Chapter 3 seven clocks

I discover from my notebooks that it was on the afternoon of Wednesday, November 16, 1887, that the curious incident of a man who hated clocks first came to the attention of my friend Sherlock Holmes. I have mentioned elsewhere that I have only heard vague outlines of the incident, because it occurred not long after my marriage.Of course, I even stated that my first visit to Holmes after our marriage was in March of the following year.However, in view of the extreme delicateness of this case, I believe my readers can understand my difficulty in not provoking it. After all, I have always written cautiously and do not like grandstanding.

A few weeks after my marriage my wife was obliged to leave London on account of an important matter involving Thaddeus Sholto and our future fortune.After she left, I could not bear the solitude of my new house, and returned to my old house in Baker Street for eight days.Sherlock Holmes welcomed me back without questioning or making irresponsible remarks.But I must confess that the next day, November 16th, did not start out well. It was a bitterly cold day, and a tawny mist hung over the windows all morning.The lamps and gas stove were glowing, and the fire was burning brightly, their light reflecting the scene of the disheveled table in the afternoon.

Sherlock Holmes was restless and restless.He was curled up in an easy chair, wearing his old mouse-gray dressing gown, smoking a cherrywood pipe, reading the morning paper and making mocking comments from time to time. "Anything interesting?" I asked. "My dear Watson," said he, "since the notorious Blessington case, I have begun to fear that life will become dull and unchanging." "Not necessarily," I retorted, "this year has had quite a few memorable cases, has it? You've been overstimulated, my dear friend." "To tell you the truth, Watson, it is not your turn to preach to me on this subject. I dared to toast you with a bottle of claret at dinner yesterday, and I was astonished at the fact that you went on and on about the joys of married life. I'm afraid you'll talk forever."

"Dear friend! Are you implying that I'm in the dark?" My friend examined me with his peculiar expression. "Maybe it's not the wine that got you in the head, anyway!" He pointed to the newspaper, "Have you read the nonsense in the newspaper that they think they are big enough to please us?" "I'm afraid not yet. This BMJ—" "Come on, come on!" he said. "Column after column looking ahead to next year's racing season, and somehow one horse is faster than the other and the British populace is always making a fuss. Terrorists Several plots against Grand Duke Alexei in Odessa. A whole headline editorial is devoted to a very poignant question: should clerks marry?"

I resisted not interrupting him, otherwise his cynicism would have continued unabated. "Where are the crimes, Watson? Where are the crimes which, without the esoteric element, are dull? Are we never going to miss them?" "Listen!" I said. "That's the doorbell, isn't it?" "Judging from the noise outside, people are in a hurry." We came to the window at the same time, overlooking Baker Street below.The dense fog dissipated slightly, and we saw a delicate little carriage parked on the side of the road in front of our door. A coachman in a high hat and uniform was closing the door with the letter "M" on the door.There was a murmur from downstairs, followed by light, hurried footsteps on the stairs, and the door to our living room was slammed open.

We were both quite taken aback when we found out that the visitor was a young lady.It should be a girl, because she is definitely not yet eighteen years old. Rarely have I found such beauty, grace and sensitivity in a young face.Her large blue eyes gazed anxiously at us, as if seeking something; her bushy brown hair was coiled under a small hat, and a dark red coat with kraft trimmings was worn over a traveling dress.She was wearing gloves and was carrying a suitcase with a tag that read "CF" in one hand, while she clasped her other hand to her chest. "Oh, please forgive me for rushing to the door!" She begged, breathless, but her low voice was quite pleasant, "Sorry, who is Mr. Sherlock Holmes?"

"I am Sherlock Holmes. This is my friend and colleague, Dr. Watson." "Thank goodness you're home! My mission..." But our visitor fell silent after saying "my mission".She blushed stammeringly and lowered her eyes.Sherlock Holmes gently took the suitcase from her, and pushed an easy chair up to the fire. "Sit down first, ma'am, and calm down," he said, putting the cherrywood pipe aside. "Thank you, Mr. Holmes." The young lady shrank back into the chair and cast him a grateful glance. "Sir, people say you can read people's hearts."

"Ha! If you've come to discuss poetry, you'd better ask Watson." "People say you can see through customers' secrets, and even... you can guess where they're coming before they even say a word!" "They probably overestimated my ability," he replied with a smile. "Obviously, you are the companion of a certain lady, and you rarely travel alone, but you have just returned from Switzerland recently. It's about the man you're attracted to. I can't deduce anything beyond that." The young lady was taken aback, and even I was taken aback.

