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Las aventuras de Sherlock Holmes
The Boscombe Valley Mystery
Capítulo 4, Página 17
"Well,
nonsense
is
brighter
than
fog,"
said
Holmes,
laughing.
"But
I
believe
this
is
Hatherley
Farm
on
the
left."
"Yes,
that's
it."
The
building
was
large
and
welcoming,
with
two
stories
and
a
slate
roof,
its
grey
walls
marked
with
big
yellow
patches
of
lichen.
Yet,
the
closed
blinds
and
smokeless
chimneys
gave
it
a
forlorn
look,
as
if
the
horror
still
lingered.
We
knocked
at
the
door,
and
at
Holmes’
request,
the
maid
showed
us
the
boots
her
master
wore
at
his
death,
along
with
a
pair
belonging
to
his
son,
though
not
the
ones
he
had
on
at
the
time.
Holmes
measured
them
carefully
from
several
angles
and
then
asked
to
be
taken
to
the
courtyard.
We
all
followed
the
winding
path
leading
to
Boscombe
Pool.
Sherlock
Holmes
was
a
different
man
when
he
was
on
a
case
like
this.
Those
who
knew
him
only
as
the
quiet
thinker
from
Baker
Street
wouldn't
have
recognized
him.
His
face
was
flushed
and
dark,
his
brows
drawn
into
hard
lines,
and
his
eyes
shone
with
a
steely
gleam.
His
head
was
bent
down,
shoulders
hunched,
lips
tight,
and
veins
popped
in
his
long,
sinewy
neck.
His
nostrils
flared
with
a
primal
excitement
for
the
chase,
and
he
was
so
focused
that
questions
or
remarks
went
unheard,
or
at
most,
earned
a
quick,
impatient
response.
He
moved
swiftly
and
silently
along
the
path
through
the
meadows,
and
then
through
the
woods
to
Boscombe
Pool.
The
ground
was
damp
and
marshy,
typical
of
the
area,
with
many
footprints
on
the
path
and
in
the
grass
on
either
side.
Holmes
alternated
between
hurrying
forward
and
stopping
abruptly,
once
even
detouring
into
the
meadow.
Lestrade
and
I
followed
behind,
with
the
detective
indifferent
and
dismissive,
while
I
watched
Holmes
with
interest,
convinced
that
every
action
had
a
purpose.
Boscombe
Pool,
a
small
body
of
water
surrounded
by
reeds,
about
fifty
yards
across,
lay
between
Hatherley
Farm
and
the
private
park
of
the
wealthy
Mr.
Turner.
Beyond
the
woods
lining
the
far
side,
we
could
see
the
red,
jutting
pinnacles
marking
the
landowner's
home.
On
the
Hatherley
side,
the
woods
were
dense,
with
a
narrow
strip
of
soggy
grass
between
the
trees
and
the
reeds
at
the
lake's
edge.
Lestrade
showed
us
where
the
body
had
been
found,
and
the
ground
was
so
wet
that
I
could
clearly
see
the
traces
left
by
the
man's
fall.
Holmes,
with
his
eager
face
and
sharp
eyes,
saw
much
more
in
the
trampled
grass.
He
moved
around
like
a
dog
picking
up
a
scent
and
then
turned
to
my
companion.
"Why
did
you
go
into
the
pool?"
he
asked.
"I
used
a
rake
to
search
around.
I
thought
there
might
be
a
weapon
or
some
trace.
But
how
on
earth—"
"Oh,
nonsense!
I
have
no
time!
Your
left
foot
with
its
inward
twist
is
everywhere.
A
mole
could
follow
it,
and
it
disappears
among
the
reeds.
It
would
have
been
simple
if
I
had
been
here
before
they
trampled
over
everything
like
buffalo.
Here
is
where
the
group
with
the
lodge-keeper
came,
covering
all
tracks
around
the
body.
But
here
are
three
separate
tracks
of
the
same
feet."
He
pulled
out
a
lens
and
lay
down
on
his
waterproof
for
a
closer
look,
talking
more
to
himself
than
to
us.
"These
are
young
McCarthy's
feet.
Twice
he
walked,
and
once
he
ran,
leaving
deep
sole
marks
and
barely
visible
heels.
That
supports
his
story.
He
ran
when
he
saw
his
father
on
the
ground.
And
here
are
the
father's
feet,
pacing
up
and
down.
What
is
this?
The
gun's
butt-end
as
the
son
listened.
And
this?
Ha,
ha!
What
do
we
have
here?
Tiptoes!
Tiptoes!
Square,
unusual
boots!
They
come,
they
go,
they
come
again—of
course,
for
the
cloak.
Now
where
did
they
come
from?"
He
ran
back
and
forth,
sometimes
losing,
sometimes
finding
the
track
until
we
were
at
the
woods'
edge,
under
the
shadow
of
a
large
beech,
the
biggest
tree
around.
Holmes
traced
his
way
to
the
other
side
and
lay
down
again
with
a
satisfied
cry.
He
stayed
there
a
long
time,
turning
over
leaves
and
sticks,
gathering
what
seemed
like
dust
into
an
envelope,
and
examining
with
his
lens
not
just
the
ground
but
also
the
tree
bark
as
far
as
he
could
reach.
A
jagged
stone
lay
among
the
moss,
which
he
examined
carefully
and
kept.
Then
he
followed
a
path
through
the
woods
to
the
high
road,
where
all
traces
disappeared.
"This
has
been
quite
an
interesting
case,"
he
said,
returning
to
his
usual
manner.
"I
think
that
grey
house
on
the
right
must
be
the
lodge.
I’ll
go
in
and
have
a
word
with
Moran,
maybe
write
a
note.
After
that,
we
can
drive
back
for
lunch.
You
walk
to
the
cab;
I'll
join
you
soon."
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Las aventuras de Sherlock Holmes — B2 Inglés | Cuentana