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The Valley of Fear

A >> Arthur Conan Doyle >> The Valley of Fear



This etext was produced by Toby F. Charkin (t_charkin@yahoo.com)





The Valley Of Fear by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

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.

FRED PORLOCK."

Holmes sat for some little time twisting this letter between his
fingers, and frowning, as he stared into the fire.

"After all," he said at last, "there may be nothing in it. It
may be only his guilty conscience. Knowing himself to be a
traitor, he may have read the accusation in the other's eyes."

"The other being, I presume, Professor Moriarty."

"No less! When any of that party talk about 'He' you know whom
they mean. There is one predominant 'He' for all of them."

"But what can he do?"

"Hum! That's a large question. When you have one of the
first brains of Europe up against you, and all the powers of
darkness at his back, there are infinite possibilities. Anyhow,
Friend Porlock is evidently scared out of his senses -- kindly
compare the writing in the note to that upon its envelope; which
was done, he tells us, before this ill-omened visit. The one is
clear and firm. The other hardly legible."

"Why did he write at all? Why did he not simply drop it?"

"Because he feared I would make some inquiry after him in
that case, and possibly bring trouble on him."

"No doubt," said I. "Of course." I had picked up the original
cipher message and was bending my brows over it. "It's pretty
maddening to think that an important secret may lie here on this
slip of paper, and that it is beyond human power to penetrate it."

Sherlock Holmes had pushed away his untasted breakfast and
lit the unsavoury pipe which was the companion of his deepest
meditations. "I wonder!" said he, leaning back and staring at
the ceiling. "Perhaps there are points which have escaped your
Machiavellian intellect. Let us consider the problem in the light
of pure reason. This man's reference is to a book. That is our
point of departure."

"A somewhat vague one."

"Let us see then if we can narrow it down. As I focus my
mind upon it, it seems rather less impenetrable. What indications
have we as to this book?"

"None."

"Well, well, it is surely not quite so bad as that. The cipher
message begins with a large 534, does it not? We may take it as
a working hypothesis that 534 is the particular page to which the
cipher refers. So our book has already become a large book
which is surely something gained. What other indications have
we as to the nature of this large book? The next sign is C2.
What do you make of that, Watson?"

"Chapter the second, no doubt."

"Hardly that, Watson. You will, I am sure, agree with me
that if the page be given, the number of the chapter is immaterial.
Also that if page 534 finds us only in the second chapter,
the length of the first one must have been really intolerable."

"Column!" I cried.

"Brilliant, Watson. You are scintillating this morning. If it is
not column, then I am very much deceived. So now, you see, we
begin to visualize a large book printed in double columns
which are each of a considerable length, since one of the words
is numbered in the document as the two hundred and ninety-
third. Have we reached the limits of what reason can supply?"

"I fear that we have."

"Surely you do yourself an injustice. One more coruscation,
my dear Watson -- yet another brain-wave! Had the volume been
an unusual one, he would have sent it to me. Instead of that, he
had intended, before his plans were nipped, to send me the clue
in this envelope. He says so in his note. This would seem to
indicate that the book is one which he thought I would have no
difficulty in finding for myself. He had it -- and he imagined that
I would have it, too. In short, Watson, it is a very common book."

"What you say certainly sounds plausible."

"So we have contracted our field of search to a large book,
printed in double columns and in common use."

"The Bible!" I cried triumphantly.

"Good, Watson, good! But not, if I may say so, quite good enough!
Even if I accepted the compliment for myself I could hardly name
any volume which would be less likely to lie at the elbow of one
of Moriarty's associates. Besides, the editions of Holy Writ are
so numerous that he could hardly suppose that two copies would have
the same pagination. This is clearly a book which is standardized.
He knows for certain that his page 534 will exactly agree with my
page 534."

"But very few books would correspond with that."

"Exactly. Therein lies our salvation. Our search is narrowed down
to standardized books which anyone may be supposed to possess."

"Bradshaw!"

"There are difficulties, Watson. The vocabulary of Bradshaw is
nervous and terse, but limited. The selection of words would
hardly lend itself to the sending of general messages. We will
eliminate Bradshaw. The dictionary is, I fear, inadmissible for
the same reason. What then is left?"

