Delphi Complete Works of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (Illustrated)

by SIR ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE

  “One is enough, Lady Hilda. I know of your visit to Eduardo Lucas, of your giving him this document, of your ingenious return to the room last night, and of the manner in which you took the letter from the hiding-place under the carpet.”

  She stared at him with an ashen face and gulped twice before she could speak.

  “You are mad, Mr. Holmes — you are mad!” she cried, at last.

  He drew a small piece of cardboard from his pocket. It was the face of a woman cut out of a portrait.

  “I have carried this because I thought it might be useful,” said he. “The policeman has recognised it.”

  She gave a gasp, and her head dropped back in the chair.

  “Come, Lady Hilda. You have the letter. The matter may still be adjusted. I have no desire to bring trouble to you. My duty ends when I have returned the lost letter to your husband. Take my advice and be frank with me. It is your only chance.”

  Her courage was admirable. Even now she would not own defeat.

  “I tell you again, Mr. Holmes, that you are under some absurd illusion.”

  Holmes rose from his chair.

  “I am sorry for you, Lady Hilda. I have done my best for you. I can see that it is all in vain.”

  He rang the bell. The butler entered.

  “Is Mr. Trelawney Hope at home?”

  “He will be home, sir, at a quarter to one.”

  Holmes glanced at his watch.

  “Still a quarter of an hour,” said he. “Very good, I shall wait.”

  The butler had hardly closed the door behind him when Lady Hilda was down on her knees at Holmes’s feet, her hands outstretched, her beautiful face upturned and wet with her tears.

  “Oh, spare me, Mr. Holmes! Spare me!” she pleaded, in a frenzy of supplication. “For heaven’s sake, don’t tell him! I love him so! I would not bring one shadow on his life, and this I know would break his noble heart.”

  Holmes raised the lady. “I am thankful, madam, that you have come to your senses even at this last moment! There is not an instant to lose. Where is the letter?”

  She darted across to a writing-desk, unlocked it, and drew out a long blue envelope.

  “Here it is, Mr. Holmes. Would to heaven I had never seen it!”

  “How can we return it?” Holmes muttered. “Quick, quick, we must think of some way! Where is the despatch-box?”

  “Still in his bedroom.”

  “What a stroke of luck! Quick, madam, bring it here!” A moment later she had appeared with a red flat box in her hand.

  “How did you open it before? You have a duplicate key? Yes, of course you have. Open it!”

  From out of her bosom Lady Hilda had drawn a small key. The box flew open. It was stuffed with papers. Holmes thrust the blue envelope deep down into the heart of them, between the leaves of some other document. The box was shut, locked, and returned to the bedroom.

  “Now we are ready for him,” said Holmes. “We have still ten minutes. I am going far to screen you, Lady Hilda. In return you will spend the time in telling me frankly the real meaning of this extraordinary affair.”

  “Mr. Holmes, I will tell you everything,” cried the lady. “Oh, Mr. Holmes, I would cut off my right hand before I gave him a moment of sorrow! There is no woman in all London who loves her husband as I do, and yet if he knew how I have acted — how I have been compelled to act — he would never forgive me. For his own honour stands so high that he could not forget or pardon a lapse in another. Help me, Mr. Holmes! My happiness, his happiness, our very lives are at stake!”

  “Quick, madam, the time grows short!”

  “It was a letter of mine, Mr. Holmes, an indiscreet letter written before my marriage — a foolish letter, a letter of an impulsive, loving girl. I meant no harm, and yet he would have thought it criminal. Had he read that letter his confidence would have been forever destroyed. It is years since I wrote it. I had thought that the whole matter was forgotten. Then at last I heard from this man, Lucas, that it had passed into his hands, and that he would lay it before my husband. I implored his mercy. He said that he would return my letter if I would bring him a certain document which he described in my husband’s despatch-box. He had some spy in the office who had told him of its existence. He assured me that no harm could come to my husband. Put yourself in my position, Mr. Holmes! What was I to do?”

  “Take your husband into your confidence.”

