The Reigate Puzzle

It was some time before the health of my friend Mr. Sherlock Holmes recovered from the strain caused by his immense exertions in the spring of '87. The whole question of the Netherland-Sumatra Company and of the colossal schemes of Baron Maupertuis are too recent in the minds of the public, and are too intimately concerned with politics and finance to be fitting subjects for this series of sketches. They led, however, in an indirect fashion to a singular and complex problem which gave my friend an opportunity of demonstrating the value of a fresh weapon among the many with which he waged his life-long battle against crime.

On referring to my notes I see that it was upon the 14th of April that I received a telegram from Lyons which informed me that Holmes was lying ill in the Hotel Dulong. Within twenty-four hours I was in his sick-room, and was relieved to find that there was nothing formidable in his symptoms. Even his iron constitution, however, had broken down under the strain of an investigation which had extended over two months, during which period he had never worked less than fifteen hours a day, and had more than once, as he assured me, kept to his task for five days at a stretch. Even the triumphant issue of his labors could not save him from reaction after so terrible an exertion, and at a time when Europe was ringing with his name and when his room was literally ankle-deep with congratulatory telegrams I found him a prey to the blackest depression. Even the knowledge that he had succeeded where the police of three countries had failed, and that he had outmanoeuvred at every point the most accomplished swindler in Europe, was insufficient to rouse him from his nervous prostration.

Three days later we were back in Baker Street together; but it was evident that my friend would be much the better for a change, and the thought of a week of spring time in the country was full of attractions to me also. My old friend, Colonel Hayter, who had come under my professional care in Afghanistan, had now taken a house near Reigate in Surrey, and had frequently asked me to come down to him upon a visit. On the last occasion he had remarked that if my friend would only come with me he would be glad to extend his hospitality to him also. A little diplomacy was needed, but when Holmes understood that the establishment was a bachelor one, and that he would be allowed the fullest freedom, he fell in with my plans and a week after our return from Lyons we were under the Colonel's roof. Hayter was a fine old soldier who had seen much of the world, and he soon found, as I had expected, that Holmes and he had much in common.

On the evening of our arrival we were sitting in the Colonel's gun-room after dinner, Holmes stretched upon the sofa, while Hayter and I looked over his little armory of Eastern weapons.

“By the way,” said he suddenly, “I think I'll take one of these pistols upstairs with me in case we have an alarm.”

“An alarm!” said I.

“Yes, we've had a scare in this part lately. Old Acton, who is one of our county magnates, had his house broken into last Monday. No great damage done, but the fellows are still at large.”

“No clue?” asked Holmes, cocking his eye at the Colonel.

“None as yet. But the affair is a pretty one, one of our little country crimes, which must seem too small for your attention, Mr. Holmes, after this great international affair.”

Holmes waved away the compliment, though his smile showed that it had pleased him.

“Was there any feature of interest?”

“I fancy not. The thieves ransacked the library and got very little for their pains. The whole place was turned upside down, drawers burst open, and presses ransacked, with the result that an odd volume of Pope's Homer, two plated candlesticks, an ivory letter-weight, a small oak barometer, and a ball of twine are all that have vanished.”

“What an extraordinary assortment!” I exclaimed.

“Oh, the fellows evidently grabbed hold of everything they could get.”

Holmes grunted from the sofa.

“The county police ought to make something of that,” said he; “why, it is surely obvious that—”

But I held up a warning finger.

“You are here for a rest, my dear fellow. For Heaven's sake don't get started on a new problem when your nerves are all in shreds.”

Holmes shrugged his shoulders with a glance of comic resignation towards the Colonel, and the talk drifted away into less dangerous channels.

It was destined, however, that all my professional caution should be wasted, for next morning the problem obtruded itself upon us in such a way that it was impossible to ignore it, and our country visit took a turn which neither of us could have anticipated. We were at breakfast when the Colonel's butler rushed in with all his propriety shaken out of him.

“Have you heard the news, sir?” he gasped. “At the Cunningham's sir!”

“Burglary!” cried the Colonel, with his coffee-cup in mid-air.

“Murder!”

The Colonel whistled. “By Jove!” said he. “Who's killed, then? The J.P. or his son?”

“Neither, sir. It was William the coachman. Shot through the heart, sir, and never spoke again.”

“Who shot him, then?”

“The burglar, sir. He was off like a shot and got clean away. He'd just broke in at the pantry window when William came on him and met his end in saving his master's property.”

“What time?”

“It was last night, sir, somewhere about twelve.”

“Ah, then, we'll step over afterwards,” said the Colonel, coolly settling down to his breakfast again. “It's a baddish business,” he added when the butler had gone; “he's our leading man about here, is old Cunningham, and a very decent fellow too. He'll be cut up over this, for the man has been in his service for years and was a good servant. It's evidently the same villains who broke into Acton's.”

“And stole that very singular collection,” said Holmes, thoughtfully.

“Precisely.”

“Hum! It may prove the simplest matter in the world, but all the same at first glance this is just a little curious, is it not? A gang of burglars acting in the country might be expected to vary the scene of their operations, and not to crack two cribs in the same district within a few days. When you spoke last night of taking precautions I remember that it passed through my mind that this was probably the last parish in England to which the thief or thieves would be likely to turn their attention—which shows that I have still much to learn.”

“I fancy it's some local practitioner,” said the Colonel. “In that case, of course, Acton's and Cunningham's are just the places he would go for, since they are far the largest about here.”

“And richest?”

“Well, they ought to be, but they've had a lawsuit for some years which has sucked the blood out of both of them, I fancy. Old Acton has some claim on half Cunningham's estate, and the lawyers have been at it with both hands.”

“If it's a local villain there should not be much difficulty in running him down,” said Holmes with a yawn. “All right, Watson, I don't intend to meddle.”

“Inspector Forrester, sir,” said the butler, throwing open the door.

The official, a smart, keen-faced young fellow, stepped into the room. “Good-morning, Colonel,” said he; “I hope I don't intrude, but we hear that Mr. Holmes of Baker Street is here.”

The Colonel waved his hand towards my friend, and the Inspector bowed.

“We thought that perhaps you would care to step across, Mr. Holmes.”

“The fates are against you, Watson,” said he, laughing. “We were chatting about the matter when you came in, Inspector. Perhaps you can let us have a few details.” As he leaned back in his chair in the familiar attitude I knew that the case was hopeless.

“We had no clue in the Acton affair. But here we have plenty to go on, and there's no doubt it is the same party in each case. The man was seen.”

