe liked this partly for the reason that Thomo pointed out, namely the atmospherics which Thomo found similar to the novel, Rebecca, in that respect.
The novel is full of interesting characters like the butterfly hunter Stapleton who has discovered a species on the moor and is quite famous in entomological circles. There is a litigious community worker Mr Frankland who has filed cases to open up private lands for common access to walkers, and also done the opposite, close off his own land to public trails. Of course, Holmes‘ gifts of sharp powers of observation and deduction, and eschewal of unverified assumptions, gives him a penetrating access to crime solutions. Some of the descriptions give a Gothic cast to the novel, for instance:
– the hours of darkness when the powers of evil are exalted,
– two great stones worn and sharpened until they looked like the huge corroding fangs of some monstrous beast,
– sent an odour of decay and a heavy miasmatic vapour onto our faces
Conan Doyle can also invent sayings of his own that ring true with pathos: evil indeed is the man who has not one woman to mourn for him.
The passage Joe chose describes with a naturalist’s eye the surrounding vegetation and the decay of autumn that spreads leaves about the wagonette’s wheels as they drive up to the manor of Sir Henry Baskerville. He mentions the scrub oaks and the hart’s tongue ferns along the route, and the sight of a mounted soldier looking out of an escaped dangerous convict.
Somewhere there, on that desolate plain, was lurking this fiendish man, hiding in a burrow like a wild beast, his heart full of malignancy against the whole race which had cast him out.
Asplenium scolopendrium 'Undulata' the fleshy hart's tongue fern
Scrub oak Quercus ilicifolia tree, small and shrub like
It is a passage that creates an atmosphere of dread combined with decay, and the splendour of nature contrasted with darkling gloom as Sir Baskerville is about to enter his manor, Baskerville Hall. He mentions with great precision the vegetation: for example, not oaks. but scrub oaks. and hart‘s-tongue ferns, not any old ferns.
Selden, the escpaed convict
The splendour of nature is contrasted with the darkling gloom as Sir Baskerville is about to enter his manor. Even Wuthering Heights if you remember was such a kind of atmospheric novel, said Priya.
Saras had shortlisted the same passage when she was reading the story.
Geetha
Her reading from chapter seven continues to give that sense of eeriness and also harks back the neolithic cavemen who once inhabited those places on the moor.
Stones left by neolithic people who dwelt on the moor
The prehistoric dwellings form an amazing setting that enhances the eeriness of that place and the mire, which swallows two ponies one after another like the jaws of hell. It's strange but if you look at modern thrillers which younger people read they can't be bothered with this kind of description and setting up of atmosphere. They need to be constantly stimulated by action and speech: who says what and what is the next thrilling action, and the more dramatic and the more violent, the more it grips these readers.
A long, low moan, indescribably sad, swept over the moor
That reminded Joe of the Bond series which he loves. James Bond movies are excellent for their cinematography that keeps viewers completely gripped. The actresses chosen enhance the raciness of the scenes and the dialogue. The dangerous action keeps the cinema goers glued to their seats – they are riveting as films, but, alas, James Bond will not be remembered as literature. Ian Fleming has given the espionage-focused plots some witty prose, and created a character with a hedonistic lifestyle, but nothing that reveals the inner workings of a man’s mind, and his battles with his own demons.
Priya
Priya continued from where Geetha stopped. Dr Watson and Sir Henry Baskerville are once again on the moor and this time they again hear the baying of the hound . They're not looking for Selden, the escaped convict but for another man. It begins with Dr Watson asking Sir Henry Baskerville if he is armed; he answers he has only a hunting crop, a specialised tool used in fox hunting that combines a short whip with a hook at the end of the handle.
“That is the great Grimpen Mire... A false step yonder means death to man or beast”
There's a bit of action. They hear “a long, deep mutter, then a rising howl, and then the sad moan.” Watson’s blood runs cold. They argue back and forth if it really was a hound’s cry.
Dr Watson advises turning back. But Sir Henry replies adamantly:
“No, by thunder; we have come out to get our man, and we will do it. We after the convict, and a hell-hound, as likely as not, after us. Come on! We’ll see it through if all the fiends of the pit were loose upon the moor.”
Zakia
She chose to read a passage where Dr. Watson and Sir Henry Baskerville learn from the butler Barrymore that there is another man camping on the moor, besides Selden the escaped convict.
“There’s foul play somewhere, and there’s black villainy brewing”
Barrymore, the butler who has been feeding Selden, affirms that on the moor “There’s black villainy brewing, to that I’ll swear.” Selden has noticed another man staying on the moor, but he was not a policeman. Watson looking out sees driving clouds and wind-swept trees and wonders,“What passion of hatred can it be which leads a man to lurk in such a place at such a time!” Waton is dying to solve the mystery.
Of course, we know who that person is. In the film it was shot so beautifully, the moor’s intruder is standing on a high hill and the moonlight behind him frames an unforgettable scene.