  “I could not, Mr. Holmes, I could not! On the one side seemed certain ruin, on the other, terrible as it seemed to take my husband’s paper, still in a matter of politics I could not understand the consequences, while in a matter of love and trust they were only too clear to me. I did it, Mr. Holmes! I took an impression of his key. This man, Lucas, furnished a duplicate. I opened his despatch-box, took the paper, and conveyed it to Godolphin Street.”

  “What happened there, madam?”

  “I tapped at the door as agreed. Lucas opened it. I followed him into his room, leaving the hall door ajar behind me, for I feared to be alone with the man. I remember that there was a woman outside as I entered. Our business was soon done. He had my letter on his desk, I handed him the document. He gave me the letter. At this instant there was a sound at the door. There were steps in the passage. Lucas quickly turned back the drugget, thrust the document into some hiding-place there, and covered it over.

  “What happened after that is like some fearful dream. I have a vision of a dark, frantic face, of a woman’s voice, which screamed in French, ‘My waiting is not in vain. At last, at last I have found you with her!’ There was a savage struggle. I saw him with a chair in his hand, a knife gleamed in hers. I rushed from the horrible scene, ran from the house, and only next morning in the paper did I learn the dreadful result. That night I was happy, for I had my letter, and I had not seen yet what the future would bring.

  “It was the next morning that I realised that I had only exchanged one trouble for another. My husband’s anguish at the loss of his paper went to my heart. I could hardly prevent myself from there and then kneeling down at his feet and telling him what I had done. But that again would mean a confession of the past. I came to you that morning in order to understand the full enormity of my offence. From the instant that I grasped it my whole mind was turned to the one thought of getting back my husband’s paper. It must still be where Lucas had placed it, for it was concealed before this dreadful woman entered the room. If it had not been for her coming, I should not have known where his hiding-place was. How was I to get into the room? For two days I watched the place, but the door was never left open. Last night I made a last attempt. What I did and how I succeeded, you have already learned. I brought the paper back with me, and thought of destroying it, since I could see no way of returning it without confessing my guilt to my husband. Heavens, I hear his step upon the stair!”

  The European Secretary burst excitedly into the room. “Any news, Mr. Holmes, any news?” he cried.

  “I have some hopes.”

  “Ah, thank heaven!” His face became radiant. “The Prime Minister is lunching with me. May he share your hopes? He has nerves of steel, and yet I know that he has hardly slept since this terrible event. Jacobs, will you ask the Prime Minister to come up? As to you, dear, I fear that this is a matter of politics. We will join you in a few minutes in the dining-room.”

  The Prime Minister’s manner was subdued, but I could see by the gleam of his eyes and the twitchings of his bony hands that he shared the excitement of his young colleague.

  “I understand that you have something to report, Mr. Holmes?”

  “Purely negative as yet,” my friend answered. “I have inquired at every point where it might be, and I am sure that there is no danger to be apprehended.”

  “But that is not enough, Mr. Holmes. We cannot live forever on such a volcano. We must have something definite.”

  “I am in hopes of getting it. That is why I am here. The more I think of the matter the more convinced I am that th
e letter has never left this house.”

  “Mr. Holmes!”

  “If it had it would certainly have been public by now.”

  “But why should anyone take it in order to keep it in his house?”

  “I am not convinced that anyone did take it.”

  “Then how could it leave the despatch-box?”

  “I am not convinced that it ever did leave the despatch-box.”

  “Mr. Holmes, this joking is very ill-timed. You have my assurance that it left the box.”

  “Have you examined the box since Tuesday morning?”

  “No. It was not necessary.”

  “You may conceivably have overlooked it.”

  “Impossible, I say.”

  “But I am not convinced of it. I have known such things to happen. I presume there are other papers there. Well, it may have got mixed with them.”

  “It was on the top.”

  “Someone may have shaken the box and displaced it.”

  “No, no, I had everything out.”

  “Surely it is easily decided, Hope,” said the Premier. “Let us have the despatch-box brought in.”

  The Secretary rang the bell.