“Ah!”

“Yes, sir. But he was off like a deer after the shot that killed poor William Kirwan was fired. Mr. Cunningham saw him from the bedroom window, and Mr. Alec Cunningham saw him from the back passage. It was quarter to twelve when the alarm broke out. Mr. Cunningham had just got into bed, and Mr. Alec was smoking a pipe in his dressing-gown. They both heard William the coachman calling for help, and Mr. Alec ran down to see what was the matter. The back door was open, and as he came to the foot of the stairs he saw two men wrestling together outside. One of them fired a shot, the other dropped, and the murderer rushed across the garden and over the hedge. Mr. Cunningham, looking out of his bedroom, saw the fellow as he gained the road, but lost sight of him at once. Mr. Alec stopped to see if he could help the dying man, and so the villain got clean away. Beyond the fact that he was a middle-sized man and dressed in some dark stuff, we have no personal clue; but we are making energetic inquiries, and if he is a stranger we shall soon find him out.”

“What was this William doing there? Did he say anything before he died?”

“Not a word. He lives at the lodge with his mother, and as he was a very faithful fellow we imagine that he walked up to the house with the intention of seeing that all was right there. Of course this Acton business has put every one on their guard. The robber must have just burst open the door—the lock has been forced—when William came upon him.”

“Did William say anything to his mother before going out?”

“She is very old and deaf, and we can get no information from her. The shock has made her half-witted, but I understand that she was never very bright. There is one very important circumstance, however. Look at this!”

He took a small piece of torn paper from a note-book and spread it out upon his knee.

“This was found between the finger and thumb of the dead man. It appears to be a fragment torn from a larger sheet. You will observe that the hour mentioned upon it is the very time at which the poor fellow met his fate. You see that his murderer might have torn the rest of the sheet from him or he might have taken this fragment from the murderer. It reads almost as though it were an appointment.”

Holmes took up the scrap of paper, a facsimile of which is here reproduced.

“Presuming that it is an appointment,” continued the Inspector, “it is of course a conceivable theory that this William Kirwan—though he had the reputation of being an honest man, may have been in league with the thief. He may have met him there, may even have helped him to break in the door, and then they may have fallen out between themselves.”

“This writing is of extraordinary interest,” said Holmes, who had been examining it with intense concentration. “These are much deeper waters than I had thought.” He sank his head upon his hands, while the Inspector smiled at the effect which his case had had upon the famous London specialist.

“Your last remark,” said Holmes, presently, “as to the possibility of there being an understanding between the burglar and the servant, and this being a note of appointment from one to the other, is an ingenious and not entirely impossible supposition. But this writing opens up—” He sank his head into his hands again and remained for some minutes in the deepest thought. When he raised his face again, I was surprised to see that his cheek was tinged with color, and his eyes as bright as before his illness. He sprang to his feet with all his old energy.

“I'll tell you what,” said he, “I should like to have a quiet little glance into the details of this case. There is something in it which fascinates me extremely. If you will permit me, Colonel, I will leave my friend Watson and you, and I will step round with the Inspector to test the truth of one or two little fancies of mine. I will be with you again in half an hour.”

An hour and half had elapsed before the Inspector returned alone.

“Mr. Holmes is walking up and down in the field outside,” said he. “He wants us all four to go up to the house together.”

“To Mr. Cunningham's?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What for?”

The Inspector shrugged his shoulders. “I don't quite know, sir. Between ourselves, I think Mr. Holmes had not quite got over his illness yet. He's been behaving very queerly, and he is very much excited.”

“I don't think you need alarm yourself,” said I. “I have usually found that there was method in his madness.”

“Some folks might say there was madness in his method,” muttered the Inspector. “But he's all on fire to start, Colonel, so we had best go out if you are ready.”

We found Holmes pacing up and down in the field, his chin sunk upon his breast, and his hands thrust into his trousers pockets.

“The matter grows in interest,” said he. “Watson, your country-trip has been a distinct success. I have had a charming morning.”

“You have been up to the scene of the crime, I understand,” said the Colonel.

“Yes; the Inspector and I have made quite a little reconnaissance together.”

“Any success?”

“Well, we have seen some very interesting things. I'll tell you what we did as we walk. First of all, we saw the body of this unfortunate man. He certainly died from a revolver wound as reported.”

“Had you doubted it, then?”

“Oh, it is as well to test everything. Our inspection was not wasted. We then had an interview with Mr. Cunningham and his son, who were able to point out the exact spot where the murderer had broken through the garden-hedge in his flight. That was of great interest.”

“Naturally.”

“Then we had a look at this poor fellow's mother. We could get no information from her, however, as she is very old and feeble.”

“And what is the result of your investigations?”

“The conviction that the crime is a very peculiar one. Perhaps our visit now may do something to make it less obscure. I think that we are both agreed, Inspector, that the fragment of paper in the dead man's hand, bearing, as it does, the very hour of his death written upon it, is of extreme importance.”

“It should give a clue, Mr. Holmes.”

“It does give a clue. Whoever wrote that note was the man who brought William Kirwan out of his bed at that hour. But where is the rest of that sheet of paper?”

“I examined the ground carefully in the hope of finding it,” said the Inspector.

“It was torn out of the dead man's hand. Why was some one so anxious to get possession of it? Because it incriminated him. And what would he do with it? Thrust it into his pocket, most likely, never noticing that a corner of it had been left in the grip of the corpse. If we could get the rest of that sheet it is obvious that we should have gone a long way towards solving the mystery.”

“Yes, but how can we get at the criminal's pocket before we catch the criminal?”

“Well, well, it was worth thinking over. Then there is another obvious point. The note was sent to William. The man who wrote it could not have taken it; otherwise, of course, he might have delivered his own message by word of mouth. Who brought the note, then? Or did it come through the post?”

“I have made inquiries,” said the Inspector. “William received a letter by the afternoon post yesterday. The envelope was destroyed by him.”

“Excellent!” cried Holmes, clapping the Inspector on the back. “You've seen the postman. It is a pleasure to work with you. Well, here is the lodge, and if you will come up, Colonel, I will show you the scene of the crime.”

We passed the pretty cottage where the murdered man had lived, and walked up an oak-lined avenue to the fine old Queen Anne house, which bears the date of Malplaquet upon the lintel of the door. Holmes and the Inspector led us round it until we came to the side gate, which is separated by a stretch of garden from the hedge which lines the road. A constable was standing at the kitchen door.

