最近 All 1 2 3 4 5 10 30 天 BUG保修 站务讨论 调查报告 会客大厅 新手上路 推门之声 书籍交易 资源下载 每周谜题 谜题大全 字谜灯谜 原创小说 历史悬案 媒体征稿 中国侦探 欧美名家 日本推理 出版书讯 作品列表 法律案例 技术交流 推理游戏 推理影视 推理动漫 福尔摩斯 本格沙龙 原创俱乐部 作者： 主题： 内容：

您当前的位置： 推理之门 > 主题版区 > 福尔摩斯

【版主】：跳舞的小人,福尔摩斯

字体大小：较小默认普通较大很大超大

第1页/共1页（总计4个回复）

主 题： The Adventure of the Local Banker（人气：862）

风尘（世界末日） 1 楼： The Adventure of t... 04年01月09日16点08分 PART I THE PREFACE OF THE CASE “Life is nothing but a dull existence,” commented Mr Sherlock Holmes, as he poured himself a cup of coffee at the breakfast table one morning. “Events in this great city of London lack the unusual, extraordinary aspects which we have more than once in our career encountered, and which can only interest the general public who can only make sense from reading papers, but not observing the details that prove obvious, which is disclosed from their common ignorance.” He shrugged his shoulders and turning to our window, lit his meerschaum pipe and fell back on his armchair, lost in thought. Life indeed had been playing upon his nerves. For some time now, there had seldom been any case that had occupied his attention; only a few cases were the only limited material we had to deal so far this year. The tragic affair of the death of Mr Williams was a case that proved an absolute failure when neither Holmes nor the regular police succeeded in bringing the assassin at bay. The legal will and testament of the late Baron James and his illegitimate heir was a mere minor issue that was later referred to the Magistrate’s Court. And the mysterious disappearance of the fair Lady Agatha was a case, which even the most astute mind like Sherlock Holmes could not solve. My friend’s inclination to cocaine, that terrible drug in moments of stagnation, which had more than once endangered his career, had ceased under my strict medical care, and he had learnt to lead a more relaxed, self contained existence. But still the urge for work weighed upon his mind, which caused him to sigh and muse at the breakfast table. However, it wasn’t long after his remark when our pageboy arrived in our sitting room. “Any news, Billy?” asked Holmes languidly. “Yes sir,” replied our faithful messenger, “I’ve received two wires here, which are addressed to you.” The boy handed Holmes the two telegrams and left the room. Holmes looked with interest at the wires with knitted brows and his eyes gleamed with satisfaction, as he puffed furious whirls of blue smoke from his pipe. After finishing his reading, he tossed the telegrams across at me with a mischievous smile. The first telegram was from our old friend, Tobias Gregson of Scotland Yard, which ran: Urgent business at hand in Kent. A trying case for the police investigation. Your service would be greatly appreciated. Yours Sincerely Gregson. The next telegram was evidently related to the same business in Kent that Gregson alluded, and which ran in the following terms: Coming to Baker Street at 10 o’clock to consult you upon a grave issue, which has just occurred in Kent. Your help would be greatly needed. P. Crockford. “What a stroke of luck!” remarked Holmes, smiling. “It seems everything is turning our way, Watson. It’s a quarter to ten according to our grandfather clock, so we are not long in waiting for our new client.” But it seemed we had a rather long time in waiting, since an hour had nearly passed before there came knocks at our door downstairs, followed by hurried footsteps, and our sitting room being invaded by a taciturn visitor. Our client was a small, portly, elderly man with gold-rimmed spectacles, a clean-shaven face with side grey whiskers, and a massive baldhead. He wore a formal but slovenly tweed suit and in one of his hands he held a handsome walking stick that was bulbous headed. He was apparently in a state of great agitation. “Which… of you is Mr Sherlock Holmes?” asked our visitor, who seemed unable to control his emotions as he was palpitating with beads of sweat running on his forehead. “I am,” replied Holmes, rising from his armchair. “What can I do for you?” “Oh Mr Holmes! Mr Holmes!! A great tragedy has just occurred in Kent. It’s murder, Mr Holmes! Murder!!” The man wrung his hands into the air in a paroxysm of agitation and with a sharp cry, pitched forward upon our carpet, unconscious! My friend rushed to help the man to the sofa while I immediately dashed to my room to fetch a flask of brandy to relieve our client. In time after several swigs of the flask, the colour returned to the man’s rosy cheeks, and he immediately raised himself up to apologise for the inconvenience he caused us. “I am dreadfully sorry, Mr Holmes and to you, Dr Watson, for the trouble I have caused. But the matter was so pressing upon my nerves and as I’ve been having a stressful week, my nerves literally gave way. Have you read any particulars upon the murder case in Kent in the latest editions of the papers, Mr Holmes?” “I am afraid not. Watson, can you be good enough to search up information related to this obscure business, which we have been so ignorant for the last few days, among the pile of newspapers?” I searched among the piles of papers that had accumulated in one area of the room and took out the edition of last week’s newspaper when my eye rested upon the broad heading upon the front page, which was entitled “The Haven Horror!” I then read to Holmes and our client a small passage from the writing below the ominous title, which I have quoted, and which read: “The peaceful countryside of Kent has from last Saturday, been disturbed by a very grave tragedy that has become the object of much gossip in the county, which concerns the sinister death of Mr Josiah Crosby, 54, a wealthy banker of the London firm, Carlton & Crosby. The case is a most extraordinary affair, which in itself is the most complex business for the police investigation. The details connected with the case assume a very unusual feature according to the witnesses, among them are the deceased’s wife and son, Mrs Alice and William Crosby respectively, and the victim’s close friend, Dr Crockford. It was shown that the banker often went to bed at the usual hour of a quarter to ten; last Friday on the 26th of June, he had dined before returning to his quarters and it was reported by the deceased’s butler that his master spent that night in his room counting money and searching for new investments in the papers. Suddenly the whole household was awakened by a hoarse cry that had rung throughout the manor, which lasted only a few minutes before it died down. All the people in the mansion went directly to Mr Crosby’s room but found the door locked and the key in the hole, which caused a couple of footmen to break down the door with hatchets, where they found to their extraordinary amazement their own master lying on the floor, dead in a pool of blood! No arrest has been affected, and Scotland Yard is working earnestly upon the case, led by the ablest of the force, Insp. Gregson.” “So much for the news,” remarked Holmes, in his sardonic tone, as he turned towards our client, “I presume it’s Dr Crockford, whom we have the pleasure of meeting.” “Yes that’s me,” replied our client, mildly, as he started wiping the perspiration on his forehead with his handkerchief. “I wonder if I haven’t aged ten years or my hair hasn’t become more greyer than what it already is. It’s a terrible business, Mr Holmes! I don’t think I shall ever live peacefully till I die. But as to the crime and not to abuse your patience––” “Tut, tut, tut, you shouldn’t stress yourself like that, man,” said Holmes, soothingly, “it would be better to compose yourself and begin your story from the beginning to the culmination of this drastic affair, which I hold to be of novel interest, and don’t stress about time and space, for Watson and myself are willing to listen to a client’s narrative as long as possible as it affords us to help you wherever we can.” Dr Crockford heaved a sigh of relief at Holmes’s reassuring words. He then straightened himself on the sofa, buttoned his shirt collar and adjusted his glasses, before he began his unusual story. His narrative was a little incoherent and unclear on some details, which has caused me to put a few alterations to the good doctor’s account, but otherwise all is as stated accurately. “My name,” began our client, “is Dr Philip Crockford. In telling you about this singular tragedy, I’m about to explain from the beginning all the relevant events that I think may help you in your investigation of the crime. To start with, I must tell you that in my early days I was in practice in my native Edinburgh, where I was an eye specialist. When the Second Afghan War broke loose years ago, I volunteered for military medical service and proceeded to train as an army surgeon before leaving Liverpool aboard the S.S. Carnatic towards my destination in Afghanistan, where I joined a medical camp to treat injured soldiers. The war, like all other campaigns, was destructive in its nature and fatal to a vast majority of soldiers that were transported to our humble tent from the battlefield. Some died and some had become crippled in the course of the war and the limbs they lost in battle. Despite the melancholies of the war, all of us, the whole staff of doctors and nurses, worked hard with patience and sagacity to help and treat our patients. Our work was mainly dressing up wounds and stitching up cuts and bruises, so our camp was constantly snowed under. One day, as I was nursing one of the corporals in the army, a huge, burly man came into the entrance of our camp. I could see by his uniform that he was one of the couriers who were co-ordinated in the activities of saving mankind. Upon his left shoulder he held an injured man with a fractured skull. The courier addressed me in a Scottish accent. “ ‘Are ye the doctor Crockford, whom Major Dawson told me about?” he asked with some firmness. “ ‘I am,’ I replied as he advanced towards me with the invalid. ‘Can ye treat this ere gen’l’men?’ he asked, ‘I found him half dead ten miles away from this ere camp. Cannot guarantee he would live any longer than this.’ “I helped the injured man upon a cot and was astonished at the deep gash made in his skull and the fresh blood that was dripping on his ears and on the cot as well. He was certainly not one of the soldiers for he was dressed in very dignified clothing, and his face spoke of the typical educated, aristocratic gentleman. It was evident enough that he had been thrown clean off from a horse and his head been terribly fractured by some stone as a result of the fall. I immediately began sponging his head and rubbing it with oil before dressing up the wound, as well as injecting a sedative to ease my sufferer’s pain. He was there for about two days and was nursed day and night, before one of his relatives, who had heard about the accident, came to retrieve him back to their home. “When the war had gradually hastened to its terrible conclusion, I returned to my practice in Edinburgh, but found my surgery on the verge of a financial crisis and as my funds were exhausted, I moved my practice to Harley Street where I met with considerable success. Many years passed and I still continued to work in my practice with efficiency, with no disturbance of any kind. One day, a few years ago, I went to receive a loan of eighty pounds at the well-known bank firm, Carlton & Co. (now Carlton & Crosby), and I was shown in a private office where I met my banker. At the first glance at my card and the sight of my very appearance, the man at the desk had become exceedingly pleased and he smiled in a very amiable manner. “ ‘I’m proud to meet you again, Dr Crockford,’ said he, ‘it’s a good providence that you should consult our firm, for our bank does a great guarantee to our clients. Please feel welcome to come to our firm anytime for we are at your service.’ “I was, as you may feel, Mr Holmes, puzzled at this man’s keen interest in me. I was astonished at his words when he said that he was pleased to see me again! I could hardly recollect any past event where I had claimed the acquaintance of this man nor could I even recognise him. The banker seemed to read my thoughts quite well and he responded to my quandary. “ ‘I don’t think you have ever forgotten that event during the war,” he began, “where among the number of wounded people, you had given me aid when I was in need when I met with a horse accident, and a kind messenger of hope had delivered me into your hands?’ “It was then like a flash that I realised that it was he was who was the injured man with the fractured skull, whom I helped during the Afghan war, an incident which I have already explained. He was very obliged and grateful for the service I rendered and I found in him a friendly and amiable character. He had changed rather dramatically over the years. Long ago he was a frail, thin young man, now he was a fat, puffy businessman with a double chin and wrinkles on his face, and a few streaks of grey hair on each side of his face beside his ears. It first began with a gentle chat, but as he frequently kept calling me and I was obliged to consult his firm for loans and transferring bank accounts, our visits lengthened and in turn our friendship evolved. We had a common interest in a wide variety of subjects such as science and religion and we enjoyed each other’s fellowship. “Mr Josiah Miles Crosby was a person who greatly interested me. He was a man of substantial wealth, which he made in North American speculation, and which enabled him to live in a grand and expensive manner for many years. His estate is situated in the heart of the countryside of Kent where among the marshes and several cottages and low down houses, there’s this magnificent mansion with all its grandeur and splendour, where a considerable staff of servants attends its occupants. The manor dates back from the sixteenth century where nobles of Queen Elizabeth’s court once occupied, and which has housed countless generations. The mansion had once been unoccupied for some years and was on the verge of ruin when Mr Crosby came there to live with his family. Aside from the servants, there’s been only Mr Crosby and his wife and son. There had been a daughter once, but she went to Canada after marrying a German journalist. The wife is an interesting character, attractive and quite learned in science and in foreign languages such as Italian and French. She has travelled to distant places and has learnt and experienced more than what she can ever learn from a mere book. She has been devoted to her husband and son and has helped maintain the manor as well as co-operating with her husband in settling income problems, debts and bills, and searching for investments. She is a young, spritely woman for her age; I could roughly put her around twenty-eight years of age though in truth she is actually forty now. Mr Crosby married her while on safari to Africa, where she was at that time living with her father, who was then the army general. They lived there for a couple of years before they settled in England. “Mr Crosby’s son, meanwhile, is an extraordinary lad. I have never seen a boy who was more studious and keener on academic learning than amateur sport, which is the best and soundest thing for boys of his age in Britain. He is an avid reader and divides his time between studies and books. He’s currently doing his undergraduate years at Magdellan College, Oxford, where he holds a Master of Arts degree and doctorates on mathematics and physiology. “As it is, everything seemed fine in the household, but Mr Crosby seemed to having a secret unhappiness, which he would relate neither to his wife nor his son, including myself. He was rather eccentric in his ways, I must confess; he would be an amiable and light-hearted person at one time and in the next he would be the cold, indifferent, calculating cad. His wife would tell me about his rather frequent habits of locking himself up in the attic whenever he wished to have his privacy and how at times she heard him in great distress, moaning and groaning. She had questioned him many a time, but he often brushed away the topic, so in a way the family had become adjusted to his queer ways. Another thing about him was that he was absolutely averse being alone and he constantly kept company with his family and friends. It seemed rather strange to me that he should be so fearful of the unknown and I had more than once endeavoured to know from his own lips what threat was lurking that I seemed to read in his eyes, but he adamantly refused to say anything about the topic. He was, I must tell you, most earnestly grieved and devoted to the memory of his late lamented brother, who served in the military in India, and it was the reason he explained for his eccentricities in locking himself up in the attic and drowning his sorrows indiscreetly in liquor. His elder brother, as I have heard, had in some way met with a terrible, bloody death, the circumstances of which have been a mystery that has not only baffled the police bureau but the autopsies conducted by the coroner.” “One moment,” interrupted Sherlock Holmes, “your narrative proves so far, doctor, intrinsically arresting. May I have the date on which this singular tragedy occurred, which you speak of?” “Certainly,” replied the doctor, rather puzzled by this insignificant question. “According to the late Mr Josiah Crosby, his brother died in some bungalow in Bombay in the summer of 1884.” “Thank you,” said Holmes, “pray proceed with your story, and sorry for my inconveniencing your extraordinary narrative.” “Well, Mr Holmes, having explained the details ranging from the army camp to the descriptions of Mr Crosby and his family as well as about his queer habits, I come now to the last chapter of my story where I shall provide you with a complete account as to what exactly occurred on that fateful night which can enable you to construct this horrifying drama, that proves perplexing to everybody in the county of Kent. “I was as I have already told you, intimate with Mr Crosby, and since being one of his close friends, I was quite often invited to one of his candlelight suppers and sometimes to spend two or three days at his estate in the country where we would go horse-riding or shooting wild squirrels. So it wasn’t strange when he telegraphed to me a fortnight ago to spend a week at his place. On the evening of the twenty-sixth, I took the seven o’clock train from Paddington station to Kimberley’s where I hopped on to my friend’s private horse trap driven by his groom. The area in which the great manor is situated is surrounded by mostly scattered cottages and low esteemed places, which I have already eluded, and my friend’s estate was the only rich, solid building that was the attraction in the country. Near the mansion, there’s a blacksmith’s forge where Mr and Mrs Stevenson live. They are quite an uncouth couple and above all they have always envied the prosperity of the Crosby household that was in contrast with their way of life. The reason why I bring them in the matter is because I have often felt a suspicion of them and I think they may have been concerned in this grave tragedy. “Well, Mr Holmes, when I arrived at Mr Crosby’s mansion, I was received by the butler who showed me to my room. It has often being the case that whenever I went on these frequent visits I always had the room on the first floor that commanded a view of the lawn and the beautiful, flowing river at the back of the two-storey mansion. I didn’t see Mr Crosby earlier that day as the butler informed me that he was busy in the study and couldn’t see visitors, so I spent a quarter of an hour, getting myself dressed in dignified, dinner clothes before dining. Crosby and his family and myself were not alone on that gourmet night for old Colonel Charles Spencer and his wife were present there that evening. The colonel knew Mr Crosby when he was attached to the 25th British Infantry in India the decade preceding the war, and they had become bosom friends for many years. Colonel Charles had travelled the length and breadth of India and Africa, and he was able to relate to us some of his experiences in the wild and his associations with the natives, including some amusing tales that made everybody laugh at the dinner table, with the exception of Crosby himself, who for some reason looked grim at the table. I just couldn’t understand his behaviour that evening. Normally he would be lively and loquacious but now there was something inscrutable in his attitude towards us at dinner, irritable, angry, sullen and moody. What had altered his behaviour, I do not know, but I was glad all the same when we were escorted to our rooms.” “Just a minute,” Holmes interjected, “who took you to your room.” “The butler Merton,” replied the doctor. “Is he reliable?” “Of course. I have never seen a finer specimen. He’s a young man, Mr Holmes, tall, handsome, faithful, and pleasing in his manners. I don’t think any maid in the house can go unscathed without first claiming his affections. He recently replaced the previous valet, who died of cholera.” “When did he come into the establishment?” Holmes asked. “About a month ago.” “Thank you, and sorry again for breaking the flow of your remarkable statement. Pray continue.” “Well, Mr Holmes, when I was escorted to my rooms, I immediately changed my attire and went straight to bed. Everybody, including the servants went to bed at the usual hour of ten, but Crosby, meanwhile, stayed up late in the night as was his custom, in his sitting-room, so it wasn’t surprising for me to hear his heavy footsteps upstairs. That night, for some reason I was unable to get to sleep for I was constantly tossing and turning in my bed till I finally decided to work my way to sleep by reading a novel to pass the time. After my eyes started getting weary over reading several pages of the book, I then blew out my candle and fell into a dead slumber. No noise to my best of knowledge had occurred before eleven o’clock. I must have been asleep for nearly three hours at the most for it was half-past one when I was suddenly and unexpectedly, rudely awakened