Chapter 14 red widow

Sherlock Holmes said: "My dear Watson, you are quite right in your conclusions. Lowliness and poverty are the natural mothers of violent crime." I agreed and said, "Exactly. Really, I was just thinking..." I stopped suddenly and looked at him in surprise. "My God, Holmes, this is too much," I exclaimed. "How can you possibly know my innermost thoughts?" My friend leaned back in the chair, put his fingertips together, and looked at me without lifting his eyelids. "Perhaps my refraining from answering your questions will allow you to do a more fair assessment of my limited abilities." He said with a dry smile. "You are always asking for explanations of simple and logical reasoning, Watson. an attitude of arrogance. You have it: you use it to cover up your failure to see the obvious."

Somewhat offended by his arrogance, I retorted: "I don't understand. How can logical reasoning allow you to see my thoughts?" "It's not very difficult. I have been watching you for the last few minutes. At first, your face was expressionless. Then, your eyes wandered aimlessly around the room, landed on the bookshelves, and stopped on Hugo's. You read this book last year and it made a deep impression on you. You become thoughtful and your eyes narrow. Evidently your mind is lost again in that long saga of human suffering. Finally, Your eye moves up to the window where you can see the fluttering snow, the gray sky, and the bare, icy roof, then slowly to the mantelpiece, where I thread the unanswered letters. You frowned, your face became more gloomy, and you shook your head involuntarily in frustration. You are thinking of it. From the miserable situation of the third-class people described by Hugo, from The hungry and cold poor in the slums, think of the unsheathed knife above our ordinary steaming fireplace. The sorrowful look on your face is the kind that comes from knowing the cause and the eternal tragedy of the world. The melancholy of the consequences. Only now do I venture to agree with you."

I confessed: "Well, I must admit, you understand my thoughts very well. Extraordinary reasoning, Holmes." "It is superficial, my dear Watson." The year 1887 was drawing to a close.A harsh blizzard has swept across the land since the last week of December.Out the windows of Holmes' residence on Baker Street presented a gloomy view: a low, gloomy sky, white roofs looming through a curtain of snow. The year was memorable to my friend, but it was more important to me; for two months ago Miss Merry Morstan had bestowed on me the extraordinary honor of promising her fate and mine combined together.Before the transition from celibate life as a half-pay ex-military doctor to married bliss was complete, Sherlock Holmes made some unexpected and ironic comments, but, as my wife and I We are indebted to him for our acquaintance, so we can deal with his cynicism with patience, even understanding.

On this day, to be precise, it was the afternoon of December 30th, and I stopped by our old residence to spend a few hours with my friend and to ask him, since my last visit, Have you encountered any interesting cases?I saw him pale and listless, his dressing gown draped over his shoulders, the room filled with the smoke and smell of his favorite blackboard tobacco.To look at a fire in a fireplace through the smoke is like looking at a brazier in fog. He replied sharply in a complaining tone: "Except for a few routine investigations, nothing happened, Watson. The creative art of crime seems to have declined since I took up the case of the late Bert Stevens." ’” Then he fell silent, curled up in his armchair morosely, and neither of us spoke.Later, my train of thought was interrupted by his comments, which is how this chapter begins.

When I stood up to go, he looked at me critically. He said: "I can see, Watson, that you are paying the price. The untidy condition of your left cheek is regrettable evidence that someone has changed the position of your shaving mirror. Besides, you are Spend and waste like crazy." "You have wronged me too much." "Fivepence a winter flower, isn't it? The way you knock on the door tells me that you were wearing a flower in front of people as recently as yesterday." I countered with some reluctance: "I just found out today that you are a poor man, Holmes."

He suddenly laughed happily.He said aloud: "Dear friend, you must forgive me! It is not fair to torment you with too much energy that cannot be expended, which always has to work on my nerves. Oh, what?" thing?" Heavy footsteps sounded on the stairs.My friend waved me to sit down again. He said: "Stay a little longer, Watson. This is Gregson, and the old drama will be repeated." "Gregson?" "It was one of those common footsteps, unmistakable. Lestrade didn't walk so heavily; Mrs. Hudson could hear the footsteps of someone she knew, or she would have come up with him. That's Gray." Gerson."

