Monobear stars in EVERYTHING: The Hound of the Baskervilles - Last update 7/24
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Re: Coming 2012: Monobear stars in EVERYTHING
Monobear said:
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Re: Coming 2012: Monobear stars in EVERYTHING
Alright, some notes about my format for this.
Normal format will be as follows:
I am directly quoting parts of the work in question. Monobear will be written in as one or more of the characters from the book, and I'll attempt to stay authentic both to Monobear's dynamic personality and the original style of the text, which is not an easy balance. Monobear's character may not appear in every update or even every chapter, so to compensate for the fact that we might wind up with large portions of Sherlock Holmes with me just Ctrl-F'ing for when to sub Monobear in, I'm also adding italicized text into the main body of the story, representing Monobear's thoughts on the matter at hand. That way, you'll not only get the "what would Monobear do?" for many situations, but you'll also have the "what would Monobear say?" for just about everything.
Chapter 1 of The Hound of the Baskervilles is quite short and nothing interesting happens aside from some deductive reasoning, which isn't what we're after, so to spare you guys having to read through all that, I just skipped to chapter 2, which has plenty of good material to work with. You're welcome.
So without further ado, here is my first update:
I have in my pocket a manuscript, said Dr. James Mortimer.
I observed it as you entered the room, said Holmes.
Oh, you observed it. Well, aren't we clever?
It is an old manuscript.
Early eighteenth century, unless it is a forgery.
How can you say that, sir?
Well, I was there, you see.
You have presented an inch or two of it to my examination all the time that you have been talking. It would be a poor expert who could not give the date of a document within a decade or so. You may possibly have read my little monograph upon the subject. I put that at 1730.
The exact date is 1742. Dr. Mortimer drew it from his breast-pocket. This family paper was committed to my care by Sir Charles Baskerville, whose sudden and tragic death some three months ago created so much excitement in Devonshire. I may say that I was his personal friend as well as his medical attendant. He was a strong-minded man, sir, shrewd, practical, and as unimaginative as I am myself. Yet he took this document very seriously, and his mind was prepared for just such an end as did eventually overtake him.
Sounds like an old bore. Lack of imagination won't do, no it won't.
Holmes stretched out his hand for the manuscript and flattened it upon his knee.
You will observe, Watson, the alternative use of the long s and the short. It is one of several indications which enabled me to fix the date.
Now we won't have little baby Dates running all over the place like so many beheaded chickens! See, you bastards are good for something!
I looked over his shoulder at the yellow paper and the faded script. At the head was written: Baskerville Hall, and below in large, scrawling figures: 1742.
It appears to be a statement of some sort.
I have a statement: when you're reading yellow paper, it's a good idea to run chemical tests first!
Yes, it is a statement of a certain legend which runs in the Baskerville family.
Oh wait, this sounds exciting. Legends are usually fun, when they involve death and that sort of thing.
But I understand that it is something more modern and practical upon which you wish to consult me?
Bah. Leave it to Mr. Smarty-Pants Dectective to drag me back down again.
Most modern. A most practical, pressing matter, which must be decided within twenty-four hours. But the manuscript is short and is intimately connected with the affair. With your permission I will read it to you.
And then will you tuck me in? I won't be able to sleep unless you do it, Mr. Mortimer!
Holmes leaned back in his chair, placed his finger-tips together, and closed his eyes, with an air of resignation. Dr. Mortimer turned the manuscript to the light and read in a high, cracking voice the following curious, old-world narrative:
Oh, here we go. This had better be good.
Of the origin of the Bear of the Baskervilles there have been many statements, yet as I come in a direct line from Hugo Baskerville, and as I had the story from my father, who also had it from his, I have set it down with all belief that it occurred even as is here set forth. And I would have you believe, my sons, that the same Justice which punishes sin may also most graciously forgive it, and that no ban is so heavy but that by prayer and repentance it may be removed. Learn then from this story not to fear the fruits of the past, but rather to be circumspect in the future, that those foul passions whereby our family has suffered so grievously may not again be loosed to our undoing.
Don't get me wrong, I'm all for restraining passions, but this old codger seems like such a killjoy! Where's the action, the excitement, the suspense, the intrigue, the thrill, the DESPAIR???
Know then that in the time of the Great Rebellion (the history of which by the learned Lord Clarendon I most earnestly commend to your attention) this Manor of Baskerville was held by Hugo of that name, nor can it be gainsaid that he was a most wild, profane, and godless man. This, in truth, his neighbours might have pardoned, seeing that saints have never flourished in those parts, but there was in him a certain wanton and cruel humour which made his name a byword through the West.
Shut up about this old lord guy. I want to hear more about this Hugo fellow, however. Upupu, he sounds like a fun person!
"It chanced that this Hugo came to love (if, indeed, so dark a passion may be known under so bright a name) the daughter of a yeoman who held lands near the Baskerville estate. But the young maiden, being discreet and of good repute, would ever avoid him, for she feared his evil name. So it came to pass that one Michaelmas this Hugo, with five or six of his idle and wicked companions, stole down upon the farm and carried off the maiden, her father and brothers being from home, as he well knew. When they had brought her to the Hall the maiden was placed in an upper chamber, while Hugo and his friends sat down to a long carouse, as was their nightly custom.
Well, that's a start! Now do it with fifteen all at once.
"Now, the poor lass upstairs was like to have her wits turned at the singing and shouting and terrible oaths which came up to her from below, for they say that the words used by Hugo Baskerville, when he was in wine, were such as might blast the man who said them. At last in the stress of her fear she did that which might have daunted the bravest or most active man, for by the aid of the growth of ivy which covered (and still covers) the south wall she came down from under the eaves, and so homeward across the moor, there being three leagues betwixt the Hall and her fathers farm.
Oh, now we're getting good here! Maybe we'll get a car cha...I...mean...horse chase sequence!
It chanced that some little time later Hugo left his guests to carry food and drinkwith other worse things, perchanceto his captive, and so found the cage empty and the bird escaped. Then, as it would seem, he became as one that hath a devil, for, rushing down the stairs into the dining-hall, he sprang upon the great table, flagons and trenchers flying before him, and he cried aloud before all the company that he would that very night render his body and soul to the Powers of Evil if he might but overtake the wench. And while the revellers stood aghast at the fury of the man, one more wicked or, it may be, more drunken than the rest, cried out that they should put the hounds upon her. Whereat Hugo ran from the house, crying to his grooms that they should saddle his mare and unkennel the pack, and giving the hounds a kerchief of the maids, he swung them to the line, and so off full cry in the moonlight over the moor.
I don't know who to root for here! The daring young maiden taking a stand or the wild, fun-loving ruffian with a crew of loyal men. They both seem so interesting, so full of potential. I know, I'll tear myself into two!
Now, for some space the revellers stood agape, unable to understand all that had been done in such haste. But anon their bemused wits awoke to the nature of the deed which was like to be done upon the moorlands. Everything was now in an uproar, some calling for their pistols, some for their horses, and some for another flask of wine. But at length some sense came back to their crazed minds, and the whole of them, thirteen in number, took horse and started in pursuit. The moon shone clear above them, and they rode swiftly abreast, taking that course which the maid must needs have taken if she were to reach her own home.
This needs some music to properly set the mood. I know!
They had gone a mile or two when they passed one of the night shepherds upon the moorlands, and they cried to him to know if he had seen the hunt. And the man, as the story goes, was so crazed with fear that he could scarce speak, but at last he said that he had indeed seen the unhappy maiden, with the hounds upon her track. But I have seen more than that, said he, for Hugo Baskerville passed me upon his black mare, and there ran mute behind him such a bear of hell as God forbid should ever be at my heels.
Upupu, this sounds exciting! And that bear, so handsome-sounding!
"So the drunken squires cursed the shepherd and rode onward. But soon their skins turned cold, for there came a galloping across the moor, and the black mare, dabbled with white froth, went past with trailing bridle and empty saddle. Then the revellers rode close together, for a great fear was on them, but they still followed over the moor, though each, had he been alone, would have been right glad to have turned his horses head. Riding slowly in this fashion they came at last upon the hounds. These, though known for their valour and their breed, were whimpering in a cluster at the head of a deep dip or goyal, as we call it, upon the moor, some slinking away and some, with starting hackles and staring eyes, gazing down the narrow valley before them.
They sound like a bunch of weaklings. They need a fit, muscular bear like me to help them get in shape!
The company had come to a halt, more sober men, as you may guess, than when they started. The most of them would by no means advance, but three of them, the boldest, or it may be the most drunken, rode forward down the goyal. Now, it opened into a broad space in which stood two of those great stones, still to be seen there, which were set by certain forgotten peoples in the days of old. The moon was shining bright upon the clearing, and there in the centre lay the unhappy maid where she had fallen, dead of fear and of fatigue. But it was not the sight of her body, nor yet was it that of the body of Hugo Baskerville lying near her, which raised the hair upon the heads of these three daredevil roysterers, but it was that, standing over Hugo, and plucking at his throat, there stood a foul thing, a great, black and white beast, shaped like a bear, yet larger than any bear that ever mortal eye has rested upon. And even as they looked the thing tore the throat out of Hugo Baskerville, on which, as it turned its blazing eyes and dripping jaws upon them, the three shrieked with fear and rode for dear life, still screaming, across the moor. One, it is said, died that very night of what he had seen, and the other twain were but broken men for the rest of their days.