"An almanac!"

"Excellent, Watson! I am very much mistaken if you have not
touched the spot. An almanac! Let us consider the claims of
Whitaker's Almanac. It is in common use. It has the requisite
number of pages. It is in double column. Though reserved in its
earlier vocabulary, it becomes, if I remember right, quite
garrulous towards the end." He picked the volume from his desk.
"Here is page 534, column two, a substantial block of print
dealing, I perceive, with the trade and resources of British India.
Jot down the words, Watson! Number thirteen is 'Mahratta.'
Not, I fear, a very auspicious beginning. Number one hundred
and twenty-seven is 'Government'; which at least makes sense,
though somewhat irrelevant to ourselves and Professor Moriarty.
Now let us try again. What does the Mahratta government do?
Alas! the next word is 'pig's-bristles.' We are undone, my good
Watson! It is finished!"

He had spoken in jesting vein, but the twitching of his bushy
eyebrows bespoke his disappointment and irritation. I sat helpless
and unhappy, staring into the fire. A long silence was broken by
a sudden exclamation from Holmes, who dashed at a cupboard, from
which he emerged with a second yellow-covered volume in his hand.

"We pay the price, Watson, for being too up-to-date!" he
cried. "We are before our time, and suffer the usual penalties.
Being the seventh of January, we have very properly laid in the
new almanac. It is more than likely that Porlock took his message
from the old one. No doubt he would have told us so had his
letter of explanation been written. Now let us see what page
534 has in store for us. Number thirteen is 'There,' which is
much more promising. Number one hundred and twenty-seven is
'is' -- 'There is' " -- Holmes's eyes were gleaming with excitement,
and his thin, nervous fingers twitched as he counted the
words -- " 'danger.' Ha! Ha! Capital! Put that down, Watson.
'There is danger -- may -- come -- very -- soon -- one.' Then we have
the name 'Douglas' -- 'rich -- country -- now -- at -- Birlstone --
House -- Birlstone -- confidence -- is -- pressing.' There, Watson!
What do you think of pure reason and its fruit? If the greengrocer
had such a thing as a laurel wreath, I should send Billy round for
it."

I was staring at the strange message which I had scrawled,
as he deciphered it, upon a sheet of foolscap on my knee.

"What a queer, scrambling way of expressing his meaning!" said I.

"On the contrary, he has done quite remarkably well," said Holmes.
"When you search a single column for words with which to express
your meaning, you can hardly expect to get everything you want.
You are bound to leave something to the intelligence of your
correspondent. The purport is perfectly clear. Some deviltry is
intended against one Douglas, whoever he may be, residing as stated,
a rich country gentleman. He is sure -- 'confidence' was as near as
he could get to 'confident' -- that it is pressing. There is our
result -- and a very workmanlike little bit of analysis it was!"

Holmes had the impersonal joy of the true artist in his better
work, even as he mourned darkly when it fell below the high
level to which he aspired. He was still chuckling over his
success when Billy swung open the door and Inspector MacDonald
of Scotland Yard was ushered into the room.

Those were the early days at the end of the '80's, when Alec
MacDonald was far from having attained the national fame
which he has now achieved. He was a young but trusted member
of the detective force, who had distinguished himself in several
cases which had been entrusted to him. His tall, bony figure gave
promise of exceptional physical strength, while his great cranium
and deep-set, lustrous eyes spoke no less clearly of the keen
intelligence which twinkled out from behind his bushy eyebrows.
He was a silent, precise man with a dour nature and a hard
Aberdonian accent.

Twice already in his career had Holmes helped him to attain
success, his own sole reward being the intellectual joy of the
problem. For this reason the affection and respect of the
Scotchman for his amateur colleague were profound, and he showed
them by the frankness with which he consulted Holmes in every
difficulty. Mediocrity knows nothing higher than itself; but talent
instantly recognizes genius, and MacDonald had talent enough
for his profession to enable him to perceive that there was no
humiliation in seeking the assistance of one who already stood
alone in Europe, both in his gifts and in his experience. Holmes
was not prone to friendship, but he was tolerant of the big
Scotchman, and smiled at the sight of him.

