A few moments after I had seen the stranger disappear into Hewitt’s office, Kerrett brought to Hewitt in his inner room a visitor’s slip announcing the arrival on urgent business of Mr. Horace Bowyer. That the visitor was in a hurry was plain from a hasty rattling5 of the closed wicket in the outer room where Mr. Bowyer was evidently making impatient attempts to follow his announcement in person. Hewitt showed himself at the door and invited Mr. Bowyer to enter, which he did, as soon as Kerrett had released the wicket, with much impetuosity. He was a stout6, florid gentleman with a loud voice and a large stare.
“Mr. Hewitt,” he said, “I must claim your immediate7 attention to a business of the utmost gravity. Will you please consider yourself commissioned, wholly regardless of expense, to set aside whatever you may have in hand and devote yourself to the case I shall put in your hands?”
“Certainly not,” Hewitt replied with a slight smile. “What I have in hand are matters which I have engaged to attend to, and no mere2 compensation for loss of fees could persuade me to leave my clients in the lurch8, else what would prevent some other gentleman coming here to-morrow with a bigger fee than yours and bribing9 me away from you?”
“But this—this is a most serious thing, Mr. Hewitt. A matter of life or death—it is indeed!”
“Quite so,” Hewitt replied; “but there are a thousand such matters at this moment pending10 of which you and I know nothing, and there are also two or three more of which you know nothing, but on which I am at work. So that it becomes a question of practicability. If you will tell me your business I can judge whether or not I may be able to accept your commission concurrently11 with those I have in hand. Some operations take months of constant attention; some can be conducted intermittently12; others still are a mere matter of a few days—many of hours simply.”
“I will tell you then,” Mr. Bowyer replied. “In the first place, will you have the kindness to read that? It is a cutting from the Standard’s column of news from the provinces of two days ago.”
Hewitt took the cutting and read as follows:—
“The epidemic13 of small-pox in County Mayo, Ireland, shows few signs of abating14. The spread of the disease has been very remarkable15 considering the widely-scattered nature of the population, though there can be no doubt that the market-towns are the centres of infection, and that it is from these that the germs of contagion16 are carried into the country by people from all parts who resort thither17 on market days. In many cases the disease has assumed a particularly malignant18 form, and deaths have been very rapid and numerous. The comparatively few medical men available are sadly overworked, owing largely to the distances separating their different patients. Among those who have succumbed19 within the last few days is Mr. Algernon Rewse, a young English gentleman who has been staying with a friend at a cottage a few miles from Cullanin, on a fishing excursion.”
4-1
ALGERNON REWSE.
Hewitt placed the cutting on the table at his side. “Yes?” he said inquiringly. “It is to Mr. Algernon Rewse’s death you wish to draw my attention?”
“It is,” Mr. Bowyer answered; “and the reason I come to you is that I very much suspect—more than suspect, indeed—that Mr. Algernon Rewse has not died by small-pox, but has been murdered—murdered cold-bloodedly, and for the most sordid20 motives21, by the friend who has been sharing his holiday.”
“In what way do you suppose him to have been murdered?”
“That I cannot say—that, indeed, I want you to find out, among other things—chiefly, perhaps, the murderer himself, who has made off.”
“I am trustee under a will by which Mr. Rewse would have benefited considerably23 had he lived but a month or two longer. That circumstance indeed lies rather near the root of the matter. The thing stood thus. Under the will I speak of—that of young Rewse’s uncle, a very old friend of mine in his lifetime—the money lay in trust till the young fellow should attain24 twenty-five years of age. His younger sister, Miss Mary Rewse, was also benefited, but to a much smaller extent. She was to come into her property also on attaining25 the age of twenty-five, or on her marriage, whichever event happened first. It was further provided that in case either of these young people died before coming into the inheritance, his or her share should go to the survivor26. I want you particularly to remember this. You will observe that now, in consequence of young Algernon Rewse’s death, barely two months before his twenty-fifth birthday, the whole of the very large property—all personalty, and free from any tie or restriction—which would otherwise have been his, will, in the regular course, pass, on her twenty-fifth birthday, or on her marriage, to Miss Mary Rewse, whose own legacy27 was comparatively trifling28. You will understand the importance of this when I tell you that the man whom I suspect of causing Algernon Rewse’s death, and who has been his companion on his otherwise lonely holiday, is engaged to be married to Miss Rewse.”
