Sherlock Holmes

by SIR ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE

  ‘Ah! There we come to the edge of the unexplored. Let me go a little farther, a very little farther, and I will promise that you shall share everything that I know.’

  ‘Well, we’re bound to take you on your own terms,’ said the inspector; ‘but when it comes to telling us to abandon the case – Why, in the name of goodness, should we abandon the case?’

  ‘For the simple reason, my dear Mr Mac, that you have not got the first idea what it is that you are investigating.’

  ‘We are investigating the murder of Mr John Douglas, of Birlstone Manor.’

  ‘Yes, yes; so you are. But don’t trouble to trace the mysterious gentleman upon the bicycle. I assure you that it won’t help you.’

  ‘Then what do you suggest that we do?’

  ‘I will tell you exactly what to do, if you will do it.’

  ‘Well, I’m bound to say I’ve always found you had reason behind all your queer ways. I’ll do what you advise.’

  ‘And you, Mr White Mason?’

  The country detective looked helplessly from one to the other. Mr Holmes and his methods were new to him.

  ‘Well, if it is good enough for the inspector it is good enough for me,’ he said, at last.

  ‘Capital!’ said Holmes. ‘Well, then, I should recommend a nice, cheery, country walk for both of you. They tell me that the views from Birlstone Ridge over the Weald are very remarkable. No doubt lunch could be got at some suitable hostelry, though my ignorance of the country prevents me from recommending one. In the evening, tired but happy –’

  ‘Man, this is getting past a joke!’ cried MacDonald, rising angrily from his chair.

  ‘Well, well, spend the day as you like,’ said Holmes, patting him cheerfully on the shoulder. ‘Do what you like and go where you will, but meet me here before dusk without fail – without fail, Mr Mac.’

  ‘That sounds more like sanity.’

  ‘All of it was excellent advice, but I don’t insist, so long as you are here when I need you. But now, before we part, I want you to write a note to Mr Barker.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘I’ll dictate it, if you like. Ready?

  ‘“Dear sir, – It has struck me that it is our duty to drain the moat, in the hope that we may find some –”’

  ‘It’s impossible,’ said the inspector; ‘I’ve made inquiry.’

  ‘Tut, tut, my dear sir! Do, please, do what I ask you.’

  ‘Well, go on.’

  ‘“– in the hope that we may find something which may bear upon our investigation. I have made arrangements, and the workmen will be at work early tomorrow morning diverting the stream –”’

  ‘Impossible!’

  ‘“– diverting the stream, so I thought it best to explain matters beforehand.” Now sign that, and send it by hand about four o’clock. At that hour we shall meet again in this room. Until then we can each do what we like, for I can assure you that this inquiry has come to a definite pause.’

  Evening was drawing in when we reassembled. Holmes was very serious in his manner, myself curious, and the detectives obviously critical and annoyed.

  ‘Well, gentlemen,’ said my friend, gravely, ‘I am asking you now to put everything to the test with me, and you will judge for yourselves whether the observations which I have made justify the conclusions to which I have come. It is a chill evening, and I do not know how long our expedition may last, so I beg that you will wear your warmest coats. It is of the first importance that we should be in our places before it grows dark, so, with your permission, we will get started at once.’

  We passed along the outer bounds of the Manor House park until we came to a place where there was a gap in the rails which fenced it. Through this we slipped, and then, in the gathering gloom, we followed Holmes until we had reached a shrubbery which lies nearly opposite to the main door and the drawbridge. The latter had not been raised. Holmes crouched down behind the screen of laurels, and we all three followed his example.

  ‘Well, what are we to do now?’ asked MacDonald, with some gruffness.

  ‘Possess our souls in patience and make as little noise as possible,’ Holmes answered.

  ‘What are we here for at all? I really think that you might treat us with more frankness.’

  Holmes laughed.

