Online reading of the book The Speckled Band The Adventure of the Speckled Band. Variegated ribbon

Conan Doyle Arthur

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Arthur Conan Doyle

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Looking through my notes on the adventures of Sherlock Holmes - and I have more than seventy such notes that I have kept over the past eight years - I find in them many tragic cases, some of them are funny, some are bizarre, but none one ordinary thing: working for the love of his art, and not for money, Holmes never took on the investigation of ordinary, everyday cases, he was always attracted only to those cases in which there was something extraordinary, and sometimes even fantastic.

The case of the Roylott family from Stoke Moron, well known in Surrey, strikes me as particularly bizarre. Holmes and I, two bachelors, then lived together on Baker

straight. I probably would have published my notes earlier, but I gave my word to keep this matter secret and I released my word only a month ago, after the untimely death of the woman to whom it was given. It will perhaps be of some use to present the matter in its true light, for rumor has attributed the death of Dr. Grimeby Roylott to circumstances even more terrible than those which actually existed.

I woke up one April morning in 1883 to find Sherlock Holmes standing by my bed. He was not dressed at home. Usually he got out of bed late, but now the clock on the mantelpiece showed only a quarter to seven. I looked at him in surprise and even somewhat reproachfully. I myself was true to my habits.

“I’m very sorry to wake you, Watson,” he said. “But that’s the kind of day it is today.” They woke up Mrs. Hudson, she woke me up, and I woke you up.

What is it? Fire?

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

I will be happy to hear such a story.

I wanted no greater pleasure than to follow Holmes during his professional pursuits and admire his rapid thoughts. At times it seemed that he solved the riddles offered to him not with reason, but with some kind of inspired instinct, but in fact all his conclusions were based on precise and strict logic.

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

Good morning“Madam,” said Holmes affably. -My name is Sherlock Holmes. This is mine close friend and an assistant, Dr. Watson, with whom you can be as frank as with me. Yeah! It's good that Mrs. Hudson thought of lighting the fireplace. I see you are very cold. Sit down 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 by the fireplace.

So what?

Fear, Mr. Holmes, horror!

With these words, she lifted her veil, and we saw how excited she was, how grey, haggard her face was. There was fear in her eyes, like a hunted animal. She was no more than thirty years old, but her hair was already glistening with gray, and she looked tired and exhausted.

Sherlock Holmes looked at her with his quick, all-understanding glance.

“You have nothing to be afraid of,” he said, affectionately stroking her hand. - I am sure that we will be able to settle all the troubles... You, I see, arrived on 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 spent a long time shaking in a gig along a bad road.

The lady shuddered sharply and looked at Holmes in confusion.

There is no miracle here, madam,” he said, smiling. “The left sleeve of your jacket is splashed with mud in at least seven places.” The spots are completely fresh. You can get splashed like this only in a gig, sitting to the left of the coachman.

That’s how it was,” she said. “About six o’clock I left the house, at twenty minutes past six I was in Leatherhead and took the first train to London, to Waterloo station... Sir, I can’t stand this anymore, I’ll go crazy!” I don't have anyone I can 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, 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 at least a little light into the impenetrable darkness that surrounds me! I am not able 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 manage my income, and you will see that I know how to be grateful.

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

Farintosh...” he said. - Oh yes, I remember this incident. It is associated with a tiara of opals. 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. But I don’t need any remuneration, since my work serves as my 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 situation lies in the fact that my fears are so vague and vague, and my suspicions are based on such trifles, seemingly of no importance, that even the one to whom I have the right to turn for advice and help considers all my stories are nonsense nervous woman. He doesn't tell me anything, but I read it in his soothing words and evasive glances. I heard, Mr. Holmes, that you, like no one else, understand all the vicious inclinations of the human heart and can advise what I should do amid the dangers that surround me.

VIII. THE ADVENTURE OF THE SPECKLED BAND

Arthur Conan Doyle
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On glancing over my notes of the seventy odd cases in which I have during the last eight years studied the methods of my friend Sherlock Holmes, I find many tragic, some comic, a large number merely strange, but none commonplace; for, working as he did rather for the love of his art than for the skill of wealth, he refused to associate himself with any investigation which did not tend towards the unusual, and even the fantastic. Of all these varied cases, however, I cannot recall any which presented more singular features than that which was associated with the well-known Surrey family of the Roylotts of Stoke Moran. The events in question occurred in the early days of my association with Holmes, when we were sharing rooms as bachelors in Baker Street. It is possible that I might have placed them upon record before, but a promise of secrecy was made at the time, from which I have only been freed during the last month by the untimely death of the lady to whom the pledge was given. It is perhaps as well that the facts should now come to light, for I have reasons to know that there are widespread rumours, as to the death of Dr. Grimesby Roylott which tends to make the matter even more terrible than the truth.

