My gratitude for coming out on a house call, Dr. Granger. I am certain you can appreciate my need and desire for... Discretion. Of course, Mr. Holmes. Certainly would not do to let England's criminal class know the country's foremost consulting may be vulnerable. Indeed. And speaking of which, what is your impression of my... Condition. The pink of health, no doubt. One moment, please, Mr. Holmes, and I will give you a complete report.
Your physical condition is overall excellent. Rather remarkable, considering what you've revealed concerning your diet and exercise. I do not intentionally exercise. And yet you remain thin as a rail. My mind is always working, Doctor. It does the exercising for me. Which brings us to the singular area of concern. Very well. Let's have it then. It is my professional opinion that you are suffering from an intracranial lesion of the left frontal lobe.
I know what it is, Doctor. How certain are you that such a thing exists within my cranium? I... When I asked Dr. Watson what the probability was that you were the best in your field, he said 90%. Using Bay's theorem, If you say you are 80% certain that a brain lesion is the cause of my struggles, then there is an 81.1% chance you are actually...
if I choose to ignore this... thing in my head. It has already significantly worsened, Mr. Hose. Judging from the chronological reports on how it has been affecting you, it is my professional opinion that within... Within six months, you'll find it difficult to perform the most basic daily tasks. Within a year, you will be bedridden. Near weeks after that,
You will be dead. Ah, so you are saying I have plenty of time? Flippancy will not alter my diagnosis, Mr. Holmes, one which I take no pleasure in delivering. And you will note that none of those timelines included your ability to perform your work. That is an even more looming deadline. And, uh, what is the recommended course of treatment? There is no accepted course of treatment.
You say accepted course? There is a somewhat experimental procedure that involves removal of the lesion. Going under the knife? Just so. And has this experimental procedure ever been performed successfully? Yes. Once within the last few years. William McEwen, at the Glasgow Royal Infirmary, successfully localized and removed a dural-based tumor that compressed the brain. And she made a full recovery? Indeed. Restored to perfect health and able to gain her own livelihood.
I shall write a recommendation and have a consultation date set as soon as possible. Until then... Until then, I need to continue my work, Doctor. Is there nothing you can do to forestall the effects of this parasite within my brain? Well, there is a drug that is delivered via hypodermic. A stimulant? Not something I prescribe as a matter of course, but this is something of an unusual case. Here is a hypodermic and a 7% solution of the drug. Used sparingly. And only when needed...
Upon full recovery from what I trust will be successful surgery, cease use immediately and dispose of both the equipment and remaining solution. Do I make myself clear? Surgery? It is you who pushed for me to seek medical counsel, Watson. Surely you must have known this was a possibility. Why, yes. Of course. Still, the brain. of which the medical field knows next to nothing.
I cannot keep myself from feeling the worst. There is no reason to fear the worst, Watson. For we have not ultimate control of the outcome. I shall be at the mercy of a Dr. William McEwen. It must be a difficult condition for you. I am not in the habit of throwing myself upon the mercy of any man, Watson. However, this blasted lesion has attacked the thing I value most in the world. My brain. And I cannot, will not, go quietly into the darkness.
I understand, Holmes. And I hope you know that I will be right by your side every step of the way. In fact, I have already set plans in motion to... Come in! Mr. Holmes, not to bother you, but a delivery's come for you. Ah, a parcel? No, sir. A letter? No, sir. In fact... It's a stick. It's what it is. A stick, did you say? Aye, sir. Ah, a walking stick. Now, why would someone send to me a walking stick? Thank you, Mrs. Hudson. Aye, sir.
Tell me what you make of this, Watson. Well, it is a fine, thick piece of wood. Bulbous-headed. Just under the head is a broad silver band nearly an inch across. with an engraving that reads, To James Mortimer, M.R.C.S., from his friends of the C.C.H., and it is dated 1884. I should think Dr. Mortimer's a successful elderly medical man. Well esteemed.
