作者：王勋,纪飞,（英）阿瑟·柯南·道尔
出版社：清华大学出版社
格式: AZW3, DOCX, EPUB, MOBI, PDF, TXT
恐怖谷(中文导读英文版)试读：
前言
阿瑟柯南道尔（Arthur Conan Doyle，1859—1930），英国著名侦探小说家、剧作家，现代侦探小说的奠基人之一，被誉为“英国侦探小说之父”。
柯南道尔于1859年5月22日出生于爱丁堡，1881年获爱丁堡大学医学博士学位。博士毕业后，柯南道尔以行医为职业。1885年，柯南道尔开始创作侦探小说《血字的研究》，并于1887年发表在《比顿圣诞年刊》上。1890年，柯南道尔出版了第二部小说《四签名》，并一举成名。次年，他弃医从文，专事侦探小说的创作，陆续出版了以福尔摩斯为主人公的系列侦探小说：《波希米亚丑闻》、《红发会》、《身份案》、《恐怖谷》、《五个橘核》、《巴斯克维尔的猎犬》等。1902年，他因有关布尔战争的著作被加封为爵士。1930年7月7日，柯南道尔逝世于英国。
柯南道尔一生共创作了60多篇以福尔摩斯为主人公的侦探小说，他塑造的福尔摩斯形象其实就是正义的化身。福尔摩斯已成为世界上家喻户晓的人物、侦探的象征，印在全世界不同种族、不同肤色的人心中。福尔摩斯是一个栩栩如生、有血有肉的形象。他活动在伦敦大雾迷漫的街道上、普普通通的公寓里，似乎随时都可能跟走在街上的读者擦肩而过，因此使人感到十分亲切可信。福尔摩斯善于运用医学、心理学、逻辑学，尤其是他的逻辑推理能力令人叹为观止。他又十分注重调查研究，并且对案子极其热情，认真负责，这使他的侦探本领到了神鬼莫测的境地。柯南道尔通过福尔摩斯探案故事，宣扬善恶有报、法网难逃的思想。小说中所涉及的医学、化学、生物学、犯罪学、法学知识以及探案和侦察方法，即便是对今天的侦探工作也具有一定的借鉴作用。
柯南道尔以福尔摩斯为主人公的系列侦探小说出版100多年来，一直畅销至今，被译成世界上几十种语言，是全世界公认的侦探小说名著。在中国，福尔摩斯系列侦探小说是最受广大读者欢迎的外国文学之一。目前，在国内数量众多的福尔摩斯侦探小说书籍中，主要的出版形式有两种：一种是中文翻译版，另一种是英文原版。而其中的英文原版越来越受到读者的欢迎，这主要是得益于中国人热衷于学习英文的大环境。从英文学习的角度来看，直接使用纯英文素材更有利于英语学习。考虑到对英文内容背景的了解有助于英文阅读，使用中文导读应该是一种比较好的方式，也可以说是该类型书的第三种版本形式。采用中文导读而非中英文对照的方式进行编排，这样有利于国内读者摆脱对英文阅读依赖中文注释的习惯。基于以上原因，我们决定编译“福尔摩斯经典探案系列”丛书，该系列丛书收入了柯南道尔的《血字的研究》、《四签名》、《福尔摩斯冒险史》、《福尔摩斯回忆录》、《福尔摩斯归来》、《巴斯克维尔的猎犬》、《恐怖谷》、《最后的致意》、《新探案》等经典之作，并采用中文导读英文版的形式出版。在中文导读中，我们尽力使其贴近原作的精髓，也尽可能保留原作故事主线。我们希望能够编出为当代中国读者所喜爱的经典读本。读者在阅读英文故事之前，可以先阅读中文导读内容，这样有利于了解故事背景，从而加快阅读速度。我们相信，该经典著作的引进对加强当代中国读者，特别是青少年读者的科学素养和人文修养是非常有帮助的。
本书主要内容由王勋、纪飞编译。参加本书故事素材搜集整理及编译工作的还有郑佳、刘乃亚、赵雪、左新杲、黄福成、冯洁、徐鑫、马启龙、王业伟、王旭敏、陈楠、王多多、邵舒丽、周丽萍、王晓旭、李永振、孟宪行、熊红华、胡国平、熊建国、徐平国、王小红等。限于我们的文学素养和英语水平，书中难免不当之处，衷心希望读者朋友批评指正。第一部 伯尔斯通的悲剧第一章 警告导读
一天早晨，福尔摩斯拿出柏拉克的来信告诉华生，这个柏拉克是莫利亚蒂身边的人，还想走正道，曾经提供过一些有用的信息。福尔摩斯让华生看纸上的一些奇怪数字，里面有“道格拉斯”和“伯尔斯通”两个词。华生看出这是密码，但没有解码表怎么解呢？
福尔摩斯告诉华生，这两样东西不能同时放在一起，现在解码的信也该来了。这时，门房送来一封信，柏拉克告诉他们自己受到了怀疑，让福尔摩斯把字条烧掉，它已经没用了。
福尔摩斯从字迹上看出，柏拉克是吓坏了。福尔摩斯和华生研究起了那张密码，推敲出密码应来自一本书，而这本书一定很厚，便想到了《圣经》，但它的版本很多，便排除了，最后确定为“年鉴”。他们破译出此密码信的内容是：将有不好的事情发生在伯尔斯通庄园有钱的乡绅道格拉斯身上。
这时，探长艾立克麦克唐纳来到房间，他是个经验丰富的探长。福尔摩斯曾帮过他两次，他每次有困难都来找福尔摩斯。
当探长看到桌子的纸上写着“道格拉斯”、“伯尔斯通”时，惊奇地看着他们说，道格拉斯先生昨晚在伯尔斯通庄园被杀了。 am inclined to think—”said I.“I should do so，”Sherlock Holmes remarked impatiently.“I
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 devilty, the controlling brain of the underworld, a brain which might have made or marred the destiny of nations—that's theman！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 rles！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 41DOUGLAS 109 293 5 37 BIRLSTONE26 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 ninetythird.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 isstandardized.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'sbristles.'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 instore for us.Number thirteen is‘There，'which is much more promising.Number one hundred and twentyseven 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 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, hisown 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！”第二章 夏洛克·福尔摩斯的论述导读
