The Adventure of Shoscombe Old Place

Arthur Conan Doyle

Sherlock Holmes had been bending for a long time over a low-power microscope. Now he straightened himself up and looked round at me in triumph.

“It is glue, Watson,” said he. “Unquestionably it is glue. Have a look at these scattered objects in the field!”

I stooped to the eyepiece and focussed for my vision.

“Those hairs are threads from a tweed coat. The irregular gray masses are dust. There are epithelial scales on the left. Those brown blobs in the centre are undoubtedly glue.”

“Well,” I said, laughing, “I am prepared to take your word for it. Does anything depend upon it?”

“It is a very fine demonstration,” he answered. “In the St. Pancras case you may remember that a cap was found beside the dead policeman. The accused man denies that it is his. But he is a picture-frame maker who habitually handles glue.”

“Is it one of your cases?”

“No; my friend, Merivale, of the Yard, asked me to look into the case. Since I ran down that coiner by the zinc and copper filings in the seam of his cuff they have begun to realize the importance of the microscope.” He looked impatiently at his watch. “I had a new client calling, but he is overdue. By the way, Watson, you know something of racing?”

“I ought to. I pay for it with about half my wound pension.”

“Then I'll make you my ‘Handy Guide to the Turf.’ What about Sir Robert Norberton? Does the name recall anything?”

“Well, I should say so. He lives at Shoscombe Old Place, and I know it well, for my summer quarters were down there once. Norberton nearly came within your province once.”

“How was that?”

“It was when he horsewhipped Sam Brewer, the well-known Curzon Street money-lender, on Newmarket Heath. He nearly killed the man.”

“Ah, he sounds interesting! Does he often indulge in that way?”

“Well, he has the name of being a dangerous man. He is about the most daredevil rider in England—second in the Grand National a few years back. He is one of those men who have overshot their true generation. He should have been a buck in the days of the Regency—a boxer, an athlete, a plunger on the turf, a lover of fair ladies, and, by all account, so far down Queer Street that he may never find his way back again.”

“Capital, Watson! A thumb-nail sketch. I seem to know the man. Now, can you give me some idea of Shoscombe Old Place?”

“Only that it is in the centre of Shoscombe Park, and that the famous Shoscombe stud and training quarters are to be found there.”

“And the head trainer,” said Holmes, “is John Mason. You need not look surprised at my knowledge, Watson, for this is a letter from him which I am unfolding. But let us have some more about Shoscombe. I seem to have struck a rich vein.”

“There are the Shoscombe spaniels,” said I. “You hear of them at every dog show. The most exclusive breed in England. They are the special pride of the lady of Shoscombe Old Place.”

“Sir Robert Norberton's wife, I presume!”

“Sir Robert has never married. Just as well, I think, considering his prospects. He lives with his widowed sister, Lady Beatrice Falder.”

“You mean that she lives with him?”

“No, no. The place belonged to her late husband, Sir James. Norberton has no claim on it at all. It is only a life interest and reverts to her husband's brother. Meantime, she draws the rents every year.”

“And brother Robert, I suppose, spends the said rents?”

“That is about the size of it. He is a devil of a fellow and must lead her a most uneasy life. Yet I have heard that she is devoted to him. But what is amiss at Shoscombe?”

“Ah, that is just what I want to know. And here, I expect, is the man who can tell us.”

The door had opened and the page had shown in a tall, clean-shaven man with the firm, austere expression which is only seen upon those who have to control horses or boys. Mr. John Mason had many of both under his sway, and he looked equal to the task. He bowed with cold self-possession and seated himself upon the chair to which Holmes had waved him.

“You had my note, Mr. Holmes?”

“Yes, but it explained nothing.”

“It was too delicate a thing for me to put the details on paper. And too complicated. It was only face to face I could do it.”

“Well, we are at your disposal.”

“First of all, Mr. Holmes, I think that my employer, Sir Robert, has gone mad.”

Holmes raised his eyebrows. “This is Baker Street, not Harley Street,” said he. “But why do you say so?”

“Well, sir, when a man does one queer thing, or two queer things, there may be a meaning to it, but when everything he does is queer, then you begin to wonder. I believe Shoscombe Prince and the Derby have turned his brain.”

“That is a colt you are running?”

“The best in England, Mr. Holmes. I should know, if anyone does. Now, I'll be plain with you, for I know you are gentlemen of honour and that it won't go beyond the room. Sir Robert has got to win this Derby. He's up to the neck, and it's his last chance. Everything he could raise or borrow is on the horse—and at fine odds, too! You can get forties now, but it was nearer the hundred when he began to back him.”

“But how is that if the horse is so good?”

“The public don't know how good he is. Sir Robert has been too clever for the touts. He has the Prince's half-brother out for spins. You can't tell 'em apart. But there are two lengths in a furlong between them when it comes to a gallop. He thinks of nothing but the horse and the race. His whole life is on it. He's holding off the Jews till then. If the Prince fails him he is done.”

“It seems a rather desperate gamble, but where does the madness come in?”

“Well, first of all, you have only to look at him. I don't believe he sleeps at night. He is down at the stables at all hours. His eyes are wild. It has all been too much for his nerves. Then there is his conduct to Lady Beatrice!”

“Ah! What is that?”

“They have always been the best of friends. They had the same tastes, the two of them, and she loved the horses as much as he did. Every day at the same hour she would drive down to see them—and, above all, she loved the Prince. He would prick up his ears when he heard the wheels on the gravel, and he would trot out each morning to the carriage to get his lump of sugar. But that's all over now.”

“Why?”

“Well, she seems to have lost all interest in the horses. For a week now she has driven past the stables with never so much as ‘Good-morning’!”

“You think there has been a quarrel?”

“And a bitter, savage, spiteful quarrel at that. Why else would he give away her pet spaniel that she loved as if he were her child? He gave it a few days ago to old Barnes, what keeps the Green Dragon, three miles off, at Crendall.”

“That certainly did seem strange.”

“Of course, with her weak heart and dropsy one couldn't expect that she could get about with him, but he spent two hours every evening in her room. He might well do what he could, for she has been a rare good friend to him. But that's all over, too. He never goes near her. And she takes it to heart. She is brooding and sulky and drinking, Mr. Holmes—drinking like a fish.”

“Did she drink before this estrangement?”

“Well, she took her glass, but now it is often a whole bottle of an evening. So Stephens, the butler, told me. It's all changed, Mr. Holmes, and there is something damned rotten about it. But then, again, what is master doing down at the old church crypt at night? And who is the man that meets him there?”

Holmes rubbed his hands.

“Go on, Mr. Mason. You get more and more interesting.”

