Clive Nolan & Oliver Wakeman - Death On The Moor | Текст песни

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• Clive Nolan & Oliver Wakeman
• Death On The Moor

Watson:
On returning to the Hall, we confronted the Barrymores. It took little persuasion to discover that Seldon was, in fact, the brother of Mrs Barrymore, who tearfully pleaded to Sir Henry for his silence on the matter. She claimed that the tortured convict had been rendered harmless and would soon be abroad in the care of friends. Out of compassion, Sir Henry acceded to her wishes, offering food and even some of his old clothes to the cause.
In grateful relief, Barrymore offered an important thread of new evidence - part of a burnt letter. It read:
"Please, please, as you are a gentleman, burn this letter and be at the gate by ten o'clock."
Beneath it were signed the initials "L.L."

In the morning I awoke, determined to identify the man on the Tor. Upon further investigation, I discovered that the hiding place of our mysterious stranger was a small hut on the moor. It was empty, so I waited inside, not knowing what to expect.

"It is a lovely evening, my dear Watson", said a well known voice. "I really think that you will be more comfortable outside than in."
Stepping out of the hut, I was amazed to find myself face to face with Mr Sherlock Holmes. I had thought him in London, but all this time he had been here, observing, waiting.
"My dear fellow", said Holmes, "I beg that you will forgive me for this deception, but for you to know could not have helped us, and might possibly have lead 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 have been run."

And so we talked. Holmes opened my eyes to the question of a woman called Laura Lyons, who was under the wing of Sir Charles Baskerville, and more; she was in love with Stapleton. There was a great deal to take in and we continued talking, as the last red streaks had faded away in the West, and night settled upon the moor.

Suddenly, a terrible scream burst out of the silence of the moor.
"The Hound!", cried Holmes, "Come, Watson, come! Great heavens if we are too late!".

As we ran, the vague outline hardened into a definite shape. It was a prostrate man, face downward upon on the ground: The body of Sir Henry Baskerville. We stood with bitter hearts, overwhelmed by this sudden and irrevocable disaster. But as Holmes turned the body over, he let out a cry:
"It is not Sir Henry! Why, it is Seldon the convict!"

Upon returning to Baskerville Hall, Holmes became fascinated by one of the portraits on the wall.
"Can't you see?", he whispered.
"Good heavens!", I cried in amazement. It was the face of Stapleton. He was a Baskerville!

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