“I have never particularly liked the man,” Mr. Bowyer went on. “He never seemed to have much to say for himself. I like a man who holds up his head and opens his mouth. I don’t believe in the sort of modesty30 that he showed so much of—it isn’t genuine. A man can’t afford to be genuinely meek31 and retiring who has his way to make in the world—and he was clever enough to know that.”
“He is poor, then?” Hewitt asked.
“Oh yes, poor enough. His name, by the bye, is Main—Stanley Main—and he is a medical man. He hasn’t been practising, except as assistant, since he became qualified32, the reason being, I understand, that he couldn’t afford to buy a good practice. He is the person who will profit by young Rewse’s death—or at any rate who intended to; but we will see about that. As for Mary, poor girl, she wouldn’t have lost her brother for fifty fortunes.”
“As to the circumstances of the death, now?”
“Yes, yes, I am coming to that. Young Algernon Rewse, you must know, had rather run down in health, and Main persuaded him that he wanted a change. I don’t know what it was altogether, but Rewse seemed to have been having his own little love troubles and that sort of thing, you know. He’d been engaged, I think, or very nearly so, and the young lady died, and so on. Well, as I said, he had run down and got into low health and spirits, and no doubt a change of some sort would have done him good. This Stanley Main always seemed to have a great influence over the poor boy—he was about four or five years older than Rewse—and somehow he persuaded him to go away, the two together, to some outlandish wilderness33 of a place in the West of Ireland for salmon-fishing. It seemed to me at the time rather a ridiculous sort of place to go to, but Main had his way, and they went. There was a cottage—rather a good sort of cottage, I believe, for the district—which some friend of Main’s, once a landowner in the district, had put up as a convenient box for salmon-fishing, and they rented it. Not long after they got there this epidemic of small-pox got about in the district—though that, I believe, has had little to do with poor young Rewse’s death. All appeared to go well until a day over a week ago, when Mrs. Rewse received this letter from Main.” Mr. Bowyer handed Martin Hewitt a letter, written in an irregular and broken hand, as though of a person writing under stress of extreme agitation34. It ran thus:—
“My dear Mrs. Rewse,—
“You will probably have heard through the newspapers—indeed I think Algernon has told you in his letters—that a very bad epidemic of small-pox is abroad in this district. I am deeply grieved to have to tell you that Algernon himself has taken the disease in a rather bad form. He showed the first symptoms to-day (Tuesday), and he is now in bed in the cottage. It is fortunate that I, as a medical man, happen to be on the spot, as the nearest local doctor is five miles off at Cullanin, and he is working and travelling night and day as it is. I have my little medicine chest with me, and can get whatever else is necessary from Cullanin, so that everything is being done for Algernon that is possible, and I hope to bring him up to scratch in good health soon, though of course the disease is a dangerous one. Pray don’t unnecessarily alarm yourself, and don’t think about coming over here, or anything of that sort. You can do no good, and will only run risk yourself. I will take care to let you know how things go on, so please don’t attempt to come. The journey is long and would be very trying to you, and you would have no place to stay at nearer than Cullanin, which is quite a centre of infection. I will write again to-morrow.
“Yours most sincerely,
“Stanley Main.”
Not only did the handwriting of this letter show signs of agitation, but here and there words had been repeated, and sometimes a letter had been omitted. Hewitt placed the letter on the table by the newspaper cutting, and Mr. Bowyer proceeded.
