Variegated ribbon. The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes

Looking through my notes about the adventures of Sherlock Holmes - and I have more than seventy such records that I have kept over the past eight years - I find in them many tragic incidents, some of them are funny, there are also bizarre ones, but not a single one. ordinary: working out of love for his art, and not for the sake of money, Holmes never took up the investigation of ordinary, everyday affairs, he was always attracted only by such cases in which there is something extraordinary, and sometimes even fantastic.

Particularly bizarre is the case of the Stoke Moron Roylott family, well known in Surrey. Holmes and I, two bachelors, were then living together in Baker Street. Probably, I would have published my notes earlier, but I gave my word to keep this matter a secret and freed myself from my word only a month ago, after the untimely death of the woman to whom it was given. Perhaps it would be useful to present this case in its true light, because rumor attributed the death of Dr. Grimsby Roylott to even more terrible circumstances than those that were in reality.

Waking up one April morning in 1883, I saw Sherlock Holmes standing by my bed. He was not dressed at home. He usually got out of bed late, but now the clock on the mantelpiece showed only a quarter past seven. I looked at him with surprise and even a little reproachfulness. I myself was true to my habits.

I'm very sorry to wake you up, Watson, ”he said. “But that’s such a day. Mrs. Hudson was awakened, she - me, and I - you.

What is it there? Fire?

No, client. A girl has arrived, she is terribly excited and certainly wants to see me. She's waiting in the waiting room. And if a young lady decides at such an early hour to travel the streets of the capital and raise a stranger from her bed, I suppose she wants to communicate something very important. This may be an interesting case, and of course you would like to hear this story from the very first word. So I decided to give you this opportunity.

I would be happy to hear such a story.

I didn’t want more pleasure than following Holmes during his professional studies and admiring his impetuous thoughts. At times it seemed that he was solving the riddles offered to him not by reason, but by some kind of inspired instinct, but in fact, all his conclusions were based on precise and strict logic.

I dressed quickly, and after a few minutes we went downstairs to the living room. A lady, dressed in black, with a thick veil on her face, stood up at our appearance.

Good morning, madam, said Holmes amiably. - My name is Sherlock Holmes. This is my close friend and assistant, Dr. Watson, with whom you can be as frank as you are with me. Aha! It’s so good that Mrs. Hudson thought to light the fireplace. I see you are very cold. Sit close to the fire and let me offer you a cup of coffee.

It's not the cold that makes me shiver, Mr. Holmes, ”the woman said quietly, sitting down to the fireplace.

What then?

Fear, Mr. Holmes, horror!

With these words, she lifted her veil, and we saw how excited she was, what a gray, sunken face she had. There was fear in her eyes, like a hunted beast. She was no more than thirty years old, but her hair was already glistening with gray, and she looked tired and worn out.

Sherlock Holmes scanned her with his quick, all-knowing look.

You have nothing to fear, ”he said, stroking her arm affectionately. - I am sure that we will be able to settle all the troubles ... I see you arrived by the morning train.

Do you know me?

No, but I noticed a return ticket in your left glove. You got up early today, and then, heading to the station, you were shaking for a long time in a gig along a bad road.

The lady shuddered sharply and looked at Holmes in confusion.

There is no miracle here, ma'am, ”he said with a smile. “The left sleeve of your jacket is spattered with mud in at least seven places. The stains are perfectly fresh. So you can spray only in a gig, sitting to the left of the coachman.

It was like that, ”she said. - About six o'clock I got out of the house, at twenty minutes past seven I was in Leatherhead and with the first train arrived in London, at Waterloo station ... Sir, I can’t bear it anymore, I’ll go crazy! I have no one to whom I could turn to. There is, however, one person who takes part in me, but how can he help me, poor fellow? I heard about you, Mr. Holmes, I heard from Mrs. Farintosh, whom you helped in a moment of grief. She gave me your address. Oh sir, help me too, or at least try to shed some light into the impenetrable darkness that surrounds me! I am not in a position to thank you now for your services, but in a month and a half I will be married, then I will have the right to dispose of my income, and you will see that I know how to be grateful.

Holmes went to the desk, opened it, took out a notebook.

Farintosh ... - he said. - Oh yes, I remember this incident. It is associated with an opal tiara. I think it was before we met, Watson. I can assure you, madam, that I will be happy to treat your case with the same zeal with which I treated your friend's case. And I do not need any reward, since my work serves me as a reward. Of course, I will have some expenses, and you can reimburse them whenever you like. And now I ask you to tell us the details of your case so that we can have our own judgment about it.

Alas! - answered the girl. - The horror of my position lies in the fact that my fears are so vague and vague, and my suspicions are based on such trifles, seemingly irrelevant, that even the one to whom I have the right to turn for advice and help considers all my stories ravings of a nervous woman. He doesn't tell me anything, but I read it in his reassuring words and evasive looks. I heard, Mr. Holmes, that you, like no one, understand all the vicious inclinations of the human heart and can advise me what to do in the midst of the dangers around me.

I have all the attention, madam.

My name is Helen Stoner. I live at my stepfather's house, Roylott. He is the last offspring of one of the oldest Saxon families in England, the Roylotts of Stoke Moron, on the western border of Surrey.

Holmes nodded his head.

I know that name, ”he said.

There was a time when the Roylott family was one of the wealthiest in England. In the north, the Roylotts' holdings extended to Berkshire, and in the west to Hampshire. But in the last century, four generations in a row squandered the family fortune, until finally one of the heirs, a passionate gambler, finally ruined the family during the regency. Only a few acres of land and an old house, built two hundred years ago, and threatening to collapse under the burden of mortgages, remained from the former estates. The last landowner of this kind eked out the miserable existence of a beggar aristocrat in his house. But his only son, my stepfather, realizing that it was necessary to somehow adapt to the new state of affairs, borrowed the necessary amount of money from some relative, entered the university, graduated with a medical degree and left for Calcutta, where, thanks to his art and endurance soon became widespread. But then in his house there was a theft, and Roylott, in a fit of rage, beat the native butler to death. Having barely escaped the death penalty, he languished in prison for a long time, and then returned to England as a gloomy and disappointed man.

In India, Dr. Roylott married my mother, Mrs. Stoner, the young widow of a Major General of Artillery. We were twins - me and my sister Julia, and when our mother married the doctor, we were barely two years old. She had a decent fortune, which gave her not less than a thousand pounds of income a year. According to her will, this state passed to Dr. Roylott, since we lived together. But if we get married, each of us must be allocated a certain amount of annual income. Soon after we returned to England, our mother died - she died eight years ago in the train disaster at Crewe. After her death, Dr. Roylott gave up his attempts to establish himself in London and establish a medical practice there and settled with us on the family estate in Stoke Moron. Our mother's fortune was enough to satisfy our needs, and it seemed that nothing should interfere with our happiness.

But a strange change happened to my stepfather. Instead of making friends with the neighbors, who at first were glad that Roylott from Stoke Moron returned to his family nest, he locked himself in the estate and very rarely left the house, and if he did, then every time he started an ugly quarrel with the first person. who got in his way. A frenzied irascibility, reaching to frenzy, was transmitted through the male line to all members of this genus, and in my stepfather it probably intensified even more due to a long stay in the tropics. He had many violent clashes with neighbors, twice the case ended in a police station. He became the thunderstorm of the entire village ... It must be said that he is a man of incredible physical strength, and since in a fit of anger he does not control himself at all, people literally shied away when they met him.

Last week he threw a local blacksmith into the river, and to buy off the public scandal, I had to give all the money I could raise. His only friends are nomadic gypsies, he allows these vagabonds to set up tents on a small patch of land overgrown with blackberries, which makes up his entire family estate, and sometimes wanders with them, without returning home for whole weeks. He also has a passion for animals, which an acquaintance sends him from India, and at present a cheetah and a baboon roam freely around his possessions, instilling in the inhabitants almost the same fear as himself.

From my words, you can conclude that my sister and I did not live too much fun. Nobody wanted to go into our service, and for a long time we did all the homework ourselves. My sister was only thirty years old when she died, and her gray hair was already beginning to break through, the same as mine.

So your sister died?