  “Jacobs, bring down my despatch-box. This is a farcical waste of time, but still, if nothing else will satisfy you, it shall be done. Thank you, Jacobs, put it here. I have always had the key on my watch-chain. Here are the papers, you see. Letter from Lord Merrow, report from Sir Charles Hardy, memorandum from Belgrade, note on the Russo-German grain taxes, letter from Madrid, note from Lord Flowers —— Good heavens! what is this? Lord Bellinger! Lord Bellinger!”

  The Premier snatched the blue envelope from his hand.

  “Yes, it is it — and the letter is intact. Hope, I congratulate you.”

  “Thank you! Thank you! What a weight from my heart. But this is inconceivable — impossible. Mr. Holmes, you are a wizard, a sorcerer! How did you know it was there?”

  “Because I knew it was nowhere else.”

  “I cannot believe my eyes!” He ran wildly to the door. “Where is my wife? I must tell her that all is well. Hilda! Hilda!” we heard his voice on the stairs.

  The Premier looked at Holmes with twinkling eyes.

  “Come, sir,” said he. “There is more in this than meets the eye. How came the letter back in the box?”

  Holmes turned away smiling from the keen scrutiny of those wonderful eyes.

  “We also have our diplomatic secrets,” said he and, picking up his hat, he turned to the door.

  THE END

  THE VALLEY OF FEAR

  This is the final Sherlock Holmes novel, which was first published in the Strand Magazine between September 1914 and May 1915. In the novel, Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson receive a letter from an informant known by the pseudonym Fred Porlock. Porlock is part of Professor Moriarty’s criminal organization. The letter is written in a numeric code, and Holmes realises that the numbers refer to words in a book, by page and column. They decode the letter (finding the book in question to be Whitaker’s Almanack), which warns that John Douglas of Birlstone House is about to be murdered.

  The first edition

  CONTENTS

  PART 1 — The Tragedy of Birlstone

  CHAPTER 2 — Sherlock Holmes Discourses

  CHAPTER 3 — The Tragedy of Birlstone

  CHAPTER 4 — Darkness

  CHAPTER 5 — The People of the Drama

  CHAPTER 6 — A Dawning Light

  CHAPTER 7 — The Solution

  PART 2 — The Scowrers

  CHAPTER 1 — The Man

  CHAPTER 2 — The Bodymaster

  CHAPTER 3 — Lodge 341, Vermissa

  CHAPTER 4 — The Valley of Fear

  CHAPTER 5 — The Darkest Hour

  CHAPTER 6 — Danger

  CHAPTER 7 — The Trapping of Birdy Edwards

  An illustration of Conan Doyle, close to the time of publication

  PART 1 — The Tragedy of Birlstone

  CHAPTER 1 — The Warning

  “I am inclined to think—” said I.

  “I should do so,” Sherlock Holmes remarked impatiently.

  I believe that I am one of the most long-suffering of mortals; but I’ll admit that I was annoyed at the sardonic interruption. “Really, Holmes,” said I severely, “you are a little trying at times.”

  He was too much absorbed with his own thoughts to give any immediate answer to my remonstrance. He leaned upon his hand, with his untasted breakfast before him, and he stared at the slip of paper which he had just drawn from its envelope. Then he took the envelope itself, held it up to the light, and very carefully studied both the exterior and the flap.

  “It is Porlock’s writing,” said he thoughtfully. “I can hardly doubt that it is Porlock’s writing, though I have seen it only twice before. The Greek e with the peculiar top flourish is distinctive. But if it is Porlock, then it must be something of the very first importance.”

  He was speaking to himself rather than to me; but my vexation disappeared in the interest which the words awakened.

  “Who then is Porlock?” I asked.

  “Porlock, Watson, is a nom-de-plume, a mere identification mark; but behind it lies a shifty and evasive personality. In a former letter he frankly informed me that the name was not his own, and defied me ever to trace him among the teeming millions of this great city. Porlock is important, not for himself, but for the great man with whom he is in touch. Picture to yourself the pilot fish with the shark, the jackal with the lion — anything that is insignificant in companionship with what is formidable: not only formidable, Watson, but sinister — in the highest degree sinister. That is where he comes within my purview. You have heard me speak of Professor Moriarty?”

