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."
"Jonathan
Wild wasn't a detective, and he wasn't in a novel.
He was a master criminal, and he lived last
century—1750 or thereabouts."
"Then he's
no use to me. I'm a practical man."
"Mr. Mac,
the most practical thing that you ever did in your
life would be to shut yourself up for three months
and read twelve hours a day at the annals of crime.
Everything comes in circles—even Professor Moriarty.
Jonathan Wild was the hidden force of the London
criminals, to whom he sold his brains and his
organization on a fifteen per cent commission. The
old wheel turns, and the same spoke comes up. It's
all been done before, and will be again. I'll tell
you one or two things about Moriarty which may
interest you."
"You'll
interest me, right enough."
"I happen to
know who is the first link in his chain—a chain with
this Napoleon-gone-wrong at one end, and a hundred
broken fighting men, pickpockets, blackmailers, and
card sharpers at the other, with every sort of crime
in between. His chief of staff is Colonel Sebastian
Moran, as aloof and guarded and inaccessible to the
law as himself. What do you think he pays him?"
"I'd like to
hear."
"Six
thousand a year. That's paying for brains, you
see—the American business principle. I learned that
detail quite by chance. It's more than the Prime
Minister gets. That gives you an idea of Moriarty's
gains and of the scale on which he works. Another
point: I made it my business to hunt down some of
Moriarty's checks lately—just common innocent checks
that he pays his household bills with. They were
drawn on six different banks. Does that make any
impression on your mind?"
"Queer,
certainly! But what do you gather from it?"
"That he
wanted no gossip about his wealth. No single man
should know what he had. I have no doubt that he has
twenty banking accounts; the bulk of his fortune
abroad in the Deutsche Bank or the Credit Lyonnais
as likely as not. Sometime when you have a year or
two to spare I commend to you the study of Professor
Moriarty."
Inspector
MacDonald had grown steadily more impressed as the
conversation proceeded. He had lost himself in his
interest. Now his practical Scotch intelligence
brought him back with a snap to the matter in hand.
"He can
keep, anyhow," said he. "You've got us side-tracked
with your interesting anecdotes, Mr. Holmes. What
really counts is your remark that there is some
connection between the professor and the crime. That
you get from the warning received through the man
Porlock. Can we for our present practical needs get
any further than that?"
"We may form
some conception as to the motives of the crime. It
is, as I gather from your original remarks, an
inexplicable, or at least an unexplained, murder.
Now, presuming that the source of the crime is as we
suspect it to be, there might be two different
motives. In the first place, I may tell you that
Moriarty rules with a rod of iron over his people.
His discipline is tremendous. There is only one
punishment in his code. It is death. Now we might
suppose that this murdered man—this Douglas whose
approaching fate was known by one of the
arch-criminal's subordinates—had in some way
betrayed the chief. His punishment followed, and
would be known to all—if only to put the fear of
death into them."
"Well, that
is one suggestion, Mr. Holmes."
"The other
is that it has been engineered by Moriarty in the
ordinary course of business. Was there any robbery?"
"I have not
heard."
"If so, it
would, of course, be against the first hypothesis
and in favour of the second. Moriarty may have been
engaged to engineer it on a promise of part spoils,
or he may have been paid so much down to manage it.
Either is possible. But whichever it may be, or if
it is some third combination, it is down at
Birlstone that we must seek the solution. I know our
man too well to suppose that he has left anything up
here which may lead us to him."
"Then to
Birlstone we must go!" cried MacDonald, jumping from
his chair. "My word! it's later than I thought. I
can give you, gentlemen, five minutes for
preparation, and that is all."
"And ample
for us both," said Holmes, as he sprang up and
hastened to change from his dressing gown to his
coat. "While we are on our way, Mr. Mac, I will ask
you to be good enough to tell me all about it."
"All about
it" proved to be disappointingly little, and yet
there was enough to assure us that the case before
us might well be worthy of the expert's closest
attention. He brightened and rubbed his thin hands
together as he listened to the meagre but remarkable
details. A long series of sterile weeks lay behind
us, and here at last there was a fitting object for
those remarkable powers which, like all special
gifts, become irksome to their owner when they are
not in use. That razor brain blunted and rusted with
inaction.
Sherlock
Holmes's eyes glistened, his pale cheeks took a
warmer hue, and his whole eager face shone with an
inward light when the call for work reached him.
Leaning forward in the cab, he listened intently to
MacDonald's short sketch of the problem which
awaited us in Sussex. The inspector was himself
dependent, as he explained to us, upon a scribbled
account forwarded to him by the milk train in the
early hours of the morning. White Mason, the local
officer, was a personal friend, and hence MacDonald
had been notified much more promptly than is usual
at Scotland Yard when provincials need their
assistance. It is a very cold scent upon which the
Metropolitan expert is generally asked to run.
"DEAR
INSPECTOR MACDONALD [said the letter which he read
to us]:
"Official
requisition for your services is in separate
envelope. This is for your private eye. Wire me what
train in the morning you can get for Birlstone, and
I will meet it—or have it met if I am too occupied.
This case is a snorter. Don't waste a moment in
getting started. If you can bring Mr. Holmes, please
do so; for he will find something after his own
heart. We would think the whole thing had been fixed
up for theatrical effect if there wasn't a dead man
in the middle of it. My word! it is a snorter."
"Your friend seems to be no
fool," remarked Holmes.
"No, sir,
White Mason is a very live man, if I am any judge."
"Well, have
you anything more?"
"Only that
he will give us every detail when we meet."
"Then how
did you get at Mr. Douglas and the fact that he had
been horribly murdered?"
"That was in
the enclosed official report. It didn't say
'horrible': that's not a recognized official term.
It gave the name John Douglas. It mentioned that his
injuries had been in the head, from the discharge of
a shotgun. It also mentioned the hour of the alarm,
which was close on to midnight last night. It added
that the case was undoubtedly one of murder, but
that no arrest had been made, and that the case was
one which presented some very perplexing and
extraordinary features. That's absolutely all we
have at present, Mr. Holmes."
"Then, with
your permission, we will leave it at that, Mr. Mac.
The temptation to form premature theories upon
insufficient data is the bane of our profession. I
can see only two things for certain at present—a
great brain in London, and a dead man in Sussex.
It's the chain between that we are going to trace."
Chapter 3
The Tragedy of
Birlstone
Now for a
moment I will ask leave to remove my own
insignificant personality and to describe events
which occurred before we arrived upon the scene by
the light of knowledge which came to us afterwards.
Only in this way can I make the reader appreciate
the people concerned and the strange setting in
which their fate was cast.
The village
of Birlstone is a small and very ancient cluster of
half-timbered cottages on the northern border of the
county of Sussex. For centuries it had remained
unchanged; but within the last few years its
picturesque appearance and situation have attracted
a number of well-to-do residents, whose villas peep
out from the woods around. These woods are locally
supposed to be the extreme fringe of the great Weald
forest, which thins away until it reaches the
northern chalk downs. A number of small shops have
come into being to meet the wants of the increased
population; so there seems some prospect that
Birlstone may soon grow from an ancient village into
a modern town. It is the centre for a considerable
area of country, since Tunbridge Wells, the nearest
place of importance, is ten or twelve miles to the
eastward, over the borders of Kent.
About half a
mile from the town, standing in an old park famous
for its huge beech trees, is the ancient Manor House
of Birlstone. Part of this venerable building dates
back to the time of the first crusade, when Hugo de
Capus built a fortalice in the centre of the estate,
which had been granted to him by the Red King. This
was destroyed by fire in 1543, and some of its
smoke-blackened corner stones were used when, in
Jacobean times, a brick country house rose upon the
ruins of the feudal castle.
The Manor
House, with its many gables and its small
diamond-paned windows, was still much as the builder
had left it in the early seventeenth century. Of the
double moats which had guarded its more warlike
predecessor, the outer had been allowed to dry up,
and served the humble function of a kitchen garden.
The inner one was still there, and lay forty feet in
breadth, though now only a few feet in depth, round
the whole house. A small stream fed it and continued
beyond it, so that the sheet of water, though
turbid, was never ditch-like or unhealthy. The
ground floor windows were within a foot of the
surface of the water.
The only
approach to the house was over a drawbridge, the
chains and windlass of which had long been rusted
and broken. The latest tenants of the Manor House
had, however, with characteristic energy, set this
right, and the drawbridge was not only capable of
being raised, but actually was raised every evening
and lowered every morning. By thus renewing the
custom of the old feudal days the Manor House was
converted into an island during the night—a fact
which had a very direct bearing upon the mystery
which was soon to engage the attention of all
England.
The house
had been untenanted for some years and was
threatening to moulder into a picturesque decay when
the Douglases took possession of it. This family
consisted of only two individuals—John Douglas and
his wife. Douglas was a remarkable man, both in
character and in person. In age he may have been
about fifty, with a strong-jawed, rugged face, a
grizzling moustache, peculiarly keen gray eyes, and
a wiry, vigorous figure which had lost nothing of
the strength and activity of youth. He was cheery
and genial to all, but somewhat offhand in his
manners, giving the impression that he had seen life
in social strata on some far lower horizon than the
county society of Sussex.
Yet, though
looked at with some curiosity and reserve by his
more cultivated neighbours, he soon acquired a great
popularity among the villagers, subscribing
handsomely to all local objects, and attending their
smoking concerts and other functions, where, having
a remarkably rich tenor voice, he was always ready
to oblige with an excellent song. He appeared to
have plenty of money, which was said to have been
gained in the California gold fields, and it was
clear from his own talk and that of his wife that he
had spent a part of his life in America.
The good
impression which had been produced by his generosity
and by his democratic manners was increased by a
reputation gained for utter indifference to danger.
Though a wretched rider, he turned out at every
meet, and took the most amazing falls in his
determination to hold his own with the best. When
the vicarage caught fire he distinguished himself
also by the fearlessness with which he reentered the
building to save property, after the local fire
brigade had given it up as impossible. Thus it came
about that John Douglas of the Manor House had
within five years won 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 settled in the county
without introductions were few and far between. This
mattered the less to her, as she was retiring by
disposition, and very much absorbed, to all
appearance, in her husband and her domestic duties.
It was known that she was an English lady who had
met Mr. Douglas in London, he being at that time a
widower. She was a beautiful woman, tall, dark, and
slender, some twenty years younger than her husband,
a disparity which seemed in no wise to mar the
contentment of their family life.
It was
remarked sometimes, however, by those who knew them
best, that the confidence between the two did not
appear to be complete, since the wife was either
very reticent about her husband's past life, or
else, as seemed more likely, was imperfectly
informed about it. It had also been noted and
commented upon by a few observant people that there
were signs sometimes of some nerve-strain upon the
part of Mrs. Douglas, and that she would display
acute uneasiness if her absent husband should ever
be particularly late in his return. On a quiet
countryside, where all gossip is welcome, this
weakness of the lady of the Manor House did not pass
without remark, and it bulked larger upon people's
memory when the 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 the strange happenings
which will now be narrated brought his name
prominently before the public. This was Cecil James
Barker, of Hales Lodge, Hampstead.
Cecil
Barker's tall, loose-jointed figure was a familiar
one in the main street of Birlstone village; for he
was a frequent and welcome visitor at the Manor
House. He was the more noticed as being the only
friend of the past unknown life of Mr. Douglas who
was ever seen in his new English surroundings.
Barker was himself an undoubted Englishman; but by
his remarks it was clear that he had first known
Douglas in America and had there lived on intimate
terms with him. He appeared to be a man of
considerable wealth, and was reputed to be a
bachelor.
In age he
was rather younger than Douglas—forty-five at the
most—a tall, straight, broad-chested fellow with a
clean-shaved, prize-fighter face, thick, strong,
black eyebrows, and a pair of masterful black eyes
which might, even without the aid of his very
capable hands, clear a way for him through a hostile
crowd. He neither rode nor shot, but spent his days
in wandering round the old village with his pipe in
his mouth, or in driving with his host, or in his
absence with his hostess, over the beautiful
countryside. "An easy-going, free-handed gentleman,"
said Ames, the butler. "But, my word! I had rather
not be the man that crossed him!" He was cordial and
intimate with Douglas, and he was no less friendly
with his wife—a friendship which more than once
seemed to cause some irritation to the husband, so
that even the servants were able to perceive his
annoyance. Such was the third person who was one of
the family when the catastrophe occurred.
As to the
other denizens of the old building, it will suffice
out of a large household to mention the prim,
respectable, and capable Ames, and Mrs. Allen, a
buxom and cheerful person, who relieved the lady of
some of her household cares. The other six servants
in the house bear no relation to the events of the
night of January 6th.
It was at
eleven forty-five that the first alarm reached the
small local police station, in charge of Sergeant
Wilson of the Sussex Constabulary. Cecil Barker,
much excited, had rushed up to the door and pealed
furiously upon the bell. A terrible tragedy had
occurred at the Manor House, and John Douglas had
been murdered. That was the breathless burden of his
message. He had hurried back to the house, followed
within a few minutes by the police sergeant, who
arrived at the scene of the crime a little after
twelve o'clock, after taking prompt steps to warn
the county authorities that something serious was
afoot.
On reaching
the Manor House, the sergeant had found the
drawbridge down, the windows lighted up, and the
whole household in a state of wild confusion and
alarm. The white-faced servants were huddling
together in the hall, with the frightened butler
wringing his hands in the doorway. Only Cecil Barker
seemed to be master of himself and his emotions; he
had 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 three men entered the fatal room
together, while the horror-stricken butler followed
at their heels, closing the door behind him to shut
out the terrible scene from the maid servants.
The dead man
lay on his back, sprawling with outstretched limbs
in the centre of the room. He was clad only in a
pink dressing gown, which covered his night clothes.
There were carpet slippers on his bare feet. The
doctor knelt beside him and held down the hand lamp
which had stood on the table. One glance at the
victim was enough to show the healer that his
presence could be dispensed with. The man had been
horribly injured. Lying across his chest was a
curious weapon, a shotgun with the barrel sawed off
a foot in front of the triggers. It was clear that
this had been fired 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
tremendous responsibility which had come so suddenly
upon him. "We will touch nothing until my superiors
arrive," he said in a hushed voice, staring in
horror at the dreadful head.
"Nothing has
been touched up to now," said Cecil Barker. "I'll
answer for 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
was sitting 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 was thirty
seconds before I was in the room."
"Was the
door open?"
"Yes, it was
open. Poor Douglas was lying as you see him. His
bedroom candle was burning on the table. It was I
who lit the lamp some minutes afterward."
"Did you see
no one?"
"No. I heard
Mrs. Douglas coming down the stair behind me, and I
rushed out to prevent her from seeing this dreadful
sight. Mrs. Allen, the housekeeper, came and took
her away. Ames had arrived, and we ran back 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 the
question! Mr. Douglas must have shot himself."
"That was
our first idea. But see!" Barker drew aside the
curtain, and showed 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 of blood like the mark of a boot-sole upon
the wooden sill. "Someone has stood 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,
he must 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
the window! But the curtain screened it, as you can
see, and so it never occurred to me. Then I heard
the step of Mrs. Douglas, and I could not let her
enter the room. It would have been too horrible."
"Horrible
enough!" said the doctor, looking at the shattered
head and the terrible marks which surrounded it.
"I've never seen such injuries since the Birlstone
railway smash."
"But, I
say," remarked the police sergeant, whose slow,
bucolic common sense was still pondering the open
window. "It's all very well your saying that a man
escaped by wading this moat, but what I ask you 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 until they went. Then I wound it up
myself."
"Then it
comes to this," said the sergeant: "If anyone came
from outside—if they did—they must have got in
across the bridge before six and been in hiding ever
since, until Mr. Douglas came into the room after
eleven."
"That is so!
Mr. Douglas went round the house every night the
last thing before he turned in to see that the
lights were right. That brought him 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; for nothing else will fit the facts."
The sergeant
picked up a card which lay beside the dead man on
the floor. The initials V. V. and under them the
number 341 were rudely scrawled 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 of the fireplace—a substantial, workmanlike
hammer. Cecil Barker pointed to a box of
brass-headed nails upon the mantelpiece.
"Mr. Douglas
was altering the pictures yesterday," he said. "I
saw him myself, standing upon that chair and fixing
the big picture above it. That accounts 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 brains in the
force to get to the bottom of this thing. It will be
a London job before it is finished." He raised the
hand lamp and walked slowly round the room. "Hullo!"
he cried, excitedly, drawing the window curtain to
one side. "What o'clock were those curtains drawn?"
"When the
lamps were lit," said the butler. "It would be
shortly after four."
"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 bound to say this bears
out your theory, Mr. Barker. It looks as if the man
got into the house after four when the curtains were
drawn and before six when the bridge was raised. He
slipped into this room, because it was the first
that he saw. There was no other place where he could
hide, so he popped in behind this curtain. That all
seems clear enough. It is likely that his main idea
was to burgle the house; but Mr. Douglas chanced to
come upon him, so he murdered him and escaped."
"That's how
I read it," said Barker. "But, I say, aren't we
wasting precious time? Couldn't we start out and
scour the country before the fellow gets away?"
The sergeant
considered for a moment.
"There are
no trains before six in the morning; so he can't get
away by rail. If he goes by road with his legs all
dripping, it's odds that someone will notice him.
Anyhow, I can't leave here myself until I am
relieved. But I think none of you should go until we
see more clearly how we 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 the crime?"
The dead
man's right arm was thrust out from his dressing
gown, and exposed as high as the elbow. About
halfway up the forearm was a curious 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 never saw anything like it. The man has
been branded at some time as they brand cattle. What
is the meaning of this?"
"I don't
profess to know the meaning of it," said Cecil
Barker; "but I have seen the mark on Douglas many
times this last ten years."
"And so have
I," said the butler. "Many a time when the master
has rolled up his sleeves I have noticed that very
mark. I've often wondered what 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
pointing at 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 the little finger of his left hand. That
ring with the rough nugget on it was above it, and
the twisted snake ring on the third finger. There's
the nugget and 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
below the other?"
"Always!"
"Then the
murderer, or whoever it was, first took off this
ring you call the nugget ring, then the wedding
ring, and afterwards put the nugget ring back
again."
"That is
so!"
The worthy
country policeman shook his head. "Seems to me the
sooner we get London on to this case the better,"
said he. "White Mason is a smart man. No local job
has ever been too much for White Mason. It won't be
long now before he is here to help us. But I expect
we'll have to look to London before we are through.
Anyhow, I'm not ashamed to say that it is a deal too
thick for the likes of me."
Chapter 4
Darkness
At three in
the morning the chief Sussex detective, obeying the
urgent call from Sergeant Wilson of Birlstone,
arrived from headquarters in a light dog-cart behind
a breathless trotter. By the five-forty train in the
morning he had sent his message to Scotland Yard,
and he was at the Birlstone station at twelve
o'clock to welcome us. White Mason was a quiet,
comfortable-looking person in a loose tweed suit,
with a clean-shaved, ruddy face, a stoutish body,
and powerful bandy legs adorned with gaiters,
looking like a small farmer, a retired gamekeeper,
or anything upon earth except a very favourable
specimen of the provincial criminal officer.
"A real
downright snorter, Mr. MacDonald!" he kept
repeating. "We'll have the pressmen down like flies
when they understand it. I'm hoping we will get our
work done before they get poking their noses into it
and messing up all the trails. There has been
nothing like this that I can remember. There are
some bits that will come home to you, Mr. Holmes, or
I am mistaken. And you also, Dr. Watson; for the
medicos will have a word to say before we finish.
Your room is at the Westville Arms. There's no other
place; but I hear that it is clean and good. The man
will carry your bags. This way, gentlemen, if you
please."
He was a
very bustling and genial person, this Sussex
detective. In ten minutes we had all found our
quarters. In ten more we were seated in the parlour
of the inn and being treated to a rapid sketch of
those events which have been outlined in the
previous chapter. MacDonald made an occasional note,
while Holmes sat absorbed, with the expression of
surprised and reverent admiration with which the
botanist surveys the rare and precious bloom.
"Remarkable!" he said, when the story was unfolded,
"most remarkable! I can hardly recall any case where
the features have been more peculiar."
"I thought
you would say so, Mr. Holmes," said White Mason in
great delight. "We're well up with the times in
Sussex. I've told you now how matters were, up to
the time when I took over from Sergeant Wilson
between three and four this morning. My word! I made
the old mare go! But I need not have been in such a
hurry, as it turned out; for there was nothing
immediate that I could do. Sergeant Wilson had all
the facts. I checked them and considered them and
maybe added a few of my own."
"What were
they?" asked Holmes eagerly.
"Well, I
first had the hammer examined. There was Dr. Wood
there to help me. We found no signs of violence upon
it. I was hoping that if Mr. Douglas defended
himself with the hammer, he might have left his mark
upon the murderer before he dropped it on the mat.
But there was no stain."
"That, of
course, proves nothing at all," remarked Inspector
MacDonald. "There has been many a hammer murder and
no trace on the hammer."
"Quite so.
It doesn't prove it wasn't used. But there might
have been stains, and that would have helped us. As
a matter of fact there were none. Then I examined
the gun. They were buckshot cartridges, and, as
Sergeant Wilson pointed out, the triggers were wired
together so that, if you pulled on the hinder one,
both barrels were discharged. Whoever fixed that up
had made up his mind that he was going to take no
chances of missing his man. The sawed gun was not
more than two foot long—one could carry it easily
under one's coat. There was no complete maker's
name; but the printed letters P-E-N were on the
fluting between the barrels, and the rest of the
name had been cut off by the saw."
"A big P
with a flourish above it, E and N smaller?" asked
Holmes.
"Exactly."
"Pennsylvania Small Arms Company—well-known American
firm," said Holmes.
White Mason
gazed at my friend as the little village
practitioner looks at the Harley Street specialist
who by a word can solve the difficulties that
perplex him.
"That is
very helpful, Mr. Holmes. No doubt you are right.
Wonderful! Wonderful! Do you carry the names of all
the gun makers in the world in your memory?"
Holmes
dismissed the subject with a wave.
"No doubt it
is an American shotgun," White Mason continued. "I
seem to have read that a sawed-off shotgun is a
weapon used in some parts of America. Apart from the
name upon the barrel, the idea had occurred to me.
There is some evidence then, that this man who
entered the house and killed its master was an
American."
MacDonald
shook his head. "Man, you are surely travelling
overfast," said he. "I have heard no evidence yet
that any stranger was ever in the house at all."
"The open
window, the blood on the sill, the queer card, the
marks of boots in the corner, the gun!"
"Nothing
there that could not have been arranged. Mr. Douglas
was an American, or had lived long in America. So
had Mr. Barker. You don't need to import an American
from outside in order to account for American
doings."
"Ames, the
butler—"
"What about
him? Is he reliable?"
"Ten years
with Sir Charles Chandos—as solid as a rock. He has
been with Douglas ever since he took the Manor House
five years ago. He has never seen a gun of this sort
in the house."
"The gun was
made to conceal. That's why the barrels were sawed.
It would fit into any box. How could he swear there
was no such gun in the house?"
"Well,
anyhow, he had never seen one."
MacDonald
shook his obstinate Scotch head. "I'm not convinced
yet that there was ever anyone in the house," said
he. "I'm asking you to conseedar" (his accent became
more Aberdonian as he lost himself in his argument)
"I'm asking you to conseedar what it involves if you
suppose that this gun was ever brought into the
house, and that all these strange things were done
by a person from outside. Oh, man, it's just
inconceivable! It's clean against common sense! I
put it to you, Mr. Holmes, judging it by what we
have heard."
"Well, state
your case, Mr. Mac," said Holmes in his most
judicial style.
"The man is
not a burglar, supposing that he ever existed. The
ring business and the card point to premeditated
murder for some private reason. Very good. Here is a
man who slips into a house with the deliberate
intention of committing murder. He knows, if he
knows anything, that he will have a deeficulty in
making his escape, as the house is surrounded with
water. What weapon would he choose? You would say
the most silent in the world. Then he could hope
when the deed was done to slip quickly from the
window, to wade the moat, and to get away at his
leisure. That's understandable. But is it
understandable that he should go out of his way to
bring with him the most noisy weapon he could
select, knowing well that it will fetch every human
being in the house to the spot as quick as they can
run, and that it is all odds that he will be seen
before he can get across the moat? Is that credible,
Mr. Holmes?"
"Well, you
put the case strongly," my friend replied
thoughtfully. "It certainly needs a good deal of
justification. May I ask, Mr. White Mason, whether
you examined the farther side of the moat at once to
see if there were any signs of the man having
climbed out from the water?"
"There were
no signs, Mr. Holmes. But it is a stone ledge, and
one could hardly expect them."
"No tracks
or marks?"
"None."
"Ha! Would
there be any objection, Mr. White Mason, to our
going down to the house at once? There may possibly
be some small point which might be suggestive."
"I was going
to propose it, Mr. Holmes; but I thought it well to
put you in touch with all the facts before we go. I
suppose if anything should strike you—" White Mason
looked doubtfully at the amateur.
"I have
worked with Mr. Holmes before," said Inspector
MacDonald. "He plays the game."
"My own idea
of the game, at any rate," said Holmes, with a
smile. "I go into a case to help the ends of justice
and the work of the police. If I have ever separated
myself from the official force, it is because they
have first separated themselves from me. I have no
wish ever to score at their expense. At the same
time, Mr. White Mason, I claim the right to work in
my own way and give my results at my own
time—complete rather than in stages."
"I am sure
we are honoured by your presence and to show you all
we know," said White Mason cordially. "Come along,
Dr. Watson, and when the time comes we'll all hope
for a place in your book."
We walked
down the quaint village street with a row of
pollarded elms on each side of it. Just beyond were
two ancient stone pillars, weather-stained and
lichen-blotched bearing upon their summits a
shapeless something which had once been the rampant
lion of Capus of Birlstone. A short walk along the
winding drive with such sward and oaks around it as
one only sees in rural England, then a sudden turn,
and the long, low Jacobean house of dingy,
liver-coloured brick lay before us, with an
old-fashioned garden of cut yews on each side of it.
As we approached it, there was the wooden drawbridge
and the beautiful broad moat as still and luminous
as quicksilver in the cold, winter sunshine.
Three
centuries had flowed past the old Manor House,
centuries of births and of homecomings, of country
dances and of the meetings of fox hunters. Strange
that now in its old age this dark business should
have cast its shadow upon the venerable walls! And
yet those strange, peaked roofs and quaint, overhung
gables were a fitting covering to grim and terrible
intrigue. As I looked at the deep-set windows and
the long sweep of the dull-coloured, water-lapped
front, I felt that no more fitting scene could be
set for such a tragedy.
"That's the
window," said White Mason, "that one on the
immediate right of the drawbridge. It's open just as
it was found last night."
"It looks
rather narrow for a man to pass."
"Well, it
wasn't a fat man, anyhow. We don't need your
deductions, Mr. Holmes, to tell us that. But you or
I could squeeze through all right."
Holmes
walked to the edge of the moat and looked across.
Then he examined the stone ledge and the grass
border beyond it.
"I've had a
good look, Mr. Holmes," said White Mason. "There is
nothing there, no sign that anyone has landed—but
why should he leave any sign?"
"Exactly.
Why should he? Is the water always turbid?"
"Generally
about this colour. The stream brings down the clay."
"How deep is
it?"
"About two
feet at each side and three in the middle."
"So we can
put aside all idea of the man having been drowned in
crossing."
"No, a child
could not be drowned in it."
We walked
across the drawbridge, and were admitted by a
quaint, gnarled, dried-up person, who was the
butler, Ames. The poor old fellow was white and
quivering from the shock. The village sergeant, a
tall, formal, melancholy man, still held his vigil
in the room of Fate. The doctor had departed.
"Anything
fresh, Sergeant Wilson?" asked White Mason.
"No, sir."
"Then you
can go home. You've had enough. We can send for you
if we want you. The butler had better wait outside.
Tell him to warn Mr. Cecil Barker, Mrs. Douglas, and
the housekeeper that we may want a word with them
presently. Now, gentlemen, perhaps you will allow me
to give you the views I have formed first, and then
you will be able to arrive at your own."
He impressed
me, this country specialist. He had a solid grip of
fact and a cool, clear, common-sense brain, which
should take him some way in his profession. Holmes
listened to him intently, with no sign of that
impatience which the official exponent too often
produced.
"Is it
suicide, or is it murder—that's our first question,
gentlemen, is it not? If it were suicide, then we
have to believe that this man began by taking off
his wedding ring and concealing it; that he then
came down here in his dressing gown, trampled mud
into a corner behind the curtain in order to give
the idea someone had waited for him, opened the
window, put blood on the—"
"We can
surely dismiss that," said MacDonald.
"So I think.
Suicide is out of the question. Then a murder has
been done. What we have to determine is, whether it
was done by someone outside or inside the house."
"Well, let's
hear the argument."
"There are
considerable difficulties both ways, and yet one or
the other it must be. We will suppose first that
some person or persons inside the house did the
crime. They got this man down here at a time when
everything was still and yet no one was asleep. They
then did the deed with the queerest and noisiest
weapon in the world so as to tell everyone what had
happened—a weapon that was never seen in the house
before. That does not seem a very likely start, does
it?"
"No, it does
not."