Looking through my notes on the adventures of Sherlock Holmes - and I have more than seventy such notes that I have kept over the past eight years - I find in them many tragic cases, some funny ones, some bizarre ones, but not a single one. ordinary: working for the love of his art, and not for money, Holmes never took on the investigation of ordinary, everyday cases, he was always attracted only to cases in which there was something extraordinary, and sometimes even fantastic.
The case of the Roylott family from Stoke Moron, well known in Surrey, strikes me as particularly bizarre. Holmes and I, two bachelors, were then living together in Baker Street. I probably would have published my notes earlier, but I gave my word to keep this matter secret and I released my word only a month ago, after the untimely death of the woman to whom it was given. It will perhaps be of some use to present the matter in its true light, for rumor has attributed the death of Dr. Grimsby Roylott to even more terrible circumstances than those which actually existed.

It was early in April in the year ’83 that I woke up one morning to find Sherlock Holmes standing, fully dressed, by the side of my bed. He was a late riser, as a rule, and as the clock on the mantelpiece showed me that it was only a quarter-past seven, I blinked up at him in some surprise, and perhaps just a little resentment, for I was myself regular in my habits.

I woke up one April morning in 1883 to find Sherlock Holmes standing by my bed. He was not dressed at home. Usually he got out of bed late, but now the clock on the mantelpiece showed only a quarter to seven. I looked at him in surprise and even somewhat reproachfully. I myself was true to my habits.

“Very sorry to knock you up, Watson,” he said, “but it’s the common lot this morning.” Mrs. Hudson has been knocked up, she retorted upon me, and I on you.”

“I’m very sorry to wake you, Watson,” he said. - But that’s the kind of day it is today. We woke up Mrs. Hudson, she woke me up, and I woke you up.

“What is it, then-a fire?”

What is it? Fire?

“No; a client. It seems that a young lady has arrived in a significant state of excitement, who insists upon seeing me. She is waiting now in the sitting-room. Now, when young ladies wander about the metropolis at this hour of the morning, and knock sleepy people up out of their beds, I presume that it is something very pressing which they have to communicate. Should it prove to be an interesting case, you would, I am sure, wish to follow it from the outset. I thought, at any rate, that I should call you and give you the chance.”

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

Current page: 1 (book has 2 pages in total)

Arthur Conan Doyle
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Looking through my notes on the adventures of Sherlock Holmes - and I have more than seventy such entries - I find in them a lot of tragic, some funny, some strange, but nothing ordinary in any of them. Working for the love of his art, and not for money, Holmes never took on the investigation of ordinary, banal cases; he was always attracted only to those cases in which there was something extraordinary, and sometimes even fantastic.

The Roylott case seems especially bizarre to me. Holmes and I, two bachelors, were then living together in Baker Street. I probably would have published my notes earlier, but I gave my word to keep this matter secret and I released my word only a month ago, after the untimely death of the woman to whom it was given. It will perhaps be of some use to present the matter in its true light, for rumor has attributed the death of Dr. Grimsby Roylott to even more terrible circumstances than those which actually existed.

I woke up one April morning in 1888 to find Sherlock Holmes standing by my bed. He was not dressed at home. Usually he got out of bed late, but now the clock on the mantelpiece showed only a quarter to seven. I looked at him in surprise and even somewhat reproachfully.

“I’m very sorry to wake you, Watson,” he said. “But that’s the kind of day it is today.” We woke up Mrs. Hudson, she woke me up, and I woke you up.

- What is it? Fire?

- No, client. Some girl, terribly excited, arrived and certainly wants to see me. She's waiting in the waiting room. And if young ladies decide to travel through the streets of the capital at such an early hour and rouse strangers from their beds, I believe that they want to communicate some very important facts. The case may turn out to be interesting, and you will be disappointed if you do not hear this story from the very first word.

– I’ll be happy to hear it.