"Holmes," I cried, "this is outrageous. How can you even know that?" "How on earth do you know?" The young lady echoed. "I have seen, I have observed. This suitcase, though far from new, is not worn out from travel. I do not mean to defy your intellect, but please note that the paper sign affixed to the side of the case is from Grindelwald, Switzerland. Brilliant hotel." "But what about other inferences?" I was still not convinced. "This lady's dress taste is impeccable, but her clothes are neither new nor expensive. But she lives in the best hotel in Grindelwald, and her carriage is expensive. Given her own Since her initials did not match the 'M' inlaid on the carriage, we can surmise that she occupied a place in some wealthy family. She was too young to be a governess, so only the wife's daughter With that possibility. As for the man she's dreaming of, it's self-explanatory from her flushed cheeks and downcast eyelids. Pretty ridiculous, isn't it?"

"But you are quite right, Mr. Holmes!" exclaimed our visitor, clenching his hands with increasing agitation. "My name is Celia Forsyth of Gloston House, Surrey. Lady Mayo has been a companion for over a year. Charles..." "Charles? Is he the gentleman we're talking about?" Miss Forsyth nodded without looking up. "If I hesitate to speak of him," she went on, "it is because I am afraid you will laugh at me. I am afraid you will think me crazy, or worse, that poor Charles is crazy." "Where does it begin, Miss Forsyth?" "Mr. Holmes, he cannot bear the sight of a clock!"

"bell?" "In the last fortnight, sir, he has broken seven clocks without cause. Two of them were broken in full view, and I saw them." Sherlock Holmes stroked his long, thin fingers. "Go on," he said, "this is a most queer—grotesque event. Go on with your account." "It's getting more and more hopeless, Mr. Holmes, but I will do my best. I have been very happy this past year in Mrs. Mayo's employment. I must tell you that my parents are dead, but I have a good education, It was a great honor to be offered the job by recommendation. Mrs. Mayo, it must be admitted, was somewhat intimidating in her appearance. She was of the noble and stern old-fashioned sort. In fact, it was she who feared that the solitary life at Gloston House would To my astonishment, I suggested that we go on holiday in Switzerland. On the train from Paris to Grindelwald we met... met Charles—Mr. Charles Hendon, I should say." Sherlock Holmes sank into the easy chair with his fingertips pressed together, as was his habit when he was lost in thought. "Then is this the first time you have seen this gentleman?" "Oh yes!" "Understood. How did you meet?" "It's not worth mentioning, Mr. Holmes. There were only the three of us in the first-class carriage. Charles was well-mannered, his voice was so charming, and his smile was even more charming..." "Undoubtedly. But please go into as much detail as possible." Miss Forsyth's blue eyes widened. "It's about the windows, I guess," she said. "Perhaps I should tell you that Charles has extraordinary eyes and a bushy brown mustache. He leaned over and begged Mrs. Mayo to let him draw the curtains, and she agreed, no. For a long time they chatted like old acquaintances." "Well! That's how it is." "Then Mrs. Mayo introduced me to Charles. The pleasant journey to Grindelwald was short-lived, but as soon as we stepped into the lobby of the Splendid Hotel, the shocking horror began. My life Since then, it has been clouded with gloom. "Although this restaurant is famous, it is actually a small and pleasant place. Although Mr. Hunton modestly describes himself as a mere mortal, with only one valet at his side, I know he must come from an extraordinary background. The manager of the hotel, Mr. Brang Came to meet us and bowed deeply to Mrs. Mayo and Mr. Hunton. After talking to Mr. Brang in a low voice, he saw the hotel manager bowed deeply again. Charles turned around with a smile on his face , but his expression changed drastically in an instant. "I can still vividly see him wearing a long coat, a top hat, and a heavy white Malaccan cane under his arm, with his