A thrilling conclusion! Five out of five stars! What brilliant storytelling, what murderous intrigue, what ever-present danger and despair!
Such is the tale, my sons, of the coming of the hound which is said to have plagued the family so sorely ever since. If I have set it down it is because that which is clearly known hath less terror than that which is but hinted at and guessed. Nor can it be denied that many of the family have been unhappy in their deaths, which have been sudden, bloody, and mysterious. Yet may we shelter ourselves in the infinite goodness of Providence, which would not forever punish the innocent beyond that third or fourth generation which is threatened in Holy Writ. To that Providence, my sons, I hereby commend you, and I counsel you by way of caution to forbear from crossing the moor in those dark hours when the powers of evil are exalted. [This from Hugo Baskerville to his sons Rodger and John, with instructions that they say nothing thereof to their sister Elizabeth.]
Oh wait, it's not over? Will we ever see any more of that dashing bear? I guess you bastards will just have to wait until next time!
Alright, some notes about my format for this.
Normal format will be as follows:
I am directly quoting parts of the work in question. Monobear will be written in as one or more of the characters from the book, and I'll attempt to stay authentic both to Monobear's dynamic personality and the original style of the text, which is not an easy balance. Monobear's character may not appear in every update or even every chapter, so to compensate for the fact that we might wind up with large portions of Sherlock Holmes with me just Ctrl-F'ing for when to sub Monobear in, I'm also adding italicized text into the main body of the story, representing Monobear's thoughts on the matter at hand. That way, you'll not only get the "what would Monobear do?" for many situations, but you'll also have the "what would Monobear say?" for just about everything.
Chapter 1 of The Hound of the Baskervilles is quite short and nothing interesting happens aside from some deductive reasoning, which isn't what we're after, so to spare you guys having to read through all that, I just skipped to chapter 2, which has plenty of good material to work with. You're welcome.
So without further ado, here is my first update:
I have in my pocket a manuscript, said Dr. James Mortimer.
I observed it as you entered the room, said Holmes.
Oh, you observed it. Well, aren't we clever?
It is an old manuscript.
Early eighteenth century, unless it is a forgery.
How can you say that, sir?
Well, I was there, you see.
You have presented an inch or two of it to my examination all the time that you have been talking. It would be a poor expert who could not give the date of a document within a decade or so. You may possibly have read my little monograph upon the subject. I put that at 1730.
The exact date is 1742. Dr. Mortimer drew it from his breast-pocket. This family paper was committed to my care by Sir Charles Baskerville, whose sudden and tragic death some three months ago created so much excitement in Devonshire. I may say that I was his personal friend as well as his medical attendant. He was a strong-minded man, sir, shrewd, practical, and as unimaginative as I am myself. Yet he took this document very seriously, and his mind was prepared for just such an end as did eventually overtake him.
Sounds like an old bore. Lack of imagination won't do, no it won't.
Holmes stretched out his hand for the manuscript and flattened it upon his knee.
You will observe, Watson, the alternative use of the long s and the short. It is one of several indications which enabled me to fix the date.
Now we won't have little baby Dates running all over the place like so many beheaded chickens! See, you bastards are good for something!
I looked over his shoulder at the yellow paper and the faded script. At the head was written: Baskerville Hall, and below in large, scrawling figures: 1742.
It appears to be a statement of some sort.
I have a statement: when you're reading yellow paper, it's a good idea to run chemical tests first!
Yes, it is a statement of a certain legend which runs in the Baskerville family.
Oh wait, this sounds exciting. Legends are usually fun, when they involve death and that sort of thing.
But I understand that it is something more modern and practical upon which you wish to consult me?
Bah. Leave it to Mr. Smarty-Pants Dectective to drag me back down again.
Most modern. A most practical, pressing matter, which must be decided within twenty-four hours. But the manuscript is short and is intimately connected with the affair. With your permission I will read it to you.
And then will you tuck me in? I won't be able to sleep unless you do it, Mr. Mortimer!
Holmes leaned back in his chair, placed his finger-tips together, and closed his eyes, with an air of resignation. Dr. Mortimer turned the manuscript to the light and read in a high, cracking voice the following curious, old-world narrative:
Oh, here we go. This had better be good.
Of the origin of the Bear of the Baskervilles there have been many statements, yet as I come in a direct line from Hugo Baskerville, and as I had the story from my father, who also had it from his, I have set it down with all belief that it occurred even as is here set forth. And I would have you believe, my sons, that the same Justice which punishes sin may also most graciously forgive it, and that no ban is so heavy but that by prayer and repentance it may be removed. Learn then from this story not to fear the fruits of the past, but rather to be circumspect in the future, that those foul passions whereby our family has suffered so grievously may not again be loosed to our undoing.
Don't get me wrong, I'm all for restraining passions, but this old codger seems like such a killjoy! Where's the action, the excitement, the suspense, the intrigue, the thrill, the DESPAIR???
Know then that in the time of the Great Rebellion (the history of which by the learned Lord Clarendon I most earnestly commend to your attention) this Manor of Baskerville was held by Hugo of that name, nor can it be gainsaid that he was a most wild, profane, and godless man. This, in truth, his neighbours might have pardoned, seeing that saints have never flourished in those parts, but there was in him a certain wanton and cruel humour which made his name a byword through the West.
Shut up about this old lord guy. I want to hear more about this Hugo fellow, however. Upupu, he sounds like a fun person!
"It chanced that this Hugo came to love (if, indeed, so dark a passion may be known under so bright a name) the daughter of a yeoman who held lands near the Baskerville estate. But the young maiden, being discreet and of good repute, would ever avoid him, for she feared his evil name. So it came to pass that one Michaelmas this Hugo, with five or six of his idle and wicked companions, stole down upon the farm and carried off the maiden, her father and brothers being from home, as he well knew. When they had brought her to the Hall the maiden was placed in an upper chamber, while Hugo and his friends sat down to a long carouse, as was their nightly custom.
Well, that's a start! Now do it with fifteen all at once.
"Now, the poor lass upstairs was like to have her wits turned at the singing and shouting and terrible oaths which came up to her from below, for they say that the words used by Hugo Baskerville, when he was in wine, were such as might blast the man who said them. At last in the stress of her fear she did that which might have daunted the bravest or most active man, for by the aid of the growth of ivy which covered (and still covers) the south wall she came down from under the eaves, and so homeward across the moor, there being three leagues betwixt the Hall and her fathers farm.
Oh, now we're getting good here! Maybe we'll get a car cha...I...mean...horse chase sequence!
It chanced that some little time later Hugo left his guests to carry food and drinkwith other worse things, perchanceto his captive, and so found the cage empty and the bird escaped. Then, as it would seem, he became as one that hath a devil, for, rushing down the stairs into the dining-hall, he sprang upon the great table, flagons and trenchers flying before him, and he cried aloud before all the company that he would that very night render his body and soul to the Powers of Evil if he might but overtake the wench. And while the revellers stood aghast at the fury of the man, one more wicked or, it may be, more drunken than the rest, cried out that they should put the hounds upon her. Whereat Hugo ran from the house, crying to his grooms that they should saddle his mare and unkennel the pack, and giving the hounds a kerchief of the maids, he swung them to the line, and so off full cry in the moonlight over the moor.
I don't know who to root for here! The daring young maiden taking a stand or the wild, fun-loving ruffian with a crew of loyal men. They both seem so interesting, so full of potential. I know, I'll tear myself into two!
Now, for some space the revellers stood agape, unable to understand all that had been done in such haste. But anon their bemused wits awoke to the nature of the deed which was like to be done upon the moorlands. Everything was now in an uproar, some calling for their pistols, some for their horses, and some for another flask of wine. But at length some sense came back to their crazed minds, and the whole of them, thirteen in number, took horse and started in pursuit. The moon shone clear above them, and they rode swiftly abreast, taking that course which the maid must needs have taken if she were to reach her own home.
This needs some music to properly set the mood. I know!
They had gone a mile or two when they passed one of the night shepherds upon the moorlands, and they cried to him to know if he had seen the hunt. And the man, as the story goes, was so crazed with fear that he could scarce speak, but at last he said that he had indeed seen the unhappy maiden, with the hounds upon her track. But I have seen more than that, said he, for Hugo Baskerville passed me upon his black mare, and there ran mute behind him such a bear of hell as God forbid should ever be at my heels.
Upupu, this sounds exciting! And that bear, so handsome-sounding!
