The Valley of Fear
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 II
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