Chapter 8 Chapter VII

Holmes awoke, gasping for breath: what happened? He sat at his desk and looked out the attic window.Outside, the howling wind blew monotonously and steadily, making the window frames hum and shake, brushing the gutters in the eaves, shaking the pine branches in the yard, and no doubt disturbing the flowers in his garden.But except for the strong wind outside the closed windows and the night that had already fallen, everything in the study was still exactly the same as it was before he fell asleep.The ever-changing twilight between the curtains has been replaced by the darkness of night, and the lamp on the table still casts the same light on the table.Spread out in front of him are his handwritten notes for the third volume of "The Art of Detective", page after page, full of his various thoughts, these words are often squeezed into the margin of the page , Line by line, I don't even know the order. He finished the first two volumes of "The Art of Detective" almost effortlessly (the two volumes were in progress at the same time, and it took fifteen years to finish writing), but the task of this last volume was hindered by his increasingly inability to fully concentrate. It seemed difficult: he sat down, pen still in hand, and soon fell asleep; sat down, and found himself staring out of the window, sometimes for hours; Write a few sentences, the content that can be written is completely irrelevant, like a powerful and unconstrained style, as if something clear can be extracted from this chaotic idea.

What the hell happened? He touched his neck and rubbed his throat lightly.It's just the wind, he thought.The hum of the rattling windows seeped into his dream and woke him up. It's just the wind. His stomach was growling.Then he realized he hadn't had dinner again—Mrs. Munroe usually cooks roast beef with Yorkshire pudding on Fridays—but he knew he'd find dinner trays in the corridor ( Baked potatoes are probably cold outside the locked attic door).What a kind boy Roger was, he thought, what a kind boy.For the past week he has been alone in the attic, forgetting about dinner and the daily work of the apiary, and the trays for dinner are always sent upstairs as soon as he steps into the hallway , you can see it.

In fact, earlier in the day, Holmes felt somewhat guilty of neglecting the apiary, so, after breakfast, he walked slowly towards the apiary, and saw Roger ventilating the beehives from a distance.The boy had expected that this time would be the hottest but also the most nectar-filled day, so he wisely opened the cover of each beehive so that the air could be blown in from the entrance of the beehive and out from the top. , allowing the bees to speed up the flapping of their wings, which not only helps cool the hive, but also better evaporates the nectar stored on the cover.Seeing this, Holmes' sense of guilt disappeared; the bees had been well taken care of, and it was evident that his inadvertent teaching to Roger had yielded fruitful results (he was relieved to see that the attentive and capable boy Began to be competent for the work of the apiary).

Soon, Roger was collecting honey himself again.He carefully took out the frame, one piece at a time, calmed the bees with smoke, and scooped up the beeswax outside the hive with a fork specially designed for cutting honey.In the next few days, a small amount of honey will flow into the honey bucket through the double-layer sieve, and then the amount will continue to increase.Standing on the garden path, Holmes seemed to see himself standing side by side with the boy in the apiary again, teaching him to gather honeycomb in the simplest way that a novice can master. He had once told the boy that, when the covers were put on the hives, it was better to put eight frames in it than ten, and that they must be put in while the honey was flowing.The remaining two frames should be placed in the center of the deck and must be used with a netless foundation.If everything is done right, the colony will build the base and fill both frames with honey.Once the frame is filled with honey and covered with beeswax, it should be replaced with more foundations - provided, of course, that the honey flow is as expected.If the flow rate does not meet expectations, then it is best to replace the nest base without the net and use the frame with the net instead.Apparently, he also made it clear to the boy that the hives should be inspected frequently to determine which method of collecting honey was the best and most suitable.

Holmes took Roger through the whole process and showed him every step. Holmes was confident that when the honey was collected, Roger would follow his instructions word for word. "Do you understand, child, that I entrust this task to you because I trust you to be perfectly capable of doing it without error." "Thank you, sir." "Do you have any more questions?" "No, I don't think so," replied the boy.There is enthusiasm in his tone, it is easy to give people the illusion that he is smiling, but his expression is serious and deep. "Very well." Holmes looked from Roger's face to the surrounding beehives.He didn't notice that the boy's eyes were fixed on him, nor did he notice the quiet respect in those eyes, which he himself showed only when he was observing the apiary.He just watched the little bees coming and going, they made up this hardworking and vibrant little community. "Very good." On this past afternoon, he murmured what he had already said.

Holmes turned on the garden path and walked slowly back to the house.He knew that Mrs. Monroe would eventually finish her mission too, filling jar after jar of honey and sending a batch to the vicar of the parish and a batch to charity when she went to town to run errands. , and another batch was given to the Salvation Army.By giving the gift, Holmes felt that he was fulfilling his social duty as well - by giving away this viscous thing harvested from the hive (he considered honey a healthy by-product, and his real interest lay in the culture of bees and the powers of royal jelly) benefit to the human body) in unlabeled jars (he would never let his name have anything to do with what he gave away) and to those who would distribute them fairly so that Ea There is something sweet for the poor of Stebourne, and hopefully people elsewhere too.