"So the drunken squires cursed the shepherd and rode onward. But soon their skins turned cold, for there came a galloping across the moor, and the black mare, dabbled with white froth, went past with trailing bridle and empty saddle. Then the revellers rode close together, for a great fear was on them, but they still followed over the moor, though each, had he been alone, would have been right glad to have turned his horses head. Riding slowly in this fashion they came at last upon the hounds. These, though known for their valour and their breed, were whimpering in a cluster at the head of a deep dip or goyal, as we call it, upon the moor, some slinking away and some, with starting hackles and staring eyes, gazing down the narrow valley before them.
They sound like a bunch of weaklings. They need a fit, muscular bear like me to help them get in shape!
The company had come to a halt, more sober men, as you may guess, than when they started. The most of them would by no means advance, but three of them, the boldest, or it may be the most drunken, rode forward down the goyal. Now, it opened into a broad space in which stood two of those great stones, still to be seen there, which were set by certain forgotten peoples in the days of old. The moon was shining bright upon the clearing, and there in the centre lay the unhappy maid where she had fallen, dead of fear and of fatigue. But it was not the sight of her body, nor yet was it that of the body of Hugo Baskerville lying near her, which raised the hair upon the heads of these three daredevil roysterers, but it was that, standing over Hugo, and plucking at his throat, there stood a foul thing, a great, black and white beast, shaped like a bear, yet larger than any bear that ever mortal eye has rested upon. And even as they looked the thing tore the throat out of Hugo Baskerville, on which, as it turned its blazing eyes and dripping jaws upon them, the three shrieked with fear and rode for dear life, still screaming, across the moor. One, it is said, died that very night of what he had seen, and the other twain were but broken men for the rest of their days.
A thrilling conclusion! Five out of five stars! What brilliant storytelling, what murderous intrigue, what ever-present danger and despair!
Such is the tale, my sons, of the coming of the hound which is said to have plagued the family so sorely ever since. If I have set it down it is because that which is clearly known hath less terror than that which is but hinted at and guessed. Nor can it be denied that many of the family have been unhappy in their deaths, which have been sudden, bloody, and mysterious. Yet may we shelter ourselves in the infinite goodness of Providence, which would not forever punish the innocent beyond that third or fourth generation which is threatened in Holy Writ. To that Providence, my sons, I hereby commend you, and I counsel you by way of caution to forbear from crossing the moor in those dark hours when the powers of evil are exalted. [This from Hugo Baskerville to his sons Rodger and John, with instructions that they say nothing thereof to their sister Elizabeth.]
Oh wait, it's not over? Will we ever see any more of that dashing bear? I guess you bastards will just have to wait until next time!
Raiko Horikawa
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Re: Coming 2012: Monobear stars in EVERYTHING - Last update 6/25/12
this is amazing and the world is better for it
this is amazing and the world is better for it
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Re: Coming 2012: Monobear stars in EVERYTHING - Last update 6/25/12
Bop, you're my hero.
Bop, you're my hero.
New Super Mario
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Re: Coming 2012: Monobear stars in EVERYTHING - Last update 6/25/12
So, what is Monobear from? I know it's that thing everyone has changed their names too, but what is that?
So, what is Monobear from? I know it's that thing everyone has changed their names too, but what is that?
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Re: Coming 2012: Monobear stars in EVERYTHING - Last update 6/25/12
I guess the best way to describe it is Phoenix Wright meets Battle Royale starring a masochistic teddy bear with Doraemon's voice.
I guess the best way to describe it is Phoenix Wright meets Battle Royale starring a masochistic teddy bear with Doraemon's voice.
Re: Coming 2012: Monobear stars in EVERYTHING - Last update 6/25/12
you rip-offByakuya Togami said:
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Re: Coming 2012: Monobear stars in EVERYTHING - Last update 6/25/12
Ah, damn it. I've been exposed!I should have gotten rid of that computer when I had the chance.
Ah, damn it. I've been exposed!
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Re: Coming 2012: Monobear stars in EVERYTHING - Last update 6/25/12
When Dr. Mortimer had finished reading this singular narrative he pushed his spectacles up on his forehead and stared across at Mr. Sherlock Holmes. The latter yawned and tossed the end of his cigarette into the fire.
Mr. Holmes clearly has no sense of adventure. He just heard one of the most gripping narratives the world has ever known and yawned at it!
Well? said he.
Do you not find it interesting?
To a collector of fairy tales.
"And this is my vintage 1812 Hansel and Gretel over here in this corner of the room. If you look carefully, you can tell that the witch drools when she first sees them, a detail that was left out of subsequent versions.
Dr. Mortimer drew a folded newspaper out of his pocket.
Now, Mr. Holmes, we will give you something a little more recent. This is the Devon County Chronicle of May 14th of this year. It is a short account of the facts elicited at the death of Sir Charles Baskerville which occurred a few days before that date.
Upupu, compared to the reading we've had so far, my great, great, great grandmother was more recent!
My friend leaned a little forward and his expression became intent. Our visitor readjusted his glasses and began:
The recent sudden death of Sir Charles Baskerville, whose name has been mentioned as the probable Liberal candidate for Mid-Devon at the next election, has cast a gloom over the county. Though Sir Charles had resided at Baskerville Hall for a comparatively short period his amiability of character and extreme generosity had won the affection and respect of all who had been brought into contact with him.
You see, any time he bumped into someone, he'd always just flip a coin or two their way and leave again.
"In these days of nouveaux riches it is refreshing to find a case where the scion of an old county family which has fallen upon evil days is able to make his own fortune and to bring it back with him to restore the fallen grandeur of his line. Sir Charles, as is well known, made large sums of money in South African speculation.
That is to say, he became broke, sat under a tree in South Africa, and while he was speculating as to what to do with his life, some money fell on his head!
"More wise than those who go on until the wheel turns against them, he realized his gains and returned to England with them. It is only two years since he took up his residence at Baskerville Hall, and it is common talk how large were those schemes of reconstruction and improvement which have been interrupted by his death. Being himself childless, it was his openly expressed desire that the whole country-side should, within his own lifetime, profit by his good fortune, and many will have personal reasons for bewailing his untimely end. His generous donations to local and county charities have been frequently chronicled in these columns.
You see, we get paid a premium every time we mention them.
The circumstances connected with the death of Sir Charles cannot be said to have been entirely cleared up by the inquest, but at least enough has been done to dispose of those rumours to which local superstition has given rise.
They're really obsessed with cleaning things up around there, aren't they?
"There is no reason whatever to suspect foul play, or to imagine that death could be from any but natural causes. Sir Charles was a widower, and a man who may be said to have been in some ways of an eccentric habit of mind. In spite of his considerable wealth he was simple in his personal tastes, and his indoor servants at Baskerville Hall consisted of a married couple named Barrymore, the husband acting as butler and the wife as housekeeper. Their evidence, corroborated by that of several friends, tends to show that Sir Charless health has for some time been impaired, and points especially to some affection of the heart, manifesting itself in changes of colour, breathlessness, and acute attacks of nervous depression. Dr. James Mortimer, the friend and medical attendant of the deceased, has given evidence to the same effect.
Well, when you turn orange randomly, I'd say that's a good sign that something's wrong.
The facts of the case are simple. Sir Charles Baskerville was in the habit every night before going to bed of walking down the famous Yew Alley of Baskerville Hall.
I'm seeing a tourist attraction: Come visit the beautiful Yew Alley of Baskerville Hall, located in beautiful rural Devonshire. Rumorous fog and legends of bears from hell come standard included with the visit!
"The evidence of the Barrymores shows that this had been his custom. On the 4th of May Sir Charles had declared his intention of starting next day for London, and had ordered Barrymore to prepare his luggage. That night he went out as usual for his nocturnal walk, in the course of which he was in the habit of smoking a cigar. He never returned. At twelve oclock Barrymore, finding the hall door still open, became alarmed, and, lighting a lantern, went in search of his master. The day had been wet, and Sir Charless footmarks were easily traced down the Alley. Half-way down this walk there is a gate which leads out on to the moor. There were indications that Sir Charles had stood for some little time here. He then proceeded down the Alley, and it was at the far end of it that his body was discovered. One fact which has not been explained is the statement of Barrymore that his masters footprints altered their character from the time that he passed the moor-gate, and that he appeared from thence onward to have been walking upon his toes.
That's an easy solution: he was obviously sneaking up on someone and didn't want to be heard. Most likely some person from an advertising company, who may have had something to do with this.
"One Murphy, a gipsy horse-dealer, was on the moor at no great distance at the time, but he appears by his own confession to have been the worse for drink. He declares that he heard cries, but is unable to state from what direction they came.
That bastard probably wouldn't know from what direction someone close to him was talking to him, let alone where someone far-off was crying.
"No signs of violence were to be discovered upon Sir Charless person, and though the doctors evidence pointed to an almost incredible facial distortionso great that Dr. Mortimer refused at first to believe that it was indeed his friend and patient who lay before himit was explained that that is a symptom which is not unusual in cases of dyspnoea and death from cardiac exhaustion. This explanation was borne out by the postmortem examination, which showed longstanding organic disease, and the coroners jury returned a verdict in accordance with the medical evidence.
He must have been poisoned! That's always the answer in these things! I solved the mystery, I solved the mystery!
