Chapter 16 Chapter fifteen

That evening Holmes awoke at his desk, feeling numb in his feet, and decided to go for a walk to improve his blood circulation, and it was in this way that he discovered Roger.Roger was half-hidden in the tall grass not far from the apiary.Lying on his back, with his hands at his sides, he looked lazily at the slow-moving white clouds high above his head.Holmes did not walk towards him at once, nor did he call his name, but raised his head, looked at the clouds, and wondered what had so firmly attracted the boy's attention.But apart from the slowly changing cumulus clouds, he didn't see anything out of the ordinary—large clouds cover the sun from time to time, casting shadows on the lawn, like waves passing by the beach.

"Roger, boy," said Holmes at last, looking through the grass to where Roger lay, "I am sorry that your mother has asked you to help in the kitchen." Holmes had no intention of entering the apiary.He just planned to walk around the garden for a little while, look at the spice garden, pull up the weeds that were growing here and there, and pat down the loose soil with his cane.However, just as he passed the kitchen door, Mrs. Monroe stopped him.She wiped her floured hands off her apron and asked if he could do me a favor and get Roger.So Holmes agreed, somewhat reluctantly, because there was still unfinished work waiting for him in the attic, and because a walk outside the gardens, though relaxing, was often time-consuming Apiary, where he will surely stay until evening, to see the condition of the hive, rearrange the frames, remove the no longer needed hives, etc.).

A few days later, when he recalled it, he realized what an accidental tragedy Mrs. Monroe's request was: if she went to find her son by herself, she would never go farther than the bee farm, at least not at first. would; and would never notice a new narrow and twisting path in the tall grass; nor would he notice Roger lying motionless, staring at the white clouds.Yes, she would just stand on the garden path and call his name, and when no one answered, she would think he was somewhere else (reading in the cottage, chasing butterflies in the trees, or on the beach) pick up shells).She definitely won't be suddenly worried.And when she walked into the grass, called his name repeatedly, and walked towards him, there would be no worried expression on her face.

"Roger," said Holmes, "Roger," he called softly, standing beside the boy, touching his shoulder lightly with his cane. Afterwards, when Holmes locked himself in the attic study again, all he could think of was the child's eyes, the dilated pupils fixedly staring at the sky, but somehow conveying an emotion of ecstasy.He didn't want to recall what he had quickly deduced in the shivering grass: Roger's lips, hands, and cheeks were swollen, and countless sting wounds formed irregularities on his neck, face, forehead, and ears. shape.He also didn't want to think of the few words he murmured when he knelt down beside Roger - if others heard his serious tone, they might think that he was unbelievably cold and unimaginably numb.

"It's really dead, my boy. I'm afraid, it's really dead—" But Holmes was no stranger to sudden death—at least he thought so—and sudden deaths no longer surprised him.In the long course of his life, he once knelt down beside countless corpses—women, men, children, and animals, often strangers he didn’t know at all, but sometimes there were acquaintances—he would carefully Observe the specific marks left by the grim reaper (for example, blue-black bruises on one side of the body, bloodless skin, stiff and crooked fingers, and the disgusting sweet smell that burrows into the nostrils of living people-expressed in various ways same, but both have the same undeniable themes).Death, like crime, is common, he wrote, but logic is rare.As a result, it can be difficult to maintain logical thinking, especially in the face of death.However, one should always rely on logic and not wallow in death.

So, in the tall grass, he used logic as a shield against the heartrending fact of finding the boy's body (in fact, Holmes was already slightly dizzy, his fingers began to tremble, and his poignant emotions start to explode).Now, the fact that Roger was dead doesn't matter anymore, he said to himself.What matters is how he came to the end of his life.He didn't have to examine the body, or even bend over to look at the swollen face, to understand the horrific reality of the child's death. Of course, the child was stung by a bee, and had been stung many times, and Holmes knew it at a glance.Before dying, Roger's skin would turn red, and he would feel burning pain and itching all over his body.He may have tried to run away from his attacker.In any case, he walked from the apiary to the lawn after all, but under the pursuit of the bee swarm, he should not be able to tell the direction.There was no sign of ever throwing up on his shirt, around his lips or on his chin, but he must have had abdominal cramping and nausea.His blood pressure dropped rapidly, leaving him feeling weak.His throat and lips were swollen so he couldn't swallow or call for help.The subsequent change in heart rate and difficulty breathing may have made him feel that death was approaching (he was a smart boy and should have anticipated his own fate).Then, as if in a trap, he collapsed on the lawn, unconscious—his eyes widened, dying slowly.

"Allergic reaction," said Holmes to himself, as he dusted the boy's face.He concluded that a very severe allergic reaction had caused Roger's death.Getting stung so badly.This is the most extreme form of allergic reaction and is a relatively quick but painful way to die.Holmes cast his despairing eyes to the sky, watched the clouds passing overhead, and found that the twilight was deepening, and the day was drawing to an end. What kind of accident happened?Finally, he asked himself.He struggled and stood up on crutches.What did the boy do to piss off the bees like this?The apiary looked as peaceful as ever, and when he had walked through the apiary, looking for Roger and calling his name, he had not found any congregating swarms, nor any unusual commotion at the entrance to the hive.Also, there wasn't a single bee hovering around Roger at the moment.But in any case, the apiary must be observed more carefully, and the hive also needs strict inspection.If he does not want to face the same fate as Roger, he must also wear a full-body protective suit, gloves, hat and veil.But the first thing to do is to notify the police, tell Mrs. Monroe the bad news, and then remove Roger's body.