"Sir, God bless you for what you did," Mrs. Munroe once said to him. "Really, you followed His will—you helped a lot of people in difficult lives." "Stop talking nonsense," he replied contemptuously. "After all, it's just you following my will. Let's not bring God into this, shall we?" "Whatever you want," she said condescendingly, "but if you ask me, I'll say it's God's will, and that's what it is." "Honey, I never asked you from the beginning." Besides, what did she know about God?Sherlock Holmes guessed that the image of God in her mind was nothing more than the most ordinary: a wrinkled old man seated on a golden throne, who knew everything, who hid in the thick clouds and ruled the whole world; He spoke with gracious grace and stateliness; no doubt he also sported a long, flowing beard.It amused Holmes to think that Mrs. Munroe's Creator might be somewhat like himself—except that her God was a figment of the imagination, and he was not (at least not quite, he thought).

However, apart from occasional references to God, Mrs. Monroe did not publicly display belief in any religion, nor did she publicly indoctrinate her son with belief in God.It was obvious that the boy was preoccupied with worldly things.To be honest, Holmes was very pleased with the young man's pragmatic personality.Now, sitting at his desk on this windy night, he felt a sudden urge to write a few words to Roger, which he hoped the boy would see later. He spread out a blank sheet of paper in front of him, put his face on the table, and began to write: Holmes put down his pen.He ruminated over the sentences he had just written and read them aloud without making any changes.Then he folded the paper into a perfect square, trying to find a suitable place to put it first—somewhere he would not forget, and where it would be easy to get the note back again.The desk drawer is not considered, because it is already full of his various notes, and this note will only be submerged in it.Likewise, a filing cabinet full of clutter is too dangerous.Also bewildering are his pockets (in which he usually puts little things without thinking about them - scraps of paper, broken matches, cigars, grass stems, interesting rocks he finds on the beach or seashells, unusual objects that he collected on walks and then disappeared or reappeared as if by magic).He decided that this time he had to find a reliable place, a suitable place that he could remember.

"Where are you going to put it? Think about—" He looked at the stack of books along one wall. "no--" He walked around the chair, looked at the rows of bookshelves next to the attic door, and finally locked his eyes on a shelf dedicated to his own books. "Maybe--" After a while, he was already standing in front of the bookshelf, where all kinds of books and monographs published by him were placed, and he brushed their dusty spines with his index finger horizontally——"On Tattoo Design", "On Tracking of Footsteps", "On the Difference Between One Hundred and Forty Kinds of Tobacco Ash", "A Study of the Influence of the Shape of Professional Opponents", "On the Disguise of Disease", "The Connection between Typewriters and Crime", "Secret Writing and Ciphers", "On the Recovery of Rasu Tuning Hymn", "A Study of the Etymology of Chaldea in Old Cornish", "On the Use of Dogs in Detective Work" - finally, he saw his first masterpiece in his later life: "The Breeding of Bees" A Practical Guide and Some Observations on Isolating Queens".He took the book off the shelf, holding the thick spine with both hands, feeling its weight.

He bookmarked the note to Roger between chapters four ("Release the bees") and chapter five ("Propolis"), for Holmes had already decided to use this precious edition of the collection for the boy's next birthday. one's gift.Of course, since he seldom pays attention to such anniversaries, he has to ask Mrs. Monroe to know when this festive day is (has it already passed, or is it coming soon?).He imagined the look of surprise on the boy's face when he gave the book to Roger, and how he would be alone in his cabin bedroom, slowly turning the pages.Eventually, he'll see this folded note (it's more discreet and less meddling to convey important information in this way).

When Holmes was sure that the note was kept in a safe place, he put the book back on the shelf, turned, and walked towards the desk.He breathed a sigh of relief, now that he could finally focus on his work again.He sat down on the chair and stared at the handwritten records on the desktop. Each sheet was full of thoughts he had written down in a hurry, like a child's handwriting - but at this moment, the clues of his memory slowly Untied, he was no longer sure what was written on the paper.Soon, the clues drifted away again, like fallen leaves blown from a water tank by the wind, disappearing into the night sky.For a while, he just stared at the pages without questioning, remembering, or thinking. But when his mind was in chaos, his hands were not idle.He kept flipping through the things on the table—or sliding his hands across the countless pages in front of him, or randomly underlining some sentences, and finally, he flipped through stacks of papers aimlessly.His fingers seemed conscious, searching for something he had only recently forgotten.The papers were set aside, one on top of the other, forming a whole new pile in the center of the table.Finally, he picked up an unfinished manuscript bound together with a rubber band: The Glass Luthier.At first, he just watched it blankly, completely unmoved by its reappearance.He hadn't the faintest idea that Roger had pored over its contents, much less that the boy sneaked into the attic from time to time to see if there was any further development or conclusion to the story. The title on the manuscript finally brought Holmes out of his stupor, and beneath his long beard, he smiled strangely and sheepishly.If it weren't for the clearly written line at the top of the first chapter, he might have put this manuscript in a new stack of materials, and it would be submerged in all kinds of irrelevant graffiti again. Down.Now, he took off the rubber band and put the manuscript paper on the table.Then, he leaned back on the back of the chair, as if looking at someone else's work, and read the unfinished story.The impression of Mrs. Keller is still vivid.He remembered pictures of her and could easily recall her restless husband sitting across from him in his Baker Street apartment.He let it go for a few seconds, looked up at the ceiling, as if he had returned to the place at that time - he and Mr. Keller set off from Baker Street, and walked towards Portman Bookstore in the bustling streets and alleys of London.That night, as the wind hummed endlessly outside the attic window, he found himself perceiving the past more clearly than the present.