"It is well that his is so, for it is obviously of the utmost importance that Sir Charless heir should settle at the Hall and continue the good work which has been so sadly interrupted. Had the prosaic finding of the coroner not finally put an end to the romantic stories which have been whispered in connection with the affair, it might have been difficult to find a tenant for Baskerville Hall. It is understood that the next of kin is Mr. Henry Baskerville, if he be still alive, the son of Sir Charles Baskervilles younger brother. The young man when last heard of was in America, and inquiries are being instituted with a view to informing him of his good fortune.
"Hey, your uncle is dead. But cheer up, you just got a bunch of money! Isn't that great?
Dr. Mortimer refolded his paper and replaced it in his pocket.
Those are the public facts, Mr. Holmes, in connection with the death of Sir Charles Baskerville.
I must thank you, said Sherlock Holmes, for calling my attention to a case which certainly presents some features of interest. I had observed some newspaper comment at the time, but I was exceedingly preoccupied by that little affair of the Vatican cameos, and in my anxiety to oblige the Pope I lost touch with several interesting English cases. This article, you say, contains all the public facts?
It does.
Then let me have the private ones. He leaned back, put his finger-tips together, and assumed his most impassive and judicial expression.
In doing so, said Dr. Mortimer, who had begun to show signs of some strong emotion, I am telling that which I have not confided to anyone. My motive for withholding it from the coroners inquiry is that a man of science shrinks from placing himself in the public position of seeming to indorse a popular superstition. I had the further motive that Baskerville Hall, as the paper says, would certainly remain untenanted if anything were done to increase its already rather grim reputation. For both these reasons I thought that I was justified in telling rather less than I knew, since no practical good could result from it, but with you there is no reason why I should not be perfectly frank.
Oh wait, this boring old bastard might have something interesting to say again! Maybe we'll get something of that dashing mystery bear again!
The moor is very sparsely inhabited, and those who live near each other are thrown very much together. For this reason I saw a good deal of Sir Charles Baskerville. With the exception of Mr. Frankland, of Lafter Hall, and Mr. Stapleton, the naturalist, there are no other men of education within many miles. Sir Charles was a retiring man, but the chance of his illness brought us together, and a community of interests in science kept us so. He had brought back much scientific information from South Africa, and many a charming evening we have spent together discussing the comparative anatomy of the Bushman and the Hottentot.
Remind me again why people want to live there?
Within the last few months it became increasingly plain to me that Sir Charless nervous system was strained to the breaking point. He had taken this legend which I have read you exceedingly to heartso much so that, although he would walk in his own grounds, nothing would induce him to go out upon the moor at night.
One point in favor of the deceased Sir Charles Baskerville. Your move, Mr. Mortimer.
"Incredible as it may appear to you, Mr. Holmes, he was honestly convinced that a dreadful fate overhung his family, and certainly the records which he was able to give of his ancestors were not encouraging. The idea of some ghastly presence constantly haunted him, and on more than one occasion he has asked me whether I had on my medical journeys at night ever seen any strange creature or heard the baying of a bear. The latter question he put to me several times, and always with a voice which vibrated with excitement.
I'll make a trade with whoever has custody of Mr. Baskerville; you can take Mr. Holmes and Mortimer here, you give me custody of Baskerville. I'll even throw in a private island!
I can well remember driving up to his house in the evening some three weeks before the fatal event. He chanced to be at his hall door. I had descended from my gig and was standing in front of him, when I saw his eyes fix themselves over my shoulder, and stare past me with an expression of the most dreadful horror. I whisked round and had just time to catch a glimpse of something which I took to be a large black and white calf passing at the head of the drive. So excited and alarmed was he that I was compelled to go down to the spot where the animal had been and look around for it. It was gone, however, and the incident appeared to make the worst impression upon his mind. I stayed with him all the evening, and it was on that occasion, to explain the emotion which he had shown, that he confided to my keeping that narrative which I read to you when first I came. I mention this small episode because it assumes some importance in view of the tragedy which followed, but I was convinced at the time that the matter was entirely trivial and that his excitement had no justification.
Yes, we've established that you're ruining everything good about this so far. Can we get on with it?
It was at my advice that Sir Charles was about to go to London. His heart was, I knew, affected, and the constant anxiety in which he lived, however chimerical the cause of it might be, was evidently having a serious effect upon his health. I thought that a few months among the distractions of town would send him back a new man. "Mr. Stapleton, a mutual friend who was much concerned at his state of health, was of the same opinion. At the last instant came this terrible catastrophe.
You bastard, ruining a good man like Sir Charles!
On the night of Sir Charless death Barrymore the butler, who made the discovery, sent Perkins the groom on horseback to me, and as I was sitting up late I was able to reach Baskerville Hall within an hour of the event. I checked and corroborated all the facts which were mentioned at the inquest. I followed the footsteps down the Yew Alley, I saw the spot at the moor-gate where he seemed to have waited, I remarked the change in the shape of the prints after that point, I noted that there were no other footsteps save those of Barrymore on the soft gravel, and finally I carefully 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 convulsed with some strong emotion to such an extent that I could hardly have sworn to his identity. There was certainly no physical injury of any kind. But one false statement was made by Barrymore at the inquest. He said that there were no traces upon the ground round the body. He did not observe any. But I didsome little distance off, but fresh and clear.
Footprints?
Footprints.
A mans or a womans?
Dr. Mortimer looked strangely at us for an instant, and his voice sank almost to a whisper as he answered:
Mr. Holmes, they were the footprints of a gigantic bear!
A BEAR??? WHAT DESPAIR!!! This is by far the best news I've heard all day! But what to do about him? Is he friend, is he foe, is he good at managing the logistics of keeping school-children captive? Tune in next time, where we discuss a bunch of other things with our favorite bastard, Mr. Mortimer!
When Dr. Mortimer had finished reading this singular narrative he pushed his spectacles up on his forehead and stared across at Mr. Sherlock Holmes. The latter yawned and tossed the end of his cigarette into the fire.
Mr. Holmes clearly has no sense of adventure. He just heard one of the most gripping narratives the world has ever known and yawned at it!
Well? said he.
Do you not find it interesting?
To a collector of fairy tales.
"And this is my vintage 1812 Hansel and Gretel over here in this corner of the room. If you look carefully, you can tell that the witch drools when she first sees them, a detail that was left out of subsequent versions.
Dr. Mortimer drew a folded newspaper out of his pocket.
Now, Mr. Holmes, we will give you something a little more recent. This is the Devon County Chronicle of May 14th of this year. It is a short account of the facts elicited at the death of Sir Charles Baskerville which occurred a few days before that date.
Upupu, compared to the reading we've had so far, my great, great, great grandmother was more recent!
My friend leaned a little forward and his expression became intent. Our visitor readjusted his glasses and began:
The recent sudden death of Sir Charles Baskerville, whose name has been mentioned as the probable Liberal candidate for Mid-Devon at the next election, has cast a gloom over the county. Though Sir Charles had resided at Baskerville Hall for a comparatively short period his amiability of character and extreme generosity had won the affection and respect of all who had been brought into contact with him.
You see, any time he bumped into someone, he'd always just flip a coin or two their way and leave again.
"In these days of nouveaux riches it is refreshing to find a case where the scion of an old county family which has fallen upon evil days is able to make his own fortune and to bring it back with him to restore the fallen grandeur of his line. Sir Charles, as is well known, made large sums of money in South African speculation.
That is to say, he became broke, sat under a tree in South Africa, and while he was speculating as to what to do with his life, some money fell on his head!
"More wise than those who go on until the wheel turns against them, he realized his gains and returned to England with them. It is only two years since he took up his residence at Baskerville Hall, and it is common talk how large were those schemes of reconstruction and improvement which have been interrupted by his death. Being himself childless, it was his openly expressed desire that the whole country-side should, within his own lifetime, profit by his good fortune, and many will have personal reasons for bewailing his untimely end. His generous donations to local and county charities have been frequently chronicled in these columns.
You see, we get paid a premium every time we mention them.
The circumstances connected with the death of Sir Charles cannot be said to have been entirely cleared up by the inquest, but at least enough has been done to dispose of those rumours to which local superstition has given rise.
They're really obsessed with cleaning things up around there, aren't they?
"There is no reason whatever to suspect foul play, or to imagine that death could be from any but natural causes. Sir Charles was a widower, and a man who may be said to have been in some ways of an eccentric habit of mind. In spite of his considerable wealth he was simple in his personal tastes, and his indoor servants at Baskerville Hall consisted of a married couple named Barrymore, the husband acting as butler and the wife as housekeeper. Their evidence, corroborated by that of several friends, tends to show that Sir Charless health has for some time been impaired, and points especially to some affection of the heart, manifesting itself in changes of colour, breathlessness, and acute attacks of nervous depression. Dr. James Mortimer, the friend and medical attendant of the deceased, has given evidence to the same effect.
Well, when you turn orange randomly, I'd say that's a good sign that something's wrong.