"Well, then,
everyone is agreed that after the alarm was given
only a minute at the most had passed before the
whole household—not Mr. Cecil Barker alone, though
he claims to have been the first, but Ames and all
of them were on the spot. Do you tell me that in
that time the guilty person managed to make
footmarks in the corner, open the window, mark the
sill with blood, take the wedding ring off the dead
man's finger, and all the rest of it? It's
impossible!"
"You put it
very clearly," said Holmes. "I am inclined to agree
with you."
"Well, then,
we are driven back to the theory that it was done by
someone from outside. We are still faced with some
big difficulties; but anyhow they have ceased to be
impossibilities. The man got into the house between
four-thirty and six; that is to say, between dusk
and the time when the bridge was raised. There had
been some visitors, and the door was open; so there
was nothing to prevent him. He may have been a
common burglar, or he may have had some private
grudge against Mr. Douglas. Since Mr. Douglas has
spent most of his life in America, and this shotgun
seems to be an American weapon, it would seem that
the private grudge is the more likely theory. He
slipped into this room because it was the first he
came to, and he hid behind the curtain. There he
remained until past eleven at night. At that time
Mr. Douglas entered the room. It was a short
interview, if there were any interview at all; for
Mrs. Douglas declares that her husband had not left
her more than a few minutes when she heard the
shot."
"The candle
shows that," said Holmes.
"Exactly.
The candle, which was a new one, is not burned more
than half an inch. He must have placed it on the
table before he was attacked; otherwise, of course,
it would have fallen when he fell. This shows that
he was not attacked the instant that he entered the
room. When Mr. Barker arrived the candle was lit and
the lamp was out."
"That's all
clear enough."
"Well, now,
we can reconstruct things on those lines. Mr.
Douglas enters the room. He puts down the candle. A
man appears from behind the curtain. He is armed
with this gun. He demands the wedding ring—Heaven
only knows why, but so it must have been. Mr.
Douglas gave it up. Then either in cold blood or in
the course of a struggle—Douglas may have gripped
the hammer that was found upon the mat—he shot
Douglas in this horrible way. He dropped his gun and
also it would seem this queer card—V. V. 341,
whatever that may mean—and he made his escape
through the window and across the moat at the very
moment when Cecil Barker was discovering the crime.
How's that, Mr. Holmes?"
"Very
interesting, but just a little unconvincing."
"Man, it
would be absolute nonsense if it wasn't that
anything else is even worse!" cried MacDonald.
"Somebody killed the man, and whoever it was I could
clearly prove to you that he should have done it
some other way. What does he mean by allowing his
retreat to be cut off like that? What does he mean
by using a shotgun when silence was his one chance
of escape? Come, Mr. Holmes, it's up to you to give
us a lead, since you say Mr. White Mason's theory is
unconvincing."
Holmes had
sat intently observant during this long discussion,
missing no word that was said, with his keen eyes
darting to right and to left, and his forehead
wrinkled with speculation.
"I should
like a few more facts before I get so far as a
theory, Mr. Mac," said he, kneeling down beside the
body. "Dear me! these injuries are really appalling.
Can we have the butler in for a moment? . . . Ames,
I understand that you have often seen this very
unusual mark—a branded triangle inside a circle—upon
Mr. Douglas's forearm?"
"Frequently,
sir."
"You never
heard any speculation as to what it meant?"
"No, sir."
"It must
have caused great pain when it was inflicted. It is
undoubtedly a burn. Now, I observe, Ames, that there
is a small piece of plaster at the angle of Mr.
Douglas's jaw. Did you observe that in life?"
"Yes, sir,
he cut himself in shaving yesterday morning."
"Did you
ever know him to cut himself in shaving before?"
"Not for a
very long time, sir."
"Suggestive!" said Holmes. "It may, of course, be a
mere coincidence, or it may point to some
nervousness which would indicate that he had reason
to apprehend danger. Had you noticed anything
unusual in his conduct, yesterday, Ames?"
"It struck
me that he was a little restless and excited, sir."
"Ha! The
attack may not have been entirely unexpected. We do
seem to make a little progress, do we not? Perhaps
you would rather do the questioning, Mr. Mac?"
"No, Mr.
Holmes, it's in better hands than mine."
"Well, then,
we will pass to this card—V. V. 341. It is rough
cardboard. Have you any of the sort in the house?"
"I don't
think so."
Holmes
walked across to the desk and dabbed a little ink
from each bottle on to the blotting paper. "It was
not printed in this room," he said; "this is black
ink and the other purplish. It was done by a thick
pen, and these are fine. No, it was done elsewhere,
I should say. Can you make anything of the
inscription, Ames?"
"No, sir,
nothing."
"What do you
think, Mr. Mac?"
"It gives me
the impression of a secret society of some sort; the
same with his badge upon the forearm."
"That's my
idea, too," said White Mason.
"Well, we
can adopt it as a working hypothesis and then see
how far our difficulties disappear. An agent from
such a society makes his way into the house, waits
for Mr. Douglas, blows his head nearly off with this
weapon, and escapes by wading the moat, after
leaving a card beside the dead man, which will when
mentioned in the papers, tell other members of the
society that vengeance has been done. That all hangs
together. But why this gun, of all weapons?"
"Exactly."
"And why the
missing ring?"
"Quite so."
"And why no
arrest? It's past two now. I take it for granted
that since dawn every constable within forty miles
has been looking out for a wet stranger?"
"That is so,
Mr. Holmes."
"Well,
unless he has a burrow close by or a change of
clothes ready, they can hardly miss him. And yet
they have missed him up to now!" Holmes had gone to
the window and was examining with his lens the blood
mark on the sill. "It is clearly the tread of a
shoe. It is remarkably broad; a splay-foot, one
would say. Curious, because, so far as one can trace
any footmark in this mud-stained corner, one would
say it was a more shapely sole. However, they are
certainly very indistinct. What's this under the
side table?"
"Mr.
Douglas's dumb-bells," said Ames.
"Dumb-bell—there's only one. Where's the other?"
"I don't
know, Mr. Holmes. There may have been only one. I
have not noticed them for months."
"One
dumb-bell—" Holmes said seriously; but his remarks
were interrupted by a sharp knock at the door.
A tall,
sunburned, capable-looking, clean-shaved man looked
in at us. I had no difficulty in guessing that it
was the Cecil Barker of whom I had heard. His
masterful eyes travelled quickly with a questioning
glance from face to face.
"Sorry to
interrupt your consultation," said he, "but you
should hear the latest news."
"An arrest?"
"No such
luck. But they've found his bicycle. The fellow left
his bicycle behind him. Come and have a look. It is
within a hundred yards of the hall door."
We found
three or four grooms and idlers standing in the
drive inspecting a bicycle which had been drawn out
from a clump of evergreens in which it had been
concealed. It was a well used Rudge-Whitworth,
splashed as from a considerable journey. There was a
saddlebag with spanner and oilcan, but no clue as to
the owner.
"It would be
a grand help to the police," said the inspector, "if
these things were numbered and registered. But we
must be thankful for what we've got. If we can't
find where he went to, at least we are likely to get
where he came from. But what in the name of all that
is wonderful made the fellow leave it behind? And
how in the world has he got away without it? We
don't seem to get a gleam of light in the case, Mr.
Holmes."
"Don't we?"
my friend answered thoughtfully. "I wonder!"
Chapter 5
The People Of
the Drama
"Have you
seen all you want of the study?" asked White Mason
as we reentered the house.
"For the
time," said the inspector, and Holmes nodded.
"Then
perhaps you would now like to hear the evidence of
some of the people in the house. We could use the
dining-room, Ames. Please come yourself first and
tell us what you know."
The butler's
account was a simple and a clear one, and he gave a
convincing impression of sincerity. He had been
engaged five years before, when Douglas first came
to Birlstone. He understood that Mr. Douglas was a
rich gentleman who had made his money in America. He
had been a kind and considerate employer—not quite
what Ames was used to, perhaps; but one can't have
everything. He never saw any signs of apprehension
in Mr. Douglas: on the contrary, he was the most
fearless man he had ever known. He ordered the
drawbridge to be pulled up every night because it
was the ancient custom of the old house, and he
liked to keep the old ways up.
Mr. Douglas
seldom went to London or left the village; but on
the day before the crime he had been shopping at
Tunbridge Wells. He (Ames) had observed some
restlessness and excitement on the part of Mr.
Douglas that day; for he had seemed impatient and
irritable, which was unusual with him. He had not
gone to bed that night; but was in the pantry at the
back of the house, putting away the silver, when he
heard the bell ring violently. He heard no shot; but
it was hardly possible he would, as the pantry and
kitchens were at the very back of the house and
there were several closed doors and a long passage
between. The housekeeper had come out of her room,
attracted by the violent ringing of the bell. They
had gone to the front of the house together.
As they
reached the bottom of the stair he had seen Mrs.
Douglas coming down it. No, she was not hurrying; it
did not seem to him that she was particularly
agitated. Just as she reached the bottom of the
stair Mr. Barker had rushed out of the study. He had
stopped Mrs. Douglas and begged her to go back.
"For God's
sake, go back to your room!" he cried. "Poor Jack is
dead! You can do nothing. For God's sake, go back!"
After some
persuasion upon the stairs Mrs. Douglas had gone
back. She did not scream. She made no outcry
whatever. Mrs. Allen, the housekeeper, had taken her
upstairs and stayed with her in the bedroom. Ames
and Mr. Barker had then returned to the study, where
they had found everything exactly as the police had
seen it. The candle was not lit at that time; but
the lamp was burning. They had looked out of the
window; but the night was very dark and nothing
could be seen or heard. They had then rushed out
into the hall, where Ames had turned the windlass
which lowered the drawbridge. Mr. Barker had then
hurried off to get the police.
Such, in its
essentials, was the evidence of the butler.
The account
of Mrs. Allen, the housekeeper, was, so far as it
went, a corroboration of that of her fellow servant.
The housekeeper's room was rather nearer to the
front of the house than the pantry in which Ames had
been working. She was preparing to go to bed when
the loud ringing of the bell had attracted her
attention. She was a little hard of hearing. Perhaps
that was why she had not heard the shot; but in any
case the study was a long way off. She remembered
hearing some sound which she imagined to be the
slamming of a door. That was a good deal
earlier—half an hour at least before the ringing of
the bell. When Mr. Ames ran to the front she went
with him. She saw Mr. Barker, very pale and excited,
come out of the study. He intercepted Mrs. Douglas,
who was coming down the stairs. He entreated her to
go back, and she answered him, but what she said
could not be heard.
"Take her
up! Stay with her!" he had said to Mrs. Allen.
She had
therefore taken her to the bedroom, and endeavoured
to soothe her. She was greatly excited, trembling
all over, but made no other attempt to go
downstairs. She just sat in her dressing gown by her
bedroom fire, with her head sunk in her hands. Mrs.
Allen stayed with her most of the night. As to the
other servants, they had all gone to bed, and the
alarm did not reach them until just before the
police arrived. They slept at the extreme back of
the house, and could not possibly have heard
anything.
So far the
housekeeper could add nothing on cross-examination
save lamentations and expressions of amazement.
Cecil Barker
succeeded Mrs. Allen as a witness. As to the
occurrences of the night before, he had very little
to add to what he had already told the police.
Personally, he was convinced that the murderer had
escaped by the window. The bloodstain was
conclusive, in his opinion, on that point. Besides,
as the bridge was up, there was no other possible
way of escaping. He could not explain what had
become of the assassin or why he had not taken his
bicycle, if it were indeed his. He could not
possibly have been drowned in the moat, which was at
no place more than three feet deep.
In his own
mind he had a very definite theory about the murder.
Douglas was a reticent man, and there were some
chapters in his life of which he never spoke. He had
emigrated to America when he was a very young man.
He had prospered well, and Barker had first met him
in California, where they had become partners in a
successful mining claim at a place called Benito
Canyon. They had done very well; but Douglas had
suddenly sold out and started for England. He was a
widower at that time. Barker had afterwards realized
his money and come to live in London. Thus they had
renewed their friendship.
Douglas had
given him the impression that some danger was
hanging over his head, and he had always looked upon
his sudden departure from California, and also his
renting a house in so quiet a place in England, as
being connected with this peril. He imagined that
some secret society, some implacable organization,
was on Douglas's track, which would never rest until
it killed him. Some remarks of his had given him
this idea; though he had never told him what the
society was, nor how he had come to offend it. He
could only suppose that the legend upon the placard
had some reference to this secret society.
"How long
were you with Douglas in California?" asked
Inspector MacDonald.
"Five years
altogether."
"He was a
bachelor, you say?"
"A widower."
"Have you
ever heard where his first wife came from?"
"No, I
remember his saying that she was of German
extraction, and I have seen her portrait. She was a
very beautiful woman. She died of typhoid the year
before I met him."
"You don't
associate his past with any particular part of
America?"
"I have
heard him talk of Chicago. He knew that city well
and had worked there. I have heard him talk of the
coal and iron districts. He had travelled a good
deal in his time."
"Was he a
politician? Had this secret society to do with
politics?"
"No, he
cared nothing about politics."
"You have no
reason to think it was criminal?"
"On the
contrary, I never met a straighter man in my life."
"Was there
anything curious about his life in California?"
"He liked
best to stay and to work at our claim in the
mountains. He would never go where other men were if
he could help it. That's why I first thought that
someone was after him. Then when he left so suddenly
for Europe I made sure that it was so. I believe
that he had a warning of some sort. Within a week of
his leaving half a dozen men were inquiring for
him."
"What sort
of men?"
"Well, they
were a mighty hard-looking crowd. They came up to
the claim and wanted to know where he was. I told
them that he was gone to Europe and that I did not
know where to find him. They meant him no good—it
was easy to see that."
"Were these
men Americans—Californians?"
"Well, I
don't know about Californians. They were Americans,
all right. But they were not miners. I don't know
what they were, and was very glad to see their
backs."
"That was
six years ago?"
"Nearer
seven."
"And then
you were together five years in California, so that
this business dates back not less than eleven years
at the least?"
"That is
so."
"It must be
a very serious feud that would be kept up with such
earnestness for as long as that. It would be no
light thing that would give rise to it."
"I think it
shadowed his whole life. It was never quite out of
his mind."
"But if a
man had a danger hanging over him, and knew what it
was, don't you think he would turn to the police for
protection?"
"Maybe it
was some danger that he could not be protected
against. There's one thing you should know. He
always went about armed. His revolver was never out
of his pocket. But, by bad luck, he was in his
dressing gown and had left it in the bedroom last
night. Once the bridge was up, I guess he thought he
was safe."
"I should
like these dates a little clearer," said MacDonald.
"It is quite six years since Douglas left
California. You followed him next year, did you
not?"
"That is
so."
"And he had
been married five years. You must have returned
about the time of his marriage."
"About a
month before. I was his best man."
"Did you
know Mrs. Douglas before her marriage?"
"No, I did
not. I had been away from England for ten years."
"But you
have seen a good deal of her since."
Barker
looked sternly at the detective. "I have seen a good
deal of him since," he answered. "If I have seen
her, it is because you cannot visit a man without
knowing his wife. If you imagine there is any
connection—"
"I imagine
nothing, Mr. Barker. I am bound to make every
inquiry which can bear upon the case. But I mean no
offense."
"Some
inquiries are offensive," Barker answered angrily.
"It's only
the facts that we want. It is in your interest and
everyone's interest that they should be cleared up.
Did Mr. Douglas entirely approve your friendship
with his wife?"
Barker grew
paler, and his great, strong hands were clasped
convulsively together. "You have no right to ask
such questions!" he cried. "What has this to do with
the matter you are investigating?"
"I must
repeat the question."
"Well, I
refuse to answer."
"You can
refuse to answer; but you must be aware that your
refusal is in itself an answer, for you would not
refuse if you had not something to conceal."
Barker stood
for a moment with his face set grimly and his strong
black eyebrows drawn low in intense thought. Then he
looked up with a smile. "Well, I guess you gentlemen
are only doing your clear duty after all, and I have
no right to stand in the way of it. I'd only ask you
not to worry Mrs. Douglas over this matter; for she
has enough upon her just now. I may tell you that
poor Douglas had just one fault in the world, and
that was his jealousy. He was fond of me—no man
could be fonder of a friend. And he was devoted to
his wife. He loved me to come here, and was forever
sending for me. And yet if his wife and I talked
together or there seemed any sympathy between us, a
kind of wave of jealousy would pass over him, and he
would be off the handle and saying the wildest
things in a moment. More than once I've sworn off
coming for that reason, and then he would write me
such penitent, imploring letters that I just had to.
But you can take it from me, gentlemen, if it was my
last word, that no man ever had a more loving,
faithful wife—and I can say also no friend could be
more loyal than I!"
It was
spoken with fervour and feeling, and yet Inspector
MacDonald could not dismiss the subject.
"You are
aware," said he, "that the dead man's wedding ring
has been taken from his finger?"
"So it
appears," said Barker.
"What do you
mean by 'appears'? You know it as a fact."
The man
seemed confused and undecided. "When I said
'appears' I meant that it was conceivable that he
had himself taken off the ring."
"The mere
fact that the ring should be absent, whoever may
have removed it, would suggest to anyone's mind,
would it not, that the marriage and the tragedy were
connected?"
Barker
shrugged his broad shoulders. "I can't profess to
say what it means." he answered. "But if you mean to
hint that it could reflect in any way upon this
lady's honour"—his eyes blazed for an instant, and
then with an evident effort he got a grip upon his
own emotions—"well, you are on the wrong track,
that's all."
"I don't
know that I've anything else to ask you at present,"
said MacDonald, coldly.
"There was
one small point," remarked Sherlock Holmes. "When
you entered the room there was only a candle lighted
on the table, was there not?"
"Yes, that
was so."
"By its
light you saw that some terrible incident had
occurred?"
"Exactly."
"You at once
rang for help?"
"Yes."
"And it
arrived very speedily?"
"Within a
minute or so."
"And yet
when they arrived they found that the candle was out
and that the lamp had been lighted. That seems very
remarkable."
Again Barker
showed some signs of indecision. "I don't see that
it was remarkable, Mr. Holmes," he answered after a
pause. "The candle threw a very bad light. My first
thought was to get a better one. The lamp was on the
table; so I lit it."
"And blew
out the candle?"
"Exactly."
Holmes asked
no further question, and Barker, with a deliberate
look from one to the other of us, which had, as it
seemed to me, something of defiance in it, turned
and left the room.
Inspector
MacDonald had sent up a note to the effect that he
would wait upon Mrs. Douglas in her room; but she
had replied that she would meet us in the dining
room. She entered now, a tall and beautiful woman of
thirty, reserved and self-possessed to a remarkable
degree, very different from the tragic and
distracted figure I had pictured. It is true that
her face was pale and drawn, like that of one who
has endured a great shock; but her manner was
composed, and the finely moulded hand which she
rested upon the edge of the table was as steady as
my own. Her sad, appealing eyes travelled from one
to the other of us with a curiously inquisitive
expression. That questioning gaze transformed itself
suddenly into abrupt speech.
"Have you
found anything out yet?" she asked.
Was it my
imagination that there was an undertone of fear
rather than of hope in the question?
"We have
taken every possible step, Mrs. Douglas," said the
inspector. "You may rest assured that nothing will
be neglected."
"Spare no
money," she said in a dead, even tone. "It is my
desire that every possible effort should be made."
"Perhaps you
can tell us something which may throw some light
upon the matter."
"I fear not;
but all I know is at your service."
"We have
heard from Mr. Cecil Barker that you did not
actually see—that you were never in the room where
the tragedy occurred?"
"No, he
turned me back upon the stairs. He begged me to
return to my room."
"Quite so.
You had heard the shot, and you had at once come
down."
"I put on my
dressing gown and then came down."
"How long
was it after hearing the shot that you were stopped
on the stair by Mr. Barker?"
"It may have
been a couple of minutes. It is so hard to reckon
time at such a moment. He implored me not to go on.
He assured me that I could do nothing. Then Mrs.
Allen, the housekeeper, led me upstairs again. It
was all like some dreadful dream."
"Can you
give us any idea how long your husband had been
downstairs before you heard the shot?"
"No, I
cannot say. He went from his dressing room, and I
did not hear him go. He did the round of the house
every night, for he was nervous of fire. It is the
only thing that I have ever known him nervous of."
"That is
just the point which I want to come to, Mrs.
Douglas. You have known your husband only in
England, have you not?"
"Yes, we
have been married five years."
"Have you
heard him speak of anything which occurred in
America and might bring some danger upon him?"
Mrs. Douglas
thought earnestly before she answered. "Yes." she
said at last, "I have always felt that there was a
danger hanging over him. He refused to discuss it
with me. It was not from want of confidence in
me—there was the most complete love and confidence
between us—but it was out of his desire to keep all
alarm away from me. He thought I should brood over
it if I knew all, and so he was silent."
"How did you
know it, then?"
Mrs.
Douglas's face lit with a quick smile. "Can a
husband ever carry about a secret all his life and a
woman who loves him have no suspicion of it? I knew
it by his refusal to talk about some episodes in his
American life. I knew it by certain precautions he
took. I knew it by certain words he let fall. I knew
it by the way he looked at unexpected strangers. I
was perfectly certain that he had some powerful
enemies, that he believed they were on his track,
and that he was always on his guard against them. I
was so sure of it that for years I have been
terrified if ever he came home later than was
expected."
"Might I
ask," asked Holmes, "what the words were which
attracted your attention?"
"The Valley
of Fear," the lady answered. "That was an expression
he has used when I questioned him. 'I have been in
the Valley of Fear. I am not out of it yet.'—'Are we
never to get out of the Valley of Fear?' I have
asked him when I have seen him more serious than
usual. 'Sometimes I think that we never shall,' he
has answered."
"Surely you
asked him what he meant by the Valley of Fear?"
"I did; but
his face would become very grave and he would shake
his head. 'It is bad enough that one of us should
have been in its shadow,' he said. 'Please God it
shall never fall upon you!' It was some real valley
in which he had lived and in which something
terrible had occurred to him, of that I am certain;
but I can tell you no more."
"And he
never mentioned any names?"
"Yes, he was
delirious with fever once when he had his hunting
accident three years ago. Then I remember that there
was a name that came continually to his lips. He
spoke it with anger and a sort of horror. McGinty
was the name—Bodymaster McGinty. I asked him when he
recovered who Bodymaster McGinty was, and whose body
he was master of. 'Never of mine, thank God!' he
answered with a laugh, and that was all I could get
from him. But there is a connection between
Bodymaster McGinty and the Valley of Fear."
"There is
one other point," said Inspector MacDonald. "You met
Mr. Douglas in a boarding house in London, did you
not, and became engaged to him there? Was there any
romance, anything secret or mysterious, about the
wedding?"
"There was
romance. There is always romance. There was nothing
mysterious."
"He had no
rival?"
"No, I was
quite free."
"You have
heard, no doubt, that his wedding ring has been
taken. Does that suggest anything to you? Suppose
that some enemy of his old life had tracked him down
and committed this crime, what possible reason could
he have for taking his wedding ring?"
For an
instant I could have sworn that the faintest shadow
of a smile flickered over the woman's lips.
"I really
cannot tell," she answered. "It is certainly a most
extraordinary thing."
"Well, we
will not detain you any longer, and we are sorry to
have put you to this trouble at such a time," said
the inspector. "There are some other points, no
doubt; but we can refer to you as they arise."
She rose,
and I was again conscious of that quick, questioning
glance with which she had just surveyed us. "What
impression has my evidence made upon you?" The
question might as well have been spoken. Then, with
a bow, she swept from the room.
"She's a
beautiful woman—a very beautiful woman," said
MacDonald thoughtfully, after the door had closed
behind her. "This man Barker has certainly been down
here a good deal. He is a man who might be
attractive to a woman. He admits that the dead man
was jealous, and maybe he knew best himself what
cause he had for jealousy. Then there's that wedding
ring. You can't get past that. The man who tears a
wedding ring off a dead man's—What do you say to it,
Mr. Holmes?"
My friend
had sat with his head upon his hands, sunk in the
deepest thought. Now he rose and rang the bell.
"Ames," he said, when the butler entered, "where is
Mr. Cecil Barker now?"
"I'll see,
sir."
He came back
in a moment to say that Barker was in the garden.
"Can you
remember, Ames, what Mr. Barker had on his feet last
night when you joined him in the study?"
"Yes, Mr.
Holmes. He had a pair of bedroom slippers. I brought
him his boots when he went for the police."
"Where are
the slippers now?"
"They are
still under the chair in the hall."
"Very good,
Ames. It is, of course, important for us to know
which tracks may be Mr. Barker's and which from
outside."
"Yes, sir. I
may say that I noticed that the slippers were
stained with blood—so indeed were my own."
"That is
natural enough, considering the condition of the
room. Very good, Ames. We will ring if we want you."
A few
minutes later we were in the study. Holmes had
brought with him the carpet slippers from the hall.
As Ames had observed, the soles of both were dark
with blood.
"Strange!"
murmured Holmes, as he stood in the light of the
window and examined them minutely. "Very strange
indeed!"
Stooping
with one of his quick feline pounces, he placed the
slipper upon the blood mark on the sill. It exactly
corresponded. He smiled in silence at his
colleagues.
The
inspector was transfigured with excitement. His
native accent rattled like a stick upon railings.
"Man," he
cried, "there's not a doubt of it! Barker has just
marked the window himself. It's a good deal broader
than any bootmark. I mind that you said it was a
splay-foot, and here's the explanation. But what's
the game, Mr. Holmes—what's the game?"
"Ay, what's
the game?" my friend repeated thoughtfully.
White Mason
chuckled and rubbed his fat hands together in his
professional satisfaction. "I said it was a
snorter!" he cried. "And a real snorter it is!"
Chapter 6
A Dawning Light
The three
detectives had many matters of detail into which to
inquire; so I returned alone to our modest quarters
at the village inn. But before doing so I took a
stroll in the curious old-world garden which flanked
the house. Rows of very ancient yew trees cut into
strange designs girded it round. Inside was a
beautiful stretch of lawn with an old sundial in the
middle, the whole effect so soothing and restful
that it was welcome to my somewhat jangled nerves.
In that
deeply peaceful atmosphere one could forget, or
remember only as some fantastic nightmare, that
darkened study with the sprawling, bloodstained
figure on the floor. And yet, as I strolled round it
and tried to steep my soul in its gentle balm, a
strange incident occurred, which brought me back to
the tragedy and left a sinister impression in my
mind.
I have said
that a decoration of yew trees circled the garden.
At the end farthest from the house they thickened
into a continuous hedge. On the other side of this
hedge, concealed from the eyes of anyone approaching
from the direction of the house, there was a stone
seat. As I approached the spot I was aware of
voices, some remark in the deep tones of a man,
answered by a little ripple of feminine laughter.
An instant
later I had come round the end of the hedge and my
eyes lit upon Mrs. Douglas and the man Barker before
they were aware of my presence. Her appearance gave
me a shock. In the dining-room she had been demure
and discreet. Now all pretense of grief had passed
away from her. Her eyes shone with the joy of
living, and her face still quivered with amusement
at some remark of her companion. He sat forward, his
hands clasped and his forearms on his knees, with an
answering smile upon his bold, handsome face. In an
instant—but it was just one instant too late—they
resumed their solemn masks as my figure came into
view. A hurried word or two passed between them, and
then Barker rose and came towards me.
"Excuse me,
sir," said he, "but am I addressing Dr. Watson?"
I bowed with
a coldness which showed, I dare say, very plainly
the impression which had been produced upon my mind.
"We thought
that it was probably you, as your friendship with
Mr. Sherlock Holmes is so well known. Would you mind
coming over and speaking to Mrs. Douglas for one
instant?"
I followed
him with a dour face. Very clearly I could see in my
mind's eye that shattered figure on the floor. Here
within a few hours of the tragedy were his wife and
his nearest friend laughing together behind a bush
in the garden which had been his. I greeted the lady
with reserve. I had grieved with her grief in the
dining-room. Now I met her appealing gaze with an
unresponsive eye.
"I fear that
you think me callous and hard-hearted." said she.
I shrugged
my shoulders. "It is no business of mine," said I.
"Perhaps
some day you will do me justice. If you only
realized—"
"There is no
need why Dr. Watson should realize," said Barker
quickly. "As he has himself said, it is no possible
business of his."
"Exactly,"
said I, "and so I will beg leave to resume my walk."
"One moment,
Dr. Watson," cried the woman in a pleading voice.
"There is one question which you can answer with
more authority than anyone else in the world, and it
may make a very great difference to me. You know Mr.
Holmes and his relations with the police better than
anyone else can. Supposing that a matter were
brought confidentially to his knowledge, is it
absolutely necessary that he should pass it on to
the detectives?"
"Yes, that's
it," said Barker eagerly. "Is he on his own or is he
entirely in with them?"
"I really
don't know that I should be justified in discussing
such a point."
"I beg—I
implore that you will, Dr. Watson! I assure you that
you will be helping us—helping me greatly if you
will guide us on that point."
There was
such a ring of sincerity in the woman's voice that
for the instant I forgot all about her levity and
was moved only to do her will.
"Mr. Holmes
is an independent investigator," I said. "He is his
own master, and would act as his own judgment
directed. At the same time, he would naturally feel
loyalty towards the officials who were working on
the same case, and he would not conceal from them
anything which would help them in bringing a
criminal to justice. Beyond this I can say nothing,
and I would refer you to Mr. Holmes himself if you
wanted fuller information."
