The Valley of Fear: Chapter 6
Chapter 6
The three detectives had many matters of detail into which to
inquire; so I returned alone to our modest quarters at the
village inn. But before doing so I took a stroll in the curious
old-world garden which flanked the house. Rows of very ancient
yew trees cut into strange designs girded it round. Inside was a
beautiful stretch of lawn with an old sundial in the middle, the
whole effect so soothing and restful that it was welcome to my
somewhat jangled nerves.
In that deeply peaceful atmosphere one could forget, or remember
only as some fantastic nightmare, that darkened study with the
sprawling, bloodstained figure on the floor. And yet, as I
strolled round it and tried to steep my soul in its gentle balm,
a strange incident occurred, which brought me back to the tragedy
and left a sinister impression in my mind.
I have said that a decoration of yew trees circled the garden.
At the end farthest from the house they thickened into a
continuous hedge. On the other side of this hedge, concealed
from the eyes of anyone approaching from the direction of the
house, there was a stone seat. As I approached the spot I was
aware of voices, some remark in the deep tones of a man, answered
by a little ripple of feminine laughter.
An instant later I had come round the end of the hedge and my
eyes lit upon Mrs. Douglas and the man Barker before they were
aware of my presence. Her appearance gave me a shock. In the
dining-room she had been demure and discreet. Now all pretense
of grief had passed away from her. Her eyes shone with the joy
of living, and her face still quivered with amusement at some
remark of her companion. He sat forward, his hands clasped and
his forearms on his knees, with an answering smile upon his bold,
handsome face. In an instant--but it was just one instant too
late--they resumed their solemn masks as my figure came into
view. A hurried word or two passed between them, and then Barker
rose and came towards me.
"Excuse me, sir," said he, "but am I addressing Dr. Watson?"
I bowed with a coldness which showed, I dare say, very plainly
the impression which had been produced upon my mind.
"We thought that it was probably you, as your friendship with Mr.
Sherlock Holmes is so well known. Would you mind coming over and
speaking to Mrs. Douglas for one instant?"
I followed him with a dour face. Very clearly I could see in my
mind's eye that shattered figure on the floor. Here within a few
hours of the tragedy were his wife and his nearest friend
laughing together behind a bush in the garden which had been his.
I greeted the lady with reserve. I had grieved with her grief in
the dining room. Now I met her appealing gaze with an
unresponsive eye.
"I fear that you think me callous and hard-hearted," said she.
I shrugged my shoulders. "It is no business of mine," said I.
"Perhaps some day you will do me justice. If you only
realized--"
"There is no need why Dr. Watson should realize," said Barker
quickly. "As he has himself said, it is no possible business of
his."
"Exactly," said I, "and so I will beg leave to resume my walk."
"One moment, Dr. Watson," cried the woman in a pleading voice.
"There is one question which you can answer with more authority
than anyone else in the world, and it may make a very great
difference to me. You know Mr. Holmes and his relations with
the police better than anyone else can. Supposing that a matter
were brought confidentially to his knowledge, is it absolutely
necessary that he should pass it on to the detectives?"
"Yes, that's it," said Barker eagerly. "Is he on his own or is
he entirely in with them?"
"I really don't know that I should be justified in discussing
such a point."
"I beg--I implore that you will, Dr. Watson! I assure you that
you will be helping us--helping me greatly if you will guide us
on that point."
There was such a ring of sincerity in the woman's voice that for
the instant I forgot all about her levity and was moved only to
do her will.
"Mr. Holmes is an independent investigator," I said. "He is his
own master, and would act as his own judgment directed. At the
same time, he would naturally feel loyalty towards the officials
who were working on the same case, and he would not conceal from
them anything which would help them in bringing a criminal to
justice. Beyond this I can say nothing, and I would refer you to
Mr. Holmes himself if you wanted fuller information."
So saying I raised my hat and went upon my way, leaving them
still seated behind that concealing hedge. I looked back as I
rounded the far end of it, and saw that they were still talking
very earnestly together, and, as they were gazing after me, it
was clear that it was our interview that was the subject of their
debate.
"I wish none of their confidences," said Holmes, when I reported
to him what had occurred. He had spent the whole afternoon at
the Manor House in consultation with his two colleagues, and
returned about five with a ravenous appetite for a high tea which
I had ordered for him. "No confidences, Watson; for they are
mighty awkward if it comes to an arrest for conspiracy and
murder."
"You think it will come to that?"
He was in his most cheerful and debonair humour. "My dear
Watson, when I have exterminated that fourth egg I shall be ready
to put you in touch with the whole situation. I don't say that
we have fathomed it--far from it--but when we have traced the
missing dumb-bell--"
"The dumb-bell!"
"Dear me, Watson, is it possible that you have not penetrated the
fact that the case hangs upon the missing dumb-bell? Well, well,
you need not be downcast; for between ourselves I don't think
that either Inspector Mac or the excellent local practitioner has
grasped the overwhelming importance of this incident. One
dumb-bell, Watson! Consider an athlete with one dumb-bell!
Picture to yourself the unilateral development, the imminent
danger of a spinal curvature. Shocking, Watson, shocking!"
He sat with his mouth full of toast and his eyes sparkling with
mischief, watching my intellectual entanglement. The mere sight
of his excellent appetite was an assurance of success; for I had
very clear recollections of days and nights without a thought of
food, when his baffled mind had chafed before some problem while
his thin, eager features became more attenuated with the
asceticism of complete mental concentration. Finally he lit his
pipe, and sitting in the inglenook of the old village inn he
talked slowly and at random about his case, rather as one who
thinks aloud than as one who makes a considered statement.