The Man on the Tor – he might have been the very spirit of the place
One of the illustrations shows exactly this picture pf a man standing on the hill and the full moon behind him outlining his silhouette. Thomo is right – The Hound of the Baskervilles was originally serialised in The Strand Magazine in 1901 and later published as a novel in 1902 by George Newnes Ltd.
Saras
The passage she chose was a little beyond this where Watson has decided that he's going to try and find out who is this mysterious person on the moor, besides Selden.
Watson has a pair of binoculars and he confirms that he's seen somebody. He’s decided that he's going to find out who it is and he's reached the moor and he's reached the old neolithic cave dwellings and he's waiting there. He finds a loaf of bread, a tinned tongue (a cured ox tongue, preserved in a can and often cooked in brine – a ready-to-eat product) and two tins of preserved peaches. And a note saying “Dr. Watson has gone to Coombe Tracey.”
Watson discovers the personal affects of the other dweller on the moor
Watson has left a trail. Sherlock Holmes recognises it, that's the grand entry – he already knows that he has a visitor. Holmes explains, “when I see the stub of a cigarette marked Bradley, Oxford Street, I know that my friend Watson is in the neighbourhood.”
KumKum exclaimed “OMG this morning I was sitting with a cuppa from the Risheehat tea garden and I was thinking Sherlock Holmes could have just smelled the aroma of the dregs and said which tea garden it was from.”
Devika
When a man is chased by the hound and falls over a cliff and dies, they think that it is Sir Henry Baskerville, seeing as he was wearing his clothes. Eventually you learn it’s not – the hound has been pursuing a man who had the smell of Sir Henry because he was wearing the cast-off clothes Sir Henry generously donated to Barrymore to give to Selden, on whom he took pity.
The brute! the brute!” I cried with clenched hands. “Oh, Holmes, I shall never forgive myself for having left him to his fate.
Now we learn why Henry’s shoe was stolen and the new one returned before filching the old boot, said KumKum. That was a nice twist to the story. Joe said what's very striking is the attitude of Holmes that he has to prove his case convincingly before a jury, not merely to suspect this Stapleton is the culprit. Holmes is very conscious of having to actually arraign the villain in court and prove beyond doubt what he was up to. “Our case is not complete. The fellow is wary and cunning to the last degree. It is not what we know, but what we can prove. If we make one false move the villain may escape us yet.”
That's what impels him to set a trap so that the villain may reveal himself as a killer and be caught red-handed. A very nice passage, said Joe, and Devika read it so well said Geetha.
Shoba
Shoba read a passage where Holmes focuses on a face in the painting of a Baskerville ancestor and discerns the likeness of someone he knows; Watson is amazed when Holmes covers a part of the painting : “The face of Stapleton had sprung out of the canvas.”
Holmes notices some features of Hugo Baskerville in a painting
Holmes pontificates:
“My eyes have been trained to examine faces and not their trimmings. It is the first quality of a criminal investigator that he should see through a disguise.” He further remarks that a study of family portraits is enough to convert a man to the doctrine of reincarnation.
This episode is an essential part of Holmes’ detective work and Joe said it exemplifies a statement he makes in one of his other stories (A Scandal in Bohemia) “You see but you do not observe.” He solves the cases because his powers of observation are far superior to the normal, said Shoba. Joe noted in this context the humorous statement, ”You can observe a lot by just watching” attributed to New York Yankees player and manager, Yogi Berra.
Saras noted this is similar to the detective Hercule Poirot's saying he exercises the “little grey cells.”
Pamela
In the passage by Pamela we are reaching the climax of the novel. The hound bounds after a surprised Sir Henry Baskerville, but Holmes wounds it fatally with an accurate revolver shot.
Sherlock Holmes waits for the spectral monster to appear
It’s a very graphic description:
“A hound it was, an enormous coal-black hound, but not such a hound as mortal eyes have ever seen. Fire burst from its open mouth, its eyes glowed with a smouldering glare, its muzzle and hackles and dewlap were outlined in flickering flame.”
The Curse of the Baskervilles – hound takes the baronet by surprise
Joe noted a discrepancy in a sentence here; “I am reckoned fleet of foot, but he outpaced me as much as I outpaced the little professional.” Joe remembers when Watson is introduced, he's said to have been wounded in some war or the other (Afghan War, said Saras) and had a limp in consequence. So what is this ‘fleet of foot?’ Saras agreed that when he first meets Holmes, Watson is just back from the Afghan wars. The story where we learn Watson was wounded and has a limp is The Sign of Four, where he mentions that his wounded leg aches in cold weather. Perhaps Conan Doyle lost track of those wounds.
KumKum
KumKum liked the book. In two days, she finished it and chose the last chapter for her passage – by now the entire mystery has been cleared up. Usually Zakia reads from the last chapter. Joe said everyone has to read the book closely because he is going to set some Diligent Reader Exercise (DREs) as a diversion. In this last chapter it is revealed that Stapleton the butterfly expert was in reality Vandeleur, only two lives removed from inheriting the Baskerville estate; he had plotted to erase those two lives to come into the Baskerville estate.
