The Hound Of The Baskervilles(Illustrated) E-Book

Arthur Conan Doyle

• Herausgeber: Micheal Smith
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Beschreibung

• Illustrated Edition: Features 20 stunning illustrations to enhance the reading experience.
• Includes a detailed summary, providing a concise overview of the story’s thrilling plot.
• Character List: A comprehensive list of characters to help you keep track of the inhabitants of Baskerville Hall and beyond.
• Author Biography: Delve into the life of Arthur Conan Doyle, the literary genius behind Sherlock Holmes.

Dive into the haunting moors of England with this beautifully illustrated edition of Arthur Conan Doyle’s classic masterpiece, The Hound of the Baskervilles. Uncover the mystery of the Baskerville curse, where legend speaks of a demonic hound seeking vengeance upon the members of the Baskerville lineage. When Sir Charles Baskerville is found dead under mysterious and terrifying circumstances, his heir, Sir Henry, finds himself in grave danger. It’s a case only Sherlock Holmes, the world's greatest detective, and his trusted companion, Dr. John Watson, can unravel.
This edition brings the chilling tale to life with 20 captivating illustrations that immerse you in the fog-laden landscape of the English countryside and the dark corridors of Baskerville Hall. Accompany Holmes and Watson as they navigate through a web of family secrets, suspicious characters, and mortal peril to confront the truth behind the fearsome legend.
With the addition of a succinct summary, a detailed list of characters, and an insightful biography of Arthur Conan Doyle, this edition is perfect for both longtime Sherlock Holmes fans and new readers eager to discover the mystery and suspense of one of literature’s greatest detective stories. Prepare yourself for an unforgettable journey into fear, courage, and the indomitable spirit of Sherlock Holmes in The Hound of the Baskervilles.
 

Leseprobe

          THE HOUND OF BASKERVILLES                                                

                                                BY                                                                                                                                                   ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE

ABOUT DOYLE

Arthur Conan Doyle, born in 1859, in Edinburgh, Scotland, was a man whose life was as fascinating and multifaceted as the characters he created. The son of Charles Altamont Doyle, a chronic alcoholic, and Mary Foley, a well-educated woman, Doyle's upbringing was a blend of turmoil and rich cultural heritage, which influenced his future works significantly.

Educated initially at home by his mother, whose storytelling prowess ignited Doyle's lifelong love for literature, he later attended Jesuit schools. Doyle's academic journey led him to the University of Edinburgh Medical School, where he met Dr. Joseph Bell, whose keen observation skills and deductive methods inspired the creation of Sherlock Holmes.

Doyle's medical career, though overshadowed by his literary achievements, was notable. He served as a ship's surgeon on a whaling voyage to the Arctic and later as a medical officer in West Africa, experiences that enriched his writing with vivid descriptions of diverse settings and characters.

In 1887, Doyle introduced Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson in "A Study in Scarlet," published in Beeton's Christmas Annual. Despite initial indifference, Holmes and Watson became iconic figures in literature, captivating readers with their adventures. Doyle, however, felt overshadowed by his creation and sought to focus on more "serious" literature, leading to his decision to kill off Holmes in 1893. Public outcry and financial incentives eventually persuaded him to resurrect the detective in "The Hound of the Baskervilles" and subsequent stories.

Beyond Sherlock Holmes, Doyle was a prolific author, writing historical novels, science fiction, and adventure tales. His works such as "The Lost World" further showcased his imagination and storytelling prowess.

Doyle's life was not without personal hardships. He lost his wife, Louisa, to tuberculosis in 1906, and his son, Kingsley, died in the 1918 influenza pandemic. These losses deeply affected Doyle and led him to spiritualism, a belief system that claimed communication with the dead was possible. Doyle became one of its most prominent advocates, a stance that, at times, overshadowed his literary achievements.

Arthur Conan Doyle died in 1930, leaving behind a legacy that transcended his time. His creation, Sherlock Holmes, remains one of the most beloved and enduring characters in English literature, and Doyle himself is celebrated not only as a master storyteller but also as a man who lived a life as intriguing as the stories he told.