“It was the butler who saw him go. Twelve o'clock at night and raining hard. So next night I was up at the house and, sure enough, master was off again. Stephens and I went after him, but it was jumpy work, for it would have been a bad job if he had seen us. He's a terrible man with his fists if he gets started, and no respecter of persons. So we were shy of getting too near, but we marked him down all right. It was the haunted crypt that he was making for, and there was a man waiting for him there.”

“What is this haunted crypt?”

“Well, sir, there is an old ruined chapel in the park. It is so old that nobody could fix its date. And under it there's a crypt which has a bad name among us. It's a dark, damp, lonely place by day, but there are few in that county that would have the nerve to go near it at night. But master's not afraid. He never feared anything in his life. But what is he doing there in the night-time?”

“Wait a bit!” said Holmes. “You say there is another man there. It must be one of your own stablemen, or someone from the house! Surely you have only to spot who it is and question him?”

“It's no one I know.”

“How can you say that?”

“Because I have seen him, Mr. Holmes. It was on that second night. Sir Robert turned and passed us—me and Stephens, quaking in the bushes like two bunny-rabbits, for there was a bit of moon that night. But we could hear the other moving about behind. We were not afraid of him. So we up when Sir Robert was gone and pretended we were just having a walk like in the moonlight, and so we came right on him as casual and innocent as you please. ‘Hullo, mate! who may you be?’ says I. I guess he had not heard us coming, so he looked over his shoulder with a face as if he had seen the devil coming out of hell. He let out a yell, and away he went as hard as he could lick it in the darkness. He could run!—I'll give him that. In a minute he was out of sight and hearing, and who he was, or what he was, we never found.”

“But you saw him clearly in the moonlight?”

“Yes, I would swear to his yellow face—a mean dog, I should say. What could he have in common with Sir Robert?”

Holmes sat for some time lost in thought.

“Who keeps Lady Beatrice Falder company?” he asked at last.

“There is her maid, Carrie Evans. She has been with her this five years.”

“And is, no doubt, devoted?”

Mr. Mason shuffled uncomfortably.

“She's devoted enough,” he answered at last. “But I won't say to whom.”

“Ah!” said Holmes.

“I can't tell tales out of school.”

“I quite understand, Mr. Mason. Of course, the situation is clear enough. From Dr. Watson's description of Sir Robert I can realize that no woman is safe from him. Don't you think the quarrel between brother and sister may lie there?”

“Well, the scandal has been pretty clear for a long time.”

“But she may not have seen it before. Let us suppose that she has suddenly found it out. She wants to get rid of the woman. Her brother will not permit it. The invalid, with her weak heart and inability to get about, has no means of enforcing her will. The hated maid is still tied to her. The lady refuses to speak, sulks, takes to drink. Sir Robert in his anger takes her pet spaniel away from her. Does not all this hang together?”

“Well, it might do—so far as it goes.”

“Exactly! As far as it goes. How would all that bear upon the visits by night to the old crypt? We can't fit that into our plot.”

“No, sir, and there is something more that I can't fit in. Why should Sir Robert want to dig up a dead body?”

Holmes sat up abruptly.

“We only found it out yesterday—after I had written to you. Yesterday Sir Robert had gone to London, so Stephens and I went down to the crypt. It was all in order, sir, except that in one corner was a bit of a human body.”

“You informed the police, I suppose?”

Our visitor smiled grimly.

“Well, sir, I think it would hardly interest them. It was just the head and a few bones of a mummy. It may have been a thousand years old. But it wasn't there before. That I'll swear, and so will Stephens. It had been stowed away in a corner and covered over with a board, but that corner had always been empty before.”

“What did you do with it?”

“Well, we just left it there.”

“That was wise. You say Sir Robert was away yesterday. Has he returned?”

“We expect him back to-day.”

“When did Sir Robert give away his sister's dog?”

“It was just a week ago to-day. The creature was howling outside the old well-house, and Sir Robert was in one of his tantrums that morning. He caught it up, and I thought he would have killed it. Then he gave it to Sandy Bain, the jockey, and told him to take the dog to old Barnes at the Green Dragon, for he never wished to see it again.”

Holmes sat for some time in silent thought. He had lit the oldest and foulest of his pipes.

“I am not clear yet what you want me to do in this matter, Mr. Mason,” he said at last. “Can't you make it more definite?”

“Perhaps this will make it more definite, Mr. Holmes,” said our visitor.

He took a paper from his pocket, and, unwrapping it carefully, he exposed a charred fragment of bone.

Holmes examined it with interest.

“Where did you get it?”

“There is a central heating furnace in the cellar under Lady Beatrice's room. It's been off for some time, but Sir Robert complained of cold and had it on again. Harvey runs it—he's one of my lads. This very morning he came to me with this which he found raking out the cinders. He didn't like the look of it.”

“Nor do I,” said Holmes. “What do you make of it, Watson?”

It was burned to a black cinder, but there could be no question as to its anatomical significance.

“It's the upper condyle of a human femur,” said I.

“Exactly!” Holmes had become very serious. “When does this lad tend to the furnace?”

“He makes it up every evening and then leaves it.”

“Then anyone could visit it during the night?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Can you enter it from outside?”

“There is one door from outside. There is another which leads up by a stair to the passage in which Lady Beatrice's room is situated.”

“These are deep waters, Mr. Mason; deep and rather dirty. You say that Sir Robert was not at home last night?”

“No, sir.”

“Then, whoever was burning bones, it was not he.”

“That's true, sir.”

“What is the name of that inn you spoke of?”

“The Green Dragon.”

“Is there good fishing in that part of Berkshire?” The honest trainer showed very clearly upon his face that he was convinced that yet another lunatic had come into his harassed life.

“Well, sir, I've heard there are trout in the mill-stream and pike in the Hall lake.”

“That's good enough. Watson and I are famous fishermen—are we not, Watson? You may address us in future at the Green Dragon. We should reach it to-night. I need not say that we don't want to see you, Mr. Mason, but a note will reach us, and no doubt I could find you if I want you. When we have gone a little farther into the matter I will let you have a considered opinion.”

Thus it was that on a bright May evening Holmes and I found ourselves alone in a first-class carriage and bound for the little “halt-on-demand” station of Shoscombe. The rack above us was covered with a formidable litter of rods, reels, and baskets. On reaching our destination a short drive took us to an old-fashioned tavern, where a sporting host, Josiah Barnes, entered eagerly into our plans for the extirpation of the fish of the neighbourhood.

“What about the Hall lake and the chance of a pike?” said Holmes.

The face of the innkeeper clouded.

“That wouldn't do, sir. You might chance to find yourself in the lake before you were through.”

“How's that, then?”

“It's Sir Robert, sir. He's terrible jealous of touts. If you two strangers were as near his training quarters as that he'd be after you as sure as fate. He ain't taking no chances, Sir Robert ain't.”

“I've heard he has a horse entered for the Derby.”

