Sherlock Holmes Short Stories - The Hound of the Baskervilles: Part Seven

Episode Date: May 17, 2026

Holmes and Watson are finally reunited. But are they too late to save Sir Henry Baskerville from a violent death on the moor?  A Noiser podcast production.    Narrated by Hugh Bonneville   Written by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle  Produced by Duncan Barrett  Sound Design and Audio Editing: Mirianna Pitman-Latham  Sound Supervisor: Tom Pink  Compositions: Dorry Macaulay and Oliver Baines  Mix & Mastering: Josh Latham  Series Consultant: Dan Smith  Executive Producer: Katrina Hughes    For ad-free listening and early access to new episodes, join Noiser+. Just click the subscription banner at the top of the feed to get started. Or go to noiser.com/subscriptions  Learn more about your ad choices. Visit podcastchoices.com/adchoices

I'm Hugh Bonneville and welcome to The Hound of the Baskervilles Part 7. Last time, Dr. Watson made a shocking discovery about the strange figure he'd seen stalking the moor. A tall man barely glimpsed in the distance who always seemed to be watching his movements. Staking out the little stone hut where he was sure the observer had been living, the good doctor was confronted by none other than his friend, Sherlock Holmes. From the Noiser podcast network, this is The Hound of the Baskervilles, Part 7. For a moment or two, I sat, breathless, hardly able to believe my ears. Then my senses and my voice came back to me, while a crushing weight of responsibility seemed,

in an instant, to be lifted from my soul. That cold, incisive, ironical voice could belong to but one man in all the world. "'Homes!' I cried. "'Homes!' "'Come out,' said he, "'and please be careful with the revolver.' "'I stooped under the rude lintel, "'and there he sat upon a stone outside,

"'his grey eyes dancing with amusement "'as they fell upon my astonished features. "'He was thin and worn, "'but clear and alert, "'his keen face bronzed by the sun "'and roughened by the wind. "'In his tweed suit and cloth cap, He looked like any other tourist upon the moor, and he had contrived with that cat-like love of personal cleanliness, which was one of his characteristics, that his chin should be as smooth and his linen as perfect as if he were in Baker Street.

I never was more glad to see anyone in my life, said I, as I wrung him by the hand. Or more astonished, eh? Well, I must confess to it. The surprise was not all on one side, I assure you. I had no idea that you had found my occasional retreat, still less that you were inside it, until I was within 20 paces of the door. My footprint, I presume. No, Watson, I fear that I could not undertake to recognise your footprint amid all the footprints of the world. If you seriously desire to deceive me, you must change your tobacconist.

But when I see the stub of a cigarette marked Bradley, Oxford Street, I know that my friend Watson is in the neighbourhood. You will see it there beside the path. You threw it down, no doubt, at that supreme moment when you charged into the empty hut. Exactly. I thought as much. And knowing your admirable tenacity, I was convinced that you were sitting in ambush, a weapon within reach, waiting for the tenant to return. So you actually thought that I was the criminal.

I did not know who you were, but I was determined to find out. Excellent, Watson. "'And how did you localise me? "'You saw me, perhaps, on the night of the convict hunt, "'when I was so imprudent as to allow the moon to rise behind me. "'Yes, I saw you then. "'And have no doubt searched all the huts until you came to this one. "'No, your boy had been observed,

"'and that gave me a guide where to look. "'The old gentleman with the telescope, no doubt. "'I could not make it out when first I saw the light flashing upon the lens. He rose and peeped into the hut. Ah, I see that Cartwright has brought up some supplies. What's this paper? So you have been to Coom Tracy, have you? Yes.

To see Mrs. Laura Lyons? Exactly. Well done. Our researchers have evidently been running on parallel lines, and when we unite our results, I expect we shall have a fairly full knowledge of the case. Well, I am glad from my heart that you are here. for indeed the responsibility and the mystery were both becoming too much for my nerves.

But how, in the name of wonder, did you come here, and what have you been doing? I thought that you were in Baker Street, working out that case of blackmailing. That was what I wished you to think. Then you use me, and yet do not trust me, I cried with some bitterness. I think that I have deserved better at your hands, Holmes. My dear fellow, you have been invaluable to me in the... this, as in many other cases, and I beg that you will forgive me if I have seemed to play a trick upon you. In truth, it was partly for your own sake that I did it, and it was my appreciation of the

danger which you ran, which led me to come down and examine the matter for myself. Had I been with Sir Henry and you, it is confident that my point of view would have been the same as yours, and my presence would have warned our very formidable opponents to be on their guard. As it is, I have been able to get about as I could not possibly have done had I been living in the hall, and I remain an unknown factor in the business, ready to throw in all my weight at a critical moment. But why keep me in the dark? For you to know could not have helped us, and might possibly have led to my discovery.

