The Valley of Fear
by
Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
Part 1 out of 4
This etext was produced by David Brannan
The Valley of Fear
by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
Part 1 - The Tragedy of Birlstone
Chapter 1 - The Warning
"I am inclined to think--" said I.
"I should do so," Sherlock Holmes remarked impatiently.
I believe that I am one of the most long-suffering of mortals;
but I'll admit that I was annoyed at the sardonic interruption.
"Really, Holmes," said I severely, "you are a little trying at
times."
He was too much absorbed with his own thoughts to give any
immediate answer to my remonstrance. He leaned upon his hand,
with his untasted breakfast before him, and he stared at the slip
of paper which he had just drawn from its envelope. Then he took
the envelope itself, held it up to the light, and very carefully
studied both the exterior and the flap.
"It is Porlock's writing," said he thoughtfully. "I can hardly
doubt that it is Porlock's writing, though I have seen it only
twice before. The Greek e with the peculiar top flourish is
distinctive. But if it is Porlock, then it must be something of
the very first importance."
He was speaking to himself rather than to me; but my vexation
disappeared in the interest which the words awakened.
"Who then is Porlock?" I asked.
"Porlock, Watson, is a nom-de-plume, a mere identification mark;
but behind it lies a shifty and evasive personality. In a former
letter he frankly informed me that the name was not his own, and
defied me ever to trace him among the teeming millions of this
great city. Porlock is important, not for himself, but for the
great man with whom he is in touch. Picture to yourself the
pilot fish with the shark, the jackal with the lion--anything
that is insignificant in companionship with what is formidable:
not only formidable, Watson, but sinister--in the highest degree
sinister. That is where he comes within my purview. You have
heard me speak of Professor Moriarty?"
"The famous scientific criminal, as famous among crooks as--"
"My blushes, Watson!" Holmes murmured in a deprecating voice.
"I was about to say, as he is unknown to the public."
"A touch! A distinct touch!" cried Holmes. "You are developing
a certain unexpected vein of pawky humour, Watson, against which
I must learn to guard myself. But in calling Moriarty a criminal
you are uttering libel in the eyes of the law--and there lie the
glory and the wonder of it! The greatest schemer of all time,
the organizer of every deviltry, the controlling brain of the
underworld, a brain which might have made or marred the destiny
of nations--that's the man! But so aloof is he from general
suspicion, so immune from criticism, so admirable in his
management and self-effacement, that for those very words that
you have uttered he could hale you to a court and emerge with
your year's pension as a solatium for his wounded character. Is
he not the celebrated author of The Dynamics of an Asteroid, a
book which ascends to such rarefied heights of pure mathematics
that it is said that there was no man in the scientific press
capable of criticizing it? Is this a man to traduce?
Foul-mouthed doctor and slandered professor--such would be your
respective roles! That's genius, Watson. But if I am spared by
lesser men, our day will surely come."
"May I be there to see!" I exclaimed devoutly. "But you were
speaking of this man Porlock."
"Ah, yes--the so-called Porlock is a link in the chain some
little way from its great attachment. Porlock is not quite a
sound link--between ourselves. He is the only flaw in that chain
so far as I have been able to test it."
"But no chain is stronger than its weakest link."
"Exactly, my dear Watson! Hence the extreme importance of
Porlock. Led on by some rudimentary aspirations towards right,
and encouraged by the judicious stimulation of an occasional
ten-pound note sent to him by devious methods, he has once or
twice given me advance information which has been of value--that
highest value which anticipates and prevents rather than avenges
crime. I cannot doubt that, if we had the cipher, we should find
that this communication is of the nature that I indicate."
Again Holmes flattened out the paper upon his unused plate. I
rose and, leaning over him, stared down at the curious
inscription, which ran as follows:
534 C2 13 127 36 31 4 17 21 41 DOUGLAS 109 293 5 37 BIRLSTONE 26
BIRLSTONE 9 47 171
"What do you make of it, Holmes?"
"It is obviously an attempt to convey secret information."
"But what is the use of a cipher message without the cipher?"
"In this instance, none at all."
"Why do you say 'in this instance'?"
"Because there are many ciphers which I would read as easily as I
do the apocrypha of the agony column: such crude devices amuse
the intelligence without fatiguing it. But this is different.
It is clearly a reference to the words in a page of some book.
Until I am told which page and which book I am powerless."
"But why 'Douglas' and 'Birlstone'?"
"Clearly because those are words which were not contained in the
page in question."
"Then why has he not indicated the book?"
"Your native shrewdness, my dear Watson, that innate cunning which
is the delight of your friends, would surely prevent you from
inclosing cipher and message in the same envelope. Should it
miscarry, you are undone. As it is, both have to go wrong before
any harm comes from it. Our second post is now overdue, and I
shall be surprised if it does not bring us either a further
letter of explanation, or, as is more probable, the very volume
to which these figures refer."
Holmes's calculation was fulfilled within a very few minutes by
the appearance of Billy, the page, with the very letter which we
were expecting.
"The same writing," remarked Holmes, as he opened the envelope,
"and actually signed," he added in an exultant voice as he
unfolded the epistle. "Come, we are getting on, Watson." His
brow clouded, however, as he glanced over the contents.
"Dear me, this is very disappointing! I fear, Watson, that all
our expectations come to nothing. I trust that the man Porlock
will come to no harm.
"DEAR MR. HOLMES [he says]:
"I will go no further in this matter. It is too dangerous--he
suspects me. I can see that he suspects me. He came to me quite
unexpectedly after I had actually addressed this envelope with
the intention of sending you the key to the cipher. I was able
to cover it up. If he had seen it, it would have gone hard with
me. But I read suspicion in his eyes. Please burn the cipher
message, which can now be of no use to you.
FRED PORLOCK."
Holmes sat for some little time twisting this letter between his
fingers, and frowning, as he stared into the fire.
"After all," he said at last, "there may be nothing in it. It
may be only his guilty conscience. Knowing himself to be a
traitor, he may have read the accusation in the other's eyes."
"The other being, I presume, Professor Moriarty."
"No less! When any of that party talk about 'He' you know whom
they mean. There is one predominant 'He' for all of them."
"But what can he do?"
"Hum! That's a large question. When you have one of the first
brains of Europe up against you, and all the powers of darkness
at his back, there are infinite possibilities. Anyhow, Friend
Porlock is evidently scared out of his senses--kindly compare the
writing in the note to that upon its envelope; which was done, he
tells us, before this ill-omened visit. The one is clear and
firm. The other hardly legible."
"Why did he write at all? Why did he not simply drop it?"
"Because he feared I would make some inquiry after him in that
case, and possibly bring trouble on him."
"No doubt," said I. "Of course." I had picked up the original
cipher message and was bending my brows over it. "It's pretty
maddening to think that an important secret may lie here on this
slip of paper, and that it is beyond human power to penetrate
it."
Sherlock Holmes had pushed away his untasted breakfast and lit
the unsavoury pipe which was the companion of his deepest
meditations. "I wonder!" said he, leaning back and staring at
the ceiling. "Perhaps there are points which have escaped your
Machiavellian intellect. Let us consider the problem in the
light of pure reason. This man's reference is to a book. That
is our point of departure."
"A somewhat vague one."
"Let us see then if we can narrow it down. As I focus my mind
upon it, it seems rather less impenetrable. What indications
have we as to this book?"
"None."
"Well, well, it is surely not quite so bad as that. The cipher
message begins with a large 534, does it not? We may take it as
a working hypothesis that 534 is the particular page to which the
cipher refers. So our book has already become a LARGE book, which
is surely something gained. What other indications have we as to
the nature of this large book? The next sign is C2. What do you
make of that, Watson?"
"Chapter the second, no doubt."
"Hardly that, Watson. You will, I am sure, agree with me that if
the page be given, the number of the chapter is immaterial. Also
that if page 534 finds us only in the second chapter, the length
of the first one must have been really intolerable."
"Column!" I cried.
"Brilliant, Watson. You are scintillating this morning. If it
is not column, then I am very much deceived. So now, you see, we
begin to visualize a large book printed in double columns which
are each of a considerable length, since one of the words is
numbered in the document as the two hundred and ninety-third.
Have we reached the limits of what reason can supply?"
"I fear that we have."
"Surely you do yourself an injustice. One more coruscation, my
dear Watson--yet another brain-wave! Had the volume been an
unusual one, he would have sent it to me. Instead of that, he
had intended, before his plans were nipped, to send me the clue
in this envelope. He says so in his note. This would seem to
indicate that the book is one which he thought I would have no
difficulty in finding for myself. He had it--and he imagined
that I would have it, too. In short, Watson, it is a very common
book."
"What you say certainly sounds plausible."
"So we have contracted our field of search to a large book,
printed in double columns and in common use."
"The Bible!" I cried triumphantly.