Since those who know him gave him this mark of appreciation. Good. Excellent. I think also he is a country practitioner who does a great deal of his visiting on foot. Why, sir? Ah, well, because this stick, though originally a handsome one, has been so knocked about that I can hardly imagine a town practitioner carrying it. The thick iron furrow is worn down. So it is evident he has done a great amount of walking with it. Perfectly sound. Continue, pray. Well...
There is the friends of the CCH. I imagine that to be the something 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. I must say, you habitually underrate your own abilities. It may be you are not yourself luminous, but you are a conductor of light. Some people without genius have a remarkable power of stimulating it.
Oh, I thank you, Holmes. Thank you, good fellow. I certainly don't like to brag, but occasionally I will stumble. Unfortunately, most of your imaginative conclusions were erroneous. Now, I say... When I said you stimulated me, I meant to be frank. that in noting your fallacies, I was guided towards the truth. Not that you are entirely wrong in this instance.
The man is certainly a country practitioner, and he walks a great deal. Well, then... However, I would suggest that a presentation to a doctor is more likely to come from a hospital than from a hunt. In this case, the words Charing Cross very naturally suggest themselves. I, uh, I see. I see. Now, on what occasion would such a presentation be made? Why, at the moment, Dr. Mortimer withdrew from service of the hospital, of course, likely to begin private practice.
That does seem probable. Further, he could not have been on the staff of the hospital, since only a man well established could hold such a position, and such a one would not drift into the countryside. Therefore, he could only have been little more than a senior student who left five years ago. my elderly practitioner. I fear so. And in his place there emerges a young fellow under thirty.
Amiable, unambitious, absent-minded, and the possessor of a favourite dog, which I should describe as being larger than a terrier and smaller than a mastiff. A dog? Indeed. The creature has been in the habit of carrying this stick behind his master. Being a heavy stick, the dog has held it tightly by the middle, and the marks of his teeth are very plainly visible. And unless I miss my guess...
Our Dr. Mortimer is even now waiting across the street. Here now. Dr. Mortimer, I presume. Will you come up now, sir? I hope you will forgive my little ruse, Mr. Holmes. Not at all, Doctor. I can only assume you wish to test my prowess before retaining my service. I always respect a good ploy, even if it comes at my expense. I must say, I am impressed with the speed at which you deduced my identity. Ah, well, it may have progressed yet more quickly had I not first been... But no matter.
I am happy we now find ourselves at your service. And may I now return your fine walking stick? A presentation from the hospital, I presume? Yes, on the occasion of my marriage. Oh, dear. Now you have disarranged our little deductions, Doctor. I presume it is Mr. Sherlock Holmes whom I am addressing, and not... No, this is my friend, Dr. Watson. Glad to meet you, sir.
I've heard your name mentioned in connection with that of your friend. You interest me very much, Mr Holmes, which is one reason I wish to witness your deductive powers firsthand. I had hardly expected so dolicocephalic a skull. Was such well-marked supraorbital development? Would you have any objection to my running my finger along your parietal fissure? A cast of your skull, sir, until the original is available, would be an ornament to any anthropological museum.
It is not my intention to be fulsome, but I confess that I covered your skull. Oh, now, see here, my good fellow. It's all right, Watson. Mr. Mortimer is clearly overexcited and means no harm. I believe I will retain the integrity of my skull for now, but I do accept your keen interest as... complimentary. Now then, why don't you take a seat? Surely it was not merely for the purpose of examining my skull that you have done me the honour of this visit? No, sir.
I come to you because I am confronted with the most extraordinary problem. And since you are the second highest expert in Europe... Second? May I inquire who has the honor to be the first? Well, to the man of purely scientific mind, the work of Monsieur Bertillon must always stand out. Hmm. Then perhaps you had better consult him. Oh, but I said to the purely scientific mind. But as a practical man of affairs, it is acknowledged you stand alone.