“Throw the door open, officer,” said Holmes. “Now, it was on those stairs that young Mr. Cunningham stood and saw the two men struggling just where we are. Old Mr. Cunningham was at that window—the second on the left—and he saw the fellow get away just to the left of that bush. So did the son. They are both sure of it on account of the bush. Then Mr. Alec ran out and knelt beside the wounded man. The ground is very hard, you see, and there are no marks to guide us.” As he spoke two men came down the garden path, from round the angle of the house. The one was an elderly man, with a strong, deep-lined, heavy-eyed face; the other a dashing young fellow, whose bright, smiling expression and showy dress were in strange contrast with the business which had brought us there.

“Still at it, then?” said he to Holmes. “I thought you Londoners were never at fault. You don't seem to be so very quick, after all.”

“Ah, you must give us a little time,” said Holmes good-humoredly.

“You'll want it,” said young Alec Cunningham. “Why, I don't see that we have any clue at all.”

“There's only one,” answered the Inspector. “We thought that if we could only find—Good heavens, Mr. Holmes! What is the matter?”

My poor friend's face had suddenly assumed the most dreadful expression. His eyes rolled upwards, his features writhed in agony, and with a suppressed groan he dropped on his face upon the ground. Horrified at the suddenness and severity of the attack, we carried him into the kitchen, where he lay back in a large chair, and breathed heavily for some minutes. Finally, with a shamefaced apology for his weakness, he rose once more.

“Watson would tell you that I have only just recovered from a severe illness,” he explained. “I am liable to these sudden nervous attacks.”

“Shall I send you home in my trap?” asked old Cunningham.

“Well, since I am here, there is one point on which I should like to feel sure. We can very easily verify it.”

“What was it?”

“Well, it seems to me that it is just possible that the arrival of this poor fellow William was not before, but after, the entrance of the burglary into the house. You appear to take it for granted that, although the door was forced, the robber never got in.”

“I fancy that is quite obvious,” said Mr. Cunningham, gravely. “Why, my son Alec had not yet gone to bed, and he would certainly have heard any one moving about.”

“Where was he sitting?”

“I was smoking in my dressing-room.”

“Which window is that?”

“The last on the left next my father's.”

“Both of your lamps were lit, of course?”

“Undoubtedly.”

“There are some very singular points here,” said Holmes, smiling. “Is it not extraordinary that a burglary—and a burglar who had had some previous experience—should deliberately break into a house at a time when he could see from the lights that two of the family were still afoot?”

“He must have been a cool hand.”

“Well, of course, if the case were not an odd one we should not have been driven to ask you for an explanation,” said young Mr. Alec. “But as to your ideas that the man had robbed the house before William tackled him, I think it a most absurd notion. Wouldn't we have found the place disarranged, and missed the things which he had taken?”

“It depends on what the things were,” said Holmes. “You must remember that we are dealing with a burglar who is a very peculiar fellow, and who appears to work on lines of his own. Look, for example, at the queer lot of things which he took from Acton's—what was it?—a ball of string, a letter-weight, and I don't know what other odds and ends.”

“Well, we are quite in your hands, Mr. Holmes,” said old Cunningham. “Anything which you or the Inspector may suggest will most certainly be done.”

“In the first place,” said Holmes, “I should like you to offer a reward—coming from yourself, for the officials may take a little time before they would agree upon the sum, and these things cannot be done too promptly. I have jotted down the form here, if you would not mind signing it. Fifty pound was quite enough, I thought.”

“I would willingly give five hundred,” said the J.P., taking the slip of paper and the pencil which Holmes handed to him. “This is not quite correct, however,” he added, glancing over the document.

“I wrote it rather hurriedly.”

“You see you begin, ‘Whereas, at about a quarter to one on Tuesday morning an attempt was made,’ and so on. It was at a quarter to twelve, as a matter of fact.”

I was pained at the mistake, for I knew how keenly Holmes would feel any slip of the kind. It was his specialty to be accurate as to fact, but his recent illness had shaken him, and this one little incident was enough to show me that he was still far from being himself. He was obviously embarrassed for an instant, while the Inspector raised his eyebrows, and Alec Cunningham burst into a laugh. The old gentleman corrected the mistake, however, and handed the paper back to Holmes.

“Get it printed as soon as possible,” he said; “I think your idea is an excellent one.”

Holmes put the slip of paper carefully away into his pocket-book.

“And now,” said he, “it really would be a good thing that we should all go over the house together and make certain that this rather erratic burglar did not, after all, carry anything away with him.”

Before entering, Holmes made an examination of the door which had been forced. It was evident that a chisel or strong knife had been thrust in, and the lock forced back with it. We could see the marks in the wood where it had been pushed in.

“You don't use bars, then?” he asked.

“We have never found it necessary.”

“You don't keep a dog?”

“Yes, but he is chained on the other side of the house.”

“When do the servants go to bed?”

“About ten.”

“I understand that William was usually in bed also at that hour.”

“Yes.”

“It is singular that on this particular night he should have been up. Now, I should be very glad if you would have the kindness to show us over the house, Mr. Cunningham.”

A stone-flagged passage, with the kitchens branching away from it, led by a wooden staircase directly to the first floor of the house. It came out upon the landing opposite to a second more ornamental stair which came up from the front hall. Out of this landing opened the drawing-room and several bedrooms, including those of Mr. Cunningham and his son. Holmes walked slowly, taking keen note of the architecture of the house. I could tell from his expression that he was on a hot scent, and yet I could not in the least imagine in what direction his inferences were leading him.

“My good sir,” said Mr. Cunningham with some impatience, “this is surely very unnecessary. That is my room at the end of the stairs, and my son's is the one beyond it. I leave it to your judgment whether it was possible for the thief to have come up here without disturbing us.”

“You must try round and get on a fresh scent, I fancy,” said the son with a rather malicious smile.

“Still, I must ask you to humor me a little further. I should like, for example, to see how far the windows of the bedrooms command the front. This, I understand is your son's room”—he pushed open the door—“and that, I presume, is the dressing-room in which he sat smoking when the alarm was given. Where does the window of that look out to?” He stepped across the bedroom, pushed open the door, and glanced round the other chamber.

“I hope that you are satisfied now?” said Mr. Cunningham, tartly.

“Thank you, I think I have seen all that I wished.”

“Then if it is really necessary we can go into my room.”

“If it is not too much trouble.”