"Good, Watson, good! But not, if I may say so, quite good
enough! Even if I accepted the compliment for myself I could
hardly name any volume which would be less likely to lie at the
elbow of one of Moriarty's associates. Besides, the editions of
Holy Writ are so numerous that he could hardly suppose that two
copies would have the same pagination. This is clearly a book
which is standardized. He knows for certain that his page 534
will exactly agree with my page 534."
"But very few books would correspond with that."
"Exactly. Therein lies our salvation. Our search is narrowed
down to standardized books which anyone may be supposed to
possess."
"Bradshaw!"
"There are difficulties, Watson. The vocabulary of Bradshaw is
nervous and terse, but limited. The selection of words would
hardly lend itself to the sending of general messages. We will
eliminate Bradshaw. The dictionary is, I fear, inadmissible for
the same reason. What then is left?"
"An almanac!"
"Excellent, Watson! I am very much mistaken if you have not
touched the spot. An almanac! Let us consider the claims of
Whitaker's Almanac. It is in common use. It has the requisite
number of pages. It is in double column. Though reserved in its
earlier vocabulary, it becomes, if I remember right, quite
garrulous towards the end." He picked the volume from his desk.
"Here is page 534, column two, a substantial block of print
dealing, I perceive, with the trade and resources of British
India. Jot down the words, Watson! Number thirteen is
'Mahratta.' Not, I fear, a very auspicious beginning. Number
one hundred and twenty-seven is 'Government'; which at least
makes sense, though somewhat irrelevant to ourselves and
Professor Moriarty. Now let us try again. What does the
Mahratta government do? Alas! the next word is 'pig's-bristles.'
We are undone, my good Watson! It is finished!"
He had spoken in jesting vein, but the twitching of his bushy
eyebrows bespoke his disappointment and irritation. I sat
helpless and unhappy, staring into the fire. A long silence was
broken by a sudden exclamation from Holmes, who dashed at a
cupboard, from which he emerged with a second yellow-covered
volume in his hand.
"We pay the price, Watson, for being too up-to-date!" he cried.
"We are before our time, and suffer the usual penalties. Being
the seventh of January, we have very properly laid in the new
almanac. It is more than likely that Porlock took his message
from the old one. No doubt he would have told us so had his
letter of explanation been written. Now let us see what page 534
has in store for us. Number thirteen is 'There,' which is much
more promising. Number one hundred and twenty-seven is
'is'--'There is' "--Holmes's eyes were gleaming with excitement,
and his thin, nervous fingers twitched as he counted the words--
"'danger.' Ha! Ha! Capital! Put that down, Watson. 'There is
danger--may--come--very--soon--one.' Then we have the name
'Douglas'--'rich--country--now--at--Birlstone--House--Birlstone--
confidence--is--pressing.' There, Watson! What do you think of
pure reason and its fruit? If the green-grocer had such a thing
as a laurel wreath, I should send Billy round for it."
I was staring at the strange message which I had scrawled, as he
deciphered it, upon a sheet of foolscap on my knee.
"What a queer, scrambling way of expressing his meaning!" said I.
"On the contrary, he has done quite remarkably well," said
Holmes. "When you search a single column for words with which to
express your meaning, you can hardly expect to get everything you
want. You are bound to leave something to the intelligence of
your correspondent. The purport is perfectly clear. Some
deviltry is intended against one Douglas, whoever he may be,
residing as stated, a rich country gentleman. He is
sure--'confidence' was as near as he could get to
'confident'--that it is pressing. There is our result--and a
very workmanlike little bit of analysis it was!"
Holmes had the impersonal joy of the true artist in his better
work, even as he mourned darkly when it fell below the high level
to which he aspired. He was still chuckling over his success
when Billy swung open the door and Inspector MacDonald of
Scotland Yard was ushered into the room.
Those were the early days at the end of the '80's, when Alec
MacDonald was far from having attained the national fame which he
has now achieved. He was a young but trusted member of the
detective force, who had distinguished himself in several cases
which had been intrusted to him. His tall, bony figure gave
promise of exceptional physical strength, while his great cranium
and deep-set, lustrous eyes spoke no less clearly of the keen
intelligence which twinkled out from behind his bushy eyebrows.
He was a silent, precise man with a dour nature and a hard
Aberdonian accent.
Twice already in his career had Holmes helped him to attain
success, his own sole reward being the intellectual joy of the
problem. For this reason the affection and respect of the
Scotchman for his amateur colleague were profound, and he showed
them by the frankness with which he consulted Holmes in every
difficulty. Mediocrity knows nothing higher than itself; but
talent instantly recognizes genius, and MacDonald had talent
enough for his profession to enable him to perceive that there
was no humiliation in seeking the assistance of one who already
stood alone in Europe, both in his gifts and in his experience.
Holmes was not prone to friendship, but he was tolerant of the
big Scotchman, and smiled at the sight of him.
"You are an early bird, Mr. Mac," said he. "I wish you luck with
your worm. I fear this means that there is some mischief afoot."
"If you said 'hope' instead of 'fear,' it would be nearer the
truth, I'm thinking, Mr. Holmes," the inspector answered, with a
knowing grin. "Well, maybe a wee nip would keep out the raw
morning chill. No, I won't smoke, I thank you. I'll have to be
pushing on my way; for the early hours of a case are the precious
ones, as no man knows better than your own self. But--but--"
The inspector had stopped suddenly, and was staring with a look
of absolute amazement at a paper upon the table. It was the
sheet upon which I had scrawled the enigmatic message.
"Douglas!" he stammered. "Birlstone! What's this, Mr. Holmes?
Man, it's witchcraft! Where in the name of all that is wonderful
did you get those names?"
"It is a cipher that Dr. Watson and I have had occasion to solve.
But why--what's amiss with the names?"
The inspector looked from one to the other of us in dazed
astonishment. "Just this," said he, "that Mr. Douglas of
Birlstone Manor House was horribly murdered last night!"
Chapter 2 - Sherlock Holmes Discourses
It was one of those dramatic moments for which my friend existed.
It would be an overstatement to say that he was shocked or even
excited by the amazing announcement. Without having a tinge of
cruelty in his singular composition, he was undoubtedly callous
from long overstimulation. Yet, if his emotions were dulled, his
intellectual perceptions were exceedingly active. There was no
trace then of the horror which I had myself felt at this curt
declaration; but his face showed rather the quiet and interested
composure of the chemist who sees the crystals falling into
position from his oversaturated solution.
"Remarkable!" said he. "Remarkable!"
"You don't seem surprised."
"Interested, Mr. Mac, but hardly surprised. Why should I be
surprised? I receive an anonymous communication from a quarter
which I know to be important, warning me that danger threatens a
certain person. Within an hour I learn that this danger has
actually materialized and that the person is dead. I am
interested; but, as you observe, I am not surprised."
In a few short sentences he explained to the inspector the facts
about the letter and the cipher. MacDonald sat with his chin on
his hands and his great sandy eyebrows bunched into a yellow
tangle.
"I was going down to Birlstone this morning," said he. "I had
come to ask you if you cared to come with me--you and your friend
here. But from what you say we might perhaps be doing better
work in London."
"I rather think not," said Holmes.
"Hang it all, Mr. Holmes!" cried the inspector. "The papers will
be full of the Birlstone mystery in a day or two; but where's the
mystery if there is a man in London who prophesied the crime
before ever it occurred? We have only to lay our hands on that
man, and the rest will follow."
"No doubt, Mr. Mac. But how do you propose to lay your hands on
the so-called Porlock?"
MacDonald turned over the letter which Holmes had handed him.
"Posted in Camberwell--that doesn't help us much. Name, you say,
is assumed. Not much to go on, certainly. Didn't you say that
you have sent him money?"
"Twice."
"And how?"
"In notes to Camberwell post office."
"Did you ever trouble to see who called for them?"
"No."
The inspector looked surprised and a little shocked. "Why not?"
"Because I always keep faith. I had promised when he first wrote
that I would not try to trace him."
"You think there is someone behind him?"
"I know there is."
"This professor that I've heard you mention?"
"Exactly!"
Inspector MacDonald smiled, and his eyelid quivered as he glanced
towards me. "I won't conceal from you, Mr. Holmes, that we think
in the C.I.D. that you have a wee bit of a bee in your bonnet
over this professor. I made some inquiries myself about the
matter. He seems to be a very respectable, learned, and
talented sort of man."
"I'm glad you've got so far as to recognize the talent."
"Man, you can't but recognize it! After I heard your view I made
it my business to see him. I had a chat with him on eclipses.
How the talk got that way I canna think; but he had out a
reflector lantern and a globe, and made it all clear in a minute.
He lent me a book; but I don't mind saying that it was a bit
above my head, though I had a good Aberdeen upbringing. He'd
have made a grand meenister with his thin face and gray hair and
solemn-like way of talking. When he put his hand on my shoulder
as we were parting, it was like a father's blessing before you go
out into the cold, cruel world."
Holmes chuckled and rubbed his hands. "Great!" he said. "Great!
Tell me, Friend MacDonald, this pleasing and touching interview
was, I suppose, in the professor's study?"
"That's so."
"A fine room, is it not?"