back to the fireplace, surrounded by ferns and evergreens. A handsome semicircle, and on a low mantelpiece stood a finely designed Swiss clock. "I didn't even notice the clock at the time. But Charles let out a low growl, rushed to the fireplace, struck the top of the clock with the heavy cane he carried, and struck again and again until the clock The fragments of the remains were scattered on the ground in front of the fireplace. "Then he turned and strolled back, and without a word of explanation, took out a cheque-book, signed a check to Mr. Brange for what must have been ten times the value of the clock, and then downplayed the moved on to other topics. "Mr. Holmes, you can imagine our stunned look. In my impression, Mrs. Mayo was frightened in spite of her efforts to maintain her demeanor. But I swear that Charles has no fear at all. He is only full of anger. Desperate. At this moment, I noticed that Charles's footman was standing among the piles of luggage behind him. He was a short, thin man with a beard. He was also deeply ashamed. "We avoided talking about it at the time, and we gradually forgot about it. For the next two days, Charles was as calm as ever, but on the third morning when we had breakfast with him in the restaurant, it happened again. "Looking through the restaurant's spacious windows, the sunlight reflected by the first snow was a bit harsh, so the thick curtains were partly drawn. The restaurant was full of other diners. That's when I noticed that I had just returned from a walk. Charles, still holding the white Malacca cane in his hand. "'Breathe this fresh air, ma'am!' he greeted Mrs. Mayo cheerfully, 'more refreshing than any food or drink!' "He stopped suddenly and turned his eyes to a window. He rushed past us, slammed the curtains violently, and then pulled them back, only to see a big clock shaped like the smiling face of the sun smashed to pieces. If it hadn't been for May Mrs. Ou grabbed my arm tightly, and I might faint on the spot." Miss Forsyth had taken off her gloves, and was now pressing her cheeks with her hands. "But Charles not only smashed the clocks, he buried them in the snow and even hid them in a cupboard in his own room." Sherlock Holmes, lying in the chair with his eyes closed and his head resting on the cushions, opened his eyes. "In the closet?" he exclaimed, frowning. "That's even more bizarre! How did you know these things?" "Ashamed to say, Mr. Holmes, I had the audacity to ask his servant." "Cheeky?" "I don't have a right to that. I'm lowly and Charles will never—I mean, I'm nothing to him! I don't have that right!" "You are perfectly entitled, Miss Forsyth," said Holmes consolingly. "Then you asked the little, thin, bearded servant. What was his name?" "I remember his name was Tripley. I heard Charles call him 'Trip' more than once. I swear, Mr. Holmes, he is the most loyal servant who ever lived. Just seeing his British determination makes me God is at ease. He knew in his heart and felt my affection—my interest, and told me that his master had buried or hid five other clocks. Although he didn't say it verbally, I could feel his relationship with I am equally terrified. But Charles is not mad! He is not mad! In view of the last incident, you will admit it yourself." "how do I say this?" "It just happened four days ago. Mrs. Mayo has a small drawing room in her suite with a piano. I'm very fond of music, and I'm used to playing a piece for Mrs. Mayo and Charles after tea. At that time, before I started playing, a waiter in the restaurant brought a letter for Charles." "Wait a minute, did you notice the postmark?" "Yes, a letter from abroad," said Miss Forsyth with some surprise, "but of course it doesn't matter at all, because you..." "Because I—what?" Our client suddenly seemed bewildered, and then, as if trying to shake off her doubts, she hurried on with her story. "Charles tore open the letter and read it, his face turning ashen. He screamed incoherently and rushed out of the room. When we went downstairs half an hour later, we found that he and Tripley had left with all their luggage and left nothing behind. After