So saying I
raised my hat and went upon my way, leaving them
still seated behind that concealing hedge. I looked
back as I rounded the far end of it, and saw that
they were still talking very earnestly together,
and, as they were gazing after me, it was clear that
it was our interview that was the subject of their
debate.
"I wish none
of their confidences," said Holmes, when I reported
to him what had occurred. He had spent the whole
afternoon at the Manor House in consultation with
his two colleagues, and returned about five with a
ravenous appetite for a high tea which I had ordered
for him. "No confidences, Watson; for they are
mighty awkward if it comes to an arrest for
conspiracy and murder."
"You think
it will come to that?"
He was in
his most cheerful and debonair humour. "My dear
Watson, when I have exterminated that fourth egg I
shall be ready to put you in touch with the whole
situation. I don't say that we have fathomed it—far
from it—but when we have traced the missing
dumb-bell—"
"The
dumb-bell!"
"Dear me,
Watson, is it possible that you have not penetrated
the fact that the case hangs upon the missing
dumb-bell? Well, well, you need not be downcast; for
between ourselves I don't think that either
Inspector Mac or the excellent local practitioner
has grasped the overwhelming importance of this
incident. One dumb-bell, Watson! Consider an athlete
with one dumb-bell! Picture to yourself the
unilateral development, the imminent danger of a
spinal curvature. Shocking, Watson, shocking!"
He sat with
his mouth full of toast and his eyes sparkling with
mischief, watching my intellectual entanglement. The
mere sight of his excellent appetite was an
assurance of success, for I had very clear
recollections of days and nights without a thought
of food, when his baffled mind had chafed before
some problem while his thin, eager features became
more attenuated with the asceticism of complete
mental concentration. Finally he lit his pipe, and
sitting in the inglenook of the old village inn he
talked slowly and at random about his case, rather
as one who thinks aloud than as one who makes a
considered statement.
"A lie,
Watson—a great, big, thumping, obtrusive,
uncompromising lie—that's what meets us on the
threshold! There is our starting point. The whole
story told by Barker is a lie. But Barker's story is
corroborated by Mrs. Douglas. Therefore she is lying
also. They are both lying, and in a conspiracy. So
now we have the clear problem. Why are they lying,
and what is the truth which they are trying so hard
to conceal? Let us try, Watson, you and I, if we can
get behind the lie and reconstruct the truth.
"How do I
know that they are lying? Because it is a clumsy
fabrication which simply could not be true.
Consider! According to the story given to us, the
assassin had less than a minute after the murder had
been committed to take that ring, which was under
another ring, from the dead man's finger, to replace
the other ring—a thing which he would surely never
have done—and to put that singular card beside his
victim. I say that this was obviously impossible.
"You may
argue—but I have too much respect for your judgment,
Watson, to think that you will do so—that the ring
may have been taken before the man was killed. The
fact that the candle had been lit only a short time
shows that there had been no lengthy interview. Was
Douglas, from what we hear of his fearless
character, a man who would be likely to give up his
wedding ring at such short notice, or could we
conceive of his giving it up at all? No, no, Watson,
the assassin was alone with the dead man for some
time with the lamp lit. Of that I have no doubt at
all.
"But the
gunshot was apparently the cause of death. Therefore
the shot must have been fired some time earlier than
we are told. But there could be no mistake about
such a matter as that. We are in the presence,
therefore, of a deliberate conspiracy upon the part
of the two people who heard the gunshot—of the man
Barker and of the woman Douglas. When on the top of
this I am able to show that the blood mark on the
windowsill was deliberately placed there by Barker,
in order to give a false clue to the police, you
will admit that the case grows dark against him.
"Now we have
to ask ourselves at what hour the murder actually
did occur. Up to half-past ten the servants were
moving about the house; so it was certainly not
before that time. At a quarter to eleven they had
all gone to their rooms with the exception of Ames,
who was in the pantry. I have been trying some
experiments after you left us this afternoon, and I
find that no noise which MacDonald can make in the
study can penetrate to me in the pantry when the
doors are all shut.
"It is
otherwise, however, from the housekeeper's room. It
is not so far down the corridor, and from it I could
vaguely hear a voice when it was very loudly raised.
The sound from a shotgun is to some extent muffled
when the discharge is at very close range, as it
undoubtedly was in this instance. It would not be
very loud, and yet in the silence of the night it
should have easily penetrated to Mrs. Allen's room.
She is, as she has told us, somewhat deaf; but none
the less she mentioned in her evidence that she did
hear something like a door slamming half an hour
before the alarm was given. Half an hour before the
alarm was given would be a quarter to eleven. I have
no doubt that what she heard was the report of the
gun, and that this was the real instant of the
murder.
"If this is
so, we have now to determine what Barker and Mrs.
Douglas, presuming that they are not the actual
murderers, could have been doing from quarter to
eleven, when the sound of the shot brought them
down, until quarter past eleven, when they rang the
bell and summoned the servants. What were they
doing, and why did they not instantly give the
alarm? That is the question which faces us, and when
it has been answered we shall surely have gone some
way to solve our problem."
"I am
convinced myself," said I, "that there is an
understanding between those two people. She must be
a heartless creature to sit laughing at some jest
within a few hours of her husband's murder."
"Exactly.
She does not shine as a wife even in her own account
of what occurred. I am not a whole-souled admirer of
womankind, as you are aware, Watson, but my
experience of life has taught me that there are few
wives, having any regard for their husbands, who
would let any man's spoken word stand between them
and that husband's dead body. Should I ever marry,
Watson, I should hope to inspire my wife with some
feeling which would prevent her from being walked
off by a housekeeper when my corpse was lying within
a few yards of her. It was badly stage-managed; for
even the rawest investigators must be struck by the
absence of the usual feminine ululation. If there
had been nothing else, this incident alone would
have suggested a prearranged conspiracy to my mind."
"You think
then, definitely, that Barker and Mrs. Douglas are
guilty of the murder?"
"There is an
appalling directness about your questions, Watson,"
said Holmes, shaking his pipe at me. "They come at
me like bullets. If you put it that Mrs. Douglas and
Barker know the truth about the murder, and are
conspiring to conceal it, then I can give you a
whole-souled answer. I am sure they do. But your
more deadly proposition is not so clear. Let us for
a moment consider the difficulties which stand in
the way.
"We will
suppose that this couple are united by the bonds of
a guilty love, and that they have determined to get
rid of the man who stands between them. It is a
large supposition; for discreet inquiry among
servants and others has failed to corroborate it in
any way. On the contrary, there is a good deal of
evidence that the Douglases were very attached to
each other."
"That, I am
sure, cannot be true." said I, thinking of the
beautiful smiling face in the garden.
"Well at
least they gave that impression. However, we will
suppose that they are an extraordinarily astute
couple, who deceive everyone upon this point, and
conspire to murder the husband. He happens to be a
man over whose head some danger hangs—"
"We have
only their word for that."
Holmes
looked thoughtful. "I see, Watson. You are sketching
out a theory by which everything they say from the
beginning is false. According to your idea, there
was never any hidden menace, or secret society, or
Valley of Fear, or Boss MacSomebody, or anything
else. Well, that is a good sweeping generalization.
Let us see what that brings us to. They invent this
theory to account for the crime. They then play up
to the idea by leaving this bicycle in the park as
proof of the existence of some outsider. The stain
on the windowsill conveys the same idea. So does the
card on the body, which might have been prepared in
the house. That all fits into your hypothesis,
Watson. But now we come on the nasty, angular,
uncompromising bits which won't slip into their
places. Why a cut-off shotgun of all weapons—and an
American one at that? How could they be so sure that
the sound of it would not bring someone on to them?
It's a mere chance as it is that Mrs. Allen did not
start out to inquire for the slamming door. Why did
your guilty couple do all this, Watson?"
"I confess
that I can't explain it."
"Then again,
if a woman and her lover conspire to murder a
husband, are they going to advertise their guilt by
ostentatiously removing his wedding ring after his
death? Does that strike you as very probable,
Watson?"
"No, it does
not."
"And once
again, if the thought of leaving a bicycle concealed
outside had occurred to you, would it really have
seemed worth doing when the dullest detective would
naturally say this is an obvious blind, as the
bicycle is the first thing which the fugitive needed
in order to make his escape."
"I can
conceive of no explanation."
"And yet
there should be no combination of events for which
the wit of man cannot conceive an explanation.
Simply as a mental exercise, without any assertion
that it is true, let me indicate a possible line of
thought. It is, I admit, mere imagination; but how
often is imagination the mother of truth?
"We will
suppose that there was a guilty secret, a really
shameful secret in the life of this man Douglas.
This leads to his murder by someone who is, we will
suppose, an avenger, someone from outside. This
avenger, for some reason which I confess I am still
at a loss to explain, took the dead man's wedding
ring. The vendetta might conceivably date back to
the man's first marriage, and the ring be taken for
some such reason.
"Before this
avenger got away, Barker and the wife had reached
the room. The assassin convinced them that any
attempt to arrest him would lead to the publication
of some hideous scandal. They were converted to this
idea, and preferred to let him go. For this purpose
they probably lowered the bridge, which can be done
quite noiselessly, and then raised it again. He made
his escape, and for some reason thought that he
could do so more safely on foot than on the bicycle.
He therefore left his machine where it would not be
discovered until he had got safely away. So far we
are within the bounds of possibility, are we not?"
"Well, it is
possible, no doubt," said I, with some reserve.
"We have to
remember, Watson, that whatever occurred is
certainly something very extraordinary. Well, now,
to continue our supposititious case, the couple—not
necessarily a guilty couple—realize after the
murderer is gone that they have placed themselves in
a position in which it may be difficult for them to
prove that they did not themselves either do the
deed or connive at it. They rapidly and rather
clumsily met the situation. The mark was put by
Barker's bloodstained slipper upon the window-sill
to suggest how the fugitive got away. They obviously
were the two who must have heard the sound of the
gun; so they gave the alarm exactly as they would
have done, but a good half hour after the event."
"And how do
you propose to prove all this?"
"Well, if
there were an outsider, he may be traced and taken.
That would be the most effective of all proofs. But
if not—well, the resources of science are far from
being exhausted. I think that an evening alone in
that study would help me much."
"An evening
alone!"
"I propose
to go up there presently. I have arranged it with
the estimable Ames, who is by no means whole-hearted
about Barker. I shall sit in that room and see if
its atmosphere brings me inspiration. I'm a believer
in the genius loci. You smile, Friend Watson. Well,
we shall see. By the way, you have that big umbrella
of yours, have you not?"
"It is
here."
"Well, I'll
borrow that if I may."
"Certainly—but what a wretched weapon! If there is
danger—"
"Nothing
serious, my dear Watson, or I should certainly ask
for your assistance. But I'll take the umbrella. At
present I am only awaiting the return of our
colleagues from Tunbridge Wells, where they are at
present engaged in trying for a likely owner to the
bicycle."
It was
nightfall before Inspector MacDonald and White Mason
came back from their expedition, and they arrived
exultant, reporting a great advance in our
investigation.
"Man, I'll
admeet that I had my doubts if there was ever an
outsider," said MacDonald, "but that's all past now.
We've had the bicycle identified, and we have a
description of our man; so that's a long step on our
journey."
"It sounds
to me like the beginning of the end," said Holmes.
"I'm sure I congratulate you both with all my
heart."
"Well, I
started from the fact that Mr. Douglas had seemed
disturbed since the day before, when he had been at
Tunbridge Wells. It was at Tunbridge Wells then that
he had become conscious of some danger. It was
clear, therefore, that if a man had come over with a
bicycle it was from Tunbridge Wells that he might be
expected to have come. We took the bicycle over with
us and showed it at the hotels. It was identified at
once by the manager of the Eagle Commercial as
belonging to a man named Hargrave, who had taken a
room there two days before. This bicycle and a small
valise were his whole belongings. He had registered
his name as coming from London, but had given no
address. The valise was London made, and the
contents were British; but the man himself was
undoubtedly an American."
"Well,
well," said Holmes gleefully, "you have indeed done
some solid work while I have been sitting spinning
theories with my friend! It's a lesson in being
practical, Mr. Mac."
"Ay, it's
just that, Mr. Holmes," said the inspector with
satisfaction.
"But this
may all fit in with your theories," I remarked.
"That may or
may not be. But let us hear the end, Mr. Mac. Was
there nothing to identify this man?"
"So little
that it was evident that he had carefully guarded
himself against identification. There were no papers
or letters, and no marking upon the clothes. A cycle
map of the county lay on his bedroom table. He had
left the hotel after breakfast yesterday morning on
his bicycle, and no more was heard of him until our
inquiries."
"That's what
puzzles me, Mr. Holmes," said White Mason. "If the
fellow did not want the hue and cry raised over him,
one would imagine that he would have returned and
remained at the hotel as an inoffensive tourist. As
it is, he must know that he will be reported to the
police by the hotel manager and that his
disappearance will be connected with the murder."
"So one
would imagine. Still, he has been justified of his
wisdom up to date, at any rate, since he has not
been taken. But his description—what of that?"
MacDonald
referred to his notebook. "Here we have it so far as
they could give it. They don't seem to have taken
any very particular stock of him; but still the
porter, the clerk, and the chambermaid are all
agreed that this about covers the points. He was a
man about five foot nine in height, fifty or so
years of age, his hair slightly grizzled, a grayish
moustache, a curved nose, and a face which all of
them described as fierce and forbidding."
"Well, bar
the expression, that might almost be a description
of Douglas himself," said Holmes. "He is just over
fifty, with grizzled hair and moustache, and about
the same height. Did you get anything else?"
"He was
dressed in a heavy gray suit with a reefer jacket,
and he wore a short yellow overcoat and a soft cap."
"What about
the shotgun?"
"It is less
than two feet long. It could very well have fitted
into his valise. He could have carried it inside his
overcoat without difficulty."
"And how do
you consider that all this bears upon the general
case?"
"Well, Mr.
Holmes," said MacDonald, "when we have got our
man—and you may be sure that I had his description
on the wires within five minutes of hearing it—we
shall be better able to judge. But, even as it
stands, we have surely gone a long way. We know that
an American calling himself Hargrave came to
Tunbridge Wells two days ago with bicycle and
valise. In the latter was a sawed-off 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 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 double-bedded 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.
Chapter 7
The Solution
Next
morning, after breakfast, we found Inspector
MacDonald and White Mason seated in close
consultation in the small parlour of the local
police sergeant. On the table in front of them were
piled a number of letters and telegrams, which they
were carefully sorting and docketing. Three had been
placed on one side.
"Still on
the track of the elusive bicyclist?" Holmes asked
cheerfully. "What is the latest news of the
ruffian?"
MacDonald
pointed ruefully to his heap of correspondence.
"He is at
present reported from Leicester, Nottingham,
Southampton, Derby, East Ham, Richmond, and fourteen
other places. In three of them—East Ham, Leicester,
and Liverpool—there is a clear case against him, and
he has actually been arrested. The country seems to
be full of the fugitives with yellow coats."
"Dear me!"
said Holmes sympathetically. "Now, Mr. Mac and you,
Mr. White Mason, I wish to give you a very earnest
piece of advice. When I went into this case with you
I bargained, as you will no doubt remember, that I
should not present you with half-proved theories,
but that I should retain and work out my own ideas
until I had satisfied myself that they were correct.
For this reason I am not at the present moment
telling you all that is in my mind. On the other
hand, I said that I would play the game fairly by
you, and I do not think it is a fair game to allow
you for one unnecessary moment to waste your
energies upon a profitless task. Therefore I am here
to advise you this morning, and my advice to you is
summed up in three words—abandon the case."
MacDonald
and White Mason stared in amazement at their
celebrated colleague.
"You
consider it hopeless!" cried the inspector.
"I consider
your case to be hopeless. I do not consider that it
is hopeless to arrive at the truth."
"But this
cyclist. He is not an invention. We have his
description, his valise, his bicycle. The fellow
must be somewhere. Why should we not get him?"
"Yes, yes,
no doubt he is somewhere, and no doubt we shall get
him; but I would not have you waste your energies in
East Ham or Liverpool. I am sure that we can find
some shorter cut to a result."
"You are
holding something back. It's hardly fair of you, Mr.
Holmes." The inspector was annoyed.
"You know my
methods of work, Mr. Mac. But I will hold it back
for the shortest time possible. I only wish to
verify my details in one way, which can very readily
be done, and then I make my bow and return to
London, leaving my results entirely at your service.
I owe you too much to act otherwise; for in all my
experience I cannot recall any more singular and
interesting study."
"This is
clean beyond me, Mr. Holmes. We saw you when we
returned from Tunbridge Wells last night, and you
were in general agreement with our results. What has
happened since then to give you a completely new
idea of the case?"
"Well, since
you ask me, I spent, as I told you that I would,
some hours last night at the Manor House."
"Well, what
happened?"
"Ah, I can
only give you a very general answer to that for the
moment. By the way, I have been reading a short but
clear and interesting account of the old building,
purchasable at the modest sum of one penny from the
local tobacconist."
Here Holmes
drew a small tract, embellished with a rude
engraving of the ancient Manor House, from his
waistcoat pocket.
"It
immensely adds to the zest of an investigation, my
dear Mr. Mac, when one is in conscious sympathy with
the historical atmosphere of one's surroundings.
Don't look so impatient; for I assure you that even
so bald an account as this raises some sort of
picture of the past in one's mind. Permit me to give
you a sample. 'Erected in the fifth year of the
reign of James I, and standing upon the site of a
much older building, the Manor House of Birlstone
presents one of the finest surviving examples of the
moated Jacobean residence—'"
"You are
making fools of us, Mr. Holmes!"
"Tut, tut,
Mr. Mac!—the first sign of temper I have detected in
you. Well, I won't read it verbatim, since you feel
so strongly upon the subject. But when I tell you
that there is some account of the taking of the
place by a parliamentary colonel in 1644, of the
concealment of Charles for several days in the
course of the Civil War, and finally of a visit
there by the second George, you will admit that
there are various associations of interest connected
with this ancient house."
"I don't
doubt it, Mr. Holmes; but that is no business of
ours."
"Is it not?
Is it not? Breadth of view, my dear Mr. Mac, is one
of the essentials of our profession. The interplay
of ideas and the oblique uses of knowledge are often
of extraordinary interest. You will excuse these
remarks from one who, though a mere connoisseur of
crime, is still rather older and perhaps more
experienced than yourself."
"I'm the
first to admit that," said the detective heartily.
"You get to your point, I admit; but you have such a
deuced round-the-corner way of doing it."
"Well, well,
I'll drop past history and get down to present-day
facts. I called last night, as I have already said,
at the Manor House. I did not see either Barker or
Mrs. Douglas. I saw no necessity to disturb them;
but I was pleased to hear that the lady was not
visibly pining and that she had partaken of an
excellent dinner. My visit was specially made to the
good Mr. Ames, with whom I exchanged some
amiabilities, which culminated in his allowing me,
without reference to anyone else, to sit alone for a
time in the study."
"What! With
that?" I ejaculated.
"No, no,
everything is now in order. You gave permission for
that, Mr. Mac, as I am informed. The room was in its
normal state, and in it I passed an instructive
quarter of an hour."
"What were
you doing?"
"Well, not
to make a mystery of so simple a matter, I was
looking for the missing dumb-bell. It has always
bulked rather large in my estimate of the case. I
ended by finding it."
"Where?"
"Ah, there
we come to the edge of the unexplored. Let me go a
little further, a very little further, and I will
promise that you shall share everything that I
know."
"Well, we're
bound to take you on your own terms," said the
inspector; "but when it comes to telling us to
abandon the case—why in the name of goodness should
we abandon the case?"
"For the
simple reason, my dear Mr. Mac, that you have not
got the first idea what it is that you are
investigating."
"We are
investigating the murder of Mr. John Douglas of
Birlstone Manor."
"Yes, yes,
so you are. But don't trouble to trace the
mysterious gentleman upon the bicycle. I assure you
that it won't help you."
"Then what
do you suggest that we do?"
"I will tell
you exactly what to do, if you will do it."
"Well, I'm
bound to say I've always found you had reason behind
all your queer ways. I'll do what you advise."
"And you,
Mr. White Mason?"
The country
detective looked helplessly from one to the other.
Holmes and his methods were new to him. "Well, if it
is good enough for the inspector, it is good enough
for me," he said at last.
"Capital!"
said Holmes. "Well, then, I should recommend a nice,
cheery country walk for both of you. They tell me
that the views from Birlstone Ridge over the Weald
are very remarkable. No doubt lunch could be got at
some suitable hostelry; though my ignorance of the
country prevents me from recommending one. In the
evening, tired but happy—"
"Man, this
is getting past a joke!" cried MacDonald, rising
angrily from his chair.
"Well, well,
spend the day as you like," said Holmes, patting him
cheerfully upon the shoulder. "Do what you like and
go where you will, but meet me here before dusk
without fail—without fail, Mr. Mac."
"That sounds
more like sanity."
"All of it
was excellent advice; but I don't insist, so long as
you are here when I need you. But now, before we
part, I want you to write a note to Mr. Barker."
"Well?"
"I'll
dictate it, if you like. Ready?
"Dear Sir:
"It has struck
me that it is our duty to drain the moat, in
the hope that we may find some—"
"It's impossible," said the
inspector. "I've made inquiry."
"Tut, tut!
My dear sir, please do what I ask you."
"Well, go
on."
"—in the
hope that we may find something which may bear
upon our investigation. I have made arrangements,
and the
workmen will be at work early to-morrow morning
diverting
the stream—"
"Impossible!"
"—diverting
the stream; so I thought it best to explain
matters beforehand.
"Now sign that, and send it
by hand about four o'clock. At that hour we shall
meet again in this room. Until then we may each do
what we like; for I can assure you that this inquiry
has come to a definite pause."
Evening was
drawing in when we reassembled. Holmes was very
serious in his manner, myself curious, and the
detectives obviously critical and annoyed.
"Well,
gentlemen," said my friend gravely, "I am asking you
now to put everything to the test with me, and you
will judge for yourselves whether the observations I
have made justify the conclusions to which I have
come. It is a chill evening, and I do not know how
long our expedition may last; so I beg that you will
wear your warmest coats. It is of the first
importance that we should be in our places before it
grows dark; so with your permission we shall get
started at once."
We passed
along the outer bounds of the Manor House park until
we came to a place where there was a gap in the
rails which fenced it. Through this we slipped, and
then in the gathering gloom we followed Holmes until
we had reached a shrubbery which lies nearly
opposite to the main door and the drawbridge. The
latter had not been raised. Holmes crouched down
behind the screen of laurels, and we all three
followed his example.
"Well, what
are we to do now?" asked MacDonald with some
gruffness.
"Possess our
souls in patience and make as little noise as
possible," Holmes answered.
"What are we
here for at all? I really think that you might treat
us with more frankness."
Holmes
laughed. "Watson insists that I am the dramatist in
real life," said he. "Some touch of the artist wells
up within me, and calls insistently for a
well-staged performance. Surely our profession, Mr.
Mac, would be a drab and sordid one if we did not
sometimes set the scene so as to glorify our
results. The blunt accusation, the brutal tap upon
the shoulder—what can one make of such a denouement?
But the quick inference, the subtle trap, the clever
forecast of coming events, the triumphant
vindication of bold theories—are these not the pride
and the justification of our life's work? At the
present moment you thrill with the glamour of the
situation and the anticipation of the hunt. Where
would be that thrill if I had been as definite as a
timetable? I only ask a little patience, Mr. Mac,
and all will be clear to you."
"Well, I
hope the pride and justification and the rest of it
will come before we all get our death of cold," said
the London detective with comic resignation.
We all had
good reason to join in the aspiration; for our vigil
was a long and bitter one. Slowly the shadows
darkened over the long, sombre face of the old
house. A cold, damp reek from the moat chilled us to
the bones and set our teeth chattering. There was a
single lamp over the gateway and a steady globe of
light in the fatal study. Everything else was dark
and still.
"How long is
this to last?" asked the inspector finally. "And
what is it we are watching for?"
"I have no
more notion than you how long it is to last," Holmes
answered with some asperity. "If criminals would
always schedule their movements like railway trains,
it would certainly be more convenient for all of us.
As to what it is we—Well, that's what we are
watching for!"
As he spoke
the bright, yellow light in the study was obscured
by somebody passing to and fro before it. The
laurels among which we lay were immediately opposite
the window and not more than a hundred feet from it.
Presently it was thrown open with a whining of
hinges, and we could dimly see the dark outline of a
man's head and shoulders looking out into the gloom.
For some minutes he peered forth in furtive,
stealthy fashion, as one who wishes to be assured
that he is unobserved. Then he leaned forward, and
in the intense silence we were aware of the soft
lapping of agitated water. He seemed to be stirring
up the moat with something which he held in his
hand. Then suddenly he hauled something in as a
fisherman lands a fish—some large, round object
which obscured the light as it was dragged through
the open casement.
"Now!" cried
Holmes. "Now!"
We were all
upon our feet, staggering after him with our
stiffened limbs, while he ran swiftly across the
bridge and rang violently at the bell. There was the
rasping of bolts from the other side, and the amazed
Ames stood in the entrance. Holmes brushed him aside
without a word and, followed by all of us, rushed
into the room which had been occupied by the man
whom we had been watching.
The oil lamp
on the table represented the glow which we had seen
from outside. It was now in the hand of Cecil
Barker, who held it towards us as we entered. Its
light shone upon his strong, resolute, clean-shaved
face and his menacing eyes.
"What the
devil is the meaning of all this?" he cried. "What
are you after, anyhow?"
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 to-morrow,
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 dumb-bell, 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 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 far-fetched 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 hint which you conveyed to me through my
friend, Dr. Watson; but, at that time I had every
reason to believe that you were directly concerned
in the crime. Now I am assured that this is not so.
At the same time, there is much that is unexplained,
and I should strongly recommend that you ask Mr.
Douglas to tell us his own story."
Mrs. Douglas
gave a cry of astonishment at Holmes's words. The
detectives and I must have echoed it, when we were
aware of a man who seemed to have emerged from the
wall, who advanced now from the gloom of the corner
in which he had appeared. Mrs. Douglas turned, and
in an instant her arms were round him. Barker had
seized his outstretched hand.
"It's best
this way, Jack," his wife repeated; "I am sure that
it is best."
"Indeed,
yes, Mr. Douglas," said Sherlock Holmes, "I am sure
that you will find it best."
The man
stood blinking at us with the dazed look of one who
comes from the dark into the light. It was a
remarkable face, bold gray eyes, a strong,
short-clipped, grizzled moustache, a square,
projecting chin, and a humorous mouth. He took a
good look at us all, and then to my amazement he
advanced to me and handed me a bundle of paper.
"I've heard
of you," said he in a voice which was not quite
English and not quite American, but was altogether
mellow and pleasing. "You are the historian of this
bunch. Well, Dr. Watson, you've never had such a
story as that pass through your hands before, and
I'll lay my last dollar on that. Tell it your own
way; but there are the facts, and you can't miss the
public so long as you have those. I've been cooped
up two days, and I've spent the daylight hours—as
much daylight as I could get in that rat trap—in
putting the thing into words. You're welcome to
them—you and your public. There's the story of the
Valley of Fear."
"That's the
past, Mr. Douglas," said Sherlock Holmes quietly.
"What we desire now is to hear your story of the
present."
"You'll have
it, sir," said Douglas. "May I smoke as I talk?
Well, thank you, Mr. Holmes. You're a smoker
yourself, if I remember right, and you'll guess what
it is to be sitting for two days with tobacco in
your pocket and afraid that the smell will give you
away." He leaned against the mantelpiece and sucked
at the cigar which Holmes had handed him. "I've
heard of you, Mr. Holmes. I never guessed that I
should meet you. But before you are through with
that," he nodded at my papers, "you will say I've
brought you something fresh."
Inspector
MacDonald had been staring at the newcomer with the
greatest amazement. "Well, this fairly beats me!" he
cried at last. "If you are Mr. John Douglas of
Birlstone Manor, then whose death have we been
investigating for these two days, and where in the
world have you sprung from now? You seemed to me to
come out of the floor like a jack-in-a-box."
"Ah, Mr.
Mac," said Holmes, shaking a reproving forefinger,
"you would not read that excellent local compilation
which described the concealment of King Charles.
People did not hide in those days without excellent
hiding places, and the hiding place that has once
been used may be again. I had persuaded myself that
we should find Mr. Douglas under this roof."
"And how
long have you been playing this trick upon us, Mr.
Holmes?" said the inspector angrily. "How long have
you allowed us to waste ourselves upon a search that
you knew to be an absurd one?"
"Not one
instant, my dear Mr. Mac. Only last night did I form
my views of the case. As they could not be put to
the proof until this evening, I invited you and your
colleague to take a holiday for the day. Pray what
more could I do? When I found the suit of clothes in
the moat, it at once became apparent to me that the
body we had found could not have been the body of
Mr. John Douglas at all, but must be that of the
bicyclist from Tunbridge Wells. No other conclusion
was possible. Therefore I had to determine where Mr.
John Douglas himself could be, and the balance of
probability was that with the connivance of his wife
and his friend he was concealed in a house which had
such conveniences for a fugitive, and awaiting
quieter times when he could make his final escape."