"Very fine -- very handsome indeed, Mr. Holmes."
"You sat in front of his writing desk?"
"Just so."
"Sun in your eyes and his face in the shadow?"
"Well, it was evening; but I mind that the lamp was turned on my
face."
"It would be. Did you happen to observe a picture over the
professor's head?"
"I don't miss much, Mr. Holmes. Maybe I learned that from you.
Yes, I saw the picture--a young woman with her head on her hands,
peeping at you sideways."
"That painting was by Jean Baptiste Greuze."
The inspector endeavoured to look interested.
"Jean Baptiste Greuze," Holmes continued, joining his finger tips
and leaning well back in his chair, "was a French artist who
flourished between the years 1750 and 1800. I allude, of course
to his working career. Modern criticism has more than indorsed
the high opinion formed of him by his contemporaries."
The inspector's eyes grew abstracted. "Hadn't we better--" he
said.
"We are doing so," Holmes interrupted. "All that I am saying has
a very direct and vital bearing upon what you have called the
Birlstone Mystery. In fact, it may in a sense be called the very
centre of it."
MacDonald smiled feebly, and looked appealingly to me. "Your
thoughts move a bit too quick for me, Mr. Holmes. You leave out
a link or two, and I can't get over the gap. What in the whole
wide world can be the connection between this dead painting man
and the affair at Birlstone?"
"All knowledge comes useful to the detective," remarked Holmes.
"Even the trivial fact that in the year 1865 a picture by Greuze
entitled La Jeune Fille a l'Agneau fetched one million two
hundred thousand francs--more than forty thousand pounds--at the
Portalis sale may start a train of reflection in your mind."
It was clear that it did. The inspector looked honestly
interested.
"I may remind you," Holmes continued, "that the professor's
salary can be ascertained in several trustworthy books of
reference. It is seven hundred a year."
"Then how could he buy--"
"Quite so! How could he?"
"Ay, that's remarkable," said the inspector thoughtfully. "Talk
away, Mr. Holmes. I'm just loving it. It's fine!"
Holmes smiled. He was always warmed by genuine admiration--the
characteristic of the real artist. "What about Birlstone?" he
asked.
"We've time yet," said the inspector, glancing at his watch.
"I've a cab at the door, and it won't take us twenty minutes to
Victoria. But about this picture: I thought you told me once,
Mr. Holmes, that you had never met Professor Moriarty."
"No, I never have."
"Then how do you know about his rooms?"
"Ah, that's another matter. I have been three times in his
rooms, twice waiting for him under different pretexts and leaving
before he came. Once--well, I can hardly tell about the once to
an official detective. It was on the last occasion that I took
the liberty of running over his papers--with the most unexpected
results."
"You found something compromising?"
"Absolutely nothing. That was what amazed me. However, you have
now seen the point of the picture. It shows him to be a very
wealthy man. How did he acquire wealth? He is unmarried. His
younger brother is a station master in the west of England. His
chair is worth seven hundred a year. And he owns a Greuze."
"Well?"
"Surely the inference is plain."
"You mean that he has a great income and that he must earn it in
an illegal fashion?"
"Exactly. Of course I have other reasons for thinking so--dozens
of exiguous threads which lead vaguely up towards the centre of
the web where the poisonous, motionless creature is lurking. I
only mention the Greuze because it brings the matter within the
range of your own observation."
"Well, Mr. Holmes, I admit that what you say is interesting:
it's more than interesting--it's just wonderful. But let us have
it a little clearer if you can. Is it forgery, coining,
burglary--where does the money come from?"
"Have you ever read of Jonathan Wild?"
"Well, the name has a familiar sound. Someone in a novel, was he
not? I don't take much stock of detectives in novels--chaps that
do things and never let you see how they do them. That's just
inspiration: not business."
"Jonathan Wild wasn't a detective, and he wasn't in a novel. He
was a master criminal, and he lived last century--1750 or
thereabouts."
"Then he's no use to me. I'm a practical man."
"Mr. Mac, the most practical thing that you ever did in your life
would be to shut yourself up for three months and read twelve
hours a day at the annals of crime. Everything comes in
circles--even Professor Moriarty. Jonathan Wild was the hidden
force of the London criminals, to whom he sold his brains and his
organization on a fifteen per cent. commission. The old wheel
turns, and the same spoke comes up. It's all been done before,
and will be again. I'll tell you one or two things about
Moriarty which may interest you."
"You'll interest me, right enough."
"I happen to know who is the first link in his chain--a chain
with this Napoleon-gone-wrong at one end, and a hundred broken
fighting men, pickpockets, blackmailers, and card sharpers at the
other, with every sort of crime in between. His chief of staff
is Colonel Sebastian Moran, as aloof and guarded and inaccessible
to the law as himself. What do you think he pays him?"
"I'd like to hear."
"Six thousand a year. That's paying for brains, you see--the
American business principle. I learned that detail quite by
chance. It's more than the Prime Minister gets. That gives you
an idea of Moriarty's gains and of the scale on which he works.
Another point: I made it my business to hunt down some of
Moriarty's checks lately--just common innocent checks that he
pays his household bills with. They were drawn on six different
banks. Does that make any impression on your mind?"
"Queer, certainly! But what do you gather from it?"
"That he wanted no gossip about his wealth. No single man should
know what he had. I have no doubt that he has twenty banking
accounts; the bulk of his fortune abroad in the Deutsche Bank or
the Credit Lyonnais as likely as not. Sometime when you have a
year or two to spare I commend to you the study of Professor
Moriarty."
Inspector MacDonald had grown steadily more impressed as the
conversation proceeded. He had lost himself in his interest.
Now his practical Scotch intelligence brought him back with a
snap to the matter in hand.
"He can keep, anyhow," said he. "You've got us side-tracked with
your interesting anecdotes, Mr. Holmes. What really counts is
your remark that there is some connection between the professor
and the crime. That you get from the warning received through
the man Porlock. Can we for our present practical needs get any
further than that?"
"We may form some conception as to the motives of the crime. It
is, as I gather from your original remarks, an inexplicable, or
at least an unexplained, murder. Now, presuming that the source
of the crime is as we suspect it to be, there might be two
different motives. In the first place, I may tell you that
Moriarty rules with a rod of iron over his people. His
discipline is tremendous. There is only one punishment in his
code. It is death. Now we might suppose that this murdered
man--this Douglas whose approaching fate was known by one of the
arch-criminal's subordinates--had in some way betrayed the chief.
His punishment followed, and would be known to all--if only to
put the fear of death into them."
"Well, that is one suggestion, Mr. Holmes."
"The other is that it has been engineered by Moriarty in the
ordinary course of business. Was there any robbery?"
"I have not heard."
"If so, it would, of course, be against the first hypothesis and
in favour of the second. Moriarty may have been engaged to
engineer it on a promise of part spoils, or he may have been paid
so much down to manage it. Either is possible. But whichever it
may be, or if it is some third combination, it is down at
Birlstone that we must seek the solution. I know our man too
well to suppose that he has left anything up here which may lead
us to him."
"Then to Birlstone we must go!" cried MacDonald, jumping from his
chair. "My word! it's later than I thought. I can give you,
gentlemen, five minutes for preparation, and that is all."
"And ample for us both," said Holmes, as he sprang up and
hastened to change from his dressing gown to his coat. "While we
are on our way, Mr. Mac, I will ask you to be good enough to tell
me all about it."
"All about it" proved to be disappointingly little, and yet there
was enough to assure us that the case before us might well be
worthy of the expert's closest attention. He brightened and
rubbed his thin hands together as he listened to the meagre but
remarkable details. A long series of sterile weeks lay behind
us, and here at last there was a fitting object for those
remarkable powers which, like all special gifts, become irksome
to their owner when they are not in use. That razor brain
blunted and rusted with inaction.
Sherlock Holmes's eyes glistened, his pale cheeks took a warmer
hue, and his whole eager face shone with an inward light when the
call for work reached him. Leaning forward in the cab, he
listened intently to MacDonald's short sketch of the problem
which awaited us in Sussex. The inspector was himself dependent,
as he explained to us, upon a scribbled account forwarded to him
by the milk train in the early hours of the morning. White
Mason, the local officer, was a personal friend, and hence
MacDonald had been notified much more promptly than is usual at
Scotland Yard when provincials need their assistance. It is a
very cold scent upon which the Metropolitan expert is generally
asked to run.
"DEAR INSPECTOR MACDONALD [said the letter which he read to us]:
"Official requisition for your services is in separate envelope.
This is for your private eye. Wire me what train in the morning
you can get for Birlstone, and I will meet it--or have it met if
I am too occupied. This case is a snorter. Don't waste a moment
in getting started. If you can bring Mr. Holmes, please do so;
for he will find something after his own heart. We would think
the whole had been fixed up for theatrical effect if there wasn't
a dead man in the middle of it. My word! it IS a snorter."
"Your friend seems to be no fool," remarked Holmes.
"No, sir, White Mason is a very live man, if I am any judge."
"Well, have you anything more?"
