Chapter IV.

Darkness

At three in the morning the chief Sussex detective, obeying the urgent call from Sergeant Wilson of Birlstone, arrived from headquarters in a light dog-cart behind a breathless trotter. By the five-forty train in the morning he had sent his message to Scotland Yard, and he was at the Birlstone station at twelve o'clock to welcome us. White Mason was a quiet, comfortable-looking person in a loose tweed suit, with a clean-shaved, ruddy face, a stoutish body, and powerful bandy legs adorned with gaiters, looking like a small farmer, a retired gamekeeper, or anything upon earth except a very favourable specimen of the provincial criminal officer.

“A real downright snorter, Mr. MacDonald!” he kept repeating. “We'll have the pressmen down like flies when they understand it. I'm hoping we will get our work done before they get poking their noses into it and messing up all the trails. There has been nothing like this that I can remember. There are some bits that will come home to you, Mr. Holmes, or I am mistaken. And you also, Dr. Watson; for the medicos will have a word to say before we finish. Your room is at the Westville Arms. There's no other place; but I hear that it is clean and good. The man will carry your bags. This way, gentlemen, if you please.”

He was a very bustling and genial person, this Sussex detective. In ten minutes we had all found our quarters. In ten more we were seated in the parlour of the inn and being treated to a rapid sketch of those events which have been outlined in the previous chapter. MacDonald made an occasional note, while Holmes sat absorbed, with the expression of surprised and reverent admiration with which the botanist surveys the rare and precious bloom.

“Remarkable!” he said, when the story was unfolded, “most remarkable! I can hardly recall any case where the features have been more peculiar.”

“I thought you would say so, Mr. Holmes,” said White Mason in great delight. “We're well up with the times in Sussex. I've told you now how matters were, up to the time when I took over from Sergeant Wilson between three and four this morning. My word! I made the old mare go! But I need not have been in such a hurry, as it turned out; for there was nothing immediate that I could do. Sergeant Wilson had all the facts. I checked them and considered them and maybe added a few of my own.”

“What were they?” asked Holmes eagerly.

“Well, I first had the hammer examined. There was Dr. Wood there to help me. We found no signs of violence upon it. I was hoping that if Mr. Douglas defended himself with the hammer, he might have left his mark upon the murderer before he dropped it on the mat. But there was no stain.”

“That, of course, proves nothing at all,” remarked Inspector MacDonald. “There has been many a hammer murder and no trace on the hammer.”

“Quite so. It doesn't prove it wasn't used. But there might have been stains, and that would have helped us. As a matter of fact there were none. Then I examined the gun. They were buckshot cartridges, and, as Sergeant Wilson pointed out, the triggers were wired together so that, if you pulled on the hinder one, both barrels were discharged. Whoever fixed that up had made up his mind that he was going to take no chances of missing his man. The sawed gun was not more than two foot long—one could carry it easily under one's coat. There was no complete maker's name; but the printed letters P-E-N were on the fluting between the barrels, and the rest of the name had been cut off by the saw.”

“A big P with a flourish above it, E and N smaller?” asked Holmes.

“Exactly.”

“Pennsylvania Small Arms Company—well-known American firm,” said Holmes.

White Mason gazed at my friend as the little village practitioner looks at the Harley Street specialist who by a word can solve the difficulties that perplex him.

“That is very helpful, Mr. Holmes. No doubt you are right. Wonderful! Wonderful! Do you carry the names of all the gun makers in the world in your memory?”

Holmes dismissed the subject with a wave.

“No doubt it is an American shotgun,” White Mason continued. “I seem to have read that a sawed-off shotgun is a weapon used in some parts of America. Apart from the name upon the barrel, the idea had occurred to me. There is some evidence then, that this man who entered the house and killed its master was an American.”

MacDonald shook his head. “Man, you are surely travelling overfast,” said he. “I have heard no evidence yet that any stranger was ever in the house at all.”

“The open window, the blood on the sill, the queer card, the marks of boots in the corner, the gun!”

“Nothing there that could not have been arranged. Mr. Douglas was an American, or had lived long in America. So had Mr. Barker. You don't need to import an American from outside in order to account for American doings.”

“Ames, the butler—”

“What about him? Is he reliable?”

“Ten years with Sir Charles Chandos—as solid as a rock. He has been with Douglas ever since he took the Manor House five years ago. He has never seen a gun of this sort in the house.”

“The gun was made to conceal. That's why the barrels were sawed. It would fit into any box. How could he swear there was no such gun in the house?”

“Well, anyhow, he had never seen one.”

MacDonald shook his obstinate Scotch head. “I'm not convinced yet that there was ever anyone in the house,” said he. “I'm asking you to conseedar” (his accent became more Aberdonian as he lost himself in his argument) “I'm asking you to conseedar what it involves if you suppose that this gun was ever brought into the house, and that all these strange things were done by a person from outside. Oh, man, it's just inconceivable! It's clean against common sense! I put it to you, Mr. Holmes, judging it by what we have heard.”