You would have wished to tell me something, or in your kindness you would have brought me out some comfort or other, and so an unnecessary risk would be run. I brought Cartwright down with me. You remember the little chap at the express office, and he has seen after my simple wants, a loaf of bread and a clean collar. What does man want more? He has given me an extra pair of eyes

upon a very active pair of feet, and both have been invaluable. Then my reports have all been wasted. My voice trembled as I recalled the pains and the pride with which I had composed them. Holmes took a bundle of papers from his pocket. "'Here are your reports, my dear fellow, and very well-thumbed, I assure you. "'I made excellent arrangements, and they are only delayed one day upon their way.

"'I must compliment you exceedingly upon the zeal "'and the intelligence which you have shown over an extraordinarily difficult case. "'I was still rather raw over the deception which had been practised upon me, "'but the warmth of Holmes's praise drove my anger from my mind. "'I felt also in my heart that he was right in what he said, said, and that it was really best for our purpose that I should not have known that he was upon the moor. "'That's better,' said he, seeing the shadow rise from my face.

"'And now tell me the result of your visit to Mrs. Laura Lyons. It was not difficult for me to guess that it was to see her that you had gone, for I am already aware that she is the one person in Coom, Tracy, who might be of service to us in the matter. In fact, if you had not gone today, it is exceedingly probable that I am I should have gone tomorrow. The sun had set, and dusk was settling over the moor. The air had turned chill, and we withdrew into the hut for warmth. There, sitting together in the twilight, I told Holmes of my conversation with the lady.

So interested was he that I had to repeat some of it twice before he was satisfied. This is most important, said he when I had concluded. It fills up a gap which I had been unable to bridge in this most complex affair. You are aware, perhaps, that a close intimacy exists between this lady and the man Stapleton? I did not know of a close intimacy. There can be no doubt about the matter. They meet, they write. There is a complete understanding between them.

Now, this puts a very powerful weapon into our hands. If I could only use it to detach his wife, his wife, I am giving you some information now. in return for all that you have given me. The lady who has passed here as Miss Stapleton is, in reality, his wife. Good heavens, Holmes. Are you sure of what you say? How could he have permitted Sir Henry to fall in love with her?

Sir Henry's falling in love could do no harm to anyone except Sir Henry. He took particular care that Sir Henry did not make love to her, as you have yourself observed. I repeat that the lady is his wife and not his sister. But why this elaborate deception? Because he foresaw that she would be very much more useful to him in the character of a free woman. All my unspoken instincts, my vague suspicions, suddenly took shape and centred upon the naturalist.

In that impassive, colourless man with his straw hat and his butterfly net, I seemed to see something terrible, a creature of infinite patience and craft with a smiling face and a murderous heart. It is he, then, who is our enemy? It is he who dogged us in London. So I read the riddle. And the warning?

It must have come from her. Exactly. The shape of some monstrous villainy, half-seen, half-guessed, loomed through the darkness which had girt me so long. But are you sure of this, Holmes? How do you know that the woman is his wife? Because he so far forgot himself as to tell you a true piece of autobiography

upon the occasion when he first met you. And I dare say he has many a time regretted it since. He was once a schoolmaster in the north of England. Now there is no one more easy to trace than a schoolmaster. There are scholastic agencies by which one may identify any man who has been in the profession. A little investigation showed me that a school had come to grief under atrocious circumstances and that the man who had owned it, the name was different, had disappeared with his wife. The descriptions agreed.

When I learned that the missing man was devoted to entomology, the identification was complete. The darkness was rising, but much was still hidden by the shadow. If this woman is in truth his wife, where does Mrs. Laura Lyons come in, I asked. That is one of the points upon which your own researchers have shed a light. Your interview with the lady has cleared the situation very much. I did not know about a projected divorce between herself and her husband. In that case, regarding Stapleton as an unmarried man, she counted no doubt upon becoming his wife. "'And when she is undeceived?

"'Why, then we may find the lady of service. "'It must be our first duty to see her, both of us, tomorrow. "'Don't you think, Watson, that you are away from your charge rather long? "'Your place should be at Baskerville Hall. "'The last red streaks had faded away in the west, "'and night had settled upon the moor. "'A few faint stars were gleaming in a violet sky. "'One last question,

Holmes, I said as I rose. Surely there is no need of secrecy between you and me. What is the meaning of it all? What is he after? Holmes's voice sank, as he answered. It is murder, Watson. Refined, cold-blooded, deliberate murder. Do not ask me for particulars.