As soon as he finished speaking, someone knocked on the door, and the person who came in was wearing a big, thick scarf and covered his ears.The guest threw his bowler hat on to the chair beside him, and unfastened the scarf which covered the lower part of his face, revealing the flaxen hair and long, pale face of the Scotland Yard detective. "Ah, Gregson," said Holmes, greeting me, looking at me mischievously, "there must be some urgent business, otherwise you would not have come here in such cold weather. Take off your scarf, my boy. Come and warm yourself by the fire."

The constable took out a large pocket watch, looked at it, shook his head, and said: "There is no delay. The train for Derbyshire leaves in half an hour, and my hansom is still down there." Waiting. Although this case is not difficult for an experienced police officer like myself, I will be very happy if you can go with me." "Is it interesting?" "Murder, Mr. Holmes," replied Gregson curtly. "A curious case, from the telegrams from the local police. It appears that the Deputy Sheriff, Sir Jocelyn Cope, was murdered at Fort Ainsworth." .Scotland Yard is perfectly capable of dealing with cases of this nature, but, in view of the strange words in the police telegram, I thought you might be willing to come with me. Will you?"

Sherlock Holmes leaned forward and emptied the tobacco from his pouch into his cigarette pouch, and sprang to his feet. He said aloud: "Wait a little while, and I will get a clean collar, and a toothbrush. I have a spare toothbrush, Watson, for your use. No, old friend, don't talk. You won't help." , what should I do? Write your wife a note and Mrs. Hudson will post it. We'll be back to-morrow. Ah, Gregson, I'm at your command now. You can tell me a little about the case on the way detail." We rushed onto the platform at St Pancras station and hurriedly opened the door of the first empty smoking car as the steward waved his flag and ordered to move on.Holmes had brought three traveling rugs.We were all comfortably seated as the train sped away in the winter twilight.

"Now, Gregson, I'd like to hear more from you," said Sherlock Holmes, wearing a deerstalker hat whose earflaps framed his lean, eager face.A column of smoke rose from his pipe. "I don't know anything except what I have just told you." "However, you used the word 'odd'; and you said 'odd' in reference to the cable from the Sheriff's Office. Please explain." "The reason for the two words is one. The local inspector's telegram suggested that the officers of Scotland Yard should read the Derbyshire Chronicle and the Local Chronicle. What an extraordinary suggestion!"

"It seems to me that the advice was very sensible. How did you do it?" "The Gazetteer simply says that Sir Jocelyn Cope was Deputy Sheriff, a great magnate in the County, married, childless, and noted for his bequest to the local archaeological community in his will. As for the Derbyshire Chronicle, I've brought it." He took a little booklet from his pocket and turned the pages. "Here," he went on, "Fort Ainsworth, built in the third reign of Edward. Fifteenth-century stained glass commemorating the Battle of Agincourt. The museum was opened once a year. The exhibits include a large number of military and other artifacts, including a small guillotine made in Nîmes during the French Revolution, which was originally used to execute a matriarch of the current head of the family Ancestral. The guillotine was never used because the intended execution escaped, and the family bought it as a relic after the Napoleonic Wars and brought it to Ainsworth. Phew! Local Inspector I have lost my mind. Mr. Holmes, there is nothing useful in it." "Let's not jump to conclusions. He doesn't suggest this for nothing. In the meantime, I remind you that things are blurred now that it's getting dark, but their substance is still there, though we can hardly see I don't see them. There's a lot of truth in the twilight." Gregson winked at me and said with a smile, "Yes, Mr. Holmes. Really, very poetic. Well, I'm going to take a nap." After about three hours, we got off at a small station.The snow has stopped.Behind the houses in the small village the long, barren slopes of the Derbyshire moors, white in the full moon, stretched beyond the horizon.A stout, bow-legged man in a shepherd's tweed cloak came hurrying toward us on the platform. He greeted us rudely and said: "I suppose you're from Scotland Yard? I've got your reply to my telegram and there's a car waiting outside. Yes, I'm Inspector Dawleys." ’” he added in response to Gregson’s question. "Who are these two?" "The reputation of Sherlock Holmes, I suppose..." Our companion was only halfway through, before being interrupted by Dawlish. "I've never heard of it." He looked