by a terrible scream that had rung throughout the manor–– a scream which I am not likely to forget as long as I live. The awful screams continued again and again and then suddenly…died! It was a dead silence. I was absolutely panic-stricken that I could hardly move any muscle until there came several knocks at my door. I hurriedly put on my dressing gown and opened the door to see a footman and a kitchen boy, who asked for my assistance. The maids were huddled in the corridor, petrified and weeping, but the footman and the kitchen boy had mustered their courage and together we ascended upstairs in the direction of Crosby’s sitting room. Along this corridor we chanced to meet my friend’s wife, who was palpitating with fear, with her son consoling her. We rushed to the door of the sitting room where a glint of yellow light sparkled on the wooden planks, and looked into the keyhole to see what had happened, but found our view obliterated by a key on the inside. We screamed at the top of our lungs, but no response to our utter disappointment, came from within the room. The footman and the kitchen boy seized some hatchets from a store room and with three swift blows each, had managed to axe the strong woodwork of the door into splinters until it fell inward into the sitting room. We then stepped into the interior of the well-furnished room where an oil lamp was burning brightly on a circular table near the window, and a large fire was ablaze in the grate. But our eyes at that dramatic moment wasn’t focused on these irrelevant details but fixed on the object that lay in the centre of the floor, a human body, it was, which was crouching with its bare hands, with its entire appearance from head to foot covered with…blood! “I need not tell you, Mr Holmes, but we were absolutely terror-stricken and frozen to our very roots at this horrible carnage that lay before us and Mrs Alice Crosby, on entering her husband’s ghastly chamber, had let out a hoarse scream and instantly fainted on the ground, causing the maids to hasten to help their mistress to her quarters. As for myself, I, too, was feeling a faint sensation and I struggled for support against the doorway and went bravely across to the body. It’s a strange thing that although I have for nearly forty years been accustomed to many, many worse sights especially during my war experiences in my medical career, the very thought of seeing that dreadful corpse drenched in blood and gore was too much for what my nerves could handle. Certainly only a man of cold blood would ever dare to venture into that ugly den. I crept up to the body and examined it with the curiosity of the scientist, and I saw that its face, although contorted, twisted, and unrecognisable, was that of my dear friend that lay prostrate before me. I gasped to my utter shock of my life and staggered out of the ghastly room of horror in a sort of daze and I think I must have fallen into a dead swoon on the carpeted floor itself, for I was roughly shaken to my conscious state by Dr Brown, who had immediately responded to the distress wire sent by one of the household maids. The local police was then called into the matter, but as the grave business was a taxing one, they referred the case to Scotland Yard. Inspector Tobias Gregson, who’s heading the police investigation, kindly asked me to give him the facts of the tragedy in correspondence with the evidence given by Mrs Alice Crosby and her son, including the servants. The police have been in earnest over the investigation for days on end, but nothing fresh has been the outcome of their efforts, which has caused me to consult you, Mr Holmes, upon this urgent business.” Sherlock Holmes had been listening to Dr Crockford’s remarkable account with rapt attention. Already his mind was fixed on the mystery, and I could see by an observation of the huge puffs of smoke from his pipe that he was unto something. “Tell me, doctor?” he asked. “Was there any window open at the scene of the crime with the exception of the door that was locked from the inside?” “No, Mr Holmes; the only thing that was partly ajar was the skylight.” “Did the police examine the rooftop?” “They did, but they couldn’t find a ladder resting upon the water-pipe, so they presumed that the murderer had cunningly put the ladder in its resting place on the garden bed against the brickwork of the house after the crime was committed.” “It’s a likely possibility,” Holmes remarked, “but it doesn’t balance against the fact that the murderer had carelessly left the skylight open and so indicated the presence of an assassin in the tragedy, does it?” “Well no, Mr Holmes, but perhaps he was so agitated after the horrible screams that his first impulse was to bolt away from capture.” “Maybe so. Has the sitting room been completely searched?” “Absolutely.” “Anything suspicious that may bear upon the mystery?” “I am afraid not.” “Dear me, this is appalling. Watson, at what time is the next train due to arrive at Paddington station?” I looked at my watch. “The next train should, I think, arrive at the station at 4.40.” “Which means, Watson, that we should leave early. Come on, Dr Crockford, I think our time is more precious and more valuable in Kent than in London.” -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Sherlock Holmes was sitting in his armchair, lost in thought as usual, when Watson suddenly popped in from the door with some object in his hand. "Happy birthday, Holmes!" he cried, giving the gift to Holmes. "Why, thank you, Watson," said Holmes, "ah, you have bought me a meerchaum pipe. Splendid, Watson! How much did it cost?" "About ten pounds," Watson replied. "By the way, Holmes," said Watson, "do have any new case at hand?" "Well, yes. Do you by any chance seen the film, "Freddy Vs Jason?" "No, I haven't." -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- "Well there's a case of child killing and child molestation!" "Good gracious, Holmes," gasped Watson, "we must do soemthing about it. Have the police found out who's molesting and killing these children?" "I have a feeling that is Michael Jackson!" replied Holmes, languidly. "Michael Jackson!" retorted Watson with his mouth open, "do you think it's him." "Yup," replied Holmes. "The pop singer involved in these bizarre matters! I can't believe it, although I am aware that he does sleep with children, and that's a fact!" Watson took up an encyclopedia and looked up the letter J, and came across the page he wanted, which he quoted to Sherlock Holmes. "Jackson, Michael. Born 1958. Has five brothers and is the son of a vicious father who always belted him. Has recorded albums such as "Thriller" and "Black Or White". Was interviewed by the Pakistani liar, Martin Bashir, a interview which got utterly screwed up! Has taken plastic surgeries many times since 1981, although he claimed to Martin Bashir that he had taken only two plastic surgeries. And he owns Neverland. By the way, Holmes," said Watson turning to Holmes after reading the extract, "have you heard of Neverland?" "Only in fiction," replied Holmes, "I knew a writer by the name of J.M. Barrie who wrote a book about Neverland called 'The Island'". "Actually, J.M. Barrie's novel was entitled 'Peter Pan'!" corrected Watson. "All right," grumbled Holmes, for he hated being corrected by anyone because he was so egoistic, thinking that he was always right, which is ridiculous ofcourse. 　　点击复制本贴地址： @#@$#%$@#^%&^%&*&(&^&%$#!@#$%^(*&%^$#@@$%^&O(*(*&^%$!$^%UI* 凡是为攻击我而造的武器都必将被摧毁，凡是在审判中诋毁我的言论都必将被定罪。 ——《旧约●以塞亚书》 No weapon that is formed against thee shall prosper; and every tongue that shall rise against thee in judgment thou shalt condemn.    imgsrc="http://cache.gettyimages.com/comp/52662770.jpgx=x&dasite=MS_GINS&ef=2&ev=1&dareq=663975D10E0C39906C086441889E10A1A9C30E9B9B114CE8"       hr                                                      img src="http://tribe.booye.com/UploadPic/TribeAlbum/UU_05053108576242.jpg"hr ※来源: 【 推理之门 Tuili.Com 】.

风尘（世界末日） 2 楼： Re:The Adventure o... 04年01月09日16点09分 Suddenly the door of Sherlock Holmes's sitting room was invaded by a bull-dog faced police inspector. "Good evening, Lestrade," welcomed Sherlock Holmes, "have you found the identity of the person who mindlessly kills and molests children?" "Yes, Mr Holmes!" "What!" shouted Holmes, springing from the chair, "you have discovered his identity?" "Yes," replied the inspector, triumphantly, "and I have beaten you, Holmes, just in time to know the identity of the killer." "Shit!" cried Holmes as he banged his fist on the table. His force was so strong, however, that the table got smashed. Holmes naturally hated being beaten for he always thought himself of being a bloody genius, capable of always outwitting anybody. @#@$#%$@#^%&^%&*&(&^&%$#!@#$%^(*&%^$#@@$%^&O(*(*&^%$!$^%UI* 凡是为攻击我而造的武器都必将被摧毁，凡是在审判中诋毁我的言论都必将被定罪。 ——《旧约●以塞亚书》 No weapon that is formed against thee shall prosper; and every tongue that shall rise against thee in judgment thou shalt condemn.    imgsrc="http://cache.gettyimages.com/comp/52662770.jpgx=x&dasite=MS_GINS&ef=2&ev=1&dareq=663975D10E0C39906C086441889E10A1A9C30E9B9B114CE8"       hr                                                      img src="http://tribe.booye.com/UploadPic/TribeAlbum/UU_05053108576242.jpg"hr ※来源: 【 推理之门 Tuili.Com 】.

风尘（世界末日） 3 楼： Re:The Adventure o... 04年01月09日16点10分 "And what's the killer's name?" asked Sherlock Holmes after sulking in a room for five minutes. "The killer's name is Freddy Kruger," replied Lestrade. "Freddy who?" asked the puzzled Hol,mes. "Freddy Kruger!" replied Lestrade. "And who is he?" @#@$#%$@#^%&^%&*&(&^&%$#!@#$%^(*&%^$#@@$%^&O(*(*&^%$!$^%UI* 凡是为攻击我而造的武器都必将被摧毁，凡是在审判中诋毁我的言论都必将被定罪。 ——《旧约●以塞亚书》 No weapon that is formed against thee shall prosper; and every tongue that shall rise against thee in judgment thou shalt condemn.    imgsrc="http://cache.gettyimages.com/comp/52662770.jpgx=x&dasite=MS_GINS&ef=2&ev=1&dareq=663975D10E0C39906C086441889E10A1A9C30E9B9B114CE8"       hr                                                      img src="http://tribe.booye.com/UploadPic/TribeAlbum/UU_05053108576242.jpg"hr ※来源: 【 推理之门 Tuili.Com 】.

风尘（世界末日） 4 楼： Re:The Adventure o... 04年01月09日16点11分 Matta Harrie carefully traced her sensual lips with bright red lipstick. She was unashamed as the Frenchman came in. She was used to being naked. She kissed the strange man passionately. "Jacques, dear," she whispered seductively into his ear, "I may need your help." This was the famous French mercenary Jacques DeVanderClarque, a.k.a. JAcques the Reaper. @#@$#%$@#^%&^%&*&(&^&%$#!@#$%^(*&%^$#@@$%^&O(*(*&^%$!$^%UI* 凡是为攻击我而造的武器都必将被摧毁，凡是在审判中诋毁我的言论都必将被定罪。 ——《旧约●以塞亚书》 No weapon that is formed against thee shall prosper; and every tongue that shall rise against thee in judgment thou shalt condemn.    imgsrc="http://cache.gettyimages.com/comp/52662770.jpgx=x&dasite=MS_GINS&ef=2&ev=1&dareq=663975D10E0C39906C086441889E10A1A9C30E9B9B114CE8"       hr                                                      img src="http://tribe.booye.com/UploadPic/TribeAlbum/UU_05053108576242.jpg"hr ※来源: 【 推理之门 Tuili.Com 】.

