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Las aventuras de Sherlock Holmes
The Boscombe Valley Mystery
Capítulo 4, Página 17
“Well,
moonshine
is
a
brighter
thing
than
fog,”
said
Holmes,
laughing.
“But
I
am
very
much
mistaken
if
this
is
not
Hatherley
Farm
upon
the
left.”
“Yes,
that
is
it.”
It
was
a
widespread,
comfortable-looking
building,
two-storied,
slate-roofed,
with
great
yellow
blotches
of
lichen
upon
the
grey
walls.
The
drawn
blinds
and
the
smokeless
chimneys,
however,
gave
it
a
stricken
look,
as
though
the
weight
of
this
horror
still
lay
heavy
upon
it.
We
called
at
the
door,
when
the
maid,
at
Holmes’
request,
showed
us
the
boots
which
her
master
wore
at
the
time
of
his
death,
and
also
a
pair
of
the
son’s,
though
not
the
pair
which
he
had
then
had.
Having
measured
these
very
carefully
from
seven
or
eight
different
points,
Holmes
desired
to
be
led
to
the
court-yard,
from
which
we
all
followed
the
winding
track
which
led
to
Boscombe
Pool.
Sherlock
Holmes
was
transformed
when
he
was
hot
upon
such
a
scent
as
this.
Men
who
had
only
known
the
quiet
thinker
and
logician
of
Baker
Street
would
have
failed
to
recognise
him.
His
face
flushed
and
darkened.
His
brows
were
drawn
into
two
hard
black
lines,
while
his
eyes
shone
out
from
beneath
them
with
a
steely
glitter.
His
face
was
bent
downward,
his
shoulders
bowed,
his
lips
compressed,
and
the
veins
stood
out
like
whipcord
in
his
long,
sinewy
neck.
His
nostrils
seemed
to
dilate
with
a
purely
animal
lust
for
the
chase,
and
his
mind
was
so
absolutely
concentrated
upon
the
matter
before
him
that
a
question
or
remark
fell
unheeded
upon
his
ears,
or,
at
the
most,
only
provoked
a
quick,
impatient
snarl
in
reply.
Swiftly
and
silently
he
made
his
way
along
the
track
which
ran
through
the
meadows,
and
so
by
way
of
the
woods
to
the
Boscombe
Pool.
It
was
damp,
marshy
ground,
as
is
all
that
district,
and
there
were
marks
of
many
feet,
both
upon
the
path
and
amid
the
short
grass
which
bounded
it
on
either
side.
Sometimes
Holmes
would
hurry
on,
sometimes
stop
dead,
and
once
he
made
quite
a
little
detour
into
the
meadow.
Lestrade
and
I
walked
behind
him,
the
detective
indifferent
and
contemptuous,
while
I
watched
my
friend
with
the
interest
which
sprang
from
the
conviction
that
every
one
of
his
actions
was
directed
towards
a
definite
end.
The
Boscombe
Pool,
which
is
a
little
reed-girt
sheet
of
water
some
fifty
yards
across,
is
situated
at
the
boundary
between
the
Hatherley
Farm
and
the
private
park
of
the
wealthy
Mr.
Turner.
Above
the
woods
which
lined
it
upon
the
farther
side
we
could
see
the
red,
jutting
pinnacles
which
marked
the
site
of
the
rich
landowner’s
dwelling.
On
the
Hatherley
side
of
the
pool
the
woods
grew
very
thick,
and
there
was
a
narrow
belt
of
sodden
grass
twenty
paces
across
between
the
edge
of
the
trees
and
the
reeds
which
lined
the
lake.
Lestrade
showed
us
the
exact
spot
at
which
the
body
had
been
found,
and,
indeed,
so
moist
was
the
ground,
that
I
could
plainly
see
the
traces
which
had
been
left
by
the
fall
of
the
stricken
man.
To
Holmes,
as
I
could
see
by
his
eager
face
and
peering
eyes,
very
many
other
things
were
to
be
read
upon
the
trampled
grass.
He
ran
round,
like
a
dog
who
is
picking
up
a
scent,
and
then
turned
upon
my
companion.
“What
did
you
go
into
the
pool
for?”
he
asked.
“I
fished
about
with
a
rake.
I
thought
there
might
be
some
weapon
or
other
trace.
But
how
on
earth—”
“Oh,
tut,
tut!
I
have
no
time!
That
left
foot
of
yours
with
its
inward
twist
is
all
over
the
place.
A
mole
could
trace
it,
and
there
it
vanishes
among
the
reeds.
Oh,
how
simple
it
would
all
have
been
had
I
been
here
before
they
came
like
a
herd
of
buffalo
and
wallowed
all
over
it.
Here
is
where
the
party
with
the
lodge-keeper
came,
and
they
have
covered
all
tracks
for
six
or
eight
feet
round
the
body.
But
here
are
three
separate
tracks
of
the
same
feet.”
He
drew
out
a
lens
and
lay
down
upon
his
waterproof
to
have
a
better
view,
talking
all
the
time
rather
to
himself
than
to
us.
“These
are
young
McCarthy’s
feet.
Twice
he
was
walking,
and
once
he
ran
swiftly,
so
that
the
soles
are
deeply
marked
and
the
heels
hardly
visible.
That
bears
out
his
story.
He
ran
when
he
saw
his
father
on
the
ground.
Then
here
are
the
father’s
feet
as
he
paced
up
and
down.
What
is
this,
then?
It
is
the
butt-end
of
the
gun
as
the
son
stood
listening.
And
this?
Ha,
ha!
What
have
we
here?
Tiptoes!
tiptoes!
Square,
too,
quite
unusual
boots!
They
come,
they
go,
they
come
again—of
course
that
was
for
the
cloak.
Now
where
did
they
come
from?”
He
ran
up
and
down,
sometimes
losing,
sometimes
finding
the
track
until
we
were
well
within
the
edge
of
the
wood
and
under
the
shadow
of
a
great
beech,
the
largest
tree
in
the
neighbourhood.
Holmes
traced
his
way
to
the
farther
side
of
this
and
lay
down
once
more
upon
his
face
with
a
little
cry
of
satisfaction.
For
a
long
time
he
remained
there,
turning
over
the
leaves
and
dried
sticks,
gathering
up
what
seemed
to
me
to
be
dust
into
an
envelope
and
examining
with
his
lens
not
only
the
ground
but
even
the
bark
of
the
tree
as
far
as
he
could
reach.
A
jagged
stone
was
lying
among
the
moss,
and
this
also
he
carefully
examined
and
retained.
Then
he
followed
a
pathway
through
the
wood
until
he
came
to
the
high
road,
where
all
traces
were
lost.
“It
has
been
a
case
of
considerable
interest,”
he
remarked,
returning
to
his
natural
manner.
“I
fancy
that
this
grey
house
on
the
right
must
be
the
lodge.
I
think
that
I
will
go
in
and
have
a
word
with
Moran,
and
perhaps
write
a
little
note.
Having
done
that,
we
may
drive
back
to
our
luncheon.
You
may
walk
to
the
cab,
and
I
shall
be
with
you
presently.”
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Las aventuras de Sherlock Holmes — C1 Inglés | Cuentana