“Yes, and a good colt, too. He carries all our money for the race, and all Sir Robert's into the bargain. By the way”—he looked at us with thoughtful eyes—“I suppose you ain't on the turf yourselves?”

“No, indeed. Just two weary Londoners who badly need some good Berkshire air.”

“Well, you are in the right place for that. There is a deal of it lying about. But mind what I have told you about Sir Robert. He's the sort that strikes first and speaks afterwards. Keep clear of the park.”

“Surely, Mr. Barnes! We certainly shall. By the way, that was a most beautiful spaniel that was whining in the hall.”

“I should say it was. That was the real Shoscombe breed. There ain't a better in England.”

“I am a dog-fancier myself,” said Holmes. “Now, if it is a fair question, what would a prize dog like that cost?”

“More than I could pay, sir. It was Sir Robert himself who gave me this one. That's why I have to keep it on a lead. It would be off to the Hall in a jiffy if I gave it its head.”

“We are getting some cards in our hand, Watson,” said Holmes when the landlord had left us. “It's not an easy one to play, but we may see our way in a day or two. By the way, Sir Robert is still in London, I hear. We might, perhaps, enter the sacred domain to-night without fear of bodily assault. There are one or two points on which I should like reassurance.”

“Have you any theory, Holmes?”

“Only this, Watson, that something happened a week or so ago which has cut deep into the life of the Shoscombe household. What is that something? We can only guess at it from its effects. They seem to be of a curiously mixed character. But that should surely help us. It is only the colourless, uneventful case which is hopeless.

“Let us consider our data. The brother no longer visits the beloved invalid sister. He gives away her favourite dog. Her dog, Watson! Does that suggest nothing to you?”

“Nothing but the brother's spite.”

“Well, it might be so. Or—well, there is an alternative. Now to continue our review of the situation from the time that the quarrel, if there is a quarrel, began. The lady keeps her room, alters her habits, is not seen save when she drives out with her maid, refuses to stop at the stables to greet her favourite horse, and apparently takes to drink. That covers the case, does it not?”

“Save for the business in the crypt.”

“That is another line of thought. There are two, and I beg you will not tangle them. Line A, which concerns Lady Beatrice, has a vaguely sinister flavour, has it not?”

“I can make nothing of it.”

“Well, now, let us take up line B, which concerns Sir Robert. He is mad keen upon winning the Derby. He is in the hands of the Jews, and may at any moment be sold up and his racing stables seized by his creditors. He is a daring and desperate man. He derives his income from his sister. His sister's maid is his willing tool. So far we seem to be on fairly safe ground, do we not?”

“But the crypt?”

“Ah, yes, the crypt! Let us suppose, Watson—it is merely a scandalous supposition, a hypothesis put forward for argument's sake—that Sir Robert has done away with his sister.”

“My dear Holmes, it is out of the question.”

“Very possibly, Watson. Sir Robert is a man of an honourable stock. But you do occasionally find a carrion crow among the eagles. Let us for a moment argue upon this supposition. He could not fly the country until he had realized his fortune, and that fortune could only be realized by bringing off this coup with Shoscombe Prince. Therefore, he has still to stand his ground. To do this he would have to dispose of the body of his victim, and he would also have to find a substitute who would impersonate her. With the maid as his confidante that would not be impossible. The woman's body might be conveyed to the crypt, which is a place so seldom visited, and it might be secretly destroyed at night in the furnace, leaving behind it such evidence as we have already seen. What say you to that, Watson?”

“Well, it is all possible if you grant the original monstrous supposition.”

“I think that there is a small experiment which we may try to-morrow, Watson, in order to throw some light on the matter. Meanwhile, if we mean to keep up our characters, I suggest that we have our host in for a glass of his own wine and hold some high converse upon eels and dace, which seems to be the straight road to his affections. We may chance to come upon some useful local gossip in the process.”

In the morning Holmes discovered that we had come without our spoon-bait for jack, which absolved us from fishing for the day. About eleven o'clock we started for a walk, and he obtained leave to take the black spaniel with us.

“This is the place,” said he as we came to two high park gates with heraldic griffins towering above them. “About midday, Mr. Barnes informs me, the old lady takes a drive, and the carriage must slow down while the gates are opened. When it comes through, and before it gathers speed, I want you, Watson, to stop the coachman with some question. Never mind me. I shall stand behind this holly-bush and see what I can see.”

It was not a long vigil. Within a quarter of an hour we saw the big open yellow barouche coming down the long avenue, with two splendid, high-stepping gray carriage horses in the shafts. Holmes crouched behind his bush with the dog. I stood unconcernedly swinging a cane in the roadway. A keeper ran out and the gates swung open.

The carriage had slowed to a walk, and I was able to get a good look at the occupants. A highly coloured young woman with flaxen hair and impudent eyes sat on the left. At her right was an elderly person with rounded back and a huddle of shawls about her face and shoulders which proclaimed the invalid. When the horses reached the highroad I held up my hand with an authoritative gesture, and as the coachman pulled up I inquired if Sir Robert was at Shoscombe Old Place.

At the same moment Holmes stepped out and released the spaniel. With a joyous cry it dashed forward to the carriage and sprang upon the step. Then in a moment its eager greeting changed to furious rage, and it snapped at the black skirt above it.

“Drive on! Drive on!” shrieked a harsh voice. The coachman lashed the horses, and we were left standing in the roadway.

“Well, Watson, that's done it,” said Holmes as he fastened the lead to the neck of the excited spaniel. “He thought it was his mistress, and he found it was a stranger. Dogs don't make mistakes.”

“But it was the voice of a man!” I cried.

“Exactly! We have added one card to our hand, Watson, but it needs careful playing, all the same.”

My companion seemed to have no further plans for the day, and we did actually use our fishing tackle in the mill-stream, with the result that we had a dish of trout for our supper. It was only after that meal that Holmes showed signs of renewed activity. Once more we found ourselves upon the same road as in the morning, which led us to the park gates. A tall, dark figure was awaiting us there, who proved to be our London acquaintance, Mr. John Mason, the trainer.

“Good-evening, gentlemen,” said he. “I got your note, Mr. Holmes. Sir Robert has not returned yet, but I hear that he is expected to-night.”

“How far is this crypt from the house?” asked Holmes.

“A good quarter of a mile.”

“Then I think we can disregard him altogether.”

“I can't afford to do that, Mr. Holmes. The moment he arrives he will want to see me to get the last news of Shoscombe Prince.”

“I see! In that case we must work without you, Mr. Mason. You can show us the crypt and then leave us.”