We learn how the butterfly hunter Stapleton plotted his crime. Joe recalled that for his devious purpose Stapleton had bought a dog bigger than a mastiff, but not as large as a bloodhound. The exact phrase used to describe the canine in the novel is this:
“It was not a pure bloodhound and it was not a pure mastiff; but it appeared to be a combination of the two—gaunt, savage, and as large as a small lioness.”
About one thing, KumKum was a little confused, and Holmes didn't explain. That beautiful lady, whom Stapleton called his sister was in reality “Beryl Garcia, one of the beauties of Costa Rica,” whom he had married.
Sir Henry Baskerville takes a shine to Stapleton’s ‘sister’
KumKum speculated that the baronet marries her, or will be marrying here, but there's no divorce. Stapleton must have been dead, she guessed.
No, no, there's no conclusion like that in the novel, said Joe, because Sir Henry, is scared out of his wits by the close encounter with the hound. Yes, he suffered from PTSD after the events, said Saras, and goes abroad for a year with Dr Mortimer in order to recover.
The budding romance is unresolved. Anyway, the lady has no problem going with baronet, said KumKum, insisting on the romantic angle that in her opinion should have been the fitting end to the novel. Joe’s response was that you have to be like Holmes: not making any assumptions beyond the facts stated in the novel.
Priya laughed that Joe is already sounding like Holmes!
“Well, I think she liked him” – was KumKum’s unrelenting conclusion.
Saras accurately summed up the Costa Rican lady’s feelings. She’s sorry when she learns of her husband's plans, that he's plotting murder. She doesn't think that Sir Henry has to be killed. So, first of all, Mrs Stapleton refuses to lure his uncle, Sir Charles, out to the gate to be frightened to death. The lure has to substituted by the lady from the village, Laura Lyons, a typist from Coombe Tracey. She is manipulated by Stapleton for his nefarious purpose, but reneges at the last moment. Beryl Garcia, it seems, doesn't conspire with Stapleton in his villainy at all.
Priya thanked Joe for selecting this lovely book. Joe said he used to get these books regularly as prizes in school: The Casebook of Sherlock Holmes, the Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes, etc.
The Readings
Thomo – Ch 1 Holmes allows Watson to make deductions from the walking stick, and then corrects him
Mr. Sherlock Holmes, who was usually very late in the mornings, save upon those not infrequent occasions when he was up all night, was seated at the breakfast table. I stood upon the hearth-rug and picked up the stick which our visitor had left behind him the night before. It was a fine, thick piece of wood, bulbous-headed, of the sort which is known as a “Penang lawyer.” Just under the head was a broad silver band nearly an inch across. “To James Mortimer, M.R.C.S., from his friends of the C.C.H.,” was engraved upon it, with the date “1884.” It was just such a stick as the old-fashioned family practitioner used to carry—dignified, solid, and reassuring.
“Well, Watson, what do you make of it?”
Holmes was sitting with his back to me, and I had given him no sign of my occupation.
“How did you know what I was doing? I believe you have eyes in the back of your head.”
“I have, at least, a well-polished, silver-plated coffee-pot in front of me,” said he. “But, tell me, Watson, what do you make of our visitor’s stick? Since we have been so unfortunate as to miss him and have no notion of his errand, this accidental souvenir becomes of importance. Let me hear you reconstruct the man by an examination of it.”
“I think,” said I, following as far as I could the methods of my companion, “that Dr. Mortimer is a successful, elderly medical man, well-esteemed since those who know him give him this mark of their appreciation.”
“Good!” said Holmes. “Excellent!”
“I think also that the probability is in favour of his being a country practitioner who does a great deal of his visiting on foot.”
“Why so?”
“Because this stick, though originally a very handsome one has been so knocked about that I can hardly imagine a town practitioner carrying it. The thick-iron ferrule is worn down, so it is evident that he has done a great amount of walking with it.”
“Perfectly sound!” said Holmes.
“And then again, there is the ‘friends of the C.C.H.’ I should guess that to be the Something Hunt, the local hunt to whose members he has possibly given some surgical assistance, and which has made him a small presentation in return.”
“Really, Watson, you excel yourself,” said Holmes, pushing back his chair and lighting a cigarette. “I am bound to say that in all the accounts which you have been so good as to give of my own small achievements you have habitually underrated your own abilities. It may be that you are not yourself luminous, but you are a conductor of light. Some people without possessing genius have a remarkable power of stimulating it. I confess, my dear fellow, that I am very much in your debt.”
He had never said as much before, and I must admit that his words gave me keen pleasure, for I had often been piqued by his indifference to my admiration and to the attempts which I had made to give publicity to his methods. I was proud, too, to think that I had so far mastered his system as to apply it in a way which earned his approval. He now took the stick from my hands and examined it for a few minutes with his naked eyes. Then with an expression of interest he laid down his cigarette, and carrying the cane to the window, he looked over it again with a convex lens.
“Interesting, though elementary,” said he as he returned to his favourite corner of the settee. “There are certainly one or two indications upon the stick. It gives us the basis for several deductions.”
“Has anything escaped me?” I asked with some self-importance. “I trust that there is nothing of consequence which I have overlooked?”