"Only that he will give us every detail when we meet."
"Then how did you get at Mr. Douglas and the fact that he had
been horribly murdered?"
"That was in the inclosed official report. It didn't say
'horrible': that's not a recognized official term. It gave the
name John Douglas. It mentioned that his injuries had been in
the head, from the discharge of a shotgun. It also mentioned the
hour of the alarm, which was close on to midnight last night. It
added that the case was undoubtedly one of murder, but that no
arrest had been made, and that the case was one which presented
some very perplexing and extraordinary features. That's
absolutely all we have at present, Mr. Holmes."
"Then, with your permission, we will leave it at that, Mr. Mac.
The temptation to form premature theories upon insufficient data
is the bane of our profession. I can see only two things for
certain at present--a great brain in London, and a dead man in
Sussex. It's the chain between that we are going to trace."
Chapter 3 - The Tragedy of Birlstone
Now for a moment I will ask leave to remove my own insignificant
personality and to describe events which occurred before we
arrived upon the scene by the light of knowledge which came to us
afterwards. Only in this way can I make the reader appreciate
the people concerned and the strange setting in which their fate
was cast.
The village of Birlstone is a small and very ancient cluster of
half-timbered cottages on the northern border of the county of
Sussex. For centuries it had remained unchanged; but within the
last few years its picturesque appearance and situation have
attracted a number of well-to-do residents, whose villas peep out
from the woods around. These woods are locally supposed to be
the extreme fringe of the great Weald forest, which thins away
until it reaches the northern chalk downs. A number of small
shops have come into being to meet the wants of the increased
population; so there seems some prospect that Birlstone may soon
grow from an ancient village into a modern town. It is the
centre for a considerable area of country, since Tunbridge Wells,
the nearest place of importance, is ten or twelve miles to the
eastward, over the borders of Kent.
About half a mile from the town, standing in an old park famous
for its huge beech trees, is the ancient Manor House of
Birlstone. Part of this venerable building dates back to the
time of the first crusade, when Hugo de Capus built a fortalice
in the centre of the estate, which had been granted to him by the
Red King. This was destroyed by fire in 1543, and some of its
smoke-blackened corner stones were used when, in Jacobean times,
a brick country house rose upon the ruins of the feudal castle.
The Manor House, with its many gables and its small diamond-paned
windows, was still much as the builder had left it in the early
seventeenth century. Of the double moats which had guarded its
more warlike predecessor, the outer had been allowed to dry up,
and served the humble function of a kitchen garden. The inner
one was still there, and lay forty feet in breadth, though now
only a few feet in depth, round the whole house. A small stream
fed it and continued beyond it, so that the sheet of water,
though turbid, was never ditchlike or unhealthy. The ground
floor windows were within a foot of the surface of the water.
The only approach to the house was over a drawbridge, the chains
and windlass of which had long been rusted and broken. The
latest tenants of the Manor House had, however, with
characteristic energy, set this right, and the drawbridge was not
only capable of being raised, but actually was raised every
evening and lowered every morning. By thus renewing the custom
of the old feudal days the Manor House was converted into an
island during the night--a fact which had a very direct bearing
upon the mystery which was soon to engage the attention of all
England.
The house had been untenanted for some years and was threatening
to moulder into a picturesque decay when the Douglases took
possession of it. This family consisted of only two
individuals--John Douglas and his wife. Douglas was a remarkable
man, both in character and in person. In age he may have been
about fifty, with a strong-jawed, rugged face, a grizzling
moustache, peculiarly keen gray eyes, and a wiry, vigorous figure
which had lost nothing of the strength and activity of youth. He
was cheery and genial to all, but somewhat offhand in his
manners, giving the impression that he had seen life in social
strata on some far lower horizon than the county society of
Sussex.
Yet, though looked at with some curiosity and reserve by his more
cultivated neighbours, he soon acquired a great popularity among
the villagers, subscribing handsomely to all local objects, and
attending their smoking concerts and other functions, where,
having a remarkably rich tenor voice, he was always ready to
oblige with an excellent song. He appeared to have plenty of
money, which was said to have been gained in the California gold
fields, and it was clear from his own talk and that of his wife
that he had spent a part of his life in America.
The good impression which had been produced by his generosity and
by his democratic manners was increased by a reputation gained
for utter indifference to danger. Though a wretched rider, he
turned out at every meet, and took the most amazing falls in his
determination to hold his own with the best. When the vicarage
caught fire he distinguished himself also by the fearlessness
with which he reentered the building to save property, after the
local fire brigade had given it up as impossible. Thus it came
about that John Douglas of the Manor House had within five years
won himself quite a reputation in Birlstone.
His wife, too, was popular with those who had made her
acquaintance; though, after the English fashion, the callers upon
a stranger who settled in the county without introductions were
few and far between. This mattered the less to her, as she was
retiring by disposition, and very much absorbed, to all
appearance, in her husband and her domestic duties. It was known
that she was an English lady who had met Mr. Douglas in London,
he being at that time a widower. She was a beautiful woman,
tall, dark, and slender, some twenty years younger than her
husband; a disparity which seemed in no wise to mar the
contentment of their family life.
It was remarked sometimes, however, by those who knew them best,
that the confidence between the two did not appear to be
complete, since the wife was either very reticent about her
husband's past life, or else, as seemed more likely, was
imperfectly informed about it. It had also been noted and
commented upon by a few observant people that there were signs
sometimes of some nerve-strain upon the part of Mrs. Douglas, and
that she would display acute uneasiness if her absent husband
should ever be particularly late in his return. On a quiet
countryside, where all gossip is welcome, this weakness of the
lady of the Manor House did not pass without remark, and it
bulked larger upon people's memory when the events arose which
gave it a very special significance.
There was yet another individual whose residence under that roof
was, it is true, only an intermittent one, but whose presence at
the time of the strange happenings which will now be narrated
brought his name prominently before the public. This was Cecil
James Barker, of Hales Lodge, Hampstead.
Cecil Barker's tall, loose-jointed figure was a familiar one in
the main street of Birlstone village; for he was a frequent and
welcome visitor at the Manor House. He was the more noticed as
being the only friend of the past unknown life of Mr. Douglas who
was ever seen in his new English surroundings. Barker was
himself an undoubted Englishman; but by his remarks it was clear
that he had first known Douglas in America and had there lived on
intimate terms with him. He appeared to be a man of considerable
wealth, and was reputed to be a bachelor.
In age he was rather younger than Douglas--forty-five at the
most--a tall, straight, broad-chested fellow with a clean-shaved,
prize-fighter face, thick, strong, black eyebrows, and a pair of
masterful black eyes which might, even without the aid of his
very capable hands, clear a way for him through a hostile crowd.
He neither rode nor shot, but spent his days in wandering round
the old village with his pipe in his mouth, or in driving with
his host, or in his absence with his hostess, over the beautiful
countryside. "An easy-going, free-handed gentleman," said Ames,
the butler. "But, my word! I had rather not be the man that
crossed him!" He was cordial and intimate with Douglas, and he
was no less friendly with his wife--a friendship which more than
once seemed to cause some irritation to the husband, so that even
the servants were able to perceive his annoyance. Such was the
third person who was one of the family when the catastrophe
occurred.
As to the other denizens of the old building, it will suffice out
of a large household to mention the prim, respectable, and
capable Ames, and Mrs. Allen, a buxom and cheerful person, who
relieved the lady of some of her household cares. The other six
servants in the house bear no relation to the events of the night
of January 6th.
It was at eleven forty-five that the first alarm reached the
small local police station, in charge of Sergeant Wilson of the
Sussex Constabulary. Cecil Barker, much excited, had rushed up
to the door and pealed furiously upon the bell. A terrible
tragedy had occurred at the Manor House, and John Douglas had
been murdered. That was the breathless burden of his message.
He had hurried back to the house, followed within a few minutes
by the police sergeant, who arrived at the scene of the crime a
little after twelve o'clock, after taking prompt steps to warn
the county authorities that something serious was afoot.
On reaching the Manor House, the sergeant had found the
drawbridge down, the windows lighted up, and the whole household
in a state of wild confusion and alarm. The white-faced servants
were huddling together in the hall, with the frightened butler
wringing his hands in the doorway. Only Cecil Barker seemed to
be master of himself and his emotions; he had opened the door
which was nearest to the entrance and he had beckoned to the
sergeant to follow him. At that moment there arrived Dr. Wood, a
brisk and capable general practitioner from the village. The
three men entered the fatal room together, while the
horror-stricken butler followed at their heels, closing the door
behind him to shut out the terrible scene from the maid servants.
The dead man lay on his back, sprawling with outstretched limbs
in the centre of the room. He was clad only in a pink dressing
gown, which covered his night clothes. There were carpet
slippers on his bare feet. The doctor knelt beside him and held
down the hand lamp which had stood on the table. One glance at
the victim was enough to show the healer that his presence could
be dispensed with. The man had been horribly injured. Lying
across his chest was a curious weapon, a shotgun with the barrel
sawed off a foot in front of the triggers. It was clear that
this had been fired at close range and that he had received the
whole charge in the face, blowing his head almost to pieces. The
triggers had been wired together, so as to make the simultaneous
discharge more destructive.