The J.P. shrugged his shoulders, and led the way into his own chamber, which was a plainly furnished and commonplace room. As we moved across it in the direction of the window, Holmes fell back until he and I were the last of the group. Near the foot of the bed stood a dish of oranges and a carafe of water. As we passed it Holmes, to my unutterable astonishment, leaned over in front of me and deliberately knocked the whole thing over. The glass smashed into a thousand pieces and the fruit rolled about into every corner of the room.

“You've done it now, Watson,” said he, coolly. “A pretty mess you've made of the carpet.”

I stooped in some confusion and began to pick up the fruit, understanding for some reason my companion desired me to take the blame upon myself. The others did the same, and set the table on its legs again.

“Hullo!” cried the Inspector, “where's he got to?”

Holmes had disappeared.

“Wait here an instant,” said young Alec Cunningham. “The fellow is off his head, in my opinion. Come with me, father, and see where he has got to!”

They rushed out of the room, leaving the Inspector, the Colonel, and me staring at each other.

“'Pon my word, I am inclined to agree with Master Alec,” said the official. “It may be the effect of this illness, but it seems to me that—”

His words were cut short by a sudden scream of “Help! Help! Murder!” With a thrill I recognised the voice as that of my friend. I rushed madly from the room on to the landing. The cries, which had sunk down into a hoarse, inarticulate shouting, came from the room which we had first visited. I dashed in, and on into the dressing-room beyond. The two Cunninghams were bending over the prostrate figure of Sherlock Holmes, the younger clutching his throat with both hands, while the elder seemed to be twisting one of his wrists. In an instant the three of us had torn them away from him, and Holmes staggered to his feet, very pale and evidently greatly exhausted.

“Arrest these men, Inspector,” he gasped.

“On what charge?”

“That of murdering their coachman, William Kirwan.”

The Inspector stared about him in bewilderment. “Oh, come now, Mr. Holmes,” said he at last, “I'm sure you don't really mean to—”

“Tut, man, look at their faces!” cried Holmes, curtly.

Never, certainly, have I seen a plainer confession of guilt upon human countenances. The older man seemed numbed and dazed with a heavy, sullen expression upon his strongly-marked face. The son, on the other hand, had dropped all that jaunty, dashing style which had characterized him, and the ferocity of a dangerous wild beast gleamed in his dark eyes and distorted his handsome features. The Inspector said nothing, but, stepping to the door, he blew his whistle. Two of his constables came at the call.

“I have no alternative, Mr. Cunningham,” said he. “I trust that this may all prove to be an absurd mistake, but you can see that—Ah, would you? Drop it!” He struck out with his hand, and a revolver which the younger man was in the act of cocking clattered down upon the floor.

“Keep that,” said Holmes, quietly putting his foot upon it; “you will find it useful at the trial. But this is what we really wanted.” He held up a little crumpled piece of paper.

“The remainder of the sheet!” cried the Inspector.

“Precisely.”

“And where was it?”

“Where I was sure it must be. I'll make the whole matter clear to you presently. I think, Colonel, that you and Watson might return now, and I will be with you again in an hour at the furthest. The Inspector and I must have a word with the prisoners, but you will certainly see me back at luncheon time.”

Sherlock Holmes was as good as his word, for about one o'clock he rejoined us in the Colonel's smoking-room. He was accompanied by a little elderly gentleman, who was introduced to me as the Mr. Acton whose house had been the scene of the original burglary.

“I wished Mr. Acton to be present while I demonstrated this small matter to you,” said Holmes, “for it is natural that he should take a keen interest in the details. I am afraid, my dear Colonel, that you must regret the hour that you took in such a stormy petrel as I am.”

“On the contrary,” answered the Colonel, warmly, “I consider it the greatest privilege to have been permitted to study your methods of working. I confess that they quite surpass my expectations, and that I am utterly unable to account for your result. I have not yet seen the vestige of a clue.”

“I am afraid that my explanation may disillusion you but it has always been my habit to hide none of my methods, either from my friend Watson or from any one who might take an intelligent interest in them. But, first, as I am rather shaken by the knocking about which I had in the dressing-room, I think that I shall help myself to a dash of your brandy, Colonel. My strength had been rather tried of late.”

“I trust that you had no more of those nervous attacks.”

Sherlock Holmes laughed heartily. “We will come to that in its turn,” said he. “I will lay an account of the case before you in its due order, showing you the various points which guided me in my decision. Pray interrupt me if there is any inference which is not perfectly clear to you.

“It is of the highest importance in the art of detection to be able to recognize, out of a number of facts, which are incidental and which vital. Otherwise your energy and attention must be dissipated instead of being concentrated. Now, in this case there was not the slightest doubt in my mind from the first that the key of the whole matter must be looked for in the scrap of paper in the dead man's hand.

“Before going into this, I would draw your attention to the fact that, if Alec Cunningham's narrative was correct, and if the assailant, after shooting William Kirwan, had instantly fled, then it obviously could not be he who tore the paper from the dead man's hand. But if it was not he, it must have been Alec Cunningham himself, for by the time that the old man had descended several servants were upon the scene. The point is a simple one, but the Inspector had overlooked it because he had started with the supposition that these county magnates had had nothing to do with the matter. Now, I make a point of never having any prejudices, and of following docilely wherever fact may lead me, and so, in the very first stage of the investigation, I found myself looking a little askance at the part which had been played by Mr. Alec Cunningham.

“And now I made a very careful examination of the corner of paper which the Inspector had submitted to us. It was at once clear to me that it formed part of a very remarkable document. Here it is. Do you not now observed something very suggestive about it?”

“It has a very irregular look,” said the Colonel.

“My dear sir,” cried Holmes, “there cannot be the least doubt in the world that it has been written by two persons doing alternate words. When I draw your attention to the strong t's of ‘at’ and ‘to’, and ask you to compare them with the weak ones of ‘quarter’ and ‘twelve,’ you will instantly recognize the fact. A very brief analysis of these four words would enable you to say with the utmost confidence that the ‘learn’ and the ‘maybe’ are written in the stronger hand, and the ‘what’ in the weaker.”

“By Jove, it's as clear as day!” cried the Colonel. “Why on earth should two men write a letter in such a fashion?”

“Obviously the business was a bad one, and one of the men who distrusted the other was determined that, whatever was done, each should have an equal hand in it. Now, of the two men, it is clear that the one who wrote the ‘at’ and ‘to’ was the ringleader.”

“How do you get at that?”

