Sherlock Holmes complete collection by sir arthur conan doyle

The Valley of Fear Chapter 3 THE TRAGEDY OF BIRLSTONE

NOW for a moment I will ask leave to remove my own insignificantpersonality and to describe events which occurred before we arrived uponthe scene by the light of knowledge which came to us afterwards. Only inthis way can I make the reader appreciate the people concerned and thestrange setting in which their fate was cast.The village of Birlstone is a small and very ancient cluster of halftimbered cottages on the northern border of the county of Sussex. Forcenturies it had remained unchanged; but within the last few years itspicturesque appearance and situation have attracted a number of well-todo residents, whose villas peep out from the woods around. These woodsare locally supposed to be the extreme fringe of the great Weald forest,which thins away until it reaches the northern chalk downs. A number ofsmall shops have come into being to meet the wants of the increasedpopulation; so there seems some prospect that Birlstone may soon growfrom an ancient village into a modern town. It is the centre for aconsiderable area of country, since Tunbridge Wells, the nearest place ofimportance, is ten or twelve miles to the eastward, over the borders ofKent.About half a mile from the town, standing in an old park famous for itshuge beech trees, is the ancient Manor House of Birlstone. Part of thisvenerable building dates back to the time of the first crusade, when Hugode Capus built a fortalice in the centre of the estate, which had beengranted to him by the Red King. This was destroyed by fire in 1543, andsome of its smoke-blackened corner stones were used when, in Jacobeantimes, a brick country house rose upon the ruins of the feudal castle.The Manor House, with its many gables and its small diamond-panedwindows, was still much as the builder had left it in the early seventeenthcentury. Of the double moats which had guarded its more warlikepredecessor, the outer had been allowed to dry up, and served the humblefunction of a kitchen garden. The inner one was still there, and lay fortyfeet in breadth, though now only a few feet in depth, round the wholehouse. A small stream fed it and continued beyond it, [780] so that thesheet of water, though turbid, was never ditchlike or unhealthy. Theground floor windows were within a foot of the surface of the water.The only approach to the house was over a drawbridge, the chains andwindlass of which had long been rusted and broken. The latest tenants ofthe Manor House had, however, with characteristic energy, set this right,and the drawbridge was not only capable of being raised, but actually wasraised every evening and lowered every morning. By thus renewing the custom of the old feudal days the Manor House was converted into anisland during the night-a fact which had a very direct bearing upon themystery which was soon to engage the attention of all England.The house had been untenanted for some years and was threatening tomoulder into a picturesque decay when the Douglases took possession ofit. This family consisted of only two individuals-John Douglas and hiswife. Douglas was a remarkable man, both in character and in person. Inage he may have been about fifty, with a strong-jawed, rugged face, agrizzling moustache, peculiarly keen gray eyes, and a wiry, vigorousfigure which had lost nothing of the strength and activity of youth. Hewas cheery and genial to all, but somewhat offhand in his manners, givingthe impression that he had seen life in social strata on some far lowerhorizon than the county society of Sussex.Yet, though looked at with some curiosity and reserve by his morecultivated neighbours, he soon acquired a great popularity among thevillagers, subscribing handsomely to all local objects, and attending theirsmoking concerts and other functions, where, having a remarkably richtenor voice, he was always ready to oblige with an excellent song. Heappeared to have plenty of money, which was said to have been gained inthe California gold fields, and it was clear from his own talk and that ofhis wife that he had spent a part of his life in America.The good impression which had been produced by his generosity andby his democratic manners was increased by a reputation gained for utterindifference to danger. Though a wretched rider, he turned out at everymeet, and took the most amazing falls in his determination to hold hisown with the best. When the vicarage caught fire he distinguished himselfalso by the fearlessness with which he reentered the building