"Well, you
figured it out about right," said Douglas
approvingly. "I thought I'd dodge your British law;
for I was not sure how I stood under it, and also I
saw my chance to throw these hounds once for all off
my track. Mind you, from first to last I have done
nothing to be ashamed of, and nothing that I would
not do again; but you'll judge that for yourselves
when I tell you my story. Never mind warning me,
Inspector: I'm ready to stand pat upon the truth.
"I'm not
going to begin at the beginning. That's all there,"
he indicated my bundle of papers, "and a mighty
queer yarn you'll find it. It all comes down to
this: That there are some men that have good cause
to hate me and would give their last dollar to know
that they had got me. So long as I am alive and they
are alive, there is no safety in this world for me.
They hunted me from Chicago to California, then they
chased me out of America; but when I married and
settled down in this quiet spot I thought my last
years were going to be peaceable.
"I never
explained to my wife how things were. Why should I
pull her into it? She would never have a quiet
moment again; but would always be imagining trouble.
I fancy she knew something, for I may have dropped a
word here or a word there; but until yesterday,
after you gentlemen had seen her, she never knew the
rights of the matter. She told you all she knew, and
so did Barker here; for on the night when this thing
happened there was mighty little time for
explanations. She knows everything now, and I would
have been a wiser man if I had told her sooner. But
it was a hard question, dear," he took her hand for
an instant in his own, "and I acted for the best.
"Well,
gentlemen, the day before these happenings I was
over in Tunbridge Wells, and I got a glimpse of a
man in the street. It was only a glimpse; but I have
a quick eye for these things, and I never doubted
who it was. It was the worst enemy I had among them
all—one who has been after me like a hungry wolf
after a caribou all these years. I knew there was
trouble coming, and I came home and made ready for
it. I guessed I'd fight through it all right on my
own, my luck was a proverb in the States about '76.
I never doubted that it would be with me still.
"I was on my
guard all that next day, and never went out into the
park. It's as well, or he'd have had the drop on me
with that buckshot gun of his before ever I could
draw on him. After the bridge was up—my mind was
always more restful when that bridge was up in the
evenings—I put the thing clear out of my head. I
never dreamed of his getting into the house and
waiting for me. But when I made my round in my
dressing gown, as was my habit, I had no sooner
entered the study than I scented danger. I guess
when a man has had dangers in his life—and I've had
more than most in my time—there is a kind of sixth
sense that waves the red flag. I saw the signal
clear enough, and yet I couldn't tell you why. Next
instant I spotted a boot under the window curtain,
and then I saw why plain enough.
"I'd just
the one candle that was in my hand; but there was a
good light from the hall lamp through the open door.
I put down the candle and jumped for a hammer that
I'd left on the mantel. At the same moment he sprang
at me. I saw the glint of a knife, and I lashed at
him with the hammer. I got him somewhere; for the
knife tinkled down on the floor. He dodged round the
table as quick as an eel, and a moment later he'd
got his gun from under his coat. I heard him cock
it; but I had got hold of it before he could fire. I
had it by the barrel, and we wrestled for it all
ends up for a minute or more. It was death to the
man that lost his grip.
"He never
lost his grip; but he got it butt downward for a
moment too long. Maybe it was I that pulled the
trigger. Maybe we just jolted it off between us.
Anyhow, he got both barrels in the face, and there I
was, staring down at all that was left of Ted
Baldwin. I'd recognized him in the township, and
again when he sprang for me; but his own mother
wouldn't recognize him as I saw him then. I'm used
to rough work; but I fairly turned sick at the sight
of him.
"I was
hanging on the side of the table when Barker came
hurrying down. I heard my wife coming, and I ran to
the door and stopped her. It was no sight for a
woman. I promised I'd come to her soon. I said a
word or two to Barker—he took it all in at a
glance—and we waited for the rest to come along. But
there was no sign of them. Then we understood that
they could hear nothing, and that all that had
happened was known only to ourselves.
"It was at
that instant that the idea came to me. I was fairly
dazzled by the brilliance of it. The man's sleeve
had slipped up and there was the branded mark of the
lodge upon his forearm. See here!"
The man whom
we had known as Douglas turned up his own coat and
cuff to show a brown triangle within a circle
exactly like that which we had seen upon the dead
man.
"It was the
sight of that which started me on it. I seemed to
see it all clear at a glance. There were his height
and hair and figure, about the same as my own. No
one could swear to his face, poor devil! I brought
down this suit of clothes, and in a quarter of an
hour Barker and I had put my dressing gown on him
and he lay as you found him. We tied all his things
into a bundle, and I weighted them with the only
weight I could find and put them through the window.
The card he had meant to lay upon my body was lying
beside his own.
"My rings
were put on his finger; but when it came to the
wedding ring," he held out his muscular hand, "you
can see for yourselves that I had struck the limit.
I have not moved it since the day I was married, and
it would have taken a file to get it off. I don't
know, anyhow, that I should have cared to part with
it; but if I had wanted to I couldn't. So we just
had to leave that detail to take care of itself. On
the other hand, I brought a bit of plaster down and
put it where I am wearing one myself at this
instant. You slipped up there, Mr. Holmes, clever as
you are; for if you had chanced to take off that
plaster you would have found no cut underneath it.
"Well, that
was the situation. If I could lie low for a while
and then get away where I could be joined by my
'widow' we should have a chance at last of living in
peace for the rest of our lives. These devils would
give me no rest so long as I was above ground; but
if they saw in the papers that Baldwin had got his
man, there would be an end of all my troubles. I
hadn't much time to make it all clear to Barker and
to my wife; but they understood enough to be able to
help me. I knew all about this hiding place, so did
Ames; but it never entered his head to connect it
with the matter. I retired into it, and it was up to
Barker to do the rest.
"I guess you
can fill in for yourselves what he did. He opened
the window and made the mark on the sill to give an
idea of how the murderer escaped. It was a tall
order, that; but as the bridge was up there was no
other way. Then, when everything was fixed, he rang
the bell for all he was worth. What happened
afterward you know. And so, gentlemen, you can do
what you please; but I've told you the truth and the
whole truth, so help me God! What I ask you now is
how do I stand by the English law?"
There was a
silence which was broken by Sherlock Holmes.
"The English
law is in the main a just law. You will get no worse
than your deserts from that, Mr. Douglas. But I
would ask you how did this man know that you lived
here, or how to get into your house, or where to
hide to get you?"
"I know
nothing of this."
Holmes's
face was very white and grave. "The story is not
over yet, I fear," said he. "You may find worse
dangers than the English law, or even than your
enemies from America. I see trouble before you, Mr.
Douglas. You'll take my advice and still be on your
guard."
And now, my
long-suffering readers, I will ask you to come away
with me for a time, far from the Sussex Manor House
of Birlstone, and far also from the year of grace in
which we made our eventful journey which ended with
the strange story of the man who had been known as
John Douglas. I wish you to journey back some twenty
years in time, and westward some thousands of miles
in space, that I may lay before you a singular and
terrible narrative—so singular and so terrible that
you may find it hard to believe that even as I tell
it, even so did it occur.
Do not think
that I intrude one story before another is finished.
As you read on you will find that this is not so.
And when I have detailed those distant events and
you have solved this mystery of the past, we shall
meet once more in those rooms on Baker Street, where
this, like so many other wonderful happenings, will
find its end.
PART 2
The Scowrers
Chapter 1
The Man
It was the
fourth of February in the year 1875. It had been a
severe winter, and the snow lay deep in the gorges
of the Gilmerton Mountains. The steam ploughs had,
however, kept the railroad open, and the evening
train which connects the long line of coal-mining
and iron-working settlements was slowly groaning its
way up the steep gradients which lead from Stagville
on the plain to Vermissa, the central township which
lies at the head of Vermissa Valley. From this point
the track sweeps downward to Bartons Crossing,
Helmdale, and the purely agricultural county of
Merton. It was a single-track railroad; but at every
siding—and they were numerous—long lines of trucks
piled with coal and iron ore told of the hidden
wealth which had brought a rude population and a
bustling life to this most desolate corner of the
United States of America.
For desolate
it was! Little could the first pioneer who had
traversed it have ever imagined that the fairest
prairies and the most lush water pastures were
valueless compared to this gloomy land of black crag
and tangled forest. Above the dark and often
scarcely penetrable woods upon their flanks, the
high, bare crowns of the mountains, white snow, and
jagged rock towered upon each flank, leaving a long,
winding, tortuous valley in the centre. Up this the
little train was slowly crawling.
The oil
lamps had just been lit in the leading passenger
car, a long, bare carriage in which some twenty or
thirty people were seated. The greater number of
these were workmen returning from their day's toil
in the lower part of the valley. At least a dozen,
by their grimed faces and the safety lanterns which
they carried, proclaimed themselves miners. These
sat smoking in a group and conversed in low voices,
glancing occasionally at two men on the opposite
side of the car, whose uniforms and badges showed
them to be policemen.
Several
women of the labouring class and one or two
travellers who might have been small local
storekeepers made up the rest of the company, with
the exception of one young man in a corner by
himself. It is with this man that we are concerned.
Take a good look at him, for he is worth it.
He is a
fresh-complexioned, middle-sized young man, not far,
one would guess, from his thirtieth year. He has
large, shrewd, humorous gray eyes which twinkle
inquiringly from time to time as he looks round
through his spectacles at the people about him. It
is easy to see that he is of a sociable and possibly
simple disposition, anxious to be friendly to all
men. Anyone could pick him at once as gregarious in
his habits and communicative in his nature, with a
quick wit and a ready smile. And yet the man who
studied him more closely might discern a certain
firmness of jaw and grim tightness about the lips
which would warn him that there were depths beyond,
and that this pleasant, brown-haired young Irishman
might conceivably leave his mark for good or evil
upon any society to which he was introduced.
Having made
one or two tentative remarks to the nearest miner,
and receiving only short, gruff replies, the
traveller resigned himself to uncongenial silence,
staring moodily out of the window at the fading
landscape.
It was not a
cheering prospect. Through the growing gloom there
pulsed the red glow of the furnaces on the sides of
the hills. Great heaps of slag and dumps of cinders
loomed up on each side, with the high shafts of the
collieries towering above them. Huddled groups of
mean, wooden houses, the windows of which were
beginning to outline themselves in light, were
scattered here and there along the line, and the
frequent halting places were crowded with their
swarthy inhabitants.
The iron and
coal valleys of the Vermissa district were no
resorts for the leisured or the cultured. Everywhere
there were stern signs of the crudest battle of
life, the rude work to be done, and the rude, strong
workers who did it.
The young
traveller gazed out into this dismal country with a
face of mingled repulsion and interest, which showed
that the scene was new to him. At intervals he drew
from his pocket a bulky letter to which he referred,
and on the margins of which he scribbled some notes.
Once from the back of his waist he produced
something which one would hardly have expected to
find in the possession of so mild-mannered a man. It
was a navy revolver of the largest size. As he
turned it slantwise to the light, the glint upon the
rims of the copper shells within the drum showed
that it was fully loaded. He quickly restored it to
his secret pocket, but not before it had been
observed by a working man who had seated himself
upon the adjoining bench.
"Hullo,
mate!" said he. "You seem heeled and ready."
The young
man smiled with an air of embarrassment.
"Yes," said
he, "we need them sometimes in the place I come
from."
"And where
may that be?"
"I'm last
from Chicago."
"A stranger
in these parts?"
"Yes."
"You may
find you need it here," said the workman.
"Ah! is that
so?" The young man seemed interested.
"Have you
heard nothing of doings hereabouts?"
"Nothing out
of the way."
"Why, I
thought the country was full of it. You'll hear
quick enough. What made you come here?"
"I heard
there was always work for a willing man."
"Are you a
member of the union?"
"Sure."
"Then you'll
get your job, I guess. Have you any friends?"
"Not yet;
but I have the means of making them."
"How's that,
then?"
"I am one of
the Eminent Order of Freemen. There's no town
without a lodge, and where there is a lodge I'll
find my friends."
The remark
had a singular effect upon his companion. He glanced
round suspiciously at the others in the car. The
miners were still whispering among themselves. The
two police officers were dozing. He came across,
seated himself close to the young traveller, and
held out his hand.
"Put it
there," he said.
A hand-grip
passed between the two.
"I see you
speak the truth," said the workman. "But it's well
to make certain." He raised his right hand to his
right eyebrow. The traveller at once raised his left
hand to his left eyebrow.
"Dark nights
are unpleasant," said the workman.
"Yes, for
strangers to travel," the other answered.
"That's good
enough. I'm Brother Scanlan, Lodge 341, Vermissa
Valley. Glad to see you in these parts."
"Thank you.
I'm Brother John McMurdo, Lodge 29, Chicago.
Bodymaster J. H. Scott. But I am in luck to meet a
brother so early."
"Well, there
are plenty of us about. You won't find the order
more flourishing anywhere in the States than right
here in Vermissa Valley. But we could do with some
lads like you. I can't understand a spry man of the
union finding no work to do in Chicago."
"I found
plenty of work to do," said McMurdo.
"Then why
did you leave?"
McMurdo
nodded towards the policemen and smiled. "I guess
those chaps would be glad to know," he said.
Scanlan
groaned sympathetically. "In trouble?" he asked in a
whisper.
"Deep."
"A
penitentiary job?"
"And the
rest."
"Not a
killing!"
"It's early
days to talk of such things," said McMurdo with the
air of a man who had been surprised into saying more
than he intended. "I've my own good reasons for
leaving Chicago, and let that be enough for you. Who
are you that you should take it on yourself to ask
such things?" His gray eyes gleamed with sudden and
dangerous anger from behind his glasses.
"All right,
mate, no offense meant. The boys will think none the
worse of you, whatever you may have done. Where are
you bound for now?"
"Vermissa."
"That's the
third halt down the line. Where are you staying?"
McMurdo took
out an envelope and held it close to the murky oil
lamp. "Here is the address—Jacob Shafter, Sheridan
Street. It's a boarding house that was recommended
by a man I knew in Chicago."
"Well, I
don't know it; but Vermissa is out of my beat. I
live at Hobson's Patch, and that's here where we are
drawing up. But, say, there's one bit of advice I'll
give you before we part: If you're in trouble in
Vermissa, go straight to the Union House and see
Boss McGinty. He is the Bodymaster of Vermissa
Lodge, and nothing can happen in these parts unless
Black Jack McGinty wants it. So long, mate! Maybe
we'll meet in lodge one of these evenings. But mind
my words: If you are in trouble, go to Boss
McGinty."
Scanlan
descended, and McMurdo was left once again to his
thoughts. Night had now fallen, and the flames of
the frequent furnaces were roaring and leaping in
the darkness. Against their lurid background dark
figures were bending and straining, twisting and
turning, with the motion of winch or of windlass, to
the rhythm of an eternal clank and roar.
"I guess
hell must look something like that," said a voice.
McMurdo
turned and saw that one of the policemen had shifted
in his seat and was staring out into the fiery
waste.
"For that
matter," said the other policeman, "I allow that
hell must be something like that. If there are worse
devils down yonder than some we could name, it's
more than I'd expect. I guess you are new to this
part, young man?"
"Well, what
if I am?" McMurdo answered in a surly voice.
"Just this,
mister, that I should advise you to be careful in
choosing your friends. I don't think I'd begin with
Mike Scanlan or his gang if I were you."
"What the
hell is it to you who are my friends?" roared
McMurdo in a voice which brought every head in the
carriage round to witness the altercation. "Did I
ask you for your advice, or did you think me such a
sucker that I couldn't move without it? You speak
when you are spoken to, and by the Lord you'd have
to wait a long time if it was me!" He thrust out his
face and grinned at the patrolmen like a snarling
dog.
The two
policemen, heavy, good-natured men, were taken aback
by the extraordinary vehemence with which their
friendly advances had been rejected.
"No offense,
stranger," said one. "It was a warning for your own
good, seeing that you are, by your own showing, new
to the place."
"I'm new to
the place; but I'm not new to you and your kind!"
cried McMurdo in cold fury. "I guess you're the same
in all places, shoving your advice in when nobody
asks for it."
"Maybe we'll
see more of you before very long," said one of the
patrolmen with a grin. "You're a real hand-picked
one, if I am a judge."
"I was
thinking the same," remarked the other. "I guess we
may meet again."
"I'm not
afraid of you, and don't you think it!" cried
McMurdo. "My name's Jack McMurdo—see? If you want
me, you'll find me at Jacob Shafter's on Sheridan
Street, Vermissa; so I'm not hiding from you, am I?
Day or night I dare to look the like of you in the
face—don't make any mistake about that!"
There was a
murmur of sympathy and admiration from the miners at
the dauntless demeanour of the newcomer, while the
two policemen shrugged their shoulders and renewed a
conversation between themselves.
A few
minutes later the train ran into the ill-lit
station, and there was a general clearing; for
Vermissa was by far the largest town on the line.
McMurdo picked up his leather gripsack and was about
to start off into the darkness, when one of the
miners accosted him.
"By Gar,
mate! you know how to speak to the cops," he said in
a voice of awe. "It was grand to hear you. Let me
carry your grip and show you the road. I'm passing
Shafter's on the way to my own shack."
There was a
chorus of friendly "Good-nights" from the other
miners as they passed from the platform. Before ever
he had set foot in it, McMurdo the turbulent had
become a character in Vermissa.
The country
had been a place of terror; but the town was in its
way even more depressing. Down that long valley
there was at least a certain gloomy grandeur in the
huge fires and the clouds of drifting smoke, while
the strength and industry of man found fitting
monuments in the hills which he had spilled by the
side of his monstrous excavations. But the town
showed a dead level of mean ugliness and squalor.
The broad street was churned up by the traffic into
a horrible rutted paste of muddy snow. The sidewalks
were narrow and uneven. The numerous gas-lamps
served only to show more clearly a long line of
wooden houses, each with its veranda facing the
street, unkempt and dirty.
As they
approached the centre of the town the scene was
brightened by a row of well-lit stores, and even
more by a cluster of saloons and gaming houses, in
which the miners spent their hard-earned but
generous wages.
"That's the
Union House," said the guide, pointing to one saloon
which rose almost to the dignity of being a hotel.
"Jack McGinty is the boss there."
"What sort
of a man is he?" McMurdo asked.
"What! have
you never heard of the boss?"
"How could I
have heard of him when you know that I am a stranger
in these parts?"
"Well, I
thought his name was known clear across the country.
It's been in the papers often enough."
"What for?"
"Well," the
miner lowered his voice—"over the affairs."
"What
affairs?"
"Good Lord,
mister! you are queer, if I must say it without
offense. There's only one set of affairs that you'll
hear of in these parts, and that's the affairs of
the Scowrers."
"Why, I seem
to have read of the Scowrers in Chicago. A gang of
murderers, are they not?"
"Hush, on
your life!" cried the miner, standing still in
alarm, and gazing in amazement at his companion.
"Man, you won't live long in these parts if you
speak in the open street like that. Many a man has
had the life beaten out of him for less."
"Well, I
know nothing about them. It's only what I have
read."
"And I'm not
saying that you have not read the truth." The man
looked nervously round him as he spoke, peering into
the shadows as if he feared to see some lurking
danger. "If killing is murder, then God knows there
is murder and to spare. But don't you dare to
breathe the name of Jack McGinty in connection with
it, stranger; for every whisper goes back to him,
and he is not one that is likely to let it pass.
Now, that's the house you're after, that one
standing back from the street. You'll find old Jacob
Shafter that runs it as honest a man as lives in
this township."
"I thank
you," said McMurdo, and shaking hands with his new
acquaintance he plodded, gripsack in hand, up the
path which led to the dwelling house, at the door of
which he gave a resounding knock.
It was
opened at once by someone very different from what
he had expected. It was a woman, young and
singularly beautiful. She was of the German type,
blonde and fair-haired, with the piquant contrast of
a pair of beautiful dark eyes with which she
surveyed the stranger with surprise and a pleasing
embarrassment which brought a wave of colour over
her pale face. Framed in the bright light of the
open doorway, it seemed to McMurdo that he had never
seen a more beautiful picture; the more attractive
for its contrast with the sordid and gloomy
surroundings. A lovely violet growing upon one of
those black slag-heaps of the mines would not have
seemed more surprising. So entranced was he that he
stood staring without a word, and it was she who
broke the silence.
"I thought
it was father," said she with a pleasing little
touch of a German accent. "Did you come to see him?
He is downtown. I expect him back every minute."
McMurdo
continued to gaze at her in open admiration until
her eyes dropped in confusion before this masterful
visitor.
"No, miss,"
he said at last, "I'm in no hurry to see him. But
your house was recommended to me for board. I
thought it might suit me—and now I know it will."
"You are
quick to make up your mind," said she with a smile.
"Anyone but
a blind man could do as much," the other answered.
She laughed
at the compliment. "Come right in, sir," she said.
"I'm Miss Ettie Shafter, Mr. Shafter's daughter. My
mother's dead, and I run the house. You can sit down
by the stove in the front room until father comes
along—Ah, here he is! So you can fix things with him
right away."
A heavy,
elderly man came plodding up the path. In a few
words McMurdo explained his business. A man of the
name of Murphy had given him the address in Chicago.
He in turn had had it from someone else. Old Shafter
was quite ready. The stranger made no bones about
terms, agreed at once to every condition, and was
apparently fairly flush of money. For seven dollars
a week paid in advance he was to have board and
lodging.
So it was
that McMurdo, the self-confessed fugitive from
justice, took up his abode under the roof of the
Shafters, the first step which was to lead to so
long and dark a train of events, ending in a far
distant land.
Chapter 2
The Bodymaster
McMurdo was
a man who made his mark quickly. Wherever he was the
folk around soon knew it. Within a week he had
become infinitely the most important person at
Shafter's. There were ten or a dozen boarders there;
but they were honest foremen or commonplace clerks
from the stores, of a very different calibre from
the young Irishman. Of an evening when they gathered
together his joke was always the readiest, his
conversation the brightest, and his song the best.
He was a born boon companion, with a magnetism which
drew good humour from all around him.
And yet he
showed again and again, as he had shown in the
railway carriage, a capacity for sudden, fierce
anger, which compelled the respect and even the fear
of those who met him. For the law, too, and all who
were connected with it, he exhibited a bitter
contempt which delighted some and alarmed others of
his fellow boarders.
From the
first he made it evident, by his open admiration,
that the daughter of the house had won his heart
from the instant that he had set eyes upon her
beauty and her grace. He was no backward suitor. On
the second day he told her that he loved her, and
from then onward he repeated the same story with an
absolute disregard of what she might say to
discourage him.
"Someone
else?" he would cry. "Well, the worse luck for
someone else! Let him look out for himself! Am I to
lose my life's chance and all my heart's desire for
someone else? You can keep on saying no, Ettie: the
day will come when you will say yes, and I'm young
enough to wait."
He was a
dangerous suitor, with his glib Irish tongue, and
his pretty, coaxing ways. There was about him also
that glamour of experience and of mystery which
attracts a woman's interest, and finally her love.
He could talk of the sweet valleys of County
Monaghan from which he came, of the lovely, distant
island, the low hills and green meadows of which
seemed the more beautiful when imagination viewed
them from this place of grime and snow.
Then he was
versed in the life of the cities of the North, of
Detroit, and the lumber camps of Michigan, and
finally of Chicago, where he had worked in a planing
mill. And afterwards came the hint of romance, the
feeling that strange things had happened to him in
that great city, so strange and so intimate that
they might not be spoken of. He spoke wistfully of a
sudden leaving, a breaking of old ties, a flight
into a strange world, ending in this dreary valley,
and Ettie listened, her dark eyes gleaming with pity
and with sympathy—those two qualities which may turn
so rapidly and so naturally to love.
McMurdo had
obtained a temporary job as bookkeeper; for he was a
well-educated man. This kept him out most of the
day, and he had not found occasion yet to report
himself to the head of the lodge of the Eminent
Order of Freemen. He was reminded of his omission,
however, by a visit one evening from Mike Scanlan,
the fellow member whom he had met in the train.
Scanlan, the small, sharp-faced, nervous, black-eyed
man, seemed glad to see him once more. After a glass
or two of whisky he broached the object of his
visit.
"Say,
McMurdo," said he, "I remembered your address, so I
made bold to call. I'm surprised that you've not
reported to the Bodymaster. Why haven't you seen
Boss McGinty yet?"
"Well, I had
to find a job. I have been busy."
"You must
find time for him if you have none for anything
else. Good Lord, man! you're a fool not to have been
down to the Union House and registered your name the
first morning after you came here! If you run
against him—well, you mustn't, that's all!"
McMurdo
showed mild surprise. "I've been a member of the
lodge for over two years, Scanlan, but I never heard
that duties were so pressing as all that."
"Maybe not
in Chicago."
"Well, it's
the same society here."
"Is it?"
Scanlan
looked at him long and fixedly. There was something
sinister in his eyes.
"Isn't it?"
"You'll tell
me that in a month's time. I hear you had a talk
with the patrolmen after I left the train."
"How did you
know that?"
"Oh, it got
about—things do get about for good and for bad in
this district."
"Well, yes.
I told the hounds what I thought of them."
"By the
Lord, you'll be a man after McGinty's heart!"
"What, does
he hate the police too?"
Scanlan
burst out laughing. "You go and see him, my lad,"
said he as he took his leave. "It's not the police
but you that he'll hate if you don't! Now, take a
friend's advice and go at once!"
It chanced
that on the same evening McMurdo had another more
pressing interview which urged him in the same
direction. It may have been that his attentions to
Ettie had been more evident than before, or that
they had gradually obtruded themselves into the slow
mind of his good German host; but, whatever the
cause, the boarding-house keeper beckoned the young
man into his private room and started on the subject
without any circumlocution.
"It seems to
me, mister," said he, "that you are gettin' set on
my Ettie. Ain't that so, or am I wrong?"
"Yes, that
is so," the young man answered.
"Vell, I
vant to tell you right now that it ain't no manner
of use. There's someone slipped in afore you."
"She told me
so."
"Vell, you
can lay that she told you truth. But did she tell
you who it vas?"
"No, I asked
her; but she wouldn't tell."
"I dare say
not, the leetle baggage! Perhaps she did not vish to
frighten you avay."
"Frighten!"
McMurdo was on fire in a moment.
"Ah, yes, my
friend! You need not be ashamed to be frightened of
him. It is Teddy Baldwin."
"And who the
devil is he?"
"He is a
boss of Scowrers."
"Scowrers!
I've heard of them before. It's Scowrers here and
Scowrers there, and always in a whisper! What are
you all afraid of? Who are the Scowrers?"
The
boarding-house keeper instinctively sank his voice,
as everyone did who talked about that terrible
society. "The Scowrers," said he, "are the Eminent
Order of Freemen!"
The young
man stared. "Why, I am a member of that order
myself."
"You! I
vould never have had you in my house if I had known
it—not if you vere to pay me a hundred dollar a
week."
"What's
wrong with the order? It's for charity and good
fellowship. The rules say so."
"Maybe in
some places. Not here!"
"What is it
here?"
"It's a
murder society, that's vat it is."
McMurdo
laughed incredulously. "How can you prove that?" he
asked.
"Prove it!
Are there not fifty murders to prove it? Vat about
Milman and Van Shorst, and the Nicholson family, and
old Mr. Hyam, and little Billy James, and the
others? Prove it! Is there a man or a voman in this
valley vat does not know it?"
"See here!"
said McMurdo earnestly. "I want you to take back
what you've said, or else make it good. One or the
other you must do before I quit this room. Put
yourself in my place. Here am I, a stranger in the
town. I belong to a society that I know only as an
innocent one. You'll find it through the length and
breadth of the States, but always as an innocent
one. Now, when I am counting upon joining it here,
you tell me that it is the same as a murder society
called the Scowrers. I guess you owe me either an
apology or else an explanation, Mr. Shafter."
"I can but
tell you vat the whole vorld knows, mister. The
bosses of the one are the bosses of the other. If
you offend the one, it is the other vat vill strike
you. We have proved it too often."
"That's just
gossip—I want proof!" said McMurdo.
"If you live
here long you vill get your proof. But I forget that
you are yourself one of them. You vill soon be as
bad as the rest. But you vill find other lodgings,
mister. I cannot have you here. Is it not bad enough
that one of these people come courting my Ettie, and
that I dare not turn him down, but that I should
have another for my boarder? Yes, indeed, you shall
not sleep here after to-night!"
McMurdo
found himself under sentence of banishment both from
his comfortable quarters and from the girl whom he
loved. He found her alone in the sitting-room that
same evening, and he poured his troubles into her
ear.
"Sure, your
father is after giving me notice," he said. "It's
little I would care if it was just my room, but
indeed, Ettie, though it's only a week that I've
known you, you are the very breath of life to me,
and I can't live without you!"
"Oh, hush,
Mr. McMurdo, don't speak so!" said the girl. "I have
told you, have I not, that you are too late? There
is another, and if I have not promised to marry him
at once, at least I can promise no one else."
"Suppose I
had been first, Ettie, would I have had a chance?"
The girl
sank her face into her hands. "I wish to heaven that
you had been first!" she sobbed.
McMurdo was
down on his knees before her in an instant. "For
God's sake, Ettie, let it stand at that!" he cried.
"Will you ruin your life and my own for the sake of
this promise? Follow your heart, acushla! 'Tis a
safer guide than any promise before you knew what it
was that you were saying."