“Well, state your case, Mr. Mac,” said Holmes in his most judicial style.

“The man is not a burglar, supposing that he ever existed. The ring business and the card point to premeditated murder for some private reason. Very good. Here is a man who slips into a house with the deliberate intention of committing murder. He knows, if he knows anything, that he will have a deeficulty in making his escape, as the house is surrounded with water. What weapon would he choose? You would say the most silent in the world. Then he could hope when the deed was done to slip quickly from the window, to wade the moat, and to get away at his leisure. That's understandable. But is it understandable that he should go out of his way to bring with him the most noisy weapon he could select, knowing well that it will fetch every human being in the house to the spot as quick as they can run, and that it is all odds that he will be seen before he can get across the moat? Is that credible, Mr. Holmes?”

“Well, you put the case strongly,” my friend replied thoughtfully. “It certainly needs a good deal of justification. May I ask, Mr. White Mason, whether you examined the farther side of the moat at once to see if there were any signs of the man having climbed out from the water?”

“There were no signs, Mr. Holmes. But it is a stone ledge, and one could hardly expect them.”

“No tracks or marks?”

“None.”

“Ha! Would there be any objection, Mr. White Mason, to our going down to the house at once? There may possibly be some small point which might be suggestive.”

“I was going to propose it, Mr. Holmes; but I thought it well to put you in touch with all the facts before we go. I suppose if anything should strike you—” White Mason looked doubtfully at the amateur.

“I have worked with Mr. Holmes before,” said Inspector MacDonald. “He plays the game.”

“My own idea of the game, at any rate,” said Holmes, with a smile. “I go into a case to help the ends of justice and the work of the police. If I have ever separated myself from the official force, it is because they have first separated themselves from me. I have no wish ever to score at their expense. At the same time, Mr. White Mason, I claim the right to work in my own way and give my results at my own time—complete rather than in stages.”

“I am sure we are honoured by your presence and to show you all we know,” said White Mason cordially. “Come along, Dr. Watson, and when the time comes we'll all hope for a place in your book.”

We walked down the quaint village street with a row of pollarded elms on each side of it. Just beyond were two ancient stone pillars, weather-stained and lichen-blotched bearing upon their summits a shapeless something which had once been the rampant lion of Capus of Birlstone. A short walk along the winding drive with such sward and oaks around it as one only sees in rural England, then a sudden turn, and the long, low Jacobean house of dingy, liver-coloured brick lay before us, with an old-fashioned garden of cut yews on each side of it. As we approached it, there was the wooden drawbridge and the beautiful broad moat as still and luminous as quicksilver in the cold, winter sunshine.

Three centuries had flowed past the old Manor House, centuries of births and of homecomings, of country dances and of the meetings of fox hunters. Strange that now in its old age this dark business should have cast its shadow upon the venerable walls! And yet those strange, peaked roofs and quaint, overhung gables were a fitting covering to grim and terrible intrigue. As I looked at the deep-set windows and the long sweep of the dull-coloured, water-lapped front, I felt that no more fitting scene could be set for such a tragedy.

“That's the window,” said White Mason, “that one on the immediate right of the drawbridge. It's open just as it was found last night.”

“It looks rather narrow for a man to pass.”

“Well, it wasn't a fat man, anyhow. We don't need your deductions, Mr. Holmes, to tell us that. But you or I could squeeze through all right.”

Holmes walked to the edge of the moat and looked across. Then he examined the stone ledge and the grass border beyond it.

“I've had a good look, Mr. Holmes,” said White Mason. “There is nothing there, no sign that anyone has landed—but why should he leave any sign?”

“Exactly. Why should he? Is the water always turbid?”

“Generally about this colour. The stream brings down the clay.”

“How deep is it?”

“About two feet at each side and three in the middle.”

“So we can put aside all idea of the man having been drowned in crossing.”

“No, a child could not be drowned in it.”

We walked across the drawbridge, and were admitted by a quaint, gnarled, dried-up person, who was the butler, Ames. The poor old fellow was white and quivering from the shock. The village sergeant, a tall, formal, melancholy man, still held his vigil in the room of Fate. The doctor had departed.

“Anything fresh, Sergeant Wilson?” asked White Mason.

“No, sir.”

“Then you can go home. You've had enough. We can send for you if we want you. The butler had better wait outside. Tell him to warn Mr. Cecil Barker, Mrs. Douglas, and the housekeeper that we may want a word with them presently. Now, gentlemen, perhaps you will allow me to give you the views I have formed first, and then you will be able to arrive at your own.”

He impressed me, this country specialist. He had a solid grip of fact and a cool, clear, common-sense brain, which should take him some way in his profession. Holmes listened to him intently, with no sign of that impatience which the official exponent too often produced.

“Is it suicide, or is it murder—that's our first question, gentlemen, is it not? If it were suicide, then we have to believe that this man began by taking off his wedding ring and concealing it; that he then came down here in his dressing gown, trampled mud into a corner behind the curtain in order to give the idea someone had waited for him, opened the window, put blood on the—”

“We can surely dismiss that,” said MacDonald.