a few words, he didn't contact us again, and I haven't seen him since then." Celia Forsyth bowed her head, tears welling in her eyes. "Mr. Holmes, I have told you everything I have said. Please be honest with me too. What did you write in that letter?" The question was so startling that I slumped back in my chair.Sherlock Holmes stretched out his slender and nervous fingers with no expression on his face, went to fetch some tobacco leaves from the Persian slippers, and put them into a clay pipe. "You mean, in that letter?" He was stating a fact rather than a question. "That's right! You wrote that letter, and I saw your signature, that's why I came here!" "My God!" sighed Holmes, and after a few minutes of silence, surrounded by blue smoke, he fixed his eyes blankly on the clock on the mantelpiece. "Sometimes, Miss Forsyth," he said at last, "you have to be very careful in answering questions. I have but one question left for you." "What is it, Mr. Holmes?" "Does Mrs. Mayo still regard Mr. Charles Hunton as a friend?" "Oh, yes! She's quite fond of him, and I've heard her call him 'Alec' more than once, which is obviously her nickname for him." Miss Forsyth paused, looking hesitant, even puzzled, " But what do you mean by asking this question?" Sherlock Holmes rose to his feet. "Ma'am, all I can say is that I am happy to look into this matter for you. Are you going back to Gloston House tonight?" "Yes. But you should tell me more than that? You haven't answered any of my questions yet!" "Okay, okay! I have my method, and Watson can tell you. But is it convenient for you to come at nine o'clock this evening next week? Thank you. I hope I have news to inform you then." This is obviously a eviction order.Miss Forsyth stood up and looked at him with such a bleak and helpless look that I had to speak out to comfort him. "Relax, madam!" I shook her hand affectionately. "You may have complete confidence in my friend, Mr. Holmes, and, if I excuse my liberty, you may have complete confidence in me." She responded with a grateful, tender smile.When the door closed behind our beautiful visitor, I said to my friend somewhat rudely: "I do think, Holmes, that you should have more sympathy for the young lady." "Oh? It's my fault instead?" "Aren't you ashamed, Holmes?" I sank down into the chair. "The matter is so insignificant that it goes without saying. But why you wrote to that madman who broke the clock, I really don't understand." Sherlock Holmes leaned forward and placed his long, thin forefinger on my knee. "I have never written such a letter, Watson." "What?" I exclaimed. "Well, this is not the first time I have been impersonated! Unless I am very mistaken, Watson, it will be very dangerous." "So you think it's serious?" "Very serious, so I'm leaving tonight for mainland Europe." "Continental Europe? Are you going to Switzerland?" "No, no, what does it have to do with Switzerland? We have to go further." "Then where are you going?" "Isn't that obvious?" "Dear Holmes!" "All the information is at your fingertips, and as I told Miss Forsyth, you know my method. Use the information, Watson! Use them!" When my friend packed his simple luggage, the street lamps on Baker Street were already on, glowing slightly in the thick fog.Standing at the door of the living room, he is tall and thin, wearing a traveling cap with ear protectors, a long coat with a double-layer shawl, and a traveling bag at his feet, looking at me with his unique and steady eyes. "As you still seem to be at a loss, Watson, I will say one last thing. I must remind you that Mr. Charles Hunton cannot tolerate..." "Isn't that obvious! He couldn't stand the sight of the clock!" Sherlock Holmes shook his head. "Not necessarily," he said, "to give you a little more reminder, according to his servants, he has five other clocks." "Mr. Charles Hunton didn't break those clocks!" "That's why I remind you. Today next week, at nine o'clock in the evening, Watson!" Moments later, I was alone again. In the dreary week that followed, I did what I could to fill my life.I played pool with Thurston, smoked a lot of Boats, and brooded