at us with hostility in his black eyes. "This is a serious case, and there is no room for laymen to speak. But it's too cold here, and I don't want to argue about it; and, since London has agreed to let him come, I have no right to deny him. This way, please." .” This closed carriage stopped in front of the station.In a blink of an eye, we turned out of the yard and drove silently and rapidly on the road leading to the village. "You can live at Queen's Point. But go to the castle now," grumbled Dowris. Gregson said: "I want to hear the case, and why you made that unusual suggestion in your telegram." "The case is too simple," said Dawlish with a sneer. "My lord was murdered, and we know who did it." "yes?" "Captain Jasper Rossian, the victim's cousin, suddenly disappeared. Everyone around here knows that this man has no scruples. When he sees wine, horses, or the nearest woman, his men are ruthless." It does not surprise us that Captain Jasper was ruined by killing his benefactor, the head of his family. Yes, 'boss' is a very appropriate word." He said in a soft tone The last word. "If the facts of the case are already clear, then why do you still mention such meaningless things as county records?" Inspector Dowleys leaned forward and said in a voice close to a whisper: "Have you read the County Records? Well, this circumstance may amuse you: Sir Jocelyn Cope was executed on the guillotine of his own ancestors. people killed." After hearing what he said, we all felt cold and couldn't speak. At last Sherlock Holmes asked: "What do you think was the motive of the murder? Why such barbaric means?" "Probably because of the violent quarrels. Didn't I already say that Captain Jasper has no scruples. Ah, that's the castle. Looks like a good place for violence and dark deeds." Our car turned off the main road into a gloomy alley.The alley, lined with snowdrifts, leads upwards to the desolate swampy slopes.On the top of the slope rose a huge building, its walls and towers looking gray and forlorn against the night sky.In a few minutes.Our car rumbled under the arches of the outer wall and stopped in front of a courtyard. Inspector Dawleys knocked on the door, and a tall, stooped man in a butler's uniform opened the heavy oak door.He held the candle high above his head and looked out at us through the door, its light illuminating his sad, red-rimmed eyes and his wispy beard. He complained and yelled: "Why, there are four of you here? At this juncture, we are all very sad. It's outrageous for you to bother Madam." "All right, Stephen. Where's the lady?" The candlelight flickered.Stephen replied in a sobbing old voice: "Still with him, she hasn't moved. Still sitting in that big chair and staring at him, as if she's fallen asleep with wide-eyed eyes." "Of course, you didn't touch anything, did you?" "No, it's exactly the same as before." Dawlish said, "Let's go first, then, to the museum where the crime happened... over there in the courtyard." As he made his way up a cleared pebble path Holmes took hold of his arm.He cried eagerly, "How can this work! The museum is on the other side, and you have cars running through the yard and people trampling around like a herd of buffaloes." "So what's the matter?" Sherlock Holmes stretched out his arms towards the moon and said earnestly: "Snow, man, Snow! You have spoiled the best helper." "But, I told you that the murder took place in a museum. What does snow have to do with that?" Sherlock Holmes snorted in the utmost gloom, and we followed the local detective across the courtyard and into an arched doorway. I have seen many horrific sights in my time with Sherlock Holmes, but I can't recall a single one more terrifying than the one presented in this Gothic room.The room is small, with a round roof, illuminated by clusters of thin candles placed in candlesticks on the wall, monumental armor and medieval weapons hung on the wall, and glass cabinets filled with They bought parchment manuscripts, finger pullers, various stone carvings and a trap with a wide mouth.I saw these things at once, and then my attention was drawn to something lying on a low platform in the middle of the house. It was a guillotine with faded red paint.Exactly like the ones I've seen on woodcuts of the French Revolution, except on a smaller scale.A tall, thin man lay on his stomach between two uprights.He was wearing a smoking suit, with his hands tied behind his back; a white cloth that had been horribly stained with blood covered his head, or rather the place where his head was originally open. The light of the thin candle fell on the bloodstained steel blade set deep in the guillotine, and then spread in a halo, illuminating the red hair of a woman sitting next to the horrible headless corpse.She ignored us