The country policeman was unnerved and troubled by the tremendous
responsibility which had come so suddenly upon him. "We will
touch nothing until my superiors arrive," he said in a hushed
voice, staring in horror at the dreadful head.
"Nothing has been touched up to now," said Cecil Barker. "I'll
answer for that. You see it all exactly as I found it."
"When was that?" The sergeant had drawn out his notebook.
"It was just half-past eleven. I had not begun to undress, and I
was sitting by the fire in my bedroom when I heard the report.
It was not very loud--it seemed to be muffled. I rushed down--I
don't suppose it was thirty seconds before I was in the room."
"Was the door open?"
"Yes, it was open. Poor Douglas was lying as you see him. His
bedroom candle was burning on the table. It was I who lit the
lamp some minutes afterward."
"Did you see no one?"
"No. I heard Mrs. Douglas coming down the stair behind me, and I
rushed out to prevent her from seeing this dreadful sight. Mrs.
Allen, the housekeeper, came and took her away. Ames had
arrived, and we ran back into the room once more."
"But surely I have heard that the drawbridge is kept up all
night."
"Yes, it was up until I lowered it."
"Then how could any murderer have got away? It is out of the
question! Mr. Douglas must have shot himself."
"That was our first idea. But see!" Barker drew aside the
curtain, and showed that the long, diamond-paned window was open
to its full extent. "And look at this!" He held the lamp down
and illuminated a smudge of blood like the mark of a boot-sole
upon the wooden sill. "Someone has stood there in getting out."
"You mean that someone waded across the moat?"
"Exactly!"
"Then if you were in the room within half a minute of the crime,
he must have been in the water at that very moment."
"I have not a doubt of it. I wish to heaven that I had rushed to
the window! But the curtain screened it, as you can see, and so
it never occurred to me. Then I heard the step of Mrs. Douglas,
and I could not let her enter the room. It would have been too
horrible."
"Horrible enough!" said the doctor, looking at the shattered head
and the terrible marks which surrounded it. "I've never seen
such injuries since the Birlstone railway smash."
"But, I say," remarked the police sergeant, whose slow, bucolic
common sense was still pondering the open window. "It's all very
well your saying that a man escaped by wading this moat, but what
I ask you is, how did he ever get into the house at all if the
bridge was up?"
"Ah, that's the question," said Barker.
"At what o'clock was it raised?"
"It was nearly six o'clock," said Ames, the butler.
"I've heard," said the sergeant, "that it was usually raised at
sunset. That would be nearer half-past four than six at this
time of year."
"Mrs. Douglas had visitors to tea," said Ames. "I couldn't raise
it until they went. Then I wound it up myself."
"Then it comes to this," said the sergeant: "If anyone came from
outside--IF they did--they must have got in across the bridge
before six and been in hiding ever since, until Mr. Douglas came
into the room after eleven."
"That is so! Mr. Douglas went round the house every night the
last thing before he turned in to see that the lights were right.
That brought him in here. The man was waiting and shot him.
Then he got away through the window and left his gun behind him.
That's how I read it; for nothing else will fit the facts."
The sergeant picked up a card which lay beside the dead man on
the floor. The initials V.V. and under them the number 341 were
rudely scrawled in ink upon it.
"What's this?" he asked, holding it up.
Barker looked at it with curiosity. "I never noticed it before,"
he said. "The murderer must have left it behind him."
"V.V.--341. I can make no sense of that."
The sergeant kept turning it over in his big fingers. "What's
V.V.? Somebody's initials, maybe. What have you got there, Dr.
Wood?"
It was a good-sized hammer which had been lying on the rug in
front of the fireplace--a substantial, workmanlike hammer. Cecil
Barker pointed to a box of brass-headed nails upon the
mantelpiece.
"Mr. Douglas was altering the pictures yesterday," he said. "I
saw him myself, standing upon that chair and fixing the big
picture above it. That accounts for the hammer."
"We'd best put it back on the rug where we found it," said the
sergeant, scratching his puzzled head in his perplexity. "It
will want the best brains in the force to get to the bottom of
this thing. It will be a London job before it is finished." He
raised the hand lamp and walked slowly round the room. "Hullo!"
he cried, excitedly, drawing the window curtain to one side.
"What o'clock were those curtains drawn?"
"When the lamps were lit," said the butler. "It would be shortly
after four."
"Someone had been hiding here, sure enough." He held down the
light, and the marks of muddy boots were very visible in the
corner. "I'm bound to say this bears out your theory, Mr.
Barker. It looks as if the man got into the house after four
when the curtains were drawn, and before six when the bridge was
raised. He slipped into this room, because it was the first that
he saw. There was no other place where he could hide, so he
popped in behind this curtain. That all seems clear enough. It
is likely that his main idea was to burgle the house; but Mr.
Douglas chanced to come upon him, so he murdered him and
escaped."
"That's how I read it," said Barker. "But, I say, aren't we
wasting precious time? Couldn't we start out and scout the
country before the fellow gets away?"
The sergeant considered for a moment.
"There are no trains before six in the morning; so he can't get
away by rail. If he goes by road with his legs all dripping,
it's odds that someone will notice him. Anyhow, I can't leave
here myself until I am relieved. But I think none of you should
go until we see more clearly how we all stand."
The doctor had taken the lamp and was narrowly scrutinizing the
body. "What's this mark?" he asked. "Could this have any
connection with the crime?"
The dead man's right arm was thrust out from his dressing gown,
and exposed as high as the elbow. About halfway up the forearm
was a curious brown design, a triangle inside a circle, standing
out in vivid relief upon the lard-coloured skin.
"It's not tattooed," said the doctor, peering through his
glasses. "I never saw anything like it. The man has been
branded at some time as they brand cattle. What is the meaning
of this?"
"I don't profess to know the meaning of it," said Cecil Barker;
"but I have seen the mark on Douglas many times this last ten
years."
"And so have I," said the butler. "Many a time when the master
has rolled up his sleeves I have noticed that very mark. I've
often wondered what it could be."
"Then it has nothing to do with the crime, anyhow," said the
sergeant. "But it's a rum thing all the same. Everything about
this case is rum. Well, what is it now?"
The butler had given an exclamation of astonishment and was
pointing at the dead man's outstretched hand.
"They've taken his wedding ring!" he gasped.
"What!"
"Yes, indeed. Master always wore his plain gold wedding ring on
the little finger of his left hand. That ring with the rough
nugget on it was above it, and the twisted snake ring on the
third finger. There's the nugget and there's the snake, but the
wedding ring is gone."
"He's right," said Barker.
"Do you tell me," said the sergeant, "that the wedding ring was
BELOW the other?"
"Always!"
"Then the murderer, or whoever it was, first took off this ring
you call the nugget ring, then the wedding ring, and afterwards
put the nugget ring back again."
"That is so!"
The worthy country policeman shook his head. "Seems to me the
sooner we get London on to this case the better," said he.
"White Mason is a smart man. No local job has ever been too much
for White Mason. It won't be long now before he is here to help
us. But I expect we'll have to look to London before we are
through. Anyhow, I'm not ashamed to say that it is a deal too
thick for the likes of me."
Chapter 4 - Darkness
At three in the morning the chief Sussex detective, obeying the
urgent call from Sergeant Wilson of Birlstone, arrived from
headquarters in a light dog-cart behind a breathless trotter. By
the five-forty train in the morning he had sent his message to
Scotland Yard, and he was at the Birlstone station at twelve
o'clock to welcome us. White Mason was a quiet,
comfortable-looking person in a loose tweed suit, with a
clean-shaved, ruddy face, a stoutish body, and powerful bandy
legs adorned with gaiters, looking like a small farmer, a retired
gamekeeper, or anything upon earth except a very favourable
specimen of the provincial criminal officer.
"A real downright snorter, Mr. MacDonald!" he kept repeating.
"We'll have the pressmen down like flies when they understand it.
I'm hoping we will get our work done before they get poking their
noses into it and messing up all the trails. There has been
nothing like this that I can remember. There are some bits that
will come home to you, Mr. Holmes, or I am mistaken. And you
also, Dr. Watson; for the medicos will have a word to say before
we finish. Your room is at the Westville Arms. There's no other
place; but I hear that it is clean and good. The man will carry
your bags. This way, gentlemen, if you please."
He was a very bustling and genial person, this Sussex detective.
In ten minutes we had all found our quarters. In ten more we
were seated in the parlour of the inn and being treated to a
rapid sketch of those events which have been outlined in the
previous chapter. MacDonald made an occasional note; while
Holmes sat absorbed, with the expression of surprised and
reverent admiration with which the botanist surveys the rare and
precious bloom.
"Remarkable!" he said, when the story was unfolded, "most
remarkable! I can hardly recall any case where the features have
been more peculiar."