I knew of no greater pleasure than to follow Holmes during his professional pursuits and admire his rapid thoughts. At times it seemed that he solved the riddles offered to him not with reason, but with some kind of inspired instinct, but in fact all his conclusions were based on precise and strict logic.

I quickly got dressed and was ready in a few minutes. We entered the living room. A lady dressed in black, with a thick veil over her face, stood up at our appearance.

“Good morning, madam,” said Holmes affably. - 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, I see: Mrs. Hudson thought of lighting the fireplace. This is good, since you are very cold. Sit closer 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 by the fireplace.

- What then?

- Fear, Mr. Holmes, horror!

With these words, she lifted her veil, and we saw how excited she was, how pale her face was, distorted with horror. There was fear in her frozen eyes, like a hunted animal. She was no more than thirty years old, but her hair was already glistening with gray.

Sherlock Holmes looked at her with his quick, all-understanding glance.

“You have nothing to be afraid of,” he said, affectionately stroking her hand. – I’m sure that we will be able to keep all the troubles away from you... You arrived on the morning train.

- Do you know me?

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

The lady shuddered violently and looked at Holmes in confusion.

“There is no miracle here, madam,” he said, smiling. “The left sleeve of your jacket is splashed with mud in at least seven places.” The spots are completely fresh. You can get splashed like this only in a gig, sitting to the left of the coachman.

“That’s how it was,” she said. “About six o’clock I left the house, at twenty minutes past six I was in Leatherhead and took the first train to London, to Waterloo station... Sir, I can’t stand this anymore, I’m going crazy!” I will die!.. I have no one to whom I could turn. There is, however, one person who takes a great part in me, but how can he help me, poor fellow? I heard about you, Mr. Holmes, from Mrs. Farintosh, whom you helped so much in her moment of severe grief. She gave me your address. Oh sir, help me too, or at least try to shed at least a little light into the impenetrable darkness that surrounds me! I am not able to thank you now for your services, but in two months 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, and took out a notebook.

“Farintosh...” he said. - Oh yes, I remember this incident. I think it was before we met, Watson. It was about a tiara made of opals. 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. But I don’t need any remuneration, since my work serves as my reward. Of course, I will have some expenses, and you can reimburse them whenever you like. Now I ask you to tell us all the details of your case.

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

- I have all your attention, madam.

- My name is Ellen Stoner. I live in the house of my stepfather, Roylott. He is the last scion of one of the oldest Saxon families in England.

Holmes nodded his head.

“I know that name,” he said.

“There was a time when the Roylott family was one of the richest in England. In the north, the Roylotts owned estates in Berkshire, and in the west, in Hampshire. But in the last century, four generations in a row squandered their fortune, until finally one of the heirs, a passionate gambler, finally ruined the family during the regency. All that remains of the former estate are a few acres of land and an old house built about two hundred years ago. However, the house has long been mortgaged.

The last landowner of this family eked out the miserable existence of a beggar aristocrat in his house. But his only son, my stepfather, realizing that he had to somehow adapt to the new state of affairs, borrowed the necessary amount of money from some relative, entered the university, graduated with a doctor’s degree and went to Calcutta, where, thanks to his art and endurance, he soon acquired wide practice. But there was a theft in his house. This theft outraged Roylott so much that in a fit of rage he beat to death the native butler who served him. Having barely escaped the death penalty, he for a long time languished in prison, and then returned to England a sullen and disappointed man.

In India, Dr. Roylott married my mother, Mrs. Stoner, the young widow of Major General Bengal 1
Bengal is a region in India.

Artillery. We were twins - me and my sister Julia. When our mother married a doctor, we were barely two years old. She possessed a considerable fortune, giving her an income of at least a thousand pounds a year. According to her will, Dr. Roylott was to use all this income, but only as long as we lived in his house. If we get married, each of us should be allocated a certain amount of annual income.

Soon after our return to England my mother died - she died eight years ago at train accident. After her death, Dr. Roylott gave up his efforts to establish a medical practice in London, and settled with us on the family estate at Stoke Moraine. Our mother's fortune was sufficient to satisfy all our desires, and it seemed that nothing should interfere with our happiness.

But a strange change happened to my stepfather. Instead of making friends with his neighbors, who at first were happy to see that Roylott of Stoke Moraine had returned to his old family home, he locked himself in the estate and very rarely left the house, and then only to start an ugly quarrel with the first person who will meet him on the way.