over the details of Mr. Charles Hendon's case.After years of association with Sherlock Holmes, my attention has become sharper.I felt some sinister and shadowy danger approaching that poor young lady, Miss Celia Forsyth, and I did not believe in the exceedingly handsome Charles Hendon and the mysterious Mrs. Mayo. On Wednesday, November 23rd, my wife came home with the good news that our property is doing well and that I will soon be able to buy a small clinic.It is a joy to have her back.As we sat hand in hand in front of our fireplace that night, I told her about this strange conundrum.I spoke of Miss Forsyth, of her predicament, of her youthful beauty and grace.My wife did not answer, but sat beside me, looking at the fire in thought. I was startled when Big Ben struck half past eight in the distance. "My God, Mary!" I cried out, "I forgot all about it!" "Forgot?" My wife was slightly taken aback. "I promised to be at Baker Street to-night at nine. Miss Forsyth is coming." My wife withdrew her hand. "Then you'd better leave at once." I was taken aback by the ruthlessness in her voice. "You're always very interested in the case of Mr. Sherlock Holmes." I couldn't figure it out, and felt a little wronged, so I picked up my hat and went out.The night was cold and the fog was not thick, but the road was covered with mud covered with ice.In less than half an hour a hansom drove me to Baker Street.I noticed that Sherlock Holmes had returned from his mission, and I couldn't help feeling a little excited.Lights were on in the upstairs windows, and several times I caught sight of his bony figure coming and going behind the curtains. I opened the door with the key, walked softly up the stairs, and pushed open the living room door.Holmes had evidently just arrived, for his cloak, hat, and old handbag were strewn about the room with his usual slovenliness. He was standing in front of the desk, with his back to me, bathed in the light of a green desk lamp, tearing open a small stack of letters one by one.Hearing the sound of the door being pushed, he turned around and straightened his face immediately. "Oh, Watson, it is you. I thought it was Miss Forsyth. She is late." "Good heavens, Holmes! If those scoundrels dare do harm to that young lady, I will not spare them!" "douchebag?" "I mean Mr. Charles Hunton, and also Mrs. Mayo, though it pains me to criticize a lady like this." His hawk-like stern features softened. "Good old Watson!" said he, "is always impatient to be a hero. But sometimes you make a real mess of things." "Then I believe," I replied sternly, "that your trip to the Continent has been fruitful?" "You guessed it, Watson! Forgive me for a moment of nervousness. No, my trip was not a success. I seemed to answer the call. I went straight to some European city that you are familiar with, and then returned as scheduled." "So what?" "That--Mr. Hunton, Watson, was a frightened man, but not out of his wits. He must have realized, as soon as he left Switzerland, that the forged letter was a trap for him. But I Couldn't find him. Where is he now? Please explain why you call him a villain." "Maybe I'm acting impulsively. But I can't help loathing that guy." "why?" "If he's really well-born, there's nothing wrong with being polite, but he's too respectful! He plays in public. He follows the Continental custom of addressing an English lady as 'madame' instead of the honest and practical 'madam' . Holmes, that is not the English way of speaking at all!" My friend seemed taken aback and looked at me inexplicably.He was about to answer when we heard the rattle of a carriage outside the downstairs door.In less than a minute Celia Forsyth entered the room, followed by a small, gravely determined man in a bowler hat with a piping.From that beard, I deduced that he must be Tripley the valet. Miss Forsyth was flushed with cold.She wore a short fur coat and carried a delicate leather handbag. "Mr. Holmes," she blurted out before greetings, "Charles is in England!" "As I expected. Where exactly is he?" "At Gloston Hall. I should have sent a telegram yesterday, but Madam Mayo won't let