He had
seized Ettie's white hand between his own strong
brown ones.
"Say that
you will be mine, and we will face it out together!"
"Not here?"
"Yes, here."
"No, no,
Jack!" His arms were round her now. "It could not be
here. Could you take me away?"
A struggle
passed for a moment over McMurdo's face; but it
ended by setting like granite. "No, here," he said.
"I'll hold you against the world, Ettie, right here
where we are!"
"Why should
we not leave together?"
"No, Ettie,
I can't leave here."
"But why?"
"I'd never
hold my head up again if I felt that I had been
driven out. Besides, what is there to be afraid of?
Are we not free folks in a free country? If you love
me, and I you, who will dare to come between?"
"You don't
know, Jack. You've been here too short a time. You
don't know this Baldwin. You don't know McGinty and
his Scowrers."
"No, I don't
know them, and I don't fear them, and I don't
believe in them!" said McMurdo. "I've lived among
rough men, my darling, and instead of fearing them
it has always ended that they have feared me—always,
Ettie. It's mad on the face of it! If these men, as
your father says, have done crime after crime in the
valley, and if everyone knows them by name, how
comes it that none are brought to justice? You
answer me that, Ettie!"
"Because no
witness dares to appear against them. He would not
live a month if he did. Also because they have
always their own men to swear that the accused one
was far from the scene of the crime. But surely,
Jack, you must have read all this. I had understood
that every paper in the United States was writing
about it."
"Well, I
have read something, it is true; but I had thought
it was a story. Maybe these men have some reason in
what they do. Maybe they are wronged and have no
other way to help themselves."
"Oh, Jack,
don't let me hear you speak so! That is how he
speaks—the other one!"
"Baldwin—he
speaks like that, does he?"
"And that is
why I loathe him so. Oh, Jack, now I can tell you
the truth. I loathe him with all my heart; but I
fear him also. I fear him for myself; but above all
I fear him for father. I know that some great sorrow
would come upon us if I dared to say what I really
felt. That is why I have put him off with
half-promises. It was in real truth our only hope.
But if you would fly with me, Jack, we could take
father with us and live forever far from the power
of these wicked men."
Again there
was the struggle upon McMurdo's face, and again it
set like granite. "No harm shall come to you,
Ettie—nor to your father either. As to wicked men, I
expect you may find that I am as bad as the worst of
them before we're through."
"No, no,
Jack! I would trust you anywhere."
McMurdo
laughed bitterly. "Good Lord! how little you know of
me! Your innocent soul, my darling, could not even
guess what is passing in mine. But, hullo, who's the
visitor?"
The door had
opened suddenly, and a young fellow came swaggering
in with the air of one who is the master. He was a
handsome, dashing young man of about the same age
and build as McMurdo himself. Under his
broad-brimmed black felt hat, which he had not
troubled to remove, a handsome face with fierce,
domineering eyes and a curved hawk-bill of a nose
looked savagely at the pair who sat by the stove.
Ettie had
jumped to her feet full of confusion and alarm. "I'm
glad to see you, Mr. Baldwin," said she. "You're
earlier than I had thought. Come and sit down."
Baldwin
stood with his hands on his hips looking at McMurdo.
"Who is this?" he asked curtly.
"It's a
friend of mine, Mr. Baldwin, a new boarder here. Mr.
McMurdo, may I introduce you to Mr. Baldwin?"
The young
men nodded in surly fashion to each other.
"Maybe Miss
Ettie has told you how it is with us?" said Baldwin.
"I didn't
understand that there was any relation between you."
"Didn't you?
Well, you can understand it now. You can take it
from me that this young lady is mine, and you'll
find it a very fine evening for a walk."
"Thank you,
I am in no humour for a walk."
"Aren't
you?" The man's savage eyes were blazing with anger.
"Maybe you are in a humour for a fight, Mr.
Boarder!"
"That I am!"
cried McMurdo, springing to his feet. "You never
said a more welcome word."
"For God's
sake, Jack! Oh, for God's sake!" cried poor,
distracted Ettie. "Oh, Jack, Jack, he will hurt
you!"
"Oh, it's
Jack, is it?" said Baldwin with an oath. "You've
come to that already, have you?"
"Oh, Ted, be
reasonable—be kind! For my sake, Ted, if ever you
loved me, be big-hearted and forgiving!"
"I think,
Ettie, that if you were to leave us alone we could
get this thing settled," said McMurdo quietly. "Or
maybe, Mr. Baldwin, you will take a turn down the
street with me. It's a fine evening, and there's
some open ground beyond the next block."
"I'll get
even with you without needing to dirty my hands,"
said his enemy. "You'll wish you had never set foot
in this house before I am through with you!"
"No time
like the present," cried McMurdo.
"I'll choose
my own time, mister. You can leave the time to me.
See here!" He suddenly rolled up his sleeve and
showed upon his forearm a peculiar sign which
appeared to have been branded there. It was a circle
with a triangle within it. "D'you know what that
means?"
"I neither
know nor care!"
"Well, you
will know, I'll promise you that. You won't be much
older, either. Perhaps Miss Ettie can tell you
something about it. As to you, Ettie, you'll come
back to me on your knees—d'ye hear, girl?—on your
knees—and then I'll tell you what your punishment
may be. You've sowed—and by the Lord, I'll see that
you reap!" He glanced at them both in fury. Then he
turned upon his heel, and an instant later the outer
door had banged behind him.
For a few
moments McMurdo and the girl stood in silence. Then
she threw her arms around him.
"Oh, Jack,
how brave you were! But it is no use, you must fly!
To-night—Jack—to-night! It's your only hope. He will
have your life. I read it in his horrible eyes. What
chance have you against a dozen of them, with Boss
McGinty and all the power of the lodge behind them?"
McMurdo
disengaged her hands, kissed her, and gently pushed
her back into a chair. "There, acushla, there! Don't
be disturbed or fear for me. I'm a Freeman myself.
I'm after telling your father about it. Maybe I am
no better than the others; so don't make a saint of
me. Perhaps you hate me too, now that I've told you
as much?"
"Hate you,
Jack? While life lasts I could never do that! I've
heard that there is no harm in being a Freeman
anywhere but here; so why should I think the worse
of you for that? But if you are a Freeman, Jack, why
should you not go down and make a friend of Boss
McGinty? Oh, hurry, Jack, hurry! Get your word in
first, or the hounds will be on your trail."
"I was
thinking the same thing," said McMurdo. "I'll go
right now and fix it. You can tell your father that
I'll sleep here to-night and find some other
quarters in the morning."
The bar of
McGinty's saloon was crowded as usual, for it was
the favourite loafing place of all the rougher
elements of the town. The man was popular; for he
had a rough, jovial disposition which formed a mask,
covering a great deal which lay behind it. But apart
from this popularity, the fear in which he was held
throughout the township, and indeed down the whole
thirty miles of the valley and past the mountains on
each side of it, was enough in itself to fill his
bar; for none could afford to neglect his good will.
Besides
those secret powers which it was universally
believed that he exercised in so pitiless a fashion,
he was a high public official, a municipal
councillor, and a commissioner of roads, elected to
the office through the votes of the ruffians who in
turn expected to receive favours at his hands.
Assessments and taxes were enormous; the public
works were notoriously neglected, the accounts were
slurred over by bribed auditors, and the decent
citizen was terrorized into paying public blackmail,
and holding his tongue lest some worse thing befall
him.
Thus it was
that, year by year, Boss McGinty's diamond pins
became more obtrusive, his gold chains more weighty
across a more gorgeous vest, and his saloon
stretched farther and farther, until it threatened
to absorb one whole side of the Market Square.
McMurdo
pushed open the swinging door of the saloon and made
his way amid the crowd of men within, through an
atmosphere blurred with tobacco smoke and heavy with
the smell of spirits. The place was brilliantly
lighted, and the huge, heavily gilt mirrors upon
every wall reflected and multiplied the garish
illumination. There were several bartenders in their
shirt sleeves, hard at work mixing drinks for the
loungers who fringed the broad, brass-trimmed
counter.
At the far
end, with his body resting upon the bar and a cigar
stuck at an acute angle from the corner of his
mouth, stood a tall, strong, heavily built man who
could be none other than the famous McGinty himself.
He was a black-maned giant, bearded to the
cheek-bones, and with a shock of raven hair which
fell to his collar. His complexion was as swarthy as
that of an Italian, and his eyes were of a strange
dead black, which, combined with a slight squint,
gave them a particularly sinister appearance.
All else in
the man—his noble proportions, his fine features,
and his frank bearing—fitted in with that jovial,
man-to-man manner which he affected. Here, one would
say, is a bluff, honest fellow, whose heart would be
sound however rude his outspoken words might seem.
It was only when those dead, dark eyes, deep and
remorseless, were turned upon a man that he shrank
within himself, feeling that he was face to face
with an infinite possibility of latent evil, with a
strength and courage and cunning behind it which
made it a thousand times more deadly.
Having had a
good look at his man, McMurdo elbowed his way
forward with his usual careless audacity, and pushed
himself through the little group of courtiers who
were fawning upon the powerful boss, laughing
uproariously at the smallest of his jokes. The young
stranger's bold gray eyes looked back fearlessly
through their glasses at the deadly black ones which
turned sharply upon him.
"Well, young
man, I can't call your face to mind."
"I'm new
here, Mr. McGinty."
"You are not
so new that you can't give a gentleman his proper
title."
"He's
Councillor McGinty, young man," said a voice from
the group.
"I'm sorry,
Councillor. I'm strange to the ways of the place.
But I was advised to see you."
"Well, you
see me. This is all there is. What d'you think of
me?"
"Well, it's
early days. If your heart is as big as your body,
and your soul as fine as your face, then I'd ask for
nothing better," said McMurdo.
"By Gar!
you've got an Irish tongue in your head anyhow,"
cried the saloon-keeper, not quite certain whether
to humour this audacious visitor or to stand upon
his dignity.
"So you are
good enough to pass my appearance?"
"Sure," said
McMurdo.
"And you
were told to see me?"
"I was."
"And who
told you?"
"Brother
Scanlan of Lodge 341, Vermissa. I drink your health
Councillor, and to our better acquaintance." He
raised a glass with which he had been served to his
lips and elevated his little finger as he drank it.
McGinty, who
had been watching him narrowly, raised his thick
black eyebrows. "Oh, it's like that, is it?" said
he. "I'll have to look a bit closer into this,
Mister—"
"McMurdo."
"A bit
closer, Mr. McMurdo; for we don't take folk on trust
in these parts, nor believe all we're told neither.
Come in here for a moment, behind the bar."
There was a
small room there, lined with barrels. McGinty
carefully closed the door, and then seated himself
on one of them, biting thoughtfully on his cigar and
surveying his companion with those disquieting eyes.
For a couple of minutes he sat in complete silence.
McMurdo bore the inspection cheerfully, one hand in
his coat pocket, the other twisting his brown
moustache. Suddenly McGinty stooped and produced a
wicked-looking revolver.
"See here,
my joker," said he, "if I thought you were playing
any game on us, it would be short work for you."
"This is a
strange welcome," McMurdo answered with some
dignity, "for the Bodymaster of a lodge of Freemen
to give to a stranger brother."
"Ay, but
it's just that same that you have to prove," said
McGinty, "and God help you if you fail! Where were
you made?"
"Lodge 29,
Chicago."
"When?"
"June 24,
1872."
"What
Bodymaster?"
"James H.
Scott."
"Who is your
district ruler?"
"Bartholomew
Wilson."
"Hum! You
seem glib enough in your tests. What are you doing
here?"
"Working,
the same as you—but a poorer job."
"You have
your back answer quick enough."
"Yes, I was
always quick of speech."
"Are you
quick of action?"
"I have had
that name among those that knew me best."
"Well, we
may try you sooner than you think. Have you heard
anything of the lodge in these parts?"
"I've heard
that it takes a man to be a brother."
"True for
you, Mr. McMurdo. Why did you leave Chicago?"
"I'm damned
if I tell you that!"
McGinty
opened his eyes. He was not used to being answered
in such fashion, and it amused him. "Why won't you
tell me?"
"Because no
brother may tell another a lie."
"Then the
truth is too bad to tell?"
"You can put
it that way if you like."
"See here,
mister, you can't expect me, as Bodymaster, to pass
into the lodge a man for whose past he can't
answer."
McMurdo
looked puzzled. Then he took a worn newspaper
cutting from an inner pocket.
"You
wouldn't squeal on a fellow?" said he.
"I'll wipe
my hand across your face if you say such words to
me!" cried McGinty hotly.
"You are
right, Councillor," said McMurdo meekly. "I should
apologize. I spoke without thought. Well, I know
that I am safe in your hands. Look at that
clipping."
McGinty
glanced his eyes over the account of the shooting of
one Jonas Pinto, in the Lake Saloon, Market Street,
Chicago, in the New Year week of 1874.
"Your work?"
he asked, as he handed back the paper.
McMurdo
nodded.
"Why did you
shoot him?"
"I was
helping Uncle Sam to make dollars. Maybe mine were
not as good gold as his, but they looked as well and
were cheaper to make. This man Pinto helped me to
shove the queer—"
"To do
what?"
"Well, it
means to pass the dollars out into circulation. Then
he said he would split. Maybe he did split. I didn't
wait to see. I just killed him and lighted out for
the coal country."
"Why the
coal country?"
"'Cause I'd
read in the papers that they weren't too particular
in those parts."
McGinty
laughed. "You were first a coiner and then a
murderer, and you came to these parts because you
thought you'd be welcome."
"That's
about the size of it," McMurdo answered.
"Well, I
guess you'll go far. Say, can you make those dollars
yet?"
McMurdo took
half a dozen from his pocket. "Those never passed
the Philadelphia mint," said he.
"You don't
say!" McGinty held them to the light in his enormous
hand, which was hairy as a gorilla's. "I can see no
difference. Gar! you'll be a mighty useful brother,
I'm thinking! We can do with a bad man or two among
us, Friend McMurdo: for there are times when we have
to take our own part. We'd soon be against the wall
if we didn't shove back at those that were pushing
us."
"Well, I
guess I'll do my share of shoving with the rest of
the boys."
"You seem to
have a good nerve. You didn't squirm when I shoved
this gun at you."
"It was not
me that was in danger."
"Who then?"
"It was you,
Councillor." McMurdo drew a cocked pistol from the
side pocket of his peajacket. "I was covering you
all the time. I guess my shot would have been as
quick as yours."
"By Gar!"
McGinty flushed an angry red and then burst into a
roar of laughter. "Say, we've had no such holy
terror come to hand this many a year. I reckon the
lodge will learn to be proud of you.... Well, what
the hell do you want? And can't I speak alone with a
gentleman for five minutes but you must butt in on
us?"
The
bartender stood abashed. "I'm sorry, Councillor, but
it's Ted Baldwin. He says he must see you this very
minute."
The message
was unnecessary; for the set, cruel face of the man
himself was looking over the servant's shoulder. He
pushed the bartender out and closed the door on him.
"So," said
he with a furious glance at McMurdo, "you got here
first, did you? I've a word to say to you,
Councillor, about this man."
"Then say it
here and now before my face," cried McMurdo.
"I'll say it
at my own time, in my own way."
"Tut! Tut!"
said McGinty, getting off his barrel. "This will
never do. We have a new brother here, Baldwin, and
it's not for us to greet him in such fashion. Hold
out your hand, man, and make it up!"
"Never!"
cried Baldwin in a fury.
"I've
offered to fight him if he thinks I have wronged
him," said McMurdo. "I'll fight him with fists, or,
if that won't satisfy him, I'll fight him any other
way he chooses. Now, I'll leave it to you,
Councillor, to judge between us as a Bodymaster
should."
"What is it,
then?"
"A young
lady. She's free to choose for herself."
"Is she?"
cried Baldwin.
"As between
two brothers of the lodge I should say that she
was," said the Boss.
"Oh, that's
your ruling, is it?"
"Yes, it is,
Ted Baldwin," said McGinty, with a wicked stare. "Is
it you that would dispute it?"
"You would
throw over one that has stood by you this five years
in favour of a man that you never saw before in your
life? You're not Bodymaster for life, Jack McGinty,
and by God! when next it comes to a vote—"
The
Councillor sprang at him like a tiger. His hand
closed round the other's neck, and he hurled him
back across one of the barrels. In his mad fury he
would have squeezed the life out of him if McMurdo
had not interfered.
"Easy,
Councillor! For heaven's sake, go easy!" he cried,
as he dragged him back.
McGinty
released his hold, and Baldwin, cowed and shaken
gasping for breath, and shivering in every limb, as
one who has looked over the very edge of death, sat
up on the barrel over which he had been hurled.
"You've been
asking for it this many a day, Ted Baldwin—now
you've got it!" cried McGinty, his huge chest rising
and falling. "Maybe you think if I was voted down
from Bodymaster you would find yourself in my shoes.
It's for the lodge to say that. But so long as I am
the chief I'll have no man lift his voice against me
or my rulings."
"I have
nothing against you," mumbled Baldwin, feeling his
throat.
"Well,
then," cried the other, relapsing in a moment into a
bluff joviality, "we are all good friends again and
there's an end of the matter."
He took a
bottle of champagne down from the shelf and twisted
out the cork.
"See now,"
he continued, as he filled three high glasses. "Let
us drink the quarrelling toast of the lodge. After
that, as you know, there can be no bad blood between
us. Now, then the left hand on the apple of my
throat. I say to you, Ted Baldwin, what is the
offense, sir?"
"The clouds
are heavy," answered Baldwin
"But they
will forever brighten."
"And this I
swear!"
The men
drank their glasses, and the same ceremony was
performed between Baldwin and McMurdo.
"There!"
cried McGinty, rubbing his hands. "That's the end of
the black blood. You come under lodge discipline if
it goes further, and that's a heavy hand in these
parts, as Brother Baldwin knows—and as you will damn
soon find out, Brother McMurdo, if you ask for
trouble!"
"Faith, I'd
be slow to do that," said McMurdo. He held out his
hand to Baldwin. "I'm quick to quarrel and quick to
forgive. It's my hot Irish blood, they tell me. But
it's over for me, and I bear no grudge."
Baldwin had
to take the proffered hand, for the baleful eye of
the terrible Boss was upon him. But his sullen face
showed how little the words of the other had moved
him.
McGinty
clapped them both on the shoulders. "Tut! These
girls! These girls!" he cried. "To think that the
same petticoats should come between two of my boys!
It's the devil's own luck! Well, it's the colleen
inside of them that must settle the question for
it's outside the jurisdiction of a Bodymaster—and
the Lord be praised for that! We have enough on us,
without the women as well. You'll have to be
affiliated to Lodge 341, Brother McMurdo. We have
our own ways and methods, different from Chicago.
Saturday night is our meeting, and if you come then,
we'll make you free forever of the Vermissa Valley."
Chapter 3
Lodge 341,
Vermissa
On the day
following the evening which had contained so many
exciting events, McMurdo moved his lodgings from old
Jacob Shafter's and took up his quarters at the
Widow MacNamara's on the extreme outskirts of the
town. Scanlan, his original acquaintance aboard the
train, had occasion shortly afterwards to move into
Vermissa, and the two lodged together. There was no
other boarder, and the hostess was an easy-going old
Irishwoman who left them to themselves; so that they
had a freedom for speech and action welcome to men
who had secrets in common.
Shafter had
relented to the extent of letting McMurdo come to
his meals there when he liked; so that his
intercourse with Ettie was by no means broken. On
the contrary, it drew closer and more intimate as
the weeks went by.
In his
bedroom at his new abode McMurdo felt it safe to
take out the coining moulds, and under many a pledge
of secrecy a number of brothers from the lodge were
allowed to come in and see them, each carrying away
in his pocket some examples of the false money, so
cunningly struck that there was never the slightest
difficulty or danger in passing it. Why, with such a
wonderful art at his command, McMurdo should
condescend to work at all was a perpetual mystery to
his companions; though he made it clear to anyone
who asked him that if he lived without any visible
means it would very quickly bring the police upon
his track.
One
policeman was indeed after him already; but the
incident, as luck would have it, did the adventurer
a great deal more good than harm. After the first
introduction there were few evenings when he did not
find his way to McGinty's saloon, there to make
closer acquaintance with "the boys," which was the
jovial title by which the dangerous gang who
infested the place were known to one another. His
dashing manner and fearlessness of speech made him a
favourite with them all; while the rapid and
scientific way in which he polished off his
antagonist in an "all in" bar-room scrap earned the
respect of that rough community. Another incident,
however, raised him even higher in their estimation.
Just at the
crowded hour one night, the door opened and a man
entered with the quiet blue uniform and peaked cap
of the mine police. This was a special body raised
by the railways and colliery owners to supplement
the efforts of the ordinary civil police, who were
perfectly helpless in the face of the organized
ruffianism which terrorized the district. There was
a hush as he entered, and many a curious glance was
cast at him; but the relations between policemen and
criminals are peculiar in some parts of the States,
and McGinty himself standing behind his counter,
showed no surprise when the policeman enrolled
himself among his customers.
"A straight
whisky, for the night is bitter," said the police
officer. "I don't think we have met before,
Councillor?"
"You'll be
the new captain?" said McGinty.
"That's so.
We're looking to you, Councillor, and to the other
leading citizens, to help us in upholding law and
order in this township. Captain Marvin is my name."
"We'd do
better without you, Captain Marvin," said McGinty
coldly; "for we have our own police of the township,
and no need for any imported goods. What are you but
the paid tool of the capitalists, hired by them to
club or shoot your poorer fellow citizen?"
"Well, well,
we won't argue about that," said the police officer
good-humouredly. "I expect we all do our duty same
as we see it; but we can't all see it the same." He
had drunk off his glass and had turned to go, when
his eyes fell upon the face of Jack McMurdo, who was
scowling at his elbow. "Hullo! Hullo!" he cried,
looking him up and down. "Here's an old
acquaintance!"
McMurdo
shrank away from him. "I was never a friend to you
nor any other cursed copper in my life," said he.
"An
acquaintance isn't always a friend," said the police
captain, grinning. "You're Jack McMurdo of Chicago,
right enough, and don't you deny it!"
McMurdo
shrugged his shoulders. "I'm not denying it," said
he. "D'ye think I'm ashamed of my own name?"
"You've got
good cause to be, anyhow."
"What the
devil d'you mean by that?" he roared with his fists
clenched.
"No, no,
Jack, bluster won't do with me. I was an officer in
Chicago before ever I came to this darned coal
bunker, and I know a Chicago crook when I see one."
McMurdo's
face fell. "Don't tell me that you're Marvin of the
Chicago Central!" he cried.
"Just the
same old Teddy Marvin, at your service. We haven't
forgotten the shooting of Jonas Pinto up there."
"I never
shot him."
"Did you
not? That's good impartial evidence, ain't it? Well,
his death came in uncommon handy for you, or they
would have had you for shoving the queer. Well, we
can let that be bygones; for, between you and me—and
perhaps I'm going further than my duty in saying
it—they could get no clear case against you, and
Chicago's open to you to-morrow."
"I'm very
well where I am."
"Well, I've
given you the pointer, and you're a sulky dog not to
thank me for it."
"Well, I
suppose you mean well, and I do thank you," said
McMurdo in no very gracious manner.
"It's mum
with me so long as I see you living on the
straight," said the captain. "But, by the Lord! if
you get off after this, it's another story! So
good-night to you—and goodnight, Councillor."
He left the
bar-room; but not before he had created a local
hero. McMurdo's deeds in far Chicago had been
whispered before. He had put off all questions with
a smile, as one who did not wish to have greatness
thrust upon him. But now the thing was officially
confirmed. The bar loafers crowded round him and
shook him heartily by the hand. He was free of the
community from that time on. He could drink hard and
show little trace of it; but that evening, had his
mate Scanlan not been at hand to lead him home, the
feted hero would surely have spent his night under
the bar.
On a
Saturday night McMurdo was introduced to the lodge.
He had thought to pass in without ceremony as being
an initiate of Chicago; but there were particular
rites in Vermissa of which they were proud, and
these had to be undergone by every postulant. The
assembly met in a large room reserved for such
purposes at the Union House. Some sixty members
assembled at Vermissa; but that by no means
represented the full strength of the organization,
for there were several other lodges in the valley,
and others across the mountains on each side, who
exchanged members when any serious business was
afoot, so that a crime might be done by men who were
strangers to the locality. Altogether there were not
less than five hundred scattered over the coal
district.
In the bare
assembly room the men were gathered round a long
table. At the side was a second one laden with
bottles and glasses, on which some members of the
company were already turning their eyes. McGinty sat
at the head with a flat black velvet cap upon his
shock of tangled black hair, and a coloured purple
stole round his neck, so that he seemed to be a
priest presiding over some diabolical ritual. To
right and left of him were the higher lodge
officials, the cruel, handsome face of Ted Baldwin
among them. Each of these wore some scarf or
medallion as emblem of his office.
They were,
for the most part, men of mature age; but the rest
of the company consisted of young fellows from
eighteen to twenty-five, the ready and capable
agents who carried out the commands of their
seniors. Among the older men were many whose
features showed the tigerish, lawless souls within;
but looking at the rank and file it was difficult to
believe that these eager and open-faced young
fellows were in very truth a dangerous gang of
murderers, whose minds had suffered such complete
moral perversion that they took a horrible pride in
their proficiency at the business, and looked with
deepest respect at the man who had the reputation of
making what they called "a clean job."
To their
contorted natures it had become a spirited and
chivalrous thing to volunteer for service against
some man who had never injured them, and whom in
many cases they had never seen in their lives. The
crime committed, they quarrelled as to who had
actually struck the fatal blow, and amused one
another and the company by describing the cries and
contortions of the murdered man.
At first
they had shown some secrecy in their arrangements;
but at the time which this narrative describes their
proceedings were extraordinarily open, for the
repeated failures of the law had proved to them
that, on the one hand, no one would dare to witness
against them, and on the other they had an unlimited
number of stanch witnesses upon whom they could
call, and a well-filled treasure chest from which
they could draw the funds to engage the best legal
talent in the state. In ten long years of outrage
there had been no single conviction, and the only
danger that ever threatened the Scowrers lay in the
victim himself—who, however outnumbered and taken by
surprise, might and occasionally did leave his mark
upon his assailants.
McMurdo had
been warned that some ordeal lay before him; but no
one would tell him in what it consisted. He was led
now into an outer room by two solemn brothers.
Through the plank partition he could hear the murmur
of many voices from the assembly within. Once or
twice he caught the sound of his own name, and he
knew that they were discussing his candidacy. Then
there entered an inner guard with a green and gold
sash across his chest.
"The
Bodymaster orders that he shall be trussed, blinded,
and entered," said he.
The three of
them removed his coat, turned up the sleeve of his
right arm, and finally passed a rope round above the
elbows and made it fast. They next placed a thick
black cap right over his head and the upper part of
his face, so that he could see nothing. He was then
led into the assembly hall.
It was pitch
dark and very oppressive under his hood. He heard
the rustle and murmur of the people round him, and
then the voice of McGinty sounded dull and distant
through the covering of his ears.
"John
McMurdo," said the voice, "are you already a member
of the Ancient Order of Freemen?"
He bowed in
assent.
"Is your
lodge No. 29, Chicago?"
He bowed
again.
"Dark nights
are unpleasant," said the voice.
"Yes, for
strangers to travel," he answered.
"The clouds
are heavy."
"Yes, a
storm is approaching."
"Are the
brethren satisfied?" asked the Bodymaster.
There was a
general murmur of assent.
"We know,
Brother, by your sign and by your countersign that
you are indeed one of us," said McGinty. "We would
have you know, however, that in this county and in
other counties of these parts we have certain rites,
and also certain duties of our own which call for
good men. Are you ready to be tested?"
"I am."
"Are you of
stout heart?"
"I am."
"Take a
stride forward to prove it."
As the words
were said he felt two hard points in front of his
eyes, pressing upon them so that it appeared as if
he could not move forward without a danger of losing
them. None the less, he nerved himself to step
resolutely out, and as he did so the pressure melted
away. There was a low murmur of applause.
"He is of
stout heart," said the voice. "Can you bear pain?"
"As well as
another," he answered.
"Test him!"
It was all
he could do to keep himself from screaming out, for
an agonizing pain shot through his forearm. He
nearly fainted at the sudden shock of it; but he bit
his lip and clenched his hands to hide his agony.
"I can take
more than that," said he.
This time
there was loud applause. A finer first appearance
had never been made in the lodge. Hands clapped him
on the back, and the hood was plucked from his head.
He stood blinking and smiling amid the
congratulations of the brothers.
"One last
word, Brother McMurdo," said McGinty. "You have
already sworn the oath of secrecy and fidelity, and
you are aware that the punishment for any breach of
it is instant and inevitable death?"
"I am," said
McMurdo.
"And you
accept the rule of the Bodymaster for the time being
under all circumstances?"
"I do."
"Then in the
name of Lodge 341, Vermissa, I welcome you to its
privileges and debates. You will put the liquor on
the table, Brother Scanlan, and we will drink to our
worthy brother."
McMurdo's
coat had been brought to him; but before putting it
on he examined his right arm, which still smarted
heavily. There on the flesh of the forearm was a
circle with a triangle within it, deep and red, as
the branding iron had left it. One or two of his
neighbours pulled up their sleeves and showed their
own lodge marks.