  “The famous scientific criminal, as famous among crooks as—”

  “My blushes, Watson!” Holmes murmured in a deprecating voice.

  “I was about to say, as he is unknown to the public.”

  “A touch! A distinct touch!” cried Holmes. “You are developing a certain unexpected vein of pawky humour, Watson, against which I must learn to guard myself. But in calling Moriarty a criminal you are uttering libel in the eyes of the law — and there lie the glory and the wonder of it! The greatest schemer of all time, the organizer of every deviltry, the controlling brain of the underworld, a brain which might have made or marred the destiny of nations — that’s the man! But so aloof is he from general suspicion, so immune from criticism, so admirable in his management and self-effacement, that for those very words that you have uttered he could hale you to a court and emerge with your year’s pension as a solatium for his wounded character. Is he not the celebrated author of The Dynamics of an Asteroid, a book which ascends to such rarefied heights of pure mathematics that it is said that there was no man in the scientific press capable of criticizing it? Is this a man to traduce? Foul-mouthed doctor and slandered professor — such would be your respective roles! That’s genius, Watson. But if I am spared by lesser men, our day will surely come.”

  “May I be there to see!” I exclaimed devoutly. “But you were speaking of this man Porlock.”

  “Ah, yes — the so-called Porlock is a link in the chain some little way from its great attachment. Porlock is not quite a sound link — between ourselves. He is the only flaw in that chain so far as I have been able to test it.”

  “But no chain is stronger than its weakest link.”

  “Exactly, my dear Watson! Hence the extreme importance of Porlock. Led on by some rudimentary aspirations towards right, and encouraged by the judicious stimulation of an occasional ten-pound note sent to him by devious methods, he has once or twice given me advance information which has been of value — that highest value which anticipates and prevents rather than avenges crime. I cannot doubt that, if we had the cipher, we should find that this communication is of the nature that I indicate.”

  Again Holmes flattened out the paper upon his unused plate. I rose and, leaning over him, stared down
at the curious inscription, which ran as follows:

  534 C2 13 127 36 31 4 17 21 41 DOUGLAS 109 293 5 37 BIRLSTONE 26 BIRLSTONE 9 47 171

  “What do you make of it, Holmes?”

  “It is obviously an attempt to convey secret information.”

  “But what is the use of a cipher message without the cipher?”

  “In this instance, none at all.”

  “Why do you say ‘in this instance’?”

  “Because there are many ciphers which I would read as easily as I do the apocrypha of the agony column: such crude devices amuse the intelligence without fatiguing it. But this is different. It is clearly a reference to the words in a page of some book. Until I am told which page and which book I am powerless.”

  “But why ‘Douglas’ and ‘Birlstone’?”

  “Clearly because those are words which were not contained in the page in question.”

  “Then why has he not indicated the book?”

  “Your native shrewdness, my dear Watson, that innate cunning which is the delight of your friends, would surely prevent you from inclosing cipher and message in the same envelope. Should it miscarry, you are undone. As it is, both have to go wrong before any harm comes from it. Our second post is now overdue, and I shall be surprised if it does not bring us either a further letter of explanation, or, as is more probable, the very volume to which these figures refer.”

  Holmes’s calculation was fulfilled within a very few minutes by the appearance of Billy, the page, with the very letter which we were expecting.

  “The same writing,” remarked Holmes, as he opened the envelope, “and actually signed,” he added in an exultant voice as he unfolded the epistle. “Come, we are getting on, Watson.” His brow clouded, however, as he glanced over the contents.

  “Dear me, this is very disappointing! I fear, Watson, that all our expectations come to nothing. I trust that the man Porlock will come to no harm.

  “DEAR MR. HOLMES [he says]:

  “I will go no further in this matter. It is too dangerous — he suspects me. I can see that he suspects me. He came to me quite unexpectedly after I had actually addressed this envelope with the intention of sending you the key to the cipher. I was able to cover it up. If he had seen it, it would have gone hard with me. But I read suspicion in his eyes. Please burn the cipher message, which can now be of no use to you.