me." "I'm so stupid!" Holmes slammed his fist on the table. "I remember you said that the place is very remote. Watson, would you please bring me a large-scale map of Surrey? Thank you." His voice He became more and more serious, "What's going on, what's going on?" "My dear friend," I protested, "can a map be used to discover the crime?" "Moors, fields, woods. Nearest railway station within three miles of Gloston House!" moaned Holmes. "Miss Forsyth, Miss Forsyth, you have many questions to answer!" The young lady took a step back in surprise. "I have a lot of questions to answer?" she cried. "Can't you see, sir, that the mystery I've laid out to you has left me bewildered? Both Charles and Mrs. Mayo are silent." "No explanation?" "Indeed!" She nodded at the servant, "Charles sent Tripley to London with a letter and asked him to deliver it by hand. I don't even know the contents of the letter." "I'm sorry, miss," said the little man in a cold but respectful tone, "this is an order for me." For the first time I noticed Tripley, he was dressed more like a groom than a footman.I saw him solemnly clamping an envelope tightly between his palms, as if he was afraid that someone would take it away; his eyes, which looked dull against the background of the beard, slowly scanned the room.Sherlock Holmes stepped up to him. "Give me that envelope, man," he said. In my impression, the dullest people are often the most loyal.Tripley's gaze was almost fanatical. "I'm sorry sir, I can't. I can only do what I'm told, no matter what the situation!" "I tell you, old man, there's no time to linger. I don't want to read the inside of the letter, just the address on the front and the seal on the back. Hurry up! Your master's life may be at stake here!" Tripley hesitated, licked his lips, still holding the corner of the envelope cautiously, although he handed it out, he did not let go.Holmes whistled. "There!" said he, "it is addressed to the eminent Sir Charles Warren, Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police. Where is the seal? Ah! as expected. Are you in a hurry to send this letter?" "Yes, Mr. Holmes." "Go, then! But leave the carriage, the rest of us will use it at once." It wasn't until Tripley went downstairs that he began to speak again, and the excitement in his voice was renewed. "Then, Watson, please check the time of the train to Brashaw at once. Are you armed?" "Only my cane." "I'm afraid that's not enough." He opened the left desk drawer. "Put this in your coat pocket, please. A . The barrel of the revolver flashed coldly, and Celia Forsyth couldn't help but let out an exclamation, holding on to the fireplace with one hand to stabilize her figure. "Mr. Holmes!" She seemed to have changed her mind. "There is a regular train to Gloston Station. As you said, the station is three miles from the residence. In fact, there will be another train in twenty minutes." "great!" "But we can't take that train." "Why not, ma'am?" "I didn't have time to say that Mrs. Mayo herself is asking you now. I persuaded her just this afternoon. Mrs. Mayo asked the three of us to take the 10:25 train, which is the last train. She will meet us at Glosston Station in a carriage." Miss Forsyth bit her lip, "Mrs. Mayo is kind-hearted, but—she is also very bossy. We must not miss the last train!" We almost missed the last train.Crackling blue arc lights watched as we strayed between cold, muddy streets and got stuck in traffic.We arrived at Waterloo Station almost at the last moment. Soon, when the train drove into the wilderness, every sound of the wheels sounded more eerie in the dimly lit carriage.Holmes sat quietly and leaned forward slightly. I could see his eagle-like profile under the brim of his hat. Bathed in the cold light of the full moon, the lines were extremely clear.When we got off the train at a small station, it was almost half past eleven, and the surrounding villages were sleeping soundly without any lights. Everything was silent, not even a bark of a dog could be heard.There was an open carriage parked not far from the station, but the jingling of the harness on the horse was