“We might deduce it from the mere character of the one hand as compared with the other. But we have more assured reasons than that for supposing it. If you examine this scrap with attention you will come to the conclusion that the man with the stronger hand wrote all his words first, leaving blanks for the other to fill up. These blanks were not always sufficient, and you can see that the second man had a squeeze to fit his ‘quarter’ in between the ‘at’ and the ‘to,’ showing that the latter were already written. The man who wrote all his words first is undoubtedly the man who planned the affair.”

“Excellent!” cried Mr. Acton.

“But very superficial,” said Holmes. “We come now, however, to a point which is of importance. You may not be aware that the deduction of a man's age from his writing is one which has been brought to considerable accuracy by experts. In normal cases one can place a man in his true decade with tolerable confidence. I say normal cases, because ill-health and physical weakness reproduce the signs of old age, even when the invalid is a youth. In this case, looking at the bold, strong hand of the one, and the rather broken-backed appearance of the other, which still retains its legibility although the t's have begun to lose their crossing, we can say that the one was a young man and the other was advanced in years without being positively decrepit.”

“Excellent!” cried Mr. Acton again.

“There is a further point, however, which is subtler and of greater interest. There is something in common between these hands. They belong to men who are blood-relatives. It may be most obvious to you in the Greek e's, but to me there are many small points which indicate the same thing. I have no doubt at all that a family mannerism can be traced in these two specimens of writing. I am only, of course, giving you the leading results now of my examination of the paper. There were twenty-three other deductions which would be of more interest to experts than to you. They all tended to deepen the impression upon my mind that the Cunninghams, father and son, had written this letter.

“Having got so far, my next step was, of course, to examine into the details of the crime, and to see how far they would help us. I went up to the house with the Inspector, and saw all that was to be seen. The wound upon the dead man was, as I was able to determine with absolute confidence, fired from a revolver at the distance of something over four yards. There was no powder-blackening on the clothes. Evidently, therefore, Alec Cunningham had lied when he said that the two men were struggling when the shot was fired. Again, both father and son agreed as to the place where the man escaped into the road. At that point, however, as it happens, there is a broadish ditch, moist at the bottom. As there were no indications of bootmarks about this ditch, I was absolutely sure not only that the Cunninghams had again lied, but that there had never been any unknown man upon the scene at all.

“And now I have to consider the motive of this singular crime. To get at this, I endeavored first of all to solve the reason of the original burglary at Mr. Acton's. I understood, from something which the Colonel told us, that a lawsuit had been going on between you, Mr. Acton, and the Cunninghams. Of course, it instantly occurred to me that they had broken into your library with the intention of getting at some document which might be of importance in the case.”

“Precisely so,” said Mr. Acton. “There can be no possible doubt as to their intentions. I have the clearest claim upon half of their present estate, and if they could have found a single paper—which, fortunately, was in the strong-box of my solicitors—they would undoubtedly have crippled our case.”

“There you are,” said Holmes, smiling. “It was a dangerous, reckless attempt, in which I seem to trace the influence of young Alec. Having found nothing they tried to divert suspicion by making it appear to be an ordinary burglary, to which end they carried off whatever they could lay their hands upon. That is all clear enough, but there was much that was still obscure. What I wanted above all was to get the missing part of that note. I was certain that Alec had torn it out of the dead man's hand, and almost certain that he must have thrust it into the pocket of his dressing-gown. Where else could he have put it? The only question was whether it was still there. It was worth an effort to find out, and for that object we all went up to the house.

“The Cunninghams joined us, as you doubtless remember, outside the kitchen door. It was, of course, of the very first importance that they should not be reminded of the existence of this paper, otherwise they would naturally destroy it without delay. The Inspector was about to tell them the importance which we attached to it when, by the luckiest chance in the world, I tumbled down in a sort of fit and so changed the conversation.”

“Good heavens!” cried the Colonel, laughing, “do you mean to say all our sympathy was wasted and your fit an imposture?”

“Speaking professionally, it was admirably done,” cried I, looking in amazement at this man who was forever confounding me with some new phase of his astuteness.

“It is an art which is often useful,” said he. “When I recovered I managed, by a device which had perhaps some little merit of ingenuity, to get old Cunningham to write the word ‘twelve,’ so that I might compare it with the ‘twelve’ upon the paper.”

“Oh, what an ass I have been!” I exclaimed.

“I could see that you were commiserating with me over my weakness,” said Holmes, laughing. “I was sorry to cause you the sympathetic pain which I know that you felt. We then went upstairs together, and having entered the room and seen the dressing-gown hanging up behind the door, I contrived, by upsetting a table, to engage their attention for the moment, and slipped back to examine the pockets. I had hardly got the paper, however—which was, as I had expected, in one of them—when the two Cunninghams were on me, and would, I verily believe, have murdered me then and there but for your prompt and friendly aid. As it is, I feel that young man's grip on my throat now, and the father has twisted my wrist round in the effort to get the paper out of my hand. They saw that I must know all about it, you see, and the sudden change from absolute security to complete despair made them perfectly desperate.

“I had a little talk with old Cunningham afterwards as to the motive of the crime. He was tractable enough, though his son was a perfect demon, ready to blow out his own or anybody else's brains if he could have got to his revolver. When Cunningham saw that the case against him was so strong he lost all heart and made a clean breast of everything. It seems that William had secretly followed his two masters on the night when they made their raid upon Mr. Acton's, and having thus got them into his power, proceeded, under threats of exposure, to levy black-mail upon them. Mr. Alec, however, was a dangerous man to play games of that sort with. It was a stroke of positive genius on his part to see in the burglary scare which was convulsing the country side an opportunity of plausibly getting rid of the man whom he feared. William was decoyed up and shot, and had they only got the whole of the note and paid a little more attention to detail in the accessories, it is very possible that suspicion might never have been aroused.”

“And the note?” I asked.

Sherlock Holmes placed the subjoined paper before us.

Paper which reads: If you will only come around at quarter to twelve to the east gate you will learn what will very much surprise you and may be of the greatest service to you and also to Annie Morrison. But say nothing to anyone upon the matter

“It is very much the sort of thing that I expected,” said he. “Of course, we do not yet know what the relations may have been between Alec Cunningham, William Kirwan, and Annie Morrison. The results shows that the trap was skillfully baited. I am sure that you cannot fail to be delighted with the traces of heredity shown in the p's and in the tails of the g's. The absence of the i-dots in the old man's writing is also most characteristic. Watson, I think our quiet rest in the country has been a distinct success, and I shall certainly return much invigorated to Baker Street to-morrow.” 