when we approached, and remained motionless on the high-backed carved chair.Her face was like an ivory mask, and her eyes, black and shining like an iguana's, looked into the shadows without blinking.I have seen women on three continents, but none can match, for the indifference and perfection of facial expression, the hostess who kept watch in the death-chamber at Fort Ainsworth. Dawley coughed. "You'd better go to rest, ma'am," he said bluntly. "Don't worry, Gregson and I promise to make things fair." She just looked at us.The candle flickered, and for a moment it seemed to me that there was mockery rather than sorrow in her beautiful eyes, and that was soon gone. She asked irrelevantly: "Stephen is not with you? Ah, of course, he will stay in the library. Faithful Stephen." "I'm afraid my lord's death..." She stood up abruptly, breasts heaving, one hand clutching the hem of her black mesh gown. "He deserves hell!" she said hoarsely.Then, making a gesture of despair, she turned and walked softly out of the house. As soon as the door closed, Sherlock Holmes knelt on one knee by the guillotine, lifted the blood-soaked cloth, and looked down at the dreadful thing below.He said calmly, "My God, that head must have rolled across the room after such a blow." "possible." "I don't understand. You must know where you saw that head?" "I don't see it. No head." Sherlock Holmes knelt on his knees again for a long while, looking silently at the speaker.Then he said, standing up, "I think you seem to take a lot of things for granted. Please tell me what you think of this strange case." "It was clear. At some point last night the two men quarreled and ended up fighting each other. The younger overpowered the older and killed him with the instrument. Ser Jocelyn was placed in Alive on the guillotine, the evidence is that Captain Rossian had to have his hands tied. The crime was discovered this morning by Stephen the steward, and a groom went to the village to fetch me. So I confirmed the usual procedure His lord's body, and made a list of what was found on him. If you want to know how the murderer got away, I can also tell you that he ran away on the mare that was missing in the stable." Sherlock Holmes said: "Very instructive. Your theory, as I understand it, is that these two fought ferociously, while being careful not to disturb the furniture or break the glass case, which might spoil the room. and then the killer, with the box in one arm and the victim's head in the other, rode away into the night on horseback. It was a truly remarkable show." Dawley's face flushed with anger.He sneered contemptuously. "It is very easy to find fault with other people's ideas, Mr. Sherlock Holmes. Perhaps you can tell us about your theories?" "I don't have a theory. I'm waiting to find out for myself. By the way, when did the snow fall here?" "yesterday afternoon." "In this case, there is still hope. But we still have to see what else we can find in this room." We stood there watching him for ten minutes.Gregson and I were interested, while Dowris's weather-beaten face was filled with unconcealed contempt.Meanwhile Holmes, crawling slowly about the room on all fours, muttering to himself, looked like a great dun worm.He took a magnifying glass from his cloak pocket.I noticed that not only the floor, but even the occasional objects found in the table were carefully inspected by him.Then he stood up and thought.He turned his back to the candlelight, and cast his thin figure on the faded red guillotine opposite. He suddenly said, "No, this is a premeditated murder." "How did you know?" "The starting handle of the guillotine was newly oiled, and the victim was unconscious. With a slight movement, his hands tied behind his back could be freed." "Then why are you still tied?" "Ah! There is no doubt that this man was brought here unconscious, and his hands were bound at that time." Dowris broke in aloud: "You are mistaken! The pattern on the cord that binds the hands proves that it is one of the curtain cords on these curtains." Sherlock Holmes shook his head. "The cords of those curtains have been faded by the sun, but this one has not. No doubt it was taken from the curtain, and there is no curtain in this room. Well." I can't find anything here." After a discussion between the two police officers, Gregson turned to Holmes and said: "It is already past midnight. We had better go back to the hotel in the village to rest; we will separately investigate in the morning. I can only agree with Inspector Dawley. Officer's opinion: We're here to speculate that the murderer may have reached the shore." "I want to get one thing straight, Gregson: Are I officially employed by the police on this case?" "Impossible, Mr. Holmes!" "Exactly. Then I am free to judge