风尘（世界末日） 5 楼： Re:The Adventure o... 04年01月09日16点15分 And just within a few minutes after Watson cursed Holmes angrily, Sherlock Holmes's cigar blew up in his face. Watson laughed at his friend's black face. "What are you laughing at?" demanded Holmes, angrily. "Simple: at you!" replied Watson; "You derserve it for not helping me, and instead being callous and indifferent." "Anyway, what happened, Watson?" asked Sherlock Holmes as he puffed away on his meerchaum pipe which Watson bought him. "Well, I had a horible nightmare," replied Watson, "where Freddy Kruger, the horribly disfigured assassin, came and dragged me along the 17 steps leading up to our sitting room, and after doing so, killed. It was so dreadful, Holmes, but what is more dreadful is that what I have dreamt will happen?" "Why do you say that?" asked Holmes. "Because numerous teenagers who have come from America, have said that if Freddy Kruger haunts your dreams and kills you, it actually happens in real-life!" "What a pity!" said Holmes, carelessly, "You don't have much time, Watson, I'm afraid, for Freddy Kruger's going to kill you tonight!" "Can't you help me, my dear Holmes?" asked Watson, looking up to his friend. "I'm afraid I can't!" replied Sherlock Holmes, coldly, "I have a chemical analysis of interest to do tonight, so I can't help. You can get killed!" "All right!" cried Watson, angrily as he turned on his heel and went into his bedroom to sleep in the afternoon, just in order to be fully awake to be ready for Freddy Kruger that night. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Night had fallen and everybody in Baker Street had fallen asleep except for two people: Sherlock Holmes, who was doing his chemical research in the sitting room, and Watson, who sat agitatedly in bed with a gun in his hand, waiting to fight against Freddy Kruger. Big Ben struck eleven, but Freddy didn't turn up; Big Ben struck a hour later, but still Freddy Kruger didn't make a appearance; again Big Ben struck one, but still Freddy Kruger didn't make a appearance. Finally when the Big Ben struck two in the morning, some creature crashed into Watson's room through the glass window, breaking everything into smitghreens. "Hello," said the creature, raising its slouch hat, "I am Freddy Kruger. I am here to kill you! You wouldn't mind if I kill you, doctor?" "I do mind as a matter of fact," replied the angry but agitated Watson, "and take this!!" Watson took his gun and shot at Freddy Kruger. But the bullet had no effect and although it went right through Freddy's living corpse, the killer was still alive. "Ha, Ha, Ha, Ha!!!" chuckled the disfigured villian. Watson shot again at the terrible figure, but the same result occurred. "Ha, Ha, Ha!!" mocked the killer, "There's nothing you can do, my dear doctor!" -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- And with that,Freddy Kruger seized Dr Watson by the hair and led him out of the bedroom and up the 17 stairs. After doing this, the killer was about to assassinate Dr Watson when suddenly Sherlock came upon the scene and shot Freddy several times with his revolver. The creature fell to the ground." "Ah, you have rescued me," cried watson with a sob, "I thought you were cold and unhelpful, but you have proved me wrong by rescuing me. How can I thank you, Holmes?" "As a matter of fact, I didn't really came with the intention of saving you," replied Holmes, "my only concern was in stopping the hullabaloo that you and Freddy were making: you screaming on one side, and his laughing loudly on the other side were really disturbing me from doing my chemical analysis. That's why I came and killed Freddy Kruger!" "You are wrong!" said a voice. "Who's that?" hesitated Sherlock Holmes as he turned left to right and vice versa in a great state of agitation. "I am Freddy Kruger!" replied the voice. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Freddy Kruger stepped out of the darkness, and Holmes and Watson drew away from this grotesque spectacle that was before them. Freddy Kruger laughed menacingly, and Watson was frightened at the sight of the horribly disfigured visage of Freddy Kruger. "So you have disturbed me from carrying out the murder of an individual, Mr Sherlock Holmes," said Freddy Kruger, pointing his knife-tipped finger towards Watson's direction; "You know very well, Mr Holmes," he continued, "that when I kill a person in a nightmare, I repeat that murder in real-life, and nobody can stop me from killing people! However, if a person interferes in my killing another peron, death will certainly come upon that person who dares to defy me! And you are going to be my victim, Mr Holmes, ha, ha, ha!!!" "You don't have a chance with me, my dear Mr Kruger," said Holmes, calmly, "I am much smarter than you are and you can't kill me!" "How can you be brave to say that when I'm right before you, eh?" cried the horrible monster. "Well, ... you have a point," thought Holmes. And just as Freddy kruger was about to pounce upon Sherlock Holmes and kill him, the monster staggered back in fright, for Sherlock Holmes held a crucifix. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- "You dont honestly think im a master detective for nothing Mr Krueger do you?" Sherlock Holmes asked questioningly, "DAMN YOU, DAMN YOU HOLMES" screeched the creature as it slowly backed away to the window. He carried on "Its no matter though mr Holmes for you might be protected but your friend isnt!!! As the finished this sentence mr Krueger threw the knife toward Watson it hit him squarely in the chest. To this the creature laughed and jumped through the window. " WATSON!!!" Cried Holmes the poor doctor fell to the floor... -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- hello sherlock holmes ive come to yuo acn you help me my dd died of a suspicios death he died one night and there is no siptons of any blood and there was no one in his room the corereners said they could not find and thing to lead it to his death please help me. well there was one thing in his room there was a candle it was just bluw out i kow this cause it was still smoking and ikonw the smell when its bluw out please help me !!!!. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- corereners said they could not find and thing to lead it to his death please help me. well there was one thing in his room there was a candle it was just bluw out i kow this cause it was still smoking and ikonw the smell when its bluw out please help me !!!!. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Sherlock Holmes and the Phantom Killer Sherlock Holmes was sitting in his armchair, lost in thought as usual, when Watson suddenly popped in from the door with some object in his hand. "Happy birthday, Holmes!" he cried, giving the gift to Holmes. "Why, thank you, Watson," said Holmes, "ah, you have bought me a meerchaum pipe. Splendid, Watson! How much did it cost?" "About ten pounds," Watson replied; "By the way, Holmes, how old are you today?" "I have just turned forty-seven today!" replied Sherlock Holmes as he started puffing at his pipe. "By the way, Holmes," said Watson, "do have any new case at hand?" "Well, yes. Have you by any chance seen the film, "Freddy Vs Jason?" "No, I haven't." "Well there's a case of child killing and child molestation!" "Good gracious, Holmes," gasped Watson, "we must do soemthing about it. Have the police found out who's molesting and killing these children?" "I have a feeling that is Michael Jackson!" replied Holmes, languidly. "Michael Jackson!" retorted Watson with his mouth open, "do you think it's him." "Yup," replied Holmes. "The pop singer involved in these bizarre matters! I can't believe it, although I am aware that he does sleep with children, and that's a fact!" Watson took up an encyclopedia and looked up the letter J, and came across the page he wanted, which he quoted to Sherlock Holmes. "Jackson, Michael. Born 1958. Has five brothers and is the son of a vicious father who always belted him. Has recorded albums such as "Thriller" and "Black Or White". Was interviewed by the Pakistani liar, Martin Bashir, a interview which got utterly screwed up! Has taken plastic surgeries many times since 1981, although he claimed to Martin Bashir that he had taken only two plastic surgeries. And he owns Neverland. By the way, Holmes," said Watson turning to Holmes after reading the extract, "have you heard of Neverland?" "Only in fiction," replied Holmes, "I knew a writer by the name of J.M. Barrie who wrote a book about Neverland called 'The Island'". "Actually, J.M. Barrie's novel was entitled 'Peter Pan'!" corrected Watson. "All right," grumbled Holmes, for he hated being corrected by anyone because he was so egoistic, thinking that he was always right, which is ridiculous ofcourse. Suddenly the door of Sherlock Holmes's sitting room was invaded by a bull-dog faced police inspector. "Good evening, Lestrade," welcomed Sherlock Holmes, "have you found the identity of the person who mindlessly kills and molests children?" "Yes, Mr Holmes!" "What!" shouted Holmes, springing from the chair, "you have discovered his identity?" "Yes," replied the inspector, triumphantly, "and I have beaten you, Holmes, just in time to know the identity of the killer." "Shit!" cried Holmes as he banged his fist on the table. His force was so strong, however, that the table got smashed. Holmes naturally hated being beaten for he always thought himself of being a bloody genius, capable of always outwitting anybody. "And what's the killer's name?" asked Sherlock Holmes after sulking in a room for five minutes. "The killer's name is Freddy Kruger," replied Lestrade. "Freddy who?" asked the puzzled Holmes. "Freddy Kruger!" replied Lestrade. "And who is he?" "An American, who once was a peddlar, giving rattles to children, whom he killed afterwards after getting some money for himself from the parents from selling the goods. He then became insane and started molesting and killing children. The parents tried to get him arrested by the police but he was too cunning for them. Eventually the parents of Elm Street went and took the law in to their hands and killed the fellow by burning him up in his wretched little dustbin house. "But that wasn't all, Mr Holmes, for Freddy kruger made a pact with the devil, and became the powerful supernatural killer. In appearance, he's got a horribly disfigured face (thanks to the burns, of course), a red and green striped cardigan which is in tatters, and gloves with sharp, pointy knifes at the tips. He's terribly dangerous and terribly cunning for anybody, even you, Mr Holmes!" -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- "Don't worry, Lestrade" said Sherlock Holmes, "I will deal with the phantom killer!" The next morning, Sherlock Holmes was sitting in his armchair, drinking his coffee and reading the papers when he suddenly heard a dreadful scream ringing within 221B Baker Street. He rushed up the 17 steps and went into Dr Watson's room, where he found that the good doctor had fallen off his bed and sprained his rotten little neck. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- "What on earth has happened to you, Watson," asked Holmes, calmly and callously as he puffed on his cigar. "I have fallen from my bed and sprained my neck as a consequence," replied Watson. "I had observed that," said Holmes, still puffing swirls of tobacco smoke into the atmosphere. "Can't you help me?" asked the angry doctor. "I can't," replied Holmes, coldly, still puffing on his cigar. "Well, Curse You!!" cried Watson in rage. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- And just within a few minutes after Watson cursed Holmes angrily, Sherlock Holmes's cigar blew up in his face. Watson laughed at his friend's black face. "What are you laughing at?" demanded Holmes, angrily. "Simple: at you!" replied Watson; "You derserve it for not helping me, and instead being callous and indifferent." "Anyway, what happened, Watson?" asked Sherlock Holmes as he puffed away on his meerchaum pipe which Watson bought him. "Well, I had a horible nightmare," replied Watson, "where Freddy Kruger, the horribly disfigured assassin, came and dragged me along the 17 steps leading up to our sitting room, and after doing so, killed. It was so dreadful, Holmes, but what is more dreadful is that what I have dreamt will happen?" "Why do you say that?" asked Holmes. "Because numerous teenagers who have come from America, have said that if Freddy Kruger haunts your dreams and kills you, it actually happens in real-life!" "What a pity!" said Holmes, carelessly, "You don't have much time, Watson, I'm afraid, for Freddy Kruger's going to kill you tonight!" "Can't you help me, my dear Holmes?" asked Watson, looking up to his friend. "I'm afraid I can't!" replied Sherlock Holmes, coldly, "I have a chemical analysis of interest to do tonight, so I can't help. You can get killed!" "All right!" cried Watson, angrily as he turned on his heel and went into his bedroom to sleep in the afternoon, just in order to be fully awake to be ready for Freddy Kruger that night. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Night had fallen and everybody in Baker Street had fallen asleep except for two people: Sherlock Holmes, who was doing his chemical research in the sitting room, and Watson, who sat agitatedly in bed with a gun in his hand, waiting to fight against Freddy Kruger. Big Ben struck eleven, but Freddy didn't turn up; Big Ben struck a hour later, but still Freddy Kruger didn't make a appearance; again Big Ben struck one, but still Freddy Kruger didn't make a appearance. Finally when the Big Ben struck two in the morning, some creature crashed into Watson's room through the glass window, breaking everything into smitghreens. "Hello," said the creature, raising its slouch hat, "I am Freddy Kruger. I am here to kill you! You wouldn't mind if I kill you, doctor?" "I do mind as a matter of fact," replied the angry but agitated Watson, "and take this!!" Watson took his gun and shot at Freddy Kruger. But the bullet had no effect and although it went right through Freddy's living corpse, the killer was still alive. "Ha, Ha, Ha, Ha!!!" chuckled the disfigured villian. Watson shot again at the terrible figure, but the same result occurred. "Ha, Ha, Ha!!" mocked the killer, "There's nothing you can do, my dear doctor!" -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- And with that,Freddy Kruger seized Dr Watson by the hair and led him out of the bedroom and up the 17 stairs. After doing this, the killer was about to assassinate Dr Watson when suddenly Sherlock came upon the scene and shot Freddy several times with his revolver. The creature fell to the ground." "Ah, you have rescued me," cried watson with a sob, "I thought you were cold and unhelpful, but you have proved me wrong by rescuing me. How can I thank you, Holmes?" "As a matter of fact, I didn't really came with the intention of saving you," replied Holmes, "my only concern was in stopping the hullabaloo that you and Freddy were making: you screaming on one side, and his laughing loudly on the other side were really disturbing me from doing my chemical analysis. That's why I came and killed Freddy Kruger!" "You are wrong!" said a voice. "Who's that?" hesitated Sherlock Holmes as he turned left to right and vice versa in a great state of agitation. "I am Freddy Kruger!" replied the voice. Freddy Kruger stepped out of the darkness, and Holmes and Watson drew away from this grotesque spectacle that was before them. Freddy Kruger laughed menacingly, and Watson was frightened at the sight of the horribly disfigured visage of Freddy Kruger. "So you have disturbed me from carrying out the murder of an individual, Mr Sherlock Holmes," said Freddy Kruger, pointing his knife-tipped finger towards Watson's direction; "You know very well, Mr Holmes," he continued, "that when I kill a person in a nightmare, I repeat that murder in real-life, and nobody can stop me from killing people! However, if a person interferes in my killing another peron, death will certainly come upon that person who dares to defy me! And you are going to be my victim, Mr Holmes, ha, ha, ha!!!" "You don't have a chance with me, my dear Mr Kruger," said Holmes, calmly, "I am much smarter than you are and you can't kill me!" "How can you be brave to say that when I'm right before you, eh?" cried the horrible monster. "Well, ... you have a point," thought Holmes. And just as Freddy kruger was about to pounce upon Sherlock Holmes and kill him, the monster staggered back in fright, for Sherlock Holmes held a crucifix. "You don't honestly think I'm a private detective for nothing, Mr Krueger do you?" Sherlock Holmes asked questionningly. "DAMN YOU, DAMN YOU HOLMES" screeched the creature as it slowly backed away to the window. He carried on "It's no matter, Mr Holmes for you might be protected but your friend isnt!!! As the finished this sentence mr Krueger threw the knife toward Watson it hit him squarely in the chest. To this the creature laughed and jumped through the window. "WATSON!!!" cried Holmes as the poor doctor fell to the floor... -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- he was dead! -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- "Watson tell me your ok, please!!!!"cried Sherlock Holmes as his companion lay silent in his arms.It finally dawned upon him how cruel and thoughtless he had been to the man who was always there for him,his friend, his only friend. "Holmes??" Answered the sad bloodied heap that lay on the floor, "Watson, thank God you're alright. Can you get up? Where are you hurt?" The questions came spouting from his mouth like a fountain. He then had an idea, he was after all in Baker Street and Mrs Hudson's room was upstairs, He began to shout for her."What is it Mr...Good Gracious - Dr Watson!!" As Mrs Hudson entered, her eyes were caught instantly to the heap that lay drifting in and out of conciousness on the floor. Mrs Hudson, wait here with Watson while I fetch Abraham Brown " Sherlock Holmes fast instructions as he rushed through the door brought Mrs Hudson out of the dream she felt she was in. After the longest half hour that ever seemed Sherlock Holmes arrived back with Abraham Brown the nearest doctor to Baker Street. As he was ushered in by Sherlock mrs Hudson noticed his collar was not done and he had not shaved which meant that he had been woken from slumber by the detective. As he knelt down by Watson his large hands examining the wound and facial expressions of the poor doctor, Sherlock stood over him and asked "Will he be alright?" "Only time will tell, if he makes it through the night he should be fine, all depends on tonight." With that he carried on with the examination hoping the unfortunate doctor would survive this his longest and most treacherous night yet... -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- "I must refer to my case files," stated Holmes. "I wish to review the cases of 'the Lost Treasure of the Maurayus' and 'the Twisted Knife.'" -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- really? -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- I was a cold dark mornig and I was chilling out in the i-nt and then suddenly I saw this -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Nightmare on Baker Street Sherlock Holmes was sitting in his armchair, lost in thought as usual, when his medical friend, Dr. Watson suddenly popped in from the door with some object in his hand. "Happy birthday, Holmes!" he cried, giving a gift to Holmes. "Why, thank you, Watson," said Holmes, "ah, you have bought me a meerchaum pipe. Splendid, Watson! How much did it cost?" "About ten pounds," Watson replied; "By the way, Holmes, how old are you today?" "I have just turned forty-seven today!" replied Sherlock Holmes as he lit his new pipe and started puffing on it. "By the way, Holmes," said Watson, "do have any new case at hand?" "Well, yes. Have you by any chance seen the film, 'Freddy Vs Jason?' " "No, I haven't." "Well there's a case of child killing and child molestation!" "Good gracious, Holmes," gasped Watson, putting his hand to his mouth, "we must do something about it. Have the police found out who's molesting and killing these children?" "I have a feeling that is Michael Jackson!" replied Holmes, languidly. "Michael Jackson!" retorted Watson with his mouth open, "do you think it's him." "Yup," replied Holmes. "The pop singer involved in these bizarre matters! I can't believe it, although I am aware that he does sleep with children, and that's a fact!" Watson took up an encyclopedia and looked up the letter J, and came across the page he wanted, which he quoted to Sherlock Holmes. "Jackson, Michael. Born 1958. Has four brothers and a sister, and is the son of a vicious father who always belted him. Has recorded albums such as "Thriller" and "Black Or White". Was interviewed by the Pakistani liar, Martin Bashir, a interview which got utterly screwed up! Has taken plastic surgeries many times since 1981, although he claimed to Martin Bashir that he had taken only two plastic surgeries. Tried to sue the American director, Steven Spielberg for not giving him the role as Peter Pan in the film, the "Hook". And he owns Neverland Ranch! By the way, Holmes," said Watson turning to Holmes after reading the extract, "have you heard of Neverland?" "Only in fiction," replied Holmes, "I knew a writer by the name of J.M. Barrie who wrote a book about Neverland called 'The Island'". "Actually, J.M. Barrie's novel was entitled 'Peter Pan'!" corrected Watson. "All right," grumbled Holmes, for he hated being corrected by anyone because he was so egoistic, thinking that he was always right, which is ridiculous of course. Suddenly the door of Sherlock Holmes's sitting room was invaded by a bull-dog faced police inspector. "Good evening, Lestrade," welcomed Sherlock Holmes, stretching out his hand to greet the inspector, "have you found the identity of the person who mindlessly kills and molests children?" "Yes, Mr Holmes!" replied the inspector. "What!" shouted Holmes, springing from the chair, "you have discovered his identity?" "Yes," replied the inspector, triumphantly, "and I have beaten you, Holmes, just in time to know the identity of the killer." "Shit!" cried Holmes as he banged his fist on the table. His force was so strong, however, that the table got smashed. Holmes naturally hated being beaten for he always thought himself of being a bloody genius, capable of always outwitting anybody. "And what's the killer's name?" asked Sherlock Holmes after sulking in a room for five minutes. "The killer's name is Freddy Kruger," replied Lestrade. "Freddy who?" asked the puzzled Holmes, scratching his bony head. "Freddy Kruger!" repeated Lestrade. "And who is he?" "An American, who once was a peddlar, giving rattles to children, whom he killed afterwards after getting some money for himself from the parents from selling the goods. He then became insane and started molesting and killing children. The parents tried to get him arrested by the police but he was too cunning for them. Eventually the parents of Elm Street went and took the law in to their own hands and killed the fellow by burning him up in his wretched little dustbin house. "But that wasn't all, Mr Holmes, for Freddy Kruger made a pact with the devil when he went to Hell, and has hence become the powerful supernatural killer. In appearance, he's got a horribly disfigured face (thanks to the burns, of course), a red