The Valley of Fear

PART I.

The Tragedy of Birlstone

Chapter I.

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 sardonic¹ interruption.

“Really, Holmes,” said I severely², “you are a little trying at times.”

He was too much absorbed with his own thoughts to give any immediate³ answer to my remonstrance⁴. He leaned upon his hand, with his untasted breakfast before him, and he stared at the slip of paper which he had just drawn⁵ from its envelope. Then he took the envelope itself, held it up to the light, and very carefully studied both the exterior⁶ 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 peculiar⁸ top flourish is distinctive⁹. 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 awakened¹⁰.

“Who then is Porlock?” I asked.

“Porlock, Watson, is a nom-de-plume, a mere¹¹ identification mark; but behind it lies a shifty and evasive personality. In a former letter he frankly¹² informed me that the name was not his own, and defied me ever to trace him among the teeming¹³ 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 insignificant¹⁴ in companionship with what is formidable: not only formidable, Watson, but sinister¹⁵—in the highest degree sinister. That is where he comes within my purview¹⁶. You have heard me speak of Professor Moriarty?”

“The famous scientific criminal, as famous among crooks¹⁷ 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 vein¹⁸ 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 marred¹⁹ the destiny of nations—that's the man! But so aloof²⁰ 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 celebrated²¹ author of The Dynamics²² of an Asteroid²³, a book which ascends²⁴ 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 traduce²⁵? Foul-mouthed doctor and slandered²⁶ professor—such would be your respective roles! That's genius, Watson. But if I am spared by lesser²⁷ men, our day will surely come.”

“May I be there to see!” I exclaimed devoutly²⁸. “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 attachment²⁹. 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 aspirations³⁰ towards right, and encouraged by the judicious³¹ stimulation³² of an occasional ten-pound note sent to him by devious³³ methods, he has once or twice given me advance information which has been of value—that highest value which anticipates and prevents rather than avenges³⁴ crime. I cannot doubt that, if we had the cipher³⁵, we should find that this communication is of the nature that I indicate.”

Again Holmes flattened³⁶ out the paper upon his unused plate. I rose and, leaning over him, stared down at the curious inscription³⁷, 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 ciphers³⁸ which I would read as easily as I do the apocrypha³⁹ of the agony column: such crude devices amuse the intelligence without fatiguing⁴⁰ 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 innate⁴¹ 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 undone⁴². As it is, both have to go wrong before any harm comes from it. Our second post is now overdue⁴³, 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 exultant⁴⁴ 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 traitor⁴⁵, he may have read the accusation⁴⁶ 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 inquiry⁴⁷ 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 penetrate⁴⁸ it.”

Sherlock Holmes had pushed away his untasted breakfast and lit the unsavoury pipe which was the companion of his deepest meditations⁴⁹. “I wonder!” said he, leaning back and staring at the ceiling. “Perhaps there are points which have escaped your Machiavellian⁵⁰ 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 scintillating⁵¹ this morning. If it is not column, then I am very much deceived. So now, you see, we begin to visualize⁵² 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 injustice⁵³. One more coruscation⁵⁴, 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 plausible⁵⁵.”

“So we have contracted our field of search to a large book, printed in double columns and in common use.”

“The Bible!” I cried triumphantly⁵⁶.

“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 Writ⁷ are so numerous that he could hardly suppose that two copies would have the same pagination. This is clearly a book which is standardized⁵⁷. 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 salvation⁵⁸. 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 terse⁵⁹, 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 requisite⁶⁰ number of pages. It is in double column. Though reserved in its earlier vocabulary, it becomes, if I remember right, quite garrulous⁶¹ towards the end.” He picked the volume from his desk. “Here is page 534, column two, a substantial block of print dealing⁶², I perceive, with the trade and resources of British India. Jot⁶³ down the words, Watson! Number thirteen is ‘Mahratta.’ Not, I fear, a very auspicious⁶⁴ beginning. Number one hundred and twenty-seven is ‘Government’; which at least makes sense, though somewhat irrelevant⁶⁵ to ourselves and Professor Moriarty. Now let us try again. What does the Mahratta government do? Alas⁶⁶! the next word is ‘pig's-bristles.’ We are undone, my good Watson! It is finished!”

He had spoken in jesting vein, but the twitching⁶⁸ of his bushy eyebrows⁶⁹ bespoke⁷⁰ his disappointment and irritation⁷¹. I sat helpless and unhappy, staring into the fire. A long silence was broken by a sudden exclamation⁷² 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 promising⁷³. Number one hundred and twenty-seven is ‘is’—‘There is’”—Holmes's eyes were gleaming with excitement, and his thin, nervous fingers twitched⁷⁴ 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 scrawled⁷⁵, as he deciphered it, upon a sheet of foolscap on my knee.

“What a queer, scrambling⁷⁶ way of expressing his meaning!” said I.

“On the contrary, he has done quite remarkably⁷⁷ 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 purport⁷⁸ is perfectly⁷⁹ 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 impersonal⁸⁰ joy of the true artist in his better work, even as he mourned darkly when it fell below the high level to which he aspired⁸¹. He was still chuckling⁸² over his success when Billy swung open the door and Inspector⁸³ MacDonald of Scotland Yard was ushered⁸⁴ into the room.

Those were the early days at the end of the '80's, when Alec MacDonald was far from having attained⁸⁵ the national fame which he has now achieved. He was a young but trusted member of the detective force, who had distinguished⁸⁷ himself in several cases which had been entrusted⁸⁸ to him. His tall, bony figure gave promise of exceptional physical strength, while his great cranium and deep-set, lustrous⁸⁹ eyes spoke⁶⁷ no less clearly of the keen intelligence which twinkled out from behind his bushy eyebrows. He was a silent, precise man with a dour⁹⁰ nature and a hard Aberdonian accent.

Twice already in his career had Holmes helped him to attain⁸⁶ 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 humiliation⁹¹ in seeking the assistance of one who already stood alone in Europe, both in his gifts and in his experience. Holmes was not prone⁹² 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 mischief⁹³ 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 amazement⁹⁴ at a paper upon the table. It was the sheet upon which I had scrawled the enigmatic message.

“Douglas!” he stammered⁹⁵. “Birlstone! What's this, Mr. Holmes? Man, it's witchcraft⁹⁶! 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?”

上一篇：福尔摩斯-福尔摩斯的收场白 His Last Bow 下一篇：福尔摩斯-恐怖谷 The Valley of Fear（2）