The Adventure of the Veiled Lodger

Arthur Conan Doyle

When one considers that Mr. Sherlock Holmes was in active practice for twenty-three years, and that during seventeen of these I was allowed to cooperate with him and to keep notes of his doings, it will be clear that I have a mass of material at my command. The problem has always been not to find but to choose. There is the long row of year-books which fill a shelf, and there are the dispatch-cases filled with documents, a perfect quarry for the student not only of crime but of the social and official scandals of the late Victorian era. Concerning these latter, I may say that the writers of agonized letters, who beg that the honour of their families or the reputation of famous forebears may not be touched, have nothing to fear. The discretion and high sense of professional honour which have always distinguished my friend are still at work in the choice of these memoirs, and no confidence will be abused. I deprecate, however, in the strongest way the attempts which have been made lately to get at and to destroy these papers. The source of these outrages is known, and if they are repeated I have Mr. Holmes's authority for saying that the whole story concerning the politician, the lighthouse, and the trained cormorant will be given to the public. There is at least one reader who will understand.

It is not reasonable to suppose that every one of these cases gave Holmes the opportunity of showing those curious gifts of instinct and observation which I have endeavoured to set forth in these memoirs. Sometimes he had with much effort to pick the fruit, sometimes it fell easily into his lap. But the most terrible human tragedies were often involved in those cases which brought him the fewest personal opportunities, and it is one of these which I now desire to record. In telling it, I have made a slight change of name and place, but otherwise the facts are as stated.

One forenoon—it was late in 1896—I received a hurried note from Holmes asking for my attendance. When I arrived I found him seated in a smoke-laden atmosphere, with an elderly, motherly woman of the buxom landlady type in the corresponding chair in front of him.

“This is Mrs. Merrilow, of South Brixton,” said my friend with a wave of the hand. “Mrs. Merrilow does not object to tobacco, Watson, if you wish to indulge your filthy habits. Mrs. Merrilow has an interesting story to tell which may well lead to further developments in which your presence may be useful.”

“Anything I can do—”

“You will understand, Mrs. Merrilow, that if I come to Mrs. Ronder I should prefer to have a witness. You will make her understand that before we arrive.”

“Lord bless you, Mr. Holmes,” said our visitor, “she is that anxious to see you that you might bring the whole parish at your heels!”

“Then we shall come early in the afternoon. Let us see that we have our facts correct before we start. If we go over them it will help Dr. Watson to understand the situation. You say that Mrs. Ronder has been your lodger for seven years and that you have only once seen her face.”

“And I wish to God I had not!” said Mrs. Merrilow.

“It was, I understand, terribly mutilated.”

“Well, Mr. Holmes, you would hardly say it was a face at all. That's how it looked. Our milkman got a glimpse of her once peeping out of the upper window, and he dropped his tin and the milk all over the front garden. That is the kind of face it is. When I saw her—I happened on her unawares—she covered up quick, and then she said, ‘Now, Mrs. Merrilow, you know at last why it is that I never raise my veil.’”

“Do you know anything about her history?”

“Nothing at all.”

“Did she give references when she came?”

“No, sir, but she gave hard cash, and plenty of it. A quarter's rent right down on the table in advance and no arguing about terms. In these times a poor woman like me can't afford to turn down a chance like that.”

“Did she give any reason for choosing your house?”

“Mine stands well back from the road and is more private than most. Then, again, I only take the one, and I have no family of my own. I reckon she had tried others and found that mine suited her best. It's privacy she is after, and she is ready to pay for it.”

“You say that she never showed her face from first to last save on the one accidental occasion. Well, it is a very remarkable story, most remarkable, and I don't wonder that you want it examined.”

“I don't, Mr. Holmes. I am quite satisfied so long as I get my rent. You could not have a quieter lodger, or one who gives less trouble.”

“Then what has brought matters to a head?”

“Her health, Mr. Holmes. She seems to be wasting away. And there's something terrible on her mind. ‘Murder!’ she cries. ‘Murder!’ And once I heard her: ‘You cruel beast! You monster!’ she cried. It was in the night, and it fair rang through the house and sent the shivers through me. So I went to her in the morning. ‘Mrs. Ronder,’ I says, ‘if you have anything that is troubling your soul, there's the clergy,’ I says, ‘and there's the police. Between them you should get some help.’ ‘For God's sake, not the police!’ says she, ‘and the clergy can't change what is past. And yet,’ she says, ‘it would ease my mind if someone knew the truth before I died.’ ‘Well,’ says I, ‘if you won't have the regulars, there is this detective man what we read about’—beggin' your pardon, Mr. Holmes. And she, she fair jumped at it. ‘That's the man,’ says she. ‘I wonder I never thought of it before. Bring him here, Mrs. Merrilow, and if he won't come, tell him I am the wife of Ronder's wild beast show. Say that, and give him the name Abbas Parva. Here it is as she wrote it, Abbas Parva. ‘That will bring him if he's the man I think he is.’”

“And it will, too,” remarked Holmes. “Very good, Mrs. Merrilow. I should like to have a little chat with Dr. Watson. That will carry us till lunch-time. About three o'clock you may expect to see us at your house in Brixton.”