SUMMARY

This book is thrilling masterpiece that combines mystery, adventure, and the supernatural into a gripping narrative. Set against the eerie backdrop of the English moors, this novel introduces us to the legendary curse of the Baskerville family—a curse believed to be the work of a demonic hound from hell, seeking vengeance upon the members of the Baskerville lineage. When Sir Charles Baskerville is found dead under mysterious circumstances, with the footprints of a gigantic hound near his body, the heir to the Baskerville estate, Sir Henry, finds himself in grave danger.

Enter Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson, London's finest detective duo, who are summoned to protect Sir Henry and unravel the mystery surrounding the Baskerville curse. As Watson delves deeper into the dark history of the Baskervilles, Holmes employs his unmatched deductive reasoning to piece together clues scattered across the haunting moorland. Together, they navigate a labyrinth of family secrets, suspicious characters, and mortal danger to confront the truth.

Doyle skillfully crafts a suspenseful and mysterious story in which scientific reasoning clashes with age-old superstitions. Not only is "The Hound of the Baskervilles" a detective novel, but it's also an exploration of bravery, terror, and Sherlock Holmes' unwavering spirit. This timeless masterpiece, which captivates readers with its evocative setting, nuanced characters, and a narrative that keeps you guessing right up to the very end, is a monument to Doyle's creativity. Whether you're reading "The Hound of the Baskervilles" for the first time or picking it up again, it promises to be an incredible journey that lingers in your head long after the last page is turned.

CHARACTERS LIST

This book has a colorful ensemble of characters, all of whom are vital to solving the riddle of the Baskerville curse. The main characters are listed as follows:

Sherlock Holmes: The renowned detective renowned for his astute observation and ability to draw conclusions from evidence. Holmes is asked to look into Sir Charles Baskerville's unexplained death and to watch out for the Baskerville estate heir.

Dr. John Watson: Holmes's loyal friend and chronicler, who initially investigates the case on the moors around Baskerville Hall under Holmes's instructions. Watson's detailed observations and steadfast bravery are vital to the case.

Sir Henry Baskerville: The heir to the Baskerville estate, who comes from Canada to claim his inheritance. He is the target of the supposed family curse and potential victim of the spectral hound.

Sir Charles Baskerville: The late owner of the Baskerville estate, whose mysterious death sparks the events of the novel. He was a philanthropist and deeply concerned about the curse haunting his family.

Mr. Jack Stapleton: A naturalist living near Baskerville Hall, who takes a keen interest in the Baskerville family. He hides a dark secret and plays a pivotal role in the mystery.

Beryl Stapleton: The woman who was supposedly Jack Stapleton's sister turned out to be his wife. She turns into Sir Henry's supporter and is crucial to the plot's disintegration.

Dr. James Mortimer: A friend of Sir Charles and the Baskerville family doctor, who first seeks Holmes's help. He is the executor of Sir Charles's will and deeply concerned for Sir Henry's safety.

Barrymore: The butler at Baskerville Hall, loyal to the Baskerville family. His suspicious actions lead to significant discoveries in the case.

Mrs. Barrymore: The wife of Barrymore, whose secretive behavior conceals a connection to an escaped convict on the moor.

Selden: An escaped convict hiding on the moors around Baskerville Hall. He is Mrs. Barrymore's brother and the cause of some of the mysterious sightings.

Laura Lyons: A woman from Coombe Tracey who sought financial assistance from Sir Charles and has ties to several key characters. Her involvement sheds light on crucial aspects of the case.

The Hound: The spectral and ferocious beast of the Baskerville legend, said to be a curse on the Baskerville family. Its existence and the mystery surrounding it are central to the novel's plot.

These people craft a gripping and exciting story that has held readers' attention for more than a century, along with the evocative backdrop of the English moors.

