The Valley of Fear
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.”