The Speckled Ribbon (1892). The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes

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 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 seemed to be heard by the whole neighborhood. 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 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”.

Arthur Conan Doyle

Variegated ribbon

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, 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 was freed from 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. We 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 allow me to offer you a cup of coffee.

It’s not the cold that makes me tremble, 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 stains 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. “I got out of the house at about six o’clock, 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! - the girl answered. - 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 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 sorts of vicious inclinations human heart and you can advise me what to do in the midst of the dangers surrounding me.

I have all your attention, madam.

My name is Helen Stoner. I live in my stepfather's house, Roylott. He is the last scion 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 the name,” he said.

There was a time when the Roylott family was one of the richest in England. In the north, the Roylott possessions 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. All that remained of the former estates were a few acres of land and an old house, built about two hundred years ago and threatening to collapse under the burden of mortgages. The last landowner of this family eked out the miserable existence of a poor 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 then there was a theft in his house, and Roylott, in a fit of rage, beat the native butler to death. 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 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 possessed a considerable fortune, giving her an income of at least a thousand pounds a year. According to her will, this estate passed to Dr. Roylott, since we lived together. But if we get married, each of us should be allocated a certain amount of annual income. Soon after our return to England our mother died - she died eight years ago during train accident at Crewe. After her death, Dr. Roylott abandoned his attempts to establish a medical practice in London and settled with us on the family estate in Stoke Moron. Our mother's fortune was sufficient to satisfy our needs, and it seemed that nothing should interfere with our happiness.

The Adventure of the Speckled Band) - a work from the collection “The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes” by Arthur Conan Doyle. First published by the Strand Magazine in February 1892. Conan Doyle included the story in the 12 best Sherlock Holmes stories.

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✪ A. Conan Doyle. Sherlock Holmes. Variegated ribbon

✪ Variegated ribbon summary(Arthur Conan Doyle). 7th grade

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Plot

A girl named Helen Stoner turned to Sherlock Holmes for help. She lives on the ancient estate of Stoke Moron with her stepfather, Dr. Grimsby Roylott, a man from a respected family. Two years ago, the girl lost her sister Julia, who died two weeks before her wedding at mysterious circumstances. Before her death, for several nights she heard a strange whistle in the house, it really frightened her. The night Julia died, Helen heard similar sounds. Near death, Julia shouted: “It was a mottled ribbon!” Apparently, this was not nonsense, and Helen was very worried. Now her stepfather started renovating the house, and Helen had to temporarily move into her late sister’s room. At night, she also began to hear a whistle and therefore decided to turn to Sherlock Holmes for help.

Holmes at first comes to the wrong conclusions, thinking that these are the affairs of the gypsies who lived on the estate. But having arrived in Stoke Moron and examined the house, Holmes concludes that nothing could threaten the girl from outside, the danger was in the house itself. Holmes later discovers a strange vent leading to his stepfather's room and a rope for a bell that doesn't ring or even be a bell.

Having compared all the facts, Sherlock comes up with the idea of ​​a snake. She lowered herself along a rope into the victim's bed (the bed was screwed to the floor so that the victim could not move it), and with the help of a bowl of milk, Dr. Roylott learned to bring her back. Holmes and Watson spend the night in Helen Stoner's room and encounter a snake. Holmes uses a cane to chase her back into the vent. Her serpentine anger awakens in the snake, and in a rage she bites the first person she comes across - the doctor himself. Grimsby Roylott dies from the poison almost instantly.

Quote

When a doctor commits a crime, he is more dangerous than all other criminals. He has strong nerves and great knowledge. Palmer and Pritchard were the best in their field. This man is very cunning, but I hope, Watson, that we will be able to outwit him. Tonight we have to go through a lot of terrible things, and therefore, I ask you, let's calmly light our pipes for now and spend these few hours talking about something more cheerful. Arthur Conan Doyle. "Motley Ribbon"

Snake

Vasily Livanov, adds a phrase about a strange “tapping” on the wall, since the vibration easily attracts the attention of deaf animals. Whether Conan Doyle himself knew about the deafness of snakes at the time he wrote his story remains a mystery.

It is noteworthy that in the later (1986) British film adaptation of The Speckled Band, Doyle's misconception about whistling was retained.

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, 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 was freed from 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. We 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 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.

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 my close friend and assistant, Dr. Watson, with whom you can be as frank as you are 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 allow me to offer you a cup of coffee.

It’s not the cold that makes me tremble, 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 stains 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. “I got out of the house at about six o’clock, 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! - the girl answered. - 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 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 else, understand all the vicious inclinations of the human heart and can advise what I should do amid the dangers that surround me.

Arthur Conan Doyle

Variegated ribbon

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, 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 was freed from 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. We 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 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.

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 my close friend and assistant, Dr. Watson, with whom you can be as frank as you are 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 allow me to offer you a cup of coffee.

It’s not the cold that makes me tremble, 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 stains 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. “I got out of the house at about six o’clock, 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! - the girl answered. - 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 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 else, understand all the vicious inclinations of the human heart and can advise what I should do amid the dangers that surround me.

I have all your attention, madam.

My name is Helen Stoner. I live in my stepfather's house, Roylott. He is the last scion 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 the name,” he said.

There was a time when the Roylott family was one of the richest in England. In the north, the Roylott possessions 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. All that remained of the former estates were a few acres of land and an old house, built about two hundred years ago and threatening to collapse under the burden of mortgages. The last landowner of this family eked out the miserable existence of a poor 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 self-control soon became widely practiced. But then there was a theft in his house, 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 possessed a considerable fortune, giving her an income of at least a thousand pounds a year. According to her will, this estate passed to Dr. Roylott, since we lived together. But if we get married, each of us should be allocated a certain amount of annual income. Soon after our return to England our mother died - she was killed eight years ago in a railway accident at Crewe. After her death, Dr. Roylott abandoned his attempts to establish a medical practice in London and settled with us on the family estate in Stoke Moron. Our mother's fortune was sufficient 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 were initially delighted that Roylott from Stoke Moron had returned to 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 came across his 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, and twice it 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 had absolutely no control over himself, people literally shied away when meeting him.