Contents

Chapter 1. Mr. Sherlock Holmes

Chapter 2. The Curse Of The Baskervilles

Chapter 3. The Problem

Chapter 4. Sir Henry Baskerville

Chapter 5. Three Broken Threads

Chapter 6. Baskerville Hall

Chapter 7. The Stapletons Of Merripit House

Chapter 8. First Report Of Dr. Watson

Chapter 9. The Light Upon The Moor [Second Report Of Dr. Watson]

Chapter 10. Extract From The Diary Of Dr. Watson

Chapter 11. The Man on the Tor

Chapter 12. Death On The Moor

Chapter 13. Fixing The Nets

Chapter 14. The Hound Of The Baskervilles

Chapter 15. A Retrospection

Chapter 1. Mr. Sherlock Holmes

Mr. Sherlock Holmes, who was usually very late in the mornings, save upon those not infrequent occasions when he was up all night, was seated at the breakfast table. I stood upon the hearth-rug and picked up the stick which our visitor had left behind him the night before. It was a fine, thick piece of wood, bulbous-headed, of the sort which is known as a “Penang lawyer.” Just under the head was a broad silver band nearly an inch across. “To James Mortimer, M.R.C.S., from his friends of the C.C.H.,” was engraved upon it, with the date “1884.” It was just such a stick as the old-fashioned family practitioner used to carry—dignified, solid, and reassuring.

“Well, Watson, what do you make of it?”

Holmes was sitting with his back to me, and I had given him no sign of my occupation.

“How did you know what I was doing? I believe you have eyes in the back of your head.”

“I have, at least, a well-polished, silver-plated coffee-pot in front of me,” said he. “But, tell me, Watson, what do you make of our visitor’s stick? Since we have been so unfortunate as to miss him and have no notion of his errand, this accidental souvenir becomes of importance. Let me hear you reconstruct the man by an examination of it.”

“I think,” said I, following as far as I could the methods of my companion, “that Dr. Mortimer is a successful, elderly medical man, well-esteemed since those who know him give him this mark of their appreciation.”

“Good!” said Holmes. “Excellent!”

“I think also that the probability is in favour of his being a country practitioner who does a great deal of his visiting on foot.”

“Why so?”

“Because this stick, though originally a very handsome one has been so knocked about that I can hardly imagine a town practitioner carrying it. The thick-iron ferrule is worn down, so it is evident that he has done a great amount of walking with it.”

“Perfectly sound!” said Holmes.

“And then again, there is the ‘friends of the C.C.H.’ I should guess that to be the Something Hunt, the local hunt to whose members he has possibly given some surgical assistance, and which has made him a small presentation in return.”

“Really, Watson, you excel yourself,” said Holmes, pushing back his chair and lighting a cigarette. “I am bound to say that in all the accounts which you have been so good as to give of my own small achievements you have habitually underrated your own abilities. It may be that you are not yourself luminous, but you are a conductor of light. Some people without possessing genius have a remarkable power of stimulating it. I confess, my dear fellow, that I am very much in your debt.”

He had never said as much before, and I must admit that his words gave me keen pleasure, for I had often been piqued by his indifference to my admiration and to the attempts which I had made to give publicity to his methods. I was proud, too, to think that I had so far mastered his system as to apply it in a way which earned his approval. He now took the stick from my hands and examined it for a few minutes with his naked eyes. Then with an expression of interest he laid down his cigarette, and carrying the cane to the window, he looked over it again with a convex lens.

“Interesting, though elementary,” said he as he returned to his favourite corner of the settee. “There are certainly one or two indications upon the stick. It gives us the basis for several deductions.”

“Has anything escaped me?” I asked with some self-importance. “I trust that there is nothing of consequence which I have overlooked?”

“I am afraid, my dear Watson, that most of your conclusions were erroneous. When I said that you stimulated me I meant, to be frank, that in noting your fallacies I was occasionally guided towards the truth. Not that you are entirely wrong in this instance. The man is certainly a country practitioner. And he walks a good deal.”

“Then I was right.”

“To that extent.”

“But that was all.”