“Another letter followed on the next day,” he said, handing it to Hewitt as he spoke35; “a short one, as you see; not written with quite such signs of agitation. It merely says that Rewse is very bad, and repeats the former entreaties36 that his mother will not think of going to him.” Hewitt glanced at the letter and placed it with the other, while Mr. Bowyer continued: “Notwithstanding Main’s persistent37 anxiety that she should stay at home, Mrs. Rewse, who was of course terribly worried about her only son, had almost made up her mind, in spite of her very delicate health, to start for Ireland, when she received a third letter announcing Algernon’s death. Here it is. It is certainly the sort of letter that one might expect to be written in such circumstances, and yet there seems to me at least a certain air of disingenuousness38 about the wording. There are, as you see, the usual condolences, and so forth39. The disease was of the malignant type, it says, which is terribly rapid in its action, often carrying off the patient even before the eruption40 has time to form. Then—and this is a thing I wish you especially to note—there is once more a repetition of his desire that neither the young man’s mother nor his sister shall come to Ireland. The funeral must take place immediately, he says, under arrangements made by the local authorities, and before they could reach the spot. Now doesn’t this obtrusive41 anxiety of his that no connection of young Rewse’s should be near him during his illness, nor even at the funeral, strike you as rather singular?”
“Well, possibly it is; though it may easily be nothing but zeal42 for the health of Mrs. Rewse and her daughter. As a matter of fact, what Main says is very plausible43. They could do no sort of good in the circumstances, and might easily run into danger themselves, to say nothing of the fatigue44 of the journey and general nervous upset. Mrs. Rewse is in weak health, I think you said?”
“Yes, she’s almost an invalid45, in fact; she is subject to heart disease. But tell me now, as an entirely impartial46 observer, doesn’t it seem to you that there is a very forced, unreal sort of tone in all these letters?”
“Perhaps one may notice something of the sort, but fifty things may cause that. The case from the beginning may have been worse than he made it out. What ensued on the receipt of this letter?”
“Mrs. Rewse was prostrated47, of course. Her daughter communicated with me as a friend of the family, and that is how I heard of the whole thing for the first time. I saw the letters, and it seemed to me, looking at all the circumstances of the case, that somebody at least ought to go over and make certain that everything was as it should be. Here was this poor young man, staying in a lonely cottage with the only man in the world who had any reason to desire his death, or any profit to gain by it, and he had a very great inducement indeed. Moreover he was a medical man, carrying his medicine chest with him, remember, as he says himself in his letter. In this situation Rewse suddenly dies, with nobody about him, so far as there is anything to show, but Main himself. As his medical attendant it would be Main who would certify48 and register the death, and no matter what foul49 play might have taken place he would be safe as long as nobody was on the spot to make searching inquiries—might easily escape even then, in fact. When one man is likely to profit much by the death of another a doctor’s medicine chest is likely to supply but too easy a means to his end.”
“Did you say anything of your suspicions to the ladies?”
“Well—well, I hinted perhaps—no more than hinted, you know. But they wouldn’t hear of it—got indignant, and ‘took on’ as people call it, worse than ever, so that I had to smooth them over. But since it seemed somebody’s duty to see into the matter a little more closely, and there seemed to be nobody to do it but myself, I started off that very evening by the night mail. I was in Dublin early the next morning, and spent that day getting across Ireland. The nearest station was ten miles from Cullanin, and that, as you remember, was five miles from the cottage, so that I drove over on the morning of the following day. I must say Main appeared very much taken aback at seeing me. His manner was nervous and apprehensive50, and made me more suspicious than ever. The body had been buried, of course, a couple of days or more. I asked a few rather searching questions about the illness, and so forth, and his answers became positively51 confused. He had burned the clothes that Rewse was wearing at the time the disease first showed itself, he said, as well as all the bedclothes, since there was no really efficient means of disinfection at hand. His story in the main was that he had gone off to Cullanin one morning on foot to see about a top joint52 of a fishing-rod that was to be repaired. When he returned early in the afternoon he found Algernon Rewse sickening of small-pox, at once put him to bed, and there nursed him till he died. I wanted to know, of course, why no other