福尔摩斯并不感到惊奇，他告诉探长，自己接到消息后一个小时，事情就发生了，并表示对此事十分感兴趣。探长原准备到伯尔斯通，现在看来只要抓到柏拉克就行了。
福尔摩斯告诉探长，自己虽和柏拉克有联系，但只是把信寄到邮局。因自己答应过不去追踪他，而他背后是莫利亚蒂教授操纵的。
探长表示自己曾去调查过教授，感到此人是一位受人尊敬而博学的人，像一位慈父。福尔摩斯告诉探长，在教授非常漂亮的书房里，有一幅名画。此画在一八六五年卖了一百二十万法郎，超过了四万英镑，而教授的年薪只有七百英镑，他怎么买得起！
探长告诉他们，自己已经叫了街车，再有二十分钟就到。探长对福尔摩斯没见过莫利亚蒂教授却对他的房间那么熟悉感到奇怪。
福尔摩斯告诉探长，自己在教授不在时去过他房间几次，虽没找到可疑的东西，但得到了意想不到的结果。他是犯罪团伙的天才组织者，他付给幕僚巴斯蒂恩莫兰上校的年薪有六千镑，比首相的薪水还多。他日常费用的支票来自六个银行。他可能是这件神秘谋杀案的指使人。道格拉斯可能背叛了他们，或是他们某项事情的障碍，所以把他除去了。
这时，探长告诉他们，只有五分钟准备时间了。于是他们准备行李，坐上了马车。在马车上，探长告诉他们，是当地的警察怀特梅森让他邀请福尔摩斯一同前往侦察此案，并在附来的报告中说昨天午夜约翰·道格拉斯头部中弹，案件离奇，使人感到迷惑。
福尔摩斯告诉他，他们就是要找到死者和伦敦操纵者的关系。t was one of those dramatic moments for which my friend existed.It would be an overstatement to say that he was shocked or even Iexcited by the amazing announcement.Without having a tinge of cruelty in his singular composition, he was undoubtedly callous from long overstimulation.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.“Postedin 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.Modem 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 Filleál’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 ayear.”
“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 thaninteresting—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'II 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-gonewrong 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 knowwhat he had.I have no doubt that he has twenty banking accounts；the bulk of his fortune abroad in the Deutsche Bank or the Crédit 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 sidetracked 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 archcriminal'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 inclosed 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.”第三章 伯尔斯通的悲剧导读
伯尔斯通是一个由小村庄变成的现代市镇。在距它半英里的高大老山毛榉园林中，坐落着古老的伯尔斯通庄园。
庄园的外层壕沟已干涸，被做成了花园，内层壕沟仍有几英尺深的流水，经由一座可开合的吊桥和外部相连。五十多岁的道格拉斯和他的妻子住在里面。道格拉斯对人和善，慷慨捐助慈善活动，因此受到了村民的喜爱，在当地留下了很好的名声。
比他小二十岁的道格拉斯太太年轻、美丽，但似乎有时有点精神紧张。他的旧交——高大的西梭·詹姆士·贝克是个单身汉，是庄园里的常客。贝克看起来很有钱，年龄不到四十五岁。整天在村中闲逛，常与庄园主人或夫人一起驾车出游，和夫人交往过密并曾引起主人的不悦。庄园中还有几位仆人做些家务。
晚上十一点四十五分，威尔森警官接到了贝克的报告。到达庄园时，发现吊桥已放下，整幢房子亮着灯，仆人被集中在大厅。贝克打开门让警官进去，村中的医生伍德也已到达。他们发现死者穿着粉红色晨袍倒在地上，胸前放着一把锯断了枪管的火枪，两个扳机绑在一起，这样可使枪的威力更大。
贝克告诉警官，十一点半，他还没睡，听到枪声便跑下楼，发现道格拉斯躺在那里。卧室的蜡烛是点着的，几分钟后他点燃了桌上的灯，当时没看见其他人。道格拉斯太太下楼，他阻止夫人去看那凶残的场面。管家爱伦太太把夫人带走了，男仆艾姆斯也来了，他们又回到房间。当时吊桥是拉起来的，窗台上有带血的鞋印，看来凶犯是涉水跑了。
警官分析说凶犯应该是在吊桥拉起来前进入的。仆人艾姆斯告诉警官，平常四点半左右日落时吊桥就拉上了。那天夫人有朋友来，六点钟他们离去后吊桥才被拉起来。道格拉斯先生每晚睡前都要查看房子。
警官从地上捡起一个写着V.V.341的小卡片，又看到医生捡到一个钉锤，便让他放回原处。警官从男仆那里知道窗帘是点灯时拉上的，便分析说凶手进来后躲到了窗后伺机偷东西，被道格拉斯发现便行了凶，之后从窗口逃走了。
医生在死者的右臂上发现了一个三角形的圆圈，像是被烙上的印记。贝克和男仆说曾多次在道格拉斯手臂上看到过这个印记。
这时，男仆发现戴在主人左手上小指上的结婚戒指不见了，只留下了套在结婚戒指上面的小金块戒指和中指上的蛇形戒指。
