The Valley of Fear
his manner, myself curious, and the detectives obviously critical and
annoyed.
“Well, gentlemen,” said my friend gravely, “I am asking you now to put
everything to the test with me, and you will judge for yourselves
whether the observations I have made justify the conclusions to which I
have come. It is a chill evening, and I do not know how long our
expedition may last; so I beg that you will wear your warmest coats. It
is of the first importance that we should be in our places before it
grows dark; so with your permission we shall get started at once.”
We passed along the outer bounds of the Manor House park until we came
to a place where there was a gap in the rails which fenced it. Through
this we slipped, and then in the gathering gloom we followed Holmes
until we had reached a shrubbery which lies nearly opposite to the main
door and the drawbridge. The latter had not been raised. Holmes
crouched down behind the screen of laurels, and we all three followed
his example.
“Well, what are we to do now?” asked MacDonald with some gruffness.
“Possess our souls in patience and make as little noise as possible,”
Holmes answered.
“What are we here for at all? I really think that you might treat us
with more frankness.”
Holmes laughed. “Watson insists that I am the dramatist in real life,”
said he. “Some touch of the artist wells up within me, and calls
insistently for a well-staged performance. Surely our profession, Mr.
Mac, would be a drab and sordid one if we did not sometimes set the
scene so as to glorify our results. The blunt accusation, the brutal
tap upon the shoulder—what can one make of such a denouement? But the
quick inference, the subtle trap, the clever forecast of coming events,
the triumphant vindication of bold theories—are these not the pride and
the justification of our life’s work? At the present moment you thrill
with the glamour of the situation and the anticipation of the hunt.
Where would be that thrill if I had been as definite as a timetable? I
only ask a little patience, Mr. Mac, and all will be clear to you.”
“Well, I hope the pride and justification and the rest of it will come
before we all get our death of cold,” said the London detective with
comic resignation.
We all had good reason to join in the aspiration; for our vigil was a
long and bitter one. Slowly the shadows darkened over the long, sombre
face of the old house. A cold, damp reek from the moat chilled us to
the bones and set our teeth chattering. There was a single lamp over
the gateway and a steady globe of light in the fatal study. Everything
else was dark and still.
“How long is this to last?” asked the inspector finally. “And what is
it we are watching for?”
“I have no more notion than you how long it is to last,” Holmes
answered with some asperity. “If criminals would always schedule their
movements like railway trains, it would certainly be more convenient
for all of us. As to what it is we— Well, _that’s_ what we are watching
for!”
As he spoke the bright, yellow light in the study was obscured by
somebody passing to and fro before it. The laurels among which we lay
were immediately opposite the window and not more than a hundred feet
from it. Presently it was thrown open with a whining of hinges, and we
could dimly see the dark outline of a man’s head and shoulders looking
out into the gloom. For some minutes he peered forth in furtive,
stealthy fashion, as one who wishes to be assured that he is
unobserved. Then he leaned forward, and in the intense silence we were
aware of the soft lapping of agitated water. He seemed to be stirring
up the moat with something which he held in his hand. Then suddenly he
hauled something in as a fisherman lands a fish—some large, round
object which obscured the light as it was dragged through the open
casement.
“Now!” cried Holmes. “Now!”
We were all upon our feet, staggering after him with our stiffened
limbs, while he ran swiftly across the bridge and rang violently at the
bell. There was the rasping of bolts from the other side, and the
amazed Ames stood in the entrance. Holmes brushed him aside without a
word and, followed by all of us, rushed into the room which had been
occupied by the man whom we had been watching.
The oil lamp on the table represented the glow which we had seen from
outside. It was now in the hand of Cecil Barker, who held it towards us
as we entered. Its light shone upon his strong, resolute, clean-shaved
face and his menacing eyes.
“What the devil is the meaning of all this?” he cried. “What are you
after, anyhow?”
Holmes took a swift glance round, and then pounced upon a sodden bundle
tied together with cord which lay where it had been thrust under the
writing table.
“This is what we are after, Mr. Barker—this bundle, weighted with a
dumb-bell, which you have just raised from the bottom of the moat.”
Barker stared at Holmes with amazement in his face. “How in thunder
came you to know anything about it?” he asked.
“Simply that I put it there.”
“You put it there! You!”
“Perhaps I should have said ‘replaced it there,’” said Holmes. “You
will remember, Inspector MacDonald, that I was somewhat struck by the
absence of a dumb-bell. I drew your attention to it; but with the
pressure of other events you had hardly the time to give it the
consideration which would have enabled you to draw deductions from it.
When water is near and a weight is missing it is not a very far-fetched
supposition that something has been sunk in the water. The idea was at
least worth testing; so with the help of Ames, who admitted me to the
room, and the crook of Dr. Watson’s umbrella, I was able last night to
fish up and inspect this bundle.
“It was of the first importance, however, that we should be able to
prove who placed it there. This we accomplished by the very obvious
device of announcing that the moat would be dried to-morrow, which had,
of course, the effect that whoever had hidden the bundle would most
certainly withdraw it the moment that darkness enabled him to do so. We
have no less than four witnesses as to who it was who took advantage of
the opportunity, and so, Mr. Barker, I think the word lies now with
you.”