"We've all
had it," said one; "but not all as brave as you over
it."
"Tut! It was
nothing," said he; but it burned and ached all the
same.
When the
drinks which followed the ceremony of initiation had
all been disposed of, the business of the lodge
proceeded. McMurdo, accustomed only to the prosaic
performances of Chicago, listened with open ears and
more surprise than he ventured to show to what
followed.
"The first
business on the agenda paper," said McGinty, "is to
read the following letter from Division Master
Windle of Merton County Lodge 249. He says:
"DEAR SIR:
"There is a job
to be done on Andrew Rae of Rae & Sturmash, coal
owners near this place. You will remember that your
lodge owes us a return, having had the service of
two brethren in the matter of the patrolman last
fall. You will send two good men, they will be taken
charge of by Treasurer Higgins of this lodge, whose
address you know. He will show them when to act and
where. Yours in freedom,
"J. W. WINDLE D. M. A. O. F.
"Windle has never refused
us when we have had occasion to ask for the loan of
a man or two, and it is not for us to refuse him."
McGinty paused and looked round the room with his
dull, malevolent eyes. "Who will volunteer for the
job?"
Several
young fellows held up their hands. The Bodymaster
looked at them with an approving smile.
"You'll do,
Tiger Cormac. If you handle it as well as you did
the last, you won't be wrong. And you, Wilson."
"I've no
pistol," said the volunteer, a mere boy in his
teens.
"It's your
first, is it not? Well, you have to be blooded some
time. It will be a great start for you. As to the
pistol, you'll find it waiting for you, or I'm
mistaken. If you report yourselves on Monday, it
will be time enough. You'll get a great welcome when
you return."
"Any reward
this time?" asked Cormac, a thick-set, dark-faced,
brutal-looking young man, whose ferocity had earned
him the nickname of "Tiger."
"Never mind
the reward. You just do it for the honour of the
thing. Maybe when it is done there will be a few odd
dollars at the bottom of the box."
"What has
the man done?" asked young Wilson.
"Sure, it's
not for the likes of you to ask what the man has
done. He has been judged over there. That's no
business of ours. All we have to do is to carry it
out for them, same as they would for us. Speaking of
that, two brothers from the Merton lodge are coming
over to us next week to do some business in this
quarter."
"Who are
they?" asked someone.
"Faith, it
is wiser not to ask. If you know nothing, you can
testify nothing, and no trouble can come of it. But
they are men who will make a clean job when they are
about it."
"And time,
too!" cried Ted Baldwin. "Folk are gettin' out of
hand in these parts. It was only last week that
three of our men were turned off by Foreman Blaker.
It's been owing him a long time, and he'll get it
full and proper."
"Get what?"
McMurdo whispered to his neighbour.
"The
business end of a buckshot cartridge!" cried the man
with a loud laugh. "What think you of our ways,
Brother?"
McMurdo's
criminal soul seemed to have already absorbed the
spirit of the vile association of which he was now a
member. "I like it well," said he. "'Tis a proper
place for a lad of mettle."
Several of
those who sat around heard his words and applauded
them.
"What's
that?" cried the black-maned Bodymaster from the end
of the table.
"'Tis our
new brother, sir, who finds our ways to his taste."
McMurdo rose
to his feet for an instant. "I would say, Eminent
Bodymaster, that if a man should be wanted I should
take it as an honour to be chosen to help the
lodge."
There was
great applause at this. It was felt that a new sun
was pushing its rim above the horizon. To some of
the elders it seemed that the progress was a little
too rapid.
"I would
move," said the secretary, Harraway, a vulture-faced
old graybeard who sat near the chairman, "that
Brother McMurdo should wait until it is the good
pleasure of the lodge to employ him."
"Sure, that
was what I meant; I'm in your hands," said McMurdo.
"Your time
will come, Brother," said the chairman. "We have
marked you down as a willing man, and we believe
that you will do good work in these parts. There is
a small matter to-night in which you may take a hand
if it so please you."
"I will wait
for something that is worth while."
"You can
come to-night, anyhow, and it will help you to know
what we stand for in this community. I will make the
announcement later. Meanwhile," he glanced at his
agenda paper, "I have one or two more points to
bring before the meeting. First of all, I will ask
the treasurer as to our bank balance. There is the
pension to Jim Carnaway's widow. He was struck down
doing the work of the lodge, and it is for us to see
that she is not the loser."
"Jim was
shot last month when they tried to kill Chester
Wilcox of Marley Creek," McMurdo's neighbour
informed him.
"The funds
are good at the moment," said the treasurer, with
the bankbook in front of him. "The firms have been
generous of late. Max Linder & Co. paid five hundred
to be left alone. Walker Brothers sent in a hundred;
but I took it on myself to return it and ask for
five. If I do not hear by Wednesday, their winding
gear may get out of order. We had to burn their
breaker last year before they became reasonable.
Then the West Section Coaling Company has paid its
annual contribution. We have enough on hand to meet
any obligations."
"What about
Archie Swindon?" asked a brother.
"He has sold
out and left the district. The old devil left a note
for us to say that he had rather be a free crossing
sweeper in New York than a large mine owner under
the power of a ring of blackmailers. By Gar! it was
as well that he made a break for it before the note
reached us! I guess he won't show his face in this
valley again."
An elderly,
clean-shaved man with a kindly face and a good brow
rose from the end of the table which faced the
chairman. "Mr. Treasurer," he asked, "may I ask who
has bought the property of this man that we have
driven out of the district?"
"Yes,
Brother Morris. It has been bought by the State &
Merton County Railroad Company."
"And who
bought the mines of Todman and of Lee that came into
the market in the same way last year?"
"The same
company, Brother Morris."
"And who
bought the ironworks of Manson and of Shuman and of
Van Deher and of Atwood, which have all been given
up of late?"
"They were
all bought by the West Gilmerton General Mining
Company."
"I don't
see, Brother Morris," said the chairman, "that it
matters to us who buys them, since they can't carry
them out of the district."
"With all
respect to you, Eminent Bodymaster, I think it may
matter very much to us. This process has been going
on now for ten long years. We are gradually driving
all the small men out of trade. What is the result?
We find in their places great companies like the
Railroad or the General Iron, who have their
directors in New York or Philadelphia, and care
nothing for our threats. We can take it out of their
local bosses, but it only means that others will be
sent in their stead. And we are making it dangerous
for ourselves. The small men could not harm us. They
had not the money nor the power. So long as we did
not squeeze them too dry, they would stay on under
our power. But if these big companies find that we
stand between them and their profits, they will
spare no pains and no expense to hunt us down and
bring us to court."
There was a
hush at these ominous words, and every face darkened
as gloomy looks were exchanged. So omnipotent and
unchallenged had they been that the very thought
that there was possible retribution in the
background had been banished from their minds. And
yet the idea struck a chill to the most reckless of
them.
"It is my
advice," the speaker continued, "that we go easier
upon the small men. On the day that they have all
been driven out the power of this society will have
been broken."
Unwelcome
truths are not popular. There were angry cries as
the speaker resumed his seat. McGinty rose with
gloom upon his brow.
"Brother
Morris," said he, "you were always a croaker. So
long as the members of this lodge stand together
there is no power in the United States that can
touch them. Sure, have we not tried it often enough
in the law courts? I expect the big companies will
find it easier to pay than to fight, same as the
little companies do. And now, Brethren," McGinty
took off his black velvet cap and his stole as he
spoke, "this lodge has finished its business for the
evening, save for one small matter which may be
mentioned when we are parting. The time has now come
for fraternal refreshment and for harmony."
Strange
indeed is human nature. Here were these men, to whom
murder was familiar, who again and again had struck
down the father of the family, some man against whom
they had no personal feeling, without one thought of
compunction or of compassion for his weeping wife or
helpless children, and yet the tender or pathetic in
music could move them to tears. McMurdo had a fine
tenor voice, and if he had failed to gain the good
will of the lodge before, it could no longer have
been withheld after he had thrilled them with "I'm
Sitting on the Stile, Mary," and "On the Banks of
Allan Water."
In his very
first night the new recruit had made himself one of
the most popular of the brethren, marked already for
advancement and high office. There were other
qualities needed, however, besides those of good
fellowship, to make a worthy Freeman, and of these
he was given an example before the evening was over.
The whisky bottle had passed round many times, and
the men were flushed and ripe for mischief when
their Bodymaster rose once more to address them.
"Boys," said
he, "there's one man in this town that wants
trimming up, and it's for you to see that he gets
it. I'm speaking of James Stanger of the Herald.
You've seen how he's been opening his mouth against
us again?"
There was a
murmur of assent, with many a muttered oath. McGinty
took a slip of paper from his waistcoat pocket.
"LAW AND ORDER!
That's how he
heads it.
"REIGN OF
TERROR IN THE COAL AND IRON DISTRICT
"Twelve years
have now elapsed since the first assassinations
which proved the existence of a criminal
organization in our midst. From that day these
outrages have never ceased, until now they have
reached a pitch which makes us the opprobrium of the
civilized world. Is it for such results as this that
our great country welcomes to its bosom the alien
who flies from the despotisms of Europe? Is it that
they shall themselves become tyrants over the very
men who have given them shelter, and that a state of
terrorism and lawlessness should be established
under the very shadow of the sacred folds of the
starry Flag of Freedom which would raise horror in
our minds if we read of it as existing under the
most effete monarchy of the East? The men are known.
The organization is patent and public. How long are
we to endure it? Can we forever live—"
"Sure, I've
read enough of the slush!" cried the chairman,
tossing the paper down upon the table. "That's what
he says of us. The question I'm asking you is what
shall we say to him?"
"Kill him!"
cried a dozen fierce voices.
"I protest
against that," said Brother Morris, the man of the
good brow and shaved face. "I tell you, Brethren,
that our hand is too heavy in this valley, and that
there will come a point where in self-defense every
man will unite to crush us out. James Stanger is an
old man. He is respected in the township and the
district. His paper stands for all that is solid in
the valley. If that man is struck down, there will
be a stir through this state that will only end with
our destruction."
"And how
would they bring about our destruction, Mr.
Standback?" cried McGinty. "Is it by the police?
Sure, half of them are in our pay and half of them
afraid of us. Or is it by the law courts and the
judge? Haven't we tried that before now, and what
ever came of it?"
"There is a
Judge Lynch that might try the case," said Brother
Morris.
A general
shout of anger greeted the suggestion.
"I have but
to raise my finger," cried McGinty, "and I could put
two hundred men into this town that would clear it
out from end to end." Then suddenly raising his
voice and bending his huge black brows into a
terrible frown, "See here, Brother Morris, I have my
eye on you, and have had for some time! You've no
heart yourself, and you try to take the heart out of
others. It will be an ill day for you, Brother
Morris, when your own name comes on our agenda
paper, and I'm thinking that it's just there that I
ought to place it."
Morris had
turned deadly pale, and his knees seemed to give way
under him as he fell back into his chair. He raised
his glass in his trembling hand and drank before he
could answer. "I apologize, Eminent Bodymaster, to
you and to every brother in this lodge if I have
said more than I should. I am a faithful member—you
all know that—and it is my fear lest evil come to
the lodge which makes me speak in anxious words. But
I have greater trust in your judgment than in my
own, Eminent Bodymaster, and I promise you that I
will not offend again."
The
Bodymaster's scowl relaxed as he listened to the
humble words. "Very good, Brother Morris. It's
myself that would be sorry if it were needful to
give you a lesson. But so long as I am in this chair
we shall be a united lodge in word and in deed. And
now, boys," he continued, looking round at the
company, "I'll say this much, that if Stanger got
his full deserts there would be more trouble than we
need ask for. These editors hang together, and every
journal in the state would be crying out for police
and troops. But I guess you can give him a pretty
severe warning. Will you fix it, Brother Baldwin?"
"Sure!" said
the young man eagerly.
"How many
will you take?"
"Half a
dozen, and two to guard the door. You'll come,
Gower, and you, Mansel, and you, Scanlan, and the
two Willabys."
"I promised
the new brother he should go," said the chairman.
Ted Baldwin
looked at McMurdo with eyes which showed that he had
not forgotten nor forgiven. "Well, he can come if he
wants," he said in a surly voice. "That's enough.
The sooner we get to work the better."
The company
broke up with shouts and yells and snatches of
drunken song. The bar was still crowded with
revellers, and many of the brethren remained there.
The little band who had been told off for duty
passed out into the street, proceeding in twos and
threes along the sidewalk so as not to provoke
attention. It was a bitterly cold night, with a
half-moon shining brilliantly in a frosty,
star-spangled sky. The men stopped and gathered in a
yard which faced a high building. The words
"Vermissa Herald" were printed in gold lettering
between the brightly lit windows. From within came
the clanking of the printing press.
"Here, you,"
said Baldwin to McMurdo, "you can stand below at the
door and see that the road is kept open for us.
Arthur Willaby can stay with you. You others come
with me. Have no fears, boys; for we have a dozen
witnesses that we are in the Union Bar at this very
moment."
It was
nearly midnight, and the street was deserted save
for one or two revellers upon their way home. The
party crossed the road, and, pushing open the door
of the newspaper office, Baldwin and his men rushed
in and up the stair which faced them. McMurdo and
another remained below. From the room above came a
shout, a cry for help, and then the sound of
trampling feet and of falling chairs. An instant
later a gray-haired man rushed out on the landing.
He was
seized before he could get farther, and his
spectacles came tinkling down to McMurdo's feet.
There was a thud and a groan. He was on his face,
and half a dozen sticks were clattering together as
they fell upon him. He writhed, and his long, thin
limbs quivered under the blows. The others ceased at
last; but Baldwin, his cruel face set in an infernal
smile, was hacking at the man's head, which he
vainly endeavoured to defend with his arms. His
white hair was dabbled with patches of blood.
Baldwin was still stooping over his victim, putting
in a short, vicious blow whenever he could see a
part exposed, when McMurdo dashed up the stair and
pushed him back.
"You'll kill
the man," said he. "Drop it!"
Baldwin
looked at him in amazement. "Curse you!" he cried.
"Who are you to interfere—you that are new to the
lodge? Stand back!" He raised his stick; but McMurdo
had whipped his pistol out of his hip pocket.
"Stand back
yourself!" he cried. "I'll blow your face in if you
lay a hand on me. As to the lodge, wasn't it the
order of the Bodymaster that the man was not to be
killed—and what are you doing but killing him?"
"It's truth
he says," remarked one of the men.
"By Gar!
you'd best hurry yourselves!" cried the man below.
"The windows are all lighting up, and you'll have
the whole town here inside of five minutes."
There was
indeed the sound of shouting in the street, and a
little group of compositors and pressmen was forming
in the hall below and nerving itself to action.
Leaving the limp and motionless body of the editor
at the head of the stair, the criminals rushed down
and made their way swiftly along the street. Having
reached the Union House, some of them mixed with the
crowd in McGinty's saloon, whispering across the bar
to the Boss that the job had been well carried
through. Others, and among them McMurdo, broke away
into side streets, and so by devious paths to their
own homes.
Chapter 4
The Valley of
Fear
When McMurdo
awoke next morning he had good reason to remember
his initiation into the lodge. His head ached with
the effect of the drink, and his arm, where he had
been branded, was hot and swollen. Having his own
peculiar source of income, he was irregular in his
attendance at his work; so he had a late breakfast,
and remained at home for the morning writing a long
letter to a friend. Afterwards he read the Daily
Herald. In a special column put in at the last
moment he read:
OUTRAGE AT THE
HERALD OFFICE—EDITOR
SERIOUSLY INJURED.
It was a short
account of the facts with which he was himself more
familiar than the writer could have been. It ended
with the statement:
The matter is
now in the hands of the police; but it can hardly be
hoped that their exertions will be attended by any
better results than in the past. Some of the men
were recognized, and there is hope that a conviction
may be obtained. The source of the outrage was, it
need hardly be said, that infamous society which has
held this community in bondage for so long a period,
and against which the Herald has taken so
uncompromising a stand. Mr. Stanger's many friends
will rejoice to hear that, though he has been
cruelly and brutally beaten, and though he has
sustained severe injuries about the head, there is
no immediate danger to his life.
Below it stated
that a guard of police, armed with Winchester
rifles, had been requisitioned for the defense of
the office.
McMurdo had
laid down the paper, and was lighting his pipe with
a hand which was shaky from the excesses of the
previous evening, when there was a knock outside,
and his landlady brought to him a note which had
just been handed in by a lad. It was unsigned, and
ran thus:
I should wish
to speak to you, but would rather not do so in your
house. You will find me beside the flagstaff upon
Miller Hill. If you will come there now, I have
something which it is important for you to hear and
for me to say.
McMurdo read
the note twice with the utmost surprise; for he
could not imagine what it meant or who was the
author of it. Had it been in a feminine hand, he
might have imagined that it was the beginning of one
of those adventures which had been familiar enough
in his past life. But it was the writing of a man,
and of a well educated one, too. Finally, after some
hesitation, he determined to see the matter through.
Miller Hill
is an ill-kept public park in the very centre of the
town. In summer it is a favourite resort of the
people; but in winter it is desolate enough. From
the top of it one has a view not only of the whole
straggling, grimy town, but of the winding valley
beneath, with its scattered mines and factories
blackening the snow on each side of it, and of the
wooded and white-capped ranges flanking it.
McMurdo
strolled up the winding path hedged in with
evergreens until he reached the deserted restaurant
which forms the centre of summer gaiety. Beside it
was a bare flagstaff, and underneath it a man, his
hat drawn down and the collar of his overcoat turned
up. When he turned his face McMurdo saw that it was
Brother Morris, he who had incurred the anger of the
Bodymaster the night before. The lodge sign was
given and exchanged as they met.
"I wanted to
have a word with you, Mr. McMurdo," said the older
man, speaking with a hesitation which showed that he
was on delicate ground. "It was kind of you to
come."
"Why did you
not put your name to the note?"
"One has to
be cautious, mister. One never knows in times like
these how a thing may come back to one. One never
knows either who to trust or who not to trust."
"Surely one
may trust brothers of the lodge."
"No, no, not
always," cried Morris with vehemence. "Whatever we
say, even what we think, seems to go back to that
man McGinty."
"Look here!"
said McMurdo sternly. "It was only last night, as
you know well, that I swore good faith to our
Bodymaster. Would you be asking me to break my
oath?"
"If that is
the view you take," said Morris sadly, "I can only
say that I am sorry I gave you the trouble to come
and meet me. Things have come to a bad pass when two
free citizens cannot speak their thoughts to each
other."
McMurdo, who
had been watching his companion very narrowly,
relaxed somewhat in his bearing. "Sure I spoke for
myself only," said he. "I am a newcomer, as you
know, and I am strange to it all. It is not for me
to open my mouth, Mr. Morris, and if you think well
to say anything to me I am here to hear it."
"And to take
it back to Boss McGinty!" said Morris bitterly.
"Indeed,
then, you do me injustice there," cried McMurdo.
"For myself I am loyal to the lodge, and so I tell
you straight; but I would be a poor creature if I
were to repeat to any other what you might say to me
in confidence. It will go no further than me; though
I warn you that you may get neither help nor
sympathy."
"I have
given up looking for either the one or the other,"
said Morris. "I may be putting my very life in your
hands by what I say; but, bad as you are—and it
seemed to me last night that you were shaping to be
as bad as the worst—still you are new to it, and
your conscience cannot yet be as hardened as theirs.
That was why I thought to speak with you."
"Well, what
have you to say?"
"If you give
me away, may a curse be on you!"
"Sure, I
said I would not."
"I would ask
you, then, when you joined the Freeman's society in
Chicago and swore vows of charity and fidelity, did
ever it cross your mind that you might find it would
lead you to crime?"
"If you call
it crime," McMurdo answered.
"Call it
crime!" cried Morris, his voice vibrating with
passion. "You have seen little of it if you can call
it anything else. Was it crime last night when a man
old enough to be your father was beaten till the
blood dripped from his white hairs? Was that
crime—or what else would you call it?"
"There are
some would say it was war," said McMurdo, "a war of
two classes with all in, so that each struck as best
it could."
"Well, did
you think of such a thing when you joined the
Freeman's society at Chicago?"
"No, I'm
bound to say I did not."
"Nor did I
when I joined it at Philadelphia. It was just a
benefit club and a meeting place for one's fellows.
Then I heard of this place—curse the hour that the
name first fell upon my ears!—and I came to better
myself! My God! to better myself! My wife and three
children came with me. I started a dry goods store
on Market Square, and I prospered well. The word had
gone round that I was a Freeman, and I was forced to
join the local lodge, same as you did last night.
I've the badge of shame on my forearm and something
worse branded on my heart. I found that I was under
the orders of a black villain and caught in a
meshwork of crime. What could I do? Every word I
said to make things better was taken as treason,
same as it was last night. I can't get away; for all
I have in the world is in my store. If I leave the
society, I know well that it means murder to me, and
God knows what to my wife and children. Oh, man, it
is awful—awful!" He put his hands to his face, and
his body shook with convulsive sobs.
McMurdo
shrugged his shoulders. "You were too soft for the
job," said he. "You are the wrong sort for such
work."
"I had a
conscience and a religion; but they made me a
criminal among them. I was chosen for a job. If I
backed down I knew well what would come to me. Maybe
I'm a coward. Maybe it's the thought of my poor
little woman and the children that makes me one.
Anyhow I went. I guess it will haunt me forever.
"It was a
lonely house, twenty miles from here, over the range
yonder. I was told off for the door, same as you
were last night. They could not trust me with the
job. The others went in. When they came out their
hands were crimson to the wrists. As we turned away
a child was screaming out of the house behind us. It
was a boy of five who had seen his father murdered.
I nearly fainted with the horror of it, and yet I
had to keep a bold and smiling face; for well I knew
that if I did not it would be out of my house that
they would come next with their bloody hands and it
would be my little Fred that would be screaming for
his father.
"But I was a
criminal then, part sharer in a murder, lost forever
in this world, and lost also in the next. I am a
good Catholic; but the priest would have no word
with me when he heard I was a Scowrer, and I am
excommunicated from my faith. That's how it stands
with me. And I see you going down the same road, and
I ask you what the end is to be. Are you ready to be
a cold-blooded murderer also, or can we do anything
to stop it?"
"What would
you do?" asked McMurdo abruptly. "You would not
inform?"
"God
forbid!" cried Morris. "Sure, the very thought would
cost me my life."
"That's
well," said McMurdo. "I'm thinking that you are a
weak man and that you make too much of the matter."
"Too much!
Wait till you have lived here longer. Look down the
valley! See the cloud of a hundred chimneys that
overshadows it! I tell you that the cloud of murder
hangs thicker and lower than that over the heads of
the people. It is the Valley of Fear, the Valley of
Death. The terror is in the hearts of the people
from the dusk to the dawn. Wait, young man, and you
will learn for yourself."
"Well, I'll
let you know what I think when I have seen more,"
said McMurdo carelessly. "What is very clear is that
you are not the man for the place, and that the
sooner you sell out—if you only get a dime a dollar
for what the business is worth—the better it will be
for you. What you have said is safe with me; but, by
Gar! if I thought you were an informer—"
"No, no!"
cried Morris piteously.
"Well, let
it rest at that. I'll bear what you have said in
mind, and maybe some day I'll come back to it. I
expect you meant kindly by speaking to me like this.
Now I'll be getting home."
"One word
before you go," said Morris. "We may have been seen
together. They may want to know what we have spoken
about."
"Ah! that's
well thought of."
"I offer you
a clerkship in my store."
"And I
refuse it. That's our business. Well, so long,
Brother Morris, and may you find things go better
with you in the future."
That same
afternoon, as McMurdo sat smoking, lost in thought
beside the stove of his sitting-room, the door swung
open and its framework was filled with the huge
figure of Boss McGinty. He passed the sign, and then
seating himself opposite to the young man he looked
at him steadily for some time, a look which was as
steadily returned.
"I'm not
much of a visitor, Brother McMurdo," he said at
last. "I guess I am too busy over the folk that
visit me. But I thought I'd stretch a point and drop
down to see you in your own house."
"I'm proud
to see you here, Councillor," McMurdo answered
heartily, bringing his whisky bottle out of the
cupboard. "It's an honour that I had not expected."
"How's the
arm?" asked the Boss.
McMurdo made
a wry face. "Well, I'm not forgetting it," he said;
"but it's worth it."
"Yes, it's
worth it," the other answered, "to those that are
loyal and go through with it and are a help to the
lodge. What were you speaking to Brother Morris
about on Miller Hill this morning?"
The question
came so suddenly that it was well that he had his
answer prepared. He burst into a hearty laugh.
"Morris didn't know I could earn a living here at
home. He shan't know either; for he has got too much
conscience for the likes of me. But he's a
good-hearted old chap. It was his idea that I was at
a loose end, and that he would do me a good turn by
offering me a clerkship in a dry goods store."
"Oh, that
was it?"
"Yes, that
was it."
"And you
refused it?"
"Sure.
Couldn't I earn ten times as much in my own bedroom
with four hours' work?"
"That's so.
But I wouldn't get about too much with Morris."
"Why not?"
"Well, I
guess because I tell you not. That's enough for most
folk in these parts."
"It may be
enough for most folk; but it ain't enough for me,
Councillor," said McMurdo boldly. "If you are a
judge of men, you'll know that."
The swarthy
giant glared at him, and his hairy paw closed for an
instant round the glass as though he would hurl it
at the head of his companion. Then he laughed in his
loud, boisterous, insincere fashion.
"You're a
queer card, for sure," said he. "Well, if you want
reasons, I'll give them. Did Morris say nothing to
you against the lodge?"
"No."
"Nor against
me?"
"No."
"Well,
that's because he daren't trust you. But in his
heart he is not a loyal brother. We know that well.
So we watch him and we wait for the time to admonish
him. I'm thinking that the time is drawing near.
There's no room for scabby sheep in our pen. But if
you keep company with a disloyal man, we might think
that you were disloyal, too. See?"
"There's no
chance of my keeping company with him; for I dislike
the man," McMurdo answered. "As to being disloyal,
if it was any man but you he would not use the word
to me twice."
"Well,
that's enough," said McGinty, draining off his
glass. "I came down to give you a word in season,
and you've had it."
"I'd like to
know," said McMurdo, "how you ever came to learn
that I had spoken with Morris at all?"
McGinty
laughed. "It's my business to know what goes on in
this township," said he. "I guess you'd best reckon
on my hearing all that passes. Well, time's up, and
I'll just say—"
But his
leavetaking was cut short in a very unexpected
fashion. With a sudden crash the door flew open, and
three frowning, intent faces glared in at them from
under the peaks of police caps. McMurdo sprang to
his feet and half drew his revolver; but his arm
stopped midway as he became conscious that two
Winchester rifles were levelled at his head. A man
in uniform advanced into the room, a six-shooter in
his hand. It was Captain Marvin, once of Chicago,
and now of the Mine Constabulary. He shook his head
with a half-smile at McMurdo.
"I thought
you'd be getting into trouble, Mr. Crooked McMurdo
of Chicago," said he. "Can't keep out of it, can
you? Take your hat and come along with us."
"I guess
you'll pay for this, Captain Marvin," said McGinty.
"Who are you, I'd like to know, to break into a
house in this fashion and molest honest, law-abiding
men?"
"You're
standing out in this deal, Councillor McGinty," said
the police captain. "We are not out after you, but
after this man McMurdo. It is for you to help, not
to hinder us in our duty."
"He is a
friend of mine, and I'll answer for his conduct,"
said the Boss.
"By all
accounts, Mr. McGinty, you may have to answer for
your own conduct some of these days," the captain
answered. "This man McMurdo was a crook before ever
he came here, and he's a crook still. Cover him,
Patrolman, while I disarm him."
"There's my
pistol," said McMurdo coolly. "Maybe, Captain
Marvin, if you and I were alone and face to face you
would not take me so easily."
"Where's
your warrant?" asked McGinty. "By Gar! a man might
as well live in Russia as in Vermissa while folk
like you are running the police. It's a capitalist
outrage, and you'll hear more of it, I reckon."
"You do what
you think is your duty the best way you can,
Councillor. We'll look after ours."
"What am I
accused of?" asked McMurdo.
"Of being
concerned in the beating of old Editor Stanger at
the Herald office. It wasn't your fault that it
isn't a murder charge."
"Well, if
that's all you have against him," cried McGinty with
a laugh, "you can save yourself a deal of trouble by
dropping it right now. This man was with me in my
saloon playing poker up to midnight, and I can bring
a dozen to prove it."
"That's your
affair, and I guess you can settle it in court
to-morrow. Meanwhile, come on, McMurdo, and come
quietly if you don't want a gun across your head.
You stand wide, Mr. McGinty; for I warn you I will
stand no resistance when I am on duty!"
So
determined was the appearance of the captain that
both McMurdo and his boss were forced to accept the
situation. The latter managed to have a few
whispered words with the prisoner before they
parted.
"What
about—" he jerked his thumb upward to signify the
coining plant.
"All right,"
whispered McMurdo, who had devised a safe hiding
place under the floor.
"I'll bid
you good-bye," said the Boss, shaking hands. "I'll
see Reilly the lawyer and take the defense upon
myself. Take my word for it that they won't be able
to hold you."
"I wouldn't
bet on that. Guard the prisoner, you two, and shoot
him if he tries any games. I'll search the house
before I leave."