The facts of the case are simple. Sir Charles Baskerville was in the habit every night before going to bed of walking down the famous Yew Alley of Baskerville Hall.
I'm seeing a tourist attraction: Come visit the beautiful Yew Alley of Baskerville Hall, located in beautiful rural Devonshire. Rumorous fog and legends of bears from hell come standard included with the visit!
"The evidence of the Barrymores shows that this had been his custom. On the 4th of May Sir Charles had declared his intention of starting next day for London, and had ordered Barrymore to prepare his luggage. That night he went out as usual for his nocturnal walk, in the course of which he was in the habit of smoking a cigar. He never returned. At twelve oclock Barrymore, finding the hall door still open, became alarmed, and, lighting a lantern, went in search of his master. The day had been wet, and Sir Charless footmarks were easily traced down the Alley. Half-way down this walk there is a gate which leads out on to the moor. There were indications that Sir Charles had stood for some little time here. He then proceeded down the Alley, and it was at the far end of it that his body was discovered. One fact which has not been explained is the statement of Barrymore that his masters footprints altered their character from the time that he passed the moor-gate, and that he appeared from thence onward to have been walking upon his toes.
That's an easy solution: he was obviously sneaking up on someone and didn't want to be heard. Most likely some person from an advertising company, who may have had something to do with this.
"One Murphy, a gipsy horse-dealer, was on the moor at no great distance at the time, but he appears by his own confession to have been the worse for drink. He declares that he heard cries, but is unable to state from what direction they came.
That bastard probably wouldn't know from what direction someone close to him was talking to him, let alone where someone far-off was crying.
"No signs of violence were to be discovered upon Sir Charless person, and though the doctors evidence pointed to an almost incredible facial distortionso great that Dr. Mortimer refused at first to believe that it was indeed his friend and patient who lay before himit was explained that that is a symptom which is not unusual in cases of dyspnoea and death from cardiac exhaustion. This explanation was borne out by the postmortem examination, which showed longstanding organic disease, and the coroners jury returned a verdict in accordance with the medical evidence.
He must have been poisoned! That's always the answer in these things! I solved the mystery, I solved the mystery!
"It is well that his is so, for it is obviously of the utmost importance that Sir Charless heir should settle at the Hall and continue the good work which has been so sadly interrupted. Had the prosaic finding of the coroner not finally put an end to the romantic stories which have been whispered in connection with the affair, it might have been difficult to find a tenant for Baskerville Hall. It is understood that the next of kin is Mr. Henry Baskerville, if he be still alive, the son of Sir Charles Baskervilles younger brother. The young man when last heard of was in America, and inquiries are being instituted with a view to informing him of his good fortune.
"Hey, your uncle is dead. But cheer up, you just got a bunch of money! Isn't that great?
Dr. Mortimer refolded his paper and replaced it in his pocket.
Those are the public facts, Mr. Holmes, in connection with the death of Sir Charles Baskerville.
I must thank you, said Sherlock Holmes, for calling my attention to a case which certainly presents some features of interest. I had observed some newspaper comment at the time, but I was exceedingly preoccupied by that little affair of the Vatican cameos, and in my anxiety to oblige the Pope I lost touch with several interesting English cases. This article, you say, contains all the public facts?
It does.
Then let me have the private ones. He leaned back, put his finger-tips together, and assumed his most impassive and judicial expression.
In doing so, said Dr. Mortimer, who had begun to show signs of some strong emotion, I am telling that which I have not confided to anyone. My motive for withholding it from the coroners inquiry is that a man of science shrinks from placing himself in the public position of seeming to indorse a popular superstition. I had the further motive that Baskerville Hall, as the paper says, would certainly remain untenanted if anything were done to increase its already rather grim reputation. For both these reasons I thought that I was justified in telling rather less than I knew, since no practical good could result from it, but with you there is no reason why I should not be perfectly frank.
Oh wait, this boring old bastard might have something interesting to say again! Maybe we'll get something of that dashing mystery bear again!
The moor is very sparsely inhabited, and those who live near each other are thrown very much together. For this reason I saw a good deal of Sir Charles Baskerville. With the exception of Mr. Frankland, of Lafter Hall, and Mr. Stapleton, the naturalist, there are no other men of education within many miles. Sir Charles was a retiring man, but the chance of his illness brought us together, and a community of interests in science kept us so. He had brought back much scientific information from South Africa, and many a charming evening we have spent together discussing the comparative anatomy of the Bushman and the Hottentot.
Remind me again why people want to live there?
Within the last few months it became increasingly plain to me that Sir Charless nervous system was strained to the breaking point. He had taken this legend which I have read you exceedingly to heartso much so that, although he would walk in his own grounds, nothing would induce him to go out upon the moor at night.
One point in favor of the deceased Sir Charles Baskerville. Your move, Mr. Mortimer.
"Incredible as it may appear to you, Mr. Holmes, he was honestly convinced that a dreadful fate overhung his family, and certainly the records which he was able to give of his ancestors were not encouraging. The idea of some ghastly presence constantly haunted him, and on more than one occasion he has asked me whether I had on my medical journeys at night ever seen any strange creature or heard the baying of a bear. The latter question he put to me several times, and always with a voice which vibrated with excitement.
I'll make a trade with whoever has custody of Mr. Baskerville; you can take Mr. Holmes and Mortimer here, you give me custody of Baskerville. I'll even throw in a private island!
I can well remember driving up to his house in the evening some three weeks before the fatal event. He chanced to be at his hall door. I had descended from my gig and was standing in front of him, when I saw his eyes fix themselves over my shoulder, and stare past me with an expression of the most dreadful horror. I whisked round and had just time to catch a glimpse of something which I took to be a large black and white calf passing at the head of the drive. So excited and alarmed was he that I was compelled to go down to the spot where the animal had been and look around for it. It was gone, however, and the incident appeared to make the worst impression upon his mind. I stayed with him all the evening, and it was on that occasion, to explain the emotion which he had shown, that he confided to my keeping that narrative which I read to you when first I came. I mention this small episode because it assumes some importance in view of the tragedy which followed, but I was convinced at the time that the matter was entirely trivial and that his excitement had no justification.
Yes, we've established that you're ruining everything good about this so far. Can we get on with it?
It was at my advice that Sir Charles was about to go to London. His heart was, I knew, affected, and the constant anxiety in which he lived, however chimerical the cause of it might be, was evidently having a serious effect upon his health. I thought that a few months among the distractions of town would send him back a new man. "Mr. Stapleton, a mutual friend who was much concerned at his state of health, was of the same opinion. At the last instant came this terrible catastrophe.
You bastard, ruining a good man like Sir Charles!
On the night of Sir Charless death Barrymore the butler, who made the discovery, sent Perkins the groom on horseback to me, and as I was sitting up late I was able to reach Baskerville Hall within an hour of the event. I checked and corroborated all the facts which were mentioned at the inquest. I followed the footsteps down the Yew Alley, I saw the spot at the moor-gate where he seemed to have waited, I remarked the change in the shape of the prints after that point, I noted that there were no other footsteps save those of Barrymore on the soft gravel, and finally I carefully 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 convulsed with some strong emotion to such an extent that I could hardly have sworn to his identity. There was certainly no physical injury of any kind. But one false statement was made by Barrymore at the inquest. He said that there were no traces upon the ground round the body. He did not observe any. But I didsome little distance off, but fresh and clear.
Footprints?
Footprints.
A mans or a womans?
Dr. Mortimer looked strangely at us for an instant, and his voice sank almost to a whisper as he answered:
Mr. Holmes, they were the footprints of a gigantic bear!
A BEAR??? WHAT DESPAIR!!! This is by far the best news I've heard all day! But what to do about him? Is he friend, is he foe, is he good at managing the logistics of keeping school-children captive? Tune in next time, where we discuss a bunch of other things with our favorite bastard, Mr. Mortimer!
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Re: Coming 2012: Monobear stars in EVERYTHING - Last update 6/28/12
I confess at these words a shudder passed through me. There was a thrill in the doctors voice which showed that he was himself deeply moved by that which he told us. Holmes leaned forward in his excitement and his eyes had the hard, dry glitter which shot from them when he was keenly interested.
That is to say, he looked almost normal.
You saw this?
As clearly as I see you.
And you said nothing?
What was the use?
How was it that no one else saw it?
The marks were some twenty yards from the body and no one gave them a thought. I dont suppose I should have done so had I not known this legend.
This must constitute scientific proof of some sort that Mr. Mortimer is deliberately trying to bait me.
There are many grizzly bears on the moor?
No doubt, but this was no grizzly bear.
Just cut to the obvious and tell me what exactly is going on!!
You say it was large?
Enormous.
But it had not approached the body?
No.
What sort of night was it?
Damp and raw.
Sounds kinda like an uncooked steak.
But not actually raining?
No.
What is the Alley like?
There are two lines of old yew hedge, twelve feet high and impenetrable. The walk in the centre is about eight feet across.
Is there anything between the hedges and the walk?
Yes, there is a strip of grass about six feet broad on either side.