"I thought you would say so, Mr. Holmes," said White Mason in
great delight. "We're well up with the times in Sussex. I've
told you now how matters were, up to the time when I took over
from Sergeant Wilson between three and four this morning. My
word! I made the old mare go! But I need not have been in such
a hurry, as it turned out; for there was nothing immediate that I
could do. Sergeant Wilson had all the facts. I checked them and
considered them and maybe added a few of my own."
"What were they?" asked Holmes eagerly.
"Well, I first had the hammer examined. There was Dr. Wood there
to help me. We found no signs of violence upon it. I was hoping
that if Mr. Douglas defended himself with the hammer, he might
have left his mark upon the murderer before he dropped it on the
mat. But there was no stain."
"That, of course, proves nothing at all," remarked Inspector
MacDonald. "There has been many a hammer murder and no trace on
the hammer."
"Quite so. It doesn't prove it wasn't used. But there might
have been stains, and that would have helped us. As a matter of
fact there were none. Then I examined the gun. They were
buckshot cartridges, and, as Sergeant Wilson pointed out, the
triggers were wired together so that, if you pulled on the hinder
one, both barrels were discharged. Whoever fixed that up had
made up his mind that he was going to take no chances of missing
his man. The sawed gun was not more than two foot long--one
could carry it easily under one's coat. There was no complete
maker's name; but the printed letters P-E-N were on the fluting
between the barrels, and the rest of the name had been cut off by
the saw."
"A big P with a flourish above it, E and N smaller?" asked
Holmes.
"Exactly."
"Pennsylvania Small Arms Company--well-known American firm," said
Holmes.
White Mason gazed at my friend as the little village practitioner
looks at the Harley Street specialist who by a word can solve the
difficulties that perplex him.
"That is very helpful, Mr. Holmes. No doubt you are right.
Wonderful! Wonderful! Do you carry the names of all the gun
makers in the world in your memory?"
Holmes dismissed the subject with a wave.
"No doubt it is an American shotgun," White Mason continued. "I
seem to have read that a sawed-off shotgun is a weapon used in
some parts of America. Apart from the name upon the barrel, the
idea had occurred to me. There is some evidence then, that this
man who entered the house and killed its master was an American."
MacDonald shook his head. "Man, you are surely travelling
overfast," said he. "I have heard no evidence yet that any
stranger was ever in the house at all."
"The open window, the blood on the sill, the queer card, the
marks of boots in the corner, the gun!"
"Nothing there that could not have been arranged. Mr. Douglas
was an American, or had lived long in America. So had Mr.
Barker. You don't need to import an American from outside in
order to account for American doings."
"Ames, the butler--"
"What about him? Is he reliable?"
"Ten years with Sir Charles Chandos--as solid as a rock. He has
been with Douglas ever since he took the Manor House five years
ago. He has never seen a gun of this sort in the house."
"The gun was made to conceal. That's why the barrels were sawed.
It would fit into any box. How could he swear there was no such
gun in the house?"
"Well, anyhow, he had never seen one."
MacDonald shook his obstinate Scotch head. "I'm not convinced
yet that there was ever anyone in the house," said he. "I'm
asking you to conseedar" (his accent became more Aberdonian as he
lost himself in his argument) "I'm asking you to conseedar what
it involves if you suppose that this gun was ever brought into
the house, and that all these strange things were done by a
person from outside. Oh, man, it's just inconceivable! It's
clean against common sense! I put it to you, Mr. Holmes, judging
it by what we have heard."
"Well, state your case, Mr. Mac," said Holmes in his most
judicial style.
"The man is not a burglar, supposing that he ever existed. The
ring business and the card point to premeditated murder for some
private reason. Very good. Here is a man who slips into a house
with the deliberate intention of committing murder. He knows, if
he knows anything, that he will have a deeficulty in making his
escape, as the house is surrounded with water. What weapon would
he choose? You would say the most silent in the world. Then he
could hope when the deed was done to slip quickly from the
window, to wade the moat, and to get away at his leisure. That's
understandable. But is it understandable that he should go out
of his way to bring with him the most noisy weapon he could
select, knowing well that it will fetch every human being in the
house to the spot as quick as they can run, and that it is all
odds that he will be seen before he can get across the moat? Is
that credible, Mr. Holmes?"
"Well, you put the case strongly," my friend replied
thoughtfully. "It certainly needs a good deal of justification.
May I ask, Mr. White Mason, whether you examined the farther side
of the moat at once to see if there were any signs of the man
having climbed out from the water?"
"There were no signs, Mr. Holmes. But it is a stone ledge, and
one could hardly expect them."
"No tracks or marks?"
"None."
"Ha! Would there be any objection, Mr. White Mason, to our going
down to the house at once? There may possibly be some small
point which might be suggestive."
"I was going to propose it, Mr. Holmes; but I thought it well to
put you in touch with all the facts before we go. I suppose if
anything should strike you--" White Mason looked doubtfully at
the amateur.
"I have worked with Mr. Holmes before," said Inspector MacDonald.
"He plays the game."
"My own idea of the game, at any rate," said Holmes, with a
smile. "I go into a case to help the ends of justice and the
work of the police. If I have ever separated myself from the
official force, it is because they have first separated
themselves from me. I have no wish ever to score at their
expense. At the same time, Mr. White Mason, I claim the right to
work in my own way and give my results at my own time--complete
rather than in stages."
"I am sure we are honoured by your presence and to show you all
we know," said White Mason cordially. "Come along, Dr. Watson,
and when the time comes we'll all hope for a place in your book."
We walked down the quaint village street with a row of pollarded
elms on each side of it. Just beyond were two ancient stone
pillars, weather-stained and lichen-blotched, bearing upon their
summits a shapeless something which had once been the rampant
lion of Capus of Birlstone. A short walk along the winding drive
with such sward and oaks around it as one only sees in rural
England, then a sudden turn, and the long, low Jacobean house of
dingy, liver-coloured brick lay before us, with an old-fashioned
garden of cut yews on each side of it. As we approached it,
there was the wooden drawbridge and the beautiful broad moat as
still and luminous as quicksilver in the cold, winter sunshine.
Three centuries had flowed past the old Manor House, centuries of
births and of homecomings, of country dances and of the meetings
of fox hunters. Strange that now in its old age this dark
business should have cast its shadow upon the venerable walls!
And yet those strange, peaked roofs and quaint, overhung gables
were a fitting covering to grim and terrible intrigue. As I
looked at the deep-set windows and the long sweep of the
dull-coloured, water-lapped front, I felt that no more fitting
scene could be set for such a tragedy.
"That's the window," said White Mason, "that one on the immediate
right of the drawbridge. It's open just as it was found last
night."
"It looks rather narrow for a man to pass."
"Well, it wasn't a fat man, anyhow. We don't need your
deductions, Mr. Holmes, to tell us that. But you or I could
squeeze through all right."
Holmes walked to the edge of the moat and looked across. Then he
examined the stone ledge and the grass border beyond it.
"I've had a good look, Mr. Holmes," said White Mason. "There is
nothing there, no sign that anyone has landed--but why should he
leave any sign?"
"Exactly. Why should he? Is the water always turbid?"
"Generally about this colour. The stream brings down the clay."
"How deep is it?"
"About two feet at each side and three in the middle."
"So we can put aside all idea of the man having been drowned in
crossing."
"No, a child could not be drowned in it."
We walked across the drawbridge, and were admitted by a quaint,
gnarled, dried-up person, who was the butler, Ames. The poor old
fellow was white and quivering from the shock. The village
sergeant, a tall, formal, melancholy man, still held his vigil in
the room of Fate. The doctor had departed.
"Anything fresh, Sergeant Wilson?" asked White Mason.
"No, sir."
"Then you can go home. You've had enough. We can send for you
if we want you. The butler had better wait outside. Tell him to
warn Mr. Cecil Barker, Mrs. Douglas, and the housekeeper that we
may want a word with them presently. Now, gentlemen, perhaps you
will allow me to give you the views I have formed first, and then
you will be able to arrive at your own."
He impressed me, this country specialist. He had a solid grip of
fact and a cool, clear, common-sense brain, which should take him
some way in his profession. Holmes listened to him intently,
with no sign of that impatience which the official exponent too
often produced.
"Is it suicide, or is it murder--that's our first question,
gentlemen, is it not? If it were suicide, then we have to
believe that this man began by taking off his wedding ring and
concealing it; that he then came down here in his dressing gown,
trampled mud into a corner behind the curtain in order to give
the idea someone had waited for him, opened the window, put blood
on the--"
"We can surely dismiss that," said MacDonald.
"So I think. Suicide is out of the question. Then a murder has
been done. What we have to determine is, whether it was done by
someone outside or inside the house."
"Well, let's hear the argument."
"There are considerable difficulties both ways, and yet one or
the other it must be. We will suppose first that some person or
persons inside the house did the crime. They got this man down
here at a time when everything was still and yet no one was
asleep. They then did the deed with the queerest and noisiest
weapon in the world so as to tell everyone what had happened--a
weapon that was never seen in the house before. That does not
seem a very likely start, does it?"