and green striped cardigan which is in tatters, and gloves with sharp, pointy knifes at the tips. He's terribly dangerous and terribly cunning for anybody, even you, Mr Holmes!" "Don't worry, Lestrade" said Sherlock Holmes, "I will deal with the phantom killer!" "You...you are sure?" hesitated Lestrade. "Positive!" said Sherlock Holmes, fixing his tie and collar before his mirror; "now, gentlemen, I better be off to settle some private matter which is going on in the country." The next morning, although it was still dark being 6 o'clock, Sherlock Holmes was sitting in his armchair, drinking his coffee and reading the papers when he suddenly heard a dreadful scream ringing within 221B Baker Street. He rushed up the 17 steps and went into Dr Watson's room, where he found that the good doctor had fallen off his bed and sprained his rotten little neck. "What on earth has happened to you, Watson," asked Holmes, calmly and callously as he puffed on his cigar. "I have fallen from my bed and sprained my neck as a consequence," replied Watson, getting up and massaging his sprained neck. "I had observed that," said Holmes, still puffing swirls of tobacco smoke into the atmosphere. "Can't you help me?" asked the doctor, annoyed at his astute friend's indifference, which was characteristic of him. "I can't," replied Holmes, coldly, still puffing on his cigar, "I am busy reading the papers at the present moment." "Well, Curse You!!" cried Watson in rage, shaking his fist at Holmes, but Holmes didn't seem perturbed, and he shrugged his shoulders and went out of the room. And just within a few minutes after Watson cursed Holmes angrily, Sherlock Holmes's cigar blew up in his face. Watson ran out of his room to see what had happened and saw his friend's black face. He then laughed. "Ha, ha, ha, ha!!!" "What are you laughing at?" demanded Holmes, angrily. "Simple: at you!" replied Watson, still giggling "You deserve it for not helping me, and instead being callous and indifferent." "Shit!" cried Holmes. "Anyway, what happened, Watson?" asked Sherlock Holmes after he had wiped the dirt and vapour from his face. "Well, I had a horible nightmare," replied Watson, "where Freddy Kruger, the horribly disfigured assassin, came and dragged me along the 17 steps leading up to our sitting room, and after doing so, killed me! It was so dreadful, Holmes, but what is more dreadful is that what I have dreamt will happen?" "Why do you say that?" asked Holmes. "Because numerous teenagers who have come from America, have said that if Freddy Kruger haunts your dreams and kills you, it actually happens in real-life!" "What a pity!" said Holmes carelessly, shrugging his shoulders, "You don't have much time, Watson, I'm afraid, for Freddy Kruger's going to kill you tonight!" "Can't you help me, my dear Holmes?" asked Watson, looking up to his friend. "I'm afraid I can't!" replied Sherlock Holmes, coldly, "I have a chemical analysis of interest to do tonight, so I can't help. You can go and get killed!" "Fine!" cried Watson, angrily as he turned on his heel and went into his bedroom to sleep in the afternoon, just in order to be fully awake to be ready for Freddy Kruger that night. Night had fallen and everybody in Baker Street had fallen asleep except for two people: Sherlock Holmes, who was doing his chemical research in the sitting room, and Watson, who sat agitatedly in bed with a gun in his hand, waiting to fight against Freddy Kruger. Big Ben struck eleven, but Freddy didn't turn up; Big Ben struck a hour later, but still Freddy Kruger didn't make a appearance; again Big Ben struck one, but still Freddy Kruger didn't make a appearance. Finally when the Big Ben struck two in the morning, some creature crashed into Watson's room through the glass window, breaking everything into smithereens. "Hello," said the creature, raising its slouch hat, "I am Freddy Kruger. I am here to kill you! You wouldn't mind if I kill you, doctor?" "I do mind as a matter of fact," replied the angry but agitated Watson, "and take this!!" Watson took his gun and shot at Freddy Kruger. But the bullet had no effect and although it went right through Freddy's living corpse, the killer was still alive. "Ha, Ha, Ha, Ha!!!" chuckled the disfigured villian. Watson shot again at the terrible figure, but the same result occurred. "Ha, Ha, Ha!!" mocked the killer, "There's nothing you can do, my dear doctor!" And with that,Freddy Kruger seized Dr Watson by the hair and led him out of the bedroom and up the 17 stairs. After doing this, the killer was about to assassinate Dr Watson when suddenly Sherlock came upon the scene and shot Freddy several times with his revolver. The creature fell to the ground. "Ah, you have rescued me, Holmes!" cried Watson with a sob, and at the same sighing with relief that the killer was dead; "I thought you were cold and unhelpful, but you have proved me wrong by rescuing me. How can I thank you, Holmes?" "As a matter of fact, I didn't really came with the intention of saving you," replied Holmes, "my only concern was in stopping the hullabaloo that you and Freddy were making: you screaming on one side, and his laughing loudly on the other side were really disturbing me from doing my chemical analysis. That's why I came and killed Freddy Kruger!" "You are wrong!" said a menacing voice. "Who's that?" hesitated Sherlock Holmes as he turned left to right and vice versa in a great state of agitation, waving his gun about. "I am Freddy Kruger!" replied the voice. Freddy Kruger stepped out of the darkness, and Holmes and Watson drew away from this grotesque spectacle that was before them. Freddy Kruger laughed menacingly, and Watson was frightened at the sight of the horribly disfigured visage of Freddy Kruger. "So you have disturbed me from carrying out the murder of an individual, Mr Sherlock Holmes," said Freddy Kruger, pointing his knife-tipped finger towards Watson's direction; "You know very well, Mr Holmes," he continued, "that when I kill a person in a nightmare, I repeat that murder in real-life, and nobody can stop me from killing people! However, if a person interferes in my killing another peron, death will certainly come upon that person who dares to defy me! And you are going to be my victim, Mr Holmes, ha, ha, ha!!!" "You don't have a chance with me, my dear Mr Kruger," said Holmes, calmly, "I am much smarter than you are and you can't kill me!" "How can you be brave to say that when I'm right before you, eh?" cried the horrible monster, stepping forward slowly towards Sherlock Holmes with his knife-tipped fingers. "Well, ... y-you h-have a-a p-point," stammered Holmes with fear. Suddenly Freddy Kruger pounced upon Sherlock Holmes like some dangerous tiger and was about to sqeeze the detective's throat with his hand, when he suddenly released his hold of Holmes when the detective showed him the crucifix. The monster staggered back in fright as Holmes advanced towards him with the crucifix. "You don't honestly think I'm a private detective for nothing, Mr Krueger do you?" Sherlock Holmes asked questionningly. "DAMN YOU, DAMN YOU HOLMES" screeched the creature as it slowly backed away to the window. He carried on "It's no matter, Mr Holmes for you might be protected but your friend isnt!!! As he finished this sentence, Freddy Krueger threw a knife towards Watson, which hit the latter squarely in the chest. To this the creature laughed and jumped out of the window, crashing through the glass and breaking everything to smithereens. "WATSON!!!" cried Holmes as the poor doctor fell to the floor. "Watson tell me that you're okay, please!!!!"cried Sherlock Holmes as his companion lay silent in his arms. It finally dawned upon him how cruel and thoughtless he had been to the man who was always there for him, his friend--his only friend. "Holmes??" Answered the sad bloodied heap that lay on the floor. "Watson, thank God you're alright. Can you get up? Where are you hurt?" The questions came spouting from his mouth like a fountain. He then had an idea: he was after all in Baker Street and Mrs Hudson's room was upstairs, He began to shout for her. "What is it Mr Holmes?" asked Mrs Hudson as she came along the passage, "Good Gracious - Dr Watson!!" Mrs Hudson's eyes were caught instantly to the heap that lay drifting in and out of conciousness on the floor. "Good gracious, my dear Watson," as Mrs Hudson knelt beside Watson and held his head upon her lap, "what has happened to you?" "Freddy Kruger tried to kill him by piercing a knife into his person," responded Sherlock Holmes, "but fortunately, Watson's not dead!" "You are wrong, Mr Holmes!!" said a voice from downstairs. "I-is...t-that... y-you, Freddy Kruger?" stammered Holmes with fear. "Right it is," said the demonic being as it started ascending the stairs, "and I am here to kill you, Mr Sherlock Holmes. You can never escape from me!" -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Just then a guy with a hockey mask came intrusively into 221B and seized Freddy Kruger. Although Freddy struggled against his opponent, the hockey-masked guy's strength was tenfold! The guy held Freddy Kruger by the neck and cut off Freddy's neck with his machette. Blood spread over the place! As the hockey-masked killer was about to kill Sherlock Holmes himself, the detective let out a few bullets from his gun and the killer fell dead, tumbling down the stairs. "W-Who...was...h-he?" asked Mrs Hudson, aghast at the blood and gore that was lying before her in the house. "That was Jason Voorhees!" responded Holmes, "he's a mute, menacing killer, who annhilates anybody in his path. He lives at Camp Crystal Lake in the heart of America, where's he stays submerged in the lake. What he's doing in London, I don't know, but it's all over. Freddy versing Jason has ended. It was just a battle of the losers!!" The End. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- But you see Mrs Hudson...Moriarty was at the back of all this, it`s a good job Watson was saved from real harm by his silver cigarette case....come on Watson old fellow there is work to be done, and l need the help of my friend and partner...Oh right you are Holmes...it`s not as bad as it looks really...they both put on their cotas and hats and ventured out into the cold London air, expect us back when you see us Mrs Hudson..Holmes cried out, and with that he lept on the first handsome cab he saw and pulled Watson with him...KIngs Cross cabbie and fast...where are we going Holmes....to Huddersfield in the county or West Yorkshire, a Mr Victor Watson is in need of our help and if l am successful it could be the highlight of our long association, these are the facts that l know of Dr. Mr Watson is a gentleman in his 50's, but would pass for 40's, he recentley found a map in a box of bric-a-brach he got from a local auction house, this map shows the site of the Treasure of the Count of Monte Cristo...but Holmes thats only a story....l don`t think so Watson, l have seen part of this map and l`m convinced it`s authntic...so Watson once again the games afoot.........