“I am afraid, my dear Watson, that most of your conclusions were erroneous. When I said that you stimulated me I meant, to be frank, that in noting your fallacies I was occasionally guided towards the truth. Not that you are entirely wrong in this instance. The man is certainly a country practitioner. And he walks a good deal.”
“Then I was right.”
“To that extent.” (703 words)
Joe – Ch 6 As Sir Henry Baskerville, Dr. Mortimer and Dr. Watson drive up they notice a convict has escaped
The wagonette swung round into a side road, and we curved upward through deep lanes worn by centuries of wheels, high banks on either side, heavy with dripping moss and fleshy hart’s-tongue ferns. Bronzing bracken and mottled bramble gleamed in the light of the sinking sun. Still steadily rising, we passed over a narrow granite bridge and skirted a noisy stream which gushed swiftly down, foaming and roaring amid the grey boulders. Both road and stream wound up through a valley dense with scrub oak and fir. At every turn Baskerville gave an exclamation of delight, looking eagerly about him and asking countless questions. To his eyes all seemed beautiful, but to me a tinge of melancholy lay upon the countryside, which bore so clearly the mark of the waning year. Yellow leaves carpeted the lanes and fluttered down upon us as we passed. The rattle of our wheels died away as we drove through drifts of rotting vegetation—sad gifts, as it seemed to me, for Nature to throw before the carriage of the returning heir of the Baskervilles.
“Halloa!” cried Dr. Mortimer, “what is this?”
A steep curve of heath-clad land, an outlying spur of the moor, lay in front of us. On the summit, hard and clear like an equestrian statue upon its pedestal, was a mounted soldier, dark and stern, his rifle poised ready over his forearm. He was watching the road along which we travelled.
“What is this, Perkins?” asked Dr. Mortimer.
Our driver half turned in his seat. “There’s a convict escaped from Princetown, sir. He’s been out three days now, and the warders watch every road and every station, but they’ve had no sight of him yet. The farmers about here don’t like it, sir, and that’s a fact.”
“Well, I understand that they get five pounds if they can give information.”
“Yes, sir, but the chance of five pounds is but a poor thing compared to the chance of having your throat cut. You see, it isn’t like any ordinary convict. This is a man that would stick at nothing.”
“Who is he, then?”
“It is Selden, the Notting Hill murderer.”
I remembered the case well, for it was one in which Holmes had taken an interest on account of the peculiar ferocity of the crime and the wanton brutality which had marked all the actions of the assassin. The commutation of his death sentence had been due to some doubts as to his complete sanity, so atrocious was his conduct. Our wagonette had topped a rise and in front of us rose the huge expanse of the moor, mottled with gnarled and craggy cairns and tors. A cold wind swept down from it and set us shivering. Somewhere there, on that desolate plain, was lurking this fiendish man, hiding in a burrow like a wild beast, his heart full of malignancy against the whole race which had cast him out. It needed but this to complete the grim suggestiveness of the barren waste, the chilling wind, and the darkling sky. Even Baskerville fell silent and pulled his overcoat more closely around him. (520 words)
Geetha – Ch 7 Stapleton guides Dr. Watson across the moor and they hear the muffled cry of the hound
A long, low moan, indescribably sad, swept over the moor. It filled the whole air, and yet it was impossible to say whence it came. From a dull murmur it swelled into a deep roar, and then sank back into a melancholy, throbbing murmur once again. Stapleton looked at me with a curious expression in his face.
“Queer place, the moor!” said he.
“But what is it?”
“The peasants say it is the Hound of the Baskervilles calling for its prey. I’ve heard it once or twice before, but never quite so loud.”
I looked round, with a chill of fear in my heart, at the huge swelling plain, mottled with the green patches of rushes. Nothing stirred over the vast expanse save a pair of ravens, which croaked loudly from a tor behind us.
“You are an educated man. You don’t believe such nonsense as that?” said I. “What do you think is the cause of so strange a sound?”
“Bogs make queer noises sometimes. It’s the mud settling, or the water rising, or something.”
“No, no, that was a living voice.”
“Well, perhaps it was. Did you ever hear a bittern booming?”
“No, I never did.”
“It’s a very rare bird—practically extinct—in England now, but all things are possible upon the moor. Yes, I should not be surprised to learn that what we have heard is the cry of the last of the bitterns.”
“It’s the weirdest, strangest thing that ever I heard in my life.”
“Yes, it’s rather an uncanny place altogether. Look at the hillside yonder. What do you make of those?”
The whole steep slope was covered with grey circular rings of stone, a score of them at least.
“What are they? Sheep-pens?”
“No, they are the homes of our worthy ancestors. Prehistoric man lived thickly on the moor, and as no one in particular has lived there since, we find all his little arrangements exactly as he left them. These are his wigwams with the roofs off. You can even see his hearth and his couch if you have the curiosity to go inside.”
“But it is quite a town. When was it inhabited?”
“Neolithic man—no date.”
“What did he do?”