"No, it does not."
"Well, then, everyone is agreed that after the alarm was given
only a minute at the most had passed before the whole
household--not Mr. Cecil Barker alone, though he claims to have
been the first, but Ames and all of them were on the spot. Do
you tell me that in that time the guilty person managed to make
footmarks in the corner, open the window, mark the sill with
blood, take the wedding ring off the dead man's finger, and all
the rest of it? It's impossible!"
"You put it very clearly," said Holmes. "I am inclined to agree
with you."
"Well, then, we are driven back to the theory that it was done by
someone from outside. We are still faced with some big
difficulties; but anyhow they have ceased to be impossibilities.
The man got into the house between four-thirty and six; that is
to say, between dusk and the time when the bridge was raised.
There had been some visitors, and the door was open; so there was
nothing to prevent him. He may have been a common burglar, or he
may have had some private grudge against Mr. Douglas. Since Mr.
Douglas has spent most of his life in America, and this shotgun
seems to be an American weapon, it would seem that the private
grudge is the more likely theory. He slipped into this room
because it was the first he came to, and he hid behind the
curtain. There he remained until past eleven at night. At that
time Mr. Douglas entered the room. It was a short interview, if
there were any interview at all; for Mrs. Douglas declares that
her husband had not left her more than a few minutes when she
heard the shot."
"The candle shows that," said Holmes.
"Exactly. The candle, which was a new one, is not burned more
than half an inch. He must have placed it on the table before he
was attacked; otherwise, of course, it would have fallen when he
fell. This shows that he was not attacked the instant that he
entered the room. When Mr. Barker arrived the candle was lit and
the lamp was out."
"That's all clear enough."
"Well, now, we can reconstruct things on those lines. Mr.
Douglas enters the room. He puts down the candle. A man appears
from behind the curtain. He is armed with this gun. He demands
the wedding ring--Heaven only knows why, but so it must have
been. Mr. Douglas gave it up. Then either in cold blood or in
the course of a struggle--Douglas may have gripped the hammer
that was found upon the mat--he shot Douglas in this horrible
way. He dropped his gun and also it would seem this queer
card--V.V. 341, whatever that may mean--and he made his escape
through the window and across the moat at the very moment when
Cecil Barker was discovering the crime. How's that, Mr. Holmes?"
"Very interesting, but just a little unconvincing."
"Man, it would be absolute nonsense if it wasn't that anything
else is even worse!" cried MacDonald. "Somebody killed the man,
and whoever it was I could clearly prove to you that he should
have done it some other way. What does he mean by allowing his
retreat to be cut off like that? What does he mean by using a
shotgun when silence was his one chance of escape? Come, Mr.
Holmes, it's up to you to give us a lead, since you say Mr. White
Mason's theory is unconvincing."
Holmes had sat intently observant during this long discussion,
missing no word that was said, with his keen eyes darting to
right and to left, and his forehead wrinkled with speculation.
"I should like a few more facts before I get so far as a theory,
Mr. Mac," said he, kneeling down beside the body. "Dear me! these
injuries are really appalling. Can we have the butler in for a
moment?... Ames, I understand that you have often seen this very
unusual mark--a branded triangle inside a circle--upon Mr.
Douglas's forearm?"
"Frequently, sir."
"You never heard any speculation as to what it meant?"
"No, sir."
"It must have caused great pain when it was inflicted. It is
undoubtedly a burn. Now, I observe, Ames, that there is a small
piece of plaster at the angle of Mr. Douglas's jaw. Did you
observe that in life?"
"Yes, sir, he cut himself in shaving yesterday morning."
"Did you ever know him to cut himself in shaving before?"
"Not for a very long time, sir."
"Suggestive!" said Holmes. "It may, of course, be a mere
coincidence, or it may point to some nervousness which would
indicate that he had reason to apprehend danger. Had you noticed
anything unusual in his conduct, yesterday, Ames?"
"It struck me that he was a little restless and excited, sir."
"Ha! The attack may not have been entirely unexpected. We do
seem to make a little progress, do we not? Perhaps you would
rather do the questioning, Mr. Mac?"
"No, Mr. Holmes, it's in better hands than mine."
"Well, then, we will pass to this card--V.V. 341. It is rough
cardboard. Have you any of the sort in the house?"
"I don't think so."
Holmes walked across to the desk and dabbed a little ink from
each bottle on to the blotting paper. "It was not printed in
this room," he said; "this is black ink and the other purplish.
It was done by a thick pen, and these are fine. No, it was done
elsewhere, I should say. Can you make anything of the
inscription, Ames?"
"No, sir, nothing."
"What do you think, Mr. Mac?"
"It gives me the impression of a secret society of some sort; the
same with his badge upon the forearm."
"That's my idea, too," said White Mason.
"Well, we can adopt it as a working hypothesis and then see how
far our difficulties disappear. An agent from such a society
makes his way into the house, waits for Mr. Douglas, blows his
head nearly off with this weapon, and escapes by wading the moat,
after leaving a card beside the dead man, which will, when
mentioned in the papers, tell other members of the society that
vengeance has been done. That all hangs together. But why this
gun, of all weapons?"
"Exactly."
"And why the missing ring?"
"Quite so."
"And why no arrest? It's past two now. I take it for granted
that since dawn every constable within forty miles has been
looking out for a wet stranger?"
"That is so, Mr. Holmes."
"Well, unless he has a burrow close by or a change of clothes
ready, they can hardly miss him. And yet they HAVE missed him up
to now!" Holmes had gone to the window and was examining with
his lens the blood mark on the sill. "It is clearly the tread of
a shoe. It is remarkably broad; a splay-foot, one would say.
Curious, because, so far as one can trace any footmark in this
mud-stained corner, one would say it was a more shapely sole.
However, they are certainly very indistinct. What's this under
the side table?"
"Mr. Douglas's dumb-bells," said Ames.
"Dumb-bell--there's only one. Where's the other?"
"I don't know, Mr. Holmes. There may have been only one. I
have not noticed them for months."
"One dumb-bell--" Holmes said seriously; but his remarks were
interrupted by a sharp knock at the door.
A tall, sunburned, capable-looking, clean-shaved man looked in at
us. I had no difficulty in guessing that it was the Cecil Barker
of whom I had heard. His masterful eyes travelled quickly with a
questioning glance from face to face.
"Sorry to interrupt your consultation," said he, "but you should
hear the latest news."
"An arrest?"
"No such luck. But they've found his bicycle. The fellow left
his bicycle behind him. Come and have a look. It is within a
hundred yards of the hall door."
We found three or four grooms and idlers standing in the drive
inspecting a bicycle which had been drawn out from a clump of
evergreens in which it had been concealed. It was a well used
Rudge-Whitworth, splashed as from a considerable journey. There
was a saddlebag with spanner and oilcan, but no clue as to the
owner.
"It would be a grand help to the police," said the inspector, "if
these things were numbered and registered. But we must be
thankful for what we've got. If we can't find where he went to,
at least we are likely to get where he came from. But what in
the name of all that is wonderful made the fellow leave it
behind? And how in the world has he got away without it? We
don't seem to get a gleam of light in the case, Mr. Holmes."
"Don't we?" my friend answered thoughtfully. "I wonder!"
Chapter 5 - The People of the Drama
"Have you seen all you want of the study?" asked White Mason as
we reentered the house.
"For the time," said the inspector, and Holmes nodded.
"Then perhaps you would now like to hear the evidence of some of
the people in the house. We could use the dining room, Ames.
Please come yourself first and tell us what you know."
The butler's account was a simple and a clear one, and he gave a
convincing impression of sincerity. He had been engaged five
years before, when Douglas first came to Birlstone. He
understood that Mr. Douglas was a rich gentleman who had made his
money in America. He had been a kind and considerate
employer--not quite what Ames was used to, perhaps; but one can't
have everything. He never saw any signs of apprehension in Mr.
Douglas: on the contrary, he was the most fearless man he had
ever known. He ordered the drawbridge to be pulled up every
night because it was the ancient custom of the old house, and he
liked to keep the old ways up.
Mr. Douglas seldom went to London or left the village; but on
the day before the crime he had been shopping at Tunbridge Wells.
He (Ames) had observed some restlessness and excitement on the
part of Mr. Douglas that day; for he had seemed impatient and
irritable, which was unusual with him. He had not gone to bed
that night; but was in the pantry at the back of the house,
putting away the silver, when he heard the bell ring violently.
He heard no shot; but it was hardly possible he would, as the
pantry and kitchens were at the very back of the house and there
were several closed doors and a long passage between. The
housekeeper had come out of her room, attracted by the violent
ringing of the bell. They had gone to the front of the house
together.
As they reached the bottom of the stairs he had seen Mrs. Douglas
coming down it. No, she was not hurrying; it did not seem to him
that she was particularly agitated. Just as she reached the
bottom of the stair Mr. Barker had rushed out of the study. He
had stopped Mrs. Douglas and begged her to go back.