for myself. Give me five minutes, please. I will go out into the yard, and then Dr. Watson and I will come to you." It was cold.Holmes was ahead with his lantern, and by the dim light we made our way along the still snow-covered path through the yard to the front door.He leaned over the powdered snow on the path, and exclaimed: "Idiots all! Look, Watson! A party of men could not have done such damage. Three wheel-tracks. These are Dawlish's boots." and a pair of tacks on the soles of the shoes, probably the groom's. Ah, a woman, still running. Of course it was Mrs. Jocelyn who found out about the situation first. Yes, it must have been her. What did Stephen come out for? That's his Square-toed shoes, yes. You must have seen those shoes, Watson, when he opened the door for us? Ah, what are they?" The light paused for a moment, then slowly moved forward again. He cried eagerly, "Pumps, pumps, and from the front door. Look, it's him again. Judging by the size of his feet, he might be a tall man with a heavy The stride length is shortened, the toe mark is clearer than the heel. People who carry heavy weights tend to lean forward. He's back! Ah, that's it, that's it! Well, I see, we can go Go to sleep." On the way back to the village, my friend remained silent.But as they parted in front of the hotel he put his hand on the shoulder of Inspector Dawleys. He said: "The man who did this was tall and thin, about fifty years old, his left foot turned inward, he was a heavy smoker, he liked to smoke Turkish cigarettes, and he used a mouthpiece when smoking." Dawleys muttered, "Captain Rothian! I don't know about the feet and the cigarette holder, but the rest of what you said is clear. But who told you about these physical features?" "I'll ask you a question in answer. Were science popularizers Catholic before?" The local inspector gave Gregson a meaningful look.He slapped his forehead and said, "Catholicism? Well, you mentioned this, I think they believed in Catholicism a long time ago, but, what is it...!" "I just want you to look at the county records. Good night." The next morning, after the two police officers drove my friend and me to the gate of the castle, they drove to a distance to investigate.Holmes watched them go with a twinkle in his eye. "I'm afraid I have been very unfair to you all these years, Watson," he remarked, somewhat inscrutablely, as we turned. The old manservant opened the door for us.We were troubled as we followed him into the hall, for he was apparently still reeling from the death of his master. He shrieked, "It's none of your business here. For God's sake, won't you ever give us peace?" I have said before that Holmes had a calming genius, and the old man gradually calmed down. "This is the Agincourt window, I suppose?" asked Holmes, looking up at a small, tastefully colored window of stained glass.At this time, the winter sun shines through the windows, casting colorful patterns on the ancient stone paving ground. "Yes, sir. There are only two in the whole of England." My friend then asked meekly: "You have no doubt been in the service of this family for many years?" "Serve them? Yes, my family and I have been together for almost two hundred years. We are inseparable from them." "I think the history of their family is very interesting, isn't it?" "Yes, sir." "I seem to have heard that this ominous guillotine was specially built for an ancestor of your late master?" "Yes, Marquis Reines. Made by his own . "Really? What habit?" "It's about women, sir. The book in the library doesn't explain it right." "Perhaps you mean "The Feudal Lordship"?" "Well, I don't want to say savage; but I believe that's the right word." "Well, I want to see the library." The old man turned his eyes to a door at the end of the hall.He muttered, "Look at the library? What do you want to find there? There's nothing but books, and Ma'am doesn't want to... Cough, okay." He led us very rudely into a long, low room, stacked to the ceiling with books, ending in a very handsome fireplace.Holmes wandered listlessly about the room for a while, then stopped to light a chegar. "Well, Watson, I think we must go," said he. "Thank you, Stephen. The room is beautiful, though I was surprised to see the Indian rug in it." The old man protested indignantly: "India! Those are ancient Persian carpets." "Definitely Indian." "I tell you it's Persian! A gentleman like you should know that the mark is engraved on it. Can't you see it without a magnifying glass? Then use a magnifying glass. It's too bad he spilled the match!" We picked up the spilled matches and put them away, and stood up.I saw a flush of excitement suddenly appear on Holmes's sallow face, but I could not understand why. "I was mistaken," said he. "It is a Persian