The Valley of Fear
“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 V
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 Canyon. 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