to saveproperty, after the local fire brigade had given it up as impossible. Thus itcame about that John Douglas of the Manor House had within five yearswon himself quite a reputation in Birlstone.His wife, too, was popular with those who had made her acquaintance;though, after the English fashion, the callers upon a stranger who settledin the county without introductions were few and far between. Thismattered the less to her, as she was retiring by disposition, and very muchabsorbed, to all appearance, in her husband and her domestic duties. Itwas known that she was an English lady who had met Mr. Douglas inLondon, he being at that time a widower. She was a beautiful woman, tall,dark, and slender, some twenty years younger than her husband; adisparity which seemed in no wise to mar the contentment of their familylife.It was remarked sometimes, however, by those who knew them best,that the confidence between the two did not appear to be complete, sincethe wife was either very reticent about her husband's past life, or else, asseemed more likely, was imperfectly informed about it. It had also beennoted and commented upon by a few observant people that there weresigns sometimes of some nerve-strain upon the part of Mrs. Douglas, andthat she would display acute uneasiness if [781] her absent husband shouldever be particularly late in his return. On a quiet countryside, where allgossip is welcome, this weakness of the lady of the Manor House did not pass without remark, and it bulked larger upon people's memory whenthe events arose which gave it a very special significance.There was yet another individual whose residence under that roof was,it is true, only an intermittent one, but whose presence at the time of thestrange happenings which will now be narrated brought his nameprominently before the public. This was Cecil James Barker, of HalesLodge, Hampstead.Cecil Barker's tall, loose-jointed figure was a familiar one in the mainstreet of Birlstone village; for he was a frequent and welcome visitor atthe Manor House. He was the more noticed as being the only friend of thepast unknown life of Mr. Douglas who was ever seen in his new Englishsurroundings. Barker was himself an undoubted Englishman; but by hisremarks it was clear that he had first known Douglas in America and hadthere lived on intimate terms with him. He appeared to be a man ofconsiderable wealth, and was reputed to be a bachelor.In age he was rather younger than Douglas-forty-five at the most-atall, straight, broad-chested fellow with a clean-shaved, prize-fighter face,thick, strong, black eyebrows, and a pair of masterful black eyes whichmight, even without the aid of his very capable hands, clear a way for himthrough a hostile crowd. He neither rode nor shot, but spent his days inwandering round the old village with his pipe in his mouth, or in drivingwith his host, or in his absence with his hostess, over the beautifulcountryside. "An easy-going, free-handed gentleman," said Ames, thebutler. "But, my word! I had rather not be the man that crossed him!" Hewas cordial and intimate with Douglas, and he was no less friendly withhis wife-a friendship which more than once seemed to cause someirritation to the husband, so that even the servants were able to perceivehis annoyance. Such was the third person who was one of the familywhen the catastrophe occurred.As to the other denizens of the old building, it will suffice out of a largehousehold to mention the prim, respectable, and capable Ames, and Mrs.Allen, a buxom and cheerful person, who relieved the lady of some of herhousehold cares. The other six servants in the house bear no relation tothe events of the night of January 6th.It was at eleven forty-five that the first alarm reached the small localpolice station, in charge of Sergeant Wilson of the Sussex Constabulary.Cecil Barker, much excited, had rushed up to the door and pealedfuriously upon the bell. A terrible tragedy had occurred at the ManorHouse, and John Douglas had been murdered. That was the breathlessburden of his message. He had hurried back to the house, followed withina few minutes by the police sergeant, who arrived at the scene of thecrime a little after twelve o'clock, after taking prompt steps to warn thecounty authorities that something serious was afoot.On reaching the Manor House, the sergeant had found the drawbridgedown, the windows lighted up, and the whole household in a state of wildconfusion and alarm. The white-faced servants were huddling together inthe hall, with the frightened butler wringing his hands in the