赖盖特之谜

那是在一八八七年春天，我的朋友歇洛克-福尔摩斯先生由于一操一劳过度，把身一体累垮了，健康尚未恢复。荷兰-苏门答腊公司案和莫波吐依兹男爵的庞大计划案，人们还记忆犹新。这些案件与政治和经济关系极为密切，不便在我的一系列回忆录中加以报道。但是，从另一个角度来说，那两起案子又很独特、复杂，使我的朋友有机会证实一种新的斗争方法的重要，这方法是他在毕生与犯罪行为作斗争中所使用的许多方法中的一种。

我查阅笔记，看到在四月十四日，我曾收到一封从里昂发来的电报，通知我，福尔摩斯在杜朗旅馆卧病在一床一。没过二十四小时，我就赶到他的病房，发现他的症状不甚严重，方才放心。不过，甚至象他这样钢铁般的体质，在两个多月调查的劳累之下，也免不了垮了下来。在这段期间，他每天最少工作十五小时，而且他向我说，还有一次他夜以继日地工作了五天。甚至胜利的喜悦也不能使他在如此可怕的劳累之后恢复过来。在他的名字响遍欧洲，各处发来的贺电在他屋中堆积如山的时候，我发现福尔摩斯依然感到很痛苦，神情沮丧。消息传来，三个国家的警察都失败了，而他却赢得了成功，他在各方面都挫败了欧洲最高超的诈骗犯玩一弄的鬼把戏。即使这样，也不能使他从疲惫中振作起来。

三天以后，我们一起回到了贝克街。不过，换个环境对我的朋友显然会更好一些，乘此大好春一光，到乡间去呆一个星期，这种想法对我也充满着吸引力。我的老朋友海特上校在阿富汗时，请我给他治过病。他现在在萨里郡的赖盖特附近买了一所住宅，经常邀请我到他那里去作客。最近，他说，只要我的朋友愿意和我一起去，他也会很高兴地款待他。我转弯抹角地把这意思说了出来，当福尔摩斯听说主人是个单身汉，而且他完全可以自一由行动时，他同意了我的计划。在从里昂回来后一个星期，我们便来到了上校的住所。海特是一个洒脱的老军人，见多识广，他很快就发觉，他和福尔摩斯很谈得来，这正是我料到的。

在我们来到的那天傍晚，我们吃过晚餐，坐在上校的贮槍室里。福尔摩斯伸开四肢躺在沙发上，海特和我正在看他那贮藏东方武器的小军械室。

“顺便说一下，”上校突然说道，“我想从这里拿一支手槍带上楼去，以防遇到警报。”

“警报？！”我说道。

“是的，最近我们这个地区出了事，使我们大受惊扰。老阿克顿是本地的一个富绅。上星期一有人闯进他的住宅。他虽然没有遭到很大损失，可是那些家伙却依然逍遥法外。”

“没有一点线索吗？”福尔摩斯望着上校问道。

“现在还没有线索。不过这是小事一桩，是我们村子里的一件小小的犯罪案件，在你办过这样巨大的国际案件之后，它一定不会引起你的注意吧，福尔摩斯先生。”

福尔摩斯摆手叫他不要称赞自己，可是却面露笑容，说明这些赞美之词使他很高兴。

“有什么重要的征候没有？”

“我想没有。那里盗贼在藏书室大搜了一通，尽避费了很大劲，却没得到什么东西。整个藏书室翻了个底朝天，一抽一屉全敲打开了，书籍都被翻得乱七八糟。结果只有一卷蒲柏翻译的荷马的诗，两只镀金烛台，一方象牙镇纸，一个橡木制的小晴雨计和一一团一线不见了。”

“真是五花八门，稀奇古怪！”我喊道。

“唉，这些家伙显然是顺手牵羊，碰到什么拿什么。”

福尔摩斯在沙发上哼了一声。

“地区警察应当从这里面发现一些线索，”福尔摩斯说道，“喂，显然是……”

可是我伸出手指警告他道：“你是到这里来休息的，我亲一爱一的朋友。在你的神经还十分疲惫的情况下，请你务必不要着手搞新的案件。”

福尔摩斯耸了耸肩，无可奈何地向上校那里溜了一眼，我们便转到无关紧要的话题上去了。

然而，凡事自有天定，命里注定我作为医生提醒他注意的所有那些话都白费了。因为第二天早晨，这个案件本身迫使我们进行了干预，使我们不能置之不理，我们的乡村之行发生了我们两人都料想不到的变化。我们正进早餐时，上校的管家一点礼节也不顾地闯了进来。

“您听到消息了吗？先生，”他气喘吁吁地说道，“是在坎宁安家里！先生。”

“又是盗窃吧！”上校手中举着一杯咖啡，大声地说道。

“杀了人呢！”

上校不由惊呼了一声，“天哪！”他说道：“那么，是谁被害了？是治安官还是他的儿子？”

“都不是，先生。是马车夫威廉。子弹射穿了他的心脏，他再也说不出话了，先生。”

“那么，是谁槍杀了他呢？”

“是那个盗贼，先生。他飞也似地跑掉了，逃得无影无踪。他刚刚从厨房窗户闯进去，威廉就撞上了他。为了保护主人的财产，威廉就丧了命。”

“那是什么时候？”

“是在昨天夜里，先生，大约十二点钟。”

“啊，那么，一会儿我们去看看，”上校说道，又沉着地坐下来吃他的早饭。“这是一件很不幸的事，”管家走后，上校补充说道，“老坎宁安是我们这里的头面人物，也是一个非常正派的人。他对此一定是很伤心的，因为这个人侍候了他好几年，是一个很好的仆人。案犯显然就是那个闯进阿克顿家的恶棍。”

“也就是偷盗那一堆稀奇古怪的东西的那个人吗？”福尔摩斯沉思地说道。

“对。”

“哦！这可能是世界上一件最简单的事情，不过，初看起来，还是有点儿奇怪，是不是？在人们意料中，一伙在乡村活动的盗贼总是要改变他们的作案地点，绝不会在几天之内在同一地区两次闯进住宅进行偷盗。在你昨晚谈到采取预防措施时，我记得我脑子里闪现过一个想法：这地方可能是英国盗贼最不注意的教区了。由此可见，我还有许多需要学一习一的东西。”

“我想这是本地的小偷干的，”上校说道，“假使是这样的话，当然，阿克顿和坎宁安家正好是他要光顾的地方了。因为他们两家是此地最大的人家。”

“也是最富有的人家吗？”