“No, no, my dear Watson, not all—by no means all. I would suggest, for example, that a presentation to a doctor is more likely to come from a hospital than from a hunt, and that when the initials ‘C.C.’ are placed before that hospital the words ‘Charing Cross’ very naturally suggest themselves.”

“You may be right.”

“The probability lies in that direction. And if we take this as a working hypothesis we have a fresh basis from which to start our construction of this unknown visitor.”

“Well, then, supposing that ‘C.C.H.’ does stand for ‘Charing Cross Hospital,’ what further inferences may we draw?”

“Do none suggest themselves? You know my methods. Apply them!”

“I can only think of the obvious conclusion that the man has practised in town before going to the country.”

“I think that we might venture a little farther than this. Look at it in this light. On what occasion would it be most probable that such a presentation would be made? When would his friends unite to give him a pledge of their good will? Obviously at the moment when Dr. Mortimer withdrew from the service of the hospital in order to start a practice for himself. We know there has been a presentation. We believe there has been a change from a town hospital to a country practice. Is it, then, stretching our inference too far to say that the presentation was on the occasion of the change?”

“It certainly seems probable.”

“Now, you will observe that he could not have been on the staff of the hospital, since only a man well-established in a London practice could hold such a position, and such a one would not drift into the country. What was he, then? If he was in the hospital and yet not on the staff he could only have been a house-surgeon or a house-physician—little more than a senior student. And he left five years ago—the date is on the stick. So your grave, middle-aged family practitioner vanishes into thin air, my dear Watson, and there emerges a young fellow under thirty, amiable, unambitious, absent-minded, and the possessor of a favourite dog, which I should describe roughly as being larger than a terrier and smaller than a mastiff.”

I laughed incredulously as Sherlock Holmes leaned back in his settee and blew little wavering rings of smoke up to the ceiling.

“As to the latter part, I have no means of checking you,” said I, “but at least it is not difficult to find out a few particulars about the man’s age and professional career.” From my small medical shelf I took down the Medical Directory and turned up the name. There were several Mortimers, but only one who could be our visitor. I read his record aloud.

“Mortimer, James, M.R.C.S., 1882, Grimpen, Dartmoor, Devon. House-surgeon, from 1882 to 1884, at Charing Cross Hospital. Winner of the Jackson prize for Comparative Pathology, with essay entitled ‘Is Disease a Reversion?’ Corresponding member of the Swedish Pathological Society. Author of ‘Some Freaks of Atavism’ (Lancet 1882). ‘Do We Progress?’ (Journal of Psychology, March, 1883). Medical Officer for the parishes of Grimpen, Thorsley, and High Barrow.”

“No mention of that local hunt, Watson,” said Holmes with a mischievous smile, “but a country doctor, as you very astutely observed. I think that I am fairly justified in my inferences. As to the adjectives, I said, if I remember right, amiable, unambitious, and absent-minded. It is my experience that it is only an amiable man in this world who receives testimonials, only an unambitious one who abandons a London career for the country, and only an absent-minded one who leaves his stick and not his visiting-card after waiting an hour in your room.”

“And the dog?”

“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. The dog’s jaw, as shown in the space between these marks, is too broad in my opinion for a terrier and not broad enough for a mastiff. It may have been—yes, by Jove, it is a curly-haired spaniel.”

He had risen and paced the room as he spoke. Now he halted in the recess of the window. There was such a ring of conviction in his voice that I glanced up in surprise.

“My dear fellow, how can you possibly be so sure of that?”

“For the very simple reason that I see the dog himself on our very door-step, and there is the ring of its owner. Don’t move, I beg you, Watson. He is a professional brother of yours, and your presence may be of assistance to me. Now is the dramatic moment of fate, Watson, when you hear a step upon the stair which is walking into your life, and you know not whether for good or ill. What does Dr. James Mortimer, the man of science, ask of Sherlock Holmes, the specialist in crime? Come in!”