My nets are closing upon him, even as his are upon Sir Henry. And with your help, he is, already almost at my mercy. There is but one danger which can threaten us. It is that he should strike before we are ready to do so. Another day, two at the most, and I have my case complete, but until then, guard your charge as closely as ever a fond mother watched her ailing child. Your mission today has justified itself, and yet I could almost wish that you had not left his side. A terrible scream. A prolonged yell of horror and anguish. burst out of the silence of the moor.

That frightful cry turned the blood to ice in my veins. Oh, my God! I gasped. What is it? What does it mean? Holmes had sprung to his feet, and I saw his dark athletic outline at the door of the hut, his shoulders stooping, his head thrust forward, his face peering into the darkness. Hush! he whispered, hush! The cry had been loud on account of its vehemence, but it had peeled out, from somewhere far off on the shadowy plain.

Now it burst upon our ears, nearer, louder, more urgent than before. Where is it? Holmes whispered. And I knew from the thrill of his voice that he, the man of iron, was shaken to the soul. Where is it, Watson? There, I think. I pointed into the darkness. No, there! Again, the agonised cries swept through the silent night,

louder and much nearer than ever. And a new sound mingled with it, a deep muttered rumble, musical and yet menacing, rising and falling, like the low, constant murmur of the sea. A hound! cried Holmes. Come, Watson, come! Great heavens, if we are too late! He had started running swiftly over the moor, and I had followed at his heels,

but now from somewhere among the broken ground, immediately in front of us, there came one last despairing yell, and then a dull, heavy thud. We halted and listened. Not another sound broke the heavy silence of the windless night. I saw Holmes put his hand to his forehead like a man distracted. He stamped his feet upon the ground. He has beaten us, Watson. We are too late. No, no, surely not. Fool that I was. to hold my hand, and you, Watson, see what comes of abandoning your charge? But by heaven, if the worst has happened, we'll avenge him. Blindly we ran through the glue, blundering against boulders, forcing our way through gorse bushes,

panting up hills and rushing down slopes, heading always in the direction whence those dreadful sounds had come. At every rise, Holmes looked eagerly round him, but the shadows were thick upon the moor, and nothing moved upon its dreary face. Can you see anything? Nothing. But hark, what is that? A low moan had fallen upon our ears.

There it was again upon our left. On that side, a ridge of rocks ended in a sheer cliff which overlooked a stone-strewn slope. On its jagged face was spread-eagled some dark, irregular object. As we ran towards it, the vague outline hardened into a definite, shape. It was a prostrate man face downward upon the ground. The head doubled under him at a horrible angle. The shoulders rounded and the body hunched together as if in the act of throwing a somersault. So grotesque was the attitude that I could not for the instant realize that that moan had been

the passing of his soul. Not a whisper, not a rustle rose now from the dark figure over which we stooped. Holmes laid his hand upon him and held it up again with an exclamation of horror. The gleam of the match which he struck shone upon his clotted fingers and upon the ghastly pool which widened slowly from the crushed skull of the victim. And it shone upon something else which turned our hearts sick and faint within us. The body of Sir Henry Baskerville. There was no chance of either of us forgetting that peculiar ruddy tweed suit, the very one which he had worn on the first morning that we had seen him in Baker Street. We caught the one clear glimpse of it, and then the match flickered and went out, even as the hope had gone out of our souls. Holmes groaned, and his face glimmered white through the darkness.

The brute! "'The brute!' I cried with clenched hands. "'Oh, Holmes! "'I shall never forgive myself for having left him to his fate. "'I am more to blame the new Watson. "'In order to have my case well-rounded and complete, "'I have thrown away the life of my client. "'It is the greatest blow which has befallen me in my career.

"'But how could I know, how could I know, "'that he would risk his life alone, upon the moor in the face of all my warnings, that we should have heard his screams, my God. Those screams, and yet have been unable to save him. Where is this brute of a hound which drove him to his death? It may be lurking among these rocks at this instant. In Stapleton, where is he?

He shall answer for this deed. He shall. I will see to that. Uncle and nephew have been murdered. the one frightened to death by the very sight of a beast which he thought to be supernatural, the other driven to his end in his wild flight to escape from it. But now we have to prove the connection between the man and the beast. Save from what we heard, we cannot even swear to the existence of the latter,

since Sir Henry has evidently died from the fall. But by heavens, cunning as he is, the fellow shall be in my power. before another day is past. We stood with bitter hearts on either side of the mangled body, overwhelmed by this sudden and irrevocable disaster, which had brought all our long and weary labours to so piteous an end. Then, as the moon rose,

we climbed to the top of the rocks over which our poor friend had fallen, and from the summit we gazed out over the shadowy moor, half silver and half gloom. Far away, miles off, in the direction of Grimpen, a single steady yellow light was shining. It could only come from the lonely abode of the Stapletons. With a bitter curse I shook my fist at it as I gazed. Why should we not seize him at once?