not heard.The coachman sat upright and motionless, as did the stout old woman in the back seat of the carriage, who were watching us indifferently as we advanced. Miss Forsyth was eager to speak, but the old woman with the big nose, wrapped in gray fur, raised her hand and stopped her. "Mr. Sherlock Holmes?" Her characteristic deep voice was rhythmic. "I think this other gentleman is Dr. Watson. I am Mrs. Mayo." She scrutinized us carefully, her sharp eyes seemed to be able to see through the human body. "Come to the carriage, please," she went on. "There are some blankets in the carriage. Although it is not appropriate to travel in an open carriage on such a cold night, my coachman likes to go fast," she pointed to the coachman, who Then he bowed, "Unfortunately, the axle of the covered carriage was broken. Go to the mansion, Billings! Quick!" With a flick of the horsewhip and a restless sway of the wheels, the carriage swiftly galloped along a small road, with sharp bushes and dry trees that looked like skeletons passing by the side of the road. "But I don't mind," said Mrs. Mayo. "I'm sorry, Mr. Holmes! I'm an old woman, and when I was young, carriages and carriages drove fast, alas, and the pace of life was fast." "People didn't live long back then, did they?" my friend asked. "For example, is our young friend going to die young tonight?" The sound of horseshoes stepping on the icy road is crisp. "Mr. Holmes," she said calmly, "I am sure you and I agree." "I'm pretty sure, Mrs. Mayo. But you haven't answered my question yet." "Don't worry, Mr. Holmes. He is safe now." "Are you sure?" "I told you, he's safe! The manor at Gloston Mansion is patrolled and heavily guarded. They can't lay hands on him." To this day I cannot say for sure whether it was the quick pace of the carriage, the cold wind whistling in my ears, or the maddening quality of the mystery itself that made me explode. "Excuse my intrusion," I cried, "as a veteran soldier, I have not found any answers. Please at least have some sympathy for this poor young lady next to you! Who is Mr. Charles Hunton? Why is he To break the clock? Why is his life in danger now?" "Well, Watson," said Holmes in a rather sharp tone, "you yourself have given me a number of reasons why Mr. Charles Hunton is not English at all." "And then? What use is that to us?" "Because this so-called 'Charles Hunton' is indeed not British." "Not British?" Celia Forsyth stretched out her hand, "but his English is very idiomatic!" She stopped talking immediately, and then whispered, "It's so idiomatic!" "Then the young man is not of noble birth?" I cried. "On the contrary, my dear friend, you have never lost your keen sense of smell. He has a very distinguished background. Tell me which royal family in Europe—oh, Watson, royal family!—speaks a language other than his own, But English?" "I can't think of it. I don't know." "Recall, then, what you know. Just before Miss Forsyth's first visit to us, I was reading aloud some of the headlines in the daily papers, when the dull words were of little importance. One said that the Russian populists, Those dangerous anarchists seem to be plotting the murder of Grand Duke Alexei. And Mrs. Mayo's nickname for Mr. 'Charles Hunton' is—" "Alec!" I exclaimed. "Perhaps it's just a coincidence," said Holmes, shrugging his shoulders. "In any case, when we look back at contemporary history, it is not difficult to see how much Russia hated the late Tsar—in 1881, he was killed by the Czar. Bombs blown to nothing—the ticking of the bombs is concealed by the sound of the piano. There are two kinds of bombs, Watson, one has an iron casing, is very light, and is thrown with a short fuse the other, also of iron, but set off by some timed device, the conspicuous ticking of which tends to give away its hiding place." The coachman whipped his whip, and the hedges on both sides stretched away, like a dream.Holmes and I sat with our backs to the coachman, and across from the moon-whitened faces of Lady Mayo and Celia Forsyth. "Holmes, everything is so clear! That's why the young man can't help himself when he sees the clock!" "No, Watson, no! It's the ticking of a clock!" "Ticks?" "That's right. When I tried to explain to you in detail, I was interrupted by your innate sympathy. Note that the two times he knocked the clock into pieces in public, he didn't actually see it." The clock. On one occasion, according to Miss Forsyth, it had a screen of evergreens in front of it; He thought it was a bomb, so of course his purpose was to destroy the timing mechanism and the bomb would be useless." "But wouldn't the force of the cane strike detonate the bomb?" Sherlock Holmes shrugged again. “假设那真是颗炸弹，谁知道会怎样呢？