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avenue opened onto a broad expanse of turf, and the house lay before us.... The whole front was draped In ivy, with a patch clipped bare here and there where a window or a coat of arms broke through the dark veil. From this central block rose the twin towers, ancient, crenellated, and pierced with many loopholes. To right and left of the turrets were more modern wings of black granite. A dull light shone through heavy mullioned windows, and from the high chimneys which rose from the steep, high-angled roof there sprang a single black column of smoke.
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    The Hound of the Baskervilles
Arthur Conan Doyle
    T he mist had blown away, a full moon rode high over the frosty moor, and while the air was quite bracing, the ride to Chagford was pleasant. Charles and Dr. Doyle were chuckling at one of Patsy’s outrageous travel tales, while Mr. Fletcher Robinson, whom Doyle had introduced as Bertie, his “journalist friend,” rode beside the Robin-sons’ coachman, a man named Harry Baskerville. This left Kate to watch eagerly for the first sight of Thornworthy Castle, which Doyle said lay not far beyond Chagford, on a cliff overlooking the Little Teign. The house was very old, he added, and had been part of the Duncan family estate for nearly two centuries. Sir Edgar Duncan had inherited it, and he and his wife Rosalind had moved here some four years before from London.
    â€œA veritable Gothic castle,” Mr. Doyle called it, and Kate was not disappointed when they passed between a pair of imposing stone pillars and wrought-iron lodge gates and rattled down a long avenue toward the great house at the end, gleaming ghostlike in the silvery moonlight. As they drew closer, she gained a confused impression of ancient granite walls and steeply sloped roofs overgrown with ivy and decorated with chimneys and cornices and crenellations, the whole guarded by square stone turrets. And then they were alighting from their carriage before the house and the great double doors of the hall were thrown open, light spilling out, and they were greeted by their host and hostess and several other guests.
    Sir Edgar was a handsome, gray-haired gentleman with a pair of good-natured mustaches and a genial air of bonhomie. His wife, Rosalind, was a slender woman dressed in close-fitting blue velvet, her dark hair pulled sleekly back into a chignon, her face so pale that it seemed almost carved out of ivory. The rest of her looked almost carved, too, and Kate thought that she’d never seen anyone who held herself so perfectly straight. She did not smile until she introduced Nigel Westcott, the guest of honor, who was tall and fair, with a deep, compelling voice and a studied air of mystery, supremely conscious that he was the center of everyone’s attention. Dressed in a black velvet jacket and black trousers and boots, with a white silk cravat loosely tied, and ruffles at the cuffs, he looked exactly as a medium ought to look, Kate remarked to herself with satisfaction.
    The other guests included a neighbor, Mr. Jack Delany, of nearby Stapleton House, a distant cousin of the host; the amiable young vicar of Saint Michael’s, Mr. Thomas Garrett; an attractive but shy widow who lived in nearby Hexworthy; and—to Kate’s pleasure—the same Mr. William Crossing who had given the lecture at Yelverton the evening before, his graying hair combed smoothly back, his smile modestly reserved under a concealing mustache.
    Noisily, the party trooped up a palatial staircase with carved oak banisters and into a fine, large chamber warmed by a crackling fire in the great fireplace. The richly carpeted room was hung with heavy tapestries between tall windows inset with panels of stained glass, furnished with massive carved tables and chairs, and lit by iron chandeliers holding ranks of blazing candles. A round, damask-covered table ornamented with silk flowers stood opposite the fireplace, and guests were directed to help themselves