The Valley of Fear

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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?"

"Yow 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. Soour 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 iength, since one of the words is
numbered in the document as the two hundred and ninety-third.
Have we reached the limits of what reasoncan 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 iie 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 abook
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 ofJanuary, 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 green-grocer 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 intrusted 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 overstimulation. 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. "Remarkahle!"

"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 postoffice."

"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 verly 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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