She died exactly two years ago, and it is about her death that I want to tell you. You yourself understand that with such a lifestyle, we almost never met people of our age and our circle. True, we have an unmarried aunt, our mother's sister, Miss Honoria Westfile, she lives near Harrow, and from time to time we were allowed to stay with her. Two years ago, my sister Julia spent Christmas with her. There she met a retired major in the fleet, and he became her fiancé. Back home, she told our stepfather about her engagement. My stepfather did not mind her marriage, but two weeks before the wedding, a terrible event happened that deprived me of my only friend ...

Sherlock Holmes was sitting in a chair, leaning back and resting his head on a long pillow. His eyes were closed. Now he lifted his eyelids and looked at the visitor.

I ask you to tell, without missing a single detail, - he said.

It's easy for me to be precise, because all the events of those terrible days are engraved in my memory ... As I said, our house is very old, and only one wing is habitable. The lower floor houses the bedrooms, the living rooms are in the center. Dr. Roylott sleeps in the first bedroom, my sister slept in the second, and me in the third. The bedrooms are not connected with each other, but they all have access to one corridor. Am I clear enough?

Yes, it is quite.

All three bedrooms overlook the lawn. On that fateful night, Dr. Roylott retired early to his room, but we knew that he had not yet gone to bed, as my sister had long been bothered by the smell of strong Indian cigars, which he had a habit of smoking. My sister could not stand this smell and came to my room, where we sat for some time, chatting about her upcoming marriage. At eleven o'clock she got up and wanted to leave, but she stopped at the door and asked me:

"Tell me, Helen, don't you think that someone is whistling at night?"

“No,” I said.

"Hope you don't whistle in your sleep?"

"Of course not. What's the matter?"

“Recently, at about three in the morning, I clearly hear a quiet, distinct whistle. I sleep very lightly, and the whistle wakes me up. I cannot understand where it comes from - perhaps from the next room, perhaps from the lawn. I have long wanted to ask you if you have heard him. "

“No, I haven't. Maybe these vile gypsies are whistling? "

“It's very possible. However, if the whistle came from the lawn, you would hear it too. "

"I sleep much harder than you."

“However, all this is nonsense,” my sister smiled, closed my door, and after a few moments I heard the key clicked on her door.

Here's how! - said Holmes. - Have you always locked yourself at night?

And why?

I think I already mentioned that the doctor had a cheetah and a baboon. We only felt safe when the door was locked.

Understand. Please continue.

At night I could not sleep. A vague sensation of some inevitable misfortune gripped me. We are twins, and you know with what delicate bonds such kindred souls are connected. The night was terrible: the wind howled, the rain drummed on the windows. And suddenly, amid the roar of the storm, there was a wild cry. That was my sister screaming. I jumped out of bed and, throwing on a large handkerchief, jumped out into the corridor. When I opened the door, I thought I heard a low whistle, like the one my sister told me about, and then something clinked like a heavy metal object fell to the ground. As I ran to my sister's room, I saw the door swaying softly back and forth. I stopped, horrified, not understanding what was happening. By the light of a lamp burning in the corridor, I saw my sister, who appeared in the doorway, staggering like a drunk, with a white face with horror, stretching out her hands, as if praying for help. Rushing to her, I hugged her, but at that moment my sister's knees buckled and she fell to the ground. She writhed, as if from unbearable pain, her arms and legs were cramping. At first it seemed to me that she did not recognize me, but when I bent over her, she suddenly screamed ... Oh, I will never forget her terrible voice.

“My God, Helen! she shouted. - Ribbon! Colorful ribbon! "

She tried to say something else, pointing her finger in the direction of the doctor's room, but another fit of convulsions interrupted her words. I jumped out and, screaming loudly, ran after my stepfather. He was already hurrying towards me in a night robe. The sister was unconscious when he approached her. He poured brandy into her mouth and immediately sent for the village doctor, but all efforts to save her were in vain, and she died without regaining consciousness. Such was the terrible end of my beloved sister ...

Let me ask you, said Holmes. "Are you sure you heard the whistle and clang of metal?" Could you show it under oath?

The investigator also asked me about this. It seems to me that I heard these sounds, but I could be misled by the howling of the storm and the crackling of the old house.

Was your sister dressed?

No, she ran out in one nightgown. She had a burnt match in her right hand, and a matchbox in her left.

So she struck a match and began to look around when something frightened her. A very important detail. What conclusions did the investigator come to?

He carefully studied all the circumstances - after all, Dr. Roylott's violent nature was known throughout the district, but he could not find any satisfactory cause of my sister's death. I showed at the investigation that the door of her room was locked from the inside, and the windows were protected from the outside by antique shutters with wide iron bolts. The walls have been subjected to the most careful scrutiny, but they have proven to be very solid throughout. Inspection of the floor did not give any results either. The chimney is wide, but there are as many as four views overlapping it. So, there is no doubt that the sister was completely alone during the catastrophe that befell her. No traces of violence were found.

What about poison?

Doctors examined her, but found nothing to indicate poisoning.

What do you think was the cause of death?

It seems to me that she died of horror and nervous shock. But I have no idea who could scare her like that.

And the gypsies were at the estate at that time?

Yes, gypsies almost always live with us.

And what do you think her words about the tape, about the motley tape could mean?

Sometimes it seemed to me that these words were spoken simply in delirium, and sometimes - that they refer to gypsies. But why is the ribbon motley? It is possible that the colorful headscarves worn by gypsies inspired her with this strange epithet.

Holmes shook his head: apparently, the explanation did not satisfy him.

This is a dark matter, ”he said. - Please, continue.

Two years have passed since then, and my life was even more lonely than before. But a month ago, a person close to me, whom I have known for many years, proposed to me. His name is Armitage, Percy Armitage, he is the second son of Mr. Armitage of Cranewater, near Reading. My stepfather didn’t mind our marriage, and we are due to get married this spring. Two days ago, some renovations began in the west wing of our house. The wall of my bedroom was breached, and I had to move to the room where my sister died and sleep on the same bed she slept on. You can imagine my horror when, last night, lying awake and thinking about her tragic death, I suddenly heard in the silence the very quiet whistle that was the harbinger of my sister's death. I jumped up and lit the lamp, but there was no one in the room. I could not lie down again - I was too excited, so I got dressed and, a little dawn, slipped out of the house, took a gig at the Crown Hotel, which is opposite us, went to Leatherhead, and from there here - with only one thought to see you and ask you for advice.

You were very clever, ”said my friend. - But did you tell me everything?

No, not all, Miss Roylott: you spare and shield your stepfather.

I do not understand you…

Instead of answering, Holmes pulled back the black lace trim on our visitor's sleeve. Five crimson spots — the prints of five fingers — were clearly visible on the white wrist.

Yes, you were treated cruelly, said Holmes.

The girl blushed deeply and hurried to lower the lace.

Stepfather is a tough person, ”she said. - He is very strong, and, perhaps, he himself does not notice his strength.

There was a long silence. Holmes sat with his chin in his hands and looked at the fire crackling in the fireplace.

It's a tricky business, ”he said at last. “I would like to find out a thousand more details before deciding how to proceed. And yet there is not a minute to lose. Listen, if we came to Stoke Moron today, we would be able to inspect these rooms, but without your stepfather knowing anything.

He was just telling me that he was going to go to the city today on some important business. It is possible that he will not be all day, and then no one will bother you. We have a housekeeper, but she is old and stupid, and I can easily remove her.

Fine. Do you mind the trip, Watson?

Nothing at all.

Then we'll both come. What are you going to do yourself?

I have some business in town. But I'll be back by the twelve o'clock train to be there when you arrive.

Expect us shortly after noon. I have a few things to do here, too. Maybe you will stay and have breakfast with us?

No, I have to go! Now, when I told you about my grief, a stone has simply fallen from my soul. I will be glad to see you again.

She pulled a thick black veil over her face and left the room.

So what do you think of all this, Watson? - asked Sherlock Holmes, leaning back in his chair.

In my opinion, this is an extremely dark and dirty business.

Dirty enough and dark enough.

But if our guest is right, asserting that the floor and walls in the room are strong, so that it is impossible to get there through the doors, windows and chimney, then her sister was completely alone at the moment of her mysterious death ...

In that case, what do these nocturnal whistles and strange words of the dying woman mean?

I can't imagine.