Our visitor had no sooner waddled out of the room—no other verb can describe Mrs. Merrilow's method of progression—than Sherlock Holmes threw himself with fierce energy upon the pile of commonplace books in the corner. For a few minutes there was a constant swish of the leaves, and then with a grunt of satisfaction he came upon what he sought. So excited was he that he did not rise, but sat upon the floor like some strange Buddha, with crossed legs, the huge books all round him, and one open upon his knees.

“The case worried me at the time, Watson. Here are my marginal notes to prove it. I confess that I could make nothing of it. And yet I was convinced that the coroner was wrong. Have you no recollection of the Abbas Parva tragedy?”

“None, Holmes.”

“And yet you were with me then. But certainly my own impression was very superficial. For there was nothing to go by, and none of the parties had engaged my services. Perhaps you would care to read the papers?”

“Could you not give me the points?”

“That is very easily done. It will probably come back to your memory as I talk. Ronder, of course, was a household word. He was the rival of Wombwell, and of Sanger, one of the greatest showmen of his day. There is evidence, however, that he took to drink, and that both he and his show were on the down grade at the time of the great tragedy. The caravan had halted for the night at Abbas Parva, which is a small village in Berkshire, when this horror occurred. They were on their way to Wimbledon, travelling by road, and they were simply camping and not exhibiting, as the place is so small a one that it would not have paid them to open.

“They had among their exhibits a very fine North African lion. Sahara King was its name, and it was the habit, both of Ronder and his wife, to give exhibitions inside its cage. Here, you see, is a photograph of the performance by which you will perceive that Ronder was a huge porcine person and that his wife was a very magnificent woman. It was deposed at the inquest that there had been some signs that the lion was dangerous, but, as usual, familiarity begat contempt, and no notice was taken of the fact.

“It was usual for either Ronder or his wife to feed the lion at night. Sometimes one went, sometimes both, but they never allowed anyone else to do it, for they believed that so long as they were the food-carriers he would regard them as benefactors and would never molest them. On this particular night, seven years ago, they both went, and a very terrible happening followed, the details of which have never been made clear.

“It seems that the whole camp was roused near midnight by the roars of the animal and the screams of the woman. The different grooms and employees rushed from their tents, carrying lanterns, and by their light an awful sight was revealed. Ronder lay, with the back of his head crushed in and deep claw-marks across his scalp, some ten yards from the cage, which was open. Close to the door of the cage lay Mrs. Ronder upon her back, with the creature squatting and snarling above her. It had torn her face in such a fashion that it was never thought that she could live. Several of the circus men, headed by Leonardo, the strong man, and Griggs, the clown, drove the creature off with poles, upon which it sprang back into the cage and was at once locked in. How it had got loose was a mystery. It was conjectured that the pair intended to enter the cage, but that when the door was loosed the creature bounded out upon them. There was no other point of interest in the evidence save that the woman in a delirium of agony kept screaming, ‘Coward! Coward!’ as she was carried back to the van in which they lived. It was six months before she was fit to give evidence, but the inquest was duly held, with the obvious verdict of death from misadventure.”

“What alternative could be conceived?” said I.

“You may well say so. And yet there were one or two points which worried young Edmunds, of the Berkshire Constabulary. A smart lad that! He was sent later to Allahabad. That was how I came into the matter, for he dropped in and smoked a pipe or two over it.”

“A thin, yellow-haired man?”

“Exactly. I was sure you would pick up the trail presently.”

“But what worried him?”

“Well, we were both worried. It was so deucedly difficult to reconstruct the affair. Look at it from the lion's point of view. He is liberated. What does he do? He takes half a dozen bounds forward, which brings him to Ronder. Ronder turns to fly—the claw-marks were on the back of his head—but the lion strikes him down. Then, instead of bounding on and escaping, he returns to the woman, who was close to the cage, and he knocks her over and chews her face up. Then, again, those cries of hers would seem to imply that her husband had in some way failed her. What could the poor devil have done to help her? You see the difficulty?”

“Quite.”

“And then there was another thing. It comes back to me now as I think it over. There was some evidence that just at the time the lion roared and the woman screamed, a man began shouting in terror.”

“This man Ronder, no doubt.”

“Well, if his skull was smashed in you would hardly expect to hear from him again. There were at least two witnesses who spoke of the cries of a man being mingled with those of a woman.”

“I should think the whole camp was crying out by then. As to the other points, I think I could suggest a solution.”

“I should be glad to consider it.”

“The two were together, ten yards from the cage, when the lion got loose. The man turned and was struck down. The woman conceived the idea of getting into the cage and shutting the door. It was her only refuge. She made for it, and just as she reached it the beast bounded after her and knocked her over. She was angry with her husband for having encouraged the beast's rage by turning. If they had faced it they might have cowed it. Hence her cries of ‘Coward!’”

“Brilliant, Watson! Only one flaw in your diamond.”

“What is the flaw, Holmes?”

“If they were both ten paces from the cage, how came the beast to get loose?”

“Is it possible that they had some enemy who loosed it?”

“And why should it attack them savagely when it was in the habit of playing with them, and doing tricks with them inside the cage?”

“Possibly the same enemy had done something to enrage it.”

Holmes looked thoughtful and remained in silence for some moments.

