The Adventure of the Sussex Vampire

Arthur Conan Doyle

Holmes had read carefully a note which the last post had brought him. Then, with the dry chuckle which was his nearest approach to a laugh, he tossed it over to me.

“For a mixture of the modern and the mediaeval, of the practical and of the wildly fanciful, I think this is surely the limit,” said he. “What do you make of it, Watson?”

I read as follows:

46, Old Jewry,

Nov. 19th.

Re Vampires

Sir:

Our client, Mr. Robert Ferguson, of Ferguson and Muirhead, tea brokers, of Mincing Lane, has made some inquiry from us in a communication of even date concerning vampires. As our firm specializes entirely upon the assessment of machinery the matter hardly comes within our purview, and we have therefore recommended Mr. Ferguson to call upon you and lay the matter before you. We have not forgotten your successful action in the case of Matilda Briggs.

We are, sir,

Faithfully yours,

Morrison, Morrison, and Dodd.

per E. J. C.

“Matilda Briggs was not the name of a young woman, Watson,” said Holmes in a reminiscent voice. “It was a ship which is associated with the giant rat of Sumatra, a story for which the world is not yet prepared. But what do we know about vampires? Does it come within our purview either? Anything is better than stagnation, but really we seem to have been switched on to a Grimms' fairy tale. Make a long arm, Watson, and see what V has to say.”

I leaned back and took down the great index volume to which he referred. Holmes balanced it on his knee, and his eyes moved slowly and lovingly over the record of old cases, mixed with the accumulated information of a lifetime.

“Voyage of the Gloria Scott,” he read. “That was a bad business. I have some recollection that you made a record of it, Watson, though I was unable to congratulate you upon the result. Victor Lynch, the forger. Venomous lizard or gila. Remarkable case, that! Vittoria, the circus belle. Vanderbilt and the Yeggman. Vipers. Vigor, the Hammersmith wonder. Hullo! Hullo! Good old index. You can't beat it. Listen to this, Watson. Vampirism in Hungary. And again, Vampires in Transylvania.” He turned over the pages with eagerness, but after a short intent perusal he threw down the great book with a snarl of disappointment.

“Rubbish, Watson, rubbish! What have we to do with walking corpses who can only be held in their grave by stakes driven through their hearts? It's pure lunacy.”

“But surely,” said I, “the vampire was not necessarily a dead man? A living person might have the habit. I have read, for example, of the old sucking the blood of the young in order to retain their youth.”

“You are right, Watson. It mentions the legend in one of these references. But are we to give serious attention to such things? This agency stands flat-footed upon the ground, and there it must remain. The world is big enough for us. No ghosts need apply. I fear that we cannot take Mr. Robert Ferguson very seriously. Possibly this note may be from him and may throw some light upon what is worrying him.”

He took up a second letter which had lain unnoticed upon the table while he had been absorbed with the first. This he began to read with a smile of amusement upon his face which gradually faded away into an expression of intense interest and concentration. When he had finished he sat for some little time lost in thought with the letter dangling from his fingers. Finally, with a start, he aroused himself from his reverie.

“Cheeseman's, Lamberley. Where is Lamberley, Watson?”

“It is in Sussex, south of Horsham.”

“Not very far, eh? And Cheeseman's?”

“I know that country, Holmes. It is full of old houses which are named after the men who built them centuries ago. You get Odley's and Harvey's and Carriton's—the folk are forgotten but their names live in their houses.

“Precisely,” said Holmes coldly. It was one of the peculiarities of his proud, self-contained nature that though he docketed any fresh information very quietly and accurately in his brain, he seldom made any acknowledgment to the giver. “I rather fancy we shall know a good deal more about Cheeseman's, Lamberley, before we are through. The letter is, as I had hoped, from Robert Ferguson. By the way, he claims acquaintance with you.”

“With me!”

“You had better read it.”

He handed the letter across. It was headed with the address quoted.

Dear Mr. Holmes [it said]:

I have been recommended to you by my lawyers, but indeed the matter is so extraordinarily delicate that it is most difficult to discuss. It concerns a friend for whom I am acting. This gentleman married some five years ago a Peruvian lady, the daughter of a Peruvian merchant, whom he had met in connection with the importation of nitrates. The lady was very beautiful, but the fact of her foreign birth and of her alien religion always caused a separation of interests and of feelings between husband and wife, so that after a time his love may have cooled towards her and he may have come to regard their union as a mistake. He felt there were sides of her character which he could never explore or understand. This was the more painful as she was as loving a wife as a man could have—to all appearance absolutely devoted.

Now for the point which I will make more plain when we meet. Indeed, this note is merely to give you a general idea of the situation and to ascertain whether you would care to interest yourself in the matter. The lady began to show some curious traits quite alien to her ordinarily sweet and gentle disposition. The gentleman had been married twice and he had one son by the first wife. This boy was now fifteen, a very charming and affectionate youth, though unhappily injured through an accident in childhood. Twice the wife was caught in the act of assaulting this poor lad in the most unprovoked way. Once she struck him with a stick and left a great weal on his arm.

This was a small matter, however, compared with her conduct to her own child, a dear boy just under one year of age. On one occasion about a month ago this child had been left by its nurse for a few minutes. A loud cry from the baby, as of pain, called the nurse back. As she ran into the room she saw her employer, the lady, leaning over the baby and apparently biting his neck. There was a small wound in the neck from which a stream of blood had escaped. The nurse was so horrified that she wished to call the husband, but the lady implored her not to do so and actually gave her five pounds as a price for her silence. No explanation was ever given, and for the moment the matter was passed over.

It left, however, a terrible impression upon the nurse's mind, and from that time she began to watch her mistress closely and to keep a closer guard upon the baby, whom she tenderly loved. It seemed to her that even as she watched the mother, so the mother watched her, and that every time she was compelled to leave the baby alone the mother was waiting to get at it. Day and night the nurse covered the child, and day and night the silent, watchful mother seemed to be lying in wait as a wolf waits for a lamb. It must read most incredible to you, and yet I beg you to take it seriously, for a child's life and a man's sanity may depend upon it.

At last there came one dreadful day when the facts could no longer be concealed from the husband. The nurse's nerve had given way; she could stand the strain no longer, and she made a clean breast of it all to the man. To him it seemed as wild a tale as it may now seem to you. He knew his wife to be a loving wife, and, save for the assaults upon her stepson, a loving mother. Why, then, should she wound her own dear little baby? He told the nurse that she was dreaming, that her suspicions were those of a lunatic, and that such libels upon her mistress were not to be tolerated. While they were talking a sudden cry of pain was heard. Nurse and master rushed together to the nursery. Imagine his feelings, Mr. Holmes, as he saw his wife rise from a kneeling position beside the cot and saw blood upon the child's exposed neck and upon the sheet. With a cry of horror, he turned his wife's face to the light and saw blood all round her lips. It was she—she beyond all question—who had drunk the poor baby's blood.