“He grazed his cattle on these slopes, and he learned to dig for tin when the bronze sword began to supersede the stone axe. Look at the great trench in the opposite hill. That is his mark. Yes, you will find some very singular points about the moor, Dr. Watson. Oh, excuse me an instant! It is surely Cyclopides.”
A small fly or moth had fluttered across our path, and in an instant Stapleton was rushing with extraordinary energy and speed in pursuit of it. To my dismay the creature flew straight for the great mire, and my acquaintance never paused for an instant, bounding from tuft to tuft behind it, his green net waving in the air. His grey clothes and jerky, zigzag, irregular progress made him not unlike some huge moth himself. (501 words)
Priya – Ch 9 As Dr. Watson and Sir Henry Baskerville venture into the moor to capture the escaped convict Selden, they hear the cry of the Hound of the Baskervilles
“Are you armed?” I asked.
“I have a hunting-crop.”
“We must close in on him rapidly, for he is said to be a desperate fellow. We shall take him by surprise and have him at our mercy before he can resist.”
“I say, Watson,” said the baronet, “what would Holmes say to this? How about that hour of darkness in which the power of evil is exalted?”
As if in answer to his words there rose suddenly out of the vast gloom of the moor that strange cry which I had already heard upon the borders of the great Grimpen Mire. It came with the wind through the silence of the night, a long, deep mutter, then a rising howl, and then the sad moan in which it died away. Again and again it sounded, the whole air throbbing with it, strident, wild, and menacing. The baronet caught my sleeve and his face glimmered white through the darkness.
“My God, what’s that, Watson?”
“I don’t know. It’s a sound they have on the moor. I heard it once before.”
It died away, and an absolute silence closed in upon us. We stood straining our ears, but nothing came.
“Watson,” said the baronet, “it was the cry of a hound.”
My blood ran cold in my veins, for there was a break in his voice which told of the sudden horror which had seized him.
“What do they call this sound?” he asked.
“Who?”
“The folk on the countryside.”
“Oh, they are ignorant people. Why should you mind what they call it?”
“Tell me, Watson. What do they say of it?”
I hesitated but could not escape the question.
“They say it is the cry of the Hound of the Baskervilles.”
He groaned and was silent for a few moments.
“A hound it was,” he said at last, “but it seemed to come from miles away, over yonder, I think.”
“It was hard to say whence it came.”
“It rose and fell with the wind. Isn’t that the direction of the great Grimpen Mire?”
“Yes, it is.”
“Well, it was up there. Come now, Watson, didn’t you think yourself that it was the cry of a hound? I am not a child. You need not fear to speak the truth.”
“Stapleton was with me when I heard it last. He said that it might be the calling of a strange bird.”
“No, no, it was a hound. My God, can there be some truth in all these stories? Is it possible that I am really in danger from so dark a cause? You don’t believe it, do you, Watson?”
“No, no.”
“And yet it was one thing to laugh about it in London, and it is another to stand out here in the darkness of the moor and to hear such a cry as that. And my uncle! There was the footprint of the hound beside him as he lay. It all fits together. I don’t think that I am a coward, Watson, but that sound seemed to freeze my very blood. Feel my hand!”
It was as cold as a block of marble.
“You’ll be all right tomorrow.”
“I don’t think I’ll get that cry out of my head. What do you advise that we do now?”
“Shall we turn back?”
“No, by thunder; we have come out to get our man, and we will do it. We after the convict, and a hell-hound, as likely as not, after us. Come on! We’ll see it through if all the fiends of the pit were loose upon the moor.” (598 words)
Zakia – Ch 10 Dr. Watson and Sir Henry Baskerville learn from the butler Barrymore that there is another man camping on the moor besides Selden the escaped convict
“Did you see him then?”
“No, sir, but the food was gone when next I went that way.”
“Then he was certainly there?”
“So you would think, sir, unless it was the other man who took it.”
I sat with my coffee-cup halfway to my lips and stared at Barrymore.
“You know that there is another man then?”
“Yes, sir; there is another man upon the moor.”
“Have you seen him?”
“No, sir.”
“How do you know of him then?”
“Selden told me of him, sir, a week ago or more. He’s in hiding, too, but he’s not a convict as far as I can make out. I don’t like it, Dr. Watson—I tell you straight, sir, that I don’t like it.” He spoke with a sudden passion of earnestness.
“Now, listen to me, Barrymore! I have no interest in this matter but that of your master. I have come here with no object except to help him. Tell me, frankly, what it is that you don’t like.”
Barrymore hesitated for a moment, as if he regretted his outburst or found it difficult to express his own feelings in words.
“It’s all these goings-on, sir,” he cried at last, waving his hand towards the rain-lashed window which faced the moor. “There’s foul play somewhere, and there’s black villainy brewing, to that I’ll swear! Very glad I should be, sir, to see Sir Henry on his way back to London again!”
“But what is it that alarms you?”
“Look at Sir Charles’s death! That was bad enough, for all that the coroner said. Look at the noises on the moor at night. There’s not a man would cross it after sundown if he was paid for it. Look at this stranger hiding out yonder, and watching and waiting! What’s he waiting for? What does it mean? It means no good to anyone of the name of Baskerville, and very glad I shall be to be quit of it all on the day that Sir Henry’s new servants are ready to take over the Hall.”
