Chapter VI

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 windowsill 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 wholehearted 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?”

[Illustration: “Watson, would you be afraid to sleep in the same room

with a lunatic.”]

“Not in the least,” I answered in astonishment.

“Ah, that’s lucky,” he said, and not another word would he utter that

night.