The Valley of Fearby Arthur Conan Doyle, John Bolen
"A great brain in London and a dead man in Sussex. It's the chain between that we are going to trace."
The famous detective Sherlock Holmes has been summoned by a coded message to the house of a man called Douglas. But he and his faithful associate Dr. Watson arrive to find they are too late: Douglas has been murdered, with a mysterious calling
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"A great brain in London and a dead man in Sussex. It's the chain between that we are going to trace."
The famous detective Sherlock Holmes has been summoned by a coded message to the house of a man called Douglas. But he and his faithful associate Dr. Watson arrive to find they are too late: Douglas has been murdered, with a mysterious calling card left by his side. Scotland Yard is stumped, but Holmes, detecting the diabolical workings of his arch-enemy Professor James Moriarty, has some ideas of his own.
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The Valley of Fear
By Arthur Conan Doyle
OPEN ROAD INTEGRATED MEDIACopyright © 2014 MysteriousPress.com/Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
All rights reserved.
"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.
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?"
"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."
"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?"
"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—press ing.' 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 '80s, 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 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!"
Excerpted from The Valley of Fear by Arthur Conan Doyle. Copyright © 2014 MysteriousPress.com/Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.. Excerpted by permission of OPEN ROAD INTEGRATED MEDIA.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
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Meet the Author
Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (1859–1930), a Scottish writer whose works include science fiction stories, historical novels, plays, romances, poetry, and nonfiction, is best known as the creator of the detective Sherlock Holmes.
John Bolen brings his extensive theater, film, and television experience to audiobooks. His recent television appearances include CIA: Masters of Deception on the Discovery Channel, and his recent film work includes The Land and The Inn Outside the World.
- Date of Birth:
- May 22, 1859
- Date of Death:
- July 7, 1930
- Place of Birth:
- Edinburgh, Scotland
- Place of Death:
- Crowborough, Sussex, England
- Edinburgh University, B.M., 1881; M.D., 1885
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It's difficult not to become addicted to the Hard Case Crime line of mystery paperbacks. They're all great reads, offering a smorgasbord of the greatest mystery writers and their work. Whether bringing back a long out-of-print classic or an all-new find, these books always deliver and "The Valley of Fear" is no exception. Besides being the subtlest indirect movie tie-in ever published, "The Valley of Fear" was a very sly selection for a Hard Case Crime book. Like most Hard Case Crime books, the cover is homage to the classic 48-cent crime paperbacks of yesteryear, the Post-Pulp Magazine Age of Pulp Fiction, with its obligatory barely-clad cover babe. Note the placement of the "V" in the book's title-trust me, that was no accident! Cover lines, such as "Best-selling author of 'The Lost World'" and "Inspired by a true story" were also amusing and true. The cover, in a way was almost like an old National Lampoon cover parody, except it was real! As far as the story is concerned, it should be noted that though it pretends to be one cohesive novel, there really are two stories here- one an extended flashback sequence, could stand on its own without the rest of the book. Both stories are good, but only one features the author's well-known detective character-but since he's not mentioned on the cover, no reader will feel cheated that he's not present throughout the book (Perhaps A.C. wrote the second story independently from the first, but with demand for more stories featuring his detective character decided to create a story with his detective to wrap around the existing story. Just a theory-- anyone have the real answer?) The other story, the one inspired by true events, is well done-an inside look at corruption that's as relevant today as it was when it was originally written. "Valley of Fear" truly is a classic, and the Hard Case Crime edition is worth it for its witty presentation alone, but it's well worth reading too.
This is another classic from the author, describing a mystery story happening in two stages, but both stories intertwining at the end with all explanations provided. Our detective Sherlock Homes and his friend Dr. Watson are presented with a very challenging encrypted note and after reasoning about the meaning of the note they are visited by a Scotland Yard detective seeking for their help in a murder that just happened in the country, at Birlstone Manor House. And the murder is related to the note they just deciphered! Things get even more interesting when they arrive at the place and talk to the wife of the murdered and his best friend. The wife seems not to be grieving that much for her husband and the friend looks even happy when talking to the wife... But then, another love story is presented, with its origin on the wild America and the connection between the two stories is soon to be unveiled. Superb narrative and a great mystery story, with a interesting end. I am sure it will delight all the readers that appreciate a very well written tale and want to spend some hours entertained with good reading.