“But about this stranger,” said I. “Can you tell me anything about him? What did Selden say? Did he find out where he hid, or what he was doing?”
“He saw him once or twice, but he is a deep one and gives nothing away. At first he thought that he was the police, but soon he found that he had some lay of his own. A kind of gentleman he was, as far as he could see, but what he was doing he could not make out.”
“And where did he say that he lived?”
“Among the old houses on the hillside—the stone huts where the old folk used to live.”
“But how about his food?”
“Selden found out that he has got a lad who works for him and brings all he needs. I dare say he goes to Coombe Tracey for what he wants.”
“Very good, Barrymore. We may talk further of this some other time.” When the butler had gone I walked over to the black window, and I looked through a blurred pane at the driving clouds and at the tossing outline of the wind-swept trees. It is a wild night indoors, and what must it be in a stone hut upon the moor. What passion of hatred can it be which leads a man to lurk in such a place at such a time! And what deep and earnest purpose can he have which calls for such a trial! There, in that hut upon the moor, seems to lie the very centre of that problem which has vexed me so sorely. I swear that another day shall not have passed before I have done all that man can do to reach the heart of the mystery. (635 words)
Saras – Ch 11 Dr. Watson is reunited with Holmes who has been living rough on the moor
In the middle of the hut a flat stone served the purpose of a table, and upon this stood a small cloth bundle—the same, no doubt, which I had seen through the telescope upon the shoulder of the boy. It contained a loaf of bread, a tinned tongue, and two tins of preserved peaches. As I set it down again, after having examined it, my heart leaped to see that beneath it there lay a sheet of paper with writing upon it. I raised it, and this was what I read, roughly scrawled in pencil: “Dr. Watson has gone to Coombe Tracey.”
For a minute I stood there with the paper in my hands thinking out the meaning of this curt message. It was I, then, and not Sir Henry, who was being dogged by this secret man. He had not followed me himself, but he had set an agent—the boy, perhaps—upon my track, and this was his report. Possibly I had taken no step since I had been upon the moor which had not been observed and reported. Always there was this feeling of an unseen force, a fine net drawn round us with infinite skill and delicacy, holding us so lightly that it was only at some supreme moment that one realised that one was indeed entangled in its meshes.
If there was one report there might be others, so I looked round the hut in search of them. There was no trace, however, of anything of the kind, nor could I discover any sign which might indicate the character or intentions of the man who lived in this singular place, save that he must be of Spartan habits and cared little for the comforts of life. When I thought of the heavy rains and looked at the gaping roof I understood how strong and immutable must be the purpose which had kept him in that inhospitable abode. Was he our malignant enemy, or was he by chance our guardian angel? I swore that I would not leave the hut until I knew.
Outside the sun was sinking low and the west was blazing with scarlet and gold. Its reflection was shot back in ruddy patches by the distant pools which lay amid the great Grimpen Mire. There were the two towers of Baskerville Hall, and there a distant blur of smoke which marked the village of Grimpen. Between the two, behind the hill, was the house of the Stapletons. All was sweet and mellow and peaceful in the golden evening light, and yet as I looked at them my soul shared none of the peace of Nature but quivered at the vagueness and the terror of that interview which every instant was bringing nearer. With tingling nerves but a fixed purpose, I sat in the dark recess of the hut and waited with sombre patience for the coming of its tenant.
And then at last I heard him. Far away came the sharp clink of a boot striking upon a stone. Then another and yet another, coming nearer and nearer. I shrank back into the darkest corner and cocked the pistol in my pocket, determined not to discover myself until I had an opportunity of seeing something of the stranger. There was a long pause which showed that he had stopped. Then once more the footsteps approached and a shadow fell across the opening of the hut.
“It is a lovely evening, my dear Watson,” said a well-known voice. “I really think that you will be more comfortable outside than in.” (594 words)
Devika – Chapter 12 Dr. Watson and Holmes come upon the body of someone they mistake for Sir Henry Baskerville
The gleam of the match which he struck shone upon his clotted fingers and upon the ghastly pool which widened slowly from the crushed skull of the victim. And it shone upon something else which turned our hearts sick and faint within us—the body of Sir Henry Baskerville!
There was no chance of either of us forgetting that peculiar ruddy tweed suit—the very one which he had worn on the first morning that we had seen him in Baker Street. We caught the one clear glimpse of it, and then the match flickered and went out, even as the hope had gone out of our souls. Holmes groaned, and his face glimmered white through the darkness.
“The brute! The brute!” I cried with clenched hands. “Oh Holmes, I shall never forgive myself for having left him to his fate.”
“I am more to blame than you, Watson. In order to have my case well rounded and complete, I have thrown away the life of my client. It is the greatest blow which has befallen me in my career. But how could I know—how could I know—that he would risk his life alone upon the moor in the face of all my warnings?”
“That we should have heard his screams—my God, those screams!—and yet have been unable to save him! Where is this brute of a hound which drove him to his death? It may be lurking among these rocks at this instant. And Stapleton, where is he? He shall answer for this deed.”