“So I think. Suicide is out of the question. Then a murder has been done. What we have to determine is, whether it was done by someone outside or inside the house.”

“Well, let's hear the argument.”

“There are considerable difficulties both ways, and yet one or the other it must be. We will suppose first that some person or persons inside the house did the crime. They got this man down here at a time when everything was still and yet no one was asleep. They then did the deed with the queerest and noisiest weapon in the world so as to tell everyone what had happened—a weapon that was never seen in the house before. That does not seem a very likely start, does it?”

“No, it does not.”

“Well, then, everyone is agreed that after the alarm was given only a minute at the most had passed before the whole household—not Mr. Cecil Barker alone, though he claims to have been the first, but Ames and all of them were on the spot. Do you tell me that in that time the guilty person managed to make footmarks in the corner, open the window, mark the sill with blood, take the wedding ring off the dead man's finger, and all the rest of it? It's impossible!”

“You put it very clearly,” said Holmes. “I am inclined to agree with you.”

“Well, then, we are driven back to the theory that it was done by someone from outside. We are still faced with some big difficulties; but anyhow they have ceased to be impossibilities. The man got into the house between four-thirty and six; that is to say, between dusk and the time when the bridge was raised. There had been some visitors, and the door was open; so there was nothing to prevent him. He may have been a common burglar, or he may have had some private grudge against Mr. Douglas. Since Mr. Douglas has spent most of his life in America, and this shotgun seems to be an American weapon, it would seem that the private grudge is the more likely theory. He slipped into this room because it was the first he came to, and he hid behind the curtain. There he remained until past eleven at night. At that time Mr. Douglas entered the room. It was a short interview, if there were any interview at all; for Mrs. Douglas declares that her husband had not left her more than a few minutes when she heard the shot.”

“The candle shows that,” said Holmes.

“Exactly. The candle, which was a new one, is not burned more than half an inch. He must have placed it on the table before he was attacked; otherwise, of course, it would have fallen when he fell. This shows that he was not attacked the instant that he entered the room. When Mr. Barker arrived the candle was lit and the lamp was out.”

“That's all clear enough.”

“Well, now, we can reconstruct things on those lines. Mr. Douglas enters the room. He puts down the candle. A man appears from behind the curtain. He is armed with this gun. He demands the wedding ring—Heaven only knows why, but so it must have been. Mr. Douglas gave it up. Then either in cold blood or in the course of a struggle—Douglas may have gripped the hammer that was found upon the mat—he shot Douglas in this horrible way. He dropped his gun and also it would seem this queer card—V. V. 341, whatever that may mean—and he made his escape through the window and across the moat at the very moment when Cecil Barker was discovering the crime. How's that, Mr. Holmes?”

“Very interesting, but just a little unconvincing.”

“Man, it would be absolute nonsense if it wasn't that anything else is even worse!” cried MacDonald. “Somebody killed the man, and whoever it was I could clearly prove to you that he should have done it some other way. What does he mean by allowing his retreat to be cut off like that? What does he mean by using a shotgun when silence was his one chance of escape? Come, Mr. Holmes, it's up to you to give us a lead, since you say Mr. White Mason's theory is unconvincing.”

Holmes had sat intently observant during this long discussion, missing no word that was said, with his keen eyes darting to right and to left, and his forehead wrinkled with speculation.

“I should like a few more facts before I get so far as a theory, Mr. Mac,” said he, kneeling down beside the body. “Dear me! these injuries are really appalling. Can we have the butler in for a moment? … Ames, I understand that you have often seen this very unusual mark—a branded triangle inside a circle—upon Mr. Douglas's forearm?”

“Frequently, sir.”

“You never heard any speculation as to what it meant?”

“No, sir.”

“It must have caused great pain when it was inflicted. It is undoubtedly a burn. Now, I observe, Ames, that there is a small piece of plaster at the angle of Mr. Douglas's jaw. Did you observe that in life?”

“Yes, sir, he cut himself in shaving yesterday morning.”

“Did you ever know him to cut himself in shaving before?”

“Not for a very long time, sir.”

“Suggestive!” said Holmes. “It may, of course, be a mere coincidence, or it may point to some nervousness which would indicate that he had reason to apprehend danger. Had you noticed anything unusual in his conduct, yesterday, Ames?”

“It struck me that he was a little restless and excited, sir.”

“Ha! The attack may not have been entirely unexpected. We do seem to make a little progress, do we not? Perhaps you would rather do the questioning, Mr. Mac?”

“No, Mr. Holmes, it's in better hands than mine.”

“Well, then, we will pass to this card—V. V. 341. It is rough cardboard. Have you any of the sort in the house?”

“I don't think so.”

Holmes walked across to the desk and dabbed a little ink from each bottle on to the blotting paper. “It was not printed in this room,” he said; “this is black ink and the other purplish. It was done by a thick pen, and these are fine. No, it was done elsewhere, I should say. Can you make anything of the inscription, Ames?”