As a Sherlock Holmes story, the first half of this book is decent (there are both better and worse Holmes stories/novels amongst the Canon). As a noir crime thriller, the second half of this book is quite good. The problem is, it really is two different books and they don't really gel. Doyle uses the standard Holmes set-up (Holmes and Watson are approached by Scotland Yard to help investigate a seemingly unsolvable murder), builds tension by introducing the idea that Holmes' nemesis Professor Moriarty is behind the murder ... and then spends the second half of the book on an extended (and yes, delightfully dark noir) flashback to the "murdered" man's mysterious past in America, with nary a mention of Holmes or Moriarty until the very end pages. I enjoyed the flashback story for what it was. In fact, I felt like that story could have stood as a book on its own, with added detail. The characters (John McMurdo, Ettie Shafter, Black Jack McGinty) are interesting despite clearly being tropes, the narrative pace is fast and the setting is so detailed I had no problem picturing this dark remote mining town. Doyle could probably have published this story on its own and done fine with it. The problem is, this is a Sherlock Holmes novel not a John McMurdo novel. I don't mind flashbacks in my novels -- in fact I usually quite enjoy them, especially if they're as well-written as this one -- but I do mind when the flashback becomes the novel and the purported main characters disappear completely. Holmes and Watson's reappearance and the end of the book feels tacked on, too brief and entirely like an afterthought. Almost like Doyle completed the flashback and then remembered he hadn't quite wrapped up the Moriarty part of the storyline and so came back to it with as little effort as could possibly be expended. This also plays into my greater disappointment that Doyle never really gave us a true Holmes-Moriarty matching of the wits in the Canon. Moriarty's role in Valley of Fear is brief and well behind-the-scenes despite the build-up in the novel's early pages and it's still about the most we ever see of him. Most of what we "know" about the Holmes-Moriarty rivalry has been filled in by other authors in more recent years. But of course, that's a complaint for a different essay. I give Valley of Fear three out of five stars -- it's a good enough read, but not the Great Holmes Tale it could have been. Note on the Hard Case Crime edition: I've seen people complain that the HCC edition goes out of its way to pretend the book is not a Holmes tale or that the publishers "intentionally obfuscate" who the author is by crediting it to "AC Doyle" instead of "Arthur Conan Doyle." On the first charge, that the cover is meant to evoke crime novels rather than Holmes, I think they are guilty as charged... the cover art and blurbs, of course, are designed to play up the crime/noir feel of the book do their job well. On the second charge, I don't think any intelligent reader is going to be fooled by the bit of fun the publishers have by the shortening of Doyle's name to fit a more noir-author stylization.
This book will keep you on the edge of your seat. I personally love mystery books and if you do too and are looking for one, I recommend this novel. The cleverness of the characters during the book will keep you entertained. Although there are other Sherlock Holmes books, to me this one is the best. So yeah, go for it and read this book! :)
Instead of setting The Valley of Fear (Valley) in the then present, Doyle told yet another story of the early days of Holmes and Watson.It's stuff like Valley though, that I found frustrating about the Holmes books. All the times he disappears, recounts things after the fact to Watson. Not to mention the decided lack of Moriarity in the actual stories.
Sherlock Holmes and The Valley of Fear by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle was in my opinion an excellent book. I enjoy mystery novels and if you do you too, you will enjoy this book as well. The story is a jumble of facts until the very end thus you do not know who perpetrated the crime until the Sherlock Holmes reveals him/her. Throughout the book you find yourself admiring the cleverness of the main characters and also the creativity and literary genius of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle as he takes you through a mystery full of suspense intrigue and sudden changes.