“He shall. I will see to that. Uncle and nephew have been murdered—the one frightened to death by the very sight of a beast which he thought to be supernatural, the other driven to his end in his wild flight to escape from it. But now we have to prove the connection between the man and the beast. Save from what we heard, we cannot even swear to the existence of the latter, since Sir Henry has evidently died from the fall. But, by heavens, cunning as he is, the fellow shall be in my power before another day is past!”
We stood with bitter hearts on either side of the mangled body, overwhelmed by this sudden and irrevocable disaster which had brought all our long and weary labours to so piteous an end. Then as the moon rose we climbed to the top of the rocks over which our poor friend had fallen, and from the summit we gazed out over the shadowy moor, half silver and half gloom. Far away, miles off, in the direction of Grimpen, a single steady yellow light was shining. It could only come from the lonely abode of the Stapletons. With a bitter curse I shook my fist at it as I gazed.
“Why should we not seize him at once?”
“Our case is not complete. The fellow is wary and cunning to the last degree. It is not what we know, but what we can prove. If we make one false move the villain may escape us yet.”
“What can we do?”
“There will be plenty for us to do tomorrow. Tonight we can only perform the last offices to our poor friend.”
Together we made our way down the precipitous slope and approached the body, black and clear against the silvered stones. The agony of those contorted limbs struck me with a spasm of pain and blurred my eyes with tears.
“We must send for help, Holmes! We cannot carry him all the way to the Hall. Good heavens, are you mad?”
He had uttered a cry and bent over the body. Now he was dancing and laughing and wringing my hand. Could this be my stern, self-contained friend? These were hidden fires, indeed!
“A beard! A beard! The man has a beard!”
“A beard?”
“It is not the baronet—it is—why, it is my neighbour, the convict!” (649 words)
Shoba – Ch 13 Holmes focuses on a face in the painting of a Baskerville ancestor and discerns the likeness of someone he knows; Watson is amazed
“I know what is good when I see it, and I see it now. That’s a Kneller, I’ll swear, that lady in the blue silk over yonder, and the stout gentleman with the wig ought to be a Reynolds. They are all family portraits, I presume?”
“Every one.”
“Do you know the names?”
“Barrymore has been coaching me in them, and I think I can say my lessons fairly well.”
“Who is the gentleman with the telescope?”
“That is Rear-Admiral Baskerville, who served under Rodney in the West Indies. The man with the blue coat and the roll of paper is Sir William Baskerville, who was Chairman of Committees of the House of Commons under Pitt.”
“And this Cavalier opposite to me—the one with the black velvet and the lace?”
“Ah, you have a right to know about him. That is the cause of all the mischief, the wicked Hugo, who started the Hound of the Baskervilles. We’re not likely to forget him.”
I gazed with interest and some surprise upon the portrait.
“Dear me!” said Holmes, “he seems a quiet, meek-mannered man enough, but I dare say that there was a lurking devil in his eyes. I had pictured him as a more robust and ruffianly person.”
“There’s no doubt about the authenticity, for the name and the date, 1647, are on the back of the canvas.”
Holmes said little more, but the picture of the old roysterer seemed to have a fascination for him, and his eyes were continually fixed upon it during supper. It was not until later, when Sir Henry had gone to his room, that I was able to follow the trend of his thoughts. He led me back into the banqueting-hall, his bedroom candle in his hand, and he held it up against the time-stained portrait on the wall.
“Do you see anything there?”
I looked at the broad plumed hat, the curling love-locks, the white lace collar, and the straight, severe face which was framed between them. It was not a brutal countenance, but it was prim, hard, and stern, with a firm-set, thin-lipped mouth, and a coldly intolerant eye.
“Is it like anyone you know?”
“There is something of Sir Henry about the jaw.”
“Just a suggestion, perhaps. But wait an instant!” He stood upon a chair, and, holding up the light in his left hand, he curved his right arm over the broad hat and round the long ringlets.
“Good heavens!” I cried in amazement.
The face of Stapleton had sprung out of the canvas.
“Ha, you see it now. My eyes have been trained to examine faces and not their trimmings. It is the first quality of a criminal investigator that he should see through a disguise.”
“But this is marvellous. It might be his portrait.”
“Yes, it is an interesting instance of a throwback, which appears to be both physical and spiritual. A study of family portraits is enough to convert a man to the doctrine of reincarnation. The fellow is a Baskerville—that is evident.”
“With designs upon the succession.” (511 words)
Pamela – Ch 14 The hound bounds after a surprised Sir Henry Baskerville, but Holmes wounds it with an accurate revolver shot
A sound of quick steps broke the silence of the moor. Crouching among the stones we stared intently at the silver-tipped bank in front of us. The steps grew louder, and through the fog, as through a curtain, there stepped the man whom we were awaiting. He looked round him in surprise as he emerged into the clear, starlit night. Then he came swiftly along the path, passed close to where we lay, and went on up the long slope behind us. As he walked he glanced continually over either shoulder, like a man who is ill at ease.