rug. Come, Watson, it is time for us to go back to the village and drive back to the town." A few minutes later we had left the castle.To my amazement, Holmes led the way immediately after stepping out of the castle walls along a path leading to the stables. I prompted, "You intend to investigate the lost horse." "A horse? My dear friend, I have no doubt that the horse is safely hidden on some private farm, and that Gregson is going all over the county looking for it. That's what I want to find out." He went into the first stable and came back with an armful of straw. "Go and get another bundle, Watson, and that will be enough for our purpose." "But what is our purpose?" "Mainly to get to the front door without being seen." He smiled as he picked up his bale of straw. Turning back to finish the walk, Holmes raised his index finger to his lips as a signal to keep quiet.He opened the door carefully.Slip into a nearby room piled high with cloaks and staffs, and throw both bales of straw on the floor. He whispered: "The house is built of stones and is safe. Ah, these two raincoats will help a lot." He struck a match and threw it into the straw, adding: "I have no doubt that I can When encountering a situation that requires the use of this not-too-excessive trick.” As the flames burned on the straw and reached the raincoat, black smoke poured from the cloakroom into the hall of Ainsworth Castle, and the burning rubber hissed and crackled. I was so smoked that weeping, I gasped and said: "My God! Holmes, we are going to suffocate!" He grabbed my arm. "Wait," he said in a low voice, and as he spoke there were sudden hurried footsteps and a horrific howl. "It's on fire!" This desperate howl, I recognized Stephen's voice. "Fire!" he screamed again.We heard the clatter of his feet as he galloped across the hall. "Quick!" whispered Holmes.In a blink of an eye, he was out of the cloakroom and ran straight to the library.The library door was ajar, but the man who was banging his hands hysterically on the great fireplace did not even look back when we burst in. He screamed: "Fire! The house is on fire! Oh, my poor master! Master! Master!" Sherlock Holmes put his hand on his shoulder, and said calmly, "Pour a pail of water into the cloakroom. But it would be best if you got my lordship out." The old man's eyes were burning, and his fingers were bent like eagle's claws.He threw himself on Holmes. "You're playing tricks!" he screamed. "By your playing tricks, I've exposed him!" "Grab him, Watson," said Holmes, extending his arms to catch him. "Well, well. You're a loyal companion." At this time, a man said in a weakened voice, "Faithful unto death." I was taken aback and turned around involuntarily.The old fireplace was opened at the side, revealing a dark gap, and there stood a tall, thin man; he was covered with dust, and for a moment it seemed to me that what I saw was not a man, but a ghost. .He was about fifty years old, haggard, with a high nose, a face like old paper, and a pair of dim eyes that frantically opened and closed. Sherlock Holmes said gently: "I'm afraid the dust bothers you, Sir Jocelyn. Sit down, please. Wouldn't that be better?" The man staggered and slumped into an armchair.He gasped, "You must be a policeman." "No, I'm a private detective, but I represent a force for justice." Ser Joselyn grinned wryly. "It's too late," he said. "Are you sick?" "I'm going to die." He opened his hand, revealing an empty vial, "I won't live long." "Is there no other way, Watson?" I went to check the patient's pulse.His face was blue and his pulse was slow and weak. "There is nothing to be done, Holmes." Ser Joselyn straightened in pain.He said: "Maybe you can satisfy my last curiosity and tell me how you found out the truth? You must be a very perceptive person." "There were, I admit, difficulties at the beginning," said Holmes, "though they have since dispelled themselves in the course of events. It is evident that the whole point of the matter consists in the simultaneous occurrence of two outstanding events . . . The guillotine and the disappearance of the victim's head. "I asked myself, who would have used such a clumsy and queer instrument but the man to whom the guillotine had great symbolic significance? If this were the case, then the clue of such great significance must be The history of the guillotine. The assumption is logical." The nobleman nodded. "Reines's own people made it for him," he grumbled, "in revenge for what he did to the women. But go on, please, and quickly." "That's all for the first matter," continued Holmes, nodding his finger. "The second throws a ray of light into the whole matter. This is not New Guinea, so why did the murderer leave the victim's body?" The obvious answer is that he wanted to cover up the