It was pitch-dark and without a moon, but Mason led us over the grass-lands until a dark mass loomed up in front of us which proved to be the ancient chapel. We entered the broken gap which was once the porch, and our guide, stumbling among heaps of loose masonry, picked his way to the corner of the building, where a steep stair led down into the crypt. Striking a match, he illuminated the melancholy place—dismal and evil-smelling, with ancient crumbling walls of rough-hewn stone, and piles of coffins, some of lead and some of stone, extending upon one side right up to the arched and groined roof which lost itself in the shadows above our heads. Holmes had lit his lantern, which shot a tiny tunnel of vivid yellow light upon the mournful scene. Its rays were reflected back from the coffin-plates, many of them adorned with the griffin and coronet of this old family which carried its honours even to the gate of Death.

“You spoke of some bones, Mr. Mason. Could you show them before you go?”

“They are here in this corner.” The trainer strode across and then stood in silent surprise as our light was turned upon the place. “They are gone,” said he.

“So I expected,” said Holmes, chuckling. “I fancy the ashes of them might even now be found in that oven which had already consumed a part.”

“But why in the world would anyone want to burn the bones of a man who has been dead a thousand years?” asked John Mason.

“That is what we are here to find out,” said Holmes. “It may mean a long search, and we need not detain you. I fancy that we shall get our solution before morning.”

When John Mason had left us, Holmes set to work making a very careful examination of the graves, ranging from a very ancient one, which appeared to be Saxon, in the centre, through a long line of Norman Hugos and Odos, until we reached the Sir William and Sir Denis Falder of the eighteenth century. It was an hour or more before Holmes came to a leaden coffin standing on end before the entrance to the vault. I heard his little cry of satisfaction and was aware from his hurried but purposeful movements that he had reached a goal. With his lens he was eagerly examining the edges of the heavy lid. Then he drew from his pocket a short jemmy, a box-opener, which he thrust into a chink, levering back the whole front, which seemed to be secured by only a couple of clamps. There was a rending, tearing sound as it gave way, but it had hardly hinged back and partly revealed the contents before we had an unforeseen interruption.

Someone was walking in the chapel above. It was the firm, rapid step of one who came with a definite purpose and knew well the ground upon which he walked. A light streamed down the stairs, and an instant later the man who bore it was framed in the Gothic archway. He was a terrible figure, huge in stature and fierce in manner. A large stable-lantern which he held in front of him shone upward upon a strong, heavily moustached face and angry eyes, which glared round him into every recess of the vault, finally fixing themselves with a deadly stare upon my companion and myself.

“Who the devil are you?” he thundered. “And what are you doing upon my property?” Then, as Holmes returned no answer, he took a couple of steps forward and raised a heavy stick which he carried. “Do you hear me?” he cried. “Who are you? What are you doing here?” His cudgel quivered in the air.

But instead of shrinking Holmes advanced to meet him.

“I also have a question to ask you, Sir Robert,” he said in his sternest tone. “Who is this? And what is it doing here?”

He turned and tore open the coffin-lid behind him. In the glare of the lantern I saw a body swathed in a sheet from head to foot, with dreadful, witch-like features, all nose and chin, projecting at one end, the dim, glazed eyes staring from a discoloured and crumbling face.

The baronet had staggered back with a cry and supported himself against a stone sarcophagus.

“How came you to know of this?” he cried. And then, with some return of his truculent manner: “What business is it of yours?”

“My name is Sherlock Holmes,” said my companion. “Possibly it is familiar to you. In any case, my business is that of every other good citizen—to uphold the law. It seems to me that you have much to answer for.”

Sir Robert glared for a moment, but Holmes's quiet voice and cool, assured manner had their effect.

“‘Fore God, Mr. Holmes, it's all right,” said he. “Appearances are against me, I'll admit, but I could act no otherwise.”

“I should be happy to think so, but I fear your explanations must be before the police.”

Sir Robert shrugged his broad shoulders.

“Well, if it must be, it must. Come up to the house and you can judge for yourself how the matter stands.”

A quarter of an hour later we found ourselves in what I judge, from the lines of polished barrels behind glass covers, to be the gun-room of the old house. It was comfortably furnished, and here Sir Robert left us for a few moments. When he returned he had two companions with him; the one, the florid young woman whom we had seen in the carriage; the other, a small rat-faced man with a disagreeably furtive manner. These two wore an appearance of utter bewilderment, which showed that the baronet had not yet had time to explain to them the turn events had taken.

“There,” said Sir Robert with a wave of his hand, “are Mr. and Mrs. Norlett. Mrs. Norlett, under her maiden name of Evans, has for some years been my sister's confidential maid. I have brought them here because I feel that my best course is to explain the true position to you, and they are the two people upon earth who can substantiate what I say.”

“Is this necessary, Sir Robert? Have you thought what you are doing?” cried the woman.

“As to me, I entirely disclaim all responsibility,” said her husband.

Sir Robert gave him a glance of contempt. “I will take all responsibility,” said he. “Now, Mr. Holmes, listen to a plain statement of the facts.

“You have clearly gone pretty deeply into my affairs or I should not have found you where I did. Therefore, you know already, in all probability, that I am running a dark horse for the Derby and that everything depends upon my success. If I win, all is easy. If I lose—well, I dare not think of that!”

“I understand the position,” said Holmes.

“I am dependent upon my sister, Lady Beatrice, for everything. But it is well known that her interest in the estate is for her own life only. For myself, I am deeply in the hands of the Jews. I have always known that if my sister were to die my creditors would be on to my estate like a flock of vultures. Everything would be seized—my stables, my horses—everything. Well, Mr. Holmes, my sister did die just a week ago.”

“And you told no one!”

“What could I do? Absolute ruin faced me. If I could stave things off for three weeks all would be well. Her maid's husband—this man here—is an actor. It came into our heads—it came into my head—that he could for that short period personate my sister. It was but a case of appearing daily in the carriage, for no one need enter her room save the maid. It was not difficult to arrange. My sister died of the dropsy which had long afflicted her.”

“That will be for a coroner to decide.”

“Her doctor would certify that for months her symptoms have threatened such an end.”

“Well, what did you do?”

“The body could not remain there. On the first night Norlett and I carried it out to the old well-house, which is now never used. We were followed, however, by her pet spaniel, which yapped continually at the door, so I felt some safer place was needed. I got rid of the spaniel, and we carried the body to the crypt of the church. There was no indignity or irreverence, Mr. Holmes. I do not feel that I have wronged the dead.”

“Your conduct seems to me inexcusable, Sir Robert.”

The baronet shook his head impatiently. “It is easy to preach,” said he. “Perhaps you would have felt differently if you had been in my position. One cannot see all one's hopes and all one's plans shattered at the last moment and make no effort to save them. It seemed to me that it would be no unworthy resting-place if we put her for the time in one of the coffins of her husband's ancestors lying in what is still consecrated ground. We opened such a coffin, removed the contents, and placed her as you have seen her. As to the old relics which we took out, we could not leave them on the floor of the crypt. Norlett and I removed them, and he descended at night and burned them in the central furnace. There is my story, Mr. Holmes, though how you forced my hand so that I have to tell it is more than I can say.”