So the matter stands. She is now confined to her room. There has been no explanation. The husband is half demented. He knows, and I know, little of vampirism beyond the name. We had thought it was some wild tale of foreign parts. And yet here in the very heart of the English Sussex—well, all this can be discussed with you in the morning. Will you see me? Will you use your great powers in aiding a distracted man? If so, kindly wire to Ferguson, Cheeseman's, Lamberley, and I will be at your rooms by ten o'clock.

Yours faithfully,

Robert Ferguson.

P. S. I believe your friend Watson played Rugby for Blackheath when I was three-quarter for Richmond. It is the only personal introduction which I can give.

“Of course I remembered him,” said I as I laid down the letter. “Big Bob Ferguson, the finest three-quarter Richmond ever had. He was always a good-natured chap. It's like him to be so concerned over a friend's case.”

Holmes looked at me thoughtfully and shook his head.

“I never get your limits, Watson,” said he. “There are unexplored possibilities about you. Take a wire down, like a good fellow. ‘Will examine your case with pleasure.’”

“Your case!”

“We must not let him think that this agency is a home for the weak-minded. Of course it is his case. Send him that wire and let the matter rest till morning.”

Promptly at ten o'clock next morning Ferguson strode into our room. I had remembered him as a long, slab-sided man with loose limbs and a fine turn of speed which had carried him round many an opposing back. There is surely nothing in life more painful than to meet the wreck of a fine athlete whom one has known in his prime. His great frame had fallen in, his flaxen hair was scanty, and his shoulders were bowed. I fear that I roused corresponding emotions in him.

“Hullo, Watson,” said he, and his voice was still deep and hearty. “You don't look quite the man you did when I threw you over the ropes into the crowd at the Old Deer Park. I expect I have changed a bit also. But it's this last day or two that has aged me. I see by your telegram, Mr. Holmes, that it is no use my pretending to be anyone's deputy.”

“It is simpler to deal direct,” said Holmes.

“Of course it is. But you can imagine how difficult it is when you are speaking of the one woman whom you are bound to protect and help. What can I do? How am I to go to the police with such a story? And yet the kiddies have got to be protected. Is it madness, Mr. Holmes? Is it something in the blood? Have you any similar case in your experience? For God's sake, give me some advice, for I am at my wit's end.”

“Very naturally, Mr. Ferguson. Now sit here and pull yourself together and give me a few clear answers. I can assure you that I am very far from being at my wit's end, and that I am confident we shall find some solution. First of all, tell me what steps you have taken. Is your wife still near the children?”

“We had a dreadful scene. She is a most loving woman, Mr. Holmes. If ever a woman loved a man with all her heart and soul, she loves me. She was cut to the heart that I should have discovered this horrible, this incredible, secret. She would not even speak. She gave no answer to my reproaches, save to gaze at me with a sort of wild, despairing look in her eyes. Then she rushed to her room and locked herself in. Since then she has refused to see me. She has a maid who was with her before her marriage, Dolores by name—a friend rather than a servant. She takes her food to her.”

“Then the child is in no immediate danger?”

“Mrs. Mason, the nurse, has sworn that she will not leave it night or day. I can absolutely trust her. I am more uneasy about poor little Jack, for, as I told you in my note, he has twice been assaulted by her.”

“But never wounded?”

“No, she struck him savagely. It is the more terrible as he is a poor little inoffensive cripple.” Ferguson's gaunt features softened as he spoke of his boy. “You would think that the dear lad's condition would soften anyone's heart. A fall in childhood and a twisted spine, Mr. Holmes. But the dearest, most loving heart within.”

Holmes had picked up the letter of yesterday and was reading it over. “What other inmates are there in your house, Mr. Ferguson?”

“Two servants who have not been long with us. One stable-hand, Michael, who sleeps in the house. My wife, myself, my boy Jack, baby, Dolores, and Mrs. Mason. That is all.”

“I gather that you did not know your wife well at the time of your marriage?”

“I had only known her a few weeks.”

“How long had this maid Dolores been with her?”

“Some years.”

“Then your wife's character would really be better known by Dolores than by you?”

“Yes, you may say so.”

Holmes made a note.

“I fancy,” said he, “that I may be of more use at Lamberley than here. It is eminently a case for personal investigation. If the lady remains in her room, our presence could not annoy or inconvenience her. Of course, we would stay at the inn.”

Ferguson gave a gesture of relief.

“It is what I hoped, Mr. Holmes. There is an excellent train at two from Victoria if you could come.”

“Of course we could come. There is a lull at present. I can give you my undivided energies. Watson, of course, comes with us. But there are one or two points upon which I wish to be very sure before I start. This unhappy lady, as I understand it, has appeared to assault both the children, her own baby and your little son?”

“That is so.”

“But the assaults take different forms, do they not? She has beaten your son.”

“Once with a stick and once very savagely with her hands.”

“Did she give no explanation why she struck him?”

“None save that she hated him. Again and again she said so.”

“Well, that is not unknown among stepmothers. A posthumous jealousy, we will say. Is the lady jealous by nature?”

“Yes, she is very jealous—jealous with all the strength of her fiery tropical love.”

“But the boy—he is fifteen, I understand, and probably very developed in mind, since his body has been circumscribed in action. Did he give you no explanation of these assaults?”

“No, he declared there was no reason.”

“Were they good friends at other times?”

“No, there was never any love between them.”

“Yet you say he is affectionate?”

“Never in the world could there be so devoted a son. My life is his life. He is absorbed in what I say or do.”

Once again Holmes made a note. For some time he sat lost in thought.

“No doubt you and the boy were great comrades before this second marriage. You were thrown very close together, were you not?”

“Very much so.”

“And the boy, having so affectionate a nature, was devoted, no doubt, to the memory of his mother?”

“Most devoted.”

“He would certainly seem to be a most interesting lad. There is one other point about these assaults. Were the strange attacks upon the baby and the assaults upon your son at the same period?”

“In the first case it was so. It was as if some frenzy had seized her, and she had vented her rage upon both. In the second case it was only Jack who suffered. Mrs. Mason had no complaint to make about the baby.”

“That certainly complicates matters.”

“I don't quite follow you, Mr. Holmes.”

“Possibly not. One forms provisional theories and waits for time or fuller knowledge to explode them. A bad habit, Mr. Ferguson, but human nature is weak. I fear that your old friend here has given an exaggerated view of my scientific methods. However, I will only say at the present stage that your problem does not appear to me to be insoluble, and that you may expect to find us at Victoria at two o'clock.”