“Well, Watson, there is this to be said for your theory. Ronder was a man of many enemies. Edmunds told me that in his cups he was horrible. A huge bully of a man, he cursed and slashed at everyone who came in his way. I expect those cries about a monster, of which our visitor has spoken, were nocturnal reminiscences of the dear departed. However, our speculations are futile until we have all the facts. There is a cold partridge on the sideboard, Watson, and a bottle of Montrachet. Let us renew our energies before we make a fresh call upon them.”

When our hansom deposited us at the house of Mrs. Merrilow, we found that plump lady blocking up the open door of her humble but retired abode. It was very clear that her chief preoccupation was lest she should lose a valuable lodger, and she implored us, before showing us up, to say and do nothing which could lead to so undesirable an end. Then, having reassured her, we followed her up the straight, badly carpeted staircase and were shown into the room of the mysterious lodger.

It was a close, musty, ill-ventilated place, as might be expected, since its inmate seldom left it. From keeping beasts in a cage, the woman seemed, by some retribution of fate, to have become herself a beast in a cage. She sat now in a broken armchair in the shadowy corner of the room. Long years of inaction had coarsened the lines of her figure, but at some period it must have been beautiful, and was still full and voluptuous. A thick dark veil covered her face, but it was cut off close at her upper lip and disclosed a perfectly shaped mouth and a delicately rounded chin. I could well conceive that she had indeed been a very remarkable woman. Her voice, too, was well modulated and pleasing.

“My name is not unfamiliar to you, Mr. Holmes,” said she. “I thought that it would bring you.”

“That is so, madam, though I do not know how you are aware that I was interested in your case.”

“I learned it when I had recovered my health and was examined by Mr. Edmunds, the county detective. I fear I lied to him. Perhaps it would have been wiser had I told the truth.”

“It is usually wiser to tell the truth. But why did you lie to him?”

“Because the fate of someone else depended upon it. I know that he was a very worthless being, and yet I would not have his destruction upon my conscience. We had been so close—so close!”

“But has this impediment been removed?”

“Yes, sir. The person that I allude to is dead.”

“Then why should you not now tell the police anything you know?”

“Because there is another person to be considered. That other person is myself. I could not stand the scandal and publicity which would come from a police examination. I have not long to live, but I wish to die undisturbed. And yet I wanted to find one man of judgment to whom I could tell my terrible story, so that when I am gone all might be understood.”

“You compliment me, madam. At the same time, I am a responsible person. I do not promise you that when you have spoken I may not myself think it my duty to refer the case to the police.”

“I think not, Mr. Holmes. I know your character and methods too well, for I have followed your work for some years. Reading is the only pleasure which fate has left me, and I miss little which passes in the world. But in any case, I will take my chance of the use which you may make of my tragedy. It will ease my mind to tell it.”

“My friend and I would be glad to hear it.”

The woman rose and took from a drawer the photograph of a man. He was clearly a professional acrobat, a man of magnificent physique, taken with his huge arms folded across his swollen chest and a smile breaking from under his heavy moustache—the self-satisfied smile of the man of many conquests.

“That is Leonardo,” she said.

“Leonardo, the strong man, who gave evidence?”

“The same. And this—this is my husband.”

It was a dreadful face—a human pig, or rather a human wild boar, for it was formidable in its bestiality. One could imagine that vile mouth champing and foaming in its rage, and one could conceive those small, vicious eyes darting pure malignancy as they looked forth upon the world. Ruffian, bully, beast—it was all written on that heavy-jowled face.

“Those two pictures will help you, gentlemen, to understand the story. I was a poor circus girl brought up on the sawdust, and doing springs through the hoop before I was ten. When I became a woman this man loved me, if such lust as his can be called love, and in an evil moment I became his wife. From that day I was in hell, and he the devil who tormented me. There was no one in the show who did not know of his treatment. He deserted me for others. He tied me down and lashed me with his riding-whip when I complained. They all pitied me and they all loathed him, but what could they do? They feared him, one and all. For he was terrible at all times, and murderous when he was drunk. Again and again he was had up for assault, and for cruelty to the beasts, but he had plenty of money and the fines were nothing to him. The best men all left us, and the show began to go downhill. It was only Leonardo and I who kept it up—with little Jimmy Griggs, the clown. Poor devil, he had not much to be funny about, but he did what he could to hold things together.

“Then Leonardo came more and more into my life. You see what he was like. I know now the poor spirit that was hidden in that splendid body, but compared to my husband he seemed like the angel Gabriel. He pitied me and helped me, till at last our intimacy turned to love—deep, deep, passionate love, such love as I had dreamed of but never hoped to feel. My husband suspected it, but I think that he was a coward as well as a bully, and that Leonardo was the one man that he was afraid of. He took revenge in his own way by torturing me more than ever. One night my cries brought Leonardo to the door of our van. We were near tragedy that night, and soon my lover and I understood that it could not be avoided. My husband was not fit to live. We planned that he should die.

“Leonardo had a clever, scheming brain. It was he who planned it. I do not say that to blame him, for I was ready to go with him every inch of the way. But I should never have had the wit to think of such a plan. We made a club—Leonardo made it—and in the leaden head he fastened five long steel nails, the points outward, with just such a spread as the lion's paw. This was to give my husband his death-blow, and yet to leave the evidence that it was the lion which we would loose who had done the deed.