“No, sir, nothing.”

“What do you think, Mr. Mac?”

“It gives me the impression of a secret society of some sort; the same with his badge upon the forearm.”

“That's my idea, too,” said White Mason.

“Well, we can adopt it as a working hypothesis and then see how far our difficulties disappear. An agent from such a society makes his way into the house, waits for Mr. Douglas, blows his head nearly off with this weapon, and escapes by wading the moat, after leaving a card beside the dead man, which will when mentioned in the papers, tell other members of the society that vengeance has been done. That all hangs together. But why this gun, of all weapons?”

“Exactly.”

“And why the missing ring?”

“Quite so.”

“And why no arrest? It's past two now. I take it for granted that since dawn every constable within forty miles has been looking out for a wet stranger?”

“That is so, Mr. Holmes.”

“Well, unless he has a burrow close by or a change of clothes ready, they can hardly miss him. And yet they have missed him up to now!” Holmes had gone to the window and was examining with his lens the blood mark on the sill. “It is clearly the tread of a shoe. It is remarkably broad; a splay-foot, one would say. Curious, because, so far as one can trace any footmark in this mud-stained corner, one would say it was a more shapely sole. However, they are certainly very indistinct. What's this under the side table?”

“Mr. Douglas's dumb-bells,” said Ames.

“Dumb-bell—there's only one. Where's the other?”

“I don't know, Mr. Holmes. There may have been only one. I have not noticed them for months.”

“One dumb-bell—” Holmes said seriously; but his remarks were interrupted by a sharp knock at the door.

A tall, sunburned, capable-looking, clean-shaved man looked in at us. I had no difficulty in guessing that it was the Cecil Barker of whom I had heard. His masterful eyes travelled quickly with a questioning glance from face to face.

“Sorry to interrupt your consultation,” said he, “but you should hear the latest news.”

“An arrest?”

“No such luck. But they've found his bicycle. The fellow left his bicycle behind him. Come and have a look. It is within a hundred yards of the hall door.”

We found three or four grooms and idlers standing in the drive inspecting a bicycle which had been drawn out from a clump of evergreens in which it had been concealed. It was a well used Rudge-Whitworth, splashed as from a considerable journey. There was a saddlebag with spanner and oilcan, but no clue as to the owner.

“It would be a grand help to the police,” said the inspector, “if these things were numbered and registered. But we must be thankful for what we've got. If we can't find where he went to, at least we are likely to get where he came from. But what in the name of all that is wonderful made the fellow leave it behind? And how in the world has he got away without it? We don't seem to get a gleam of light in the case, Mr. Holmes.”

“Don't we?” my friend answered thoughtfully. “I wonder!”

四　黑暗

凌晨三点钟，苏塞克斯的侦探长，接到伯尔斯通警官威尔逊的急电，乘坐一辆轻便单马车从总部赶来，马被累得上岂不接下起。他通过清早五点四十分的那趟火车把报告送到了苏格兰场。中午十二点钟他已在伯尔斯通车站迎候我们了。怀特·梅森先生一性一情文静、面容安详，穿着一件宽大的花呢外套，红一润的脸刮得净光，身一体微胖，两条微向里弯的腿刚劲有力，穿着带绊扣的高筒靴子益发显得一精一神，他看起来象个矮小的庄稼汉，象个退休的猎场看守人，或是说他象个世上的什么人都行，但就是不象地方警署典型的刑事警官。

“麦克唐纳先生，真是一件极不寻常的案子。"怀特·梅森反反复复地说，“报界的人听到这件事就会象苍蝇一样赶来的。我希望在他们来管这闲事并把一切手脚印迹弄乱之前，就把咱们的工作做完。在我的记忆中，还没有遇到过象这样的案子呢。福尔摩斯先生，有某些情况是会使你感兴趣的，要不然就是我弄错了。华生医生，还有你，因为在我们结束工作之前，医生总要发表一些意见的。你们的住房在韦斯特维尔阿姆兹旅店，再找不到其它地方了，不过我听说房子倒还不错，也挺干净。仆人会把你们的行李送去的。先生们，请随我来，好吗？”

这位苏塞克斯的侦探，是一个非常活跃而又和蔼的人。走了十分钟，我们就到了住所，十分钟以后，我们就坐在小旅店休息室里，议论起这件案子的概况了。这些我已在上一章叙述过了。麦克唐纳有时做些记录，福尔摩斯坐在那里，带着吃惊和衷心钦佩的样子专心倾听着，就象植物学家鉴赏珍奇的花朵一样。

“奇怪！"在听了案情介绍以后，福尔摩斯说，“奇怪极了！我想不起来以前有什么比这更奇怪的案子了。”