不过如果敲击的是铁壳的话，我怀疑没什么用。无论如何，我们这位绅士犹如惊弓之鸟，一时冲动就盲目动手了。回想起他父亲之死，又听到与那夺命利器相同的声音，行事仓皇也在情理之中。” "and then?" 夏洛克·福尔摩斯依然十分不安。我注意到他不止一次环顾着马车两旁那飞逝而去、灰蒙蒙的寂寥乡野。 “唔，”他说，“和弗赛斯小姐初次会面后，我心中已大致有数，那封伪造的信件显然是要将大公诱骗去敖德萨的圈套，逼他去面对那些与他仇深似海的敌人。但是，我告诉过你了，他一定也心存疑虑。因此他接下来会去——哪儿？” “英国，”我说，“不，不仅如此！他会赶来格罗斯顿公馆，其诱因就是一位迷人的年轻女士，为了他愁肠百结，泪眼蒙眬。” 夏洛克·福尔摩斯看上去怒不可遏。 “至少我要说，”他答道，“那种可能性是存在的。从一开始就很明显了，以梅欧夫人的身份，绝不可能随随便便就在火车车厢里和一个年轻人攀谈起来，除非就像弗赛斯小姐那句虽出于无心、却灵光闪现的评论一样，他们是'老相识'。” “我太低估你的能力了，夏洛克·福尔摩斯先生。”梅欧夫人一直轻拍着西莉雅的手，此刻厉声应道，“没错，我在圣彼得堡认识亚力克谢的时候，他还只是个穿着水手服的小男孩。” “我查到当时你的丈夫在圣彼得堡的英国使馆担任第一秘书。我还在敖德萨获悉了另一件非常有趣的事实。” “呃？是什么？” “俄国民粹分子的主要密探的名字。这个大胆、疯狂、执迷不悟的家伙，一度曾与大公非常亲密。” "This is impossible!" “但却是实情。” 梅欧夫人一时间呆坐着注视着他，表情远不如起初那么坚如铁石。马车跳进一条车辙，转了个方向。 “帮帮我，福尔摩斯先生。我亲爱的亚力克已经致信警方了，向警察厅长查尔斯·沃伦爵士本人求援。” “多谢。我见过那封信，也看见了印鉴上的俄罗斯皇家军队标志。” “同时，”她继续说道，“我重复一遍，庄园有人巡逻，公馆守备森严……” “可狡猾的狐狸仍然能够逃过猎犬的视线。” “这不仅仅是警戒的问题！福尔摩斯先生，此时此刻，可怜的亚力克正枯坐在一间墙壁厚实的老屋里，房门从里面上了两重门锁，窗户也紧紧闩上，没人能伸进哪怕一只手去。烟囱很有些年头了，顶部有盖子，而且非常狭窄，也没人能够爬进去，何况烟囱底部还燃着炉火。敌人如何能对他下手呢？” “如何下手？”福尔摩斯喃喃自语，咬着嘴唇，用手指拍打着膝盖，“他肯定能安然度过一夜，既然——” 梅欧夫人轻轻做了个胜利的手势。 “防备措施万无一失，”她说，“就连屋顶上都有人站岗。亚力克的男仆崔普利在伦敦飞速将信送到之后，已经乘早些时候的列车返回，从村里借了一匹马，此刻他正在公馆的房顶上忠实地守护主人。” 这番话的效果可谓立竿见影。夏洛克·福尔摩斯在马车里跳起来，握住扶手保持平衡，他的披风迎风飘舞，勾勒出一幅怪诞的黑色剪影。 “在房顶上？”他重复道，“在房顶上？” 随即他转过身，抓住车夫的肩膀。 “快马加鞭！”他吼道，“老天在上，快抽鞭子！我们一秒钟都耽搁不起了！” crackle!crackle!车夫长鞭一挥，马儿打了个响鼻，撒开蹄子风驰电掣而去。我们正纳闷不已，被这惯性往后一甩，只听得梅欧夫人恼怒的话音响起： “福尔摩斯先生，你神志不清了吗？” “很快你就会知道我清醒得很。弗赛斯小姐！你是否确曾听大公喊这个人为崔普利？” “我——没有！”西莉雅=弗赛斯支支吾吾，忽然一惊，警惕心大起，“正如我告诉过你的那样，查尔——噢，老天保佑！——大公叫他'崔普'，我就以为——” “一点没错！是你自己以为罢了。但他的真名是特雷波夫。从你一开始的描述中，我就知道他是个骗子和叛徒。” 树篱如电光闪过，嚼子与马具音韵铿锵，我们如御长风，飞驰前行。 “你也许还记得，”福尔摩斯说，“当那家伙的主人敲碎第一座钟的时候，他是如何摆出一副假惺惺的模样？那是尴尬与羞惭交织的神情，对吧？他会让你以为查尔斯·亨顿先生疯了。而那纯属子虚乌有的另外五座钟，你又是从何得知的呢？是特雷波夫灌输给你的。如果亚力克谢大公果真将一座钟或者一颗定时炸弹藏进柜子里，那他可真是失心疯了。” “但是，福尔摩斯，”我提出异议，“既然特雷波夫是他的私人仆役——” “快点，车夫！再快一点！怎么了，华生？” “特雷波夫肯定有上百次机会能够杀害他的主人吧，用刀子或者毒药都行，又何必多此一举，动用炸弹？” “你所谓的多此一举，恰是那些革命者们的惯用手段，他们不会采用其他方式的。只有把目标炸得灰飞烟灭，才能让世人留意到他们和他们的力量。” “但寄给查尔斯·沃伦爵士的那封信呢？”梅欧夫人惊问。 “毫无疑问，被丢进最近的垃圾箱里了。哈！前面想必就是格罗斯顿公馆。” 我对那天晚上后续事件的记忆有些混乱。依稀记得那座狭长、低平的詹姆斯一世时期建筑仿佛是从车道另一头扑面而来，它那深红色砖块砌成的外墙上嵌着竖框窗棂，屋顶十分平坦。小毛毯被掀到一旁，激动万分的梅欧夫人高声召唤来一组紧张的仆人。 然后弗赛斯小姐在前引路，福尔摩斯和我匆匆拾级而上，穿过铺着地毯的宽敞橡木台阶进入大厅，只见得一架仅比梯子略宽些许的逼仄楼梯直通房顶。在楼梯前，福尔摩斯稍停了片刻，用手按住弗赛斯小姐的胳膊。 “你应该待在这儿。”他平静地说。 他将手伸进口袋里时，发出一声金属的响动。我第一次意识到，福尔摩斯也带了武器。 “来吧，华生。”他说。 我跟在他身后登上狭窄的楼梯，直至他轻轻推开通往房顶的天窗。 “别出声，自己当心！”他耳语道，“一发现他就开枪。” “但我们要怎么才能找到他？” 冷风又一次刮过我们的面颊。我们蹑手蹑脚爬过平坦的房顶，四周都是烟囱，或高耸如鬼魅，或低矮而群集，一大块铅制的烟囱盖在月光下银光闪烁，四周满是烟熏的黑色污迹。在远处的尽头，一堵古老山墙的脊梁直指天空；一个黑影似乎正蜷起身子，蹲在一个被月光洗得发亮的烟囱上。 一根硫黄火柴的蓝光亮起，接着猛烈燃烧，黄色火焰清晰可辨。片刻后，传来了导火线的嘶嘶声，接着是烟囱里的滴答声。福尔摩斯飞奔上前，穿梭在烟囱与栏杆组成的迷宫中，朝那个弓着背、正慌忙逃离的身影步步进逼。 “开枪，华生！开枪！” 我们的手枪同时开火。我望见特雷波夫转过脸对着我们，苍白的面孔抽搐了几下。同一时刻，烟囱上径直喷出一道白色的火柱。脚下的屋顶仿佛波涛汹涌，我当时只模模糊糊觉得自己在铅盖间打了好多滚，砖块的碎片如雨坠落，稀里哗啦砸在屋顶上。 夏洛克·福尔摩斯摇摇晃晃地站了起来：“你受伤了吗，华生？”他大口喘气。 “只是点轻伤而已，”我答道，“万幸我们是脸朝下摔倒的，否则——”我指了指眼前那座伤痕累累的烟囱。 我们在尘埃中只前进了几码，就发现了我们要寻找的目标。 “他是罪有应得，”福尔摩斯俯视着这具仰躺在铅盖上的死尸，“我们的枪声令他迟疑了那致命的一秒钟，随即他手里的炸弹就在烟囱上方爆炸了。”我的朋友转过身去，“来吧，”他的话音中饱含苦涩的自责，“我们晚了一步，既没来得及救下我们的委托人，也没来得及通过人世间的审判机器为他讨回公道。” 突然他脸色一变，抓住我的胳膊。 “老天啊，华生！一座烟囱就能救了我们的命！而那女人说什么来着？盖子！没错，有盖子！快！不能再浪费时间了！” 我们火速爬下天窗，沿楼梯来到大厅，冲到另一头，透过呛人的烟雾，依稀能找到一扇被震碎的门。壁炉里的火焰已随气浪卷进房间，空气中满是地毯燃烧后产生的恶臭，红热的灰烬四下飞舞。福尔摩斯一个箭步扎进房里，不一会儿我看见他在一架钢琴的残骸后弯下腰。 “快点，华生！”他喊道，“他还活着！这在我能力范围之外，全看你的了。” What a close call.我们把年轻的大公抬到一间镶有壁板的屋子里，当夜剩余的时间，他都挣扎在生死线上。好在当太阳从庄园的树梢上升起时，我终于可以满意地宣布，炸弹的气浪冲击所导致的昏迷已经结束，他正处于酣睡之中。 “他只受了些皮外伤，”我说，“但光是气浪的冲击就有可能致命。现在他睡得正香，命是保住了。毫无疑问，西莉雅·弗赛斯小姐的照料会促进他早日康复。” “你应该把这起小案件的情况记录下来，”几分钟后，福尔摩斯说道，当时我们正漫步在庄园的草坪上，草叶上那点点露珠亮闪闪的，映照出黎明时分的清新美景，“那么你就必须诚实地论功行赏了。” “可这难道不是你的功绩吗？” “不，华生。我们之所以能大功告成，全都托赖我们的祖先深谙建筑的艺术。拥有两百年历史的壁炉烟囱顶盖救了那年轻人一命，否则他早已身首异处了。俄国的亚力克谢大公幸而逃出生天，贝克街的夏洛克·福尔摩斯先生也幸而保住了名誉，这都多亏了詹姆斯国王时代的屋主始终没忘记要保护他的邻居。” “我不时模模糊糊听闻一些他的活动情况：他被召到敖德萨去侦查特雷波夫谋杀案。”