He did so;
but apparently found no trace of the concealed
plant. When he had descended he and his men escorted
McMurdo to headquarters. Darkness had fallen, and a
keen blizzard was blowing so that the streets were
nearly deserted; but a few loiterers followed the
group, and emboldened by invisibility shouted
imprecations at the prisoner.
"Lynch the
cursed Scowrer!" they cried. "Lynch him!" They
laughed and jeered as he was pushed into the police
station. After a short, formal examination from the
inspector in charge he was put into the common cell.
Here he found Baldwin and three other criminals of
the night before, all arrested that afternoon and
waiting their trial next morning.
But even
within this inner fortress of the law the long arm
of the Freemen was able to extend. Late at night
there came a jailer with a straw bundle for their
bedding, out of which he extracted two bottles of
whisky, some glasses, and a pack of cards. They
spent a hilarious night, without an anxious thought
as to the ordeal of the morning.
Nor had they
cause, as the result was to show. The magistrate
could not possibly, on the evidence, have held them
for a higher court. On the one hand the compositors
and pressmen were forced to admit that the light was
uncertain, that they were themselves much perturbed,
and that it was difficult for them to swear to the
identity of the assailants; although they believed
that the accused were among them. Cross examined by
the clever attorney who had been engaged by McGinty,
they were even more nebulous in their evidence.
The injured
man had already deposed that he was so taken by
surprise by the suddenness of the attack that he
could state nothing beyond the fact that the first
man who struck him wore a moustache. He added that
he knew them to be Scowrers, since no one else in
the community could possibly have any enmity to him,
and he had long been threatened on account of his
outspoken editorials. On the other hand, it was
clearly shown by the united and unfaltering evidence
of six citizens, including that high municipal
official, Councillor McGinty, that the men had been
at a card party at the Union House until an hour
very much later than the commission of the outrage.
Needless to
say that they were discharged with something very
near to an apology from the bench for the
inconvenience to which they had been put, together
with an implied censure of Captain Marvin and the
police for their officious zeal.
The verdict
was greeted with loud applause by a court in which
McMurdo saw many familiar faces. Brothers of the
lodge smiled and waved. But there were others who
sat with compressed lips and brooding eyes as the
men filed out of the dock. One of them, a little,
dark-bearded, resolute fellow, put the thoughts of
himself and comrades into words as the ex-prisoners
passed him.
"You damned
murderers!" he said. "We'll fix you yet!"
Chapter 5
The Darkest
Hour
If anything
had been needed to give an impetus to Jack McMurdo's
popularity among his fellows it would have been his
arrest and acquittal. That a man on the very night
of joining the lodge should have done something
which brought him before the magistrate was a new
record in the annals of the society. Already he had
earned the reputation of a good boon companion, a
cheery reveller, and withal a man of high temper,
who would not take an insult even from the
all-powerful Boss himself. But in addition to this
he impressed his comrades with the idea that among
them all there was not one whose brain was so ready
to devise a bloodthirsty scheme, or whose hand would
be more capable of carrying it out. "He'll be the
boy for the clean job," said the oldsters to one
another, and waited their time until they could set
him to his work.
McGinty had
instruments enough already; but he recognized that
this was a supremely able one. He felt like a man
holding a fierce bloodhound in leash. There were
curs to do the smaller work; but some day he would
slip this creature upon its prey. A few members of
the lodge, Ted Baldwin among them, resented the
rapid rise of the stranger and hated him for it; but
they kept clear of him, for he was as ready to fight
as to laugh.
But if he
gained favour with his fellows, there was another
quarter, one which had become even more vital to
him, in which he lost it. Ettie Shafter's father
would have nothing more to do with him, nor would he
allow him to enter the house. Ettie herself was too
deeply in love to give him up altogether, and yet
her own good sense warned her of what would come
from a marriage with a man who was regarded as a
criminal.
One morning
after a sleepless night she determined to see him,
possibly for the last time, and make one strong
endeavour to draw him from those evil influences
which were sucking him down. She went to his house,
as he had often begged her to do, and made her way
into the room which he used as his sitting-room. He
was seated at a table, with his back turned and a
letter in front of him. A sudden spirit of girlish
mischief came over her—she was still only nineteen.
He had not heard her when she pushed open the door.
Now she tiptoed forward and laid her hand lightly
upon his bended shoulders.
If she had
expected to startle him, she certainly succeeded;
but only in turn to be startled herself. With a
tiger spring he turned on her, and his right hand
was feeling for her throat. At the same instant with
the other hand he crumpled up the paper that lay
before him. For an instant he stood glaring. Then
astonishment and joy took the place of the ferocity
which had convulsed his features—a ferocity which
had sent her shrinking back in horror as from
something which had never before intruded into her
gentle life.
"It's you!"
said he, mopping his brow. "And to think that you
should come to me, heart of my heart, and I should
find nothing better to do than to want to strangle
you! Come then, darling," and he held out his arms,
"let me make it up to you."
But she had
not recovered from that sudden glimpse of guilty
fear which she had read in the man's face. All her
woman's instinct told her that it was not the mere
fright of a man who is startled. Guilt—that was
it—guilt and fear!
"What's come
over you, Jack?" she cried. "Why were you so scared
of me? Oh, Jack, if your conscience was at ease, you
would not have looked at me like that!"
"Sure, I was
thinking of other things, and when you came tripping
so lightly on those fairy feet of yours—"
"No, no, it
was more than that, Jack." Then a sudden suspicion
seized her. "Let me see that letter you were
writing."
"Ah, Ettie,
I couldn't do that."
Her
suspicions became certainties. "It's to another
woman," she cried. "I know it! Why else should you
hold it from me? Was it to your wife that you were
writing? How am I to know that you are not a married
man—you, a stranger, that nobody knows?"
"I am not
married, Ettie. See now, I swear it! You're the only
one woman on earth to me. By the cross of Christ I
swear it!"
He was so
white with passionate earnestness that she could not
but believe him.
"Well,
then," she cried, "why will you not show me the
letter?"
"I'll tell
you, acushla," said he. "I'm under oath not to show
it, and just as I wouldn't break my word to you so I
would keep it to those who hold my promise. It's the
business of the lodge, and even to you it's secret.
And if I was scared when a hand fell on me, can't
you understand it when it might have been the hand
of a detective?"
She felt
that he was telling the truth. He gathered her into
his arms and kissed away her fears and doubts.
"Sit here by
me, then. It's a queer throne for such a queen; but
it's the best your poor lover can find. He'll do
better for you some of these days, I'm thinking. Now
your mind is easy once again, is it not?"
"How can it
ever be at ease, Jack, when I know that you are a
criminal among criminals, when I never know the day
that I may hear you are in court for murder?
'McMurdo the Scowrer,' that's what one of our
boarders called you yesterday. It went through my
heart like a knife."
"Sure, hard
words break no bones."
"But they
were true."
"Well, dear,
it's not so bad as you think. We are but poor men
that are trying in our own way to get our rights."
Ettie threw
her arms round her lover's neck. "Give it up, Jack!
For my sake, for God's sake, give it up! It was to
ask you that I came here to-day. Oh, Jack, see—I beg
it of you on my bended knees! Kneeling here before
you I implore you to give it up!"
He raised
her and soothed her with her head against his
breast.
"Sure, my
darlin', you don't know what it is you are asking.
How could I give it up when it would be to break my
oath and to desert my comrades? If you could see how
things stand with me you could never ask it of me.
Besides, if I wanted to, how could I do it? You
don't suppose that the lodge would let a man go free
with all its secrets?"
"I've
thought of that, Jack. I've planned it all. Father
has saved some money. He is weary of this place
where the fear of these people darkens our lives. He
is ready to go. We would fly together to
Philadelphia or New York, where we would be safe
from them."
McMurdo
laughed. "The lodge has a long arm. Do you think it
could not stretch from here to Philadelphia or New
York?"
"Well, then,
to the West, or to England, or to Germany, where
father came from—anywhere to get away from this
Valley of Fear!"
McMurdo
thought of old Brother Morris. "Sure, it is the
second time I have heard the valley so named," said
he. "The shadow does indeed seem to lie heavy on
some of you."
"It darkens
every moment of our lives. Do you suppose that Ted
Baldwin has ever forgiven us? If it were not that he
fears you, what do you suppose our chances would be?
If you saw the look in those dark, hungry eyes of
his when they fall on me!"
"By Gar! I'd
teach him better manners if I caught him at it! But
see here, little girl. I can't leave here. I
can't—take that from me once and for all. But if you
will leave me to find my own way, I will try to
prepare a way of getting honourably out of it."
"There is no
honour in such a matter."
"Well, well,
it's just how you look at it. But if you'll give me
six months, I'll work it so that I can leave without
being ashamed to look others in the face."
The girl
laughed with joy. "Six months!" she cried. "Is it a
promise?"
"Well, it
may be seven or eight. But within a year at the
furthest we will leave the valley behind us."
It was the
most that Ettie could obtain, and yet it was
something. There was this distant light to
illuminate the gloom of the immediate future. She
returned to her father's house more light-hearted
than she had ever been since Jack McMurdo had come
into her life.
It might be
thought that as a member, all the doings of the
society would be told to him; but he was soon to
discover that the organization was wider and more
complex than the simple lodge. Even Boss McGinty was
ignorant as to many things; for there was an
official named the County Delegate, living at
Hobson's Patch farther down the line, who had power
over several different lodges which he wielded in a
sudden and arbitrary way. Only once did McMurdo see
him, a sly, little gray-haired rat of a man, with a
slinking gait and a sidelong glance which was
charged with malice. Evans Pott was his name, and
even the great Boss of Vermissa felt towards him
something of the repulsion and fear which the huge
Danton may have felt for the puny but dangerous
Robespierre.
One day
Scanlan, who was McMurdo's fellow boarder, received
a note from McGinty inclosing one from Evans Pott,
which informed him that he was sending over two good
men, Lawler and Andrews, who had instructions to act
in the neighbourhood; though it was best for the
cause that no particulars as to their objects should
be given. Would the Bodymaster see to it that
suitable arrangements be made for their lodgings and
comfort until the time for action should arrive?
McGinty added that it was impossible for anyone to
remain secret at the Union House, and that,
therefore, he would be obliged if McMurdo and
Scanlan would put the strangers up for a few days in
their boarding house.
The same
evening the two men arrived, each carrying his
gripsack. Lawler was an elderly man, shrewd, silent,
and self-contained, clad in an old black frock coat,
which with his soft felt hat and ragged, grizzled
beard gave him a general resemblance to an itinerant
preacher. His companion Andrews was little more than
a boy, frank-faced and cheerful, with the breezy
manner of one who is out for a holiday and means to
enjoy every minute of it. Both men were total
abstainers, and behaved in all ways as exemplary
members of the society, with the one simple
exception that they were assassins who had often
proved themselves to be most capable instruments for
this association of murder. Lawler had already
carried out fourteen commissions of the kind, and
Andrews three.
They were,
as McMurdo found, quite ready to converse about
their deeds in the past, which they recounted with
the half-bashful pride of men who had done good and
unselfish service for the community. They were
reticent, however, as to the immediate job in hand.
"They chose
us because neither I nor the boy here drink," Lawler
explained. "They can count on us saying no more than
we should. You must not take it amiss, but it is the
orders of the County Delegate that we obey."
"Sure, we
are all in it together," said Scanlan, McMurdo's
mate, as the four sat together at supper.
"That's true
enough, and we'll talk till the cows come home of
the killing of Charlie Williams or of Simon Bird, or
any other job in the past. But till the work is done
we say nothing."
"There are
half a dozen about here that I have a word to say
to," said McMurdo, with an oath. "I suppose it isn't
Jack Knox of Ironhill that you are after. I'd go
some way to see him get his deserts."
"No, it's
not him yet."
"Or Herman
Strauss?"
"No, nor him
either."
"Well, if
you won't tell us we can't make you; but I'd be glad
to know."
Lawler
smiled and shook his head. He was not to be drawn.
In spite of
the reticence of their guests, Scanlan and McMurdo
were quite determined to be present at what they
called "the fun." When, therefore, at an early hour
one morning McMurdo heard them creeping down the
stairs he awakened Scanlan, and the two hurried on
their clothes. When they were dressed they found
that the others had stolen out, leaving the door
open behind them. It was not yet dawn, and by the
light of the lamps they could see the two men some
distance down the street. They followed them warily,
treading noiselessly in the deep snow.
The boarding
house was near the edge of the town, and soon they
were at the crossroads which is beyond its boundary.
Here three men were waiting, with whom Lawler and
Andrews held a short, eager conversation. Then they
all moved on together. It was clearly some notable
job which needed numbers. At this point there are
several trails which lead to various mines. The
strangers took that which led to the Crow Hill, a
huge business which was in strong hands which had
been able, thanks to their energetic and fearless
New England manager, Josiah H. Dunn, to keep some
order and discipline during the long reign of
terror.
Day was
breaking now, and a line of workmen were slowly
making their way, singly and in groups, along the
blackened path.
McMurdo and
Scanlan strolled on with the others, keeping in
sight of the men whom they followed. A thick mist
lay over them, and from the heart of it there came
the sudden scream of a steam whistle. It was the
ten-minute signal before the cages descended and the
day's labour began.
When they
reached the open space round the mine shaft there
were a hundred miners waiting, stamping their feet
and blowing on their fingers; for it was bitterly
cold. The strangers stood in a little group under
the shadow of the engine house. Scanlan and McMurdo
climbed a heap of slag from which the whole scene
lay before them. They saw the mine engineer, a great
bearded Scotchman named Menzies, come out of the
engine house and blow his whistle for the cages to
be lowered.
At the same
instant a tall, loose-framed young man with a
clean-shaved, earnest face advanced eagerly towards
the pit head. As he came forward his eyes fell upon
the group, silent and motionless, under the engine
house. The men had drawn down their hats and turned
up their collars to screen their faces. For a moment
the presentiment of Death laid its cold hand upon
the manager's heart. At the next he had shaken it
off and saw only his duty towards intrusive
strangers.
"Who are
you?" he asked as he advanced. "What are you
loitering there for?"
There was no
answer; but the lad Andrews stepped forward and shot
him in the stomach. The hundred waiting miners stood
as motionless and helpless as if they were
paralyzed. The manager clapped his two hands to the
wound and doubled himself up. Then he staggered
away; but another of the assassins fired, and he
went down sidewise, kicking and clawing among a heap
of clinkers. Menzies, the Scotchman, gave a roar of
rage at the sight and rushed with an iron spanner at
the murderers; but was met by two balls in the face
which dropped him dead at their very feet.
There was a
surge forward of some of the miners, and an
inarticulate cry of pity and of anger; but a couple
of the strangers emptied their six-shooters over the
heads of the crowd, and they broke and scattered,
some of them rushing wildly back to their homes in
Vermissa.
When a few
of the bravest had rallied, and there was a return
to the mine, the murderous gang had vanished in the
mists of morning, without a single witness being
able to swear to the identity of these men who in
front of a hundred spectators had wrought this
double crime.
Scanlan and
McMurdo made their way back; Scanlan somewhat
subdued, for it was the first murder job that he had
seen with his own eyes, and it appeared less funny
than he had been led to believe. The horrible
screams of the dead manager's wife pursued them as
they hurried to the town. McMurdo was absorbed and
silent; but he showed no sympathy for the weakening
of his companion.
"Sure, it is
like a war," he repeated. "What is it but a war
between us and them, and we hit back where we best
can."
There was
high revel in the lodge room at the Union House that
night, not only over the killing of the manager and
engineer of the Crow Hill mine, which would bring
this organization into line with the other
blackmailed and terror-stricken companies of the
district, but also over a distant triumph which had
been wrought by the hands of the lodge itself.
It would
appear that when the County Delegate had sent over
five good men to strike a blow in Vermissa, he had
demanded that in return three Vermissa men should be
secretly selected and sent across to kill William
Hales of Stake Royal, one of the best known and most
popular mine owners in the Gilmerton district, a man
who was believed not to have an enemy in the world;
for he was in all ways a model employer. He had
insisted, however, upon efficiency in the work, and
had, therefore, paid off certain drunken and idle
employees who were members of the all-powerful
society. Coffin notices hung outside his door had
not weakened his resolution, and so in a free,
civilized country he found himself condemned to
death.
The
execution had now been duly carried out. Ted
Baldwin, who sprawled now in the seat of honour
beside the Bodymaster, had been chief of the party.
His flushed face and glazed, blood-shot eyes told of
sleeplessness and drink. He and his two comrades had
spent the night before among the mountains. They
were unkempt and weather-stained. But no heroes,
returning from a forlorn hope, could have had a
warmer welcome from their comrades.
The story
was told and retold amid cries of delight and shouts
of laughter. They had waited for their man as he
drove home at nightfall, taking their station at the
top of a steep hill, where his horse must be at a
walk. He was so furred to keep out the cold that he
could not lay his hand on his pistol. They had
pulled him out and shot him again and again. He had
screamed for mercy. The screams were repeated for
the amusement of the lodge.
"Let's hear
again how he squealed," they cried.
None of them
knew the man; but there is eternal drama in a
killing, and they had shown the Scowrers of
Gilmerton that the Vermissa men were to be relied
upon.
There had
been one contretemps; for a man and his wife had
driven up while they were still emptying their
revolvers into the silent body. It had been
suggested that they should shoot them both; but they
were harmless folk who were not connected with the
mines, so they were sternly bidden to drive on and
keep silent, lest a worse thing befall them. And so
the blood-mottled figure had been left as a warning
to all such hard-hearted employers, and the three
noble avengers had hurried off into the mountains
where unbroken nature comes down to the very edge of
the furnaces and the slag heaps. Here they were,
safe and sound, their work well done, and the
plaudits of their companions in their ears.
It had been
a great day for the Scowrers. The shadow had fallen
even darker over the valley. But as the wise general
chooses the moment of victory in which to redouble
his efforts, so that his foes may have no time to
steady themselves after disaster, so Boss McGinty,
looking out upon the scene of his operations with
his brooding and malicious eyes, had devised a new
attack upon those who opposed him. That very night,
as the half-drunken company broke up, he touched
McMurdo on the arm and led him aside into that inner
room where they had their first interview.
"See here,
my lad," said he, "I've got a job that's worthy of
you at last. You'll have the doing of it in your own
hands."
"Proud I am
to hear it," McMurdo answered.
"You can
take two men with you—Manders and Reilly. They have
been warned for service. We'll never be right in
this district until Chester Wilcox has been settled,
and you'll have the thanks of every lodge in the
coal fields if you can down him."
"I'll do my
best, anyhow. Who is he, and where shall I find
him?"
McGinty took
his eternal half-chewed, half-smoked cigar from the
corner of his mouth, and proceeded to draw a rough
diagram on a page torn from his notebook.
"He's the
chief foreman of the Iron Dike Company. He's a hard
citizen, an old colour sergeant of the war, all
scars and grizzle. We've had two tries at him; but
had no luck, and Jim Carnaway lost his life over it.
Now it's for you to take it over. That's the
house—all alone at the Iron Dike crossroad, same as
you see here on the map—without another within
earshot. It's no good by day. He's armed and shoots
quick and straight, with no questions asked. But at
night—well, there he is with his wife, three
children, and a hired help. You can't pick or
choose. It's all or none. If you could get a bag of
blasting powder at the front door with a slow match
to it—"
"What's the
man done?"
"Didn't I
tell you he shot Jim Carnaway?"
"Why did he
shoot him?"
"What in
thunder has that to do with you? Carnaway was about
his house at night, and he shot him. That's enough
for me and you. You've got to settle the thing
right."
"There's
these two women and the children. Do they go up
too?"
"They have
to—else how can we get him?"
"It seems
hard on them; for they've done nothing."
"What sort
of fool's talk is this? Do you back out?"
"Easy,
Councillor, easy! What have I ever said or done that
you should think I would be after standing back from
an order of the Bodymaster of my own lodge? If it's
right or if it's wrong, it's for you to decide."
"You'll do
it, then?"
"Of course I
will do it."
"When?"
"Well, you
had best give me a night or two that I may see the
house and make my plans. Then—"
"Very good,"
said McGinty, shaking him by the hand. "I leave it
with you. It will be a great day when you bring us
the news. It's just the last stroke that will bring
them all to their knees."
McMurdo
thought long and deeply over the commission which
had been so suddenly placed in his hands. The
isolated house in which Chester Wilcox lived was
about five miles off in an adjacent valley. That
very night he started off all alone to prepare for
the attempt. It was daylight before he returned from
his reconnaissance. Next day he interviewed his two
subordinates, Manders and Reilly, reckless
youngsters who were as elated as if it were a
deer-hunt.
Two nights
later they met outside the town, all three armed,
and one of them carrying a sack stuffed with the
powder which was used in the quarries. It was two in
the morning before they came to the lonely house.
The night was a windy one, with broken clouds
drifting swiftly across the face of a three-quarter
moon. They had been warned to be on their guard
against bloodhounds; so they moved forward
cautiously, with their pistols cocked in their
hands. But there was no sound save the howling of
the wind, and no movement but the swaying branches
above them.
McMurdo
listened at the door of the lonely house; but all
was still within. Then he leaned the powder bag
against it, ripped a hole in it with his knife, and
attached the fuse. When it was well alight he and
his two companions took to their heels, and were
some distance off, safe and snug in a sheltering
ditch, before the shattering roar of the explosion,
with the low, deep rumble of the collapsing
building, told them that their work was done. No
cleaner job had ever been carried out in the
bloodstained annals of the society.
But alas
that work so well organized and boldly carried out
should all have gone for nothing! Warned by the fate
of the various victims, and knowing that he was
marked down for destruction, Chester Wilcox had
moved himself and his family only the day before to
some safer and less known quarters, where a guard of
police should watch over them. It was an empty house
which had been torn down by the gunpowder, and the
grim old colour sergeant of the war was still
teaching discipline to the miners of Iron Dike.
"Leave him
to me," said McMurdo. "He's my man, and I'll get him
sure if I have to wait a year for him."
A vote of
thanks and confidence was passed in full lodge, and
so for the time the matter ended. When a few weeks
later it was reported in the papers that Wilcox had
been shot at from an ambuscade, it was an open
secret that McMurdo was still at work upon his
unfinished job.
Such were
the methods of the Society of Freemen, and such were
the deeds of the Scowrers by which they spread their
rule of fear over the great and rich district which
was for so long a period haunted by their terrible
presence. Why should these pages be stained by
further crimes? Have I not said enough to show the
men and their methods?
These deeds
are written in history, and there are records
wherein one may read the details of them. There one
may learn of the shooting of Policemen Hunt and
Evans because they had ventured to arrest two
members of the society—a double outrage planned at
the Vermissa lodge and carried out in cold blood
upon two helpless and disarmed men. There also one
may read of the shooting of Mrs. Larbey when she was
nursing her husband, who had been beaten almost to
death by orders of Boss McGinty. The killing of the
elder Jenkins, shortly followed by that of his
brother, the mutilation of James Murdoch, the
blowing up of the Staphouse family, and the murder
of the Stendals all followed hard upon one another
in the same terrible winter.
Darkly the
shadow lay upon the Valley of Fear. The spring had
come with running brooks and blossoming trees. There
was hope for all Nature bound so long in an iron
grip; but nowhere was there any hope for the men and
women who lived under the yoke of the terror. Never
had the cloud above them been so dark and hopeless
as in the early summer of the year 1875.
Chapter 6
Danger
It was the
height of the reign of terror. McMurdo, who had
already been appointed Inner Deacon, with every
prospect of some day succeeding McGinty as
Bodymaster, was now so necessary to the councils of
his comrades that nothing was done without his help
and advice. The more popular he became, however,
with the Freemen, the blacker were the scowls which
greeted him as he passed along the streets of
Vermissa. In spite of their terror the citizens were
taking heart to band themselves together against
their oppressors. Rumours had reached the lodge of
secret gatherings in the Herald office and of
distribution of firearms among the law-abiding
people. But McGinty and his men were undisturbed by
such reports. They were numerous, resolute, and well
armed. Their opponents were scattered and powerless.
It would all end, as it had done in the past, in
aimless talk and possibly in impotent arrests. So
said McGinty, McMurdo, and all the bolder spirits.
It was a
Saturday evening in May. Saturday was always the
lodge night, and McMurdo was leaving his house to
attend it when Morris, the weaker brother of the
order, came to see him. His brow was creased with
care, and his kindly face was drawn and haggard.
"Can I speak
with you freely, Mr. McMurdo?"
"Sure."
"I can't
forget that I spoke my heart to you once, and that
you kept it to yourself, even though the Boss
himself came to ask you about it."
"What else
could I do if you trusted me? It wasn't that I
agreed with what you said."
"I know that
well. But you are the one that I can speak to and be
safe. I've a secret here," he put his hand to his
breast, "and it is just burning the life out of me.
I wish it had come to any one of you but me. If I
tell it, it will mean murder, for sure. If I don't,
it may bring the end of us all. God help me, but I
am near out of my wits over it!"
McMurdo
looked at the man earnestly. He was trembling in
every limb. He poured some whisky into a glass and
handed it to him. "That's the physic for the likes
of you," said he. "Now let me hear of it."
Morris
drank, and his white face took a tinge of colour. "I
can tell it to you all in one sentence," said he.
"There's a detective on our trail."
McMurdo
stared at him in astonishment. "Why, man, you're
crazy," he said. "Isn't the place full of police and
detectives and what harm did they ever do us?"
"No, no,
it's no man of the district. As you say, we know
them, and it is little that they can do. But you've
heard of Pinkerton's?"
"I've read
of some folk of that name."
"Well, you
can take it from me you've no show when they are on
your trail. It's not a take-it-or-miss-it government
concern. It's a dead earnest business proposition
that's out for results and keeps out till by hook or
crook it gets them. If a Pinkerton man is deep in
this business, we are all destroyed."
"We must
kill him."
"Ah, it's
the first thought that came to you! So it will be up
at the lodge. Didn't I say to you that it would end
in murder?"
"Sure, what
is murder? Isn't it common enough in these parts?"
"It is,
indeed; but it's not for me to point out the man
that is to be murdered. I'd never rest easy again.
And yet it's our own necks that may be at stake. In
God's name what shall I do?" He rocked to and fro in
his agony of indecision.
But his
words had moved McMurdo deeply. It was easy to see
that he shared the other's opinion as to the danger,
and the need for meeting it. He gripped Morris's
shoulder and shook him in his earnestness.
"See here,
man," he cried, and he almost screeched the words in
his excitement, "you won't gain anything by sitting
keening like an old wife at a wake. Let's have the
facts. Who is the fellow? Where is he? How did you
hear of him? Why did you come to me?"
"I came to
you; for you are the one man that would advise me. I
told you that I had a store in the East before I
came here. I left good friends behind me, and one of
them is in the telegraph service. Here's a letter
that I had from him yesterday. It's this part from
the top of the page. You can read it yourself."
This was
what McMurdo read:
How are the
Scowrers getting on in your parts? We read plenty of
them in the papers. Between you and me I expect to
hear news from you before long. Five big
corporations and the two railroads have taken the
thing up in dead earnest. They mean it, and you can
bet they'll get there! They are right deep down into
it. Pinkerton has taken hold under their orders, and
his best man, Birdy Edwards, is operating. The thing
has got to be stopped right now.
"Now read
the postscript."
Of course, what
I give you is what I learned in business; so it goes
no further. It's a queer cipher that you handle by
the yard every day and can get no meaning from.
McMurdo sat
in silence for some time, with the letter in his
listless hands. The mist had lifted for a moment,
and there was the abyss before him.
"Does anyone
else know of this?" he asked.
"I have told
no one else."
"But this
man—your friend—has he any other person that he
would be likely to write to?"
"Well, I
dare say he knows one or two more."
"Of the
lodge?"
"It's likely
enough."
"I was
asking because it is likely that he may have given
some description of this fellow Birdy Edwards—then
we could get on his trail."
"Well, it's
possible. But I should not think he knew him. He is
just telling me the news that came to him by way of
business. How would he know this Pinkerton man?"
McMurdo gave
a violent start.
"By Gar!" he
cried, "I've got him. What a fool I was not to know
it. Lord! but we're in luck! We will fix him before
he can do any harm. See here, Morris, will you leave
this thing in my hands?"
"Sure, if
you will only take it off mine."
"I'll do
that. You can stand right back and let me run it.
Even your name need not be mentioned. I'll take it
all on myself, as if it were to me that this letter
has come. Will that content you?"
"It's just
what I would ask."
"Then leave
it at that and keep your head shut. Now I'll get
down to the lodge, and we'll soon make old man
Pinkerton sorry for himself."
"You
wouldn't kill this man?"
"The less
you know, Friend Morris, the easier your conscience
will be, and the better you will sleep. Ask no
questions, and let these things settle themselves. I
have hold of it now."
Morris shook
his head sadly as he left. "I feel that his blood is
on my hands," he groaned.
"Self-protection is no murder, anyhow," said
McMurdo, smiling grimly. "It's him or us. I guess
this man would destroy us all if we left him long in
the valley. Why, Brother Morris, we'll have to elect
you Bodymaster yet; for you've surely saved the
lodge."