  ‘Watson insists that I am the dramatist in real life,’ said he. ‘Some touch of the artist wells up within me and calls insistently for a well-staged performance. Surely our profession, Mr Mac, would be a drab and sordid one if we did not sometimes set the scene so as to glorify our results. The blunt accusation, the brutal tap upon the shoulder – what can one make of such a dénouement? But the quick inference, the subtle trap, the clever forecast of coming events, the triumphant vindication of bold theories – are these not the pride and the justification of our life’s work? At the present moment you thrill with the glamour of the situation and the anticipation of the hunter. Where would be that thrill if I had been as definite as a time-table? I only ask a little patience, Mr Mac, and all will be clear to you.’

  ‘Well, I hope the pride and justification and the rest of it will come before we all get our death of cold,’ said the London detective, with comic resignation.

  We all had good reason to join in the aspiration, for our vigil was a long and bitter one. Slowly the shadows darkened over the long sombre face of the old house. A cold, damp reek from the moat chilled us to the bones and set our teeth chattering. There was a single lamp over the gateway and a steady globe of light in the fatal study. Everything else was dark and still.

  ‘How long is this to last?’ asked the inspector, suddenly. ‘And what is it we are watching for?’

  ‘I have no more notion than you how long it is to last,’ Holmes answered with some asperity. ‘If criminals would always schedule their movements like railway trains it would certainly be more convenient for all of us. As to what it is we – Well, that’s what we are watching for.’

  As he spoke the bright yellow light in the study was obscured by somebody passing to and fro before it. The laurels among which we lay were immediately opposite the window and not more than a hundred feet from it. Presently it was thrown open with a whining of hinges, and we could dimly see the dark outline of a man’s head and shoulders looking out into the gloom. For some minutes he peered forth, in a furtive, stealthy fashion, as one who wishes to be assured that he is unobserved. Then he leaned forward, and in the intense silence we were aware of the soft lapping of agitated water. He seemed to be stirring up the moat with something which he held in his hand. Then suddenly he hauled something in as a fisherman lands a fish – some large, round object which obscured the light as it was dragged through the open casement.

  ‘Now!’ cried Holmes. ‘Now!’

  We were all upon our feet, staggering after him with our stiffened limbs, while he, with one of those outflames of nervous energy which could make him on occasion both the most active and the strongest man that I have ever known, ran swiftly across the bridge and rang violently at the bell. There was the rasping of bolts from the other side, and the amazed Ames stood in the entrance. Holmes brushed him aside without a word and, followed by all of us, rushed into the room which had been occupied by the man whom we had been watching.

  The oil lamp on the table represented the glow which we had seen from outside. It was now in the hand of Cecil Barker, who held it towards us as we entered. Its light shone upon his strong, resolute, clean-shaven face and his menacing eyes.

  ‘What the devil is the meaning of all this?’ he cried. ‘What are you after, anyhow?’

  Holmes took a swift glance round and then pounced upon a sodden bundle tied together with cord which lay where it had been thrust under the writing-table.

  ‘This is what we are after, Mr Barker. This bundle, weighted with a dumb-bell, which you have just raised from the bottom of the moat.
’

  Barker stared at Holmes with amazement in his face.

  ‘How in thunder came you to know anything about it?’ he asked.

  ‘Simply that I put it there.’

  ‘You put it there! You!’

  ‘Perhaps I should have said “replaced it there”,’ said Holmes. ‘You will remember, Inspector MacDonald, that I was somewhat struck by the absence of a dumb-bell. I drew your attention to it, but with the pressure of other events you had hardly the time to give it the consideration which would have enabled you to draw deductions from it. When water is near and a weight is missing it is not a very far-fetched supposition that something has been sunk in the water. The idea was at least worth testing, so with the help of Ames, who admitted me to the room, and the crook of Dr Watson’s umbrella, I was able last night to fish up and inspect this bundle. It was of the first importance, however, that we should be able to prove who placed it there. This we accomplished by the very obvious device of announcing that the moat would be dried tomorrow, which had, of course, the effect that whoever had hidden the bundle would most certainly withdraw it the moment that darkness enabled him to do so. We have no fewer than four witnesses as to who it was who took advantage of the opportunity, and so, Mr Barker, I think the word lies now with you.’

