La señorita que busca a Sherlock Holmes está muy nerviosa
y necesita ayuda. Del clásico
de Arthur Conan Doyle, The Adventure of
the Speckled Band
On glancing over
my notes of the seventy odd cases in which I have during the last eight years
studied the methods of my friend Sherlock Holmes, I find many tragic, some
comic, a large number merely strange, but none commonplace; for, working as he
did rather for the love of his art than for the acquirement of wealth, he
refused to associate himself with any investigation which did not tend towards
the unusual, and even the fantastic. Of all these varied cases, however, I
cannot recall any which presented more singular features than that which was
associated with the well-known Surrey
family of the Roylotts of Stoke Moran. The events in question occurred in the
early days of my association with Holmes, when we were sharing rooms as
bachelors in Baker Street. It is
possible that I might have placed them upon record before, but a promise of
secrecy was made at the time, from which I have only been freed during the last
month by the untimely death of the lady to whom the pledge was given. It is
perhaps as well that the facts should now come to light, for I have reasons to
know that there are widespread rumours as to the death of Dr. Grimesby Roylott
which tend to make the matter even more terrible than the truth.
It was early in
April in the year ’83 that I woke one morning to find Sherlock Holmes standing,
fully dressed, by the side of my bed. He was a late riser, as a rule, and as
the clock on the mantelpiece showed me that it was only a quarter-past seven, I
blinked up at him in some surprise, and perhaps just a little resentment, for I
was myself regular in my habits.
“Very sorry to
knock you up, Watson,” said he, “but it’s the common lot this morning. Mrs.
Hudson has been knocked up, she retorted upon me, and I on you.”
“What is it,
then—a fire?”
“No; a client.
It seems that a young lady has arrived in a considerable state of excitement,
who insists upon seeing me. She is waiting now in the sitting-room. Now, when
young ladies wander about the metropolis at this hour of the morning, and knock
sleepy people up out of their beds, I presume that it is something very
pressing which they have to communicate. Should it prove to be an interesting
case, you would, I am sure, wish to follow it from the outset. I thought, at
any rate, that I should call you and give you the chance.”
“My dear fellow,
I would not miss it for anything.”
I had no keener
pleasure than in following Holmes in his professional investigations, and in
admiring the rapid deductions, as swift as intuitions, and yet always founded
on a logical basis with which he clarified the problems which were submitted to him. I rapidly
threw on my clothes and was ready in a few minutes to accompany my friend down
to the sitting-room. A lady dressed in black and heavily veiled, who had been
sitting in the window, rose as we entered.
“Good-morning,
madam,” said Holmes cheerily. “My name is Sherlock Holmes. This is my intimate
friend and associate, Dr. Watson, before whom you can speak as freely as before
myself. Ha! I am glad to see that Mrs. Hudson has had the good sense to light
the fire. Pray draw up to it, and I shall order you a cup of hot coffee, for I
observe that you are shivering.”
“It is not cold which makes me shiver,” said
the woman in a low voice, changing her seat as requested.
“What, then?”
“It is fear, Mr.
Holmes. It is terror.” She raised her veil as she spoke, and we could see that
she was indeed in a pitiable state of agitation, her face all drawn and grey,
with restless frightened eyes, like those of some hunted animal. Her features
and figure were those of a woman of thirty, but her hair was shot with
premature grey, and her expression was exhausted and pale. Sherlock Holmes ran her over with one of his
quick, all-comprehensive glances.
“You must not
fear,” said he soothingly, bending forward and patting her forearm. “We shall
soon set matters right, I have no doubt. You have come in by train this
morning, I see.”
“You know me,
then?”
“No, but I
observe the second half of a return ticket in the palm of your left glove. You
must have started early, and yet you had a good drive in a dog-cart, along heavy roads, before you reached the station.”
The lady gave a
violent start and stared in bewilderment at my companion.
“There is no
mystery, my dear madam,” said he, smiling. “The left arm of your jacket is spattered
with mud in no less than seven places. The marks are perfectly fresh. There is
no vehicle save a dog-cart which throws up mud in that way, and then only when
you sit on the left-hand side of the driver.”