"For God's sake, go back to your room!" he cried. "Poor Jack is
dead! You can do nothing. For God's sake, go back!"
After some persuasion upon the stairs Mrs. Douglas had gone back.
She did not scream. She made no outcry whatever. Mrs. Allen,
the housekeeper, had taken her upstairs and stayed with her in
the bedroom. Ames and Mr. Barker had then returned to the study,
where they had found everything exactly as the police had seen
it. The candle was not lit at that time; but the lamp was
burning. They had looked out of the window; but the night was
very dark and nothing could be seen or heard. They had then
rushed out into the hall, where Ames had turned the windlass
which lowered the drawbridge. Mr. Barker had then hurried off
to get the police.
Such, in its essentials, was the evidence of the butler.
The account of Mrs. Allen, the housekeeper, was, so far as it
went, a corroboration of that of her fellow servant. The
housekeeper's room was rather nearer to the front of the house
than the pantry in which Ames had been working. She was
preparing to go to bed when the loud ringing of the bell had
attracted her attention. She was a little hard of hearing.
Perhaps that was why she had not heard the shot; but in any case
the study was a long way off. She remembered hearing some sound
which she imagined to be the slamming of a door. That was a good
deal earlier--half an hour at least before the ringing of the
bell. When Mr. Ames ran to the front she went with him. She saw
Mr. Barker, very pale and excited, come out of the study. He
intercepted Mrs. Douglas, who was coming down the stairs. He
entreated her to go back, and she answered him, but what she said
could not be heard.
"Take her up! Stay with her!" he had said to Mrs. Allen.
She had therefore taken her to the bedroom, and endeavoured to
soothe her. She was greatly excited, trembling all over, but
made no other attempt to go downstairs. She just sat in her
dressing gown by her bedroom fire, with her head sunk in her
hands. Mrs. Allen stayed with her most of the night. As to the
other servants, they had all gone to bed, and the alarm did not
reach them until just before the police arrived. They slept at
the extreme back of the house, and could not possibly have heard
anything.
So far the housekeeper could add nothing on cross-examination
save lamentations and expressions of amazement.
Cecil Barker succeeded Mrs. Allen as a witness. As to the
occurrences of the night before, he had very little to add to
what he had already told the police. Personally, he was
convinced that the murderer had escaped by the window. The
bloodstain was conclusive, in his opinion, on that point.
Besides, as the bridge was up, there was no other possible way of
escaping. He could not explain what had become of the assassin
or why he had not taken his bicycle, if it were indeed his. He
could not possibly have been drowned in the moat, which was at no
place more than three feet deep.
In his own mind he had a very definite theory about the murder.
Douglas was a reticent man, and there were some chapters in his
life of which he never spoke. He had emigrated to America when
he was a very young man. He had prospered well, and Barker had
first met him in California, where they had become partners in a
successful mining claim at a place called Benito Canon. They had
done very well; but Douglas had suddenly sold out and started for
England. He was a widower at that time. Barker had afterwards
realized his money and come to live in London. Thus they had
renewed their friendship.
Douglas had given him the impression that some danger was hanging
over his head, and he had always looked upon his sudden departure
from California, and also his renting a house in so quiet a place
in England, as being connected with this peril. He imagined that
some secret society, some implacable organization, was on
Douglas's track, which would never rest until it killed him.
Some remarks of his had given him this idea; though he had never
told him what the society was, nor how he had come to offend it.
He could only suppose that the legend upon the placard had some
reference to this secret society.
"How long were you with Douglas in California?" asked Inspector
MacDonald.
"Five years altogether."
"He was a bachelor, you say?"
"A widower."
"Have you ever heard where his first wife came from?"
"No, I remember his saying that she was of German extraction, and
I have seen her portrait. She was a very beautiful woman. She
died of typhoid the year before I met him."
"You don't associate his past with any particular part of
America?"
"I have heard him talk of Chicago. He knew that city well and
had worked there. I have heard him talk of the coal and iron
districts. He had travelled a good deal in his time."
"Was he a politician? Had this secret society to do with
politics?"
"No, he cared nothing about politics."
"You have no reason to think it was criminal?"
"On the contrary, I never met a straighter man in my life."
"Was there anything curious about his life in California?"
"He liked best to stay and to work at our claim in the mountains.
He would never go where other men were if he could help it.
That's why I first thought that someone was after him. Then when
he left so suddenly for Europe I made sure that it was so. I
believe that he had a warning of some sort. Within a week of his
leaving half a dozen men were inquiring for him."
"What sort of men?"
"Well, they were a mighty hard-looking crowd. They came up to
the claim and wanted to know where he was. I told them that he
was gone to Europe and that I did not know where to find him.
They meant him no good--it was easy to see that."
"Were these men Americans--Californians?"
"Well, I don't know about Californians. They were Americans, all
right. But they were not miners. I don't know what they were,
and was very glad to see their backs."
"That was six years ago?"
"Nearer seven."
"And then you were together five years in California, so that
this business dates back not less than eleven years at the
least?"
"That is so."
"It must be a very serious feud that would be kept up with such
earnestness for as long as that. It would be no light thing that
would give rise to it."
"I think it shadowed his whole life. It was never quite out of
his mind."
"But if a man had a danger hanging over him, and knew what it
was, don't you think he would turn to the police for protection?"
"Maybe it was some danger that he could not be protected against.
There's one thing you should know. He always went about armed.
His revolver was never out of his pocket. But, by bad luck, he
was in his dressing gown and had left it in the bedroom last
night. Once the bridge was up, I guess he thought he was safe."
"I should like these dates a little clearer," said MacDonald.
"It is quite six years since Douglas left California. You
followed him next year, did you not?"
"That is so."
"And he had been married five years. You must have returned
about the time of his marriage."
"About a month before. I was his best man."
"Did you know Mrs. Douglas before her marriage?"
"No, I did not. I had been away from England for ten years."
"But you have seen a good deal of her since."
Barker looked sternly at the detective. "I have seen a good deal
of HIM since," he answered. "If I have seen her, it is because
you cannot visit a man without knowing his wife. If you imagine
there is any connection--"
"I imagine nothing, Mr. Barker. I am bound to make every inquiry
which can bear upon the case. But I mean no offense."
"Some inquiries are offensive," Barker answered angrily.
"It's only the facts that we want. It is in your interest and
everyone's interest that they should be cleared up. Did Mr.
Douglas entirely approve your friendship with his wife?"
Barker grew paler, and his great, strong hands were clasped
convulsively together. "You have no right to ask such
questions!" he cried. "What has this to do with the matter you
are investigating?"
"I must repeat the question."
"Well, I refuse to answer."
"You can refuse to answer; but you must be aware that your
refusal is in itself an answer, for you would not refuse if you
had not something to conceal."
Barker stood for a moment with his face set grimly and his strong
black eyebrows drawn low in intense thought. Then he looked up
with a smile. "Well, I guess you gentlemen are only doing your
clear duty after all, and I have no right to stand in the way of
it. I'd only ask you not to worry Mrs. Douglas over this matter;
for she has enough upon her just now. I may tell you that poor
Douglas had just one fault in the world, and that was his
jealousy. He was fond of me--no man could be fonder of a friend.
And he was devoted to his wife. He loved me to come here, and
was forever sending for me. And yet if his wife and I talked
together or there seemed any sympathy between us, a kind of wave
of jealousy would pass over him, and he would be off the handle
and saying the wildest things in a moment. More than once I've
sworn off coming for that reason, and then he would write me such
penitent, imploring letters that I just had to. But you can take
it from me, gentlemen, if it was my last word, that no man ever
had a more loving, faithful wife--and I can say also no friend
could be more loyal than I!"
It was spoken with fervour and feeling, and yet Inspector
MacDonald could not dismiss the subject.
"You are aware," said he, "that the dead man's wedding ring has
been taken from his finger?"
"So it appears," said Barker.
"What do you mean by 'appears'? You know it as a fact."
The man seemed confused and undecided. "When I said 'appears' I
meant that it was conceivable that he had himself taken off the
ring."
"The mere fact that the ring should be absent, whoever may have
removed it, would suggest to anyone's mind, would it not, that
the marriage and the tragedy were connected?"
Barker shrugged his broad shoulders. "I can't profess to say
what it means," he answered. "But if you mean to hint that it
could reflect in any way upon this lady's honour"--his eyes
blazed for an instant, and then with an evident effort he got a
grip upon his own emotions--"well, you are on the wrong track,
that's all."
"I don't know that I've anything else to ask you at present,"
said MacDonald, coldly.
"There was one small point," remarked Sherlock Holmes. "When you
entered the room there was only a candle lighted on the table,
was there not?"
"Yes, that was so."
"By its light you saw that some terrible incident had occurred?"
"Exactly."
"You at once rang for help?"
"Yes."
"And it arrived very speedily?"
"Within a minute or so."
"And yet when they arrived they found that the candle was out and
that the lamp had been lighted. That seems very remarkable."
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