“对，他们应当算是最富有的了。不过他们两家已经打了好几年的官司。我想，这场辟司吸去了他们双方不少血汗。老阿克顿曾经提出，要求得到坎宁安家的一半财产，而律师们则从中渔利。”

“如果这是当地恶棍作的案，要把他追查出来不是很困难的。”福尔摩斯打着呵欠说道，“好了，华生，我不打算干预这件事。”

“警官福雷斯特求见，先生，”管家突然打开门，说道。

一个机警的年轻警官走进室内。

“早安，上校，”他说道，“我希望不致打扰你们，不过我们听说贝克街的福尔摩斯先生在这里。”

上校把手向我的朋友那里一挥，警官便点头致意，说道：“我们想你大概愿意光临指导，福尔摩斯先生。”

“命运是违背你的意志的，华生。”福尔摩斯笑容可掬地说道，“你进来时，我们正在聊着这件案子呢，警官。或许你能使我们知道得更详细一些。”当他照平素一习一惯的姿式向后仰靠在椅背上时，我知道我的计划又落空了。

“阿克顿案件，我们还没有线索。但是目前这个案子，我们有许多线索，可以进行工作。毫无疑问，这两个案子是同一伙人干的。有人看到作案人了。”

“啊？！”

“是的，先生。但是作案人在开槍打死了可怜的威廉-柯万之后，象鹿一样飞快地跑掉了。坎宁安先生从卧室的窗户看到了他，亚历克-坎宁安先生从后面的走廊看到了他。是十一点三刻发出的警报。坎宁安先生刚刚睡下，亚历克先生穿着睡衣正在吸烟。他们两人都听见了马车夫威廉的呼救声，于是亚历克先生跑下楼去看是怎么一回事。后门开着。他走到楼梯脚下时，看到两个人正在外面扭打。其中一个放了一槍，另一个倒下了。凶手便跑过花园越过篱笆，逃走了。坎宁安先生从他的卧室望出去，看见这个家伙跑到大路上，但转眼之间就消失了。亚历克先生停下来看看他是否还能拯救这个垂死的人，结果就让这个恶棍逃走了。除了知道凶手中等身材、穿着深色衣服外，我们还没掌握有关他容貌的线索，但我们正在竭力调查，如果他是一个外乡人，我们马上可以把他查出来。”

“那个威廉怎么样了？在临终之前，他说过什么话没有？”

“一个字也没有说。他和他母亲住在仆人住房里。因为他为人非常忠厚，我们想，可能他到厨房里去，是想看看那里是否平安无事。当然，阿克顿案件，使每个人都提高了警惕。那强盗刚刚把门推开——锁已经被撬开——威廉便碰上他了。”

“威廉在出去之前对他母亲说过什么没有？”

“他母亲年高耳聋，我们从她那里打听不到什么东西。她受到这次惊吓，几乎变傻了。不过，我知道她平常也不怎么一精一明。但是，有一个非常重要的情况。请看！”

警官从笔记本里取出一角撕坏的纸，把它铺在膝盖上。

“我们发现死者的手里抓着这张纸条。看来它是从一张较大的纸上撕下来的。你可以看到，上面提到的时间正是这个可怜的家伙遭到不幸的时刻。你看，要么是凶手从死者手中撕去一块，要么是死者从凶手那里夺回这一角。这张纸条读起来很象是一种同人约会的短柬。”

福尔摩斯拿起这张小纸片。下面是它的复制品。

“我们姑且认为这是一种约会，”警官继续说道，“当然也就可以相信：虽然威廉-柯万素有忠厚之名，但也可能与盗贼有勾结。他可能在那里迎接盗贼，甚至帮助盗贼闯进门内，后来他们两人可能又闹翻了。”

“这字体倒是非常有趣，”福尔摩斯把这张纸条聚一精一会神地察看了一番，说道，“这比我想象的要深奥得多。”他双手抱头沉思，警官看到这件案子居然使这位大名鼎鼎的伦敦侦探如此劳神，不禁喜形于色。

“你刚才说，”福尔摩斯过了一会儿说道，“可能盗贼和仆人之间有默契，这张纸也许是一个人给另一个人的密约信，这确实是一个独到的见解，并非完全不可能。可是这张纸条上明明写着……”他又双手抱头，沉思了片刻。当他再抬起头时，我很惊奇地看到他又象未病时那样满面红光，目光炯炯，一精一力充沛，一跃而起。

“我告诉你们，”他说道，“我很想悄悄地去看一看，了解一下这个案子的一些细节。它有些地方非常吸引我。如果你允许的话，上校，我想告别你和我的朋友华生，跟警官一起去跑一趟，验证一下我的一两点想法。半小时后，我再来见你。”

过了一个半小时，警官独自一人回来了。

“福尔摩斯先生正在田野里踱来踱去，”他说道，“他要我们四个人一起到那所屋子里去看看。”

“到坎宁安先生家里去？”

“是的，先生。”

“去做什么呢？”

警官耸了耸肩，说道：“我不十分清楚，先生。我只跟你说，我认为福尔摩斯先生的病还没有全好。他表现得非常古怪，而且过于激动。”

“我认为，你不必大惊小敝，”我说道，“我经常发现，当他好象疯疯癫癫的时候，他已经胸有成竹了。”

“有人会说，他的方法简直是发疯，”警官嘟嘟囔囔地说，“不过他急着要去调查，上校，所以如果你们准备好了，我们最好现在就去。”

我们看到福尔摩斯低着头，双手插在裤兜里，正在田野上踱来踱去。

“这件事变得更有趣了，”福尔摩斯说道，“华生，你发起的乡间旅行已经获得了明显的成功。我度过了一个奇妙的早晨。”

“我知道，你已经到犯罪现场去过了，”上校说道。

“是的，我和警官一起已经对现场检查了一下。”

“有什么成绩吗？”

“啊，我们看到了一些非常有趣的东西。我们边走边谈吧，我把我们做的事都告诉你们。首先，我们看到了那具不幸的一尸一体。他确实象警官讲的那样，死于槍伤。”

“那么，你对这有什么怀疑吗？”

“啊，还是对每件事都考察一下好。我们的侦察并不是徒劳的。后来我们会见了坎宁安先生和他的儿子，因为他们能够指出凶手逃跑时越过花园篱笆的确切地点。这是极为重要的。”

“那当然了。”

“后来我们又看了看那个可怜人的母亲。但是她年老体弱，我们从她那里未能得到任何情况。”

“那么，你调查的结果到底是什么呢？”