real identity of the victim." He asked sternly, "By the way, what did you do with Captain Rothien's head?" "Stephen and I buried it in the family grave in the middle of the night, but we still respect it very much." The answer was very weak. Sherlock Holmes continued: "The rest is simple. The local inspector could easily identify the dead body as yours from the clothes and other personal effects of the deceased, so I realize that unless the murderer and the deceased have exchanged clothes, the There would be no need to hide the head. The clothes were changed before death, as can be seen from the blood on them. The dead man had been incapacitated beforehand, perhaps by anesthesia; for as I did to my As explained by my friend Dr. Watson, it is clear from some phenomena that the deceased showed no signs of struggle before death; also, that he was transported to the museum from another part of the castle. Assuming my reasoning is correct , then, the victim cannot be Sir Jocelyn. But isn’t there another missing person? His lord’s cousin, Captain Jasper Rossian, who is considered to be the murderer.” I interjected, "How can you describe to Dawlish the characteristics of the wanted man?" "I can do that by looking at the dead man's body, Watson. The two men must bear many resemblances to each other, or the deception will not work from the first place. There is an ashtray in the museum containing a Turkish cigarette." the butt of a cigarette, recently smoked, with the holder in use. No one but an addict would smoke in such dire circumstances as to leave that inconspicuous butt. Footprints in the snow show that someone Came here from the main building with a heavy load, and returned empty. I think the main point is over." For a moment we were all silent, broken only by the rustling of the windows as the wind increased, and the short, harsh gasps of the dying man's breathing. He finally said: "I have no obligation to explain to you, because only God can see the deepest things in the human heart, and my actions should only be responsible to God. However, although my experience is shameful and sinful, I still I want to tell you as much as you can bear, so that you can grant my last request. "I should tell you that my cousin Jasper Rossian has been living at Ainsworth since the scandal that brought his military career to an end. Notorious as he was, I welcomed him as a family member, not only with financial support but, perhaps more valuable, with the social asylum afforded by my position in the county. "Looking back now at the years that have passed, I blame myself for my lack of principle for my failure to check his extravagance, drinking, gambling, and other less glamorous pastimes that made his name associated with gossip. I have Thought he was wild and indiscreet, but I didn't know he was such a vile and corrupt fellow. "I married a woman much younger than I was who stood out for her beauty and the romantic yet unique air she had inherited from her Spanish ancestors. This is old stuff. Finally, I woke up to the horrific reality , knowing that there is but one thing left to do in my life, and that is revenge. To me who has brought my name into disgrace and the reputation of my family. "Rothian and I sat in this room drinking late into the night the night of the accident. I managed to drug his drink, and before the effects of the narcotic knocked him unconscious, I found him I told him the circumstances of the infamy, and said that nothing but death could abolish the feud. He replied contemptuously that by killing him I would go to the scaffold myself and make my wife's disgrace known to the world. I explained my plan, the look of contempt on his face disappeared, and the terror of death froze his black heart. You know the rest. After the drug had anesthetized him, I changed clothes with him, and tore a rope from the door curtain Tie his hands, and carry him across the courtyard to the museum, to the guillotine that was originally built for another man's infamy, but never used. "When it was done, I called Stephen, and told him the truth. The old man never hesitated in the service of his unfortunate master. Together we buried the head in the family grave; and he was led out of the stable. A mare, on which he rode across the moor, in order to give the impression of fleeing; at last he hid the mare in a lonely farm of his sister. All that remained was that I should pretend disappeared. "Ainsworth, like many old houses of formerly Catholic families, had a rectory; there I was always hidden, coming out only at night, to deliver my last instructions to my faithful servant in the library. " Sherlock Holmes put in: "You have left no fewer than five stains of Turkish smoke on the carpet, and have thus further confirmed my suspicions