“福尔摩斯先生，我早想到你会这样说的，"怀特·梅森非常高兴地说，“我们在苏塞克斯算是赶上时代了。到今早三、四点之间我从警官威尔逊手里接过这桩案子为止的全部情况我都告诉你了。我拚着老命赶来！哎呀！结果证明，我本来用不着这么紧赶慢赶的。因为这里没有我能马上做的事。警官威尔逊已经掌握了全部情况。我查对了一下，仔细研究了一番，多少还加了几点我自己的看法。”

“你的看法是什么呢？"福尔摩斯急切地问道。

“嗯，我首先把铁锤仔细检查了一下。医生伍德也在旁帮忙。铁锤上没找到施用暴力的痕迹。我原来想，或许道格拉斯先生曾用这把锤子自卫过，他就可能在把锤子丢到地毯上以前，在上面留下印痕，可是锤子上一点痕迹也没有。”

“当然，这一点儿也证明不了什么问题，"警官麦克唐纳说道，“因为有许多使用铁锤的凶杀案，铁锤上并没有留下痕迹啊。”

“完全是这样。这并不一定能证明没有用过它。不过要果真留下一些痕迹，那对我们就有用了。但事实上却没有。后来我又检查了一下槍支。这是大号铅一弹火槍。正象警官威尔逊所指出的那样，扳机缚在一起，所以只要你扣动后面一个扳机，两个槍筒就会同时发射。不管是谁做的这样的处理，肯定他是下了决心决不让他的敌手逃脱厄运。这支截断的槍最多不过二英尺长，一个人能轻而易举地把它藏在大衣里。槍上虽然没有制造者的全名，可是两支槍管间的凹槽上还刻有PEN三个字母，名字的其它字母就被锯掉了。”

“那上面是一个花体的大写字母P，而E和N两个字母则较小，是吗？"福尔摩斯问道。

“一点也不错。”

“这是宾夕法尼亚小型武器制造公司，是美国的一家有①名的工厂。"福尔摩斯说。

①宾夕法尼亚（Pennsylvania），美国地名，此系军一火工厂名，前三个字母为"PEN"。——译者注

怀特·梅森紧盯着我的朋友，就好象一个小小的农村开业医生望着哈利街的专家一样，这个专家一句话就可以解一开使他感到困惑不解的所有疑难问题。

“福尔摩斯先生，这是很有用的。你说得一点也不错。奇怪！奇怪！难道你把世界上所有军一火制造厂的名字都记住了吗？”

福尔摩斯挥挥手，岔开了这个话题。

“这支槍无疑是一支美洲火槍，"怀特·梅森继续说道，

“我似乎在书上看到过记载，截短的火槍是在美洲某些地区使用的一种武器。撇开槍管上的名字不谈，我想到一个问题，有些迹象证明：进到屋里并杀死主人的是一个美国人。”

麦克唐纳摇了摇头说道：“老兄，你实在想得太远了。我还根本没有听到过什么证据，说明这所庄园里有外人进来过呢。”

“这大开的窗户、窗台上的血迹、奇怪的名片、墙角的长统靴印及这支火槍又怎么说呢？”

“那里的一切没有什么不可以伪造的。道格拉斯先生是个美国人，或者说曾长期住在美国。巴克先生也是如此。你没有必要从外边弄个美国人来为你所见到的一些美国人的作为寻求解答。”

“那个管家艾姆斯……”

“他怎么样？可靠吗？”

“他在查尔斯·钱多斯爵士那里呆过十年，非常可靠。他是在五年前道格拉斯买下这座庄园时到这里来的。他在庄园里从来没见过一杆这样的槍。”

“这槍已经被改造得便于隐藏了。槍管就是为此而截断的，任何箱子都装得进，他怎么能发誓说庄园中没有这样的槍呢？”

“啊，不管怎么说，他确实从来没有见到过啊。”

麦克唐纳摇了摇他那天生固执的苏格兰人的脑袋。

“我还不能相信有什么外人到房子里来过。我请你考虑考虑，"每当麦克唐纳辩论输了的时候，他的阿伯丁口音就变得更重了，“你假设这支槍是从外面带进来的，并且所有这些怪事是一个外来人干的。我请你考虑一下，你这样的假设会产生什么样的影响。啊，老兄，这简直不可思议！这也完全不合乎一般常识啊。福尔摩斯先生，我向你提出这个问题来。请根据我们所听到的一切判断一下吧。”

“好，麦克先生，讲讲你的理由吧，"福尔摩斯以一种非常公平的口气说。

“假定凶手存在的话，他决不是一个盗窃犯。那只戒指和那张卡片都说明这是出于某种私怨的预谋凶杀案。好，有一个人溜进屋中，蓄意谋杀。他懂得，假如他还懂得点事理的话，他要逃跑是很困难的，因为房子周围全是水。他要选择什么样的武器呢？你一定会说他要的是世界上声音最小的武器。这样他才能指望事成以后，很快就穿过窗户，蹚过护城河，从容不平地逃跑。这是完全可以理解的。可是如果他竟然带着他能选择的发声最大的武器，明知槍声一响，全庄园的人很快就能跑到出事地点，大半在他蹚过护城河以前，人们就会发现他，难道这是可以理解的吗？福尔摩斯先生，这都是可信的吗？”“好，你的理由很充分，"我的朋友若有所思地回答道，“确实需要有大量的理由来证明。怀特·梅森先生，请问，你当时是否立刻到护城河对岸去查过有没有人蹚水上岸的痕迹？”