“Hist!” cried Holmes, and I heard the sharp click of a cocking pistol. “Look out! It’s coming!”
There was a thin, crisp, continuous patter from somewhere in the heart of that crawling bank. The cloud was within fifty yards of where we lay, and we glared at it, all three, uncertain what horror was about to break from the heart of it. I was at Holmes’s elbow, and I glanced for an instant at his face. It was pale and exultant, his eyes shining brightly in the moonlight. But suddenly they started forward in a rigid, fixed stare, and his lips parted in amazement. At the same instant Lestrade gave a yell of terror and threw himself face downward upon the ground. I sprang to my feet, my inert hand grasping my pistol, my mind paralysed by the dreadful shape which had sprung out upon us from the shadows of the fog. A hound it was, an enormous coal-black hound, but not such a hound as mortal eyes have ever seen. Fire burst from its open mouth, its eyes glowed with a smouldering glare, its muzzle and hackles and dewlap were outlined in flickering flame. Never in the delirious dream of a disordered brain could anything more savage, more appalling, more hellish be conceived than that dark form and savage face which broke upon us out of the wall of fog.
With long bounds the huge black creature was leaping down the track, following hard upon the footsteps of our friend. So paralysed were we by the apparition that we allowed him to pass before we had recovered our nerve. Then Holmes and I both fired together, and the creature gave a hideous howl, which showed that one at least had hit him. He did not pause, however, but bounded onward. Far away on the path we saw Sir Henry looking back, his face white in the moonlight, his hands raised in horror, glaring helplessly at the frightful thing which was hunting him down. But that cry of pain from the hound had blown all our fears to the winds. If he was vulnerable he was mortal, and if we could wound him we could kill him. Never have I seen a man run as Holmes ran that night. I am reckoned fleet of foot, but he outpaced me as much as I outpaced the little professional. In front of us as we flew up the track we heard scream after scream from Sir Henry and the deep roar of the hound. I was in time to see the beast spring upon its victim, hurl him to the ground, and worry at his throat. But the next instant Holmes had emptied five barrels of his revolver into the creature’s flank. With a last howl of agony and a vicious snap in the air, it rolled upon its back, four feet pawing furiously, and then fell limp upon its side. I stooped, panting, and pressed my pistol to the dreadful, shimmering head, but it was useless to press the trigger. The giant hound was dead. (613 words)
KumKum Ch 15 Stapleton the butterfly expert was in reality Vandeleur, only removed by two lives from inheriting the Baskerville estate; he plotted to erase those two lives
“My inquiries show beyond all question that the family portrait did not lie, and that this fellow was indeed a Baskerville. He was a son of that Rodger Baskerville, the younger brother of Sir Charles, who fled with a sinister reputation to South America, where he was said to have died unmarried. He did, as a matter of fact, marry, and had one child, this fellow, whose real name is the same as his father’s. He married Beryl Garcia, one of the beauties of Costa Rica, and, having purloined a considerable sum of public money, he changed his name to Vandeleur and fled to England, where he established a school in the east of Yorkshire. His reason for attempting this special line of business was that he had struck up an acquaintance with a consumptive tutor upon the voyage home, and that he had used this man’s ability to make the undertaking a success. Fraser, the tutor, died however, and the school which had begun well sank from disrepute into infamy. The Vandeleurs found it convenient to change their name to Stapleton, and he brought the remains of his fortune, his schemes for the future, and his taste for entomology to the south of England. I learned at the British Museum that he was a recognised authority upon the subject, and that the name of Vandeleur has been permanently attached to a certain moth which he had, in his Yorkshire days, been the first to describe.
“We now come to that portion of his life which has proved to be of such intense interest to us. The fellow had evidently made inquiry and found that only two lives intervened between him and a valuable estate. When he went to Devonshire his plans were, I believe, exceedingly hazy, but that he meant mischief from the first is evident from the way in which he took his wife with him in the character of his sister. The idea of using her as a decoy was clearly already in his mind, though he may not have been certain how the details of his plot were to be arranged. He meant in the end to have the estate, and he was ready to use any tool or run any risk for that end. His first act was to establish himself as near to his ancestral home as he could, and his second was to cultivate a friendship with Sir Charles Baskerville and with the neighbours.
“The baronet himself told him about the family hound, and so prepared the way for his own death. Stapleton, as I will continue to call him, knew that the old man’s heart was weak and that a shock would kill him. So much he had learned from Dr. Mortimer. He had heard also that Sir Charles was superstitious and had taken this grim legend very seriously. His ingenious mind instantly suggested a way by which the baronet could be done to death, and yet it would be hardly possible to bring home the guilt to the real murderer. (509 words)
DREs (Diligent Reader Exercises) on The Hound of the Baskervilles:
1. Give an example of alliteration in the novel
2. Which sentence in the novel is a veiled reference to Omar Khayyam?
3. There is an allusion to a saying of Isaac Newton – point out.
4. There is neat reversal of a Biblical saying. What is it?
5. Where is the reference to a key policy of President Trump in 2025?
6. Name five unusual words you came across in the novel.
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