博斯库姆溪谷谜案 英语

博斯库姆溪谷谜案英语
The Boscombe Valley Mystery.
By Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.
Sherlock Holmes took his bottle from the corner of the mantel-piece and his hypodermic syringe from its neat morocco case. With his long, white, nervous fingers he adjusted the delicate needle and rolled back his left
shirt-cuff. For some little time his eyes rested thoughtfully upon the sinewy forearm and wrist all dotted and scarred with innumerable puncture-marks. Finally, he thrust the sharp point home, pressed down the tiny piston, and sank back into the velvet-lined arm-chair with a long sigh of satisfaction. Three times in as many minutes he had plunged the needle into his veins. The languor of the drug had not yet mastered him, but a great peace and content had come over him. The pulses in the temples beat more slowly, the dull ache of the forehead was gone, and his
intellectual energies were exalted as never before. He sat
motionless, with closed eyes, absorbing the full delight of the quiet senses and the keen anticipation of the evening's adventure.
From his luxurious reverie he was aroused by the dull moaning of a fog-horn down on the river, and found himself gazing into the murky obscurity of a London morning. The thick yellow fog rolled past the windows, veiling every object and giving an eerie unreality to the slatternly street and the big, dark house opposite. The clock on the mantelpiece struck nine. Holmes glanced at the time, and rose from his chair. A single lamp burned dimly in the foggy street, and by its light he observed as he looked out that a hansom cab was standing at the door. He threw a loose gray dressing-gown over his shoulders and made his way down to the hall.
"A young lady for you, sir," said the servant who opened the door; "she is waiting in the sitting-room."
Holmes walked into the room and found a young woman standing near the window. She was plainly but neatly
dressed, with a bright, quick face and hazel eyes. Her fingers were twitching nervously, and her whole bearing spoke of unease and agitation.
"You are Miss Hunter?" said Holmes.
"Yes, sir."
"Pray take a seat. You have come in reference to the Boscombe Valley mystery?"
"Yes, sir. The police have sent me."
"And you wish me to undertake your case?"
"Yes, sir. I have heard of your fame, Mr. Holmes, and of your wonderful power in unravelling crime."
Holmes smiled and bent his head in acknowledgment. "The case, as I understand it, is briefly this," he said. "Your stepfather, Mr. John Turner, died suddenly the night before last at his country house at Boscombe Valley. The
circumstances of his death are, as yet, obscure, but there are strong reasons for believing that he was murdered."
"You are right, sir. He was murdered."
"You have evidence to show this?"
"I have."
"May I ask you to furnish me with it?"
Miss Hunter hesitated for a moment, and then, with a quick glance at Holmes, she took a small packet from her handbag and placed it on the table. "These are the facts, sir," she said. "My stepfather was a man of violent temper, and had a great dislike to my mother, though he concealed it from her. I was his only child. He had no friends, and no one came to the house. I have no reason to think that my mother had any friends or correspondents. On the evening of his death there were only four people in the house besides my stepfather and mother. They are myself, my mother, her maid, and an old gardener.
"On that evening my stepfather dined at his club and came home about half-past nine. We had a dish of fruit at the table, and I noticed that the last of it remained on
the dish after the others had been finished. It was a pear, and it was placed where my stepfather could easily reach it. He ate it before leaving the table, and went into his study. Half an hour later my mother followed him. About an hour after that I entered the room and found my stepfather lying dead in his arm-chair. His face was black and swollen, and there was a foam on his lips. Dr. Wood, who examined him, said that he had died from some form of violent irritant poison. The fruit which he had eaten had been poisoned."
"How do you know that?" asked Holmes.
"I went back to the dining-room afterwards and examined it myself. I found that some of the fruit had been eaten, while some remained on the dish. I tasted one of the untouched pieces and found it to be bitter. The others were not bitter."
"Excellent," said Holmes. "You have done well, Miss Hunter. One other question. Did you notice anything peculiar in your mother's manner after your stepfather's death?"
"Yes, sir. She was very much excited and frightened. She kept walking up and down her room, wringing her hands.。