If we compare the facts: the night whistles, the gypsies with whom this old doctor has such a close relationship, the hints of a dying woman about some kind of tape and, finally, the fact that Miss Helen Stoner heard the metallic clang that the iron bolt from the shutter could have emitted ... if remember, moreover, that the doctor is interested in preventing the marriage of his stepdaughter - I believe that we have attacked the right tracks that will help us unravel this mysterious incident.

But then what have the gypsies got to do with it?

I have no idea.

I still have many objections ...

Yes, and mine too, and that's why we are going to Stoke Moron today. I want to check everything in place. Some circumstances would not have turned out in the most fatal way. Maybe they can be clarified. What the hell does that mean?

This is what my friend exclaimed, because the door suddenly flung wide open, and a subject of colossal growth burst into the room. His suit was a strange mixture: a black top hat and a long frock coat indicated the profession of a doctor, and by his high leggings and a hunting whip in his hands he could be mistaken for a villager. He was so tall that his hat touched the top bar of our door, and so wide at the shoulders that he could hardly squeeze through the door. His thick, tanned face with traces of all vices was cut by a thousand wrinkles, and deep-seated, viciously sparkling eyes and a long, thin, bony nose gave him the resemblance to an old bird of prey.

He looked first at Sherlock Holmes, then at me.

Which one is Holmes? the visitor finally said.

That's my name, sir, ”my friend replied calmly. “But I don’t know yours.

I'm Dr. Grimsby Roylott of Stoke Moron.

I am glad. Sit down, doctor, please, ”Sherlock Holmes said graciously.

I will not sit down! My stepdaughter was here. I tracked her down. What did she tell you?

Something unseasonably cold weather today, - said Holmes.

What did she tell you? the old man shouted angrily.

However, I heard that crocuses will bloom perfectly, - my friend continued calmly.

Aha, you want to get rid of me! - said our guest, taking a step forward and brandishing his hunting whip. “I know you, scoundrel. I've heard of you before. You love to poke your nose into other people's business.

My friend smiled.

You are a sneak!

Holmes smiled even wider.

Police Bloodhound!

Holmes laughed heartily.

You are a surprisingly pleasant conversationalist, he said. - When leaving here, close the door, otherwise, really, it comes through strongly.

I will only come out when I speak. Do not try to interfere in my affairs. I know Miss Stoner was here, I followed her! Woe to the one who gets in my way! Look!

He walked quickly to the fireplace, took the poker and bent it with his huge tanned hands.

Look, don't fall into my clutches! he growled, tossing the twisted poker into the fireplace and leaving the room.

What a gracious gentleman! - laughing, said Holmes. “I’m not that giant, but if he hadn’t left, I would have had to prove to him that my paws are no weaker than his paws.

With that, he lifted the steel poker and straightened it in one swift motion.

What the audacity to confuse me with the police detectives! Well, thanks to this incident, our research has become even more interesting. I hope our friend will not be hurt by so thoughtlessly allowing this brute to track her down. Now, Watson, we’ll have breakfast, and then I’ll go to the lawyers and make some inquiries.

It was about one o'clock when Holmes returned home. In his hand was a sheet of blue paper covered with notes and numbers.

I saw the will of the doctor’s late wife, ”he said. - To understand it more precisely, I had to inquire about the current value of the securities in which the state of the deceased is placed. In the year of her death, her total income was almost a thousand pounds, but since then, due to the fall in the prices of agricultural products, it has decreased to seven hundred and fifty pounds. Once married, each daughter is entitled to an annual income of two hundred and fifty pounds sterling. Therefore, if both daughters got married, our handsome man would receive only pitiful crumbs. His income would be significantly reduced even if only one of his daughters got married. I did not waste the morning in vain, as I received clear evidence that my stepfather had very good reason to prevent the marriage of his stepdaughters. The circumstances are too serious, Watson, and there is not a minute to lose, especially since the old man already knows how interested we are in his affairs. If you are ready, you need to quickly call a cab and go to the station. I would be extremely grateful if you could slip a revolver into your pocket. The revolver is an excellent argument for a gentleman who can tie a steel poker in a knot. A revolver and a toothbrush are all we need.

At Waterloo station we were lucky enough to get on the train right away. Arriving at Summerhead, we took a gig at a hotel near the station and drove about five miles on the scenic roads of Surrey. It was a lovely sunny day, and only a few cirrus clouds floated across the sky. Green buds had just blossomed on the trees and hedges by the roads, and the air was filled with the delicious scent of damp earth.

It seemed strange to me the contrast between the sweet awakening of spring and the terrible deed for which we came here. My friend was sitting in front, arms folded, hat pulled down over his eyes, chin on his chest, immersed in deep thoughts. Suddenly he raised his head, slapped me on the shoulder and pointed somewhere into the distance.

Take a look!

The vast park stretches along the hillside, turning into a dense grove at the top; from behind the branches could be seen the outlines of a high roof and the spire of an old manor house.

Stoke Moron? Sherlock Holmes asked.

Yes, sir, this is Grimsby Roylott's house, ”the driver replied.

You see, they are building over there, - said Holmes. - We need to get there.

We're on our way to the village, ”said the driver, pointing to the rooftops that could be seen at some distance to the left. “But if you want to get to the house as soon as possible, you'd better climb over the fence here, and then walk the fields along the path. Along the path that this lady walks.

And this lady is like Miss Stoner, ”said Holmes, shading his eyes from the sun. “Yes, we'd better follow the path, as you advise.

We got out of the cart, paid, and the carriage drove back to Leatherhead.

Let this fellow think that we are architects, - said Holmes, as we climbed over the fence, - then our arrival will not cause much comment. Good afternoon Miss Stoner! You see, we have kept our word!

Our morning visitor happily hurried towards us.

I was looking forward to seeing you! - exclaimed bottom, hotly shaking hands with us. “Everything has worked out wonderfully: Dr. Roylott has left for the city and is unlikely to return before evening.

We had the pleasure of meeting the doctor, ”Holmes said, and spoke in a nutshell about what had happened.

Miss Stoner turned pale.

My God! - she exclaimed. - So he followed me!

It looks like it.

He is so cunning that I never feel safe. What will he say when he returns?

He'll have to be more careful, because there might be someone more cunning here. Lock yourself from him with a key at night. If he rages, we will take you to your aunt in Harrow ... Well, now we need to make the best use of the time, and therefore, please escort us to the rooms that we are supposed to examine.

The house was of gray, lichen-covered stone and had two semicircular wings, spread like crab claws on either side of the high central section. In one of these wings the windows were knocked out and boarded up; the roof collapsed in places. The central part seemed almost as ruined, but the right wing was relatively recently finished, and from the curtains on the windows, from the bluish haze that curled from the pipes, it was clear that they lived here. Scaffolding was erected at the extreme wall, and some work began. But not a single bricklayer was to be seen.

Holmes began to pace slowly across the uncleared lawn, looking intently at the windows.

As far as I understand, this is the room you lived in before. The middle window is from your sister's room, and the third window, which is closer to the main building, is from Dr. Roylott's ...

Absolutely correct. But now I live in the middle room.

I understand, because of the renovation. By the way, it is somehow imperceptible that this wall needs such urgent repair.

Doesn't need at all. I think this is just an excuse to get me out of my room.

Very likely. So, along the opposite wall, a corridor stretches, where the doors of all three rooms open. Are there windows in the hallway, no doubt?

Yes, but very small. It is impossible to crawl through them.

Since both of you were locked with a key, it is impossible to get to your rooms from the corridor. Please go to your room and close the shutters.

Miss Stoner complied with his request. Holmes, having previously examined the window, made every effort to open the shutters from the outside, but to no avail: there was not a single crack through which even the blade of a knife could be pushed in to lift the bolt. Using a magnifying glass, he examined the hinges, but they were of solid iron and firmly embedded in the massive wall.

Hm! he said, scratching his chin in thought. - My initial hypothesis is not supported by the facts. When the shutters are closed, you can't get into these windows ... Okay, let's see if we can figure out something by examining the rooms from the inside.

A small side door opened into a whitewashed corridor that opened onto all three bedrooms. Holmes did not consider it necessary to inspect the third room, and we went straight to the second, where Miss Stoner was now sleeping, and where her sister had died. It was a simply furnished room with a low ceiling and a wide fireplace, one of those found in old country houses. There was a chest of drawers in one corner; another corner was occupied by a narrow bed covered with a white blanket; to the left of the window was a dressing table. The decoration of the room was completed by two wicker chairs and a square rug in the middle. The panels on the walls were dark, worm-eaten oak, so old and faded that they seemed to have not been replaced since the house was built.

