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Las aventuras de Sherlock Holmes
The Boscombe Valley Mystery
Capítulo 4, Página 14
“Then
let
us
do
so.
Watson,
I
fear
that
you
will
find
it
very
slow,
but
I
shall
only
be
away
a
couple
of
hours.”
I
walked
down
to
the
station
with
them,
and
then
wandered
through
the
streets
of
the
little
town,
finally
returning
to
the
hotel,
where
I
lay
upon
the
sofa
and
tried
to
interest
myself
in
a
yellow-backed
novel.
The
puny
plot
of
the
story
was
so
thin,
however,
when
compared
to
the
deep
mystery
through
which
we
were
groping,
and
I
found
my
attention
wander
so
continually
from
the
action
to
the
fact,
that
I
at
last
flung
it
across
the
room
and
gave
myself
up
entirely
to
a
consideration
of
the
events
of
the
day.
Supposing
that
this
unhappy
young
man’s
story
were
absolutely
true,
then
what
hellish
thing,
what
absolutely
unforeseen
and
extraordinary
calamity
could
have
occurred
between
the
time
when
he
parted
from
his
father,
and
the
moment
when,
drawn
back
by
his
screams,
he
rushed
into
the
glade?
It
was
something
terrible
and
deadly.
What
could
it
be?
Might
not
the
nature
of
the
injuries
reveal
something
to
my
medical
instincts?
I
rang
the
bell
and
called
for
the
weekly
county
paper,
which
contained
a
verbatim
account
of
the
inquest.
In
the
surgeon’s
deposition
it
was
stated
that
the
posterior
third
of
the
left
parietal
bone
and
the
left
half
of
the
occipital
bone
had
been
shattered
by
a
heavy
blow
from
a
blunt
weapon.
I
marked
the
spot
upon
my
own
head.
Clearly
such
a
blow
must
have
been
struck
from
behind.
That
was
to
some
extent
in
favour
of
the
accused,
as
when
seen
quarrelling
he
was
face
to
face
with
his
father.
Still,
it
did
not
go
for
very
much,
for
the
older
man
might
have
turned
his
back
before
the
blow
fell.
Still,
it
might
be
worth
while
to
call
Holmes’
attention
to
it.
Then
there
was
the
peculiar
dying
reference
to
a
rat.
What
could
that
mean?
It
could
not
be
delirium.
A
man
dying
from
a
sudden
blow
does
not
commonly
become
delirious.
No,
it
was
more
likely
to
be
an
attempt
to
explain
how
he
met
his
fate.
But
what
could
it
indicate?
I
cudgelled
my
brains
to
find
some
possible
explanation.
And
then
the
incident
of
the
grey
cloth
seen
by
young
McCarthy.
If
that
were
true
the
murderer
must
have
dropped
some
part
of
his
dress,
presumably
his
overcoat,
in
his
flight,
and
must
have
had
the
hardihood
to
return
and
to
carry
it
away
at
the
instant
when
the
son
was
kneeling
with
his
back
turned
not
a
dozen
paces
off.
What
a
tissue
of
mysteries
and
improbabilities
the
whole
thing
was!
I
did
not
wonder
at
Lestrade’s
opinion,
and
yet
I
had
so
much
faith
in
Sherlock
Holmes’
insight
that
I
could
not
lose
hope
as
long
as
every
fresh
fact
seemed
to
strengthen
his
conviction
of
young
McCarthy’s
innocence.
It
was
late
before
Sherlock
Holmes
returned.
He
came
back
alone,
for
Lestrade
was
staying
in
lodgings
in
the
town.
“The
glass
still
keeps
very
high,”
he
remarked
as
he
sat
down.
“It
is
of
importance
that
it
should
not
rain
before
we
are
able
to
go
over
the
ground.
On
the
other
hand,
a
man
should
be
at
his
very
best
and
keenest
for
such
nice
work
as
that,
and
I
did
not
wish
to
do
it
when
fagged
by
a
long
journey.
I
have
seen
young
McCarthy.”
“And
what
did
you
learn
from
him?”
“Nothing.”
“Could
he
throw
no
light?”
“None
at
all.
I
was
inclined
to
think
at
one
time
that
he
knew
who
had
done
it
and
was
screening
him
or
her,
but
I
am
convinced
now
that
he
is
as
puzzled
as
everyone
else.
He
is
not
a
very
quick-witted
youth,
though
comely
to
look
at
and,
I
should
think,
sound
at
heart.”
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Las aventuras de Sherlock Holmes — C1 Inglés | Cuentana