Holmes sat for some time lost in thought.

“There is one flaw in your narrative, Sir Robert,” he said at last. “Your bets on the race, and therefore your hopes for the future, would hold good even if your creditors seized your estate.”

“The horse would be part of the estate. What do they care for my bets? As likely as not they would not run him at all. My chief creditor is, unhappily, my most bitter enemy—a rascally fellow, Sam Brewer, whom I was once compelled to horsewhip on Newmarket Heath. Do you suppose that he would try to save me?”

“Well, Sir Robert,” said Holmes, rising, “this matter must, of course, be referred to the police. It was my duty to bring the facts to light, and there I must leave it. As to the morality or decency of your conduct, it is not for me to express an opinion. It is nearly midnight, Watson, and I think we may make our way back to our humble abode.”

It is generally known now that this singular episode ended upon a happier note than Sir Robert's actions deserved. Shoscombe Prince did win the Derby, the sporting owner did net eighty thousand pounds in bets, and the creditors did hold their hand until the race was over, when they were paid in full, and enough was left to reestablish Sir Robert in a fair position in life. Both police and coroner took a lenient view of the transaction, and beyond a mild censure for the delay in registering the lady's decease, the lucky owner got away scatheless from this strange incident in a career which has now outlived its shadows and promises to end in an honoured old age.

肖斯科姆别墅

歇洛克-福尔摩斯弯着腰在一个低倍显微镜上面看了许久，现在他直起身来，胜利地看着我。

“华生，这是胶，"他说，“毫无疑问是胶。看看这些散在四周的东西！”

我俯身到目镜前对好焦距。

“这些纤维是花呢上衣的。这些不规则的灰色一团一块是灰尘。左边还有上皮鳞层。中间这些褐色的粘一团一无疑是胶。”

“好吧，"我笑着说，“我准备接受你的意见。这能说明什么问题吗？”

“这是个很好的证据，"他答道。"你也许记得圣潘克莱斯案中的警察一尸一体旁发现的那顶帽子吧。被控人否认那是他的。但他是一个经常用胶的画框商。”

“这是你办的案子吗？”

“不是，这是我的朋友，警场的梅里维尔要我帮忙的一个案子。自从我在被告的袖缝中找到了锌和铜屑，因此推断他是伪币制造者以来，他们就认识到显微镜的重要一性一了。他不耐烦地看了看表。"我有个新主顾要来，时间已经过了。对了，华生，你懂赛一马吗？”

“照理说应该懂一点。我的负伤抚恤金有一半都耗在这上面了。”

“那我可要把你当作我的'赛一马指南'了。你知道罗伯特-诺伯顿吗？你记得这个名字吗？”

“当然记得。他住在肖斯科姆别墅，那儿我很熟悉，我在那里呆过一个夏天。有一次诺伯顿几乎进入你的业务领域。”

“怎么回事？”

“他在纽马克特用马鞭差点把萨姆-布鲁尔打死，此人是科尔曾街的一个放债人。”

“嗬，他真有意思！他常那么干吗？”

“是的，他是有名的危险人物。他差不多是英国最胆大妄为的骑手了——几年以前利物浦障碍赛一马的第二名。他是那种不属于自己生活时代的人。要是在摄政时期，他本该是个公子哥儿——拳击家、运动家、拼命的骑手、追求美一女的人，并且一旦走了下坡路就再也回不来了。”

“了不起，华生！你的介绍非常扼要，我就好象见到他本人了。你能告诉我一些肖斯科姆别墅的情况吗？”

“我就只知道它在肖斯科姆公园的中央，著名的肖斯科姆种马饲养场和训练场也在那儿。”

“教练官是约翰-马森，"福尔摩斯说，“不要表示惊讶，华生，我打开的这封信就是他寄来的。咱们还是再谈谈肖斯科姆吧。我象是遇上了丰富的矿藏。”

“那儿有肖斯科姆长一毛一垂耳狗，"我说。"在所有的狗市上它们都是大名鼎鼎的。这是英国最佳种的狗。它们是肖斯科姆女主人的骄傲。”

“女主人是罗伯特-诺伯顿爵士的妻子喽？”

“罗伯特爵士没有结过婚。考虑到他的前景，这也是好事。他和他守寡的姐姐比特丽斯-福尔德夫人住在一起。”

“你是说她住在他家里？”

“不，不。这个宅子属于她的前夫詹姆斯。诺伯顿先生在这儿没有任何产权。在夫人生前，产业的利钱归她，在她死后房产则还给她丈夫的弟弟。她只是每年收租子。”

“我想这些租钱就由罗伯特花了吧？”

“差不多。他是一个不管不顾的家伙，一定使她过得很不安宁。但我还是听说她对他很好。那么，肖斯科姆出了什么岔子呢？”

“啊，这正是我想知道的。我想能告诉我们此事的人来了。”

门已经打开，从过道里走来一个高个子、脸修得很干净的人，他那种坚决、严厉的表情说明他是教管马或男孩子的那类人。马森先生这两行都干，而且看来同样胜任。他镇定自若地鞠了躬，在福尔摩斯指给他的椅子上坐下。

“福尔摩斯先生，你接到我的信了？”

“是的，可是你的信没有作什么解释。”

“这件事十分敏一感，不好一一写在纸上，而且也太复杂。我只能和你面谈。”

“好吧，我们就听你谈。”

“首先，福尔摩斯先生，我觉得我的主人疯了。”

福尔摩斯扬起眉一毛一。"这是贝克街，不是哈利街，"他说，"你这样说有什么根据吗？”

“先生，一个人干一两件古怪的事情还可以理解，可如果他干的事情都那么稀奇古怪，那你就会疑心了。我觉得肖斯科姆王子和赛一马大会把他给弄得神经失常了。”

“是你驯的一头小马吗？”

“是全英国最好的马，福尔摩斯先生，这我是有把握的。现在我可以跟你坦率地讲，因为我知道你是一位正直的绅士，此事也不会传出去。罗伯特爵士在这次赛一马中，只能胜不能败。他已经全力以赴、孤注一掷了。他把他所能搞到和借到的钱都押在这骑马上了，而且赌注的比值也悬殊。一比四十已经够了，但他押的是接近一比一百。”

“如果马真是那么好，为什么要这样呢？”

“但是别人并不知道它有这么好。罗伯特爵士可没让马探子套出情报去。他把王子的同父异母兄弟拉出去兜风，谁也分辨不出它们。可一奔驰起来，跑上二百米它们之间就会拉开距离。他一心只想着马和赛一马的事，整个生命都放在这上面了。他暂时还可以把高利贷主应付住，但如果王子失败了，他也就破产了。”