A furious temper, reaching the point of frenzy, was transmitted through the male line to all representatives of this family, and in my stepfather it was probably even more intensified by his long stay in the tropics.

He had many violent clashes with his neighbors. Twice the case ended in the police station. He became the threat 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 has absolutely no self-control, people literally shied away in different directions when they met him.

On last week he threw the local blacksmith into the river, and in order to pay off a public scandal, I had to give all the money I could collect. His only friends are the nomadic gypsies. He allows these tramps to pitch their tents on a small patch of land overgrown with brambles, which makes up his entire family estate, and sometimes wanders with them, not returning home for weeks at a time. He also has a passion for animals, which an acquaintance sends him from India, and currently a panther and a baboon roam freely through his domain, instilling almost as much fear in the inhabitants as he does himself.

From my words you can conclude that my sister and I did not have much fun. The servants did not want to live with us, and for a long time all homework we performed it ourselves. My sister was only thirty years old when she died, and she was already beginning to turn gray, just like me.

– Is your sister dead?

“She died exactly two years ago, and it’s about her death that I want to tell you.” You yourself understand that with such a lifestyle we had few opportunities to meet people of our age and our circle. We have an unmarried aunt, our mother's sister, Miss Honoria Westfile, who lives near Harrow, and we were sent to stay with her from time to time. Two years ago my sister Julia spent Christmas with her. There she met a retired naval major, and he became her fiancé. When she returned home, she told our stepfather about her engagement. My stepfather did not object to her marriage, but two weeks before the wedding a terrible event happened that deprived me of my only friend...

Sherlock Holmes sat in a chair, leaning back and resting his head on a sofa cushion. His eyes were closed. Now he raised his eyelids and looked at the visitor.

“I ask you to tell everything as accurately as possible, without omitting a single detail,” he said.

– It’s easy for me to be precise, because all the events of this terrible time are deeply etched in my memory... As I already said, the landowner’s house is very old, and only one wing is suitable for habitation. The lower floor houses the bedrooms, the living rooms are in the center. Dr. Roylott slept in the first bedroom, my sister slept in the second, and I slept in the third. There is no communication between the bedrooms; they all open onto the same corridor. Am I being clear enough?

- Oh yes, very clear.

– The windows of all three bedrooms overlook the lawn. On that fateful night, Dr. Roylott retired early to his room, but we knew that he did not go to bed, since my sister had long been bothered by the smell of strong Indian cigars, which he was in the habit of smoking. This smell forced my sister to leave her room and go into mine, where we sat for some time, chatting about her upcoming marriage. At eleven o’clock she got up and wanted to leave, but stopped at the door and asked me: “Tell me, Ellen, don’t you feel like someone is whistling at night?”

“No,” I said.

“And are you sure you haven’t ever whistled while you were sleeping?”

“Of course it didn’t happen. But why are you asking this?

“In recent nights, around three o’clock, I can clearly hear a quiet, distinct whistle. I sleep very lightly, and the whistle wakes me up. I can’t figure out where it’s coming from - maybe from the next room, maybe from the lawn. I’ve been wanting to ask you for a long time if you’ve heard it.”

“No, I haven’t heard. Maybe the gypsies are whistling?

“Very possible. However, if the whistle came from the lawn, you would hear it too.”

“I sleep much better than you.”

“However, all this is nothing,” my sister smiled, closed my door, and a few moments later I heard the key click in her door.

- That's how it is! - said Holmes. “Did you always lock yourself at night?”

- Always.

- Why?

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

- Understand. Please continue.

“I couldn’t sleep at night. A vague feeling of some inevitable misfortune came over me. It was a terrible night: the wind howled, the rain drummed on the windows. And suddenly, amid the roar of the storm, a wild cry of horror was heard. That was my sister screaming. I jumped out of bed and, throwing on a large scarf, ran out into the corridor. When I opened the door, I thought I heard the quiet whistle that my sister had told me about, and then something clanged, as if a heavy metal object had fallen to the ground. Running up to my sister’s room, I saw that the door was ajar. I stopped, stricken with horror, not understanding what was happening. By the light of the lamp that was burning in the corridor, I saw my sister, who appeared at the door, staggering as if drunk, her face white with horror, stretching out her hands forward, as if begging for help. Running up to her, I hugged her, but at that moment her knees buckled and she collapsed to the ground. She writhed as if in unbearable pain, and 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!