(que music) -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- what did you people do to my ending!!!!!!!!! Who ruined it???? honestly i cant leave you people alone for two seconds can i??? -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- "the missing jewels" late afternoon the london jewals were missing moreati was correctly acused and killed but shelock still thinks he got away -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Sherlock Holmes Meets Dorian Gray by Sidhartha Shankar "To the logical mind, everything which he gathers from big to small details and his ability to evaluate them is a form of art," remarked Sherlock Holmes, "and it's for art's sake that I solve crimes rather than for financial rewards." "I quite agree," I said. "Ah, but alas! London hasn't been a very intersting city ever since the Jack the Ripper murder cases were causing such a sensation for the public, and where Scotland Yard was being disgraced for failing to ever capture the great homicidal maniac. What can a man with great brains like mine do in a environment that does not provide sufficient work for him to evaluate. It's a great loss, and I think I will have to occupy my poor self to cocaine until somebody consults me upon a case. My, we have got company!" "Who has come?" I asked. "I have no idea, but it must be a client," said Sherlock Holmes as he gazed through the window of his sitting room. Foosteps upon the stairs were becoming louder and louder as they were ascending, and moments later, our new client presented himself at the doorway of our sitting room. Our visitor was a tall and rather portly man, who was attired in black from head to foot. From appearance, there was no doubt that the man was aristocratic, for he wore fine rings with bright rubies and sapphires upon his knuckles, and a golden albert watch that was chained to his waist. Although our visitor's hair and beard were grey, his face was pleasant and youthful, and there was a certain charm to his character, which would cause anybody--man or woman to develop a quick liking to him. The man walked up to my friend and rung his hand cordially. "You must be Sherlock Holmes, I presume," he said, smiling, "I am Lord Henry Wotten." -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- "Lord Henry Wotten, I see," remarked Sherlock Holmes before he sat in his armchair, "and what does the dear baronet want of Mr Sherlock Holmes, the specialist in crime?" "Well it's a case of a diappearance of a famous individual." "And who might this missing individual be?" asked Sherlock Holmes as he lit a cigar. "The illustrious painter--Basil Hallward!" "Basil Hallward?!" I cried in surprise. "Basil Hallward!" said the baronet. Sherlock Holmes darted for the newswpaper that was lying on the floor and turning over a number of the pages, he came to the entry which he was seeking. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- moo said holmes oh no im turning in to a cow -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- There is a plot a foot and i know who is behind it -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Mr. stapleton came back to life and strangled holmes with a butterfly net -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Lost in drug induced cow antics, Holmes, a man always at work began his search for Basil whats his name. Unsure where to go, he asked Watson to take off his socks and prance around the room. Watson, unsure why he should do this, did it anyway, because Sherlock always had a reason. For indeed, Sherlock did have a reason. Unknown to Watson, he was on Candid Camera. Upon being told that the BBC would be airing him prancing around, as soon as TV would be invented 60 years later, Watson pushed Holmes over a waterfall and blamed it on some evil Professor. The end -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- As the sun sank low in the West, Sherlock Holmes & Dr. Watson started on what would later be known as "the trek" which would lead them into many exotic and mysterious places. After many hours of plodding down a dark path along the top of a cliff overlooking the sea, Sherlock suddenly stopped dead in his tracks. Watson almost bumped into the silent, still Sherlock. "What's the matter?" asked Watson. Sherlock deep in thought neither replied or acted as if he heard Watson at all. After several minutes in this postion, Holmes replied quietly, as if to himself, "That must be the answer." Watson was totally mystified by Sherlock's behavior and remarked. "Look here, old boy, what's afoot?" At that exact moment a figure loomed from the darkness and began the most horrible screeching... The rest of the story will frighten even most hardened of hearts. But that will come later.... -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- As the sun sank low in the West, Sherlock Holmes & Dr. Watson started on what would later be known as "the trek" which would lead them into many exotic and mysterious places. After many hours of plodding down a dark path along the top of a cliff overlooking the sea, Sherlock suddenly stopped dead in his tracks. Watson almost bumped into the silent, still Sherlock. "What's the matter?" asked Watson. Sherlock deep in thought neither replied or acted as if he heard Watson at all. After several minutes in this postion, Holmes replied quietly, as if to himself, "That must be the answer." Watson was totally mystified by Sherlock's behavior and remarked. "Look here, old boy, what's afoot?" At that exact moment a figure loomed from the darkness and began the most horrible screeching... The rest of the story will frighten even most hardened of hearts. But that will come later.... -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- do you find it interesting? to a collector of fairy tales. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- and i gave it a bow jod -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- r own entry to help create the story! -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- The Adventure of the Local Banker PART I THE PREFACE OF THE CASE 揕ife is nothing but a dull existence,?commented Mr Sherlock Holmes, as he poured himself a cup of coffee at the breakfast table one morning. 揈vents in this great city of London lack the unusual, extraordinary aspects which we have more than once in our career encountered, and which can only interest the general public who can only make sense from reading papers, but not observing the details that prove obvious, which is disclosed from their common ignorance.?He shrugged his shoulders and turning to our window, lit his meerschaum pipe and fell back on his armchair, lost in thought. Life indeed had been playing upon his nerves. For some time now, there had seldom been any case that had occupied his attention; only a few cases were the only limited material we had to deal so far this year. The tragic affair of the death of Mr Williams was a case that proved an absolute failure when neither Holmes nor the regular police succeeded in bringing the assassin at bay. The legal will and testament of the late Baron James and his illegitimate heir was a mere minor issue that was later referred to the Magistrate抯 Court. And the mysterious disappearance of the fair Lady Agatha was a case, which even the most astute mind like Sherlock Holmes could not solve. My friend抯 inclination to cocaine, that terrible drug in moments of stagnation, which had more than once endangered his career, had ceased under my strict medical care, and he had learnt to lead a more relaxed, self contained existence. But still the urge for work weighed upon his mind, which caused him to sigh and muse at the breakfast table. However, it wasn抰 long after his remark when our pageboy arrived in our sitting room. 揂ny news, Billy??asked Holmes languidly. 揧es sir,?replied our faithful messenger, 揑抳e received two wires here, which are addressed to you.? The boy handed Holmes the two telegrams and left the room. Holmes looked with interest at the wires with knitted brows and his eyes gleamed with satisfaction, as he puffed furious whirls of blue smoke from his pipe. After finishing his reading, he tossed the telegrams across at me with a mischievous smile. The first telegram was from our old friend, Tobias Gregson of Scotland Yard, which ran: Urgent business at hand in Kent. A trying case for the police investigation. Your service would be greatly appreciated. Yours Sincerely Gregson. The next telegram was evidently related to the same business in Kent that Gregson alluded, and which ran in the following terms: Coming to Baker Street at 10 o抍lock to consult you upon a grave issue, which has just occurred in Kent. Your help would be greatly needed. P. Crockford. 揥hat a stroke of luck!?remarked Holmes, smiling. 揑t seems everything is turning our way, Watson. It抯 a quarter to ten according to our grandfather clock, so we are not long in waiting for our new client.? But it seemed we had a rather long time in waiting, since an hour had nearly passed before there came knocks at our door downstairs, followed by hurried footsteps, and our sitting room being invaded by a taciturn visitor. Our client was a small, portly, elderly man with gold-rimmed spectacles, a clean-shaven face with side grey whiskers, and a massive baldhead. He wore a formal but slovenly tweed suit and in one of his hands he held a handsome walking stick that was bulbous headed. He was apparently in a state of great agitation. 揥hich?of you is Mr Sherlock Holmes??asked our visitor, who seemed unable to control his emotions as he was palpitating with beads of sweat running on his forehead. 揑 am,?replied Holmes, rising from his armchair. 揥hat can I do for you?? 揙h Mr Holmes! Mr Holmes!! A great tragedy has just occurred in Kent. It抯 murder, Mr Holmes! Murder!!?The man wrung his hands into the air in a paroxysm of agitation and with a sharp cry, pitched forward upon our carpet, unconscious! My friend rushed to help the man to the sofa while I immediately dashed to my room to fetch a flask of brandy to relieve our client. In time after several swigs of the flask, the colour returned to the man抯 rosy cheeks, and he immediately raised himself up to apologise for the inconvenience he caused us. 揑 am dreadfully sorry, Mr Holmes and to you, Dr Watson, for the trouble I have caused. But the matter was so pressing upon my nerves and as I抳e been having a stressful week, my nerves literally gave way. Have you read any particulars upon the murder case in Kent in the latest editions of the papers, Mr Holmes?? 揑 am afraid not. Watson, can you be good enough to search up information related to this obscure business, which we have been so ignorant for the last few days, among the pile of newspapers?? I searched among the piles of papers that had accumulated in one area of the room and took out the edition of last week抯 newspaper when my eye rested upon the broad heading upon the front page, which was entitled 揟he Haven Horror!?I then read to Holmes and our client a small passage from the writing below the ominous title, which I have quoted, and which read: 揟he peaceful countryside of Kent has from last Saturday, been disturbed by a very grave tragedy that has become the object of much gossip in the county, which concerns the sinister death of Mr Josiah Crosby, 54, a wealthy banker of the London firm, Carlton & Crosby. The case is a most extraordinary affair, which in itself is the most complex business for the police investigation. The details connected with the case assume a very unusual feature according to the witnesses, among them are the deceased抯 wife and son, Mrs Alice and William Crosby respectively, and the victim抯 close friend, Dr Crockford. It was shown that the banker often went to bed at the usual hour of a quarter to ten; last Friday on the 26th of June, he had dined before returning to his quarters and it was reported by the deceased抯 butler that his master spent that night in his room counting money and searching for new investments in the papers. Suddenly the whole household was awakened by a hoarse cry that had rung throughout the manor, which lasted only a few minutes before it died down. All the people in the mansion went directly to Mr Crosby抯 room but found the door locked and the key in the hole, which caused a couple of footmen to break down the door with hatchets, where they found to their extraordinary amazement their own master lying on the floor, dead in a pool of blood! No arrest has been affected, and Scotland Yard is working earnestly upon the case, led by the ablest of the force, Insp. Gregson.? 