Our case is not complete. The fellow is wary and cunning to the last degree. It is not what we know but what we can prove. If we make one false move, the villain may escape us yet. What can we do? There will be plenty for us to do tomorrow. Tonight, we can only perform the last offices to our poor friend. Together we made our way down the precipitous slope

and approached the body black and clear against the silvered stones. The agony of those contort. pointed limbs, struck me with a spasm of pain, and blurred my eyes with tears. We must send for help, Holmes. We cannot carry him all the way to the hall. Ha! Good heavens! Are you mad? He had uttered a cry and bent over the body. Now he was dancing and laughing and ringing my hand. Could this be my stern, self-contained friend? and these were hidden fires indeed. A beard!

A beard! The man has a beard! A beard? It is not the baronet. It is... Why? It is my neighbour, the convict. With feverish haste we had turned the body over,

and that dripping beard was pointing up to the cold, clear moon. There could be no doubt about the beetling forehead, the sunken animal eyes. It was indeed the same face. which had glared upon me in the light of the candle from over the rock, the face of Selden, the criminal. Then, in an instant, it was all clear to me. I remembered how the Baronetta told me that he had handed his old wardrobe to Barrymore. Barrymore had passed it on in order to help Selden in his escape, boots, shirt, cap.

It was all Sir Henry's. The tragedy was still black enough, but this man had at least deserved death by the laws of his country. I told Holmes how the matter stood, my heart bubbling over with thankfulness and joy. Then the clothes have been the poor devil's death, said he. It is clear enough that the hound had been laid on from some article of Sir Henry's, the boot which was abstracted in the hotel in all probability, and so ran this man down. There is one very singular thing, however, How came Selden in the darkness to know that the hound was on his trail? He hurt him.

To hear a hound upon the moor would not work a hard man like this convict into such a paroxysm of terror that he would risk recapture by screaming wildly for help. By his cries he must have run a long way after he knew the animal was on his track. How did he know? A greater mystery to me is why this hound, presuming that all our kids, conjectures are correct. I presume nothing. Well, then, why this hound should be loose tonight. I suppose that it does not always run loose upon the moor. Stapleton would not let it go unless he had reason to think that Sir Henry would be there. My difficulty is the more formidable of the two,

for I think that we shall very shortly get an explanation of yours, while mine may remain forever a mystery. The question now is, what shall we do with this poor wretch's body? We cannot leave it here to the foxes and the ravens. I suggest that we put it in one of the huts until we can communicate with the police. Exactly. I have no doubt that you and I could carry it so far. Hello, Watson, what's this? It's the man himself, by all that's wonderful and audacious. Not a word to show your suspicions, not a word or my plans crumbled to the ground. A figure was approaching us over the moor, and I saw the dull red glow of a cigar. The moon shone upon him, and I could distinguish the dapper shape and jaunty walk of the naturalist. He stopped when he saw us, and then came on again.

Why, Dr. Watson, that's not you, is it? You are the last man that I should have expected to see out on the moor at this time of night? But, dear me, what's this? Somebody hurt? No, don't tell me that it is our friend, Sir Henry. He hurried past me and stooped over the dead man. I heard a sharp intake of his breath, and the cigar fell from his fingers. Who, who, who, who, who, who, who, who, who, who, who who who who who who who who who who who, he stammered. It is seldom the man who escaped from Prince Town. Stapleton turned a ghastly face upon. Stapleton turned a ghastly face upon. us, but by a supreme effort he had overcome his amazement and his disappointment.

He looked sharply from Holmes to me. Dear me, what a very shocking affair! How did he die? He appears to have broken his neck by falling over these rocks. My friend and I were strolling on the moor when we heard a cry. I heard a cry also. That was what brought me out. I was uneasy about Sir Hemp. Henry. Why about Sir Henry in particular, I could not help asking? Because I had suggested that he should come over. When he did not come, I was surprised, and I naturally became alarmed for his safety when I heard cries upon the moor. By the way, his eyes darted again from my face

to Holmes'. Did you hear anything else besides a cry? No, said Holmes. Did you? "'No. What do you mean then?' "'Oh, you know the stories that the peasants tell about a phantom hound and so on. "'It is said to be heard at night upon the moor. "'I was wondering if there were any evidence of such a sound to-night.' "'We heard nothing of the kind,' said I. "'And what is your theory of this poor fellow's death?' "'I have no doubt that anxiety and exposure have driven him off his head.

he has rushed about the more in a crazy state, and eventually fallen over here and broken his neck. "'That seems the most reasonable theory,' said Stapleton, and he gave a sigh which I took to indicate his relief. "'What do you think about it, Mr. Sherlock Holmes?' My friend bowed his compliments. "'You are quick at identification,' said he. "'We have been expecting you in these parts.

