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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 [772] 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 [773] 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 green-grocer 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 intrusted 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 [774] 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!”
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