“真是一场不顾一切的赌一博，可是从什么地方看出来他疯了呢？”

“首先，你只要看他一眼就知道了。我根本不相信他晚上睡过觉，他整天呆在马圈里。他两眼发狂，神经已经承受不住了。还有他对比特丽斯夫人的行为！”

“啊！怎么回事？”

“他们一直感情很好。他们趣味相同，她也象他一样一爱一马。她每天准时驱车来看马——她最一宠一爱一的是王子。一听到石子路上的车轮声，它就耸一起耳朵，每天早晨它都要小跑着到车前去吃它那块糖，可现在一切都完了。”

“为什么？”

“她对马似乎已经完全丧失了兴趣。一个星期以来她每天驱车路过马圈时连个招呼也不打！”

“你认为他们吵架了？”

“而且吵得很厉害、粗一鲁、彼此深怀恶意。不然，他为什么要把她当作儿子一样一宠一爱一的狗送人呢？几天以前他把狗送给了老巴恩斯，他是三英里外克伦达尔青龙旅店的掌柜。”

“确实有点怪。”

“她心脏不好、又浮肿，当然不能跟他出去跑，他一向每天晚上在她屋里呆两个小时。他现在完全可以照旧那样做，因为她是他少有的好朋友。可现在这一切都完了，他再也不走近她了。她也很伤心。她变得心情抑郁、沉闷，喝啤酒来，福尔摩斯先生，简直是狂饮无度了。”

“在疏远以前她喝酒吗？”

“她也喝一杯，可现在她一晚上就喝一瓶。这是管家斯蒂芬斯告诉我的。一切都变了样，福尔摩斯先生，简直一塌糊涂。还有，主人深夜到老教堂的地一穴一里去干吗？在那儿等他的那个人又是谁？”

福尔摩斯一搓一起手来。

“讲下去，马森先生，你的话越来越有意思了。”

“管家看见他夜里十二点冒着大雨去的。于是第二天晚上我就来到住宅，果然，他又出去了。我和斯蒂芬斯跟着他，这可真叫紧张，如果让他看见可够我们受的。谁要是惊动了他，那他的拳头可不饶人，他也不管是谁。所以我们不敢跟得太紧，但我们一直盯着他。他去的就是那个常闹鬼的地一穴一，那儿还有人在等他。”

“这个地一穴一是个什么地方？”

“先生，在花园里有一个教堂废墟，古旧得已没人知道它的年代了。它下面有一个地一穴一，是本地有名的闹鬼地方。白天那地一穴一又黑又潮，荒凉可怖，晚上更没有几个人敢走近它。但我们的主人不怕。他一辈子没有怕过任何事情。可是他夜晚到那儿去干什么呢？”

“等一下！"福尔摩斯说。"你说那儿还有一个人。他必定是你们那儿的马夫、或家里的什么人！你一定认出了他，向他发问了吧？”

“不是我认识的人。”

“你怎么能确定呢？”

“因为我看见他了，福尔摩斯先生。那是在第二个晚上。罗伯特爵士转个弯儿从我们身边走过去了，我和斯蒂芬斯则象一对兔子样的在灌木丛中发一抖，因为那天晚上有一点月光。可是我们听见还有一个人在后面走着。我们并不怕他。所以罗伯特先生过去后我们就直起身来，装着在月光下散步，漫不经心似地直闯到他跟前。'你好，伙计！你是谁？'我说道。他八成儿没听见我们走近的脚步声，所以他回过头来看见我们时，就象是见了从地狱里出来的鬼一样。他大叫一声，撒腿就跑。他还真能跑——要叫我说的话，一分钟之后就听不见、也看不见他的踪影了，他是谁、是干什么的我们就不知道了。”

“在月光下你看清他了吗？”

“是的，我记住了他的那张黄脸——是个下等人。他能和罗伯特爵士有什么关系呢？”

福尔摩斯沉思地坐了好一会儿。

“谁陪伴比特丽斯-福尔德夫人呢？"他终于问道。

“她的侍女卡里-埃文斯。五年来她一直跟着夫人。”

“不用说很忠心啦？”

马森先生不安起来。

“她是够忠心的，"他终于说，“但我不能说她对谁忠心。”

“啊！"福尔摩斯说。

“我不能揭人隐私。”

“我非常理解，马森先生。当然情况已经很清楚了。从华生医生对罗伯特爵士的描述中，我已经晓得，他对任何女人都是危险的。你不认为这可能是他们兄妹争吵的原因吗？”

“这个流言早已是众人皆知了。”

“她过去也许没看见。让我们假设她突然发现了。她想辞退这个女人，但她弟弟不准。这个弱者由于有心脏一病，又不能走动，没法实现自己的意愿。她怀恨的侍女仍然打发不走。于是她跟谁也不讲话，一个人生闷气，借酒浇愁。罗伯特爵士恼怒之下夺走了她一宠一爱一的小狈。这些不是都能串起来吗？”

“是的，到此为止还能串起来。”

“对极了！到此为止。但这一切与夜晚去地一穴一有什么联系呢？我们不能解释。”

“确实不能，先生，而且还有别的我也不能解释。罗伯特爵士为什么要去挖一具死一尸一呢？”

福尔摩斯霍地站了起来。

“这个我们昨天才发现——在我写信给你以后。昨天罗伯特爵士到伦敦去了，所以我和斯蒂芬斯下了地一穴一。别的都照旧，只是在一个角落里有一小堆人的一尸一骨。”

“你报告警察了吗？”

我们的来访者冷冷地笑了。

“先生，他们不会感兴趣的。发现的只是一具干一尸一的头和几根骨头。它很可能是千年以前的古一尸一。但它原先不在那儿，这我可以发誓，斯蒂芬斯也可以发誓。它被堆在一个角落里用木板盖着，而那个角落以前总是空着的。”

“你们怎么办了？”

“我们没管它。”

“这样做是明智的。你说罗伯特爵士昨天走了，他回来了吗？”

“今天应该回来。”

“罗伯特爵士什么时候把他姐姐的狗送人的？”

“上星期的今天。小狈在老库房外嚎叫，而那天早晨罗伯特爵士正在大发脾气。他把狗抓了起来，我以为他要把它杀了。但他把狗一交一给了骑师桑迪-贝恩，叫他去送给青龙旅店的老巴恩斯，他不愿再看到这条狗。”

福尔摩斯沉思地坐了好一会儿。他刚刚点燃了他那个最老、烟油最多的烟斗。

“我现在还不清楚你要我为此事做些什么，马森先生，"他最后说。"你能不能讲得明确一些。”

“这个也许能说明问题吧，福尔摩斯先生。"客人说着从口袋里掏出一个纸包，细心地打开，露出一根烧焦的碎骨头。

福尔摩斯感兴趣地查看起来。

“你从哪儿搞来的？”