“Whatever your
reasons may be, you are perfectly correct,” said she. “I started from home
before six, reached Leatherhead at twenty past, and came in by the first train
to Waterloo. Sir, I can stand this strain no longer; I shall go mad if it
continues. I have no one to turn to—none, save only one, who cares for me, and
he, poor fellow, can be of little aid. I have heard of you, Mr. Holmes; I have
heard of you from Mrs. Farintosh, whom you helped in the hour of her sore need.
It was from her that I had your address. Oh, sir, do you not think that you
could help me, too, and at least throw a little light through the dense
darkness which surrounds me? At present it is out of my power to reward you for
your services, but in a month or six weeks I shall be married, with the control
of my own income, and then at least you shall not find me ungrateful.”
Holmes turned to
his desk and, unlocking it, drew out a small case-book, which he consulted.
“Farintosh,”
said he. “Ah yes, I recall the case; it was concerned with an opal tiara. I
think it was before your time, Watson. I can only say, madam, that I shall be
happy to devote the same care to your case as I did to that of your friend. As
to reward, my profession is its own reward; but you are at liberty to pay whatever expenses I
may be put to, at the time which suits you best. And now I beg that you will
lay before us everything that may help us in forming an opinion upon the
matter.”
“Alas!” replied
our visitor, “the very horror of my situation lies in the fact that my fears
are so vague, and my suspicions depend so entirely upon small points, which
might seem trivial to another, that even he to whom of all others I have a
right to look for help and advice looks upon all that I tell him about it as
the fancies of a nervous woman. He does not say so, but I can read it from his
soothing answers and averted eyes. But I have heard, Mr. Holmes, that you can
see deeply into the manifold wickedness of the human heart. You may advise me
how to walk amid the dangers which encompass me.”
“I am all
attention, madam.”
“My name is
Helen Stoner, and I am living with my stepfather, who is the last survivor of
one of the oldest Saxon families in England, the Roylotts of Stoke Moran, on
the western border of Surrey.”
Holmes nodded
his head. “The name is familiar to me,” said he.
“The family was
at one time among the richest in England, and the estates extended over the
borders into Berkshire in the north, and Hampshire in the west. In the last
century, however, four successive heirs were of a dissolute and wasteful
disposition, and the family ruin was eventually completed by a gambler in the
days of the Regency. Nothing was left save a few acres of ground, and the
two-hundred-year-old house, which is itself crushed under a heavy mortgage. The
last squire dragged out his existence there, living the horrible life of an
aristocratic pauper; but his only son, my stepfather, seeing that he must adapt
himself to the new conditions, obtained an advance from a relative, which
enabled him to take a medical degree and went out to Calcutta, where, by his
professional skill and his force of character, he established a large practice.
In a fit of anger, however, caused by some robberies which had been perpetrated
in the house, he beat his native butler to death and narrowly escaped a capital
sentence. As it was, he suffered a long term of imprisonment and afterwards
returned to England a morose and disappointed man.
“When Dr.
Roylott was in India he married my mother, Mrs. Stoner, the young widow of
Major-General Stoner, of the Bengal Artillery. My sister Julia and I were
twins, and we were only two years old at the time of my mother’s re-marriage.
She had a considerable sum of money—not less than £1000 a year—and this she
bequeathed to Dr. Roylott entirely while we resided with him, with a provision
that a certain annual sum should be allowed to each of us in the event of our
marriage. Shortly after our return to England my mother died—she was killed
eight years ago in a railway accident near Crewe. Dr. Roylott then abandoned
his attempts to establish himself in practice in London and took us to live
with him in the old ancestral house at Stoke Moran. The money which my mother
had left was enough for all our wants, and there seemed to be no obstacle to
our happiness… (The
Adventure of the Speckled Band, by Arthur Conan Doyle, in easier English)
Reemplazadas
Unraveled weary
haggard defray
Para
saber
Surrey:
/sari/ condado al sudeste de Inglaterra, bordeando Greater London.
Baker
Street: calle en el distrito de Marylebone, en Londres. Lleva
este nombre en honor a su constructor, que la planificó en el siglo 18. Supuestamente
Sherlock Holmes vivía en 221B Baker Street.
dog-cart:
o dogcart es un vehículo ligero, tirado por un caballo, originalmente diseñado
para tiradores deportivos, con una caja detrás del asiento del conductor que
contenía uno o más perros retriever.
Reference
The Adventure
of the Speckled Band, from Project Gutenberg.