Holmes took a chair and sat down silently in the corner. His eyes carefully slid up and down the walls, ran around the room, studying and examining every little thing.

Where did this call go? he asked at last, pointing to a thick bell cord hanging over the bed, the tassel of which lay on the pillow.

Into the servants' room.

He seems to be newer than all other things.

Yes, it was carried out just a few years ago.

Perhaps your sister asked for this?

No, she never used it. We have always done everything ourselves.

Indeed, this call is an extra luxury here. Excuse me if I delay you for a few minutes; I would like to take a good look at the floor.

Magnifying glass in hand, he crawled back and forth on all fours across the floor, intently examining every crack in the floorboards. He also carefully examined the panels on the walls. Then he went to the bed, carefully examined it and the entire wall from top to bottom. Then he took the cord from the bell and pulled it.

Why, the call is fake! - he said.

Doesn't he call?

It's not even connected to a wire. Curious! See, it's tied to a hook just above that little fan hole.

How strange! I didn’t even notice it.

Very strange ... - Holmes muttered, tugging at the cord. - In this room, a lot attracts attention. For example, what a crazy builder it takes to take a fan into the next room when it could just as easily be taken out!

All this was done very recently, too, ”Helen said.

At about the same time as the bell, Holmes remarked.

Yes, at that time some alterations were made here.

Interesting alterations: bells that don't ring and fans that don't ventilate. With your permission, Miss Stoner, we will move our research to other rooms.

Dr. Grimsby Roylott's room was larger than his stepdaughter's, but furnished just as simply. A camp bed, a small wooden shelf lined with books, mostly technical, an armchair next to the bed, a simple wicker chair against the wall, a round table and a large iron fireproof cabinet — that was all that caught your eye when you entered the room. Holmes paced slowly around, examining every thing with lively interest.

What's here? he asked, banging on the fireproof cabinet.

My stepfather's business papers.

Wow! So you looked into this closet?

Only once, a few years ago. I remember there was a pile of papers.

Is there, for example, a cat in it?

No. What a strange thought!

But look!

He removed a small saucer of milk from the cupboard.

No, we don't keep cats. But we have a cheetah and a baboon.

Oh yes! The cheetah, of course, is only a big cat, but I doubt that such a small saucer of milk can satisfy this beast. Yes, we need to figure it out.

He squatted down in front of the chair and began to study the seat with deep attention.

Thank you, everything is clear, ”he said, getting up and putting the magnifying glass in his pocket. - Yeah, here's something else quite interesting!

His attention was drawn to a small dog's whip hanging in the corner of the bed. The end was tied with a loop.

What do you think of this, Watson?

In my opinion, the most common whip. I don’t understand why it was necessary to tie a loop on it.

Not so ordinary ... Oh, how much evil there is in the world, and worst of all, when an intelligent person does evil deeds! .. Well, that's enough for me, miss, I learned everything I need, and now, with your permission, we will walk across the lawn ...

I have never seen Holmes so sullen and sullen. For a while we paced up and down in deep silence, and neither Miss Stoner nor I interrupted his thoughts until he himself woke up from his reverie.

It is very important, Miss Stoner, that you follow my advice exactly, ”he said.

I will fulfill everything unquestioningly.

The circumstances are too serious to hesitate. Your life depends on your complete obedience.

I rely entirely on you.

First, we both - my friend and I - must spend the night in your room.

Miss Stoner and I looked at him in amazement.

It's necessary. I'll explain to you. What is it over there on the other side? Probably a country inn?

Yes, there is "Crown".

Very good. Can you see your windows from there?

Of course.

When your stepfather returns, say that you have a headache, go to your room and lock yourself. When you hear that he has gone to bed, you will remove the bolt, open the shutters of your window and put a lamp on the windowsill; this lamp will be a signal to us. Then, taking with you whatever you want, you will move to your former room. I am convinced that, despite the renovation, you can spend the night in it once.

Undoubtedly.

Leave the rest to us.

But what are you going to do?

We will spend the night in your room and find out the cause of the noise that scared you.

It seems to me, Mr. Holmes, that you have already reached some conclusion, ”said Miss Stoner, touching my friend's sleeve.

Perhaps yes.

Then, for heaven's sake, tell me at least why did my sister die?

Before answering, I would like to collect more accurate evidence.

Then tell me at least if my assumption is correct that she died of sudden fright?

No, not true: I suppose the cause of her death was more material ... Now, Miss Stoner, we must leave you, because if Mr. Roylott comes back and finds us, the whole trip will be completely in vain. Goodbye! Be courageous, do what I said, and do not doubt that we will quickly eliminate the danger that threatens you.

Sherlock Holmes and I easily rented a room at the Crown Hotel. Our suite was on the top floor, with a view of the park gate and the inhabited wing of the Stock Moron house. At dusk we saw Dr. Grimsby Roylott drive by; his bulky body heaved up next to the skinny figure of the boy who drove the carriage. The boy did not immediately manage to open the heavy iron gate, and we heard the doctor growling at him, and saw the fury with which he shook his fists. The carriage drove through the gate, and a few minutes later the light from a lamp in one of the living rooms flashed through the trees. We sat in the dark, not lighting a fire.

I really don’t know, ”said Holmes,“ whether to take you with me tonight! This is a very dangerous business.

Can I be useful to you?

Your help can be invaluable.

Then I will certainly go.

Thanks.

You are talking about danger. Obviously, you saw something in these rooms that I did not see.

No, I saw the same thing as you, but made different conclusions.

I did not notice anything remarkable in the room, except for the cord from the bell, but, I confess, I am not able to understand for what purpose it can serve.

Did you pay attention to the fan?

Yes, but it seems to me that there is nothing unusual about this little hole between the two rooms. It is so small that even a mouse can hardly crawl through it.

I knew about this fan before we came to Stoke Moron.

My dear Holmes!

Yes, I knew. Remember Miss Stoner said her sister smelled the cigars Dr. Roylott smoked? And this proves that there is a hole between the two rooms, and, of course, it is very small, otherwise the investigator would have noticed it when examining the room. I decided that there must be a fan.

But what danger can a fan be?

And look what a strange coincidence: a fan is placed over the bed, a cord is hung, and the lady sleeping on the bed dies. Doesn't that amaze you?

I still cannot connect these circumstances.

Have you noticed anything special in bed?

It is screwed to the floor. Have you ever seen beds screwed to the floor?

Perhaps I did not see it.

The lady could not move her bed, her bed always remained in the same position in relation to the fan and the cord. This call has to be called simply a cord, since it does not ring.

Holmes! I cried. “I think I’m beginning to understand what you are hinting at. This means that we arrived just in time to prevent a terrible and sophisticated crime.

Yes, sophisticated and terrible. When a doctor commits a crime, he is more dangerous than all other criminals. He has strong nerves and great knowledge. Palmer and Pritchard Palmer, William - English physician who poisoned his friend with strychnine; executed in 1856. Pritchard, Edward William - an English doctor who poisoned his wife and mother-in-law; executed in 1865. were the best specialists in their field. This man is very cunning, but I hope, Watson, that we will be able to outsmart him. We have a lot of terrible things to go through tonight, and therefore, please, let's calmly smoke our pipes and spend these few hours talking about something more fun.

About nine o'clock the light that could be seen between the trees went out, and the estate plunged into darkness. Two hours passed in this way, and suddenly at exactly eleven o'clock a lonely bright light shone directly opposite our window.

This is a signal for us, - said Holmes, jumping up. - The light is on in the middle window.

Leaving, he told the owner of the hotel that we were going to visit an acquaintance and, perhaps, we would spend the night there. A minute later we came out onto a dark road. A fresh wind blew in our faces, yellow light, flickering in front of us in the darkness, showed the way.

It was not difficult to get to the house, because the old park fence had collapsed in many places. Making our way between the trees, we reached a lawn, crossed it and were about to climb through the window, when suddenly some creature that looked like a disgusting freak child jumped out of the laurel bushes, rushed, writhing, onto the grass, and then rushed across the lawn and disappeared In the dark.

God! I whispered. - Have you seen?