揝o much for the news,?remarked Holmes, in his sardonic tone, as he turned towards our client, 揑 presume it抯 Dr Crockford, whom we have the pleasure of meeting.? 揧es that抯 me,?replied our client, mildly, as he started wiping the perspiration on his forehead with his handkerchief. 揑 wonder if I haven抰 aged ten years or my hair hasn抰 become more greyer than what it already is. It抯 a terrible business, Mr Holmes! I don抰 think I shall ever live peacefully till I die. But as to the crime and not to abuse your patience枛? 揟ut, tut, tut, you shouldn抰 stress yourself like that, man,?said Holmes, soothingly, 搃t would be better to compose yourself and begin your story from the beginning to the culmination of this drastic affair, which I hold to be of novel interest, and don抰 stress about time and space, for Watson and myself are willing to listen to a client抯 narrative as long as possible as it affords us to help you wherever we can.? Dr Crockford heaved a sigh of relief at Holmes抯 reassuring words. He then straightened himself on the sofa, buttoned his shirt collar and adjusted his glasses, before he began his unusual story. His narrative was a little incoherent and unclear on some details, which has caused me to put a few alterations to the good doctor抯 account, but otherwise all is as stated accurately. 揗y name,?began our client, 搃s Dr Philip Crockford. In telling you about this singular tragedy, I抦 about to explain from the beginning all the relevant events that I think may help you in your investigation of the crime. To start with, I must tell you that in my early days I was in practice in my native Edinburgh, where I was an eye specialist. When the Second Afghan War broke loose years ago, I volunteered for military medical service and proceeded to train as an army surgeon before leaving Liverpool aboard the S.S. Carnatic towards my destination in Afghanistan, where I joined a medical camp to treat injured soldiers. The war, like all other campaigns, was destructive in its nature and fatal to a vast majority of soldiers that were transported to our humble tent from the battlefield. Some died and some had become crippled in the course of the war and the limbs they lost in battle. Despite the melancholies of the war, all of us, the whole staff of doctors and nurses, worked hard with patience and sagacity to help and treat our patients. Our work was mainly dressing up wounds and stitching up cuts and bruises, so our camp was constantly snowed under. One day, as I was nursing one of the corporals in the army, a huge, burly man came into the entrance of our camp. I could see by his uniform that he was one of the couriers who were co-ordinated in the activities of saving mankind. Upon his left shoulder he held an injured man with a fractured skull. The courier addressed me in a Scottish accent. ?慉re ye the doctor Crockford, whom Major Dawson told me about??he asked with some firmness. ?慖 am,?I replied as he advanced towards me with the invalid. 慍an ye treat this ere gen抣抦en??he asked, 慖 found him half dead ten miles away from this ere camp. Cannot guarantee he would live any longer than this.? 揑 helped the injured man upon a cot and was astonished at the deep gash made in his skull and the fresh blood that was dripping on his ears and on the cot as well. He was certainly not one of the soldiers for he was dressed in very dignified clothing, and his face spoke of the typical educated, aristocratic gentleman. It was evident enough that he had been thrown clean off from a horse and his head been terribly fractured by some stone as a result of the fall. I immediately began sponging his head and rubbing it with oil before dressing up the wound, as well as injecting a sedative to ease my sufferer抯 pain. He was there for about two days and was nursed day and night, before one of his relatives, who had heard about the accident, came to retrieve him back to their home. 揥hen the war had gradually hastened to its terrible conclusion, I returned to my practice in Edinburgh, but found my surgery on the verge of a financial crisis and as my funds were exhausted, I moved my practice to Harley Street where I met with considerable success. Many years passed and I still continued to work in my practice with efficiency, with no disturbance of any kind. One day, a few years ago, I went to receive a loan of eighty pounds at the well-known bank firm, Carlton & Co. (now Carlton & Crosby), and I was shown in a private office where I met my banker. At the first glance at my card and the sight of my very appearance, the man at the desk had become exceedingly pleased and he smiled in a very amiable manner. ?慖抦 proud to meet you again, Dr Crockford,?said he, 慽t抯 a good providence that you should consult our firm, for our bank does a great guarantee to our clients. Please feel welcome to come to our firm anytime for we are at your service.? 揑 was, as you may feel, Mr Holmes, puzzled at this man抯 keen interest in me. I was astonished at his words when he said that he was pleased to see me again! I could hardly recollect any past event where I had claimed the acquaintance of this man nor could I even recognise him. The banker seemed to read my thoughts quite well and he responded to my quandary. ?慖 don抰 think you have ever forgotten that event during the war,?he began, 搘here among the number of wounded people, you had given me aid when I was in need when I met with a horse accident, and a kind messenger of hope had delivered me into your hands?? 揑t was then like a flash that I realised that it was he was who was the injured man with the fractured skull, whom I helped during the Afghan war, an incident which I have already explained. He was very obliged and grateful for the service I rendered and I found in him a friendly and amiable character. He had changed rather dramatically over the years. Long ago he was a frail, thin young man, now he was a fat, puffy businessman with a double chin and wrinkles on his face, and a few streaks of grey hair on each side of his face beside his ears. It first began with a gentle chat, but as he frequently kept calling me and I was obliged to consult his firm for loans and transferring bank accounts, our visits lengthened and in turn our friendship evolved. We had a common interest in a wide variety of subjects such as science and religion and we enjoyed each other抯 fellowship. 揗r Josiah Miles Crosby was a person who greatly interested me. He was a man of substantial wealth, which he made in North American speculation, and which enabled him to live in a grand and expensive manner for many years. His estate is situated in the heart of the countryside of Kent where among the marshes and several cottages and low down houses, there抯 this magnificent mansion with all its grandeur and splendour, where a considerable staff of servants attends its occupants. The manor dates back from the sixteenth century where nobles of Queen Elizabeth抯 court once occupied, and which has housed countless generations. The mansion had once been unoccupied for some years and was on the verge of ruin when Mr Crosby came there to live with his family. Aside from the servants, there抯 been only Mr Crosby and his wife and son. There had been a daughter once, but she went to Canada after marrying a German journalist. The wife is an interesting character, attractive and quite learned in science and in foreign languages such as Italian and French. She has travelled to distant places and has learnt and experienced more than what she can ever learn from a mere book. She has been devoted to her husband and son and has helped maintain the manor as well as co-operating with her husband in settling income problems, debts and bills, and searching for investments. She is a young, spritely woman for her age; I could roughly put her around twenty-eight years of age though in truth she is actually forty now. Mr Crosby married her while on safari to Africa, where she was at that time living with her father, who was then the army general. They lived there for a couple of years before they settled in England. 揗r Crosby抯 son, meanwhile, is an extraordinary lad. I have never seen a boy who was more studious and keener on academic learning than amateur sport, which is the best and soundest thing for boys of his age in Britain. He is an avid reader and divides his time between studies and books. He抯 currently doing his undergraduate years at Magdellan College, Oxford, where he holds a Master of Arts degree and doctorates on mathematics and physiology. 揂s it is, everything seemed fine in the household, but Mr Crosby seemed to having a secret unhappiness, which he would relate neither to his wife nor his son, including myself. He was rather eccentric in his ways, I must confess; he would be an amiable and light-hearted person at one time and in the next he would be the cold, indifferent, calculating cad. His wife would tell me about his rather frequent habits of locking himself up in the attic whenever he wished to have his privacy and how at times she heard him in great distress, moaning and groaning. She had questioned him many a time, but he often brushed away the topic, so in a way the family had become adjusted to his queer ways. Another thing about him was that he was absolutely averse being alone and he constantly kept company with his family and friends. It seemed rather strange to me that he should be so fearful of the unknown and I had more than once endeavoured to know from his own lips what threat was lurking that I seemed to read in his eyes, but he adamantly refused to say anything about the topic. He was, I must tell you, most earnestly grieved and devoted to the memory of his late lamented brother, who served in the military in India, and it was the reason he explained for his eccentricities in locking himself up in the attic and drowning his sorrows indiscreetly in liquor. His elder brother, as I have heard, had in some way met with a terrible, bloody death, the circumstances of which have been a mystery that has not only baffled the police bureau but the autopsies conducted by the coroner.? 揙ne moment,?interrupted Sherlock Holmes, 搚our narrative proves so far, doctor, intrinsically arresting. May I have the date on which this singular tragedy occurred, which you speak of?? 揅ertainly,?replied the doctor, rather puzzled by this insignificant question. 揂ccording to the late Mr Josiah Crosby, his brother died in some bungalow in Bombay in the summer of 1884.? 揟hank you,?said Holmes, 損ray proceed with your story, and sorry for my inconveniencing your extraordinary narrative.? 揥ell, Mr Holmes, having explained the details ranging from the army camp to the descriptions of Mr Crosby and his family as well as about his queer habits, I come now to the last chapter of my story where I shall provide you with a complete account as to what exactly occurred on that fateful night which can enable you to construct this horrifying drama, that proves perplexing to everybody in the county of Kent. @#@$#%$@#^%&^%&*&(&^&%$#!@#$%^(*&%^$#@@$%^&O(*(*&^%$!$^%UI* 凡是为攻击我而造的武器都必将被摧毁，凡是在审判中诋毁我的言论都必将被定罪。 ——《旧约●以塞亚书》 No weapon that is formed against thee shall prosper; and every tongue that shall rise against thee in judgment thou shalt condemn.    imgsrc="http://cache.gettyimages.com/comp/52662770.jpgx=x&dasite=MS_GINS&ef=2&ev=1&dareq=663975D10E0C39906C086441889E10A1A9C30E9B9B114CE8"       hr                                                      img src="http://tribe.booye.com/UploadPic/TribeAlbum/UU_05053108576242.jpg"hr ※来源: 【 推理之门 Tuili.Com 】.

第1页/共1页（总计4个回复）

每次上网自动访问推理之门   |    将推理之门加入收藏夹

邮件联系：zhejiong@126.com  沪ICP备2021006552号  沪公网安备31011502006128号  推理之门  版权所有 2000-2024