"You are an early bird, Mr. Mac," said he. "I wish you luck with
your worm. I fear this means that there is some mischief afoot."

"If you said 'hope' instead of 'fear,' it would be nearer the
truth, I'm thinking, Mr. Holmes," the inspector answered, with a
knowing grin. "Well, maybe a wee nip would keep out the raw
morning chill. No, I won't smoke, I thank you. I'll have to be
pushing on my way; for the early hours of a case are the precious
ones, as no man knows better than your own self. But -- but --"

The inspector had stopped suddenly, and was staring with a
look of absolute amazement at a paper upon the table. It was the
sheet upon which I had scrawled the enigmatic message.

"Douglas!" he stammered. "Birlstone! What's this, Mr. Holmes?
Man, it's witchcraft! Where in the name of all that is wonderful
did you get those names?"

"It is a cipher that Dr. Watson and I have had occasion to
solve. But why -- what's amiss with the names?"

The inspector looked from one to the other of us in dazed astonishment.
"Just this," said he, "that Mr. Douglas of Birlstone Manor House was
horribly murdered last night!"


Chapter 2
Sherlock Holmes Discourses



It was one of those dramatic moments for which my friend existed.
It would be an overstatement to say that he was shocked or even
excited by the amazing announcement. Without having a tinge of
cruelty in his singular composition, he was undoubtedly callous
from long over-stimulation. Yet, if his emotions were dulled,
his intellectual perceptions were exceedingly active. There was
no trace then of the horror which I had myself felt at this curt
declaration; but his face showed rather the quiet and interested
composure of the chemist who sees the crystals falling into position
from his oversaturated solution.

"Remarkable!" said he. "Remarkable!"

"You don't seem surprised."

"Interested, Mr. Mac, but hardly surprised. Why should I be
surprised? I receive an anonymous communication from a quarter
which I know to be important, warning me that danger threatens
a certain person. Within an hour I learn that this danger has
actually materialized and that the person is dead. I am interested;
but, as you observe, I am not surprised."

In a few short sentences he explained to the inspector the facts
about the letter and the cipher. MacDonald sat with his chin on
his hands and his great sandy eyebrows bunched into a yellow
tangle.

"I was going down to Birlstone this morning," said he. "I
had come to ask you if you cared to come with me -- you and
your friend here. But from what you say we might perhaps be
doing better work in London."

"I rather think not," said Holmes.

"Hang it all, Mr. Holmes!" cried the inspector. "The papers
will be full of the Birlstone mystery in a day or two; but where's
the mystery if there is a man in London who prophesied the
crime before ever it occurred? We have only to lay our hands on
that man, and the rest will follow."

"No doubt, Mr. Mac. But how do you propose to lay your
hands on the so-called Porlock?"

MacDonald turned over the letter which Holmes had handed
him. "Posted in Camberwell -- that doesn't help us much. Name,
you say, is assumed. Not much to go on, certainly. Didn't you
say that you have sent him money?"

"Twice."

"And how?"

"In notes to Camberwell post-office."

"Did you ever trouble to see who called for them?"

"No."

The inspector looked surprised and a little shocked. "Why not?"

"Because I always keep faith. I had promised when he first
wrote that I would not try to trace him."

"You think there is someone behind him?"

"I know there is."

"This professor that I've heard you mention?"

"Exactly!"

Inspector MacDonald smiled, and his eyelid quivered as he
glanced towards me. "I won't conceal from you, Mr. Holmes,
that we think in the C. I. D. that you have a wee bit of a bee in
your bonnet over this professor. I made some inquiries myself
about the matter. He seems to be a very respectable, learned, and
talented sort of man."

"I'm glad you've got so far as to recognize the talent."

"Man, you can't but recognize it! After I heard your view I
made it my business to see him. I had a chat with him on
eclipses. How the talk got that way I canna think; but he had out
a reflector lantern and a globe, and made it all clear in a minute.
He lent me a book; but I don't mind saying that it was a bit
above my head, though I had a good Aberdeen upbringing. He'd
have made a grand meenister with his thin face and gray hair and
solemn-like way of talking. When he put his hand on my shoulder
as we were parting, it was like a father's blessing before you
go out into the cold, cruel world."