“福尔摩斯先生，那里没有痕迹。不过对面是石岸，很难设想能找到什么痕迹。”

“没有一点足迹或手印吗？”

“没有。”

“哈！怀特·梅森先生，你不反对我们立即动身到庄园中去么？那里可能会有一些小的线索可以给我们一些启示的。”

“福尔摩斯先生，我本想建议去的，可是我想在我们去以前，最好让你先把一切详情了解清楚。我想，如果有什么触犯了你……"怀特·梅森犹豫不决地看着这位同行说。

“我以前和福尔摩斯先生一起办过案子，"警官麦克唐纳说道，“他一向为人光明磊落。”

福尔摩斯微笑着回答：“至少是按照我个人对这一工作的理解。我参加办案是为了有助于申张正义，帮助警方工作。如果我不与官方合作，那是因为他们首先不与我合作。我从来不想去和他们争功劳。同时，怀特·梅森先生，我要求有权利完全按我自己的思路办案，并且在我认为适当的时间一交一出我的成果——自始至终，而不只是在某些阶段上有这种权利。”

“我确信，你参加办案是我们的荣幸。我们一定把所知道的全部案情介绍给你，"怀特·梅森热诚地说，“华生医生，请随我来。到时候，我们都希望在您的书里能有一席之地呢。”

我们沿着古雅的乡村街道走去，大街两侧各有一行截梢的榆树。远处是一对古代石柱，已因风吹雨淋而斑驳变色，长满藓苔，石柱顶上的东西已经失去原形，那过去曾经是伯尔斯通的两个后脚立起的石狮。顺着迂回曲折的车道往前走不远，四周尽是草地和栎树，人们只有在英国农村才能看到这种景色。然后是一个急转弯，眼前看到一片长长的、低矮的詹姆士一世时期的古别墅，别墅的砖已成了暗褐色的了。还有一个老式的花园，两旁都有修剪的整整齐齐的紫杉树。我们走到庄园跟前就看到了一座木吊桥和幽美宽阔的护城河，河中的水在寒冬的一陽一光下象水银一样，一譬如镜，闪闪发光。

这座古老的庄园自从建成以来，时光流逝，已有三百多年了，它反映出几百年的人事沧桑、悲欢离合。奇妙的是，由于历史悠久，好象现在从这些古老的墙上可以显出犯罪的先兆来。还有那些奇怪的高一耸的屋顶以及古怪的突出的山墙，更适于掩护可怖的一陰一谋。当我看到那些一陰一沉沉的窗户和前面一片暗淡的颜色和水流冲刷的景象时，我感到发生这样一件惨案，没有比这里更适当的场合了。

“这就是那扇窗户，"怀特·梅森说道，“吊桥右边的那一扇，正象昨晚发现时那样地开着。”

“要想钻过一个人去，这扇窗户可够窄的啊。”

“也许这个人并不胖。我们不需要用你的推论来告诉我们这一点，福尔摩斯先生。不过你和我完全可以挤过去。”

福尔摩斯走到护城河边，向对面望去。然后他又查验了突出的石岸和它后面的草地的边缘。

“福尔摩斯先生，我已经仔细看过了，"怀特·梅森说道，“可这里什么也没有，没有任何能说明有人上岸的痕迹。不过，他为什么一定要留下痕迹呢？”

“对啊，他为什么一定要留下痕迹呢？护城河水总是这样浑浊吗？”

“通常是这种颜色。因为河水流下来的时候，总是夹杂着泥沙的。”

“河水有多深？”

“两侧大约两英尺左右，中间有三英尺深。”

“那么，我们可以排除那个人在蹚过护城河时淹死的这种想法了。”

“不会的，就是小孩也不会淹死的。”

我们走过吊桥，一个古怪乖戾而又骨瘦如柴的人把我们迎了进去。这就是管家艾姆斯。可怜的老人受到惊吓，面色苍白，浑身微颤。乡村警官威尔逊是个身材高大、郑重其事和心情抑郁的人，仍然守在现场屋中。医生已经离开了。

“威尔逊警官，有什么新情况吗？"怀特·梅森问道。

“没有，先生。”

“那么，你可以回去了。你已经够辛苦的了。假如有需要你的地方，我们再派人去请你。管家最好在门外等着。让他通知塞西尔·巴克先生、道格拉斯太太和女管家，我们现在有些话要问他们。先生们，现在请允许我先把我的看法告诉你们，然后你们将得出自己的看法。”

这个乡镇专家给我留下的印象很深。他着着实实地掌握着事实，他有冷静、清楚的头脑和丰富的常识。就凭这些，在他的本行一事业里，他就应当是很有发展的。福尔摩斯专心致志地听他讲话，丝毫没有这位官方解说人经常流露出来的那种不耐烦的样子。