“Oh my God, Ellen! - she shouted. - Motley gang!

She tried to say something else, pointed her finger towards the doctor’s room, but a new attack of convulsions cut off her words.

I jumped out and, screaming loudly, ran after my stepfather. He was already hurrying towards me in his night robe. The sister was unconscious when he ran into her room. He poured cognac 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. This was the terrible end of my beloved sister...

“Let me ask,” said Holmes, “are you sure you heard a whistle and a metallic clang?” Could you show this under oath?

“The investigator asked me about this during interrogation. I think I heard these sounds, but I could have been misled by the howls of the storm and the crackling sounds of the old house.

– Was your sister dressed?

- No, she ran out in only her nightgown. IN right hand she had a burnt match, and in the left was a matchbox.

“This proves that she struck a match and began to look around when something scared her.” A very important detail. What conclusions did the investigator come to?

“He studied the whole matter carefully, because Dr. Roylott’s violent character was known throughout the area, but he was never able to find the least satisfactory cause of my sister’s death. I testified at the investigation that the door of her room was locked from the inside, and the windows were protected from the outside by ancient shutters with wide iron bolts. The walls were subjected to the most careful study, but they turned out to be very strong throughout. The gender study was also inconclusive. The chimney is wide, there are as many as four views in it. So, there is no doubt that the sister was completely alone during the catastrophe that befell her. No traces of violence could be found.

-What about poison?

“The doctors examined her, but did not find anything that would 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 can’t imagine who could have scared her so much.

– Were the gypsies in the estate at that time?

– Yes, gypsies almost always live with us.

– What do you think her words about the gang, about the motley gang, could mean?

“Sometimes it seemed to me that these words were said simply in delirium, and sometimes I thought that they referred to some gang of people - maybe a gang of gypsies. But why is this gang motley? It is possible that the speckled scarves that many gypsies wear on their heads inspired her with this strange epithet.

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

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

“Two years have passed since then, and my life has been even more lonely than before.” But a month ago, a person close to me, whom I had known for many years, proposed to me. His name is Armitage, Percy Armitage, and he is the second son of Mr. Armitage, of Cranwater, near Reading. My stepfather did not object to our marriage, and we were supposed to get married in the spring.

Two days ago some renovations began on the west wing of our house. The wall of my bedroom was broken through, and I had to move into the room where my sister died and sleep on the same bed that 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 that same quiet whistle that was a harbinger of my sister’s death. I jumped up and lit the lamp, but there was no one in the room. I couldn't go to bed - I was too excited, so I got dressed and, just before dawn, slipped out of the house, took a gig from the Crown Inn, which is opposite us, drove to Leatherhead, and from there to here - with just the thought of seeing you and ask you for advice.

“You did a very smart thing,” said my friend. – But did you tell me everything?

- Yes, that's it.

- No, not everything, Miss Roylott: you are sparing and shielding your stepfather.

- I don’t understand you...

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

“You were treated very cruelly,” said Holmes.

The girl blushed deeply and hurried to lower the lace.

“My stepfather is a harsh man,” she said. “He is very strong and perhaps he himself is not aware of his strength.”

There was a long silence, during which Holmes sat with his chin in his hands and looking at the fire crackling in the fireplace.

“This is a very difficult matter,” he said finally. “I would like to find out thousands more details before deciding how to act.” Meanwhile, not a minute can be lost. If we came to Stoke Moraine today, would we be able to inspect these rooms without your stepfather finding out anything?

“He was just telling me that he was going to go to the city today for some very special reason.” important matters. It is possible that he will be absent 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.

- Perfect. Do you have anything against the trip, Watson?

- Absolutely nothing.

“Then we’ll both come.” What are you going to do yourself?

“I have some things that I would like to do here in the city.” But I will return by the twelve o'clock train so that I can be there when you arrive.

- Expect us shortly after noon. I also have some business here. Maybe you'll stay and have breakfast with us?

- No, I have to go! A stone was lifted from my soul when I told you about my grief. I will be glad to see you again.

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

“So what do you think about all this, Watson?” – asked Sherlock Holmes, leaning back in his chair.

“In my opinion, this is an extremely dark and dirty matter.”

– Quite dirty and quite dark.

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

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

– I can’t imagine.