doorway.Only Cecil Barker seemed to be master of himself and his emotions; hehad opened the door which was nearest to the entrance and he had beckoned to the sergeant to follow him. At that moment there arrived Dr.Wood, a brisk and capable general practitioner from the village. The threemen entered the fatal room together, while the [782] horror-stricken butlerfollowed at their heels, closing the door behind him to shut out the terriblescene from the maid servants.The dead man lay on his back, sprawling with outstretched limbs in thecentre of the room. He was clad only in a pink dressing gown, whichcovered his night clothes. There were carpet slippers on his bare feet. Thedoctor knelt beside him and held down the hand lamp which had stood onthe table. One glance at the victim was enough to show the healer that hispresence could be dispensed with. The man had been horribly injured.Lying across his chest was a curious weapon, a shotgun with the barrelsawed off a foot in front of the triggers. It was clear that this had beenfired at close range and that he had received the whole charge in the face,blowing his head almost to pieces. The triggers had been wired together,so as to make the simultaneous discharge more destructive.The country policeman was unnerved and troubled by the tremendousresponsibility which had come so suddenly upon him. "We will touchnothing until my superiors arrive," he said in a hushed voice, staring inhorror at the dreadful head."Nothing has been touched up to now," said Cecil Barker. "I'll answerfor that. You see it all exactly as I found it.""When was that?" The sergeant had drawn out his notebook."It was just half-past eleven. I had not begun to undress, and I wassitting by the fire in my bedroom when I heard the report. It was not very loud -it seemed to be muffled. I rushed down-I don't suppose it wasthirty seconds before I was in the room.""Was the door open?""Yes, it was open. Poor Douglas was lying as you see him. Hisbedroom candle was burning on the table. It was I who lit the lamp someminutes afterward.""Did you see no one?""No. I heard Mrs. Douglas coming down the stair behind me, and Irushed out to prevent her from seeing this dreadful sight. Mrs. Allen, thehousekeeper, came and took her away. Ames had arrived, and we ranback into the room once more.""But surely I have heard that the drawbridge is kept up all night.""Yes, it was up until I lowered it.""Then how could any murderer have got away? It is out of thequestion! Mr. Douglas must have shot himself.""That was our first idea. But see!" Barker drew aside the curtain, andshowed that the long, diamond-paned window was open to its full extent."And look at this!" He held the lamp down and illuminated a smudge ofblood like the mark of a boot-sole upon the wooden sill. "Someone hasstood there in getting out.""You mean that someone waded across the moat?""Exactly!""Then if you were in the room within half a minute of the crime, hemust have been in the water at that very moment.""I have not a doubt of it. I wish to heaven that I had rushed to thewindow! But the curtain screened it, as you can see, and so it neveroccurred to me. Then I heard the step of Mrs. Douglas, and I could not lether enter the room. It would have been too horrible.""Horrible enough!" said the doctor, looking at the shattered head andthe terrible marks which surrounded it. "I've never seen such injuriessince the Birlstone railway smash.""But, I say," remarked the police sergeant, whose slow, bucoliccommon sense [783] was still pondering the open window. "It's all verywell your saying that a man escaped by wading this moat, but what I askyou is, how did he ever get into the house at all if the bridge was up?""Ah, that's the question," said Barker."At what o'clock was it raised?""It was nearly six o'clock," said Ames, the butler."I've heard," said the sergeant, "that it was usually raised at sunset.That would be nearer half-past four than six at this time of year.""Mrs. Douglas had visitors to tea," said Ames. "I couldn't raise it untilthey went. Then I wound it up myself.""Then it comes to this," said the sergeant: "If anyone came fromoutside- if they did-they must have got in across the bridge before six andbeen in hiding ever since, until Mr. Douglas came into the room aftereleven.""That is so! Mr. Douglas went round the house every night the lastthing before he turned in to see that the lights were right. That broughthim in here. The man was waiting and shot him. Then he got away through the window and left his gun behind him. That's how I read it; fornothing else will fit the facts."The sergeant picked up a card which lay beside the dead man on thefloor. The initials V. V. and under them the number 341 were rudelyscrawled in ink upon it."What's this?" he asked, holding it up.Barker looked at it with curiosity. "I never noticed it before," he said."The murderer must have left it behind him.""V. V.