At first, Holmes was as frightened as I was. He grabbed my hand and squeezed it like a vice. Then he laughed softly and, bringing his lips to my ear, muttered barely audibly:

Dear family! It's a baboon.

I completely forgot about the doctor's favorites. And the cheetah that can be on our shoulders every minute? Frankly, I felt much better when, following Holmes' example, I kicked off my shoes, climbed through the window and found myself in the bedroom. My friend silently closed the shutters, moved the lamp to the table, and quickly looked around the room. Everything was here as in the daytime. He approached me and, clasping his hand into the receiver, whispered so softly that I barely understood him:

The slightest sound will destroy us.

I nodded my head to show that I could hear.

We will have to sit without fire. He can see the light through the fan.

I nodded again.

Don't fall asleep - your life depends on it. Keep your revolver ready. I will sit on the edge of the bed and you on a chair.

I pulled out my revolver and put it on the corner of the table. Holmes brought with him a long, thin cane and placed it on the bed beside him, along with a box of matches and a candle stub. Then he blew out the lamp, and we were left in complete darkness.

Will I ever forget this terrible sleepless night! Not a single sound reached me. I didn’t even hear my friend’s breathing, but meanwhile I knew that he was sitting two steps away from me with his eyes open, in the same tense, nervous state as I was. The shutters did not let in the slightest ray of light; we sat in absolute darkness. Occasionally, the cry of a night bird was heard outside, and once at our very window there was a prolonged howl, similar to a cat's meow: the cheetah was apparently walking free. In the distance, the church clock could be heard echoing the quarters. How long they seemed to us, these every fifteen minutes! It struck twelve, one, two, three, and we all sat in silence, expecting something inevitable.

Suddenly a light flashed by the fan and immediately disappeared, but immediately we smelled a strong smell of burning oil and hot metal. Someone in the next room lit a secret lantern. I heard something move, then everything fell silent, and only the smell became even stronger. For half an hour I sat, peering intently into the darkness. Suddenly there was a new sound, gentle and quiet, like a thin stream of steam escaping from a cauldron. And at the same instant Holmes jumped out of bed, struck a match and fiercely whipped his cane along the cord.

Do you see her, Watson? he bellowed. - See?

But I didn't see anything. While Holmes was striking a match, I heard a quiet, distinct whistle, but a sudden bright light blinded my weary eyes so much that I could not see anything and did not understand why Holmes was whipping his cane so violently. However, I managed to notice an expression of horror and disgust on his deathly pale face.

Holmes stopped whipping and began to gaze intently at the fan, when suddenly the silence of the night was cut through by such a terrible cry, such as I had never heard in my life. That hoarse scream, in which misery, fear and rage mingled, grew louder and louder. It was said later that not only in the village, but even in the remote priest's house, this cry woke up all the sleeping people. Chilled with horror, we looked at each other until the last scream died away in silence.

What does it mean? I asked breathlessly.

That means it's over, Holmes replied. “And in essence, it's for the best. Take the revolver and let's go to Dr. Roylott's room.

His face was stern. He lit a lamp and walked down the corridor. Twice he knocked on the door of the doctor's room, but no one answered from inside. Then he turned the knob and entered the room. I followed him with a loaded revolver in my hand.

An extraordinary sight presented itself to our eyes. There was a lantern on the table, casting a bright beam of light on an iron fireproof cabinet, the door of which was half open. At the table, in a straw chair, sat Dr. Grimsby Roylott in a long gray dressing gown with bare ankles visible. His feet were in red Turkish mules. On my knees lay the very whip that we had noticed in his room during the day. He sat with his chin up, his eyes fixed on the ceiling; there was an expression of fear in his eyes. Around his head was tightly wrapped around some extraordinary, yellow with brown specks of ribbon. When we appeared, the doctor did not move or make a sound.

Ribbon! Colorful ribbon! Holmes whispered.

I took a step forward. In an instant, the strange headdress stirred, and the faceted head and swollen neck of a terrible snake rose from Dr. Roylott's hair.

Swamp Viper! cried Holmes. - The deadliest Indian snake! He died nine seconds after being bitten. “He who lifted the sword from the sword and perishes,” and the one who digs a hole for another will fall into it himself. We'll put this thing in her lair, send Miss Stoner to some quiet place, and let the police know what happened.

He grabbed the whip from the dead man’s knees, threw the loop over the snake’s head, pulled it from the terrible perch, threw it inside the fireproof cabinet and slammed the door.

These are the true circumstances of the death of Dr. Grimsby Roylott of Stoke Moron. I will not go into detail about how we gave the sad news to the frightened girl, how we took her by the morning train to the care of my aunt in Harrow, and how a dull police investigation came to the conclusion that the doctor died of his own negligence, playing with his pet, a poisonous snake. Sherlock Holmes told me the rest when we drove back the next day.

In the beginning I came to completely wrong conclusions, my dear Watson, "he said," and this proves how dangerous it is to rely on inaccurate data. The presence of the gypsies, the exclamation of the unfortunate girl who tried to explain what she saw when she struck a match - all this was enough to lead me on the wrong track. But when it became clear to me that it was impossible to enter the room either through the door or through the window, that the occupant of this room was not in danger from there, I realized my mistake, and this can serve as an excuse for me. As I told you, my attention was immediately attracted by the fan and the bell cord hanging over the bed. When it was discovered that the bell was a fake, and the bed was attached to the floor, I suspected that the cord was just a bridge connecting the fan to the bed. I immediately got the idea of ​​a snake, and knowing how the doctor loves to surround himself with all kinds of Indian creatures, I realized that, perhaps, guessed right. Only such a cunning, cruel villain who had lived for many years in the East could think of resorting to a poison that cannot be detected chemically. In favor of this poison, from his point of view, spoke and the fact that it acts instantly. The investigator would have to have a truly unusually keen eyesight to make out the two tiny dark specks left by the snake's teeth. Then I remembered the whistle. With a whistle, the doctor called the snake back so that it would not be seen at dawn next to the dead. Probably, by giving her milk, he taught her to return to him. He passed the snake through the fan at the darkest hour of the night and knew for sure that it would crawl along the cord and go down to the bed. Sooner or later, the girl had to become a victim of a terrible plan, the snake would have stung her, if not now, then in a week. I came to these conclusions even before I visited Dr. Roylott's room. When I examined the seat of his chair, I realized that the doctor had a habit of standing on a chair to reach the ventilator. And when I saw a fireproof cupboard, a saucer of milk and a whip, my last doubts were finally dispelled. The metallic clang that Miss Stoner heard was evidently the sound of the door of the fireproof cabinet where the doctor was hiding the snake. You know what I have undertaken, convinced of the correctness of my conclusions. As soon as I heard the hiss of a snake - you, of course, heard it too - I immediately turned on the light and began to lash it with my cane.

You drove her back into the fan ...

-… and thus forced to attack the owner. The blows of my cane angered her, a serpentine malice awoke in her, and she attacked the first person she came across. Thus, I am indirectly guilty of the death of Dr. Grimsby Roylott, but I cannot say that this guilt is a heavy burden on my conscience.

A trembling young woman named Ellen Stoner turns to Sherlock Holmes for help.

Ellen's father served in India as a major general of artillery. He died leaving a decent fortune. When the girl and her twin sister Julia were two years old, her mother married Dr. Grimsby Roylott, the son of one of the wealthiest families in England. One of his relatives lost his entire fortune, and Roylott had to earn his own living. The girls' mother died in a train accident. According to her will, all the money went to her husband, but if the daughters get married, a certain part should be allocated to each. The family returned to England and settled near London in the Roylott family estate.

Roylott is a very violent and hot-tempered person with immense physical strength. He does not communicate with neighbors, but is friends with gypsies who have spread their camp on the territory of the estate. He brought animals from India, and a baboon and a cheetah roam the estate.

Two years ago, Julia was proposed by a retired major. The stepfather did not mind the marriage of his stepdaughter. Two weeks before the wedding, Julia came to Ellen's room before going to bed. Julia's bedroom was located between the bedrooms of her sister and stepfather, and the windows of all three rooms overlooked the lawn where the gypsy camp was spread. Julia complained that someone was whistling at night, she heard an iron clang, and the smell of strong cigars, which her stepfather smoked, prevented her from sleeping.

