The Complete Sherlock Holmes

with bicycle and valise. In the latter was a sawedoff
shotgun; so he came with the deliberate purpose
of crime. Yesterday morning he set off for
this place on his bicycle, with his gun concealed
in his overcoat. No one saw him arrive, so far
as we can learn; but he need not pass through
the village to reach the park gates, and there are
many cyclists upon the road. Presumably he at
once concealed his cycle among the laurels where
it was found, and possibly lurked there himself,
with his eye on the house, waiting for Mr. Douglas
to come out. The shotgun is a strange weapon to
use inside a house; but he had intended to use it
outside, and there it has very obvious advantages,
as it would be impossible to miss with it, and the
sound of shots is so common in an English sporting
neighbourhood that no particular notice would
be taken.”
“That is all very clear,” said Holmes.
“Well, Mr. Douglas did not appear. What was
he to do next? He left his bicycle and approached
the house in the twilight. He found the bridge
down and no one about. He took his chance, intending,
no doubt, to make some excuse if he met
anyone. He met no one. He slipped into the first
room that he saw, and concealed himself behind
the curtain. Thence he could see the drawbridge
go up, and he knew that his only escape was
through the moat. He waited until quarter-past
eleven, when Mr. Douglas upon his usual nightly
round came into the room. He shot him and escaped,
as arranged. He was aware that the bicycle
would be described by the hotel people and be a
clue against him; so he left it there and made his
way by some other means to London or to some
safe hiding place which he had already arranged.
How is that, Mr. Holmes?”
“Well, Mr. Mac, it is very good and very clear
so far as it goes. That is your end of the story.
My end is that the crime was committed half an
hour earlier than reported; that Mrs. Douglas and
Barker are both in a conspiracy to conceal something;
that they aided the murderer’s escape—or
The Valley Of Fear
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at least that they reached the room before he escaped—and
that they fabricated evidence of his
escape through the window, whereas in all probability
they had themselves let him go by lowering
the bridge. That’s my reading of the first half.”
The two detectives shook their heads.
“Well, Mr. Holmes, if this is true, we only tumble
out of one mystery into another,” said the London
inspector.
“And in some ways a worse one,” added White
Mason. “The lady has never been in America in all
her life. What possible connection could she have
with an American assassin which would cause her
to shelter him?”
“I freely admit the difficulties,” said Holmes. “I
propose to make a little investigation of my own
to-night, and it is just possible that it may contribute
something to the common cause.”
“Can we help you, Mr. Holmes?”
“No, no! Darkness and Dr. Watson’s umbrella—my
wants are simple. And Ames, the faithful
Ames, no doubt he will stretch a point for me.
All my lines of thought lead me back invariably
to the one basic question—why should an athletic
man develop his frame upon so unnatural an instrument
as a single dumb-bell?”
It was late that night when Holmes returned
from his solitary excursion. We slept in a doublebedded
room, which was the best that the little
country inn could do for us. I was already asleep
when I was partly awakened by his entrance.
“Well, Holmes,” I murmured, “have you found
anything out?”
He stood beside me in silence, his candle in his
hand. Then the tall, lean figure inclined towards
me. “I say, Watson,” he whispered, “would you
be afraid to sleep in the same room with a lunatic,
a man with softening of the brain, an idiot whose
mind has lost its grip?”
“Not in the least,” I answered in astonishment.
“Ah, that’s lucky,” he said, and not another
word would he utter that night.