“It was a pitch-dark night when my husband and I went down, as was our custom, to feed the beast. We carried with us the raw meat in a zinc pail. Leonardo was waiting at the corner of the big van which we should have to pass before we reached the cage. He was too slow, and we walked past him before he could strike, but he followed us on tiptoe and I heard the crash as the club smashed my husband's skull. My heart leaped with joy at the sound. I sprang forward, and I undid the catch which held the door of the great lion's cage.

“And then the terrible thing happened. You may have heard how quick these creatures are to scent human blood, and how it excites them. Some strange instinct had told the creature in one instant that a human being had been slain. As I slipped the bars it bounded out and was on me in an instant. Leonardo could have saved me. If he had rushed forward and struck the beast with his club he might have cowed it. But the man lost his nerve. I heard him shout in his terror, and then I saw him turn and fly. At the same instant the teeth of the lion met in my face. Its hot, filthy breath had already poisoned me and I was hardly conscious of pain. With the palms of my hands I tried to push the great steaming, blood-stained jaws away from me, and I screamed for help. I was conscious that the camp was stirring, and then dimly I remembered a group of men. Leonardo, Griggs, and others, dragging me from under the creature's paws. That was my last memory, Mr. Holmes, for many a weary month. When I came to myself and saw myself in the mirror, I cursed that lion—oh, how I cursed him!—not because he had torn away my beauty but because he had not torn away my life. I had but one desire, Mr. Holmes, and I had enough money to gratify it. It was that I should cover myself so that my poor face should be seen by none, and that I should dwell where none whom I had ever known should find me. That was all that was left to me to do—and that is what I have done. A poor wounded beast that has crawled into its hole to die—that is the end of Eugenia Ronder.”

We sat in silence for some time after the unhappy woman had told her story. Then Holmes stretched out his long arm and patted her hand with such a show of sympathy as I had seldom known him to exhibit.

“Poor girl!” he said. “Poor girl! The ways of fate are indeed hard to understand. If there is not some compensation hereafter, then the world is a cruel jest. But what of this man Leonardo?”

“I never saw him or heard from him again. Perhaps I have been wrong to feel so bitterly against him. He might as soon have loved one of the freaks whom we carried round the country as the thing which the lion had left. But a woman's love is not so easily set aside. He had left me under the beast's claws, he had deserted me in my need, and yet I could not bring myself to give him to the gallows. For myself, I cared nothing what became of me. What could be more dreadful than my actual life? But I stood between Leonardo and his fate.”

“And he is dead?”

“He was drowned last month when bathing near Margate. I saw his death in the paper.”

“And what did he do with this five-clawed club, which is the most singular and ingenious part of all your story?”

“I cannot tell, Mr. Holmes. There is a chalk-pit by the camp, with a deep green pool at the base of it. Perhaps in the depths of that pool—”

“Well, well, it is of little consequence now. The case is closed.”

“Yes,” said the woman, “the case is closed.”

We had risen to go, but there was something in the woman's voice which arrested Holmes's attention. He turned swiftly upon her.

“Your life is not your own,” he said. “Keep your hands off it.”

“What use is it to anyone?”

“How can you tell? The example of patient suffering is in itself the most precious of all lessons to an impatient world.”

The woman's answer was a terrible one. She raised her veil and stepped forward into the light.

“I wonder if you would bear it,” she said.

It was horrible. No words can describe the framework of a face when the face itself is gone. Two living and beautiful brown eyes looking sadly out from that grisly ruin did but make the view more awful. Holmes held up his hand in a gesture of pity and protest, and together we left the room.

Two days later, when I called upon my friend, he pointed with some pride to a small blue bottle upon his mantelpiece. I picked it up. There was a red poison label. A pleasant almondy odour rose when I opened it.

“Prussic acid?” said I.

“Exactly. It came by post. ‘I send you my temptation. I will follow your advice.’ That was the message. I think, Watson, we can guess the name of the brave woman who sent it.”

带面纱的房客

如果考虑到福尔摩斯先生的业务活动已达二十三年之久，而在十七年当中我一直是他的合作者和案情记录者，那就会清楚地明了我手中掌握着数量庞大的资料。对我来说，问题总是如何选择，而不是如何找材料。在书架上有一长排逐年记录的文件，还有许多塞满了材料的文件递送箱，这一切不仅对于研究犯罪的人来说，即使对于研究维多利亚晚起社会及官方丑闻的人来说，也是一个完整的资料库。关于后者我可以说，凡是那些写过焦虑的信来要求给他们的家庭荣誉和著名祖先保守秘密的人，都是大可放心的。我朋友福尔摩斯特有的谨慎态度和高度职业感，在我选择材料时仍然起着作用，我绝不会滥用别人对我们的信托。然而，对于近来有人妄图攫取和销毁这些文件的行为，我是坚决反对的。此次事件的指使者是谁，我们早已知道，我代表福尔摩斯先生宣布，如再发生类似行为，一切有关某政客、某灯塔以及某驯养的鸬鹚的全部秘密将公之于世。对此，至少有一个读者心里明白。