It was evening of a dull, foggy November day when, having left our bags at the Chequers, Lamberley, we drove through the Sussex clay of a long winding lane and finally reached the isolated and ancient farmhouse in which Ferguson dwelt. It was a large, straggling building, very old in the centre, very new at the wings with towering Tudor chimneys and a lichen-spotted, high-pitched roof of Horsham slabs. The doorsteps were worn into curves, and the ancient tiles which lined the porch were marked with the rebus of a cheese and a man after the original builder. Within, the ceilings were corrugated with heavy oaken beams, and the uneven floors sagged into sharp curves. An odour of age and decay pervaded the whole crumbling building.

There was one very large central room into which Ferguson led us. Here, in a huge old-fashioned fireplace with an iron screen behind it dated 1670, there blazed and spluttered a splendid log fire.

The room, as I gazed round, was a most singular mixture of dates and of places. The half-panelled walls may well have belonged to the original yeoman farmer of the seventeenth century. They were ornamented, however, on the lower part by a line of well-chosen modern water-colours; while above, where yellow plaster took the place of oak, there was hung a fine collection of South American utensils and weapons, which had been brought, no doubt, by the Peruvian lady upstairs. Holmes rose, with that quick curiosity which sprang from his eager mind, and examined them with some care. He returned with his eyes full of thought.

“Hullo!” he cried. “Hullo!”

A spaniel had lain in a basket in the corner. It came slowly forward towards its master, walking with difficulty. Its hind legs moved irregularly and its tail was on the ground. It licked Ferguson's hand.

“What is it, Mr. Holmes?”

“The dog. What's the matter with it?”

“That's what puzzled the vet. A sort of paralysis. Spinal meningitis, he thought. But it is passing. He'll be all right soon—won't you, Carlo?”

A shiver of assent passed through the drooping tail. The dog's mournful eyes passed from one of us to the other. He knew that we were discussing his case.

“Did it come on suddenly?”

“In a single night.”

“How long ago?”

“It may have been four months ago.”

“Very remarkable. Very suggestive.”

“What do you see in it, Mr. Holmes?”

“A confirmation of what I had already thought.”

“For God's sake, what do you think, Mr. Holmes? It may be a mere intellectual puzzle to you, but it is life and death to me! My wife a would-be murderer—my child in constant danger! Don't play with me, Mr. Holmes. It is too terribly serious.”

The big Rugby three-quarter was trembling all over. Holmes put his hand soothingly upon his arm.

“I fear that there is pain for you, Mr. Ferguson, whatever the solution may be,” said he. “I would spare you all I can. I cannot say more for the instant, but before I leave this house I hope I may have something definite.”

“Please God you may! If you will excuse me, gentlemen, I will go up to my wife's room and see if there has been any change.”

He was away some minutes, during which Holmes resumed his examination of the curiosities upon the wall. When our host returned it was clear from his downcast face that he had made no progress. He brought with him a tall, slim, brown-faced girl.

“The tea is ready, Dolores,” said Ferguson. “See that your mistress has everything she can wish.”

“She verra ill,” cried the girl, looking with indignant eyes at her master. “She no ask for food. She verra ill. She need doctor. I frightened stay alone with her without doctor.”

Ferguson looked at me with a question in his eyes.

“I should be so glad if I could be of use.”

“Would your mistress see Dr. Watson?”

“I take him. I no ask leave. She needs doctor.”

“Then I'll come with you at once.”

I followed the girl, who was quivering with strong emotion, up the staircase and down an ancient corridor. At the end was an iron-clamped and massive door. It struck me as I looked at it that if Ferguson tried to force his way to his wife he would find it no easy matter. The girl drew a key from her pocket, and the heavy oaken planks creaked upon their old hinges. I passed in and she swiftly followed, fastening the door behind her.

On the bed a woman was lying who was clearly in a high fever. She was only half conscious, but as I entered she raised a pair of frightened but beautiful eyes and glared at me in apprehension. Seeing a stranger, she appeared to be relieved and sank back with a sigh upon the pillow. I stepped up to her with a few reassuring words, and she lay still while I took her pulse and temperature. Both were high, and yet my impression was that the condition was rather that of mental and nervous excitement than of any actual seizure.

“She lie like that one day, two day. I 'fraid she die,” said the girl.

The woman turned her flushed and handsome face towards me.

“Where is my husband?”

“He is below and would wish to see you.”

“I will not see him. I will not see him.” Then she seemed to wander off into delirium. “A fiend! A fiend! Oh, what shall I do with this devil?”

“Can I help you in any way?”

“No. No one can help. It is finished. All is destroyed. Do what I will, all is destroyed.”

The woman must have some strange delusion. I could not see honest Bob Ferguson in the character of fiend or devil.

“Madame,” I said, “your husband loves you dearly. He is deeply grieved at this happening.”

Again she turned on me those glorious eyes.

“He loves me. Yes. But do I not love him? Do I not love him even to sacrifice myself rather than break his dear heart? That is how I love him. And yet he could think of me—he could speak of me so.”

“He is full of grief, but he cannot understand.”

“No, he cannot understand. But he should trust.”

“Will you not see him?” I suggested.

“No, no, I cannot forget those terrible words nor the look upon his face. I will not see him. Go now. You can do nothing for me. Tell him only one thing. I want my child. I have a right to my child. That is the only message I can send him.” She turned her face to the wall and would say no more.

I returned to the room downstairs, where Ferguson and Holmes still sat by the fire. Ferguson listened moodily to my account of the interview.

“How can I send her the child?” he said. “How do I know what strange impulse might come upon her? How can I ever forget how she rose from beside it with its blood upon her lips?” He shuddered at the recollection. “The child is safe with Mrs. Mason, and there he must remain.”

A smart maid, the only modern thing which we had seen in the house, had brought in some tea. As she was serving it the door opened and a youth entered the room. He was a remarkable lad, pale-faced and fair-haired, with excitable light blue eyes which blazed into a sudden flame of emotion and joy as they rested upon his father. He rushed forward and threw his arms round his neck with the abandon of a loving girl.

“Oh, daddy,” he cried, “I did not know that you were due yet. I should have been here to meet you. Oh, I am so glad to see you!”

Ferguson gently disengaged himself from the embrace with some little show of embarrassment.

“Dear old chap,” said he, patting the flaxen head with a very tender hand. “I came early because my friends, Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson, have been persuaded to come down and spend an evening with us.”

“Is that Mr. Holmes, the detective?”

“Yes.”

The youth looked at us with a very penetrating and, as it seemed to me, unfriendly gaze.

“What about your other child, Mr. Ferguson?” asked Holmes. “Might we make the acquaintance of the baby?”

“Ask Mrs. Mason to bring baby down,” said Ferguson. The boy went off with a curious, shambling gait which told my surgical eyes that he was suffering from a weak spine. Presently he returned, and behind him came a tall, gaunt woman bearing in her arms a very beautiful child, dark-eyed, golden-haired, a wonderful mixture of the Saxon and the Latin. Ferguson was evidently devoted to it, for he took it into his arms and fondled it most tenderly.

“Fancy anyone having the heart to hurt him,” he muttered as he glanced down at the small, angry red pucker upon the cherub throat.