Holmes chuckled and rubbed his hands. "Great!" he said.
"Great! Tell me, Friend MacDonald, this pleasing and touching
interview was, I suppose, in the professor's study?"

"That's so."

"A fine room, is it not?"

"Very fine -- very handsome indeed, Mr. Holmes."

"You sat in front of his writing desk?"

"Just so."

"Sun in your eyes and his face in the shadow?"

"Well, it was evening; but I mind that the lamp was turned on
my face."

"It would be. Did you happen to observe a picture over the
professor's head?"

"I don't miss much, Mr. Holmes. Maybe I learned that from
you. Yes, I saw the picture -- a young woman with her head on
her hands, peeping at you sideways."

"That painting was by Jean Baptiste Greuze."

The inspector endeavoured to look interested.

"Jean Baptiste Greuze," Holmes continued, joining his finger
tips and leaning well back in his chair, "was a French artist who
flourished between the years 1750 and 1800. I allude, of course
to his working career. Modern criticism has more than indorsed
the high opinion formed of him by his contemporaries."

The inspector's eyes grew abstracted. "Hadn't we better --"
he said.

"We are doing so," Holmes interrupted. "All that I am
saying has a very direct and vital bearing upon what you have
called the Birlstone Mystery. In fact, it may in a sense be called
the very centre of it."

MacDonald smiled feebly, and looked appealingly to me.
"Your thoughts move a bit too quick for me, Mr. Holmes. You
leave out a link or two, and I can't get over the gap. What in the
whole wide world can be the connection between this dead
painting man and the affair at Birlstone?"

"All knowledge comes useful to the detective," remarked
Holmes. "Even the trivial fact that in the year 1865 a picture by
Greuze entitled La Jeune Fille a l'Agneau fetched one million
two hundred thousand francs -- more than forty thousand pounds --
at the Portalis sale may start a train of reflection in your mind."

It was clear that it did. The inspector looked honestly interested.

"I may remind you," Holmes continued, "that the professor's
salary can be ascertained in several trustworthy books of reference.
It is seven hundred a year."

"Then how could he buy --"

"Quite so! How could he?"

"Ay, that's remarkable," said the inspector thoughtfully. "Talk
away, Mr. Holmes. I'm just loving it. It's fine!"

Holmes smiled. He was always warmed by genuine admiration --
the characteristic of the real artist. "What about Birlstone?" he
asked.

"We've time yet," said the inspector, glancing at his watch.
"I've a cab at the door, and it won't take us twenty minutes to
Victoria. But about this picture: I thought you told me once, Mr.
Holmes, that you had never met Professor Moriarty."

"No, I never have."

"Then how do you know about his rooms?"

"Ah, that's another matter. I have been three times in his
rooms, twice waiting for him under different pretexts and leaving
before he came. Once -- well, I can hardly tell about the once to
an official detective. It was on the last occasion that I took the
liberty of running over his papers -- with the most unexpected
results."

"You found something compromising?"

"Absolutely nothing. That was what amazed me. However,
you have now seen the point of the picture. It shows him to be a
very wealthy man. How did he acquire wealth? He is unmarried.
His younger brother is a station master in the west of England.
His chair is worth seven hundred a year. And he owns a Greuze."

"Well?"

"Surely the inference is plain."

"You mean that he has a great income and that he must earn it
in an illegal fashion?"

"Exactly. Of course I have other reasons for thinking so --
dozens of exiguous threads which lead vaguely up towards the
centre of the web where the poisonous, motionless creature is
lurking. I only mention the Greuze because it brings the matter
within the range of your own observation."

"Well, Mr. Holmes, I admit that what you say is interesting:
it's more than interesting -- it's just wonderful. But let us have it
a little clearer if you can. Is it forgery, coining, burglary -- where
does the money come from?"

"Have you ever read of Jonathan Wild?"

"Well, the name has a familiar sound. Someone in a novel,
was he not? I don't take much stock of detectives in novels --
chaps that do things and never let you see how they do them.
That's just inspiration: not business."

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