At night, the girls always locked the door with a key, as they were afraid of animals. There was an eerie scream that night. Jumping out into the corridor, Ellen saw her sister in a nightgown, white with horror. Julia staggered as if drunk, then fell, writhing in pain and convulsions. She was trying to show something, shouting at the same time: "Colorful ribbon." The arriving doctor could not save her, Julia died. After examining the circumstances of the death, the police concluded that the girl died of a nervous shock, since no one could enter her room, locked and with closed windows. No poison was found either.

Now Ellen has met the man who proposed to her. The stepfather does not object to the marriage, but he started renovations in the house, and Ellen had to move to her late sister's room. At night, the girl heard a strange whistle and an iron clang, which were a harbinger of Julia's death. She asks for help from the great detective. Sherlock Holmes promises to come to Roylott's estate in the evening and study the situation.

Soon after the visitor leaves the apartment on Baker Street, Grimsby Roylott himself visits. He has tracked down his stepdaughter and threatens the great detective.

Sherlock Holmes makes inquiries and finds out that the marriage of girls is very unprofitable for Roylott: his income will significantly decrease.

After examining the estate, Sherlock Holmes comes to the conclusion that repairs were not needed. He started in order to force Ellen to move to her sister's room. In Julia's room, he is interested in the long malfunctioning bell cord hanging over the bed, and the bed itself, which is bolted to the floor. The cord is tied to a small vent that does not go outside, but into the next room where Roylott lives. In Dr. Holmes's room, he finds an iron fireproof cabinet, which, according to Ellen, contains business papers, a whip tied in a noose, and a small saucer of milk.

The great detective intends to spend the night in Ellen's room, having removed the girl to a safe place. He is going to prevent a subtle and terrible crime that a doctor, a man with nerves of steel, is committing.

In the middle of the night, a gentle whistle is heard, and Holmes begins to violently beat the cord with his cane. A terrible cry is immediately heard. Holmes and Watson rush to Roylott's room. The door of the fireproof closet is open, Roylott is sitting on a chair in a dressing gown, a whip is in his lap, and a colorful ribbon wraps around his head. The doctor is dead. Suddenly the ribbon moves and the head of a poisonous snake, a swamp Indian viper, is shown. Holmes throws a whip on her and locks her in the closet.

Upon discovering the fake bell and the bolted bed, the great detective realized that the cord served as a bridge connecting the fan to the bed. And at the sight of a whip and a saucer of milk, Holmes got the idea of ​​a snake. After living for many years in India, Roylott found an undetectable poison, and an investigator must have very keen eyesight to see the tiny teeth marks of a viper.

Having teased the snake with a cane, Holmes forced it to attack the owner. The great detective is indirectly responsible for the death of Grimsby Roylott, but this death cannot be said to have been a heavy burden on his conscience.

You have read the summary of the story The Motley Ribbon. In you can read summaries and other books.

Looking through my notes about the adventures of Sherlock Holmes - and I have more than seventy such records that I have kept over the past eight years - I find in them many tragic incidents, some of them are funny, there are also bizarre ones, but not a single one. ordinary: working out of love for his art, and not for the sake of money, Holmes never took up the investigation of ordinary, everyday affairs, he was always attracted only by such cases in which there is something extraordinary, and sometimes even fantastic.

Particularly bizarre is the case of the Stoke Moron Roylott family, well known in Surrey. Holmes and I, two bachelors, then lived together on Baker-

straight. Probably, I would have published my notes earlier, but I gave my word to keep this matter a secret and freed myself from my word only a month ago, after the untimely death of the woman to whom it was given. Perhaps it will be useful to present this case in its true light, because rumor attributed the death of Dr. Grimaby Roylott to even more terrible circumstances than those that were in reality.

Waking up one April morning in 1883, I saw Sherlock Holmes standing by my bed. He was not dressed at home. He usually got out of bed late, but now the clock on the mantelpiece showed only a quarter past seven. I looked at him with surprise and even a little reproachfulness. I myself was true to my habits.

I'm very sorry to wake you up, Watson, ”he said.

But that is the day today. Mrs. Hudson was awakened, she - me, and I - you.

What is it? Fire?

No, client. A girl has arrived, she is terribly excited and certainly wants to see me. She's waiting in the waiting room. And if a young lady decides at such an early hour to travel the streets of the capital and raise a stranger from her bed, I suppose she wants to communicate something very important. This may be an interesting case, and of course you would like to hear this story from the very first word. So I decided to give you this opportunity.

I would be happy to hear such a story.

I didn’t want more pleasure than following Holmes during his professional studies and admiring his impetuous thoughts. At times it seemed that he was solving the riddles offered to him not by reason, but by some kind of inspired instinct, but in fact, all his conclusions were based on precise and strict logic.

I dressed quickly, and after a few minutes we went downstairs to the living room. A lady, dressed in black, with a thick veil on her face, stood up at our appearance.

Good morning, madam, said Holmes amiably. - My name is Sherlock Holmes. This is my close friend and assistant, Dr. Watson, with whom you can be as frank as you are with me. Aha! It’s so good that Mrs. Hudson thought to light the fireplace. I see you are very cold. Sit close to the fire and let me offer you a cup of coffee.

It's not the cold that makes me shiver, Mr. Holmes, ”the woman said quietly, sitting down to the fireplace.

What then?

Fear, Mr. Holmes, horror!

With these words, she lifted her veil, and we saw how excited she was, what a gray, sunken face she had. There was fear in her eyes, like a hunted beast. She was no more than thirty years old, but her hair was already glistening with gray, and she looked tired and worn out.

Sherlock Holmes scanned her with his quick, all-knowing look.

You have nothing to fear, ”he said, stroking her arm affectionately. - I am sure that we will be able to settle all the troubles ... I see you arrived by the morning train.

Do you know me?

No, but I noticed a return ticket in your left glove. You got up early today, and then, heading to the station, you were shaking for a long time in a gig along a bad road.

The lady shuddered sharply and looked at Holmes in confusion.

There is no miracle here, ma'am, ”he said with a smile. “The left sleeve of your jacket is spattered with mud in at least seven places. The stains are perfectly fresh. So you can spray only in a gig, sitting to the left of the coachman.

It was like that, ”she said. - About six o'clock I got out of the house, at twenty minutes past seven I was in Leatherhead and with the first train arrived in London, at Waterloo station ... Sir, I can’t bear it anymore, I’ll go crazy! I have no one to whom I could turn to. There is, however, one person who takes part in me, but how can he help me, poor fellow? I heard about you, Mr. Holmes, I heard from Mrs. Farintosh, whom you helped in a moment of grief. She gave me your address. Oh sir, help me too, or at least try to shed some light into the impenetrable darkness that surrounds me! I am not in a position to thank you now for your services, but in a month and a half I will be married, then I will have the right to dispose of my income, and you will see that I know how to be grateful.

Holmes went to the desk, opened it, took out a notebook.

Farintosh ... - he said. - Oh yes, I remember this incident. It is associated with an opal tiara. I think it was before we met, Watson. I can assure you, madam, that I will be happy to treat your case with the same zeal with which I treated your friend's case. And I do not need any reward, since my work serves me as a reward. Of course, I will have some expenses, and you can reimburse them whenever you like. And now I ask you to tell us the details of your case so that we can have our own judgment about it.

Alas! - answered the girl. - The horror of my position lies in the fact that my fears are so vague and vague, and my suspicions are based on such trifles, seemingly irrelevant, that even the one to whom I have the right to turn for advice and help considers all my stories ravings of a nervous woman. He doesn't tell me anything, but I read it in his reassuring words and evasive looks. I heard, Mr. Holmes, that you, like no one, understand all the vicious inclinations of the human heart and can advise me what to do in the midst of the dangers around me.

I have all the attention, madam.

My name is Helen Stoner. I live at my stepfather's house, Roylott. He is the last offspring of one of the oldest Saxon families in England, the Roylotts of Stoke Moron, on the western border of Surrey.

Holmes nodded his head.

I know that name, ”he said.