It was at this moment that I chanced to glance at Holmes and saw a most singular intentness in his expression. His face was as set as if it had been carved out of old ivory, and his eyes, which had glanced for a moment at father and child, were now fixed with eager curiosity upon something at the other side of the room. Following his gaze I could only guess that he was looking out through the window at the melancholy, dripping garden. It is true that a shutter had half closed outside and obstructed the view, but none the less it was certainly at the window that Holmes was fixing his concentrated attention. Then he smiled, and his eyes came back to the baby. On its chubby neck there was this small puckered mark. Without speaking, Holmes examined it with care. Finally he shook one of the dimpled fists which waved in front of him.

“Good-bye, little man. You have made a strange start in life. Nurse, I should wish to have a word with you in private.”

He took her aside and spoke earnestly for a few minutes. I only heard the last words, which were: “Your anxiety will soon, I hope, be set at rest.” The woman, who seemed to be a sour, silent kind of creature, withdrew with the child.

“What is Mrs. Mason like?” asked Holmes.

“Not very prepossessing externally, as you can see, but a heart of gold, and devoted to the child.”

“Do you like her, Jack?” Holmes turned suddenly upon the boy. His expressive mobile face shadowed over, and he shook his head.

“Jacky has very strong likes and dislikes,” said Ferguson, putting his arm round the boy. “Luckily I am one of his likes.”

The boy cooed and nestled his head upon his father's breast. Ferguson gently disengaged him.

“Run away, little Jacky,” said he, and he watched his son with loving eyes until he disappeared. “Now, Mr. Holmes,” he continued when the boy was gone, “I really feel that I have brought you on a fool's errand, for what can you possibly do save give me your sympathy? It must be an exceedingly delicate and complex affair from your point of view.”

“It is certainly delicate,” said my friend with an amused smile, “but I have not been struck up to now with its complexity. It has been a case for intellectual deduction, but when this original intellectual deduction is confirmed point by point by quite a number of independent incidents, then the subjective becomes objective and we can say confidently that we have reached our goal. I had, in fact, reached it before we left Baker Street, and the rest has merely been observation and confirmation.”

Ferguson put his big hand to his furrowed forehead.

“For heaven's sake, Holmes,” he said hoarsely; “if you can see the truth in this matter, do not keep me in suspense. How do I stand? What shall I do? I care nothing as to how you have found your facts so long as you have really got them.”

“Certainly I owe you an explanation, and you shall have it. But you will permit me to handle the matter in my own way? Is the lady capable of seeing us, Watson?”

“She is ill, but she is quite rational.”

“Very good. It is only in her presence that we can clear the matter up. Let us go up to her.”

“She will not see me,” cried Ferguson.

“Oh, yes, she will,” said Holmes. He scribbled a few lines upon a sheet of paper. “You at least have the entree, Watson. Will you have the goodness to give the lady this note?”

I ascended again and handed the note to Dolores, who cautiously opened the door. A minute later I heard a cry from within, a cry in which joy and surprise seemed to be blended. Dolores looked out.

“She will see them. She will leesten,” said she.

At my summons Ferguson and Holmes came up. As we entered the room Ferguson took a step or two towards his wife, who had raised herself in the bed, but she held out her hand to repulse him. He sank into an armchair, while Holmes seated himself beside him, after bowing to the lady, who looked at him with wide-eyed amazement.

“I think we can dispense with Dolores,” said Holmes. “Oh, very well, madame, if you would rather she stayed I can see no objection. Now, Mr. Ferguson, I am a busy man with many calls, and my methods have to be short and direct. The swiftest surgery is the least painful. Let me first say what will ease your mind. Your wife is a very good, a very loving, and a very ill-used woman.”

Ferguson sat up with a cry of joy.

“Prove that, Mr. Holmes, and I am your debtor forever.”

“I will do so, but in doing so I must wound you deeply in another direction.”

“I care nothing so long as you clear my wife. Everything on earth is insignificant compared to that.”

“Let me tell you, then, the train of reasoning which passed through my mind in Baker Street. The idea of a vampire was to me absurd. Such things do not happen in criminal practice in England. And yet your observation was precise. You had seen the lady rise from beside the child's cot with the blood upon her lips.”

“I did.”

“Did it not occur to you that a bleeding wound may be sucked for some other purpose than to draw the blood from it? Was there not a queen in English history who sucked such a wound to draw poison from it?”

“Poison!”

“A South American household. My instinct felt the presence of those weapons upon the wall before my eyes ever saw them. It might have been other poison, but that was what occurred to me. When I saw that little empty quiver beside the small bird-bow, it was just what I expected to see. If the child were pricked with one of those arrows dipped in curare or some other devilish drug, it would mean death if the venom were not sucked out.

“And the dog! If one were to use such a poison, would one not try it first in order to see that it had not lost its power? I did not foresee the dog, but at least I understand him and he fitted into my reconstruction.

“Now do you understand? Your wife feared such an attack. She saw it made and saved the child's life, and yet she shrank from telling you all the truth, for she knew how you loved the boy and feared lest it break your heart.”

“Jacky!”

“I watched him as you fondled the child just now. His face was clearly reflected in the glass of the window where the shutter formed a background. I saw such jealousy, such cruel hatred, as I have seldom seen in a human face.”

“My Jacky!”

“You have to face it, Mr. Ferguson. It is the more painful because it is a distorted love, a maniacal exaggerated love for you, and possibly for his dead mother, which has prompted his action. His very soul is consumed with hatred for this splendid child, whose health and beauty are a contrast to his own weakness.”

“Good God! It is incredible!”

“Have I spoken the truth, madame?”

The lady was sobbing, with her face buried in the pillows. Now she turned to her husband.

“How could I tell you, Bob? I felt the blow it would be to you. It was better that I should wait and that it should come from some other lips than mine. When this gentleman, who seems to have powers of magic, wrote that he knew all, I was glad.”

“I think a year at sea would be my prescription for Master Jacky,” said Holmes, rising from his chair. “Only one thing is still clouded, madame. We can quite understand your attacks upon Master Jacky. There is a limit to a mother's patience. But how did you dare to leave the child these last two days?”

“I had told Mrs. Mason. She knew.”

“Exactly. So I imagined.”

Ferguson was standing by the bed, choking, his hands outstretched and quivering.

“This, I fancy, is the time for our exit, Watson,” said Holmes in a whisper. “If you will take one elbow of the too faithful Dolores, I will take the other. There, now,” he added as he closed the door behind him, “I think we may leave them to settle the rest among themselves.”

I have only one further note of this case. It is the letter which Holmes wrote in final answer to that with which the narrative begins. It ran thus:

Baker Street,

Nov. 21st.