乡村警官感到案子复杂，认为还是请上面来人调查更合适。ow for a moment I will ask leave to remove my own insignificant personality and to describe events which occurred before we Narrived 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 thisvenerable 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 smokeblackened 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 ditchlike 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 rentered 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 country 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 largerupon 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 cleanshaved, 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 localpolice 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 whitefaced 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 thedreadful 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.ThenI 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 thecrime？”
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'II 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.”第四章 黑暗导读
十二点他们抵达伯尔斯通火车站时，怀特梅森迎接了他们。十分钟后，领他们住进了旅馆的房间，在旅馆的大厅向他们报告了案件的经过。
梅森警官在接手案子后，检查了钉锤。没发现上面有痕迹，又发现枪的两个扳机是绑在一起的，这样两发子弹会同时发射，无疑是要打死这人。枪管被锯断，只留下PEN三个字母。
福尔摩斯告诉警官，三个字母中P字较大，那是美国宾西法尼亚洲小型武器公司制造的。梅森对福尔摩斯的丰富知识感到很惊奇，说看来这事是美国人干的。
麦克唐纳表示，还没看到有陌生人进来的证据，这一切都是可以伪造的。如果真有人进来，也是为谋杀来的。他能用这么响的武器召来人，再冒着被暴露的危险去趟壕沟吗？梅森表示，当时检查并没有发现有人从水中爬出来的痕迹。
福尔摩斯提议到庄园去看看，于是他们来到了有三个世纪历史的庄园。梅森指着吊桥右边开着的窗户，告诉他那就是凶手爬过的地方。福尔摩斯感到有点窄，他又了解到沟内的水只有两三英尺深。
他们被男仆艾姆斯迎进屋内，医生已经回去了。村警在屋内守着，梅森让他回去，然后说出了对此案的看法。
他首先排除了自杀的可能，本屋内人作案的可能性也很小。如果是外人作案，那么可能是窃贼，也可能是与道格拉斯有私仇的美国人。这人藏在窗帘后，当十一点多道格拉斯来到房间，因为她夫人说他离开几分钟就听到枪声了，道格拉斯先生拿起了钉锤，凶犯开枪杀了他，然后跳出窗子逃走了。
麦克唐纳还是对作案人不准备退路及用的武器表示质疑。
福尔摩斯蹲下检查尸体，看到道格拉斯前臂上的三角形图案及他下巴上贴的橡皮膏，仆人说那是他刮胡子不小心弄伤的。
福尔摩斯想到这可能是紧张所造成的。又查看写着V.V.341的小纸片，认为是某个团体的东西。可能是凶犯作案后故意将小纸片留在现场，等报纸报道时，其他人都会知道这人已经死了。可凶手为什么要用这把枪？结婚戒指为什么不见了呢？案发后警察应该寻找穿着湿衣服的人，但到现在没找到，这人或许已换上干衣服，或是藏在了某个地方。福尔摩斯又用放大镜检查了窗台的血迹；接着发现哑铃只有一个，对此感到很奇怪。
这时，贝克敲门进来，说是有几个人在离庄园门不到一百码的冬青树丛中找出一辆很旧的自行车，但不知车主是谁。
他们看到几个人正看着一辆自行车，探长说如果车子有牌照，便能找到凶手是从哪里来的。可凶手将车子弃掉后是怎么逃走的呢？
t three in the morning the chief Sussex detective, obeying the
urgent call from Sergeant Wilson of Birlstone, arrived from A
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 retried 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 cleanand 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 SmallArms Company—well-knownAmerican 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 comer, 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 intouch 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, livercoloured 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 east 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 immediateright 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
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