I understand that the yew hedge is penetrated at one point by a gate?
The gate is sideways!
Yes, the wicket-gate which leads on to the moor.
Is there any other opening?
None.
So that to reach the Yew Alley one either has to come down it from the house or else to enter it by the moor-gate?
There is an exit through a summer-house at the far end.
Had Sir Charles reached this?
No; he lay about fifty yards from it.
Now, tell me, Dr. Mortimerand this is importantthe marks which you saw were on the path and not on the grass?
No marks could show on the grass.
Were they on the same side of the path as the moor-gate?
Yes; they were on the edge of the path on the same side as the moor-gate.
You interest me exceedingly. Another point. Was the wicket-gate closed?
Closed and padlocked.
How high was it?
About four feet high.
Then anyone could have got over it?
Except for those circus midgets. Wait, I think I just solved the case!
Yes.
And what marks did you see by the wicket-gate?
None in particular.
Good heaven! Did no one examine?
Yes, I examined myself.
And did you figure out that you are profoundly boring?
And found nothing?
It was all very confused. Sir Charles had evidently stood there for five or ten minutes.
How do you know that?
Because the ash had twice dropped from his cigar.
Excellent! This is a colleague, Watson, after our own heart. But the marks?
I really feel for you, Mr. Holmes.
He had left his own marks all over that small patch of gravel. I could discern no others.
Sherlock Holmes struck his hand against his knee with an impatient gesture.
If I had only been there! he cried. It is evidently a case of extraordinary interest, and one which presented immense opportunities to the scientific expert. That gravel page upon which I might have read so much has been long ere this smudged by the rain and defaced by the clogs of curious peasants. Oh, Dr. Mortimer, Dr. Mortimer, to think that you should not have called me in! You have indeed much to answer for.
And that's without getting into the fact that he's a horrible person with no business discussing a fantastic legend like this!
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 do so. Besides, besides
Why do you hesitate?
There is a realm in which the most acute and most experienced of detectives is helpless.
Well, we know it isn't trigonometry, at least.
You mean that the thing is supernatural?
I did not positively say so.
No, but you evidently think it.
Since the tragedy, Mr. Holmes, there have come to my ears several incidents which are hard to reconcile with the settled order of Nature.
For example?
Well, they put Mortimer in here, for one thing...
I find that before the terrible event occurred several people had seen a creature upon the moor which corresponds with this Baskerville demon, and which could not possibly be any animal known to science. They all agreed that it was a huge creature, luminous, ghastly, and spectral. I have cross-examined these men, one of them a hard-headed countryman, one a farrier, and one a moorland farmer, who all tell the same story of this dreadful apparition, exactly corresponding to the hell-bear of the legend. I assure you that there is a reign of terror in the district, and that it is a hardy man who will cross the moor at night.
Well, at least these people seem to know what they're talking about.
And you, a trained man of science, believe it to be supernatural?
I do not know what to believe.
Holmes shrugged his shoulders.
I have hitherto confined my investigations to this world, said he. In a modest way I have combated evil, but to take on the Father of Evil himself would, perhaps, be too ambitious a task. Yet you must admit that the footmark is material.
The original hound was material enough to tug a mans throat out, and yet he was diabolical as well.
I see that you have quite gone over to the supernaturalists.
Yes, and now that we have him over here, we're sending him back courtesy of the local postal service. You're welcome.
"But now, Dr. Mortimer, tell me this. If you hold these views, why have you come to consult me at all? You tell me in the same breath that it is useless to investigate Sir Charless death, and that you desire me to do it.
I did not say that I desired you to do it.
Then, how can I assist you?
Slap him in the face! That'll knock some sense into the bastard!
By advising me as to what I should do with Sir Henry Baskerville, who arrives at Waterloo StationDr. Mortimer looked at his watchin exactly one hour and a quarter.
He being the heir?
Yes. On the death of Sir Charles we inquired for this young gentleman and found that he had been farming in Canada. From the accounts which have reached us he is an excellent fellow in every way. I speak not as a medical man but as a trustee and executor of Sir Charless will.
There is no other claimant, I presume?
There probably was, but whoever it was ran away when they heard about Mortimer.
None. The only other kinsman whom we have been able to trace was Rodger Baskerville, the youngest of three brothers of whom poor Sir Charles was the elder. The second brother, who died young, is the father of this lad Henry. The third, Rodger, was the black sheep of the family. He came of the old masterful Baskerville strain, and was the very image, they tell me, of the family picture of old Hugo. He made England too hot to hold him, fled to Central America, and died there in 1876 of yellow fever. Henry is the last of the Baskervilles. In one hour and five minutes I meet him at Waterloo Station. I have had a wire that he arrived at Southampton this morning. Now, Mr. Holmes, what would you advise me to do with him?
Give him to me, I'll educate him on the people around here.
Why should he not go to the home of his fathers?
It seems natural, does it not? And yet, consider that every Baskerville who goes there meets with an evil fate. I feel sure that if Sir Charles could have spoken with me before his death he would have warned me against bringing this, the last of the old race, and the heir to great wealth, to that deadly place. And yet it cannot be denied that the prosperity of the whole poor, bleak country-side depends upon his presence. All the good work which has been done by Sir Charles will crash to the ground if there is no tenant of the Hall. I fear lest I should be swayed too much by my own obvious interest in the matter, and that is why I bring the case before you and ask for your advice.
Holmes considered for a little time.
Put into plain words, the matter is this, said he. In your opinion there is a diabolical agency which makes Dartmoor an unsafe abode for a Baskervillethat is your opinion?
At least I might go the length of saying that there is some evidence that this may be so.
Stop beating about the bush already and just state your position!
Exactly. But surely, if your supernatural theory be correct, it could work the young man evil in London as easily as in Devonshire. A devil with merely local powers like a parish vestry would be too inconceivable a thing.
You put the matter more flippantly, Mr. Holmes, than you would probably do if you were brought into personal contact with these things. Your advice, then, as I understand it, is that the young man will be as safe in Devonshire as in London. He comes in fifty minutes. What would you recommend?
I recommend, sir, that you take a cab, call off your spaniel who is scratching at my front door, and proceed to Waterloo to meet Sir Henry Baskerville.
And then?
And then you will say nothing to him at all until I have made up my mind about the matter.
That shouldn't be too hard for him.
How long will it take you to make up your mind?
Twenty-four hours. At ten oclock to-morrow, Dr. Mortimer, I will be much obliged to you if you will call upon me here, and it will be of help to me in my plans for the future if you will bring Sir Henry Baskerville with you.
I will do so, Mr. Holmes. He scribbled the appointment on his shirtcuff and hurried off in his strange, peering, absent-minded fashion. Holmes stopped him at the head of the stair.
Only one more question, Dr. Mortimer. You say that before Sir Charles Baskervilles death several people saw this apparition upon the moor?
Three people did.
Did any see it after?
I have not heard of any.
Thank you. Good morning.
Holmes returned to his seat with that quiet look of inward satisfaction which meant that he had a congenial task before him.
Going out, Watson?
Unless I can help you.
No, my dear fellow, it is at the hour of action that I turn to you for aid. But this is splendid, really unique from some points of view. When you pass Bradleys, would you ask him to send up a pound of the strongest shag tobacco? Thank you. It would be as well if you could make it convenient not to return before evening. Then I should be very glad to compare impressions as to this most interesting problem which has been submitted to us this morning.
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 immaterial. I therefore spent the day at my club and did not return to Baker Street until evening. It was nearly nine oclock when I found myself in the sitting-room once more.
As opposed to his normal temperament, where he was perfectly outgoing and social.
My first impression as I opened the door was that a fire had broken out, for the room was so filled with smoke that the light of the lamp upon the table was blurred by it. As I entered, however, my fears were set at rest, for it was the acrid fumes of strong coarse tobacco which took me by the throat and set me coughing. Through the haze I had a vague vision of Holmes in his dressinggown coiled up in an armchair with his black clay pipe between his lips. Several rolls of paper lay around him.
Caught cold, Watson? said he.
No, its this poisonous atmosphere.
What you do smell is called tobacco. It is tasteful, odorous, does not dissolve in anything, and is among one of the less dealy poisons known to man.
I suppose it is pretty thick, now that you mention it.
Thick! It is intolerable.
Open the window, then! You have been at your club all day, I perceive.
My dear Holmes!
Am I right?
Certainly, but how?
He laughed at my bewildered expression.
There is a delightful freshness about you, Watson, which makes it a pleasure to exercise any small powers which I possess at your expense. A gentleman goes forth on a showery and miry day. He returns immaculate in the evening with the gloss still on his hat and his boots. He has been a fixture therefore all day. He is not a man with intimate friends. Where, then, could he have been? Is it not obvious?
Well, aren't we pretentious today? Upupu, must be all that tobacco!
Well, it is rather obvious.
The world is full of obvious things which nobody by any chance ever observes. Where do you think that I have been?
A fixture also.
On the contrary, I have been to Devonshire.
In spirit?
Oh, so that's what that thing in the sky was! I just assumed it was some bastard in his weather balloon!