“我们现在的第一个问题，就是这案子究竟是自一杀还是他杀？先生们，对吗？假如说是自一杀，那么我们不得不相信，这个人开始先把结婚戒指摘下藏起来，然后他穿着睡衣，走到这里，在窗帘后面的墙角上踩上泥印，以便使人产生印象：有人曾在这里等候他，打开窗户，把血迹弄到……”

“我们决不会这样想的，"麦克唐纳说道。

“所以我想，决不会是自一杀。那么必然是他杀了。我们所要决定的就是，凶手是外来人呢，还是庄园里面的人？”

“好，让我们听听你的高论。”

“这两种可能要下结论都相当困难，可是两者必居其一。我们先假定是庄园内部的一个或几个人作案。在万籁俱寂、但人们还没就寝的时候，他们在这里抓到了这个道格拉斯，然后用这种世上最古怪而声音最响的武器去作案，以便搞得尽人皆知发生了什么事，而武器又是庄园内从没见过的。这个理由看来不是那么令人信服，对吗？”

“是啊，不会是这样的。”

“好，那么，这里的人都说，在听到槍声以后，至多不过一分钟，住宅里所有的人都到了现场。虽然塞西尔·巴克先生自称是第一个赶到的，但艾姆斯和所有的仆人也都到了。您难道能说，在那段时间，罪犯竟能做出在墙角留脚印、打开窗户、在窗台上留血迹、从死者手指上取结婚戒指等等那许多事么？这是不可能的！”

“你分析得很透彻，我倒有点同意你的见解。"福尔摩斯说道。

“好，那么，我们回过头来说，这是外来的人作案。可是我们仍然面对许多大难题。不过，无论如何，不是那么不可能的了。这个人是在四点半到六点钟之间进入庄园的，也就是说，是在黄昏和吊桥吊起之间这段时间里。曾经来过一些客人，房门是打开的，所以这个人没有遇到什么阻碍，就溜了进来。他可能只是一般的盗窃犯，也许他和道格拉斯先生有什么私怨。既然道格拉斯先生大半生都住在美洲，而这支猎槍又象是一种美国武器，那么，看来出于私怨是最有可能的了。他溜进了这间屋子，因为他首先看到了它。他藏到窗帘后面，一直藏到夜晚十一点以后。这时，道格拉斯先生进到屋里。一交一谈时间很短——如果真地一交一谈过的话——因为道格拉斯太太说，她丈夫离开她没有几分钟，她就听到槍声了。”

“那支蜡烛，可以说明这一点。"福尔摩斯说道。

“不错，这支蜡烛是新的，烧了还不到半英寸。道格拉斯先生一定是先把蜡烛放在桌上，然后才遭到袭击的。否则，他一跌倒，蜡烛一定会掉在地上。这说明在他刚走进屋时没有遭到袭击。巴克先生到这里时，把灯点上，把蜡烛熄灭了。”

“这一点很清楚。”

“好，现在我们可以照此设想当时的情形。道格拉斯先生走进屋来，把蜡烛放下。一个人从窗帘后面走出来，手中拿着这支火槍。他向他要这只结婚戒指——天知道这是为什么，不过一定是这样。道格拉斯先生把戒指给他了。然后道格拉斯先生就被那人残忍地、或是在一场搏斗的过程中，以如此可怕的方式开槍打死了。期间，道格拉斯可能拿起过后来我们在地毯上找到的那只铁锤。事后，凶手丢下槍，大概还有这张奇怪的写着V．V．341的卡片——不管它代表什么意思——然后从这扇窗户逃出去，并在塞西尔·巴克先生发现罪案的时候，蹚过护城河逃跑了。福尔摩斯先生，这么说你看怎么样？”“你说得非常有趣，可就是有点不能令人信服。”“老兄，这简直是一派一胡一言，没有比这更不近情理的了。”麦克唐纳大声喊道，“有人杀害了道格拉斯，不管这个人是谁，我也可以向你们清楚地证明，他是用品它办法作的案。他让他逃跑的退路被那样地切断，那是什么意思啊？寂静无声是他逃跑的一个好条件，那么，他使用火槍作案，又是什么意思啊？喂，福尔摩斯先生，既然你说怀特·梅森先生的推论不能令人信服，那你就应该指点指点我们了。”

在整个漫长的讨论过程里，福尔摩斯都坐在那儿聚一精一会神地倾听着，不放过他们所说的每一个字眼儿，他那一双敏锐的眼睛东看看，西瞧瞧，双眉紧蹙，沉思不语。

“麦克先生，我想再找些事实，然后才能进行推论，"福尔摩斯跪到死一尸一旁边，说道，“哎呀！这伤处确实骇人啊。能不能把管家找来一下？……艾姆斯，我听说你常看到道格拉斯先生前臂上有一个奇怪的标记，一个圆圈里套着三角形的烙印，对吗？”