about your hiding place. But what is your ultimate purpose?" "In taking vengeance on those who have treated me most unfairly, I have succeeded in saving our names from the guillotine. I can count on Stephen's fidelity. As for my wife, though she knows the truth, she will betray I, could not help proclaiming her own infidelity to the world. For me, life has no meaning, so I decided to live for a day or two, and then kill myself when things are in order. I assure you, you find my hiding place, which only advanced the course of events by about an hour. I left a letter to Stephen asking him to do his last duty: to bury my body in secrecy on our family grave. . "Gentlemen, this is my experience. I am the last of our ancient family. It is up to you to decide whether this family will pass on a dishonorable name." Sherlock Holmes pressed his hand. "The police have told us that Watson and I have come here entirely in private, and perhaps it would be better that way," he said quietly. "I'm going to call Stephen, because I can't help thinking that you'd be more comfortable if he took this straight chair into the vicarage, took you in, and shut the door." We had to stoop to hear Sir Jocelyn's voice. He said in a weak voice, "Then God will judge my sins, and the grave will swallow up my secrets. Farewell, and let a dying man bless you." On the way back to London I felt cold and dull.Holmes looked out of the window at the lights of scattered cottages passing intermittently in the darkness, and was in no mood for conversation. "The old year is coming to an end," he said suddenly, "and the good and simple people who wait for the stroke of midnight hope every year in their hearts that the coming year will be better than the last. Hope, however much it may be. Innocence and negated by past practice, is still the panacea for the blows and wounds that life throws at us." He leaned back in his chair.But put tobacco in the pipe. "In case you want to write an article on the strange case in Derbyshire," he went on, "I suggest you use the title 'The Red Widow', which is quite appropriate." "I know you have a strong dislike for women, Holmes, so I am surprised that you should have noticed the color of her hair." He said solemnly: "Watson, I am referring here to a popular nickname given to the guillotine during the French Revolution." It was very late when we finally got back to Baker Street.After stoking the fire, Holmes hastily put on his taupe dressing gown. I said, "It's nearly midnight. I wish to be with my wife at the end of the year '887, and therefore I must go. Happy New Year to you, my friend." "I thank you from the bottom of my heart for your well wishes," he replied. "Please give my regards to your wife, and please apologize to her for letting you leave home briefly." I came to the deserted street and stopped for a moment, turning up my collar to block the flying snowflakes.Just as I was about to move forward, the melody of a violin piece caught my attention.Involuntarily I looked up at the living-room window, where the figure of Sherlock Holmes was clearly visible in the lighted curtains.I could see the good-looking hawk-like profile I was so familiar with, his slightly forward shoulders as he leaned over the violin, and the rising and falling bow.But it was certainly not dreamy Italian tunes or complex improvisations of his own composition that wafted into my ears in the silence of the bleak winter night. How can we forget old friends and not recall them in our hearts?How can old friends forget each other, friendship lasts forever. A snowflake must have caught my eye, for, as I turned round, the feeble light of the gas lamps in the deserted and empty Baker Street seemed strangely blurred. My job is done.My notebooks have been in a black tinplate filing box for years; now they are in there again.I also dipped ink in the inkwell for the last time. From the window which overlooked a small lawn outside our farm house, I could see Sherlock Holmes walking among the beehives.His hair was very gray, but his slender body was as strong and powerful as ever, and there was a healthy flush in his cheeks, which was the color of nature and her water that blew into the graceful Sussex hills. The smell was given to him by the clover-scented breeze. Our lives are nearing twilight, and familiar faces and sights are gone forever.But when I lean back in my chair and close my eyes, the past rises in front of my eyes, overshadowing the present.I saw the yellow mist of Baker Street, and heard the voice of the best and wisest man I ever knew: "Come, Watson, the game is on!" According to "A Scandal in Bohemia" in "Adventures", "It worked for me in the Darlington replacement scandal case; it did the same in the Ainsworth case." Written in two sentences.