"A lie, Watson--a great, big, thumping, obtrusive, uncompromising
lie--that's what meets us on the threshold! There is our
starting point. The whole story told by Barker is a lie. But
Barker's story is corroborated by Mrs. Douglas. Therefore she
is lying also. They are both lying, and in a conspiracy. So now
we have the clear problem. Why are they lying, and what is the
truth which they are trying so hard to conceal? Let us try,
Watson, you and I, if we can get behind the lie and reconstruct
the truth.
"How do I know that they are lying? Because it is a clumsy
fabrication which simply could not be true. Consider! According
to the story given to us, the assassin had less than a minute
after the murder had been committed to take that ring, which was
under another ring, from the dead man's finger, to replace the
other ring--a thing which he would surely never have done--and to
put that singular card beside his victim. I say that this was
obviously impossible.
"You may argue--but I have too much respect for your judgment,
Watson, to think that you will do so--that the ring may have been
taken before the man was killed. The fact that the candle had
been lit only a short time shows that there had been no lengthy
interview. Was Douglas, from what we hear of his fearless
character, a man who would be likely to give up his wedding ring
at such short notice, or could we conceive of his giving it up at
all? No, no, Watson, the assassin was alone with the dead man
for some time with the lamp lit. Of that I have no doubt at all.
"But the gunshot was apparently the cause of death. Therefore
the shot must have been fired some time earlier than we are told.
But there could be no mistake about such a matter as that. We
are in the presence, therefore, of a deliberate conspiracy upon
the part of the two people who heard the gunshot--of the man
Barker and of the woman Douglas. When on the top of this I am
able to show that the blood mark on the windowsill was
deliberately placed there by Barker, in order to give a false
clue to the police, you will admit that the case grows dark
against him.
"Now we have to ask ourselves at what hour the murder actually
did occur. Up to half-past ten the servants were moving about
the house; so it was certainly not before that time. At a
quarter to eleven they had all gone to their rooms with the
exception of Ames, who was in the pantry. I have been trying
some experiments after you left us this afternoon, and I find
that no noise which MacDonald can make in the study can penetrate
to me in the pantry when the doors are all shut.
"It is otherwise, however, from the housekeeper's room. It is
not so far down the corridor, and from it I could vaguely hear a
voice when it was very loudly raised. The sound from a shotgun
is to some extent muffled when the discharge is at very close
range, as it undoubtedly was in this instance. It would not be
very loud, and yet in the silence of the night it should have
easily penetrated to Mrs. Allen's room. She is, as she has told
us, somewhat deaf; but none the less she mentioned in her
evidence that she did hear something like a door slamming half an
hour before the alarm was given. Half an hour before the alarm
was given would be a quarter to eleven. I have no doubt that
what she heard was the report of the gun, and that this was the
real instant of the murder.
"If this is so, we have now to determine what Barker and Mrs.
Douglas, presuming that they are not the actual murderers, could
have been doing from quarter to eleven, when the sound of the
shot brought them down, until quarter past eleven, when they rang
the bell and summoned the servants. What were they doing, and
why did they not instantly give the alarm? That is the question
which faces us, and when it has been answered we shall surely
have gone some way to solve our problem."
"I am convinced myself," said I, "that there is an understanding
between those two people. She must be a heartless creature to
sit laughing at some jest within a few hours of her husband's
murder."
"Exactly. She does not shine as a wife even in her own account
of what occurred. I am not a whole-souled admirer of womankind,
as you are 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 betw een 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 he 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 isthe 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 wretchcd 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 blcycle."
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 down and no one about. He took his chance,
intending, no doubt, to make some excuse if he met anyone. He
met no one. He slipped into the first room that he saw, and
concealed himself behind the curtain. Thence he could see the
drawbridge go up, and he knew that his only escape was through
the moat. He waited until quarter-past eleven, when Mr. Douglas
upon his usual nightly round came into the room. He shot him and
escaped, as arranged. He was aware that the bicycle would be
described by the hotel people and be a clue against him; so he
left it there and made his way by some other means to London or
to some safe hiding place which he had already arranged. How is
that, Mr. Holmes?"
"Well, Mr. Mac, it is very good and very clear so far as it
goes. That is your end of the story. My end is that the crime
was committed half an hour earlier than reported; that Mrs.
Douglas and Barker are both in a conspiracy to conceal something;
that they aided the murderer's escape--or at least that they
reached the room before he escaped--and that they fabricated
evidence of his escape through the window, whereas in all
probability they had themselves let him go by lowering the
bridge. That's my reading of the first half."
The two detectives shook their heads.
"Well, Mr. Holmes, if this is true, we only tumble out of one
mystery into another," said the London inspector.
"And in some ways a worse one," added White Mason. "The lady has
never been in America in all her life. What possible connection
could she have with an American assassin which would cause her to
shelter him?"
"I freely admit the difficulties," said Holmes. "I propose to
make a little investigation of my own to-night, and it is just
possible that it may contribute something to the common cause."
"Can we help you, Mr. Holmes?"
"No, no! Darkness and Dr. Watson's umbrella--my wants are simple.
And Ames, the faithful Ames, no doubt he will stretch a point for
me. All my lines of thought lead me back invariably to the one
basic question--why should an athletic man develop his frame upon
so unnatural an instrument as a single dumb-bell?"
It was late that night when Holmes returned from his solitary
excursion. We slept in a double-bedded room, which was the best
that the little country inn could do for us. I was already
asleep when I was partly awakened by his entrance.
"Well, Holmes," I murmured, "have you found anything out?"
He stood beside me in silence, his candle in his hand. Then the
tall, lean figure inclined towards me. "I say, Watson," he
whispered, "would you be afraid to sleep in the same room with a
lunatic, a man with softening of the brain, an idiot whose mind
has lost its grip?"
"Not in the least," I answered in astonishment.
"Ah, that's lucky," he said, and not another word would he utter
that night.
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