“在比特丽斯夫人房间底下的地下室里有一个暖气锅炉，已经许久未用了，罗伯特爵士抱怨说天冷，又把它烧起来了。哈维负责烧这个锅炉——他是我的一个伙计。就在今天早晨他拿着这个来找我，他是在掏锅炉灰的时候发现骨头的。他对炉子里有骨头很不以为然。”

“我也不以为然，"福尔摩斯说。“你能认出这是什么吗，华生？”

骨头已经烧成黑色的焦块了，但它的解剖学特点还能分辨出来。

“这是人一大一腿的上髁，"我回答说。

“不错！"福尔摩斯变得非常严肃。"这个伙计什么时候去烧炉子？”

“他每天晚上烧起来后就走。”

“那么说任何人晚上都可以去了？”

“是的，先生。”

“你从外面能进去吗？”

“外面只有一个门，里边还有一个门顺着楼梯可通比特丽斯夫人房间的过道。”

“这个案子不简单，马森先生，而且有血腥味道。你是说昨晚罗伯特爵士不在家？”

“不在，先生。”

“那么烧骨头的不是他，而是别的什么人？”

“对极了，先生。”

“你刚才说的那个旅店叫什么名子？”

“青龙旅店。”

“在旅店那一带有个不错的钓鱼点吧？"这位诚实的驯马师露出莫名片妙的神情，仿佛他确信在他多难的一生中又碰到了一个疯子。

“这个，我听说在河沟里有鳟鱼，霍尔湖里有狗鱼。”

“那太好了。华生和我是有名的钓鱼一爱一好者——对不对，华生？你有信可以送到青龙旅店去。我们今晚就去那儿。你不要到那儿去找我们，有事给我们写个条子，如有需要，我可以找到你。等我们对此事有一定了解之后，我会告诉你一个成熟的意见。”

于是，在一个晴朗的五月之夜，我和福尔摩斯单独坐在一等车厢里，向一个称为"招呼停车站"的小站——肖斯科姆驶去。我们头上的行李架被显眼地堆满了钓鱼竿、鱼线和鱼筐之类。到达目的地后又坐了一段马车来到一个旧式的小旅店，在那儿好动的店主乔赛亚-巴恩斯热切地参加了我们讨论消灭附近鱼类的计划。

“怎么样，在霍尔湖钓狗鱼有希望吗？"福尔摩斯说。

店主的脸沉了下来。

“别打那个主意了，先生。没等你钓到鱼，你就掉到水里了。”

“怎么回事？”

“那是因为罗伯特爵士，先生。他特别不喜欢别人动他的鳟鱼。你们两位陌生人要是走近他的驯练场，他决不会放过你们的，罗伯特爵士一点不马虎的！”

“我听说他有了一骑马参加比赛，是吗？”

“是的，而且是非常好的马。我们大家都把钱赌在它身上了，罗伯特先生所有的钱也都押上了。对了，"他出神地望着我们，“你们别是马探子吧？”

“哪儿的话！我们只不过是两个渴望伯克郡新鲜空气的疲倦的伦敦人罢了。”

“那你们可找着地方了。这儿有的是新鲜空气。但是请记住我说的有关罗伯特爵士的话。他是那种先斩后奏的人。离公园远点。”

“当然，巴恩斯先生！我们会的。你瞧，大厅里叫唤的那只狗长得可真漂亮。”

“一点不错。那是真正的肖斯科姆种。全英国没有比它再美的啦。”

“我也是个养狗迷，"福尔摩斯说。“不知这样问是否恰当，请问这条狗值多少钱呢？”

“我可买不起，先生。这条狗是罗伯特爵士亲自给我的，所以我就把它拴起来了。我要是把它放开，它一眨眼就会跑到别墅里去。”

“华生，咱们手里现在有几张牌了。"店主离开后福尔摩斯说道，“这个牌不好打，不过再过一两天咱们总能搞清楚。我听说罗伯特爵士还在伦敦。或许今晚咱们到那个禁地去一趟还用不着怕挨打。有两点情况我需要证实一下。”

“你有什么假设吗，福尔摩斯？”

“只有一点，华生：一个来星期以前发生了一件事，它对肖斯科姆家庭生活的影响极深。究竟是什么事呢？我们只能从它的效果来猜测。效果似乎是某种因素的奇怪的混合物，但肯定有助于我们的侦查。只有那种平淡无奇的案子才是没办法的。

“让我们看看已经掌握的情况：弟弟不再去看望亲一爱一的病弱的姐姐了；他把她一宠一爱一的小狈送人了。送走她的狗，华生！你还看不出问题吗？”

“我只看出弟弟的无情。”

“也许是这样。或者——好吧，这儿还有一种可能。让我们继续看看自争吵以后发生的事儿，如果真有过一场争吵的话。夫人闭门不出，改变了她的生活一习一惯，除了和女仆乘车出外就不再露面，拒绝在马房停车去看她一宠一爱一的马，而且显然喝啤酒来。都包括进来了吧？”

“还有地一穴一里的事。”

“那是另外一条思路。这是两回事，我请你不要把它们混为一谈。第一条线索是有关比特丽斯夫人的，是不是有点犯罪的味道？”

“我看不出来。”

“现在让我们看看第二条线索，这是有关罗伯特爵士的。他着魔般地一心只想着赛一马的胜利。他落到了放高利贷人的手里，他随时可能破产、使家产遭到拍卖，那么他的赛一马就会落到债主手里。他是一个胆大妄为的人，目前又是狗急跳墙。他的收入全靠他姐姐。他姐姐的女仆又是他的忠实一奴一仆。这几点咱们是有把握的吧？”

“可是那个地一穴一？”

“啊，是的，还有地一穴一！华生，让我们假设——这当然是一个诽谤一性一的推测，是为了辩解的目的提出的一个前提——罗伯特爵士杀害了他的姐姐。”

“老兄，这是不可能的。”

“非常可能，华生。罗伯特爵士是出身高贵，不过鹰群里偶尔也出乌鸦。咱们先来研究一下这个问题。非到发了财，他绝不会离开这个地方，而发这笔财全靠肖斯科姆王子这次的大获全胜。他现在还不得不坚守阵地，所以他就必须把受害者的一尸一体处理掉，而且还得找一个能够模仿她的替身。既然女仆是他的心腹，这样做并不是不可能的。这具女一尸一可能运到了很少有人去的地一穴一，也可能深夜偷偷地在炉里销毁了，留下的证据我们已经看到了。你觉得如何，华生？”

“要是首先肯定那可怕的前提，那还有什么不可能的。”

“华生，为了弄清事实，我觉得明天咱们可以作一个小试验。至于今天，为了保持咱们的身分，我建议用我们主人自己的酒来招待他一下，跟他大谈一通鳗鱼和鲤鱼，这可能是引他高兴的最好办法。谈话之间我们或许能听到一些有用的本地新闻。”