Since Dr. Watson came down, you are in time to see a tragedy. Yes, indeed. I have no doubt that my friend's explanation will cover the facts. I will take an unpleasant remembrance back to London with me tomorrow. Oh, you return tomorrow. That is my intention. I hope your visit has cast some light upon those occurrences which have puzzled us. Holmes shrugged his shoulders.

cannot always have the success for which one hopes. An investigator needs facts and not legends or rumours. It has not been a satisfactory case. My friend spoke in his frankest and most unconcerned manner. Stapleton still looked hard at him. Then he turned to me. I would suggest carrying this poor fellow to my house, but it would give my sister such a fright that I do not feel justified in doing it. I think that if we put something over his face, he will be safe until morning. And so it was arranged. Resisting Stapleton's offer of hospitality, Holmes and I set off to Baskerville Hall, leaving the naturalist to return alone. Looking back, we saw the figure moving slowly away over the Broadmoor, and behind him that one black smudge on the silvered slope, which showed where

the man was lying, who had come so horribly to his end. We're at close grips at last, said Holmes as we walked together across the moor. What a nerve the fellow has! How he pulled himself together in the face of what must have been a paralysing shock when he found that the wrong man had fallen a victim to his plot. I told you in London, Watson, and I tell you now again that we have never had a foeman more worthy of our steel. I am sorry that he has seen you.

And so was I at first, but there was no getting out of it. What effect do you think it will have upon his plans now that he knows you are here? It may cause him to be more cautious, or it may drive him to desperate measures at once. Like most clever criminals, he may be too confident in his own cleverness, and imagine that he has completely deceived us. Why should we not arrest him at once? "'My dear Watson, you were born to be a man of action. Your instinct is always to do something energetic.

But supposing, for argument's sake, that we had him arrested tonight, what on earth the better off should we be for that? We could prove nothing against him. There's the devilish cunning of it. If you were acting through a human agent, we could get some evidence, but if we were to drag this great dog to the light of day, it would not help us in putting a rope round the neck of its mask. "'Surely we have a case, not a shadow of one.

"'Only surmise and conjecture. "'We should be laughed out of court "'if we came with such a story and such evidence. "'Well, there is Sir Charles's death, "'found dead without a mark upon him. "'You and I know that he died of sheer fright, "'and we know also what frightened him, "'but how are we to get twelve stolid jurymen to know it?

What signs are there of a hound? Where are the marks of its fangs? Of course we know that a hound does not bite a dead body and that Sir Charles was dead before ever the brute overtook him. But we have to prove all this, and we are not in a position to do it. Well, then, tonight? We are not much better off tonight.

Again, there was no direct connection between the hound and the man's death. We never saw the hound, we heard it, but we could not prove that it was running upon this man's trail. There is a complete absence of motive. No, my dear fellow, we must reconcile ourselves to the fact that we have no case at present, and that it is worth our while to run any risk in order to establish one. And how do you propose to do so? I have great hopes of what Mrs. Laura Lyons may do for us when the people. position of affairs is made clear to her. And I have my own plan as well. Sufficient for tomorrow is

the evil thereof, but I hope before the day is past to have the upper hand at last. I could draw nothing further from him, and he walked lost in thought as far as the Baskerville gates. Are you coming up? Yes. I see no reason for further concealment. But one last word, Watson. Say nothing, of the hound to Sir Henry, let him think that Selden's death was as Stapleton would have us believe. He will have a better nerve for the ordeal

which he will have to undergo tomorrow when he is engaged, if I remember your reporter right, to dine with these people. And so am I. Then you must excuse yourself, and he must go alone. That will be easily arranged.

And now, if we are too late for dinner, I think that we are both ready for our suppers. Next time, in the Hound of the Baskervilles, Sherlock's net closes around Stapleton. An old friend arrives from London, and as thick fog begins to cloak the moor, the stage is set for the ultimate showdown. That's next time. Can't wait until the next episode? Well, listen to it right away by subscribing to Noisor Plus.

Head to www.noisor.com slash subscriptions for more information, or click the link in the episode description.