-341. I can make no sense of that."The sergeant kept turning it over in his big fingers. "What's V. V.?Somebody's initials, maybe. What have you got there, Dr. Wood?"It was a good-sized hammer which had been lying on the rug in front ofthe fireplace-a substantial, workmanlike hammer. Cecil Barker pointed toa box of brass-headed nails upon the mantelpiece."Mr. Douglas was altering the pictures yesterday," he said. "I saw himmyself, standing upon that chair and fixing the big picture above it. Thataccounts for the hammer.""We'd best put it back on the rug where we found it," said the sergeant,scratching his puzzled head in his perplexity. "It will want the best brainsin the force to get to the bottom of this thing. It will be a London jobbefore it is finished." He raised the hand lamp and walked slowly roundthe room. "Hullo!" he cried, excitedly, drawing the window curtain to oneside. "What o'clock were those curtains drawn?""When the lamps were lit," said the butler. "It would be shortly afterfour.""Someone had been hiding here, sure enough." He held down the light,and the marks of muddy boots were very visible in the corner. "I'm boundto say this bears out your theory, Mr. Barker. It looks as if the man gotinto the house after four when the curtains were drawn, and before sixwhen the bridge was raised. He slipped into this room, because it was thefirst that he saw. There was no other place where he could hide, so hepopped in behind this curtain. That all seems clear enough. It is likely thathis main idea was to burgle the house; but Mr. Douglas chanced to comeupon him, so he murdered him and escaped.""That's how I read it," said Barker. "But, I say, aren't we wastingprecious time? Couldn't we start out and scour the country before thefellow gets away?"The sergeant considered for a moment.[784] "There are no trains before six in the morning; so he can't getaway by rail. If he goes by road with his legs all dripping, it's odds thatsomeone will notice him. Anyhow, I can't leave here myself until I amrelieved. But I think none of you should go until we see more clearly howwe all stand."The doctor had taken the lamp and was narrowly scrutinizing the body."What's this mark?" he asked. "Could this have any connection with thecrime?"The dead man's right arm was thrust out from his dressing gown, andexposed as high as the elbow. About halfway up the forearm was acurious brown design, a triangle inside a circle, standing out in vivid relief upon the lard-coloured skin."It's not tattooed," said the doctor, peering through his glasses. "I neversaw anything like it. The man has been branded at some time as theybrand cattle. What is the meaning of this?""I don't profess to know the meaning of it," said Cecil Barker; "but Ihave seen the mark on Douglas many times this last ten years.""And so have I," said the butler. "Many a time when the master hasrolled up his sleeves I have noticed that very mark. I've often wonderedwhat it could be.""Then it has nothing to do with the crime, anyhow," said the sergeant."But it's a rum thing all the same. Everything about this case is rum.Well, what is it now?"The butler had given an exclamation of astonishment and was pointingat the dead man's outstretched hand."They've taken his wedding ring!" he gasped."What!""Yes, indeed. Master always wore his plain gold wedding ring on thelittle finger of his left hand. That ring with the rough nugget on it wasabove it, and the twisted snake ring on the third finger. There's the nuggetand there's the snake, but the wedding ring is gone.""He's right," said Barker."Do you tell me," said the sergeant, "that the wedding ring was belowthe other?""Always!""Then the murderer, or whoever it was, first took off this ring you callthe nugget ring, then the wedding ring, and afterwards put the nugget ringback again.""That is so!"The worthy country policeman shook his head. "Seems to me thesooner we get London on to this case the better," said he. "White Masonis a smart man. No local job has ever been too much for White Mason. Itwon't be long now before he is here to help us. But I expect we'll have tolook to London before we are through. Anyhow, I'm not ashamed to saythat it is a deal too thick for the likes of me."