Exactly. My body has remained in this armchair and has, I regret to observe, consumed in my absence two large pots of coffee and an incredible amount of tobacco. After you left I sent down to Stamfords for the Ordnance map of this portion of the moor, and my spirit has hovered over it all day. I flatter myself that I could find my way about.
A large scale map, I presume?
Yes, indeed it is. The image of Baskerville Hall is about as big as Mr. Holmes' ego!
Very large. He unrolled one section and held it over his knee. Here you have the particular district which concerns us. That is Baskerville Hall in the middle.
With a wood round it?
Exactly. I fancy the Yew Alley, though not marked under that name, must stretch along this line, with the moor, as you perceive, upon the right of it. This small clump of buildings here is the hamlet of Grimpen, where our friend Dr. Mortimer has his headquarters. Within a radius of five miles there are, as you see, only a very few scattered dwellings. Here is Lafter Hall, which was mentioned in the narrative. There is a house indicated here which may be the residence of the naturalistStapleton, if I remember right, was his name.
And we all know what to do about people who staple tons of things, don't we?
"Here are two moorland farm-houses, High Tor and Foulmire. Then fourteen miles away the great convict prison of Princetown. Between and around these scattered points extends the desolate, lifeless moor. This, then, is the stage upon which tragedy has been played, and upon which we may help to play it again.
Now that's unexpected. I really thought a great and famous attraction like the fabled Yew Alley would be marked on every map of the area.
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
Then you are yourself inclining to the supernatural explanation.
The devils agents may be of flesh and blood, may they not? There are two questions waiting for us at the outset. The one is whether any crime has been committed at all; the second is, what is the crime and how was it committed? Of course, if Dr. Mortimers surmise should be correct, and we are dealing with forces outside the ordinary laws of Nature, there is an end of our investigation. But we are bound to exhaust all other hypotheses before falling back upon this one. I think well shut that window again, if you dont mind. It is a singular thing, but I find that a concentrated atmosphere helps a concentration of thought. I have not pushed it to the length of getting into a box to think, but that is the logical outcome of my convictions. Have you turned the case over in your mind?
Yes, I have thought a good deal of it in the course of the day.
What do you make of it?
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. What do you make of that?
Ooh ooh ooh, I know! He took off his feet and put new ones on midway through the journey!
Mortimer said that the man had walked on tiptoe down that portion of the alley.
He only repeated what some fool had said at the inquest. Why should a man walk on tiptoe down the alley?
What then?
He was running, Watsonrunning desperately, running for his life, running until he burst his heart and fell dead upon his face.
Running from what?
Well, it's obvious that his speed meant nothing if it was death he was running from.
There lies our problem. There are indications that the man was crazed with fear before ever he began to run.
How can you say that?
"With my mouth. You should try it sometime!
I am presuming that the cause of his fears came to him across the moor. If that were so, and it seems most probable, only a man who had lost his wits would have run from the house instead of towards it. If the gipsys evidence may be taken as true, he ran with cries for help in the direction where help was least likely to be. Then, again, whom was he waiting for that night, and why was he waiting for him in the Yew Alley rather than in his own house?
You think that he was waiting for someone?
The man was elderly and infirm. We can understand his taking an evening stroll, but the ground was damp and the night inclement. Is it natural that he should stand for five or ten minutes, as Dr. Mortimer, with more practical sense than I should have given him credit for, deduced from the cigar ash?
But he went out every evening.
I think it unlikely that he waited at the moorgate every evening. On the contrary, the evidence is that he avoided the moor. 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 Dr. Mortimer and Sir Henry Baskerville in the morning.
Maybe Sir Henry will live up to the lofty expectations set by his late uncle. We'll have to wait until next time, though, for that! Be sure to read next issue, where we meet the fascinating Sir Henry Baskerville, receive a mysterious letter, and worry about the state of footwear in England! I'm Monobear, and you are all a bunch of lowlife bastards! Good night!
I confess at these words a shudder passed through me. There was a thrill in the doctors voice which showed that he was himself deeply moved by that which he told us. Holmes leaned forward in his excitement and his eyes had the hard, dry glitter which shot from them when he was keenly interested.
That is to say, he looked almost normal.
You saw this?
As clearly as I see you.
And you said nothing?
What was the use?
How was it that no one else saw it?
The marks were some twenty yards from the body and no one gave them a thought. I dont suppose I should have done so had I not known this legend.
This must constitute scientific proof of some sort that Mr. Mortimer is deliberately trying to bait me.
There are many grizzly bears on the moor?
No doubt, but this was no grizzly bear.
Just cut to the obvious and tell me what exactly is going on!!
You say it was large?
Enormous.
But it had not approached the body?
No.
What sort of night was it?
Damp and raw.
Sounds kinda like an uncooked steak.
But not actually raining?
No.
What is the Alley like?
There are two lines of old yew hedge, twelve feet high and impenetrable. The walk in the centre is about eight feet across.
Is there anything between the hedges and the walk?
Yes, there is a strip of grass about six feet broad on either side.
I understand that the yew hedge is penetrated at one point by a gate?
The gate is sideways!
Yes, the wicket-gate which leads on to the moor.
Is there any other opening?
None.
So that to reach the Yew Alley one either has to come down it from the house or else to enter it by the moor-gate?
There is an exit through a summer-house at the far end.
Had Sir Charles reached this?
No; he lay about fifty yards from it.
Now, tell me, Dr. Mortimerand this is importantthe marks which you saw were on the path and not on the grass?
No marks could show on the grass.
Were they on the same side of the path as the moor-gate?
Yes; they were on the edge of the path on the same side as the moor-gate.
You interest me exceedingly. Another point. Was the wicket-gate closed?
Closed and padlocked.
How high was it?
About four feet high.
Then anyone could have got over it?
Except for those circus midgets. Wait, I think I just solved the case!
Yes.
And what marks did you see by the wicket-gate?
None in particular.
Good heaven! Did no one examine?
Yes, I examined myself.
And did you figure out that you are profoundly boring?
And found nothing?
It was all very confused. Sir Charles had evidently stood there for five or ten minutes.
How do you know that?
Because the ash had twice dropped from his cigar.
Excellent! This is a colleague, Watson, after our own heart. But the marks?
I really feel for you, Mr. Holmes.
He had left his own marks all over that small patch of gravel. I could discern no others.
Sherlock Holmes struck his hand against his knee with an impatient gesture.
If I had only been there! he cried. It is evidently a case of extraordinary interest, and one which presented immense opportunities to the scientific expert. That gravel page upon which I might have read so much has been long ere this smudged by the rain and defaced by the clogs of curious peasants. Oh, Dr. Mortimer, Dr. Mortimer, to think that you should not have called me in! You have indeed much to answer for.
And that's without getting into the fact that he's a horrible person with no business discussing a fantastic legend like this!
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 do so. Besides, besides
Why do you hesitate?
There is a realm in which the most acute and most experienced of detectives is helpless.
Well, we know it isn't trigonometry, at least.
You mean that the thing is supernatural?
I did not positively say so.
No, but you evidently think it.
Since the tragedy, Mr. Holmes, there have come to my ears several incidents which are hard to reconcile with the settled order of Nature.
For example?
Well, they put Mortimer in here, for one thing...
I find that before the terrible event occurred several people had seen a creature upon the moor which corresponds with this Baskerville demon, and which could not possibly be any animal known to science. They all agreed that it was a huge creature, luminous, ghastly, and spectral. I have cross-examined these men, one of them a hard-headed countryman, one a farrier, and one a moorland farmer, who all tell the same story of this dreadful apparition, exactly corresponding to the hell-bear of the legend. I assure you that there is a reign of terror in the district, and that it is a hardy man who will cross the moor at night.
Well, at least these people seem to know what they're talking about.
And you, a trained man of science, believe it to be supernatural?
I do not know what to believe.
Holmes shrugged his shoulders.
I have hitherto confined my investigations to this world, said he. In a modest way I have combated evil, but to take on the Father of Evil himself would, perhaps, be too ambitious a task. Yet you must admit that the footmark is material.
The original hound was material enough to tug a mans throat out, and yet he was diabolical as well.
I see that you have quite gone over to the supernaturalists.
Yes, and now that we have him over here, we're sending him back courtesy of the local postal service. You're welcome.
"But now, Dr. Mortimer, tell me this. If you hold these views, why have you come to consult me at all? You tell me in the same breath that it is useless to investigate Sir Charless death, and that you desire me to do it.
I did not say that I desired you to do it.
Then, how can I assist you?
Slap him in the face! That'll knock some sense into the bastard!
By advising me as to what I should do with Sir Henry Baskerville, who arrives at Waterloo StationDr. Mortimer looked at his watchin exactly one hour and a quarter.
He being the heir?
Yes. On the death of Sir Charles we inquired for this young gentleman and found that he had been farming in Canada. From the accounts which have reached us he is an excellent fellow in every way. I speak not as a medical man but as a trustee and executor of Sir Charless will.
There is no other claimant, I presume?