再者，也没有理由认为在每一案件中福尔摩斯都有机会显示他那特异的洞察力和观察分析的天才，这些我在回忆录中曾经不遗余力地描述过。有的时候他不得不费很大力气去摘果实，但有时果实自动掉在他怀里。而往往那最骇异的人间悲剧却是那些最不给他显示个人才能以机会的案件，现在我要叙述的就是这样一个案子。我稍稍改换了姓名和地点，除此而外，都是真实故事。

有一天上午——那是在一八九六年末——我收到福尔摩斯一张匆匆写就的条子，要我立即前去。赶到之后，我见他坐在香烟缭绕的屋里，在他对面的椅子里坐着一位略上年纪的、婆婆一妈一妈一的、房东太太型的胖妇女。

“这是南布利克斯顿区的麦利娄太太，"我朋友抬手说道，“麦利娄太太不反对吸烟，华生，你可以尽情享受你的肮脏嗜好。麦利娄太太要讲一个有趣的事儿，它可能有所发展，那么你的在场将是有用的。”

“如果我能帮忙的话——”

“麦利娄太太，如果我去访问郎德尔太太的话，我希望有个见证人在场。请你回去先对她说明这一点。”

“上帝保佑你，福尔摩斯先生，"客人说，“她是非常急于见你的，就是你把全教区的人都带上她也不在乎。”

“那我们今天下午早一点去。在出发之前，我们得保证把事实掌握正确。咱们再来叙述一遍，那样可以帮助华生医生掌握情况。你刚才说，郎德尔太太住你的房子已经七年，而你只看见她的脸一次。”

“我对上帝发誓，我宁愿一次也没看见过！"麦利娄太太说。

“她的脸是伤得非常骇人的，对吧。”

“福尔摩斯先生，那简直不是人的脸。就是那么怕人。有一次送牛一奶一的人看见她在楼上窗口张望，送一奶一人吓得连一奶一桶都扔了，弄得前面花园满地都是牛一奶一。这就是她那脸。有一次冷不防我看见了她的脸，她立刻就盖上面纱了，然后她说：‘麦利娄太太，现在你知道我为什么总不摘面纱了吧。'”

“你知道她的过去吗？”

“一点不知道。”

“她刚来居住的时候有什么介绍信吗？”

“没有，但她有的是现钱。预一交一的一季度房租立刻就放在了桌上，而且也不讲价钱。这个年头儿，象我这么一个无依无靠的人怎么能拒绝这样的客人呢？”

“她选中你的房子讲出什么理由了吗？”

“我的房子离马路远，比大多数别的出租房子更平静。另外，我只收一个房客，我自己也没有家眷。我猜想她大概试过别的房子，而我的房子她最中意。她要求的是平静，她不怕花钱。”

“你说她来了以后压根儿没有露出过脸，除了那次冷不防。这倒是一个奇特的事儿，非常奇特。难怪你要求调查了。”

“不是我要求，福尔摩斯先生。对我来说，只要我拿到房租，我就知足了。没有比她更安静、更省事的房客了。”

“那又怎么成为问题的呢？”

“她的健康情况，福尔摩斯先生。她好象要死了，而且她心里有可怕的负担。有时候她喊'救命，救命啊！'有一次我听她喊'你这个残忍的畜生！你是魔鬼！'那次是在夜里，但是喊声全宅子里都听得见，我浑身都起鸡皮疙瘩了。第二天一早上我就找她去了。‘郎德尔太太，'我说，‘要是你心里有什么说不出的负担，你可以找牧师，还有警察，他们总可以帮助你。''哎呀，我可不要警察！'她说，‘牧师也改变不了以往的事儿。但是，要是有人在我死之前知道我心里的事，我也可以松心一些。''哎，'我说，‘要是你不愿找正式警察，还有一个报上登的当侦探的那个人'——对不起，福尔摩斯先生。她呀，一听就同意啦。‘对啦，这个人正合适，'她说，‘真是的，我怎么没想起来呢。麦利娄太太，快把他请来。要是他不肯来，你就说我是马戏一团一的郎德尔的妻子。你就这么说，再给他一个地名：阿巴斯-巴尔哇。'这个字条儿就是她写的，阿巴斯-巴尔哇。她说，如果他就是我知道的那个人，见了地名他一定来。”

“是要来的，"福尔摩斯说。"好吧，麦利娄太太。我先跟华生医生谈一谈，这要进行到午饭时间。大约三点钟我们可以到你家。”

我们的客人刚刚象鸭子那样扭出去——没有别的动词可以形容她的行动方式——歇洛克-福尔摩斯就一跃而起钻入到屋角里那一大堆摘录册中去翻找了。在几分钟之内只听得见翻纸页的嗖嗖声，后来又听见他满意地咕哝了一声，原来是找到了。他兴奋极了，都顾不上站起来，而是象一尊怪佛一样坐在地板上，两一腿一交一叉，四周围堆着大本子，膝上还放着一本。

“这个案子当时就弄得我很头疼，华生。这里的旁注可作证明。我承认我解决不了这个案子，但我又深信验一尸一官是错误的。你不记得那个阿巴斯-巴尔哇悲剧了吗？”

“一点不记得，福尔摩斯。”