And yet it
was clear from his actions that he thought more
seriously of this new intrusion than his words would
show. It may have been his guilty conscience, it may
have been the reputation of the Pinkerton
organization, it may have been the knowledge that
great, rich corporations had set themselves the task
of clearing out the Scowrers; but, whatever his
reason, his actions were those of a man who is
preparing for the worst. Every paper which would
incriminate him was destroyed before he left the
house. After that he gave a long sigh of
satisfaction; for it seemed to him that he was safe.
And yet the danger must still have pressed somewhat
upon him; for on his way to the lodge he stopped at
old man Shafter's. The house was forbidden him; but
when he tapped at the window Ettie came out to him.
The dancing Irish deviltry had gone from her lover's
eyes. She read his danger in his earnest face.
"Something
has happened!" she cried. "Oh, Jack, you are in
danger!"
"Sure, it is
not very bad, my sweetheart. And yet it may be wise
that we make a move before it is worse."
"Make a
move?"
"I promised
you once that I would go some day. I think the time
is coming. I had news to-night, bad news, and I see
trouble coming."
"The
police?"
"Well, a
Pinkerton. But, sure, you wouldn't know what that
is, acushla, nor what it may mean to the likes of
me. I'm too deep in this thing, and I may have to
get out of it quick. You said you would come with me
if I went."
"Oh, Jack,
it would be the saving of you!"
"I'm an
honest man in some things, Ettie. I wouldn't hurt a
hair of your bonny head for all that the world can
give, nor ever pull you down one inch from the
golden throne above the clouds where I always see
you. Would you trust me?"
She put her
hand in his without a word. "Well, then, listen to
what I say, and do as I order you, for indeed it's
the only way for us. Things are going to happen in
this valley. I feel it in my bones. There may be
many of us that will have to look out for ourselves.
I'm one, anyhow. If I go, by day or night, it's you
that must come with me!"
"I'd come
after you, Jack."
"No, no, you
shall come with me. If this valley is closed to me
and I can never come back, how can I leave you
behind, and me perhaps in hiding from the police
with never a chance of a message? It's with me you
must come. I know a good woman in the place I come
from, and it's there I'd leave you till we can get
married. Will you come?"
"Yes, Jack,
I will come."
"God bless
you for your trust in me! It's a fiend out of hell
that I should be if I abused it. Now, mark you,
Ettie, it will be just a word to you, and when it
reaches you, you will drop everything and come right
down to the waiting room at the depot and stay there
till I come for you."
"Day or
night, I'll come at the word, Jack."
Somewhat
eased in mind, now that his own preparations for
escape had been begun, McMurdo went on to the lodge.
It had already assembled, and only by complicated
signs and counter-signs could he pass through the
outer guard and inner guard who close-tiled it. A
buzz of pleasure and welcome greeted him as he
entered. The long room was crowded, and through the
haze of tobacco smoke he saw the tangled black mane
of the Bodymaster, the cruel, unfriendly features of
Baldwin, the vulture face of Harraway, the
secretary, and a dozen more who were among the
leaders of the lodge. He rejoiced that they should
all be there to take counsel over his news.
"Indeed,
it's glad we are to see you, Brother!" cried the
chairman. "There's business here that wants a
Solomon in judgment to set it right."
"It's Lander
and Egan," explained his neighbour as he took his
seat. "They both claim the head money given by the
lodge for the shooting of old man Crabbe over at
Stylestown, and who's to say which fired the
bullet?"
McMurdo rose
in his place and raised his hand. The expression of
his face froze the attention of the audience. There
was a dead hush of expectation.
"Eminent
Bodymaster," he said, in a solemn voice, "I claim
urgency!"
"Brother
McMurdo claims urgency," said McGinty. "It's a claim
that by the rules of this lodge takes precedence.
Now Brother, we attend you."
McMurdo took
the letter from his pocket.
"Eminent
Bodymaster and Brethren," he said, "I am the bearer
of ill news this day; but it is better that it
should be known and discussed, than that a blow
should fall upon us without warning which would
destroy us all. I have information that the most
powerful and richest organizations in this state
have bound themselves together for our destruction,
and that at this very moment there is a Pinkerton
detective, one Birdy Edwards, at work in the valley
collecting the evidence which may put a rope round
the necks of many of us, and send every man in this
room into a felon's cell. That is the situation for
the discussion of which I have made a claim of
urgency."
There was a
dead silence in the room. It was broken by the
chairman.
"What is
your evidence for this, Brother McMurdo?" he asked.
"It is in
this letter which has come into my hands," said
McMurdo. Me read the passage aloud. "It is a matter
of honour with me that I can give no further
particulars about the letter, nor put it into your
hands; but I assure you that there is nothing else
in it which can affect the interests of the lodge. I
put the case before you as it has reached me."
"Let me say,
Mr. Chairman," said one of the older brethren, "that
I have heard of Birdy Edwards, and that he has the
name of being the best man in the Pinkerton
service."
"Does anyone
know him by sight?" asked McGinty.
"Yes," said
McMurdo, "I do."
There was a
murmur of astonishment through the hall.
"I believe
we hold him in the hollow of our hands," he
continued with an exulting smile upon his face. "If
we act quickly and wisely, we can cut this thing
short. If I have your confidence and your help, it
is little that we have to fear."
"What have
we to fear, anyhow? What can he know of our
affairs?"
"You might
say so if all were as stanch as you, Councillor. But
this man has all the millions of the capitalists at
his back. Do you think there is no weaker brother
among all our lodges that could not be bought? He
will get at our secrets—maybe has got them already.
There's only one sure cure."
"That he
never leaves the valley," said Baldwin.
McMurdo
nodded. "Good for you, Brother Baldwin," he said.
"You and I have had our differences, but you have
said the true word to-night."
"Where is
he, then? Where shall we know him?"
"Eminent
Bodymaster," said McMurdo, earnestly, "I would put
it to you that this is too vital a thing for us to
discuss in open lodge. God forbid that I should
throw a doubt on anyone here; but if so much as a
word of gossip got to the ears of this man, there
would be an end of any chance of our getting him. I
would ask the lodge to choose a trusty committee,
Mr. Chairman—yourself, if I might suggest it, and
Brother Baldwin here, and five more. Then I can talk
freely of what I know and of what I advise should be
done."
The
proposition was at once adopted, and the committee
chosen. Besides the chairman and Baldwin there were
the vulture-faced secretary, Harraway, Tiger Cormac,
the brutal young assassin, Carter, the treasurer,
and the brothers Willaby, fearless and desperate men
who would stick at nothing.
The usual
revelry of the lodge was short and subdued: for
there was a cloud upon the men's spirits, and many
there for the first time began to see the cloud of
avenging Law drifting up in that serene sky under
which they had dwelt so long. The horrors they had
dealt out to others had been so much a part of their
settled lives that the thought of retribution had
become a remote one, and so seemed the more
startling now that it came so closely upon them.
They broke up early and left their leaders to their
council.
"Now,
McMurdo!" said McGinty when they were alone. The
seven men sat frozen in their seats.
"I said just
now that I knew Birdy Edwards," McMurdo explained.
"I need not tell you that he is not here under that
name. He's a brave man, but not a crazy one. He
passes under the name of Steve Wilson, and he is
lodging at Hobson's Patch."
"How do you
know this?"
"Because I
fell into talk with him. I thought little of it at
the time, nor would have given it a second thought
but for this letter; but now I'm sure it's the man.
I met him on the cars when I went down the line on
Wednesday—a hard case if ever there was one. He said
he was a reporter. I believed it for the moment.
Wanted to know all he could about the Scowrers and
what he called 'the outrages' for a New York paper.
Asked me every kind of question so as to get
something. You bet I was giving nothing away. 'I'd
pay for it and pay well,' said he, 'if I could get
some stuff that would suit my editor.' I said what I
thought would please him best, and he handed me a
twenty-dollar bill for my information. 'There's ten
times that for you,' said he, 'if you can find me
all that I want.'"
"What did
you tell him, then?"
"Any stuff I
could make up."
"How do you
know he wasn't a newspaper man?"
"I'll tell
you. He got out at Hobson's Patch, and so did I. I
chanced into the telegraph bureau, and he was
leaving it.
"'See here,'
said the operator after he'd gone out, 'I guess we
should charge double rates for this.'—'I guess you
should,' said I. He had filled the form with stuff
that might have been Chinese, for all we could make
of it. 'He fires a sheet of this off every day,'
said the clerk. 'Yes,' said I; 'it's special news
for his paper, and he's scared that the others
should tap it.' That was what the operator thought
and what I thought at the time; but I think
differently now."
"By Gar! I
believe you are right," said McGinty. "But what do
you allow that we should do about it?"
"Why not go
right down now and fix him?" someone suggested.
"Ay, the
sooner the better."
"I'd start
this next minute if I knew where we could find him,"
said McMurdo. "He's in Hobson's Patch; but I don't
know the house. I've got a plan, though, if you'll
only take my advice."
"Well, what
is it?"
"I'll go to
the Patch to-morrow morning. I'll find him through
the operator. He can locate him, I guess. Well, then
I'll tell him that I'm a Freeman myself. I'll offer
him all the secrets of the lodge for a price. You
bet he'll tumble to it. I'll tell him the papers are
at my house, and that it's as much as my life would
be worth to let him come while folk were about.
He'll see that that's horse sense. Let him come at
ten o'clock at night, and he shall see everything.
That will fetch him sure."
"Well?"
"You can
plan the rest for yourselves. Widow MacNamara's is a
lonely house. She's as true as steel and as deaf as
a post. There's only Scanlan and me in the house. If
I get his promise—and I'll let you know if I do—I'd
have the whole seven of you come to me by nine
o'clock. We'll get him in. If ever he gets out
alive—well, he can talk of Birdy Edwards's luck for
the rest of his days!"
"There's
going to be a vacancy at Pinkerton's or I'm
mistaken. Leave it at that, McMurdo. At nine
to-morrow we'll be with you. You once get the door
shut behind him, and you can leave the rest with
us."
Chapter 7
The Trapping of
Birdy Edwards
As McMurdo
had said, the house in which he lived was a lonely
one and very well suited for such a crime as they
had planned. It was on the extreme fringe of the
town and stood well back from the road. In any other
case the conspirators would have simply called out
their man, as they had many a time before, and
emptied their pistols into his body; but in this
instance it was very necessary to find out how much
he knew, how he knew it, and what had been passed on
to his employers.
It was
possible that they were already too late and that
the work had been done. If that was indeed so, they
could at least have their revenge upon the man who
had done it. But they were hopeful that nothing of
great importance had yet come to the detective's
knowledge, as otherwise, they argued, he would not
have troubled to write down and forward such trivial
information as McMurdo claimed to have given him.
However, all this they would learn from his own
lips. Once in their power, they would find a way to
make him speak. It was not the first time that they
had handled an unwilling witness.
McMurdo went
to Hobson's Patch as agreed. The police seemed to
take particular interest in him that morning, and
Captain Marvin—he who had claimed the old
acquaintance with him at Chicago—actually addressed
him as he waited at the station. McMurdo turned away
and refused to speak with him. He was back from his
mission in the afternoon, and saw McGinty at the
Union House.
"He is
coming," he said.
"Good!" said
McGinty. The giant was in his shirt sleeves, with
chains and seals gleaming athwart his ample
waistcoat and a diamond twinkling through the fringe
of his bristling beard. Drink and politics had made
the Boss a very rich as well as powerful man. The
more terrible, therefore, seemed that glimpse of the
prison or the gallows which had risen before him the
night before.
"Do you
reckon he knows much?" he asked anxiously.
McMurdo
shook his head gloomily. "He's been here some
time—six weeks at the least. I guess he didn't come
into these parts to look at the prospect. If he has
been working among us all that time with the
railroad money at his back, I should expect that he
has got results, and that he has passed them on."
"There's not
a weak man in the lodge," cried McGinty. "True as
steel, every man of them. And yet, by the Lord!
there is that skunk Morris. What about him? If any
man gives us away, it would be he. I've a mind to
send a couple of the boys round before evening to
give him a beating up and see what they can get from
him."
"Well, there
would be no harm in that," McMurdo answered. "I
won't deny that I have a liking for Morris and would
be sorry to see him come to harm. He has spoken to
me once or twice over lodge matters, and though he
may not see them the same as you or I, he never
seemed the sort that squeals. But still it is not
for me to stand between him and you."
"I'll fix
the old devil!" said McGinty with an oath. "I've had
my eye on him this year past."
"Well, you
know best about that," McMurdo answered. "But
whatever you do must be to-morrow; for we must lie
low until the Pinkerton affair is settled up. We
can't afford to set the police buzzing, to-day of
all days."
"True for
you," said McGinty. "And we'll learn from Birdy
Edwards himself where he got his news if we have to
cut his heart out first. Did he seem to scent a
trap?"
McMurdo
laughed. "I guess I took him on his weak point," he
said. "If he could get on a good trail of the
Scowrers, he's ready to follow it into hell. I took
his money," McMurdo grinned as he produced a wad of
dollar notes, "and as much more when he has seen all
my papers."
"What
papers?"
"Well, there
are no papers. But I filled him up about
constitutions and books of rules and forms of
membership. He expects to get right down to the end
of everything before he leaves."
"Faith, he's
right there," said McGinty grimly. "Didn't he ask
you why you didn't bring him the papers?"
"As if I
would carry such things, and me a suspected man, and
Captain Marvin after speaking to me this very day at
the depot!"
"Ay, I heard
of that," said McGinty. "I guess the heavy end of
this business is coming on to you. We could put him
down an old shaft when we've done with him; but
however we work it we can't get past the man living
at Hobson's Patch and you being there to-day."
McMurdo
shrugged his shoulders. "If we handle it right, they
can never prove the killing," said he. "No one can
see him come to the house after dark, and I'll lay
to it that no one will see him go. Now see here,
Councillor, I'll show you my plan and I'll ask you
to fit the others into it. You will all come in good
time. Very well. He comes at ten. He is to tap three
times, and me to open the door for him. Then I'll
get behind him and shut it. He's our man then."
"That's all
easy and plain."
"Yes; but
the next step wants considering. He's a hard
proposition. He's heavily armed. I've fooled him
proper, and yet he is likely to be on his guard.
Suppose I show him right into a room with seven men
in it where he expected to find me alone. There is
going to be shooting, and somebody is going to be
hurt."
"That's so."
"And the
noise is going to bring every damned copper in the
township on top of it."
"I guess you
are right."
"This is how
I should work it. You will all be in the big
room—same as you saw when you had a chat with me.
I'll open the door for him, show him into the
parlour beside the door, and leave him there while I
get the papers. That will give me the chance of
telling you how things are shaping. Then I will go
back to him with some faked papers. As he is reading
them I will jump for him and get my grip on his
pistol arm. You'll hear me call and in you will
rush. The quicker the better; for he is as strong a
man as I, and I may have more than I can manage. But
I allow that I can hold him till you come."
"It's a good
plan," said McGinty. "The lodge will owe you a debt
for this. I guess when I move out of the chair I can
put a name to the man that's coming after me."
"Sure,
Councillor, I am little more than a recruit," said
McMurdo; but his face showed what he thought of the
great man's compliment.
When he had
returned home he made his own preparations for the
grim evening in front of him. First he cleaned,
oiled, and loaded his Smith & Wesson revolver. Then
he surveyed the room in which the detective was to
be trapped. It was a large apartment, with a long
deal table in the centre, and the big stove at one
side. At each of the other sides were windows. There
were no shutters on these: only light curtains which
drew across. McMurdo examined these attentively. No
doubt it must have struck him that the apartment was
very exposed for so secret a meeting. Yet its
distance from the road made it of less consequence.
Finally he discussed the matter with his fellow
lodger. Scanlan, though a Scowrer, was an
inoffensive little man who was too weak to stand
against the opinion of his comrades, but was
secretly horrified by the deeds of blood at which he
had sometimes been forced to assist. McMurdo told
him shortly what was intended.
"And if I
were you, Mike Scanlan, I would take a night off and
keep clear of it. There will be bloody work here
before morning."
"Well,
indeed then, Mac," Scanlan answered. "It's not the
will but the nerve that is wanting in me. When I saw
Manager Dunn go down at the colliery yonder it was
just more than I could stand. I'm not made for it,
same as you or McGinty. If the lodge will think none
the worse of me, I'll just do as you advise and
leave you to yourselves for the evening."
The men came
in good time as arranged. They were outwardly
respectable citizens, well clad and cleanly; but a
judge of faces would have read little hope for Birdy
Edwards in those hard mouths and remorseless eyes.
There was not a man in the room whose hands had not
been reddened a dozen times before. They were as
hardened to human murder as a butcher to sheep.
Foremost, of
course, both in appearance and in guilt, was the
formidable Boss. Harraway, the secretary, was a
lean, bitter man with a long, scraggy neck and
nervous, jerky limbs, a man of incorruptible
fidelity where the finances of the order were
concerned, and with no notion of justice or honesty
to anyone beyond. The treasurer, Carter, was a
middle-aged man, with an impassive, rather sulky
expression, and a yellow parchment skin. He was a
capable organizer, and the actual details of nearly
every outrage had sprung from his plotting brain.
The two Willabys were men of action, tall, lithe
young fellows with determined faces, while their
companion, Tiger Cormac, a heavy, dark youth, was
feared even by his own comrades for the ferocity of
his disposition. These were the men who assembled
that night under the roof of McMurdo for the killing
of the Pinkerton detective.
Their host
had placed whisky upon the table, and they had
hastened to prime themselves for the work before
them. Baldwin and Cormac were already half-drunk,
and the liquor had brought out all their ferocity.
Cormac placed his hands on the stove for an
instant—it had been lighted, for the nights were
still cold.
"That will
do," said he, with an oath.
"Ay," said
Baldwin, catching his meaning. "If he is strapped to
that, we will have the truth out of him."
"We'll have
the truth out of him, never fear," said McMurdo. He
had nerves of steel, this man; for though the whole
weight of the affair was on him his manner was as
cool and unconcerned as ever. The others marked it
and applauded.
"You are the
one to handle him," said the Boss approvingly. "Not
a warning will he get till your hand is on his
throat. It's a pity there are no shutters to your
windows."
McMurdo went
from one to the other and drew the curtains tighter.
"Sure no one can spy upon us now. It's close upon
the hour."
"Maybe he
won't come. Maybe he'll get a sniff of danger," said
the secretary.
"He'll come,
never fear," McMurdo answered. "He is as eager to
come as you can be to see him. Hark to that!"
They all sat
like wax figures, some with their glasses arrested
halfway to their lips. Three loud knocks had sounded
at the door.
"Hush!"
McMurdo raised his hand in caution. An exulting
glance went round the circle, and hands were laid
upon hidden weapons.
"Not a
sound, for your lives!" McMurdo whispered, as he
went from the room, closing the door carefully
behind him.
With
strained ears the murderers waited. They counted the
steps of their comrade down the passage. Then they
heard him open the outer door. There were a few
words as of greeting. Then they were aware of a
strange step inside and of an unfamiliar voice. An
instant later came the slam of the door and the
turning of the key in the lock. Their prey was safe
within the trap. Tiger Cormac laughed horribly, and
Boss McGinty clapped his great hand across his
mouth.
"Be quiet,
you fool!" he whispered. "You'll be the undoing of
us yet!"
There was a
mutter of conversation from the next room. It seemed
interminable. Then the door opened, and McMurdo
appeared, his finger upon his lip.
He came to
the end of the table and looked round at them. A
subtle change had come over him. His manner was as
of one who has great work to do. His face had set
into granite firmness. His eyes shone with a fierce
excitement behind his spectacles. He had become a
visible leader of men. They stared at him with eager
interest; but he said nothing. Still with the same
singular gaze he looked from man to man.
"Well!"
cried Boss McGinty at last. "Is he here? Is Birdy
Edwards here?"
"Yes,"
McMurdo answered slowly. "Birdy Edwards is here. I
am Birdy Edwards!"
There were
ten seconds after that brief speech during which the
room might have been empty, so profound was the
silence. The hissing of a kettle upon the stove rose
sharp and strident to the ear. Seven white faces,
all turned upward to this man who dominated them,
were set motionless with utter terror. Then, with a
sudden shivering of glass, a bristle of glistening
rifle barrels broke through each window, while the
curtains were torn from their hangings.
At the sight
Boss McGinty gave the roar of a wounded bear and
plunged for the half-opened door. A levelled
revolver met him there with the stern blue eyes of
Captain Marvin of the Mine Police gleaming behind
the sights. The Boss recoiled and fell back into his
chair.
"You're
safer there, Councillor," said the man whom they had
known as McMurdo. "And you, Baldwin, if you don't
take your hand off your pistol, you'll cheat the
hangman yet. Pull it out, or by the Lord that made
me—There, that will do. There are forty armed men
round this house, and you can figure it out for
yourself what chance you have. Take their pistols,
Marvin!"
There was no
possible resistance under the menace of those
rifles. The men were disarmed. Sulky, sheepish, and
amazed, they still sat round the table.
"I'd like to
say a word to you before we separate," said the man
who had trapped them. "I guess we may not meet again
until you see me on the stand in the courthouse.
I'll give you something to think over between now
and then. You know me now for what I am. At last I
can put my cards on the table. I am Birdy Edwards of
Pinkerton's. I was chosen to break up your gang. I
had a hard and dangerous game to play. Not a soul,
not one soul, not my nearest and dearest, knew that
I was playing it. Only Captain Marvin here and my
employers knew that. But it's over to-night, thank
God, and I am the winner!"
The seven
pale, rigid faces looked up at him. There was
unappeasable hatred in their eyes. He read the
relentless threat.
"Maybe you
think that the game is not over yet. Well, I take my
chance of that. Anyhow, some of you will take no
further hand, and there are sixty more besides
yourselves that will see a jail this night. I'll
tell you this, that when I was put upon this job I
never believed there was such a society as yours. I
thought it was paper talk, and that I would prove it
so. They told me it was to do with the Freemen; so I
went to Chicago and was made one. Then I was surer
than ever that it was just paper talk; for I found
no harm in the society, but a deal of good.
"Still, I
had to carry out my job, and I came to the coal
valleys. When I reached this place I learned that I
was wrong and that it wasn't a dime novel after all.
So I stayed to look after it. I never killed a man
in Chicago. I never minted a dollar in my life.
Those I gave you were as good as any others; but I
never spent money better. But I knew the way into
your good wishes and so I pretended to you that the
law was after me. It all worked just as I thought.
"So I joined
your infernal lodge, and I took my share in your
councils. Maybe they will say that I was as bad as
you. They can say what they like, so long as I get
you. But what is the truth? The night I joined you
beat up old man Stanger. I could not warn him, for
there was no time; but I held your hand, Baldwin,
when you would have killed him. If ever I have
suggested things, so as to keep my place among you,
they were things which I knew I could prevent. I
could not save Dunn and Menzies, for I did not know
enough; but I will see that their murderers are
hanged. I gave Chester Wilcox warning, so that when
I blew his house in he and his folk were in hiding.
There was many a crime that I could not stop; but if
you look back and think how often your man came home
the other road, or was down in town when you went
for him, or stayed indoors when you thought he would
come out, you'll see my work."
"You blasted
traitor!" hissed McGinty through his closed teeth.
"Ay, John
McGinty, you may call me that if it eases your
smart. You and your like have been the enemy of God
and man in these parts. It took a man to get between
you and the poor devils of men and women that you
held under your grip. There was just one way of
doing it, and I did it. You call me a traitor; but I
guess there's many a thousand will call me a
deliverer that went down into hell to save them.
I've had three months of it. I wouldn't have three
such months again if they let me loose in the
treasury at Washington for it. I had to stay till I
had it all, every man and every secret right here in
this hand. I'd have waited a little longer if it
hadn't come to my knowledge that my secret was
coming out. A letter had come into the town that
would have set you wise to it all. Then I had to act
and act quickly.
"I've
nothing more to say to you, except that when my time
comes I'll die the easier when I think of the work I
have done in this valley. Now, Marvin, I'll keep you
no more. Take them in and get it over."
There is
little more to tell. Scanlan had been given a sealed
note to be left at the address of Miss Ettie
Shafter, a mission which he had accepted with a wink
and a knowing smile. In the early hours of the
morning a beautiful woman and a much muffled man
boarded a special train which had been sent by the
railroad company, and made a swift, unbroken journey
out of the land of danger. It was the last time that
ever either Ettie or her lover set foot in the
Valley of Fear. Ten days later they were married in
Chicago, with old Jacob Shafter as witness of the
wedding.
The trial of
the Scowrers was held far from the place where their
adherents might have terrified the guardians of the
law. In vain they struggled. In vain the money of
the lodge—money squeezed by blackmail out of the
whole countryside—was spent like water in the
attempt to save them. That cold, clear,
unimpassioned statement from one who knew every
detail of their lives, their organization, and their
crimes was unshaken by all the wiles of their
defenders. At last after so many years they were
broken and scattered. The cloud was lifted forever
from the valley.
McGinty met
his fate upon the scaffold, cringing and whining
when the last hour came. Eight of his chief
followers shared his fate. Fifty-odd had various
degrees of imprisonment. The work of Birdy Edwards
was complete.
And yet, as
he had guessed, the game was not over yet. There was
another hand to be played, and yet another and
another. Ted Baldwin, for one, had escaped the
scaffold; so had the Willabys; so had several others
of the fiercest spirits of the gang. For ten years
they were out of the world, and then came a day when
they were free once more—a day which Edwards, who
knew his men, was very sure would be an end of his
life of peace. They had sworn an oath on all that
they thought holy to have his blood as a vengeance
for their comrades. And well they strove to keep
their vow!
From Chicago
he was chased, after two attempts so near success
that it was sure that the third would get him. From
Chicago he went under a changed name to California,
and it was there that the light went for a time out
of his life when Ettie Edwards died. Once again he
was nearly killed, and once again under the name of
Douglas he worked in a lonely canyon, where with an
English partner named Barker he amassed a fortune.
At last there came a warning to him that the
bloodhounds were on his track once more, and he
cleared—only just in time—for England. And thence
came the John Douglas who for a second time married
a worthy mate, and lived for five years as a Sussex
county gentleman, a life which ended with the
strange happenings of which we have heard.
Epilogue
The police
trial had passed, in which the case of John Douglas
was referred to a higher court. So had the Quarter
Sessions, at which he was acquitted as having acted
in self-defense.
"Get him out
of England at any cost," wrote Holmes to the wife.
"There are forces here which may be more dangerous
than those he has escaped. There is no safety for
your husband in England."
Two months
had gone by, and the case had to some extent passed
from our minds. Then one morning there came an
enigmatic note slipped into our letter box. "Dear
me, Mr. Holmes. Dear me!" said this singular
epistle. There was neither superscription nor
signature. I laughed at the quaint message; but
Holmes showed unwonted seriousness.
"Deviltry,
Watson!" he remarked, and sat long with a clouded
brow.
Late last
night Mrs. Hudson, our landlady, brought up a
message that a gentleman wished to see Holmes, and
that the matter was of the utmost importance. Close
at the heels of his messenger came Cecil Barker, our
friend of the moated Manor House. His face was drawn
and haggard.
"I've had
bad news—terrible news, Mr. Holmes," said he.
"I feared as
much," said Holmes.
"You have
not had a cable, have you?"
"I have had
a note from someone who has."
"It's poor
Douglas. They tell me his name is Edwards; but he
will always be Jack Douglas of Benito Canyon to me.
I told you that they started together for South
Africa in the Palmyra three weeks ago."
"Exactly."
"The ship
reached Cape Town last night. I received this cable
from Mrs Douglas this morning:—
"Jack has
been lost overboard in gale off St Helena. No one
knows how accident occurred.—Ivy Douglas."
"Ha! It came
like that, did it?" said Holmes, thoughtfully.
"Well, I've no doubt it was well stage-managed."
"You mean
that you think there was no accident?"
"None in the
world."
"He was
murdered?"
"Surely!"
"So I think
also. These infernal Scowrers, this cursed
vindictive nest of criminals—"
"No, no, my
good sir," said Holmes. "There is a master hand
here. It is no case of sawed-off shot-guns and
clumsy six-shooters. You can tell an old master by
the sweep of his brush. I can tell a Moriarty when I
see one. This crime is from London, not from
America."
"But for
what motive?"
"Because it
is done by a man who cannot afford to fail—one whose
whole unique position depends upon the fact that all
he does must succeed. A great brain and a huge
organization have been turned to the extinction of
one man. It is crushing the nut with the hammer—an
absurd extravagance of energy—but the nut is very
effectually crushed all the same."
"How came
this man to have anything to do with it?"
"I can only
say that the first word that ever came to us of the
business was from one of his lieutenants. These
Americans were well advised. Having an English job
to do, they took into partnership, as any foreign
criminal could do, this great consultant in crime.
From that moment their man was doomed. At first he
would content himself by using his machinery in
order to find their victim. Then he would indicate
how the matter might be treated. Finally, when he
read in the reports of the failure of this agent, he
would step in himself with a master touch. You heard
me warn this man at Birlstone Manor House that the
coming danger was greater than the past. Was I
right?"
Barker beat
his head with his clenched fist in his impotent
anger.
"Do you tell
me that we have to sit down under this? Do you say
that no one can ever get level with this
king-devil?"
"No, I don't
say that," said Holmes, and his eyes seemed to be
looking far into the future. "I don't say that he
can't be beat. But you must give me time—you must
give me time!"
We all sat
in silence for some minutes, while those fateful
eyes still strained to pierce the veil.