Re Vampires

Sir:

Referring to your letter of the 19th, I beg to state that I have looked into the inquiry of your client, Mr. Robert Ferguson, of Ferguson and Muirhead, tea brokers, of Mincing Lane, and that the matter has been brought to a satisfactory conclusion. With thanks for your recommendation, I am, sir,

Faithfully yours,

Sherlock Holmes.

吸血鬼

福尔摩斯仔细地读了一封刚收到的来信，然后，漠然无声地一笑——这是他最近乎于要大笑的一种态度——就把信抛给了我。

“作为现代与中古、实际与异想的混合物，这封信算是到家了，"他说道。"你觉得怎么样，华生？”

我读道：

旧裘瑞路４６号一月十九日

有关吸血鬼事由

径启者：

敝店顾客——敏兴大街弗格森－米尔黑德茶叶经销公司的罗伯特-弗格森先生，今日来函询问有关吸血鬼事宜。因敝店专营机械估价业务，此项不属本店经营范围，故特介绍弗格森先生造访台端以解疑难。足下承办马蒂尔达-布里格斯案件曾获成功，故予介绍。

莫里森，莫里森－道得公司谨启

经手人Ｅ.Ｊ.Ｃ。

“马蒂尔达不是少女的名字，"福尔摩斯回忆说，“那是一只船，与苏门答腊的巨型老鼠有关，那个故事是会使公众吃惊的。但是咱们跟吸血鬼有什么相干？那是咱们的业务范围吗？当然喽，不管什么案子也比闲着没事儿强。但这回咱们一下子进入格林童话了。华生，抬抬手，查查字母Ｖ看有什么说法。”

我回过身去把那本大索引取下来拿给他去翻。福尔摩斯把书摆在腿上，两眼缓慢而高兴地查阅着那些古案记录，其中夹杂着毕生积累的知识。

“'格洛里亚斯科特号'的航程，"他念道，“这个案子相当糟糕。我记得你作了些记录，但结局却欠佳。造伪钞者维克多-林奇。毒蜥蜴。这是个了不起的案子。女马戏演员维特利亚。范德比尔特与窃贼。毒蛇。奇异锻工维格尔。哈！我的老索引。真有你的，无所不包。华生，你听这个。匈牙利吸血鬼妖术。还有，特兰西瓦尼亚的吸血鬼案。"他热心地翻阅了半天，然后失望地哼了一声，把本子扔在桌上。

“一胡一扯，华生，这都是一胡一扯！那种非得用夹板钉在坟墓里才不出来走动的僵一尸一，跟咱们有什么相干？纯粹是一精一神失常。”

“不过，"我说道，“吸血鬼也许不一定是死人？活人也可以有吸血的一习一惯。比方我在书上就读到有的老人吸年轻人的血以葆青春。”

“你说得很对，这本索引里就提到这种传说了。但是咱们能信这种事吗？这位经纪人是两脚站在地球上的，那就不能离开地球。这个世界对咱们来说是够大的了，用不着介入鬼域。照我看不能太信弗格森的话。下面这封信可能是他写的，也许能稍稍说明使他苦恼的到底是什么问题。”

说着他从桌上拿起另一封信，这封信在他专心研究第一封信时没有受到注意。他开始含笑读这封信，读着读着笑容就变成专心紧张的表情了。看完之后他靠在椅子上沉思起来，手指之间还夹一着那信纸。后来他一惊，才从深思中醒了过来。

“兰伯利，奇斯曼庄园。华生，兰伯利在什么地方？”

“在苏塞克斯郡，就在霍尔舍姆南边。”

“不算很远吧？那么奇斯曼庄园呢？”

“我倒比较熟悉那一带乡间。那里有许多古老的住宅，都是以几个世纪之前的原房主的姓氏来命名的，什么奥德利庄园，哈维庄园，凯立顿庄园等等——那些家族早就被人遗忘了，但他们的姓氏还通过房子保留下来了。”

“不错，"福尔摩斯冷冷地说。他那骄傲而富于自制的气质有一个特点，就是尽避他往往不声不响地、准确地把一切新知识都装入头脑，却很少对知识的提供者表示谢意。"我觉得不久我们就会对奇斯曼庄园有更多的了解了。这封信是弗格森本人写来的，正如我预料的那样。对了，他还自称认识你呢。”

“什么，认识我？！”

“你自己看信吧。”

说着他把信递过来。信首写的就是刚才他念的那个地址。我读道：

福尔摩斯先生：

我的律师介绍我同你联系，但我的问题实在过于敏一感，不知从何谈起才好。我是代表一个朋友来谈他的事儿的。这位绅士在五年前和一位秘鲁小一姐结了婚，她是一位秘鲁商业家的女儿，我的朋友在经营进口硝酸的过程中认识了她。她长得很美，但是国籍和宗教的不同总是在夫妇之间造成感情上和实际上的隔膜。结果，经过一段时间之后，他对她的感情可能冷淡下来了，他可能认为这次结婚是一个错误。他感到在她的一性一格中有某些东西是他永远无法捉摸和理解的。这是特别痛苦的，因为她真是一个少有的一温一存可一爱一的妻子——无论从哪方面看都是绝对忠实地一爱一着丈夫的。

现在我来谈主要问题，详情还要与你面谈。这封信只是先谈一个轮廓，以便请你确定是否有意承办此事。不久前这位女士开始表现出某些颇与她的一温一柔本一性一不相称的怪一毛一病。这位绅士结过两次婚，他有一个前平生的儿子。这孩子十五岁了，他是一个非常讨人喜欢而且重感情的孩子，可惜小时候受过外伤。有两次，有人发现后母无缘无故地痛打这个可怜的男孩子。一次是用手杖打他，在胳臂上留下一大块青痕。

这还不算，她对自己亲生的不到一周岁的小儿子的行为就更严重多了。大约一个月之前，有一次保姆离开婴儿几分钟去干别的事。突然婴儿嚎哭起来，保姆赶紧跑回来，一进屋就看见女主人弯着身一子好象在咬小儿的脖子。脖子上有一个小伤口，往外淌着血。保姆吓坏了，立刻要去叫男主人，但是女主人求她不要去，还给了她五镑钱要她保密。女主人没有做任何解释，事情就这么搁下了。

但是这件事在保姆心里留下了可怕的印象，从此以后她就严密注意女主人的行动，并且更加着意护卫婴儿，因为她是真心一爱一这个孩子的。可是她觉得，正如她监视母亲一样，母亲也在监视着她，只要她稍一离开婴儿，母亲就抢到小儿面前去。保姆日夜地保卫婴儿，而母亲也日夜地不声不响地象狼等羊一样盯着婴儿。这对你来说必是难以置信的事，但我请求你严肃地对待我的叙述，因为事关一个婴儿的生死，也可能造成一个男子的一精一神失常。