- If you put all the facts together: the night whistles, the gang of gypsies with which this old doctor has such close relations, the dying woman's hints about some kind of gang, and, finally, the fact that Miss Ellen Stoner heard some kind of metallic clanging that could make an iron bolt from the shutter... if we also remember that the doctor is interested in preventing the marriage of his stepdaughter, I believe that we have come across the right tracks that will help us shed light on this mysterious incident.

– What do you think the gypsies were doing here?

- I don’t know... I can’t figure it out.

– I have many objections to your hypothesis.

“Me too, and that’s why we’re going to Stoke Moraine today.” I want to check everything on the spot... But damn, what does that mean?

This is what my friend exclaimed, because the door suddenly opened wide and some colossal figure burst into the room. He was dressed either like a doctor or like a landowner. His costume was a strange mixture: a black top hat, a long frock coat, high leggings and a hunting whip. He was so tall that his hat touched the top rail of our door, and so broad in the shoulders that he could barely squeeze through the door. His thick, tanned face was cut with a thousand wrinkles, and his deep-set, evilly sparkling eyes and long, thin, bony nose gave him the resemblance of an old bird of prey.

He looked from Sherlock Holmes to me and back.

– Which one of you is Holmes? – the visitor finally said.

“That’s my name, sir,” my friend answered calmly. “Now you have an advantage over me, since I don’t know your last name.”

“I am Doctor Grimsby Roylott from Stoke Moraine.”

“Please sit down, doctor,” Sherlock Holmes said kindly.

- I won’t sit down! My stepdaughter was here. I tracked her down. What did she tell you?

– It’s a cold spring here today! - said Holmes.

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

“But I heard that the crocuses will bloom beautifully,” my friend continued calmly.

- Yeah, you want to get rid of me! - said our guest, taking a step forward and waving his hunting whip. - I know you: you are a scoundrel! I've already heard about you. You like to meddle in other people's affairs.

My friend smiled.

- You 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 it’s really drafty.

“I will only come out when I have spoken.” Don't you dare interfere in my affairs. I know Miss Stoner was here, I tracked her down! Woe to anyone who gets in my way! Look!

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

– Try not to fall into my clutches! - he growled, threw the twisted poker into the fireplace and left the room.

- What a kind gentleman! – Holmes said laughing. “I’m not such a giant, but if he hadn’t left, I would have to show him that I’m hardly weaker than him.”

With these words, he picked up the steel poker and straightened it in one swift movement.

– What impudence to mix me up with the police! Thanks to this incident, our research became even more interesting. I hope that our friend will not suffer because she so thoughtlessly allowed this brute to follow her. Now, Watson, we will have breakfast, and then I will go to the lawyers and make some inquiries with them.

It was already 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 accurately, I had to inquire about the current value securities, in which the state of the deceased is placed. In the year of her death her total income was almost one thousand one hundred pounds sterling, but since then, due to the fall in the price of agricultural products, it has decreased to seven hundred and fifty pounds sterling. On marriage, each daughter is entitled to an annual income of two hundred and fifty pounds sterling. Consequently, if both daughters were married, our handsome man would receive only pitiful crumbs. His income would have been significantly reduced even if only one of his daughters had gotten married... I did not spend the whole morning in vain, since I received clear evidence that the stepfather had very important reasons for preventing the marriage of his stepdaughters. The circumstances are too serious, Watson, and not a minute can be lost, especially since the old man already knows how interested we are in his affairs. If you are ready, you should quickly call a cab and go to the station. I would be extremely grateful if you would put a revolver in your pocket. A revolver is an excellent argument for a gentleman who can tie a knot in a steel poker. A revolver and a toothbrush are all we need.

At Waterloo station we were lucky enough to get straight into the carriage. Arriving in Leatherhead, we took a carriage from a hotel near the station and drove about five miles along the picturesque roads of Surry. It was a beautiful sunny day, and only a few cirrus clouds floated across the sky. The trees and hedges near the roads were just beginning to bud, and the air was filled with the delicious smell of damp earth.

The contrast between the sweet awakening of spring and the terrible deed for which we came here seemed strange to me! My friend sat with his arms crossed, his hat pulled down over his eyes, his chin on his chest, immersed in deep thoughts. Suddenly he raised his head, patted me on the shoulder and pointed to the meadows somewhere in the distance.

- Look!

An extensive park spreads along the hillside; from behind the branches the outlines of the roof and spire of an ancient manor house could be seen.