Sherlock Holmes put the sopping bundle upon the table beside the lamp
and undid the cord which bound it. From within he extracted a
dumb-bell, which he tossed down to its fellow in the corner. Next he
drew forth a pair of boots. “American, as you perceive,” he remarked,
pointing to the toes. Then he laid upon the table a long, deadly,
sheathed knife. Finally he unravelled a bundle of clothing, comprising
a complete set of underclothes, socks, a gray tweed suit, and a short
yellow overcoat.
“The clothes are commonplace,” remarked Holmes, “save only the
overcoat, which is full of suggestive touches.” He held it tenderly
towards the light. “Here, as you perceive, is the inner pocket
prolonged into the lining in such fashion as to give ample space for
the truncated fowling piece. The tailor’s tab is on the neck—‘Neal,
Outfitter, Vermissa, U.S.A.’ I have spent an instructive afternoon in
the rector’s library, and have enlarged my knowledge by adding the fact
that Vermissa is a flourishing little town at the head of one of the
best known coal and iron valleys in the United States. I have some
recollection, Mr. Barker, that you associated the coal districts with
Mr. Douglas’s first wife, and it would surely not be too far-fetched an
inference that the V.V. upon the card by the dead body might stand for
Vermissa Valley, or that this very valley which sends forth emissaries
of murder may be that Valley of Fear of which we have heard. So much is
fairly clear. And now, Mr. Barker, I seem to be standing rather in the
way of your explanation.”
It was a sight to see Cecil Barker’s expressive face during this
exposition of the great detective. Anger, amazement, consternation, and
indecision swept over it in turn. Finally he took refuge in a somewhat
acrid irony.
“You know such a lot, Mr. Holmes, perhaps you had better tell us some
more,” he sneered.
“I have no doubt that I could tell you a great deal more, Mr. Barker;
but it would come with a better grace from you.”
“Oh, you think so, do you? Well, all I can say is that if there’s any
secret here it is not my secret, and I am not the man to give it away.”
“Well, if you take that line, Mr. Barker,” said the inspector quietly,
“we must just keep you in sight until we have the warrant and can hold
you.”
“You can do what you damn please about that,” said Barker defiantly.
The proceedings seemed to have come to a definite end so far as he was
concerned; for one had only to look at that granite face to realize
that no ‘_peine forte et dure_’ would ever force him to plead against
his will. The deadlock was broken, however, by a woman’s voice. Mrs.
Douglas had been standing listening at the half opened door, and now
she entered the room.
“You have done enough for now, Cecil,” said she. “Whatever comes of it
in the future, you have done enough.”
“Enough and more than enough,” remarked Sherlock Holmes gravely. “I
have every sympathy with you, madam, and should strongly urge you to
have some confidence in the common sense of our jurisdiction and to
take the police voluntarily into your complete confidence. It may be
that I am myself at fault for not following up the hint which you
conveyed to me through my friend, Dr. Watson; but, at that time I had
every reason to believe that you were directly concerned in the crime.
Now I am assured that this is not so. At the same time, there is much
that is unexplained, and I should strongly recommend that you ask Mr.
Douglas to tell us his own story.”
Mrs. Douglas gave a cry of astonishment at Holmes’s words. The
detectives and I must have echoed it, when we were aware of a man who
seemed to have emerged from the wall, who advanced now from the gloom
of the corner in which he had appeared. Mrs. Douglas turned, and in an
instant her arms were round him. Barker had seized his outstretched
hand.
“It’s best this way, Jack,” his wife repeated; “I am sure that it is
best.”
“Indeed, yes, Mr. Douglas,” said Sherlock Holmes, “I am sure that you
will find it best.”
The man stood blinking at us with the dazed look of one who comes from
the dark into the light. It was a remarkable face, bold gray eyes, a
strong, short-clipped, grizzled moustache, a square, projecting chin,
and a humorous mouth. He took a good look at us all, and then to my
amazement he advanced to me and handed me a bundle of paper.
“I’ve heard of you,” said he in a voice which was not quite English and
not quite American, but was altogether mellow and pleasing. “You are
the historian of this bunch. Well, Dr. Watson, you’ve never had such a
story as that pass through your hands before, and I’ll lay my last
dollar on that. Tell it your own way; but there are the facts, and you
can’t miss the public so long as you have those. I’ve been cooped up
two days, and I’ve spent the daylight hours—as much daylight as I could
get in that rat trap—in putting the thing into words. You’re welcome to
them—you and your public. There’s the story of the Valley of Fear.”
“That’s the past, Mr. Douglas,” said Sherlock Holmes quietly. “What we
desire now is to hear your story of the present.”
“You’ll have it, sir,” said Douglas. “May I smoke as I talk? Well,
thank you, Mr. Holmes. You’re a smoker yourself, if I remember right,
and you’ll guess what it is to be sitting for two days with tobacco in
your pocket and afraid that the smell will give you away.” He leaned
against the mantelpiece and sucked at the cigar which Holmes had handed
him. “I’ve heard of you, Mr. Holmes. I never guessed that I should meet