“结果就是我确信这一犯罪行为是很奇特的。或许我们眼下这次访问可以使它多少明朗一些。警官，我认为我们两个人都同意，死者手中的这张纸片上面写着的时间，正是他死去的时间，这一点是极为重要的。”

“这就给我们提供了一个线索，福尔摩斯先生。”

“这确实给我们提供了一个线索。写这张便条的人，就是要威廉-柯万在那个时间起一床一的人。可是这张纸的那一半在哪里呢？”

“我仔细地检查了地面，希望能找到它。”警官说道。

“它是从死者手中撕去的。为什么有人那么急切地要得到它呢？因为它可以证明他的罪行。撕下以后他又怎么处理它呢？他把它塞一进衣袋里，很可能没有注意到有一角纸片还抓在死者手里。如果我们能够得到撕走的那片纸，显然，对我们解一开这个谜大有帮助。”

“是的，可是我们没有捉到罪犯，怎能从罪犯的衣袋里得到它呢？”

“啊，啊，这是值得仔细考虑的。而且还有另外一点也很明显。这张便条是给威廉的。写便条的人是不会亲自一交一给他的，不然的话，他当然可以把内容亲口向他说了。那么，是谁把便条带给死者的呢？或许是通过邮局寄来的？”

“我已经查问过了，”警官说道，“昨天下午，威廉从邮局接到一封信。信封已经被他毁掉了。”

“好极了！”福尔摩斯拍了拍警官的背，大声说道，“你已经见过邮差了。和你一起工作，我非常高兴。好，这就是那间仆人住房，上校，如果你愿意进来，我把犯罪现场指给你看。”

我们走过被害者住的漂亮的小屋，走上一条两旁橡树挺一立的大路，来到一所华丽的安妮女王时代的古宅，门楣上刻着马尔博罗［一七○九年在西班牙王位继承战中马尔博罗指挥英国人及其同盟军战胜了法国人——译者注］的日期。福尔摩斯和警官领着我们兜了一圈，然后我们来到旁门前。门外便是花园，花园的篱包外面是大路。

一个警察站在厨房门旁。

“请把门打开，警官，”福尔摩斯说道，“喂，小坎宁安先生就是站在楼梯上看到那两个人搏斗的，两人搏斗之处就是我们现在站的地方，老坎宁安先生就是在左起第二扇窗户旁看到那个家伙刚刚逃到矮树丛左边的。他儿子也这么说。他们两个人都提到矮树丛。后来亚历克先生跑出来，跪在受伤者身旁。你们看，这儿地面非常硬，没有给我们留下丝毫痕迹。”福尔摩斯正说着，有两个人绕过屋角，走上了花园的小径。一个年龄较大，面容刚毅，面部皱纹很深，目光抑郁不欢；另外一个是打扮得很漂亮的年青人，他神情活泼，满面笑容，衣着华丽，与我们为之而来的案件，形成非常奇异的对比。

“还在调查这件事吗？”他对福尔摩斯说道，“我想你们伦敦人是不会失败的。但你似乎不象很快就能把案破了。”

“啊，你必须给我们一些时间，”福尔摩斯愉快地说道。

“这对你是很必要的，”亚历克-坎宁安说道，“哦，我根本看不出有什么线索。”

“只有一个线索，”警察回答道，“我们认为，只要我们能找到……天哪！埃尔摩斯先生，这是怎么回事？”

我那可怜的朋友的脸上，突然现出极为可怕的表情。他的两眼直往上翻，痛得脸都变了形。他忍不住地哼了一声，脸朝下跌倒在地上。他突然发病，又那么厉害，把我们吓了一跳。我们急忙把他抬到厨房里，让他躺在一把大椅子上。他吃力地呼吸了一会儿，终于又站了起来，为自己身一体虚弱而感到羞愧和抱歉。

“华生会告诉诸位，我生了一场重病罢刚复元。”福尔摩斯解释道，“这种神经一痛很容易突然发作。”

“是不是用我的马车把你送回家去？”老坎宁安问道。

“唉，既然我已经到了这里，有一点我还想把它摸清楚。

我们能够很容易就查清它的。”

“是什么问题呢？”

“啊，据我看来，可怜的威廉的到来，很可能不在盗贼进屋之前，而在盗贼进屋之后。看来你们只是想当然地认为，虽然门被弄开了，强盗却没有进屋。”

“我想这是十分明显的，”坎宁安先生严肃地说道，“呃，我的儿子亚历克还没有睡，如果有人走动，他是一定能够听到的。”

“他那时坐在什么地方？”

“我那时正坐在更衣室里吸烟。”

“哪一扇窗子是更衣室的？”

“左边最后一扇窗子，紧挨着我父亲卧室的那一扇。”

“那你们两个房间的灯自然都亮着的罗？”

“不错。”

“现在有几点是很奇怪的，”福尔摩斯微笑着说道，“一个盗贼，而且是一个颇有经验的盗贼，一看灯光就知道这一家有两个人还没睡，却有意闯进屋里去，这难道不奇怪吗？”

“他一定是一个冷静沉着的老手。”

“啊，当然了，要不是这个案子稀奇古怪，我们也就不会被迫来向你请教了，”亚历克先生说道，“不过，你说在威廉抓住盗贼以前，盗贼已经进了这间屋子，我认为这种看法简直荒唐可笑。屋子不是没有被搞乱，也没有发现丢东西吗？”

“这要看是什么东西了，”福尔摩斯说道，“你不要忘记，我们是跟这样一个强盗打一交一道——他很不简单，看来有他自己的一套办法。你看看，他从阿克顿家拿去的那些古怪东西，都是些什么呢？一个线一团一，一方镇纸，还有一些我不知道的其它零星东西。”

“好了，我们一切都托付给你了，福尔摩斯先生，”老坎宁安说道，“一切听从你或警官的吩咐。”

“首先，”福尔摩斯说道，“我想请你自己出一个赏格，因为官方要同意这笔款子，可能要费一些时间，同时这些事情也不可能马上就给办。我已经起了个草，如果你不反对的话，请你签字。我想，五十镑足够了。”

“我情愿出五百镑，”治安官接过福尔摩斯递给他的那张纸和铅笔，说道。“但是，这不完全对，”他浏览了一下底稿，又补充了一句。

“我写得太仓促了。”

“你看你开头写的：‘鉴于星期二凌晨零点三刻发生了一次抢劫未遂案，’等等。事实上，是发生在十一点三刻。”

我看到出了这个差错很痛心，因为我知道，福尔摩斯对这类疏忽，总