Delphi Complete Works of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (Illustrated) (164 page)

“Now!” cried Holmes. “Now!”

We were all upon our feet, staggering after him with our stiffened limbs, while he 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-shaved 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 to-morrow, 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 less 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 gray 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. “Here, as you perceive, is the inner pocket prolonged into the lining in such fashion as to give ample space for the truncated fowling piece. The tailor’s tab is on the neck—’Neal, 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 acrid 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 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 realise 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 now, 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 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, 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 gray eyes, a strong, short-clipped, grizzled moustache, a square, projecting chin, and a humorous 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’ll 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. “May 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 should 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-a-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 excellent 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 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 always be 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.

“Well, gentlemen, the day before these happenings I was over in Tunbridge Wells, and I got a glimpse of a man in the street. It was only a glimpse; but I have a quick eye for these things, and I never doubted who it was. It was the worst enemy I had among them all — one who has been after me like a hungry wolf after a caribou all these years. I knew there was trouble coming, and I came home and made ready for it. I guessed I’d fight through it all right on my own, my luck was a proverb in the States about ‘76. I never doubted that it would be with me still.

“I was on my guard all that next day, and never went out into the park. It’s as well, or he’d have had the drop on me with that buckshot gun of his before ever I could draw on him. After the bridge was up — my mind was always more restful when that bridge was up in the evenings — I put the thing clear out of my head. I never dreamed of his getting into the house and waiting for me. But when I made my round in my dressing gown, as was my habit, I had no sooner entered the study than I scented danger. I guess when a man has had dangers in his life — and I’ve had more than most in my time — there is a kind of sixth sense that waves the red flag. I saw the signal clear enough, and yet I couldn’t tell you why. Next instant I spotted a boot under the window curtain, and then I saw why plain enough.

“I’d just the one candle that was in my hand; but there was a good light from the hall lamp through the open door. I put down the candle and jumped for a hammer that I’d left on the mantel. At the same moment he sprang at me. I saw the glint of a knife, and I lashed at him with the hammer. I got him somewhere; for the knife tinkled down on the floor. He dodged round the table as quick as an eel, and a moment later he’d got his gun from under his coat. I heard him cock it; but I had got hold of it before he could fire. I had it by the barrel, and we wrestled for it all ends up for a minute or more. It was death to the man that lost his grip.

“He never lost his grip; but he got it butt downward for a moment too long. Maybe it was I that pulled the trigger. Maybe we just jolted it off between us. Anyhow, he got both barrels in the face, and there I was, staring down at all that was left of Ted Baldwin. I’d recognised him in the township, and again when he sprang for me; but his own mother wouldn’t recognise him as I saw him then. I’m used to rough work; but I fairly turned sick at the sight of him.