“而你当时是与我一起去的。不过我个人的印象也很浅了。因为没有什么明确的结论，另外当事人也没有请我帮忙。你愿意看记录吗？”

“你讲讲要点好吗？”

“那倒不难。也许听我一说你就会想起来当时的情景。郎德尔这个姓是家喻户晓的。他是沃姆韦尔和桑格的竞争者，而桑格是当年最大的马戏班子。不过，在出事的那时候，郎德尔已经成了酒鬼，他本人和他的马戏一团一都在走下坡路了。他的班子在伯克郡的一个小村子阿巴斯-巴尔哇过夜的时候发生了这个悲剧。他们是在前往一温一布尔顿的半路上，走的是陆路，当时只是宿营，而不是演出，因为村子太小，不值得表演。

“他们带有一只雄壮的北非狮子，名叫撒哈拉王。郎德尔和他妻子的一习一惯是在笼子内表演。这里有一张正在演出的照片，可以看出朗德尔是一个魁梧的、野猪型的人，而他妻子是一个十分体面的女人。在验一尸一时有人宣誓作证说，当时狮子已表现出危险的征兆，但人们总是由于天天接触而产生轻视心理，根本没有理会这些征兆。

“一般总是由郎德尔或他妻子在夜晚喂狮子。有时一人去，有时两人同去，但从来不让别人去喂，因为他们认为，只要他们是喂食者，狮子就会把他们当恩人而不伤害他们。七年以前的那天夜里，他们两人一起去了，并且发生了惨剧，其详细情况从来没有弄清楚过。

“在接近午夜时分，整个营地的人都被狮子的吼声和女人的尖一叫一声惊醒了。马夫和工人纷纷从各自的帐篷里拿着灯笼跑出来，举灯一瞧，看见可怕的情景。郎德尔趴在离笼子十来米的地方，后脑向内塌陷，上面有深深的爪印。笼门已打开，而就在门外，郎德尔太太仰卧在地，狮子蹲在她身上吼叫着。她的脸被撕扯得乱七八糟，谁也没想到她能生还。在大力士雷奥纳多和小丑格里格斯的带领下，几个马戏演员用长竿将狮子赶走，它一下跳回笼子。大家立刻把门关上了。但狮子是怎么出来的，却是一个谜。一般猜想，两个人打算进笼内，但刚一开门狮子就跳出来扑倒了他们。在证据中唯一有启发一性一的一点，就是那女人在被抬回过夜的篷车后，在昏迷中总是喊'胆小表！胆小表！'她直到六个月以后才恢复到能作证的程度，但验一尸一早已照常举行了，理所当然的判决就是事故一性一死亡。”

“难道有别的可能吗？"我说。

“你这样说也是有理由的。但是有那么一两点情况，总是使伯克郡警察局年轻的埃德蒙不满意。真是个聪明的小伙子！后来他被派往阿拉哈巴德去了。我介入这个事儿，就是由于他来访问我，边一抽一烟边谈了这个案子。”

“他是一个瘦瘦的、黄头发的人吗？”

“正是。我就知道你会记起来的。”

“他担心的是什么呢？”

“他和我都是不放心的。问题在于，怎么也难于想象事件发生的全部过程。你从狮子的角度来设想吧。它被放出。它干什么呢？它向前跳了五、六步，到郎德尔面前。他转身逃跑——爪印是在后脑——但狮子把他抓倒。然后，不向前逃走，它反而转身向女人奔去。她在笼边，狮子把她扑倒，咬了她的脸。她在昏迷中的叫喊好象是说她丈夫背弃了她。但是那时他还能帮她吗？你看出破绽了吧？”

“是的。”

“还有一点。我想起来了。有证据指出，就在狮子吼和女人叫的同时，还有一个男人恐怖的叫一声。”

“当然是郎德尔了。”

“如果他的头骨已经内陷，大概很难再听见他的叫一声。至少有两个证人谈到有男人的叫喊声混在女人的尖一叫一声中。”

“我认为到了那时全营地的人都在叫喊了，至于其他疑点，我倒有一种解释。”

“我愿意倾听。”

“他们两个人是在一起的，当狮子出来时，他们离笼子十米远。女人想冲入笼子关上笼门，那是她唯一的避难地。她朝笼子奔去，刚要到门口，狮子跳过去把她扑倒。她恨丈夫转身逃走而刺激的狮子更加狂一暴，如果他们和狮子针锋相对，也许会吓退它。所以她喊'胆小表！'”

“很巧妙，华生！但有一点白璧微瑕。”

“有什么漏洞？”

“如果两人都在十米处，狮子怎么出来的呢？”

“会不会是仇人给放出来的？”

“那为什么狮子平时跟他们一起玩耍，跟他们在笼内表演技巧，这次却扑向他们了呢？”

“也许那个仇人故意激惹了狮子。”

福尔摩斯沉思起来，有几分钟没说话。

“华生，有一点对你的理论有利。郎德尔有不少仇人。埃德蒙对我说，他喝酒之后狂一暴不堪。他是一个魁梧的暴徒，逢人就一胡一骂乱一抽一。我想，刚才客人说的郎德尔太太夜里喊魔鬼，就是梦见死去的亲人了。但不管怎么说，在获得事实以前咱们的猜测都是没用的。好吧，华生，食橱里有冷盘山鸡，还有一瓶勃艮地白葡萄酒。让咱们在走访之前先补充一下一精一力吧。”