I trust I have not inadvertently offended... Just a little. I think, sir, you would do well to tell me plainly exactly why you demand my assistance. I have in my pocket a manuscript. An old manuscript, dating from the early 18th century. The exact date is 1742. This family paper was committed to my care by Sir Charles Baskerville, whose sudden and tragic death some three months ago created much excitement in Devon. And you were his medical attendant? And personal friend, yes.
He was a generally practical man, sir, yet he took this document quite seriously. I see. This appears to be a statement of some sort. Indeed, sir. A statement concerning a certain old legend which runs in the Baskerville family. But I understand it is something more modern and practical upon which you wish to consult me. Most modern and most practical. A matter which must be decided within 24 hours. And this manuscript is connected with this urgent matter? Oh, intimately so.
You are, of course, free to read the entire discourse at your leisure. However, I am happy to summarize its contents in the interest of time. Efficiency is a high virtue, sir. Pray, continue. The legend centres on one Hugo Baskerville, a man of evidently violent and impulsive temperament, living during the time of the great rebellion. Baskerville abducted a young woman who subsequently escaped his clutches.
In a display of rage fuelled by alcohol and wickedness, Baskerville pursued her across the moor, swearing his soul to the devil if only he were able to capture her once more. The crux of the legend, Mr Holmes, lies in what follows. The young woman perished from exhaustion and terror. However, Baskerville himself was purportedly killed by a creature described as an enormous black hound, far larger than any known breed.
Since that time, it was believed that a curse had been placed on the Baskerville family, with future heirs doomed to be hunted by the supernatural hound if they ventured onto the moor, particularly at night. A very interesting taste. However, I fail to see how this relates to our present day. It relates to the death of my friend, Sir Charles Baskerville. You see, he was found dead in the yew alley of his estate.
Barrymore the butler states there were none unexplained, but that his master's footprints altered from the time he passed the Moor Gate, at which point he appeared to have been walking upon his toes. Any other signs upon the ground? Not according to Barrymore, no. Were there clear signs of injury to the body? None, sir. Save for the facial expression of the poor victim, which was greatly distorted in an expression of extreme terror. I see.
I must thank you for calling this information to my attention, sir. Yet I cannot shake the sense you have supplied me facts which are publicly available. If I am to be suitably prepared, I must be armed with the private facts as well. In doing so, I am telling that which I have not confided to anyone.
My motive for withholding is that a man of science shrinks from endorsing things viewed as superstition. In addition, I would like to avoid any further darkening of Baskerville Hall's already grim reputation. And so I felt justified in telling rather less than I knew. But with you, there is no reason why I should not be perfectly frank. Then please do so. Ahem. Yes. Well...
The moor is quite sparsely inhabited, but the chance of Sir Charles's illness brought he and I together, and a shared interest in science kept us so. Within the last few months, it became increasingly plain to me that Sir Charles's nervous system was strained to the breaking. He had taken the legend exceedingly to heart, so much so that, although he would walk in his own grounds, nothing would induce him to go out upon the mooring. He was convinced that a dreadful fate overhung his family.
The idea of some ghastly presence constantly haunted him, and on more than one occasion he has asked me whether I, on my medical journeys, had ever seen any strange creature or heard the baying of a hound. I well remember driving up to his house in the evening some three weeks before the fatal event. He happened to be at his hall door, and as I approached, I saw his eyes fix themselves over my shoulder and stare past me with an expression of the most dreadful horror.
I turned round and just caught the glimpse of something large and black passing at the head of the drive. He was so distressed that I went down to the spot, but could find nothing. I stayed with him all that evening, and it was then he confided to my keeping the document you now hold.
And then? It was at my advice that Sir Charles was about to go to London, as the constant anxiety was having a serious effect upon his health. I thought a few months among the distractions of town would send him back a new manner. Mr. Stapleton, a mutual friend, was of the same opinion. Stapleton? Yes, a mutual friend, a local man, and rather accomplished entomologist. I see. Please continue. Well, just before Sir Charles could leave for London, came the terrible catastrophe.