终于有一天事实瞒不过丈夫了。保姆的神经支持不住了，她向男主人坦白了一切。对他来说，这简直是异想天开，就象你现在的感觉一样。他深知他的妻子是一爱一他的，而且除了那次痛打继子之外也一向是疼一爱一继子的。她怎么会伤害自己亲生的孩子呢？因此他对保姆说这都是她的幻觉，这种多疑是不正常的，她对女主人的诽谤是令人无法容忍的。正在他们谈话之间，突然听到婴儿痛嚎起来。保姆和男主人一起跑向婴儿室。只见他妻子刚刚从摇篮旁站起身来，婴儿的脖子上流着血，一床一单也染上了血。请你想象他的心情吧，福尔摩斯先生。当他把妻子的脸转向亮处，发现她嘴唇周围都是鲜血时，他恐怖得叫出声来了。原来是她——这回是没有疑问了——是她吸了可怜的婴儿的血。

这就是实际情况。她现在关在屋里不见人。没有作任何解释。丈夫已经处于半疯狂状态。他以及我除了只听说过吸血鬼这个名称以外，对这种事可以说一无所知。我们原本以为那是外国的一种奇谈，谁知就在英国苏塞克斯——罢了，还是明晨与你面谈罢。你能接待我吗？你能不吝帮助一个濒于失常的人吗？如蒙不弃，请电兰伯利，奇斯曼庄园，弗格森。我将于上午十点到你住所。

罗伯特-弗格森

又及：我记得你的朋友华生曾经是布莱克希斯橄榄球队的队员，而我当时是李奇蒙队的中卫。在私人一交一往方面，这是我可提出的唯一自我介绍。

“不错，我记得这个人，"我一边放下信一边说道。“大个子鲍勃-弗格森，他是李奇蒙队最棒的中卫。他是一个厚道的人。现在他对朋友的事又是如此关怀，这个人的脾气就是这么热心肠。”

福尔摩斯深思地看着我，摇了摇头。

“华生，我总是摸不透你的想法，"他说。“你总是有些使我惊讶的想法。好吧，请你去拍一封电报，电文是：‘同意承办你的案件'。”

“你的案件！”

“咱们不能让他认为这是一家缺乏智能的侦探。这当然是他本人的案子。请你把电报发了，到明天早上就自有分晓了。”

第二天上午十点钟，弗格森准时地大踏步走进我们的房间。在我记忆中，他是一个身材细长、四肢灵活的人，他行动神速，善于绕过对方后卫的拦截。大概在人生的路途中，没有比这更难过的事了，那就是重见一位在其全盛时期你曾认识的健壮运动员，现在已成了一把骨头。这个弗格森的大骨骼已经坍陷了，两肩低垂，淡黄的头发也稀疏无几了。我恐怕我留给他的印象也是类似的吧。

“嗨，华生，你好，"他说道。他的声调倒还是那么深沉热情。"我说，你可不是当初我把你隔着绳子抛到人群里那时节的身一子骨儿啦。我大约也有点变了样儿了。就是最近这些天我才见老的。福尔摩斯先生，从你的电报中我可以看出，我是不能再装作别人的代理人了。”

“实话实说更好办些，"福尔摩斯说道。

“自然是这样。但请你想一想，谈论一个你必须维护的女人的事儿，是多么为难啊。我又能怎么办呢？难道我去找警察说这件事吗？而我又必须顾及孩子们的安全。福尔摩斯先生，请告诉我，那是一精一神病吗？是血统中遗传的吗？你经历过类似的案子没有？看在上帝的面上，求你帮帮我，我是没了主见了。”

“这是很可以理解的，弗格森先生。请你坐下，定一定神，清楚地回答我几个问题。我可以向你保证，我并没有对你的案情束手无策，我自信可以找到答案。首先，请你告诉我，你采取了什么步骤，你起子还与孩子们接触吗？”

“我和她大吵了一场。福尔摩斯先生，她是一个极其一温一柔深情的女子。她是真正全心全意地一爱一着我。见我发现了这个可怖的、难以置信的秘密，她伤心到了极点。她连话也不说了，根本不回答我的责备，只是含一着惊狂绝望的神色瞅着我，瞅着我，然后转身跑回自己的房间，把门锁上。从那以后，她再也不肯见我。她有一个陪嫁的侍女，叫做多罗雷思，与其说是一个仆人不如说是一个朋友。由她给我妻子送饭。”

“那么说，孩子目前没有危险吗？”

“保姆梅森太太发誓日夜不再离开婴儿。我倒是更不放心可怜的小杰克，因为他曾两次被痛打，正如我告诉你的那样。”

“没受过伤？”

“没有。她打得相当狠。尤其是，他是一个可怜的跛足孩子。"当弗格森谈到他儿子的时候，他脸上的表情变得一温一柔了。

“这个孩子的缺陷谁看了也会心软的。小时候摔坏了脊椎，但是他的心灵是最可一爱一、最疼人的。”

这时候福尔摩斯又从桌上拿起昨天的信，反复读着。"弗格森先生，你宅里还有什么人？”

“有两个新来不久的仆人。还有一个马夫，叫迈克尔，也住在宅子里。另外就是我妻子，我自己，我儿子杰克，婴儿，多罗雷思，梅森太太。就是这些。”

“我想你在结婚时还对你妻子不甚了解吧？”

“那时我认识她才几个星期。”

“侍女多罗雷思跟她有多久了？”

“有些年了。”

“那么她对你妻子的一性一格应该比你更了解了？”

“是的，可以这么说。”

福尔摩斯记了下来。

“我觉得，"他说道，“我在兰伯利比在这里更有用些。这个案子需要亲身调查。既然女主人不出卧室，我们在庄园也不会打扰她。当然我们是住在旅馆里。”

弗格森显出松了一口气的样子。

“福尔摩斯先生，这正是我原本希望的。如你能来，恰好两点钟有一次舒适的列车从维多利亚车站出发。”

“自然要来的。目前我刚好有空闲。我可以全力办你的案件。华生当然也同我们一起去。不过，在出发之前，有一两个问题我必须弄得十分确切。照我理解，这位不幸的女主人看来对两个孩子都动武了，包括你的小儿子和她亲生的婴儿，对吗？”

“对的。”

“但是动武的方式不同，是吗？她是殴打你的小儿子。”

“一次是用手杖，另一次是用手狠打。”

“她一直没有解释为什么打他吗？”

“没有，只是说恨他。她一再地这样说。”

“这在继母也是常有的。大概可以叫做对死者的妒嫉吧。她天一性一是一爱一妒嫉的吗？”

“是的，她很妒嫉，她是用她那热带的深情来妒嫉的。”

“你的儿子——他十五岁了，既然他的身一体活动受健康限制，大概他的智力是较早发展的吧。难道他没有向你解释被殴打的原因吗？”

“没有，他坚持说那是毫无缘故的。”

“以前他和继母关系好吗？”

“他们之间从来没有一爱一的感情。”

“但是你说他是一个会疼人的孩子？”

“世界上再也不会有象他那样忠心的儿子了。我就是他的生命。他对我的一言一行都是关切的。”