There was a time when the Roylott family was one of the wealthiest in England. In the north, the Roylotts' holdings extended to Berkshire, and in the west to Hapshire. But in the last century, four generations in a row squandered the family fortune, until finally one of the heirs, a passionate gambler, finally ruined the family during the regency. Only a few acres of land and an old house, built two hundred years ago, and threatening to collapse under the burden of mortgages, remained from the former estates. The last landowner of this kind eked out the miserable existence of a beggar aristocrat in his house. But his only son, my stepfather, realizing that it was necessary to somehow adapt to the new state of affairs, borrowed the necessary amount of money from some relative, entered the university, graduated with a medical degree and left for Calcutta, where, thanks to his art and endurance soon became widespread. But then in his house there was a theft, and Roylott, in a fit of rage, beat the native butler to death. Having barely escaped the death penalty, he languished in prison for a long time, and then returned to England as a gloomy and disappointed man.

In India, Dr. Roylott married my mother, Mrs. Stoner, the young widow of a Major General of Artillery. We were twins - me and my sister Julia, and when our mother married the doctor, we were barely two years old. She had a decent fortune, which gave her not less than a thousand pounds of income a year. According to her will, this state passed to Dr. Roylott, since we lived together. But if we get married, each of us must be allocated a certain amount of annual income. Soon after we returned to England, our mother died - she died eight years ago in the train disaster at Crewe. After her death, Dr. Roylott gave up his attempts to establish himself in London and establish a medical practice there and settled with us on the family estate in Stoke Moron. Our mother's fortune was enough to satisfy our needs, and it seemed that nothing should interfere with our happiness.

Arthur Conan Doyle

Variegated ribbon

Looking through my notes about the adventures of Sherlock Holmes - and I have more than seventy such records that I have kept over the past eight years - I find in them many tragic incidents, some of them are funny, there are also bizarre ones, but not a single one. ordinary: working out of love for his art, and not for the sake of money, Holmes never took up the investigation of ordinary, everyday affairs, he was always attracted only by such cases in which there is something extraordinary, and sometimes even fantastic.

Particularly bizarre is the case of the Stoke Moron Roylott family, well known in Surrey. Holmes and I, two bachelors, then lived together on Baker-

straight. Probably, I would have published my notes earlier, but I gave my word to keep this matter a secret and freed myself from my word only a month ago, after the untimely death of the woman to whom it was given. Perhaps it will be useful to present this case in its true light, because rumor attributed the death of Dr. Grimaby Roylott to even more terrible circumstances than those that were in reality.

Waking up one April morning in 1883, I saw Sherlock Holmes standing by my bed. He was not dressed at home. He usually got out of bed late, but now the clock on the mantelpiece showed only a quarter past seven. I looked at him with surprise and even a little reproachfulness. I myself was true to my habits.

I'm very sorry to wake you up, Watson, ”he said.

But that is the day today. Mrs. Hudson was awakened, she - me, and I - you.

What is it? Fire?

No, client. A girl has arrived, she is terribly excited and certainly wants to see me. She's waiting in the waiting room. And if a young lady decides at such an early hour to travel the streets of the capital and raise a stranger from her bed, I suppose she wants to communicate something very important. This may be an interesting case, and of course you would like to hear this story from the very first word. So I decided to give you this opportunity.

I would be happy to hear such a story.

I didn’t want more pleasure than following Holmes during his professional studies and admiring his impetuous thoughts. At times it seemed that he was solving the riddles offered to him not by reason, but by some kind of inspired instinct, but in fact, all his conclusions were based on precise and strict logic.

I dressed quickly, and after a few minutes we went downstairs to the living room. A lady, dressed in black, with a thick veil on her face, stood up at our appearance.

Good morning, madam, said Holmes amiably. - My name is Sherlock Holmes. This is my close friend and assistant, Dr. Watson, with whom you can be as frank as you are with me. Aha! It’s so good that Mrs. Hudson thought to light the fireplace. I see you are very cold. Sit close to the fire and let me offer you a cup of coffee.

It's not the cold that makes me shiver, Mr. Holmes, ”the woman said quietly, sitting down to the fireplace.

What then?

Fear, Mr. Holmes, horror!

With these words, she lifted her veil, and we saw how excited she was, what a gray, sunken face she had. There was fear in her eyes, like a hunted beast. She was no more than thirty years old, but her hair was already glistening with gray, and she looked tired and worn out.

Sherlock Holmes scanned her with his quick, all-knowing look.

You have nothing to fear, ”he said, stroking her arm affectionately. - I am sure that we will be able to settle all the troubles ... I see you arrived by the morning train.

Do you know me?

No, but I noticed a return ticket in your left glove. You got up early today, and then, heading to the station, you were shaking for a long time in a gig along a bad road.

The lady shuddered sharply and looked at Holmes in confusion.

There is no miracle here, ma'am, ”he said with a smile. “The left sleeve of your jacket is spattered with mud in at least seven places. The stains are perfectly fresh. So you can spray only in a gig, sitting to the left of the coachman.

It was like that, ”she said. - About six o'clock I got out of the house, at twenty minutes past seven I was in Leatherhead and with the first train arrived in London, at Waterloo station ... Sir, I can’t bear it anymore, I’ll go crazy! I have no one to whom I could turn to. There is, however, one person who takes part in me, but how can he help me, poor fellow? I heard about you, Mr. Holmes, I heard from Mrs. Farintosh, whom you helped in a moment of grief. She gave me your address. Oh sir, help me too, or at least try to shed some light into the impenetrable darkness that surrounds me! I am not in a position to thank you now for your services, but in a month and a half I will be married, then I will have the right to dispose of my income, and you will see that I know how to be grateful.

Holmes went to the desk, opened it, took out a notebook.

Farintosh ... - he said. - Oh yes, I remember this incident. It is associated with an opal tiara. I think it was before we met, Watson. I can assure you, madam, that I will be happy to treat your case with the same zeal with which I treated your friend's case. And I do not need any reward, since my work serves me as a reward. Of course, I will have some expenses, and you can reimburse them whenever you like. And now I ask you to tell us the details of your case so that we can have our own judgment about it.

Alas! - answered the girl. - The horror of my position lies in the fact that my fears are so vague and vague, and my suspicions are based on such trifles, seemingly irrelevant, that even the one to whom I have the right to turn for advice and help considers all my stories ravings of a nervous woman. He doesn't tell me anything, but I read it in his reassuring words and evasive looks. I heard, Mr. Holmes, that you, like no one, understand all the vicious inclinations of the human heart and can advise me what to do in the midst of the dangers around me.

I have all the attention, madam.

My name is Helen Stoner. I live at my stepfather's house, Roylott. He is the last offspring of one of the oldest Saxon families in England, the Roylotts of Stoke Moron, on the western border of Surrey.

Holmes nodded his head.

I know that name, ”he said.

There was a time when the Roylott family was one of the wealthiest in England. In the north, the Roylotts' holdings extended to Berkshire, and in the west to Hapshire. But in the last century, four generations in a row squandered the family fortune, until finally one of the heirs, a passionate gambler, finally ruined the family during the regency. Only a few acres of land and an old house, built two hundred years ago, and threatening to collapse under the burden of mortgages, remained from the former estates. The last landowner of this kind eked out the miserable existence of a beggar aristocrat in his house. But his only son, my stepfather, realizing that it was necessary to somehow adapt to the new state of affairs, borrowed the necessary amount of money from some relative, entered the university, graduated with a medical degree and left for Calcutta, where, thanks to his art and endurance soon became widespread. But then in his house there was a theft, and Roylott, in a fit of rage, beat the native butler to death. Having barely escaped the death penalty, he languished in prison for a long time, and then returned to England as a gloomy and disappointed man.

In India, Dr. Roylott married my mother, Mrs. Stoner, the young widow of a Major General of Artillery. We were twins - me and my sister Julia, and when our mother married the doctor, we were barely two years old. She had a decent fortune, which gave her not less than a thousand pounds of income a year. According to her will, this state passed to Dr. Roylott, since we lived together. But if we get married, each of us must be allocated a certain amount of annual income. Soon after we returned to England, our mother died - she died eight years ago in the train disaster at Crewe. After her death, Dr. Roylott gave up his attempts to establish himself in London and establish a medical practice there and settled with us on the family estate in Stoke Moron. Our mother's fortune was enough to satisfy our needs, and it seemed that nothing should interfere with our happiness.