On the night of Sir Charles' death, Barrymore, who found the body, sent a man on horseback to me. And as I was sitting up late, I was able to reach Baskerville Hall within the hour. I followed the footsteps down the U alley. I saw the spot at the Moor Gate where he seemed to have waited. I remarked on the change in the shape of the prince after that point. And finally, I examined the body, which had not been touched until my arrival.
Sir Charles lay on his face, his arms out, his fingers dug into the ground, and his features so convulsed that I hardly recognised him. There was certainly no physical injury of any kind, but one inaccurate statement was made by Barrymore at the... He said there were no traces upon the ground round. He did not observe any. But I did. Some little distance off, but fresh and clear. Of what nature?
Footprints? Man or woman? These were not from a man or a woman, Mr. Holmes. These were the footprints... of a gigantic hound. Oh, good heavens. And you saw this, sir? I did. As clearly as I see you. Are there not sheepdogs upon them all? For a certainty. But none of the size these prints would require. Ah. The creature had not approached the body. No. What sort of night was this?
Damp and raw, though not actually raining. You mentioned a yew alley. Describe this. There are two lines of old yew hedge, twelve feet high and impenetrable. The walk in the centre is about eight feet across. You spoke of a gate? Yes, a wicket gate that opens upon the moor. No other opening? None. There is an exit through a summer house at the far end, but Sir Charles had not reached this, but rather lay some fifty yards shy of it.
Hmm. You interest me exceedingly. Another point, if you please. Was the Wicked Gate closed? Closed and padlocked. How high? About four feet. Low enough so anyone might have scaled... And what marks did you see by the wicked gate? None, in particular. Good heavens! Did no one examine it? Yes, I myself. And found nothing? It was all very confused.
Sir Charles had evidently stood there for five or ten minutes, which I surmised from the fact that the ash had dropped twice from his cigar. Oh, if only I had been there! That gravel page of... been smudged by the rain and defaced by the clogs of curious peasants. fellow to think you did not call me in sooner i could not call you in mr holmes without disclosing these facts to the world and i have already given my reasons for not wishing to
Besides... Why did you hesitate? There is a realm in which even the most acute and experienced of detectives is helpful. You speak of the supernatural. I did not say so. But you think it. Since the tragedy, Mr. Holmes, there have come to my ears several incidents difficult to recognize. such as? Prior to the terrible event several people spotted a creature upon the moor
which corresponds with this Baskerville demon, and which could not possibly be any animal known to science. They are all agreed it was a huge... Looms? So the witnesses say, sir. They swear the creature glows in the night. and it is a hardy man who will cross the moor at night. I do not know what to believe. I see. But tell me, Dr. Mortimer, you seem to suggest further investigation is you... And yet I find you here in my lodgings and desiring my assistance. I do not say I desire.
Then how can I assist you? By advising me as to what I should do with Sir Henry Baskerville, who arrives at Waterloo Station in exactly one hour and a quarter. He is the Baskerville heir? Yes. He comes from North America, having been raised there. There is no other claimant? None. The only other kinsman was Roger Baskerville, the youngest of three brothers, of whom poor Sir Charles was the eldest. The second brother who died young is the father of this lad Henry.
The third, Roger, was the black sheep of the family. He came of the dark Baskerville Strait. and was the very image of old Hugo. His ill deeds forced him to flee England for Central America, where he died in 1876 of yellow fever. Henry is the last of the Baskervilles. What would you advise me to do with him? Why should he not go to the home of his fathers? Ah, yes, that would seem natural. Yet please consider that every Baskerville who goes there meets an evil fate.
I feel certain Sir Charles would have warned me against bringing his heir to that deadly place. And yet, it cannot be denied that the prosperity of the whole bleak countryside depends on his... Hmm, I see. And yet, if the supernatural be the cause, could it not as easily work evil in London as in Devonshire? Tell me, Watson, are all devils merely local in nature? all homes. You both put the matter more flippantly than you might were you brought into personal contact with such things.
