‘Might I ask,’ said Holmes, ‘what the words were which attracted your attention?’
‘“The Valley of Fear,”’ the lady answered. ‘That was an expression he has used when I questioned him. “I have been in the Valley of Fear. I am not out of it yet.” “Are we never to get out of the Valley of Fear?” I have asked him, when I have seen him more serious than usual. “Sometimes I think that we never shall,” he has answered.’
‘Surely you asked him what he meant by the Valley of Fear?’
‘I did; but his face would become very grave and he would shake his head. “It is bad enough that one of us should have been in its shadow,” he said. “Please God it shall never fall upon you.” It was some real valley in which he had lived and in which something terrible had occurred to him – of that I am certain – but I can tell you no more.’
‘And he never mentioned any names?’
‘Yes; he was delirious with fever once when he had his hunting accident three years ago. Then I remember that there was a name that came continually to his lips. He spoke it with anger and a sort of horror. McGinty was the name – Bodymaster McGinty. I asked him, when he recovered, who Bodymaster McGinty was, and whose body he was master of. “Never of mine, thank God!” he answered, with a laugh, and that was all I could get from him. But there is a connection between Bodymaster McGinty and the Valley of Fear.’
‘There is one other point,’ said Inspector MacDonald. ‘You met Mr Douglas in a boarding-house in London, did you not, and became engaged to him there? Was there any romance, anything secret or mysterious, about the wedding?’
‘There was romance. There is always romance. There was nothing mysterious.’
‘He had no rival?’
‘No; I was quite free.’
‘You have heard, no doubt, that his wedding-ring has been taken. Does that suggest anything to you? Suppose that some enemy of his old life had tracked him down and committed this crime, what possible reason could he have for taking his wedding-ring?’
For an instant I could have sworn that the faintest shadow of a smile flickered over the woman’s lips.
‘I really cannot tell,’ she answered. ‘It is certainly a most extraordinary thing.’
‘Well, we will not detain you any longer, and we are sorry to have put you to this trouble at such a time,’ said the inspector. ‘There are some other points, no doubt, but we can refer to you as they arise.’
She rose, and I was again conscious of that quick, questioning glance with which she had just surveyed us: ‘What impression has my evidence made upon you?’ The question might as well have been spoken. Then, with a bow, she swept from the room.
‘She’s a beautiful woman – a very beautiful woman,’ said MacDonald, thoughtfully, after the door had closed behind her. ‘This man Barker has certainly been down here a good deal. He is a man who might be attractive to a woman. He admits that the dead man was jealous, and maybe he knew best himself what cause he had for jealousy. Then there’s that wedding-ring. You can’t get past that. The man who tears a wedding-ring off a dead man’s – What do you say to it, Mr Holmes?’
My friend had sat with his head upon his hands, sunk in the deepest thought. Now he rose and rang the bell.
‘Ames,’ he said, when the butler entered, ‘where is Mr Cecil Barker now?’
‘I’ll see, sir.’
He came back in a moment to say that Mr Barker was in the garden.
‘Can you remember, Ames, what Mr Barker had upon his feet last night when you joined him in the study?’
‘Yes, Mr Holmes. He had a pair of bedroom slippers. I brought him his boots when he went for the police.’
‘Where are the slippers now?’
‘They are still under the chair in the hall.’
‘Very good, Ames. It is, of course, important for us to know which tracks may be Mr Barker’s and which from outside.’
‘Yes, sir. I may say that I noticed that the slippers were stained with blood – so, indeed, were my own.’
‘That is natural enough, considering the condition of the room. Very good, Ames. We will ring if we want you.’
A few minutes later we were in the study. Holmes had brought with him the carpet slippers from the hall. As Ames had observed, the soles of both were dark with blood.
‘Strange!’ murmured Holmes, as he stood in the light of the window and examined them minutely. ‘Very strange indeed!’
Stooping with one of his quick, feline pounces he placed the slipper upon the blood-mark on the sill. It exactly corresponded. He smiled in silence at his colleagues.
The inspector was transfigured with excitement. His native accent rattled like a stick upon railings.
‘Man!’ he cried, ‘there’s not a doubt of it! Barker has just marked the window himself. It’s a good deal broader than any boot-mark. I mind that you said it was a splay foot, and here’s the explanation. But what’s the game, Mr Holmes – what’s the game?’
‘Aye, what’s the game?’ my friend repeated, thoughtfully.
White Mason chuckled and rubbed his fat hands together in his professional satisfaction.
‘I said it was a snorter!’ he cried. ‘And a real snorter it is!’
6
A Dawning Light
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, blood-stained figure upon 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 on my mind.
I have said that a decoration of yew trees circled the garden. At the end which was 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 pretence 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 upon 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 you think me callous and hard-hearted?’ said she.
I shrugged my shoulders.
‘It is no business of mine,’ said I.
‘Perhaps someday 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 do. 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 want 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 débonnaire humour.
‘My dear Watson, when I have exterminated that fourth egg I will 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 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 judgement, 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 only been lit 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 gunshot 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 bloodmark upon 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 shot-gun 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 Mr Barker and Mrs Douglas, presuming that they are not the actual murderers, could have been doing from a quarter to eleven, when the sound of the gun-shot brought them down, until a 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 will 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 house
keeper when my corpse was lying within a few yards of her. It was badly stage-managed, for even the rawest of 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 pre-arranged 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 between 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 be 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 who 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 a proof of the existence of some outsider. The stain on the window-sill conveys the same idea. So does the card upon 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 shot-gun 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?’
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