But a strange change happened to my stepfather. Instead of making friends with the neighbors, who at first were glad that Roylott from Stoke Moron returned to his family nest, he locked himself in the estate and very rarely left the house, and if he did, then every time he started an ugly quarrel with the first person. who got in his way. A frenzied irascibility, reaching to frenzy, was transmitted through the male line to all members of this genus, and in my stepfather it probably intensified even more due to a long stay in the tropics. He had many violent clashes with neighbors, twice the case ended in a police station. He became the thunderstorm of the entire village ... It must be said that he is a man of incredible physical strength, and since in a fit of anger he does not control himself at all, people literally shied away when they met him.

Arthur Conan Doyle

Variegated ribbon

Looking through my notes about the adventures of Sherlock Holmes - and I have more than seventy such records that I have kept over the past eight years - I find in them many tragic incidents, some of them are funny, there are also bizarre ones, but not a single one. ordinary: working out of love for his art, and not for the sake of money, Holmes never took up the investigation of ordinary, everyday affairs, he was always attracted only by such cases in which there is something extraordinary, and sometimes even fantastic.

Particularly bizarre is the case of the Stoke Moron Roylott family, well known in Surrey. Holmes and I, two bachelors, then lived together on Baker-

straight. Probably, I would have published my notes earlier, but I gave my word to keep this matter a secret and freed myself from my word only a month ago, after the untimely death of the woman to whom it was given. Perhaps it will be useful to present this case in its true light, because rumor attributed the death of Dr. Grimaby Roylott to even more terrible circumstances than those that were in reality.

Waking up one April morning in 1883, I saw Sherlock Holmes standing by my bed. He was not dressed at home. He usually got out of bed late, but now the clock on the mantelpiece showed only a quarter past seven. I looked at him with surprise and even a little reproachfulness. I myself was true to my habits.

I'm very sorry to wake you up, Watson, ”he said.

But that is the day today. Mrs. Hudson was awakened, she - me, and I - you.

What is it? Fire?

No, client. A girl has arrived, she is terribly excited and certainly wants to see me. She's waiting in the waiting room. And if a young lady decides at such an early hour to travel the streets of the capital and raise a stranger from her bed, I suppose she wants to communicate something very important. This may be an interesting case, and of course you would like to hear this story from the very first word. So I decided to give you this opportunity.

I would be happy to hear such a story.

I didn’t want more pleasure than following Holmes during his professional studies and admiring his impetuous thoughts. At times it seemed that he was solving the riddles offered to him not by reason, but by some kind of inspired instinct, but in fact, all his conclusions were based on precise and strict logic.

I dressed quickly, and after a few minutes we went downstairs to the living room. A lady, dressed in black, with a thick veil on her face, stood up at our appearance.

Good morning, madam, said Holmes amiably. - My name is Sherlock Holmes. This is my close friend and assistant, Dr. Watson, with whom you can be as frank as you are with me. Aha! It’s so good that Mrs. Hudson thought to light the fireplace. I see you are very cold. Sit close to the fire and let me offer you a cup of coffee.

It's not the cold that makes me shiver, Mr. Holmes, ”the woman said quietly, sitting down to the fireplace.

What then?

Fear, Mr. Holmes, horror!

With these words, she lifted her veil, and we saw how excited she was, what a gray, sunken face she had. There was fear in her eyes, like a hunted beast. She was no more than thirty years old, but her hair was already glistening with gray, and she looked tired and worn out.

Sherlock Holmes scanned her with his quick, all-knowing look.

You have nothing to fear, ”he said, stroking her arm affectionately. - I am sure that we will be able to settle all the troubles ... I see you arrived by the morning train.

Do you know me?

No, but I noticed a return ticket in your left glove. You got up early today, and then, heading to the station, you were shaking for a long time in a gig along a bad road.

The lady shuddered sharply and looked at Holmes in confusion.

There is no miracle here, ma'am, ”he said with a smile. “The left sleeve of your jacket is spattered with mud in at least seven places. The stains are perfectly fresh. So you can spray only in a gig, sitting to the left of the coachman.

It was like that, ”she said. - About six o'clock I got out of the house, at twenty minutes past seven I was in Leatherhead and with the first train arrived in London, at Waterloo station ... Sir, I can’t bear it anymore, I’ll go crazy! I have no one to whom I could turn to. There is, however, one person who takes part in me, but how can he help me, poor fellow? I heard about you, Mr. Holmes, I heard from Mrs. Farintosh, whom you helped in a moment of grief. She gave me your address. Oh sir, help me too, or at least try to shed some light into the impenetrable darkness that surrounds me! I am not in a position to thank you now for your services, but in a month and a half I will be married, then I will have the right to dispose of my income, and you will see that I know how to be grateful.

Holmes went to the desk, opened it, took out a notebook.

Farintosh ... - he said. - Oh yes, I remember this incident. It is associated with an opal tiara. I think it was before we met, Watson. I can assure you, madam, that I will be happy to treat your case with the same zeal with which I treated your friend's case. And I do not need any reward, since my work serves me as a reward. Of course, I will have some expenses, and you can reimburse them whenever you like. And now I ask you to tell us the details of your case so that we can have our own judgment about it.

Alas! - answered the girl. - The horror of my position lies in the fact that my fears are so vague and vague, and my suspicions are based on such trifles, seemingly irrelevant, that even the one to whom I have the right to turn for advice and help considers all my stories ravings of a nervous woman. He doesn't tell me anything, but I read it in his reassuring words and evasive looks. I heard, Mr. Holmes, that you, like no one, understand all the vicious inclinations of the human heart and can advise me what to do in the midst of the dangers around me.

I have all the attention, madam.

My name is Helen Stoner. I live at my stepfather's house, Roylott. He is the last offspring of one of the oldest Saxon families in England, the Roylotts of Stoke Moron, on the western border of Surrey.

Holmes nodded his head.

I know that name, ”he said.

There was a time when the Roylott family was one of the wealthiest in England. In the north, the Roylotts' holdings extended to Berkshire, and in the west to Hapshire. But in the last century, four generations in a row squandered the family fortune, until finally one of the heirs, a passionate gambler, finally ruined the family during the regency. Only a few acres of land and an old house, built two hundred years ago, and threatening to collapse under the burden of mortgages, remained from the former estates. The last landowner of this kind eked out the miserable existence of a beggar aristocrat in his house. But his only son, my stepfather, realizing that it was necessary to somehow adapt to the new state of affairs, borrowed the necessary amount of money from some relative, entered the university, graduated with a medical degree and left for Calcutta, where, thanks to his art and endurance soon became widespread. But then in his house there was a theft, and Roylott, in a fit of rage, beat the native butler to death. Having barely escaped the death penalty, he languished in prison for a long time, and then returned to England as a gloomy and disappointed man.

In India, Dr. Roylott married my mother, Mrs. Stoner, the young widow of a Major General of Artillery. We were twins - me and my sister Julia, and when our mother married the doctor, we were barely two years old. She had a decent fortune, which gave her not less than a thousand pounds of income a year. According to her will, this state passed to Dr. Roylott, since we lived together. But if we get married, each of us must be allocated a certain amount of annual income. Soon after we returned to England, our mother died - she died eight years ago in the train disaster at Crewe. After her death, Dr. Roylott gave up his attempts to establish himself in London and establish a medical practice there and settled with us on the family estate in Stoke Moron. Our mother's fortune was enough to satisfy our needs, and it seemed that nothing should interfere with our happiness.

But a strange change happened to my stepfather. Instead of making friends with the neighbors, who at first were glad that Roylott from Stoke Moron returned to his family nest, he locked himself in the estate and very rarely left the house, and if he did, then every time he started an ugly quarrel with the first person. who got in his way. A frenzied irascibility, reaching to frenzy, was transmitted through the male line to all members of this genus, and in my stepfather it probably intensified even more due to a long stay in the tropics. He had many violent clashes with neighbors, twice the case ended in a police station. He became the thunderstorm of the entire village ... It must be said that he is a man of incredible physical strength, and since in a fit of anger he does not control himself at all, people literally shied away when they met him.

Last week he threw a local blacksmith into the river, and to buy off the public scandal, I had to give all the money I could raise. His only friends are nomadic gypsies, he allows these vagabonds to set up tents on a small patch of land overgrown with blackberries, which makes up his entire family estate, and sometimes wanders with them, without returning home for whole weeks. He also has a passion for animals, which an acquaintance sends him from India, and at present a cheetah and a baboon roam freely around his possessions, instilling in the inhabitants almost the same fear as himself.

End of free trial snippet.