第二天早晨，福尔摩斯发现我们忘记了带钓鳟鱼的诱饵，这倒也免得去钓鱼了。大约十一点钟我们出去散步，他还获准带着小黑狗和我们一道前往。

“就是这儿，"当我们来到竖着鹰头兽身徽章的高高的公园大门前，福尔摩斯说道，“巴恩斯先生告诉我老夫人在中午的时候要乘车出来兜风，开门时马车会放慢速度的。华生，等车刚进大门没驶起来的时候，请你叫住车夫提个问题。不要管我，我将站在这个冬青树丛后面观察。”

守候的时间并不长。十五分钟以后我们就看见从远处的路上驶来一辆黄色的敞篷四轮马车，由两匹漂亮、矫捷的灰色马驾驶着。福尔摩斯带着狗蹲到树丛后面，我则若无其事地站在路中间挥舞着一根手杖。一个看门人跑出来把大门打开了。

马车放慢了速度，所以我能仔细地观看乘车的人。左边坐着一个面色红一润的年轻女人，头发亚麻色，有着一双不知害羞的眼睛。她右边坐着一个上了年纪的圆背的人，脸和肩上围着一大圈披肩，说明她体弱多病。在马车驶上大道时我庄严地举起了手，车夫勒住了马，于是我就上前打听罗伯特爵士是否在别墅里。

这时福尔摩斯走出来，放开了狗。那狗欢腾地叫了一声，冲向马车，跳到踏板上。但转眼间它那热切的迎接竟变成了狂怒，朝着上面的黑衣裙连吠带咬。

“快走！快走！"一个粗嗓门的人品命叫着，车夫鞭打着马驶走了，于是剩下我们俩站在大路上。

“华生，已经证实了，"福尔摩斯一边往兴奋的狗脖子上套链子一边说。"狗认为她是女主人，却发现是个陌生人。狗是不会弄错的。”

“那是个男人的声音！"我叫道。

“对极了！咱们又多了一张牌，华生，但还是得认真地打。”

我的伙伴那天似乎没有什么别的计划了，于是我们真的在河沟里用带来的鱼具钓起鱼来，结果是给我们的晚餐添了一道鳟鱼。饭后福尔摩斯才又显得一精一力充沛起来。我们再一次象早晨那样来到通向公园大门的路上。一个身材高大、皮肤黝一黑的人正在等着我们。他就是我们在伦敦的那个老相识，驯马师约翰-马森先生。

“晚上好，先生们，"他说，“我接到了你的便条，福尔摩斯先生。罗伯特爵士现在还没有回来。不过我听说他今晚要回来。”

“这个地一穴一离寓所有多远？"福尔摩斯问。

“足足四分之一英里。”

“那我们可以不去管罗伯特。”

“我可不能同去，福尔摩斯先生。他一到家就会把我叫去问肖斯科姆王子的最近情况。”

“懂了！那么说我们只好独立工作啦，马森先生。你可以把我们带到地一穴一后再走。”

天色漆黑，没有月光，马森一直领着我们穿过牧场，后来有一块黑黝黝的影子呈现在我们面前，走近一看，原来是一个古老的教堂。我们从旧日门廊的缺口走了进去，我们的向导跌跌撞撞地在一堆碎石中寻路走到教堂的一角，那儿有一条陡斜的楼梯通到地一穴一里。他擦着火柴照亮了这一陰一森可怖的地方——古旧的粗凿石墙的残垣，一叠叠的棺材散发着霉味，这些棺材有些是铅制的，有些是石制的，靠着一边墙高高叠放，直达拱门和隐在上方一陰一影中的屋顶。福尔摩斯点着了灯笼，一缕颤一动的黄光照亮了这一陰一森的地方。棺材上的铜牌反射着灯光，大多数的牌子都是用这个古老家族的鹰头狮身的徽章装饰的，它甚至在死亡门前仍保持着尊严。

“你说过这儿有些骨头，马森先生。你能带我们去看看再走吗？”

“就在这个角落里。"驯马师走过去，然而我们的灯光照过去时，他却惊呆了。"没有了，"他说。

“我料到了，"福尔摩斯说，轻声笑着。“我想就是现在也还可以在炉子里找到骨灰和未烧尽的骨头。”

“我不懂，为什么竟有人要烧千年前死人的一尸一骨呢？"约翰-马森问道。

“我们到这儿来就是要找答案的，"福尔摩斯说。"这可能要花很长时间，我们就不耽搁你了。我想天亮以前我们会找到答案的。”

约翰-马森离开后，福尔摩斯就开始仔细地查看墓碑，从中央的一个看来是属于撒克逊时代的开始，接着是一长串诺尔曼时代雨果们和奥多们的墓碑，直到我们看见了十八世纪威廉-丹尼斯和费勒的墓碑。一个多小时后，福尔摩斯来到了拱顶进口边上的一具铅制棺材前。我听到他满意的叫一声，从他迅速而准确的动作中可以看出他已经找到了目标。他热切地用放大镜查看那又厚又重的棺盖的边缘。随后他从口袋里掏出一个开箱子用的撬棍，将它塞一进棺盖缝里，把看起来仅由两个夹子固定着的整个棺盖撬了起来。棺盖被撬开时发出刺耳的响声，就在它还没完全撬开、仅露出里面的一部分东西时，一件出乎意料的事打断了我们。

有人在上面的教堂里走着。这是一个来意明确、对自己行走的地方很熟悉的人的坚定、急促的脚步声。一束灯光从楼梯上射一了下来，随即持灯人就在哥特式的拱门里出现了。他是一个身材高大、举止狂一暴的可怕人物。他手里提着个大号马灯，灯光衬托出他那一胡一须浓密的脸和一对狂怒的眼睛，他的眼光扫着地一穴一里的每个角落，最后恶狠狠地盯住我的同伴和我。

“你们是什么人？"他大声吼着，"到我的地产上来干什么？"见福尔摩斯不做声，他又向前走了两步，并举起一根随身携带的沉重的手杖。"听见没有？"他大叫道，“你们是谁？到这儿来干什么？"他挥舞着手杖。

福尔摩斯非但没有退缩，反而迎上前去。

“罗伯特爵士，我也有个问题要问你，"他异常严厉地说。"这是谁？这儿发生了什么事情？”

他转过身去，揭开身后的棺盖。借着马灯的光亮，我看见一具从头到脚裹在布里的一尸一体。这是一具可怕的女一尸一，凸出的鼻子和下巴扭向一边，毫无血色、歪曲的脸上露着一双昏暗、滞固的眼睛。

男爵大叫一声蹒跚地退了回去，靠在一个石头棺材上。

“你怎么知道的？"他叫着，转眼间又有点恢复了他凶猛的