  Sherlock Holmes put the sopping bundle upon the table beside the lamp and undid the cord which bound it. From within he extracted a dumb-bell, which he tossed down to its fellow in the corner. Next he drew forth a pair of boots. ‘American, as you perceive,’ he remarked, pointing to the toes. Then he laid upon the table a long, deadly, sheathed knife. Finally he unravelled a bundle of clothing, comprising a complete set of underclothes, socks, a grey tweed suit, and a short yellow overcoat.

  ‘The clothes are commonplace,’ remarked Holmes, ‘save only the overcoat, which is full of suggestive touches.’ He held it tenderly towards the light, while his long, thin fingers flickered over it. ‘Here, as you perceive, is the inner pocket prolonged into the lining in such a fashion as to give ample space for the truncated fowling-piece. The tailor’s tab is on the neck – Neale, Outfitter, Vermissa, U.S.A. I have spent an instructive afternoon in the rector’s library, and have enlarged my knowledge by adding the fact that Vermissa is a flourishing little town at the head of one of the best-known coal and iron valleys in the United States. I have some recollection, Mr Barker, that you associated the coal districts with Mr Douglas’s first wife, and it would surely not be too far-fetched an inference that the V.V. upon the card by the dead body might stand for Vermissa Valley, or that this very valley, which sends forth emissaries of murder, may be that Valley of Fear of which we have heard. So much is fairly clear. And now, Mr Barker, I seem to be standing rather in the way of your explanation.’

  It was a sight to see Cecil Barker’s expressive face during this exposition of the great detective. Anger, amazement, consternation, and indecision swept over it in turn. Finally he took refuge in a somewhat acid irony.

  ‘You know such a lot, Mr Holmes, perhaps you had better tell us some more,’ he sneered.

  ‘I have no doubt that I could tell you a great deal more, Mr Barker, but it would come with a better grace from you.’

  ‘Oh, you think so, do you? Well, all I can say is that if there’s any secret here it is not my secret, and I am not the man to give it away.’

  ‘Well, if you take that line, Mr Barker,’ said the inspector, quietly, ‘we must just keep you in sight until we have the warrant and can hold you.’

  ‘You can do what you damn well please about that,’ said Barker, defiantly.

  The proceedings seemed to have come to a definite end so far as he was concerned, for one had only to look at that granite face to realize that no peine forte et dure would ever force him to plead against his will. The deadlock was broken, however, by a woman’s voice. Mrs Douglas had been standing listening at the half-opened door, and now she entered the room.

  ‘You have done enough for us, Cecil,’ said she. ‘Whatever comes of it in the future, you have done enough.’

  ‘Enough and more than enough,’ remarked Sherlock Holmes, gravely. ‘I have every sympathy with you, madam, and I should strongly urge you to have some confidence in the common sense of our jurisdiction and to take the police voluntarily into your complete confidence. It may be that I am myself at fault for not following up the hint which you conveyed to me through my friend, Dr Watson, but at that time I had every reason to believe that you were directly concerned in the crime. Now I am assured that this is not so. At the same time, there is much that is unexplained, and I should strongly recommend that you ask Mr Douglas to tell us his own story.’

  Mrs Douglas gave a cry of astonishment at Holmes’s words. The detectives and I must have echoed it, when we were aware of a man who seemed to have emerged from the wall, and who advanced now from the gloom of the corner in which he had appeared. Mrs Douglas turned, and in an instant her arms were round him. Barker had seized his outstretched hand.

  ‘It’s best this way, Jack,’ his wife repeated. ‘I am sure that it is best.’

  ‘Indeed, yes, Mr Douglas,’ said Sherlock Holmes. ‘I am sure that you will find it best.’

  The man stood blinking at us with the dazed look of one who comes from the dark into the light. It was a remarkable face – bold grey eyes, a strong, short-clipped, grizzled moustache, a square, projecting chin, and a humourous mouth. He took a good look at us all, and then, to my amazement, he advanced to me and handed me a bundle of paper.