- Stoke Moraine? – asked Sherlock Holmes.

“Yes, sir, this is the house of Dr. Grimsby Roylott,” replied the driver.

“There’s a building on the side,” Holmes said. - We need to get there.

“We are going to the village,” said the driver, pointing to the roofs visible in the distance to the left. “But if you want to get to the house quickly, the closest thing to you will be to climb over the fence here, and then cross the fields along the path.” Along the path where this lady is walking.

“And this lady is like Miss Stoner,” said Holmes, shielding his eyes from the sun. - Yes, we will go along the path.

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

“Let this fellow think that we are architects,” said Holmes, “then our arrival will not cause much talk.” Good afternoon, Miss Stoner! See how accurately we kept our word!

Our morning visitor happily hurried to meet us.

– I was so looking forward to seeing you! – she exclaimed, warmly shaking our hands. “Everything worked out wonderfully: Doctor Roylott has gone to town and is unlikely to return before the evening.”

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

Miss Stoner turned pale.

- My God! - she exclaimed. “So he was following me!”

- Looks like it.

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

“He will have to be careful, because there may be someone here who is more cunning than him.” You must lock yourself away from him at night. If he goes on a rampage, we will take you to your aunt in Harrow... Well, now we need to make the best use of the time, and therefore, please lead us to the rooms that we must examine.

The house was built of gray, lichen-covered stone and had two semicircular wings, spread out like the pincers of a crab on either side of the tall central building. In one of these wings the windows were broken and boarded up; the roof had caved in in places. The central part seemed almost as destroyed. But the right wing was relatively recently decorated, and from the curtains on the windows, from the bluish haze that curled from the chimneys, it was clear that the family lived here. Scaffolding was erected near the extreme wall, and some work began. But not a single mason was visible.

Holmes began to walk slowly across the uncleared lawn, studying the appearance of the windows with deep attention.

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

- Absolutely right. But now I live in the middle room.

- I understand, because of the renovation. By the way, it’s somehow not noticeable that this wall needs such urgent repairs.

- Doesn't need it at all. I think it's just an excuse to get me out of my room.

- Very likely. So, along the opposite wall there is a corridor, where the doors of all three rooms open. There are no doubt windows in the corridor?

– Yes, but very small. So narrow that it is impossible to crawl through them.

“Since you both locked your doors, it was impossible to get into your rooms from the other side.” Kindly go to your room and close the shutters.

Miss Stoner complied with his request. Holmes made every effort to open the shutters from the outside, but to no avail: there was not a single crack through which even a knife blade could be inserted to lift the bolt. He examined the hinges with a magnifying glass, but they were made 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 facts. No one can get in through these windows when the shutters are closed... Well, let's see if we can't find out anything by examining the rooms from the inside.

A small side door led into a whitewashed corridor into which all three bedrooms opened. Holmes did not consider it necessary to examine the third room, and we went straight into the second, where Miss Stoner now slept 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; the other corner was occupied by a narrow bed covered with a white blanket; To the left of the window there was a dressing table. The decoration of the room was completed by two chairs and a wicker rug in the middle. The panels on the walls were of dark, worm-eaten oak, so ancient that they seemed not to have been replaced since the house was built.

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

The work of A. Conan Doyle “The Speckled Band” is part of a series of works about Sherlock Holmes, an unusually talented and intelligent detective.

The story is told from the perspective of Dr. Watson, a friend of Sherlock Holmes.

...One April morning, a certain girl, a client, visited the house of Sherlock Holmes. It was Ellen Stoner main character described events. Miss Stoner told Holmes that she lived on the estate of her stepfather, Mr. Roylott. She once had a sister, but she died two years ago under very strange circumstances. Before the tragic event, the girl often heard some kind of whistle at night, and on the night of her death she ran out of the room shouting “Motley Ribbon” and fell dead. The cause of her death was never determined. Meanwhile, the girls’ mother bequeathed to them a certain fortune, with the condition that her husband, Mr. Roylott, could also use the money, but only until the girls got married. Shortly before her death, the deceased girl was going to get married... Miss Stoner suspects her stepfather, but there is no evidence against him. What brought her to Sherlock Holmes was that one night, while sleeping in the room of her dead sister, she heard a strange whistle, which was once a harbinger of one death.

Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson went to Mr. Roylott's estate, and while he was in town, they examined all the rooms. In the room of the deceased sister, where Miss Stoner now lived due to renovations, many strange things were discovered. The bed was screwed to the floor so that it could not be moved. There was a cord hanging over the bed for a bell to call a servant, but the bell did not work. Next to the cord there was a fan hole, which for some reason did not go out onto the street, but into the next room where Mr. Roylott lived. From Ellen Stoner's story it was known that Mr. Royllot once lived in India and brought from there a baboon, pythons and a panther. What surprised many was his passion for the animals of India. A whip, an iron safe for papers and a saucer of milk were found in Mr. Roylott's room. No one kept cats in the house...

Sherlock Holmes persuaded the young lady to spend that night not in the house, but in a nearby hotel. And Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson remained in her bedroom. We didn't have to wait long. Suddenly a strange whistle was heard, and then Holmes jumped up, began to hit the bell cord with his cane and shouted: “Watson, are you driving, do you see her?” Suddenly, a terrible scream was heard from the next room, which the whole neighborhood seemed to hear. Then everything went silent. When Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson found themselves in Roylott's room, a terrible picture appeared before their eyes. Mr. Roylott was sitting at the table. A whip lay on his lap, and he sat with his chin raised. Madness was frozen in the dead man's gaze, and some kind of spotted ribbon was wrapped around his head. This was the same “motley ribbon” that the dead girl was talking about; she mistook the swamp viper, the most deadly, for the ribbon. Indian snake. Death from the bite of such a snake occurs within ten seconds, and a tiny trace of its teeth is almost impossible to detect.

Death from the bite of such a snake occurs within ten seconds, and a tiny trace of its teeth is almost impossible to detect.

Thus, Sherlock Holmes prevented another murder - Mr. Roylott wanted to kill Helen too, because she, too, was getting married in the near future. And because Sherlock hit the snake with his cane, it crawled in the opposite direction and bit Roylott. But, according to Sherlock Holmes, the indirect guilt in the death of Mr. Roylott did not at all lay a “heavy burden” on his conscience.

This concludes the work of A. Conan Doyle “The Speckled Band”.

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

Ellen's father served in India as an artillery major general. He died leaving a decent fortune. When the girl and her twin sister Julia were two years old, her mother married Dr. Grimsby Roylott, a scion of one of the richest 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 her daughters got married, each should be allocated a certain part. The family returned to England and settled near London on the Roylott family estate.

Roylott is a very cruel and hot-tempered person with enormous physical strength. He does not communicate with his neighbors, but is friends with the gypsies who have set up their camp on the territory of the estate. He brought animals from India, and a baboon and a cheetah walk around the estate.

Two years ago, Julia was proposed to by a retired major. The stepfather did not object to his stepdaughter's marriage. Two weeks before the wedding, Julia came into 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 lay. Julia complained that someone whistles at night, she hears an iron clang, and the smell of strong cigars that her stepfather smokes prevents her from sleeping.

The girls always locked the door at night because they were afraid of animals. That night a terrible scream was heard. 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 tried to show something, shouting at the same time: “ Variegated ribbon" The arriving doctor could not save her, Julia died. Having studied the circumstances of the death, the police came to the conclusion that the girl died from a nervous shock, since no one could enter her room, which was locked and with the windows closed. 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 into 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 the great detective for help. Sherlock Holmes promises to arrive at Roylott's estate in the evening and examine the situation.

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

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

After examining the estate, Sherlock Holmes comes to the conclusion that the repairs were unnecessary. It was started in order to force Ellen to move into her sister’s room. In Julia's room, he is interested in the long cord from a faulty bell hanging over the bed, and the bed itself, screwed to the floor. The cord is tied to a small ventilation hole that does not go outside, but into the next room where Roylott lives. In the doctor's room, Holmes finds an iron fireproof cabinet, in which, according to Ellen, business papers, a whip tied in a loop, and a small saucer of milk are kept.

The great detective intends to spend the night in Ellen’s room, removing the girl to a safe place. He is going to prevent a subtle and terrible crime that is being committed by a doctor, a man with nerves of steel.

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

Having discovered the fake bell and the screwed-down bed, the great detective realized that the cord served as a bridge connecting the fan to the bed. And at the sight of the whip and the saucer of milk, the thought of a snake came to Holmes. Having lived for many years in India, Roylott found a poison that cannot be detected, and the investigator must have very keen eyesight to see tiny marks from the teeth of the viper.

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

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