当我们的马车停在麦利娄太太家前面时，我们看见她的胖身一体正堵在门口，那是一座简单而平静的房子。显然她的主要用意是怕失去一位宝贵的房客，所以她在带我们上去之前先嘱咐我们千万不要说或做什么可以使她失去这位房客的事。我们答应了她，就随她走上一个铺着破地毯的直式楼梯，然后被引进了神秘房客的房间。

那是一间沉闷、有霉味、通风不一良的房子，这也是不足为怪的，因为主人从不出去。这个女人，由于奇怪的命运，从一个惯于把动物关在笼子里的人变成一个关在笼子里的动物了。她坐在一陰一暗屋角里的一张破沙发上。多年不活动，使她的身材变一粗了，但那身一子当初肯定是美的，现在也还丰满动人。她头上戴着一个深颜色的厚面纱，但剪裁起短，露出一张优美的嘴和圆一润的下巴。我可以想象，她以前是一位丰姿不凡的女人。她的音色也很抑扬好听。

“福尔摩斯先生，我的姓氏对你并不陌生，"她说。“我知道你会来的。”

“是的，太太，不过我不知道你怎么会认为我对你的情况感兴趣。”

“我恢复健康以后，当地侦探埃德蒙先生曾找我谈话，我听他说的。我对他没说实话。也许说实话更聪明一些。”

“一般地说，讲实话是最聪明的。但是你为什么对他说谎呢？”

“因为另一个人的命运与我的话有关。我明知他是一个无价值的人，但我还是不愿由于毁了他而良心不安。我们的关系曾经是这么接近——这么接近！”

“现在这个障碍消除了吗？”

“是的，这个人已经死了。”

“那你为什么不把你知道的一切都告诉警察当局呢？”

“因为另外还有一个人需要考虑。这个人就是我自己。我受不了警察法庭审讯所带来的流言蜚语。我活不了多久了，但我要死个清静。我还是想找一个头脑清醒的人来，把我的可怕经历告诉他，这样我去世以后也会真相大白。”

“太太，我很不敢当。同时我也是一个负有社会责任的人，我不能应允你当你说完以后我一定不会报告警方。”

“我同意你的想法，福尔摩斯先生。我是很了解你的人格和你的工作方式的，因为这些年来我都在拜读你的事迹。命运所留给我的唯一快乐就是阅读，因此社会上发生的事情我很少遗漏不读。不管怎么说吧，我愿意碰碰运气，任凭你怎么利用我的悲剧都可以。说出来我就松心了。”

“那我和我的朋友是愿意听你讲的。”

那妇人站起来从一抽一屉里拿出一个男人的照片。他显然是一个职业的杂技演员，一个身一体健美的人，照像时两只粗一壮的筋臂一交一叉在凸起的胸肌之前，在浓一胡一须下面嘴唇微笑地张开着——这是一个多次征服异一性一者的自满的笑。

“这是雷奥纳多，"她说。

“就是作证的那个大力士吗？”

“正是。再瞧这张——这是我丈夫。”

这是一个丑陋的脸——一个人形猪猡，或者不如说是人形野猪，因为在野一性一上它还有强大可怕的一面。人们可以想象这张丑恶的嘴在盛怒的时候喷着口水一张一合地大叫，也可以想象这双凶狠的小眼睛对人射一出纯是恶毒的目光。无赖，恶霸，野蛮——这些都清楚地写在这张大下巴的脸上了。

“先生们，这两张照片可以帮助你们了解我的经历。我是一个在锯末上长大的贫穷的马戏演员，十岁以前已经表演跳圈了。还在我成长时，这个男人就一爱一上我了，如果他那种情一欲可以叫做一爱一的话。在一个不幸的时刻，我成了他的妻子。从那一刻起，我就生活在地狱里，他就是折磨我的魔鬼。马戏班里没有一个人不知道他对我的虐一待。他背弃我去找别的女人。我一抱怨，他就把我捆起来用马鞭子一抽一打。大家都同情我，也都厌恨他，但他们有什么法子呢？他们都怕他，全都怕他。他在任何时候都是可怕的，喝醉时就象一个凶狠的杀人犯。一次又一次，他因打人和虐一待动物而受传讯，但他有的是钱，不怕罚款。好的演员都离开我们了，马戏班开始走下坡路。全靠雷奥纳多和我，加上小榜里格斯那个丑角，才把班子勉强维持下来。格里格斯这个可怜虫，他没有多少可乐的事儿，但他还是尽量维持局面。

“后来雷奥纳多越来越接近我。你们看见他的外表了，现在我算是知道在这个优美的身躯里有着多么卑怯的一精一神，但是与我丈夫相比，他简直是天使。他可怜我，帮助我，后来我们的亲近变成了一爱一情——是很深很深的热烈一爱一情，这是我梦寐以求而不敢奢望的一爱一情。我丈夫怀疑我们了，但我觉得他不仅是恶霸而且还是胆小表，而雷奥纳多是他唯一惧怕的人。他用他特有的方式报复，就是折磨我比以前更厉害了。有一天夜里我喊叫得太惨了，雷奥纳多在我们篷车门口出现了。那天我们几乎发生惨案，过后我的情一人和我都认为早晚会出惨祸。我丈夫不配生存在这个世界上。我们得想办法叫他死。