There probably was, but whoever it was ran away when they heard about Mortimer.
None. The only other kinsman whom we have been able to trace was Rodger Baskerville, the youngest of three brothers of whom poor Sir Charles was the elder. The second brother, who died young, is the father of this lad Henry. The third, Rodger, was the black sheep of the family. He came of the old masterful Baskerville strain, and was the very image, they tell me, of the family picture of old Hugo. He made England too hot to hold him, fled to Central America, and died there in 1876 of yellow fever. Henry is the last of the Baskervilles. In one hour and five minutes I meet him at Waterloo Station. I have had a wire that he arrived at Southampton this morning. Now, Mr. Holmes, what would you advise me to do with him?
Give him to me, I'll educate him on the people around here.
Why should he not go to the home of his fathers?
It seems natural, does it not? And yet, consider that every Baskerville who goes there meets with an evil fate. I feel sure that if Sir Charles could have spoken with me before his death he would have warned me against bringing this, the last of the old race, and the heir to great wealth, to that deadly place. And yet it cannot be denied that the prosperity of the whole poor, bleak country-side depends upon his presence. All the good work which has been done by Sir Charles will crash to the ground if there is no tenant of the Hall. I fear lest I should be swayed too much by my own obvious interest in the matter, and that is why I bring the case before you and ask for your advice.
Holmes considered for a little time.
Put into plain words, the matter is this, said he. In your opinion there is a diabolical agency which makes Dartmoor an unsafe abode for a Baskervillethat is your opinion?
At least I might go the length of saying that there is some evidence that this may be so.
Stop beating about the bush already and just state your position!
Exactly. But surely, if your supernatural theory be correct, it could work the young man evil in London as easily as in Devonshire. A devil with merely local powers like a parish vestry would be too inconceivable a thing.
You put the matter more flippantly, Mr. Holmes, than you would probably do if you were brought into personal contact with these things. Your advice, then, as I understand it, is that the young man will be as safe in Devonshire as in London. He comes in fifty minutes. What would you recommend?
I recommend, sir, that you take a cab, call off your spaniel who is scratching at my front door, and proceed to Waterloo to meet Sir Henry Baskerville.
And then?
And then you will say nothing to him at all until I have made up my mind about the matter.
That shouldn't be too hard for him.
How long will it take you to make up your mind?
Twenty-four hours. At ten oclock to-morrow, Dr. Mortimer, I will be much obliged to you if you will call upon me here, and it will be of help to me in my plans for the future if you will bring Sir Henry Baskerville with you.
I will do so, Mr. Holmes. He scribbled the appointment on his shirtcuff and hurried off in his strange, peering, absent-minded fashion. Holmes stopped him at the head of the stair.
Only one more question, Dr. Mortimer. You say that before Sir Charles Baskervilles death several people saw this apparition upon the moor?
Three people did.
Did any see it after?
I have not heard of any.
Thank you. Good morning.
Holmes returned to his seat with that quiet look of inward satisfaction which meant that he had a congenial task before him.
Going out, Watson?
Unless I can help you.
No, my dear fellow, it is at the hour of action that I turn to you for aid. But this is splendid, really unique from some points of view. When you pass Bradleys, would you ask him to send up a pound of the strongest shag tobacco? Thank you. It would be as well if you could make it convenient not to return before evening. Then I should be very glad to compare impressions as to this most interesting problem which has been submitted to us this morning.
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 immaterial. I therefore spent the day at my club and did not return to Baker Street until evening. It was nearly nine oclock when I found myself in the sitting-room once more.
As opposed to his normal temperament, where he was perfectly outgoing and social.
My first impression as I opened the door was that a fire had broken out, for the room was so filled with smoke that the light of the lamp upon the table was blurred by it. As I entered, however, my fears were set at rest, for it was the acrid fumes of strong coarse tobacco which took me by the throat and set me coughing. Through the haze I had a vague vision of Holmes in his dressinggown coiled up in an armchair with his black clay pipe between his lips. Several rolls of paper lay around him.
Caught cold, Watson? said he.
No, its this poisonous atmosphere.
What you do smell is called tobacco. It is tasteful, odorous, does not dissolve in anything, and is among one of the less dealy poisons known to man.
I suppose it is pretty thick, now that you mention it.
Thick! It is intolerable.
Open the window, then! You have been at your club all day, I perceive.
My dear Holmes!
Am I right?
Certainly, but how?
He laughed at my bewildered expression.
There is a delightful freshness about you, Watson, which makes it a pleasure to exercise any small powers which I possess at your expense. A gentleman goes forth on a showery and miry day. He returns immaculate in the evening with the gloss still on his hat and his boots. He has been a fixture therefore all day. He is not a man with intimate friends. Where, then, could he have been? Is it not obvious?
Well, aren't we pretentious today? Upupu, must be all that tobacco!
Well, it is rather obvious.
The world is full of obvious things which nobody by any chance ever observes. Where do you think that I have been?
A fixture also.
On the contrary, I have been to Devonshire.
In spirit?
Oh, so that's what that thing in the sky was! I just assumed it was some bastard in his weather balloon!
Exactly. My body has remained in this armchair and has, I regret to observe, consumed in my absence two large pots of coffee and an incredible amount of tobacco. After you left I sent down to Stamfords for the Ordnance map of this portion of the moor, and my spirit has hovered over it all day. I flatter myself that I could find my way about.
A large scale map, I presume?
Yes, indeed it is. The image of Baskerville Hall is about as big as Mr. Holmes' ego!
Very large. He unrolled one section and held it over his knee. Here you have the particular district which concerns us. That is Baskerville Hall in the middle.
With a wood round it?
Exactly. I fancy the Yew Alley, though not marked under that name, must stretch along this line, with the moor, as you perceive, upon the right of it. This small clump of buildings here is the hamlet of Grimpen, where our friend Dr. Mortimer has his headquarters. Within a radius of five miles there are, as you see, only a very few scattered dwellings. Here is Lafter Hall, which was mentioned in the narrative. There is a house indicated here which may be the residence of the naturalistStapleton, if I remember right, was his name.
And we all know what to do about people who staple tons of things, don't we?
"Here are two moorland farm-houses, High Tor and Foulmire. Then fourteen miles away the great convict prison of Princetown. Between and around these scattered points extends the desolate, lifeless moor. This, then, is the stage upon which tragedy has been played, and upon which we may help to play it again.
Now that's unexpected. I really thought a great and famous attraction like the fabled Yew Alley would be marked on every map of the area.
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
Then you are yourself inclining to the supernatural explanation.
The devils agents may be of flesh and blood, may they not? There are two questions waiting for us at the outset. The one is whether any crime has been committed at all; the second is, what is the crime and how was it committed? Of course, if Dr. Mortimers surmise should be correct, and we are dealing with forces outside the ordinary laws of Nature, there is an end of our investigation. But we are bound to exhaust all other hypotheses before falling back upon this one. I think well shut that window again, if you dont mind. It is a singular thing, but I find that a concentrated atmosphere helps a concentration of thought. I have not pushed it to the length of getting into a box to think, but that is the logical outcome of my convictions. Have you turned the case over in your mind?
Yes, I have thought a good deal of it in the course of the day.
What do you make of it?
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. What do you make of that?
Ooh ooh ooh, I know! He took off his feet and put new ones on midway through the journey!
Mortimer said that the man had walked on tiptoe down that portion of the alley.
He only repeated what some fool had said at the inquest. Why should a man walk on tiptoe down the alley?
What then?
He was running, Watsonrunning desperately, running for his life, running until he burst his heart and fell dead upon his face.
Running from what?
Well, it's obvious that his speed meant nothing if it was death he was running from.
There lies our problem. There are indications that the man was crazed with fear before ever he began to run.
How can you say that?
"With my mouth. You should try it sometime!
I am presuming that the cause of his fears came to him across the moor. If that were so, and it seems most probable, only a man who had lost his wits would have run from the house instead of towards it. If the gipsys evidence may be taken as true, he ran with cries for help in the direction where help was least likely to be. Then, again, whom was he waiting for that night, and why was he waiting for him in the Yew Alley rather than in his own house?
You think that he was waiting for someone?
The man was elderly and infirm. We can understand his taking an evening stroll, but the ground was damp and the night inclement. Is it natural that he should stand for five or ten minutes, as Dr. Mortimer, with more practical sense than I should have given him credit for, deduced from the cigar ash?
But he went out every evening.
I think it unlikely that he waited at the moorgate every evening. On the contrary, the evidence is that he avoided the moor. 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 Dr. Mortimer and Sir Henry Baskerville in the morning.
Maybe Sir Henry will live up to the lofty expectations set by his late uncle. We'll have to wait until next time, though, for that! Be sure to read next issue, where we meet the fascinating Sir Henry Baskerville, receive a mysterious letter, and worry about the state of footwear in England! I'm Monobear, and you are all a bunch of lowlife bastards! Good night!
- Pronouns
- He/him
- MarioWiki
- Mario4Ever
I can't wait until you get around to The Iliad or Inferno.