The Hound of the Baskervilles

Well, Watson, what do you make of it?

It was left at the door last night while we were out.

Uh.

"To Dr. James Mortimer MRCS

from his friends of the CCH. 1885."

Well, Dr. Mortimer is obviously

a successful, well-respected medical man.

Hm.

I note the ferrule is worn down

and the wood is scarred from rough use.

Not a stick one would carry in town, eh?

Ah!

So, hm,

a country doctor getting on in years

who needs a stout stick as he walks about the countryside.

The CCH. I take that to be his local hunt.

This was obviously an affectionate token of appreciation.

In short, a contented country gentleman of adequate means

and a sporting nature.

Oh.

Really, Watson, you excel yourself.

Oh, thank you, Holmes. You know I do try to apply your methods, you know.

Not at much success yet, I'm afraid.

Uh. What do you mean, Holmes? Have I missed something significant?

Not something. Nearly everything.

Oh, dear.

Yes! It's a countryman's stick.

Yes. He walks a lot. That much is obvious to a child.

But,

is it not more likely that the presentation to a Doctor Mortimer,

member of the Royal College of Surgeons,

might come from a hospital?

In fact, Charing Cross Hospital.

Right here in London.

Right.

As a result given on the occasion of his retirement,

it was to commemorate his leaving Charing Cross and moving to the countryside.

Thus, if he was a city doctor who moved to the country five years ago,

then he likely wasn't on the staff. As a staff physician

of an eminent London hospital isn't about to give all that up for a country practice.

And if he was at the Charing Cross but not on the staff,

then he must have been a promising house physician.

Thus, a man who gives up his excellent prospects

to move to the obscurity of a country practice.

Thus, a man of an inward turn of mind.

Thus, a sort of man who is compelled to follow his intellectual passions

very likely

scientific ones.

Really, Holmes,

I don't know what to say.

I never would've gained such insight from this stick.

No, no, no, no, no, no. Of course not.

But some people without possessing genius,

have the remarkable ability of stimulating it in others.

Yeah. Mm.

How very comforting.

That is the foundation of our successful collaboration.

I am very much in your debt.

Thank you, Holmes.

And our forgetful friend takes very little interest in his appearance.

Oh, come now, Holmes, are you simply toying with me?

No, I'm looking out the window.

What?

Please show Dr. Mortimer in.

Oh!

I had no idea where I left it.

I swear, Mr. Holmes, if my head weren't attached, I'm afraid I'd lose that, too.

How very inconvenient.

I can see that you're troubled, Dr. Mortimer.

How may I be of help to you?

Perhaps you saw the notice of the death

of Sir Charles Baskerville some six weeks past.

What?

Sir Charles dead?

I met him at Wimbledon two years ago.

Excellent fellow. What a pity.

I recall the obituary in the Times.

Uh, something about, um, congestive heart failure

while strolling in his garden, wasn't it?

Yes. That was the coroner's finding.

You're here because you have reason to doubt the coroner's finding.

Before I answer that question, Mr. Holmes,

I must tell you an ancient tale

as told to me by Sir Charles himself.

Well, if you must, you must.

The salient points, then, sir, I can't abide the ancient tale.

Yes, of course.

It concerns the frightful death of Sir Hugo Baskerville,

the founder of the Baskerville line in 1642.

Sir Hugo was an evil man

who lusted after the daughter of one of his tenants.

But the girl, being of a pious nature,

despised the profane and godless man.

So, one drunken evening,

Sir Hugo and his hell-raiser companions

carried her off from her father's house.

It was Hugo's intention to use the girl shamefully.

To this end, he locked her in an upper chamber in his old hunting lodge.

But later, when the wine flagons were empty

and sir Hugo went to satisfy his amorous desires,

he found the girl gone.

Out the window, down the bed sheets, I suppose.

Precisely. But then Sir Hugo flew into a murderous rage.

He was a man who could brook no opposition to his will.

After more than 300 years,

I doubt we can say with certainty what he could or could not brook.

Yes, quite certain. But of this there is no doubt.

On the spot he swore an oath

that he would offer up his soul to the devil

if the evil one could only deliver the girl into his hands.

Then, calling for his horse and hounds

he set off after her across the moor,

anxious to see the sport.

The friends set off in drunken pursuit.

Half way across the moor, they heard a terrifying scream.

Not 50 yards distant they came across the body of Sir Hugo.

His throat in the jaws of an enormous and terrifying hound.

His eyes glowed

like the burning fires of hell.

Those last words I quote from memory, Mr. Holmes.

They made a most vivid impression on my mind.

Very interesting, Dr. Mortimer,

if I were a collector of fairy tales.

You are wondering how this fairytale

is relevant to the death of my good friend.

I think you've made it abundantly clear how it's relevant.

You believe this ancient hell hound played a part in this, do you?

Both must think me a fool.

Not at all.

These family legends do sometimes point one at the most

curious direction.

Catching cold, Watson?

It's the poisonous atmosphere in here, Holmes, even with the window open.

What?

Oh, you're referring to my pipe.

Oh, how very observant of you.

What say we spare Watson any further distress.

Care to take a stroll in the fresh air?

Oh, absolutely.

Tell me, Dr. Mortimer,

ancient legends aside,

why do you think the coroner was mistaken?

The body was found on the steps

at the old hunting lodge

by the butler, Barrymore,

who says he heard the baying of a hound.

A hound? An ordinary dog, perhaps?

Hardly. There's no mistaking it.

So, you heard it yourself then, did you?

You're quite right. I live too far away from Baskerville Hall.

But on other nights when the wind is off the moor

I have heard sounds that could chill your blood.

Really? And how often have you heard them?

Not often. Perhaps a dozen times in the last six months.

That is why Sir Charles was so obsessed with the curse.

These sounds, they shattered his nerves.

I tell you, Mr. Holmes, if the devil himself had a country on this earth,

it would surely be the moor.

Indeed?

These sounds, they were heard on the night of Sir Charles' death?

They brought Barrymore running to the garden

where he discovered poor Sir Charles.

I was summoned, and I noted the following.

That he stood by the gate for at least ten minutes prior to the attack,

as though he were waiting to meet someone.

How do you know that?

He twice dropped the ash of his cigar.

Very astute of you. Dr. Mortimer is a man of our own caliber, Watson.

I would say.

Combing the moor for rare plants and roots

has trained me to see what is invisible to most.

Oh, yes, here we are.

This killer who escaped the asylum at Grimpen-on-moor,

that's not far from Baskerville Hall, is it?

No more than two miles.

The Times has been carrying daily items on the manhunt.

Seems they've called the army out.

Well, you think they'd have caught him by now, eh?

Apparently he's quite deranged.

Isn't it possible this Seldon frightened Sir Charles to death?

It's certainly possible. But Sir Charles still had his wallet and pocket watch.

Why would Seldon attack the richest man in the district and take nothing?

I don't know. Yet--

If you'd been good enough to tell me what you're holding back,

perhaps I might be at less of a disadvantage.

Mr. Holmes! Can you read my mind?

Hardly. You wouldn't be here if you didn't know more than you've told me thus far.

What else did you see?

Sir Charles' weren't the only footprints in the grass.

They were others. But they were not human.

They were the footprints of an enormous hound

fully the size of my outstretched hand.

And you said nothing of this to anyone?

I saw no use in it.

For fear of ridicule.

Yes. I feared damage to my reputation.

And yet you believe this legendary curse killed Sir Charles Baskerville.

It hasn't been easy to come to you with such a tale, Mr. Holmes.

But if you lived beside the moor as I do,

you would understand how such an idea can take root in a man's mind.