“雷奥纳多有着聪明巧妙的头脑。是他想出的办法。我不是往他身上推，因为我情愿步步跟着他走。但我一辈子也想不出这样的主意。我们做了一个棒子——是雷奥纳多做的——在铅头上他安了五根长的钢钉，尖端朝外，正好象狮子爪的形状。用这棒子打死我丈夫，再放出狮子来，造成狮子杀死他的证据。

“那天我跟我丈夫照例去喂狮子的时候，天色一片漆黑。我们用锌桶装着生肉。雷奥纳多隐蔽在我们必经的大篷车的拐角上。他动作太慢，我们已经走过去了，他还没下手。但他轻轻跟在了我们背后，我听见棒子击裂我丈夫头骨的声音了。一听见这声音，我的心欢快地跳起来。我往前一冲，就把关着狮子的门闩打开了。

“接着就发生了可怕的事儿。你们大概听说过野兽特别善于嗅出人血的味道，人血对它们有极大的引一诱力。由于某种奇异本能，那狮子立刻就知道有活人被杀死了。我刚一打开门闩它就跳出来，立刻扑到我身上。雷奥纳多本来有可能救我。如果他跑上来用那棒子猛击狮子，也许会把它吓退。但他丧了胆。我听见他吓得大叫，后来我看见他转身逃走。这时狮子的牙齿在我脸上咬了下去。它那又热又臭的呼吸气息已经麻痹了我，不知道疼痛了。我用手掌拼命想推开那个蒸气腾腾、沾满血迹的巨大嘴巴，同时尖声呼救。我觉得营地的人惊动起来，后来我只知道有几个人，雷奥纳多、格里格斯，还有别人，把我从狮子爪下拉走。这就是我最后的记忆，福尔摩斯先生，我一直过了沉重的几个月才好转过来。当我恢复了知觉，在镜子里看见我的模样时，我是多么诅咒那个狮子啊！——不是因为它夺走了我的美貌，而是因为它没有夺走我的生命！埃尔摩斯先生，这时我只剩下一个愿望，我也有足够的钱去实现它。那就是用纱遮上我的脸使人看不见它，住在一个没有熟人能找到我的地方去。这是我所能做的唯一事情，我也就这样做了。一只可怜的受伤的动物爬到它的洞里去结束生命——这就是尤金尼亚-郎德尔的归宿。”

听完这位不幸的妇女讲述她的生气，我们默默无言地坐了一会儿。福尔摩斯伸出他那长长的胳臂拍了拍她的手，表现出在他来说已是罕见的深深的同情。

“可怜的姑一娘一！"他说道，“可怜的人！命运真是难以捉摸啊。如果来世没有报应，那这个世界就是一场残酷的玩笑。但雷奥纳多这个人后来怎么样了！”

“我后来没有再看见或听说过他。也许我这样恨他是错的。他还不如去一爱一一个狮口余生的畸形儿呢，那是我们用来表演的东西之一。但一个女人的一爱一不是那样容易摆脱的。当我在狮子爪下时，他背弃了我，在困苦中他离开了我，但我还是下不了狠心送他上绞架。就我自己来说，我不在乎对我有什么后果，因为世界上还有比我现存的生命更可怕的吗？但我顾及了他的命运。”

“他死了吗？”

“上个月当他在马加特附近游泳时淹死了。我在报纸上看见的。”

“后来他把那个五爪棒怎样处理了？这个棒子是你叙述中最独特、最巧妙的东西。”

“我也不知道，福尔摩斯先生。营地附近有一个白垩矿坑，底部是一个很深的绿色水潭。也许是扔在那个潭里了。”

“说实在的，关系也不大了，这个案子已经结案。”

“是的，"那女人说，“已经结案了。”

我们这时已经站起来要走，但那女人的声调中有一种东西引起了福尔摩斯的注意。他立刻转过身去对她说：

“你的生命不属于你自己，”他说。“你没有权利对自己下手。”

“难道它对别人还有任何用处吗？”

“你怎么知道没有用呢？对于一个缺乏耐心的世界来说，坚韧而耐心地受苦，这本身就是最可宝贵的榜样。”

那女人的回答是骇人的。她把面纱扯掉，走到有光线的地方来。

“你能受得了吗？"她说。

那是异常可怖的景象。脸已经被毁掉，没有语言能够形容它。在那已经烂掉的脸底，两只活泼而美丽的黄眼睛悲哀地向外望着，这就更显得可怕了。福尔摩斯怜悯而不平地举起一只手来。我们一起离开了这间屋子。

两天以后，我来到我朋友的住所，他自豪地用手指了指壁炉架上的一个蓝色小瓶。瓶上有一张红签，写着剧毒字样。我打开铺盖，有一股杏仁甜味儿。

“氢氰酸？”我说。

“正是。是邮寄来的。条子上写着：‘我把引一诱我的东西寄给你。我听从你的劝导。’华生，咱们可以猜出寄信的勇敢女人的名字。”