“先生，我经常看到。”

“你从未听说有人推测过这个烙印的意思吗？”

“没听说过，先生。”

“这一定是火烙的标记，烙的时候，一定要受很大痛苦。艾姆斯，我注意到道格拉斯先生下巴后部有一小块药膏。在他活着的时候，你注意到了吗？”

“是的，先生，他昨天早晨刮脸时刮破的。”

“以前你见过他刮破脸吗？”

“先生，很久没有见过了。”

福尔摩斯说道：“这倒值得研究！当然，这也可能是巧合，然而，这也可能说明他有点紧张，说明他预知有危险存在。艾姆斯，昨天你发现主人有反常情况吗？”

“先生，我有一种感觉，他好象有点坐立不安，情绪激动。”

“哈！看来这次袭击不是完全意料不到的。我们已经有些进展了，对吗？麦克先生，或许你还有些什么问题？”

“没有，福尔摩斯先生，你到底是个经验丰富的人。”

“好，那么我们可以研究这张写着V．V．341的卡片了。这是一张粗纸硬卡片。在你们庄园里有这样的卡片吗？”

“我想没有。”

福尔摩斯走到写字台前，从每一个墨水瓶里蘸些墨水洒到吸墨纸上。

“这张卡岂不是在这里写的，"福尔摩斯说道，“这是黑墨水，而那张卡片上的字却略带紫色，写时用的是粗笔尖，而这些笔尖都是细的。我认为，这是在别的地方写的。艾姆斯，你能解释这上面的字义吗？”

“不能，先生，一点也不能解释。”

“麦克先生，你的意见呢？”

“我觉得象是某种秘密一团一体的名称，和前臂上标记的意义一样。”

“我也是这样想的，"怀特·梅森说道。

“好，我们可以把它当作一个合理的假设吧。由此出发，看一看我们的疑难究竟能解决多少。那个一团一体派来的一个人设法钻进庄园，守候着道格拉斯先生，用这支火槍几乎打掉了他的脑袋，然后蹚过护城河逃跑了。他所以要在死者身旁留下一张卡片，无非为了一个目的，报纸上一登出来，那个一团一体的其他一党一徒就能知道：仇已报了。这些事情都是连贯在一起的。可是，武器有的是，他为什么单单要用这种火槍呢？”

“是啊。”

“还有，丢失的戒指又是怎么回事呢？”

“对呀。”

“现在已经两点多了，为什么还没有拿获凶手呢？我认为肯定从天亮以后，方圆四十英里内，每一个警察都在搜寻一个浑身湿一淋一淋的外来人。”

“福尔摩斯先生，正是这样。”

“好，除非他在附近有个藏身之处，或者事先准备好一套替换的衣服，他们是不会让他溜掉的。但现在他们不是已经把他放过了吗？"福尔摩斯走到窗旁，用他的放大镜察看窗台上的血迹，说道，“很显然这是一个鞋印，很宽——大概是八字脚。真怪呀，不管是谁到这沾满泥污的墙角来察看脚印，他都会说这个鞋底式样倒不错。可是，当然了，很不清楚。旁边这桌子底下是什么呢？”

“是道格拉斯先生的哑铃，"艾姆斯说道。

“哑铃？这里只有一个。另外那个哑铃在哪儿呢？”

“我不知道，福尔摩斯先生。也可能本来就只有一只。我有好几个月没看到这东西了。”

“一只哑铃……"福尔摩斯严肃地说，可是话还没说完，就被一阵急剧的敲门声打断了。一个身材高大、晒得黝一黑、外表一精一干、脸刮得一精一光的人探头看着我们。我一下子就猜出来了，这就是我听人讲过的塞西尔·巴克。他用傲慢的疑问目光迅速扫视了大家一眼。

“对不起，打断了你们的谈话，"巴克说道，“不过，诸位应该听听最新的情况了。”

“逮着凶手了吗？”

“没有这样的好事。不过人们已经找到他的自行车了。这家伙把他的自行车扔下了。请你们来看看，放在大厅门外一百码的地方。”

我们看到三四个仆人和几个闲汉站在马车道上查看那辆自行车，车子原是藏在常青树丛里，后来才被拖出来的。这是一辆用得很旧的拉奇·惠特沃思牌的自行车。车上溅着不少泥浆，好象骑过相当远的路。车座后面有一个工具袋，里面有扳子和油壶，可是究竟车主是谁，却没有什么线索。

“如果这些东西都曾登记、编号，对警方就很有帮助了，”警官说道，“不过咱们能得到这些东西，也就应该感激不尽了。即使我们弄不清他到什么地方去了，至少我们很可能弄清他是从哪儿来的了。不过，这个家伙究竟为什么要丢下这辆车子呢？这倒是件怪事。他不汽车子，又是怎么走的呢？福尔摩斯先生，我们这件案子似乎还看不出一点眉目来呢。”

“真看不出一点眉目来吗？"我的朋友若有所思地答道，“我看不一定！”