英文小酒馆 LHH – Details, episodes & analysis

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The Reigate Squires

Sherlock Holmes was sick. The great detective had been working too hard lately. For two whole months, he had been busy with his latest case, working over fifteen hours a day, and it had made him very tired and weak.

As his doctor and closest friend, I told him he needed a break. It was April in the year 1887, and I thought a week of spring sunshine in the countryside would be good for him. My old friend Colonel Hayter had bought a house near Reigate in Surrey and had said we could visit anytime.

This was the perfect time to accept his offer. Holmes, luckily, didn't need much convincing, and on the morning of April 25, we left our Baker Street home for Waterloo Station. By the middle of the afternoon, we had arrived at the colonel's house.

After dinner, while Holmes rested on the sofa, the colonel showed me his collection of weapons from the Afghan War, where we had met.

"By the way," he said suddenly, "I think I'll take one of these pistols upstairs with me tonight in case of a break-in."

"A break-in?" I exclaimed.

"Yes! We had an incident not far from here last Monday. Burglars broke into the house of a local businessman named Acton. They didn't do much damage, but the burglars are still free, and one can't be too careful."

Holmes, who I thought was asleep, opened one eye. "Did they leave any clues?" he asked.

"Not that I know of," said Hayter. "It was a very minor burglary, not worth your attention, Mr. Holmes. The thieves ransacked the library. They made a mess, breaking open drawers and pulling things off shelves. All they took was a book, two candlesticks, a paperweight, a small clock, and a ball of string."

"What a strange mix of items!" I said.

"They probably grabbed the first things they saw," said Hayter.

"The local police should learn something from that list," Holmes said, sitting up straighter on the sofa. "To me, it seems clear that ..."

I held up my hand. "You're here to rest, my friend. I don't want you getting involved in another problem right now."

Holmes shrugged and sighed, and we changed the topic to something less serious.

But my attempts to make this a relaxing trip failed because peaceful Reigate suddenly became a crime scene. The next morning, we were eating breakfast when Hayter's butler ran in looking very worried. "Have you heard the news, sir?" he gasped. "At the Cunninghams'?"

"Another burglary?" asked the colonel, his coffee cup in mid-air.

"Murder, sir!"

The colonel whistled. "By Jove! Who was killed, the father or the son?"

"Neither, sir. It was William, their coachman. Shot through the heart, sir."

"Who shot him?"

"The burglar, sir. Then he ran away and got away. He had just broken through the side door when William arrived and confronted him. William died trying to protect his master's property."

"What time was this?" asked Hayter.

"Around midnight, sir."

"We'll visit this morning to offer our sympathies," said the colonel, sitting back down to his breakfast.

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Percy Phelps was one of my best friends at school. He was an excellent student and won every prize the school had. Many of the other boys were jealous of him. They called him "Tadpole" Phelps because he was small, and he was often bullied. This did not stop him, though. He went on to get a place at Cambridge University, where he earned a first-class degree. With help from his uncle, the famous politician Lord Holdhurst, he got a good job at the Foreign Office.

I lost contact with my friend at this point, so I was surprised to get a letter from him one day in July 1889. He wrote:

My dear Watson,

No doubt you remember your old friend "Tadpole" Phelps. You will recall how I had an important job at the Foreign Office. All was going well until about nine weeks ago, when something terrible happened that destroyed my career. It caused me a mental breakdown, and I am only just starting to recover. I am still very weak and cannot travel. Do you think you could bring your friend, the detective Sherlock Holmes, to see me? He may be the only person who can help.

Your old schoolmate,

Percy Phelps.

I was very moved by the letter and immediately went to visit Holmes to see if he was interested in the case. I found him at his Baker Street home, looking out of his window, looking bored. "Do you have a case for me, Watson?" he asked. "I really need a case."

"Maybe I do," I said, and showed him the letter. When he had read it, I saw a gleam in his eye and knew his curiosity was piqued. He immediately began putting on his coat.

"Where are you going?" I asked.

"To see Mr. Phelps. There’s no time like the present. Coming, Watson?"

We were lucky to catch an early train at Waterloo, and in just over an hour, we arrived at Briar House, Phelps’s home near the town of Woking in Surrey. It was a large house with a beautiful garden. The butler showed us into an elegant drawing room. A few moments later, a plump young man entered and greeted us warmly.

"I’m so glad you’ve come," he said. "Percy was hoping you would."

"You’re not a member of the family," said Holmes.

The man looked surprised. "How did you know?"

Holmes pointed to the initials on the locket hanging from his neck: J. H.

"Oh, well spotted!" he said. "My name is Joseph Harrison. I may not be a Phelps, but Percy is engaged to my sister Annie, so I will be related to him by marriage. I’ll show you in now if you like—he’s eager to see you."

The ground-floor room was large and airy, with pleasant views of the garden. My old friend was lying on a sofa near the open window, looking very pale and tired. A woman was with him, who introduced herself as Annie Harrison.