福尔摩斯又记了下来。他出了一会儿神。

“再婚之前，你肯定和你儿子是感情很深的。你们经常在一起，对吧？”

“朝夕相处。”

“既然这个孩子很重感情，那当然对已故的母亲是深一爱一的了？”

“十分深一爱一。”

“看来他一定是一个很有意思的孩子。还有一个关于殴打的问题。对你儿子的殴打和对婴儿的神秘攻击是同时发生的吗？”

“第一次是这样。就好象她突然中了什么魔，对两个孩子都发泄。第二次只是杰克挨了打，保姆并没说婴儿出了什么事。”

“这倒有点复杂。”

“我不大懂你的意思，福尔摩斯先生。”

“可能。我是作出了一些假设，有待时间或新的资料去一一驳倒它们。这是一个坏一习一惯，弗格森先生，但人总是有弱点的。我恐怕你的老朋友华生把我的科学方法描述得有点夸张了。不管怎么说，目前我只能告诉你，我认为你的案件并非难以解决的，今天两点钟我们准时到维多利亚车站。”

这是一个一陰一沉多雾的十一月的黄昏。我们把行李放在兰伯利的切克斯旅馆，就驱车穿过一条弯曲多泥的苏塞克斯马路，来到弗格森那座偏僻而古老的庄园，那是一座庞大连绵的建筑，中心部分非常古老，而两翼又很新，有图德式的高一耸烟囱和长了苔藓的高坡度的霍尔舍姆石板瓦。门阶已经凹陷，廊子墙壁的古瓦上刻有圆形的原房主的图像。房内的天花板由沉重的橡木柱子支撑着，不平的地板显出很深的凹线。这座摇摇欲坠的房子散发出一股陈年的腐气。

弗格森把我们让进一间很宽敞的中央大厅。有一座很大的、罩着铁皮的旧式壁炉，上面刻有"！”６７０"年的字样，里边用上等木块生着熊熊的壁火。

我环顾四周，只见这屋子在时代和地域上都是一个大杂烩。半截镶木墙很可能是十七世纪原农庄主搞的。在墙的下半部挂着一排富有审美趣味的现代水彩画。而上半部却挂着一排南美的器皿和武器，显然是楼上那位秘鲁太太带来的东西。福尔摩斯站起来，以他那无所不观的锐敏的好奇感，仔细研究了这些东西。他看过之后，眼中充满沉思地又坐下了。“嘿！"他突然喊起来，“你看！”

一只狮子狗本来在屋角的筐里卧着，这时慢慢朝主人爬过去，行动很吃力。它的后腿拖拉着，尾巴拖在地上。它去一舔一主人的手。

“怎么回事，福尔摩斯先生？”

“这狗。它有什么一毛一病？”

“兽医也搞不清是什么病。是一种麻痹，他说可能是脑脊髓膜炎。但这病症正在消退。它不久就会好了——是不是，我的卡尔罗？”

这狗的尾巴轻轻一颤了一下以示赞同。它那悲凄的眼睛看看这个人，又看看那个人。它很明白我们在谈论它的病。

“这病是突然发生的么？”

“一一夜之间。”

“多久以前？”

“可能有四个月了吧。”

“很奇怪。很有启发。”

“你觉得这病说明什么问题么，福尔摩斯先生？”

“它证实了我的一种设想。”

“什么，你到底在说什么呀？这对你也许是猜谜游戏，但对我却是生死关头！我妻子可能是杀人犯，我儿子时刻在危险中！埃尔摩斯先生，千万不要跟我开玩笑，这一切太可怕了。”

这个大个子中卫，从头到脚发起抖来。福尔摩斯把手放在他胳臂上安慰他说：

“不管结论是什么，恐怕对你也是难免痛苦的。我一定尽力减轻你的痛苦。目前我还不能多说什么，但在我离开你家之前我可能给你明确的答复。”

“但愿如此才好！请二位原谅，我要到楼上去看看我妻子的情况有无变化。”

他去了几分钟，福尔摩斯再度去研究墙上挂的器物。主人回来了，从那一陰一沉的脸色看来，他没有取得任何进展。他带来一位细高黄脸的侍女。

“多罗雷思，茶点已备好了，"弗格森说，“请你照顾女主人得到她想要的东西。”

“她病很重，"侍女大声说道，两眼怒视着主人，"她不要吃。她病很重。她要医生。没有医生，我一个人和她呆在一起感到害怕。”

弗格森眼带疑问地看着我。

“如有需要，我愿尽力。”

“你女主人愿意见华生医生吗？”

“我带他去。我不要征得同意。她需要医生。”

“那我马上同你去吧。”

侍女激动得微微颤栗着，我随她走上楼梯，走进一条古老的走廊。在尽头有一座很厚实的铁骨门。我瞧着这门心里说，要是弗格森想闯进妻子的房间可不那么容易呢。侍女从口袋里掏出钥匙，那沉重的橡木门板在折叶上吱吱地打开了。我走进去，她立即跟进来，回手把门锁上。

一床一上躺着一个女子，显然在发高烧。她神智半清醒，但我一进来，她立即抬起一双惊恐而柔美的眼睛，害怕地瞪着我。一见是生人，她反而放心地松了一口气躺在枕头上了。我走上前去安慰了两句，她就安静地躺在那里让我诊脉量体一温一了。脉博很快，体一温一也很高，但临一床一印象却是神经一性一的，而不是感染一性一的热病。

“她这样一天，两天地躺着。我怕她死去，"侍女说。

女主人把她那烧红的俊美的脸朝我转过来。

“我丈夫在哪儿？”

“在楼下，他想见你。”

“我不要见他，我不要见他。"后来她似乎神智开始不清了。

“恶毒啊，恶毒啊！我对这个恶魔怎么办啊！”

“我能以任何方式帮你忙吗？”

“不。旁人没办法。完了。全完了。不管我怎么办，也全都完了。”

女主人一定是在说一胡一话。我实在看不出，诚实的弗格森怎么会是恶毒或恶魔式的人物。

“弗格森太太，"我说道，“你丈夫是深深一爱一你的。他对这事儿非常痛苦。”

她再一次把她那美丽的眼睛朝我转过来。

“他是一爱一我，不错。但我难道不一爱一他吗？难道我不是一爱一他到了宁愿牺牲自己也不愿伤他心的地步了吗？我就是这样一爱一他的呵。而他居然会这样想我——这样说我。”

“他极其痛苦，可他不理解。”

“他是不能理解。但他应该信任。”

“你不愿见一见他吗？”

“不，不，我忘不了他说的那些话，也忘不了他那脸上的神色。我不要见他。请你走吧。你帮不了我。请你告诉他一句话，我要我的孩子。我有权利要自己的孩子。这是我要对他说的唯一的话。"她又把脸朝墙转过去，不肯再说话了。

