The Complete Sherlock Holmes

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 tomorrow,
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 dumbbell,
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
The Valley Of Fear
695
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 farfetched
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 realize 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