The sun was setting, and the horizon behind the fields and forests was turning pale.Holmes staggered away from Roger, crossed the lawn, avoided the apiary, and made his own crooked path to the gravel garden path.Then he stopped and looked back at the peaceful apiary and the location of the corpse, both bathed in the golden sunset.At this moment, he suddenly whispered a few words, but was flustered by his silent and meaningless words. "What did you say?" he said suddenly, thumping the gravel on the road with his crutch. "You—say—" a worker bee buzzed, and then another—their buzzing overwhelmed his voice.

His face lost all color, and his hands holding the crutches began to tremble.He wanted to regain his composure, took a few deep breaths, and quickly turned around and walked towards the farmhouse.But he couldn't walk anymore, everything in front of him became unreal, and the rows of flower beds, houses, and pine trees in the garden were blurred.For a moment, he froze, confused by his surroundings and the situation in front of him.He asked himself, how could I rush into this place that doesn't belong to me?How did I get here? "No," he said, "no, no, you're mistaken."

He closed his eyes and sucked air into his chest.He had to concentrate, not just to find himself, but to get rid of the feeling of unfamiliarity: the paths in the garden were of his own design, and so was the garden—there should be wild daffodils nearby, within reach. There should be purple Buddleia in place.He was sure that if he opened his eyes he would still see the great thistle and herb garden.Finally, trying to open his eyelids, he saw daffodils, buddhas, thistles, and pine trees beyond.He made up his mind and forced himself to move forward. "Of course," he murmured, "of course—"

That night, Holmes stood at the attic window and looked out into the darkness.He took pains not to recall the details of what he had said and explained before he went upstairs into the study—he had had a brief conversation with Mrs. Monroe after he had entered the farmhouse.At that time, her voice came from the kitchen: "Did you find him?" "found it." "Is he coming?" "I'm afraid so—come." "If you want me to say, it's time to come back." Nor did he recall the hasty phone call he had made to Anderson, telling him of Roger's death, where to find the body, and warning him and his men to avoid apiaries: "My bees There is a problem, be careful. Please dispose of the child’s body and inform his mother, I will keep an eye on the hive and tell you what I found tomorrow.” "We'll be right there. I'm sorry for your loss too, sir. I really—" "Hurry up, Anderson." He even didn't want to recall the attitude he chose to avoid because he didn't dare to face Mrs. Monroe directly-he couldn't express his chagrin, nor could he grieve with her, and he didn't even dare to stand when Anderson and his men entered the house. by her side.On the contrary, Roger's death left him at a loss, and he didn't have the courage to tell the boy's mother face to face.He climbed the stairs, shut himself in the study, locked the door, and forgot to return to the apiary as planned.Now, he just sat at the desk and wrote notes page after page, but he didn't care about the meaning of the words he wrote in a hurry.He paid attention to the movement of coming and going outside the window, and heard Mrs. Monroe's wailing suddenly coming from downstairs (her heartbroken crying, breathless sobbing all conveyed the deepest sadness, the sadness spreads along the walls and floors, echoes down the corridors, and then ends as abruptly as it began).A few minutes later Anderson knocked at the study door, saying: "Mr. Holmes—Sherlock—" Holmes let him in reluctantly, but only for a short time.The specifics of what they talked about were inevitably eventually forgotten by Holmes, including Anderson's suggestions, things Holmes agreed to, and so on. Anderson and his men left the farmhouse, put Mrs. Monroe into a car and the boy into an ambulance.During the quiet hours that followed Holmes went to the attic window, which saw nothing but sheer darkness.But he still felt something, an image that disturbed him, but he couldn't quite get rid of it from memory: Roger staring blue eyes, lying on the lawn, round pupils focused on the sky, the hollow The look in his eyes is unbearable. He walked back to the desk, rested in the chair for a while, then bent down, pressing his fingers firmly into his closed eyes. "No," he muttered, shaking his head, "Is that so?" He raised his head and said loudly, "How could this be?" He opened his eyes and looked around, as if expecting to see someone nearby.But this study was the same as before, he was the only one sitting at the desk, stretching out a hand to get a pen restlessly. His eyes fell on the stacks of manuscript paper and scattered notes in front of him, and the unfinished manuscript bound with a rubber band.For the next few hours before dawn, he would not think about it, and he would never know that the boy sat in this chair, perusing Mrs. Keller's case, hoping to see the end of the story .However, that very night, Holmes suddenly felt motivated to finish the story.He reached for the blank manuscript paper and began to seek a kind of spiritual relief for himself, which he had never had before. The speed of the writing seemed to exceed the speed of his thoughts, and he wrote page after page without effort.The words urged his hand forward, forward, and forward, but at the same time it took him back, back, and back—back to the summer he spent in Sussex, back to his trip to Japan, Even back to before the two world wars - back to a world that thrived at the close of the last century and the beginning of the new.He wrote until the sun came up, until the ink was almost out.