The appearance of our visitor was a surprise to me, since I had expected a typical country practitioner. He was a very tall, thin man, with a long nose like a beak, which jutted out between two keen, grey eyes, set closely together and sparkling brightly from behind a pair of gold-rimmed glasses. He was clad in a professional but rather slovenly fashion, for his frock-coat was dingy and his trousers frayed.

Though young, his long back was already bowed, and he walked with a forward thrust of his head and a general air of peering benevolence. As he entered his eyes fell upon the stick in Holmes’s hand, and he ran towards it with an exclamation of joy. “I am so very glad,” said he. “I was not sure whether I had left it here or in the Shipping Office. I would not lose that stick for the world.”

“A presentation, I see,” said Holmes.

“Yes, sir.”

“From Charing Cross Hospital?”

“From one or two friends there on the occasion of my marriage.”

“Dear, dear, that’s bad!” said Holmes, shaking his head.

Dr. Mortimer blinked through his glasses in mild astonishment. “Why was it bad?”

“Only that you have disarranged our little deductions. Your marriage, you say?”

“Yes, sir. I married, and so left the hospital, and with it all hopes of a consulting practice. It was necessary to make a home of my own.”

“Come, come, we are not so far wrong, after all,” said Holmes. “And now, Dr. James Mortimer—”

“Mister, sir, Mister—a humble M.R.C.S.”

“And a man of precise mind, evidently.”

“A dabbler in science, Mr. Holmes, a picker up of shells on the shores of the great unknown ocean. I presume that it is Mr. Sherlock Holmes whom I am addressing and not—”

“No, this is my friend Dr. Watson.”

“Glad to meet you, sir. I have heard your name mentioned in connection with that of your friend. You interest me very much, Mr. Holmes. I had hardly expected so dolichocephalic a skull or such well-marked supra-orbital 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 covet your skull.”

Sherlock Holmes waved our strange visitor into a chair. “You are an enthusiast in your line of thought, I perceive, sir, as I am in mine,” said he. “I observe from your forefinger that you make your own cigarettes. Have no hesitation in lighting one.”

The man drew out paper and tobacco and twirled the one up in the other with surprising dexterity. He had long, quivering fingers as agile and restless as the antennæ of an insect.

Holmes was silent, but his little darting glances showed me the interest which he took in our curious companion. “I presume, sir,” said he at last, “that it was not merely for the purpose of examining my skull that you have done me the honour to call here last night and again today?”

“No, sir, no; though I am happy to have had the opportunity of doing that as well. I came to you, Mr. Holmes, because I recognized that I am myself an unpractical man and because I am suddenly confronted with a most serious and extraordinary problem. Recognizing, as I do, that you are the second highest expert in Europe—”

“Indeed, sir! May I inquire who has the honour to be the first?” asked Holmes with some asperity.

“To the man of precisely scientific mind the work of Monsieur Bertillon must always appeal strongly.”

“Then had you not better consult him?”

“I said, sir, to the precisely scientific mind. But as a practical man of affairs it is acknowledged that you stand alone. I trust, sir, that I have not inadvertently—”

“Just a little,” said Holmes. “I think, Dr. Mortimer, you would do wisely if without more ado you would kindly tell me plainly what the exact nature of the problem is in which you demand my assistance.”

Chapter 2. The Curse Of The Baskervilles

“I have in my pocket a manuscript,” said Dr. James Mortimer.

“I observed it as you entered the room,” said Holmes.

“It is an old manuscript.”

“Early eighteenth century, unless it is a forgery.”

“How can you say that, sir?”

“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.”

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.”

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.”

“Yes, it is a statement of a certain legend which runs in the Baskerville family.”

“But I understand that it is something more modern and practical upon which you wish to consult me?”

“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.”

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:

“Of the origin of the Hound 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.    “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 by-word through the West. 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. 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 father’s farm.

“It chanced that some little time later Hugo left his guests to carry food and drink—with other worse things, perchance—to 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 maid’s, he swung them to the line, and so off full cry in the moonlight over the moor.

“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.