  ‘I’ve heard of you,’ said he, in a voice which was not quite English and not quite American, but was altogether mellow and pleasing. ‘You are the historian of this bunch. Well, Dr Watson, you’ve never had such a story as that pass through your hands before, and I’d lay my last dollar on that. Tell it your own way, but there are the facts, and you can’t miss the public so long as you have those. I’ve been cooped up two days, and I’ve spent the daylight hours – as much daylight as I could get in that rat-trap – in putting the thing into words. You’re welcome to them – you and your public. There’s the story of the Valley of Fear.’

  ‘That’s the past, Mr Douglas,’ said Sherlock Holmes, quietly. ‘What we desire now is to hear your story of the present.’

  ‘You’ll have it, sir,’ said Douglas. ‘Can I smoke as I talk? Well, thank you, Mr Holmes; you’re a smoker yourself, if I remember right, and you’ll guess what it is to be sitting for two days with tobacco in your pocket and afraid that the smell will give you away.’ He leaned against the mantelpiece and sucked at the cigar which Holmes had handed him. ‘I’ve heard of you, Mr Holmes; I never guessed that I would meet you. But before you are through with that’ – he nodded at my papers – ‘you will say I’ve brought you something fresh.’

  Inspector MacDonald had been staring at the newcomer with the greatest amazement.

  ‘Well, this fairly beats me!’ he cried at last. ‘If you are Mr John Douglas, of Birlstone Manor, then whose death have we been investigating for these two days, and where in the world have you sprung from now? You seemed to me to come out of the floor like a Jack-in-the-box.’

  ‘Ah, Mr Mac,’ said Holmes, shaking a reproving forefinger, ‘you would not read that excellent local compilation which described the concealment of King Charles. People did not hide in those days without reliable hiding-places, and the hiding-place that has once been used may be again. I had persuaded myself that we should find Mr Douglas under this roof.’

  ‘And how long have you been playing this trick upon us, Mr Holmes?’ said the inspector, angrily. ‘How long have you allowed us to waste ourselves upon a search that you knew to be an absurd one?’

  ‘Not one instant, my dear Mr Mac. Only last night did I form my views of the case. As they could not be put to the proof until this evening, I invited you and your colleague to take a holiday for the day. Pray, what more could I do? When I found the suit of
clothes in the moat it at once became apparent to me that the body we had found could not have been the body of Mr John Douglas at all, but must be that of the bicyclist from Tunbridge Wells. No other conclusion was possible. Therefore I had to determine where Mr John Douglas himself could be, and the balance of probability was that, with the connivance of his wife and his friend, he was concealed in a house which had such conveniences for a fugitive, and awaiting quieter times, when he could make his final escape.’

  ‘Well, you figured it out about right,’ said Mr Douglas, approvingly. ‘I thought I’d dodge your British law, for I was not sure how I stood under it, and also I saw my chance to throw these hounds once for all off my track. Mind you, from first to last I have done nothing to be ashamed of, and nothing that I would not do again, but you’ll judge that for yourselves when I tell you my story. Never mind warning me, inspector; I’m ready to stand pat upon the truth.

  ‘I’m not going to begin at the beginning. That’s all there’ – he indicated my bundle of papers – ‘and a mighty queer yarn you’ll find it. It all comes down to this: that there are some men that have good cause to hate me and would give their last dollar to know that they had got me. So long as I am alive and they are alive, there is no safety in this world for me. They hunted me from Chicago to California; then they chased me out of America; but when I married and settled down in this quiet spot I thought my last years were going to be peaceable. I never explained to my wife how things were. Why should I pull her into it? She would never have a quiet moment again, but would be always imagining trouble. I fancy she knew something, for I may have dropped a word here or a word there – but until yesterday, after you gentlemen had seen her, she never knew the rights of the matter. She told you all she knew, and so did Barker here, for on the night when this thing happened there was mighty little time for explanations. She knows everything now, and I would have been a wiser man if I had told her sooner. But it was a hard question, dear’ – he took her hand for an instant in his own – ‘and I acted for the best.