The Valley of Fear
aware, Watson, but my experience of life has taught me that there are
few wives, having any regard for their husbands, who would let any
man’s spoken word stand between them and that husband’s dead body.
Should I ever marry, Watson, I should hope to inspire my wife with some
feeling which would prevent her from being walked off by a housekeeper
when my corpse was lying within a few yards of her. It was badly
stage-managed; for even the rawest investigators must be struck by the
absence of the usual feminine ululation. If there had been nothing
else, this incident alone would have suggested a prearranged conspiracy
to my mind.”
“You think then, definitely, that Barker and Mrs. Douglas are guilty of
the murder?”
“There is an appalling directness about your questions, Watson,” said
Holmes, shaking his pipe at me. “They come at me like bullets. If you
put it that Mrs. Douglas and Barker know the truth about the murder,
and are conspiring to conceal it, then I can give you a whole-souled
answer. I am sure they do. But your more deadly proposition is not so
clear. Let us for a moment consider the difficulties which stand in the
way.
“We will suppose that this couple are united by the bonds of a guilty
love, and that they have determined to get rid of the man who stands
between them. It is a large supposition; for discreet inquiry among
servants and others has failed to corroborate it in any way. On the
contrary, there is a good deal of evidence that the Douglases were very
attached to each other.”
“That, I am sure, cannot be true,” said I, thinking of the beautiful
smiling face in the garden.
“Well, at least they gave that impression. However, we will suppose
that they are an extraordinarily astute couple, who deceive everyone
upon this point, and conspire to murder the husband. He happens to be a
man over whose head some danger hangs—”
“We have only their word for that.”
Holmes looked thoughtful. “I see, Watson. You are sketching out a
theory by which everything they say from the beginning is false.
According to your idea, there was never any hidden menace, or secret
society, or Valley of Fear, or Boss MacSomebody, or anything else.
Well, that is a good sweeping generalization. Let us see what that
brings us to. They invent this theory to account for the crime. They
then play up to the idea by leaving this bicycle in the park as proof
of the existence of some outsider. The stain on the windowsill conveys
the same idea. So does the card on the body, which might have been
prepared in the house. That all fits into your hypothesis, Watson. But
now we come on the nasty, angular, uncompromising bits which won’t slip
into their places. Why a cut-off shotgun of all weapons—and an American
one at that? How could they be so sure that the sound of it would not
bring someone on to them? It’s a mere chance as it is that Mrs. Allen
did not start out to inquire for the slamming door. Why did your guilty
couple do all this, Watson?”
“I confess that I can’t explain it.”
“Then again, if a woman and her lover conspire to murder a husband, are
they going to advertise their guilt by ostentatiously removing his
wedding ring after his death? Does that strike you as very probable,
Watson?”
“No, it does not.”
“And once again, if the thought of leaving a bicycle concealed outside
had occurred to you, would it really have seemed worth doing when the
dullest detective would naturally say this is an obvious blind, as the
bicycle is the first thing which the fugitive needed in order to make
his escape.”
“I can conceive of no explanation.”
“And yet there should be no combination of events for which the wit of
man cannot conceive an explanation. Simply as a mental exercise,
without any assertion that it is true, let me indicate a possible line
of thought. It is, I admit, mere imagination; but how often is
imagination the mother of truth?
“We will suppose that there was a guilty secret, a really shameful
secret in the life of this man Douglas. This leads to his murder by
someone who is, we will suppose, an avenger, someone from outside. This
avenger, for some reason which I confess I am still at a loss to
explain, took the dead man’s wedding ring. The vendetta might
conceivably date back to the man’s first marriage, and the ring be
taken for some such reason.
“Before this avenger got away, Barker and the wife had reached the
room. The assassin convinced them that any attempt to arrest him would
lead to the publication of some hideous scandal. They were converted to
this idea, and preferred to let him go. For this purpose they probably
lowered the bridge, which can be done quite noiselessly, and then
raised it again. He made his escape, and for some reason thought that
he could do so more safely on foot than on the bicycle. He therefore
left his machine where it would not be discovered until he had got
safely away. So far we are within the bounds of possibility, are we
not?”
“Well, it is possible, no doubt,” said I, with some reserve.
“We have to remember, Watson, that whatever occurred is certainly
something very extraordinary. Well, now, to continue our supposititious
case, the couple—not necessarily a guilty couple—realize after the
murderer is gone that they have placed themselves in a position in
which it may be difficult for them to prove that they did not
themselves either do the deed or connive at it. They rapidly and rather
clumsily met the situation. The mark was put by Barker’s bloodstained
slipper upon the windowsill to suggest how the fugitive got away. They
obviously were the two who must have heard the sound of the gun; so
they gave the alarm exactly as they would have done, but a good half
hour after the event.”
“And how do you propose to prove all this?”
“Well, if there were an outsider, he may be traced and taken. That
would be the most effective of all proofs. But if not—well, the
resources of science are far from being exhausted. I think that an
evening alone in that study would help me much.”