我回到楼下，弗格森和福尔摩斯还坐在壁炉边。弗格森忧郁地听我叙述会见的情景。

“我怎么能把婴儿一交一给她呢？"他说道。"我怎么能知道她会不会再有奇怪的冲动呢？我怎么能忘记那次她从婴儿身旁站起来时嘴唇上都是孩子的血的情形呢？"他打了一个冷战。“婴儿在保姆那里是安全的，他必须留在保姆那里。”

一个俏皮的女仆端了茶点进来，她是这座庄园内唯一时髦的人物。在她开门的工夫，一个少年走进屋来。他是一个引人注目的孩子，肤色白皙，头发浅黄，一双易于激动的浅蓝色眼睛，一看见父亲就闪现出一种意外的激动而喜悦的光芒。他冲过去两手搂着他的脖子象热情的女孩子那样抱住案亲。

“爸爸，"他叫道，“我不知道你已经来了，要不我早就在这儿等你了。我真想你！”

弗格森多少有点不好意思地轻轻拉开儿子的手。

“好孩子，"他一边轻一抚一着浅黄色的头发一边说道，“我回来的早是因为我的朋友福尔摩斯先生和华生先生肯跟我来消磨一个晚上。”

“那是侦探福尔摩斯先生吗？”

“是的。”

这个孩子用一种很有洞察力、但在我看来是不友好的眼光看着我们。

“弗格森先生，你的那个小儿子在哪里？"福尔摩斯说道。“我们能不能看看他？”

“叫梅森太太把小孩抱来，"弗格森说。这个孩子以一种奇怪的、蹒跚的步伐走了，照我做医生的眼光看来，他是患有脊椎软骨症的。不大工夫他就回来了，后面跟来一个又高又瘦的女人，怀中抱着一个秀美的婴儿，黑眼睛，金黄色头发，是撒克逊和拉丁血统的绝妙融合。弗格森显然很疼一爱一他，一见面就把他抱到自己怀里非常亲切地一爱一抚一着。

“真不明白怎么会有人忍心伤害他，"他一边自言自语地说着，一边低头去看那天使般白一嫩的脖子上的小红皱痕。

就在这一刹那，我的眼光碰巧落在福尔摩斯身上，我发现他的表情特别专心。他的脸象牙雕一般文风不动，他的眼在看了一下父亲和儿子之后又极起好奇地盯在对面的什么东西上。我顺着他的眼光望去，却只能猜想他是在望着窗外那使人抑郁的、湿一淋一淋的园子。而实际上百叶窗是半关着的，什么也看不见，但他的眼光显然是在盯着窗子。然后微微一笑，他的眼光又回到婴儿身上。婴儿的脖子上有一块小伤痕。福尔摩斯不发一言地仔细观察伤口。最后他握了握婴儿在空中摇晃着的小拳头。

“再见，乖乖。你生活的起点是奇特的。保姆，我跟你说一句话。”

他和保姆走到一边去认真地谈了几分钟。我只听见最后一句是：“你的顾虑马上就会解除了。"保姆似乎是一个脾气有点倔、不大多说话的人，她抱着婴儿走了。

“梅森太太是个什么样的人？"福尔摩斯问道。

“表面虽然不使人有什么好感，但是心地非常善良，而且疼一爱一这个婴儿。”

“杰克，你喜欢保姆吗？"福尔摩斯突然对大孩子说。孩子那富于表情的灵活多变的脸庞一陰一沉起来，他摇了摇头。

“杰克这孩子有着强烈的喜欢与不喜欢，"弗格森用手搂着孩子说。"幸亏我是他喜欢的人。”

杰克哼哼着把头扎到爸爸怀里。弗格森轻轻拉开他。

“去玩去吧，好乖，"他说着，一直用一爱一抚的眼光看着他出去，然后继续对福尔摩斯说，“福尔摩斯先生，我真觉得让你白跑了一趟，因为你除了表示同情之外又能做些什么呢？从你的角度来看，这一定是一个特别复杂和敏一感的案子。”

“敏一感确乎是敏一感的，"福尔摩斯觉得有点好笑地说，“但我倒还没发现有多么复杂。本来是一个推理过程，但当原先的推理一步一步地被客观事实给证实了以后，那主观就变成客观了，我们就可以自信地说达到了目的。其实，在离开贝克街之前我已得出结论，剩下的只是观察和证实而已。”

弗格森用大手按住布满皱纹的额头。

“看在上帝的面上，福尔摩斯先生，"他急得嗓子都哑了，

“如果你看出这事的真相，千万不要再让我挂虑了。我的处境究竟是什么？我应该怎么办？我不管你怎么发现的事实，只要是事实就行。”

“当然我应该对你解释，我马上就要把问题说明。但是你总该允许我用自己的方式处理问题吧？华生，女主人的健康情况可以会见我们吗？”

“她病得够重的，但完全清醒。”

“那好。我们只有当着她的面才能澄清事实。我们上楼去见她吧。”

“但她不肯见我，"弗格森大声说道。

“她会的，"福尔摩斯说。他在纸上匆匆写了几行字。"华生，至少你有进门权，就劳驾你把这条子一交一给女主人吧。”

我走上楼去，多罗雷思警惕地把门打开了，我把条子递给她。一分钟以后我听到屋内高呼了一声，那是惊喜的呼声。多罗雷思探出头来。

“她愿见他们，她愿意听，"她说。

我把弗格森和福尔摩斯叫上楼来。一进门，弗格森就朝着一床一头抢了两步，但是他妻子半坐起来用手止住了他。他颓然坐在一张沙发椅里。福尔摩斯鞠了一躬坐在他旁边。女主人睁大了惊奇的眼看着福尔摩斯。

“我想这里用不着多罗雷思了吧，"福尔摩斯说，"噢，好的，太太，如果您愿她留下我也不反对。好，弗格森先生，我是一个忙人，事务繁多，我的方式必须是简短扼要的。手术越快，痛苦越少。我首先要说那使你放心的事情。你的起子是一个非常善良、非常一温一存和一爱一你、但却受了非常大的冤屈的人。”

弗格森欢呼一声挺一起腰来。

“福尔摩斯先生，只要你证实这个，我一辈子都感激你。”

“我是要证实，但这么做我将在另一方面使你伤心。”

“只要你洗清我妻子，别的我都不在乎。世界上一切别的都是次要的。”

“那就让我把我在家里形成的推理假设告诉你。吸血鬼的说法在我看来是荒诞不经的。这种事在英国犯罪史中没有发生过。而你的观察是正确的。你看见女主人在婴儿一床一边站起来，嘴唇上都是血。”

“我看见过。”

“但你难道没有想到过，吸一吮一淌血的伤口除了吸血之外还有别的用处吗？在英国历史上不是有过一位女王用嘴吸一吮一伤口里的毒吗？”

“毒！”

“一个南美家族。在我亲眼看见你墙上挂的这