I beg your pardon? Am I to understand, Mr. Hope? that your advice is that the young man will be as safe in Devonshire as in London? My advice, sir, is to proceed to your meeting with Sir Henry. And then? And then you will say nothing to him at all of this matter until ten o'clock tomorrow, at which time I will be much obliged if you will both call upon me here at my lodging.
I knew that seclusion and solitude were very necessary for my friend in those hours of intense mental concentration, during which he weighed every particle of evidence, constructed alternative theories. balanced one against the other, and made up his mind as to which points were essential and which were immaterial. I therefore spent the rest of the day at my club and did not return to Baker Street until evening. Holmes? Have you got a cold, sir? No. By heavens, it's this poisonous atmosphere.
I thought at first the place was on fire. Throw open the window, then. You appear refreshed, Watson. I presume you have spent the entire day at your club. Indeed, Holmes. And you have spent the entire day breathing in these foul fumes. On the contrary. I have been to Devonshire. Devonshire? In spirit only, I say it. Exactly. My body has remained in this armchair and, in my absence, has consumed two large pots of coffee and an incredible amount of tobacco. After you left...
I sent down to Stamford's for the ordinance map of that portion of the moor, and my spirit has hovered over it all day. A large-scale map? Quite large. Here you have the particular district which concerns us. That is Baskerville Hall in the middle. Oh, with a wood round. Just so. I fancy the U Valley, though not marked under that name, must stretch along this line.
This small clump of buildings here is the hamlet where our friend Mortimer has his headquarters. And there are two Moreland farmhouses. Then... 14 miles away is the great convict prison of Prince Town. I see. Between and around these scattered points extends the desolate, lifeless moor, the stage upon which tragedy has been played, and upon which we may help to play it again. Oh, it must be a wild place.
Yes, the setting is a worthy one. If the devil did desire to have a hand in the affairs of men, the Moor would be a worthy candidate for his playground. Then you are inclining to the supernatural explanation? Ah, but the devil's agents may be flesh and blood, may they not. I think we'll close that window again if you don't mind, Watson. Now, there are two questions waiting for us at the hour. One is whether any crime has been committed at all.
And the second? What is the crime, and how was it committed? If, as Mortimer surmised, we are dealing with forces outside natural laws, then our investigation has ended before it truly began. However we must exhaust all other hypotheses before falling back upon that one. Have you turned to the case over in your mind? Why, yes. I have thought a good deal on it in the course of the day. And? It is very bewildering. It has certainly a character of its own. There are points of distinction about it.
That change in the footprints, for example, to suggest a man had walked on tiptoe down a portion of the alley. Why should a man walk on tiptoe down the alley? For no reason at all. Mortimer only repeated what some fool had said at the inquest. No, Watson, our man was running. Running desperately for his life. Running until he burst his heart. and fell dead upon his face. From... from what? And therein lies our problem. I am presuming the cause of his fear came from across the moor.
If that was so, and it seems most probable, only a man who had lost his wits would have run in the direction where help was least likely to be. Then again... whom was he waiting for that night and why was he waiting in the yew alley rather than in his own house Waiting for someone? The man was elderly and infirm. We can understand his taking an evening stroll, but the night was damp and raw.
Is it natural he should stand in such conditions for five or ten minutes, as Mortimer deduced, before the cigar ash? The evidence is that he avoided the moor. Yet that night, he waited there. It was the night before he made his departure for London. The thing takes shape Watson. It becomes coherent. Might I ask you to hand me my violin. and we will postpone all further thought upon this business until we have had the advantage of meeting Mr. Mortimer and Sir Henry Baskerville in the morning.
In the morning, our clients are punctual. For just at ten, Dr. Mortimer has shown up, followed by the young baronet. The latter was a small, dark-eyed man of about thirty, with thick, black eyebrows and a strong, pugnacious face. He wore a tweed suit and had the weather-beaten appearance of one who has spent most of his time in the open air. and yet there was something in his steady eye and the quiet assurance of his bearing which indicated the gentleman.