“An evening alone!”
“I propose to go up there presently. I have arranged it with the
estimable Ames, who is by no means wholehearted about Barker. I shall
sit in that room and see if its atmosphere brings me inspiration. I’m a
believer in the genius loci. You smile, Friend Watson. Well, we shall
see. By the way, you have that big umbrella of yours, have you not?”
“It is here.”
“Well, I’ll borrow that if I may.”
“Certainly—but what a wretched weapon! If there is danger—”
“Nothing serious, my dear Watson, or I should certainly ask for your
assistance. But I’ll take the umbrella. At present I am only awaiting
the return of our colleagues from Tunbridge Wells, where they are at
present engaged in trying for a likely owner to the bicycle.”
It was nightfall before Inspector MacDonald and White Mason came back
from their expedition, and they arrived exultant, reporting a great
advance in our investigation.
“Man, I’ll admeet that I had my doubts if there was ever an outsider,”
said MacDonald, “but that’s all past now. We’ve had the bicycle
identified, and we have a description of our man; so that’s a long step
on our journey.”
“It sounds to me like the beginning of the end,” said Holmes. “I’m sure
I congratulate you both with all my heart.”
“Well, I started from the fact that Mr. Douglas had seemed disturbed
since the day before, when he had been at Tunbridge Wells. It was at
Tunbridge Wells then that he had become conscious of some danger. It
was clear, therefore, that if a man had come over with a bicycle it was
from Tunbridge Wells that he might be expected to have come. We took
the bicycle over with us and showed it at the hotels. It was identified
at once by the manager of the Eagle Commercial as belonging to a man
named Hargrave, who had taken a room there two days before. This
bicycle and a small valise were his whole belongings. He had registered
his name as coming from London, but had given no address. The valise
was London made, and the contents were British; but the man himself was
undoubtedly an American.”
“Well, well,” said Holmes gleefully, “you have indeed done some solid
work while I have been sitting spinning theories with my friend! It’s a
lesson in being practical, Mr. Mac.”
“Ay, it’s just that, Mr. Holmes,” said the inspector with satisfaction.
“But this may all fit in with your theories,” I remarked.
“That may or may not be. But let us hear the end, Mr. Mac. Was there
nothing to identify this man?”
“So little that it was evident that he had carefully guarded himself
against identification. There were no papers or letters, and no marking
upon the clothes. A cycle map of the county lay on his bedroom table.
He had left the hotel after breakfast yesterday morning on his bicycle,
and no more was heard of him until our inquiries.”
“That’s what puzzles me, Mr. Holmes,” said White Mason. “If the fellow
did not want the hue and cry raised over him, one would imagine that he
would have returned and remained at the hotel as an inoffensive
tourist. As it is, he must know that he will be reported to the police
by the hotel manager and that his disappearance will be connected with
the murder.”
“So one would imagine. Still, he has been justified of his wisdom up to
date, at any rate, since he has not been taken. But his
description—what of that?”
MacDonald referred to his notebook. “Here we have it so far as they
could give it. They don’t seem to have taken any very particular stock
of him; but still the porter, the clerk, and the chambermaid are all
agreed that this about covers the points. He was a man about five foot
nine in height, fifty or so years of age, his hair slightly grizzled, a
grayish moustache, a curved nose, and a face which all of them
described as fierce and forbidding.”
“Well, bar the expression, that might almost be a description of
Douglas himself,” said Holmes. “He is just over fifty, with grizzled
hair and moustache, and about the same height. Did you get anything
else?”
“He was dressed in a heavy gray suit with a reefer jacket, and he wore
a short yellow overcoat and a soft cap.”
“What about the shotgun?”
“It is less than two feet long. It could very well have fitted into his
valise. He could have carried it inside his overcoat without
difficulty.”
“And how do you consider that all this bears upon the general case?”
“Well, Mr. Holmes,” said MacDonald, “when we have got our man—and you
may be sure that I had his description on the wires within five minutes
of hearing it—we shall be better able to judge. But, even as it stands,
we have surely gone a long way. We know that an American calling
himself Hargrave came to Tunbridge Wells two days ago with bicycle and
valise. In the latter was a sawed-off shotgun; so he came with the
deliberate purpose of crime. Yesterday morning he set off for this
place on his bicycle, with his gun concealed in his overcoat. No one
saw him arrive, so far as we can learn; but he need not pass through
the village to reach the park gates, and there are many cyclists upon
the road. Presumably he at once concealed his cycle among the laurels
where it was found, and possibly lurked there himself, with his eye on
the house, waiting for Mr. Douglas to come out. The shotgun is a
strange weapon to use inside a house; but he had intended to use it
outside, and there it has very obvious advantages, as it would be
impossible to miss with it, and the sound of shots is so common in an
English sporting neighbourhood that no particular notice would be
taken.”
“That is all very clear,” said Holmes.
“Well, Mr. Douglas did not appear. What was he to do next? He left his
bicycle and approached the house in the twilight. He found the bridge