medical man had been called in. He said that there was only one available, and it was doubtful if he could have been got at even a day’s notice, so overworked was he; moreover he said this man, with his hurry and over-strain, could never have given the patient such efficient attention as he himself, who had nothing else to do. After a while I put it to him plainly that it would at any rate have been more prudent53 to have had the body at least inspected by some independent doctor, considering the fact that he was likely to profit so largely by young Rewse’s death, and I suggested that with an exhumation54 order it might not be too late now, as a matter of justice to himself. The effect of that convinced me. The man gasped55 and turned blue with terror. It was a full minute, I should think, before he could collect himself sufficiently56 to attempt to dissuade57 me from doing what I had hinted at. He did so as soon as he could by every argument he could think of—entreated me, in fact, almost desperately58. That decided59 me. I said that after what he had said, and particularly in view of his whole manner and bearing, I should insist, by every means in my power, on having the body properly examined, and I went off at once to Cullanin to set the telegraph going, and see whatever local authority might be proper. When I returned in the afternoon Stanley Main had packed his bag and vanished, and I have not heard nor seen anything of him since. I stayed in the neighbourhood that day and the next, and left for London in the evening. By the help of my solicitors60 proper representations were made at the Home Office, and, especially in view of Main’s flight, a prompt order was made for exhumation and medical examination preliminary to an inquest. I am expecting to hear that the disinterment has been effected to-day. What I want you to do, of course, is chiefly to find Main. The Irish constabulary in that district are fine big men, and no doubt most excellent in quelling61 a faction62 fight or shutting up a shebeen, but I doubt their efficiency in anything requiring much more finesse63. Perhaps also you may be able to find out something of the means by which the murder—it is plain it is one—was committed. It is quite possible that Main may have adopted some means to give the body the appearance, even to a medical man, of death from small-pox.”
“That,” Hewitt said, “is scarcely likely, else, indeed, why did he not take care that another doctor should see the body before the burial? That would have secured him. But that is not a thing one can deceive a doctor over. Of course in the circumstances exhumation is desirable, but if the case is one of small-pox, I don’t envy the medical man who is to examine. At any rate the business is, I should imagine, not likely to be a very long one, and I can take it in hand at once. I will leave to-night for Ireland by the 6.30 train from Euston.”
“Very good. I shall go over myself, of course. If anything comes to my knowledge in the meanwhile, of course I’ll let you know.”
An hour or two after this a cab stopped at the door, and a young lady dressed in black sent in her name and a minute later was shown into Hewitt’s room. It was Miss Mary Rewse. She wore a heavy veil, and all she said she uttered in evidently deep distress64 of mind. Hewitt did what he could to calm her, and waited patiently.
At length she said: “I felt that I must come to you, Mr. Hewitt, and yet now that I am here I don’t know what to say. Is it the fact that Mr. Bowyer has commissioned you to investigate the circumstances of my poor brother’s death, and to discover the whereabouts of Mr. Main?”
“Yes, Miss Rewse, that is the fact. Can you tell me anything that will help me?”
“No, no, Mr. Hewitt, I fear not. But it is such a dreadful thing, and Mr. Bowyer is—I’m afraid he is so much prejudiced against Mr. Main that I felt I ought to do something—to say something at least to prevent you entering on the case with your mind made up that he has been guilty of such an awful thing. He is really quite incapable65 of it, I assure you.”
“Pray, Miss Rewse,” Hewitt replied, “don’t allow that apprehension66 to disturb you. If Mr. Main is, as you say, incapable of such an act as perhaps he is suspected of, you may rest assured no harm will come to him. So far as I am concerned, at any rate, I enter the case with a perfectly67 open mind. A man in my profession who accepted prejudices at the beginning of a case would have very poor results to show indeed. As yet I have no opinion, no theory, no prejudice—nothing indeed but a bare outline of facts. I shall derive68 no opinion and no theory from anything but a consideration of the actual circumstances and evidences on the spot. I quite understand the relation in which Mr. Main stands in regard to yourself and your family. Have you heard from him lately?”
“Not since the letter informing us of my brother’s death.”
“Before then?”
Miss Rewse hesitated.
“Yes,” she said, “we corresponded. But—but there was really nothing—the letters were of a personal and private sort—they were—”
“Yes, yes, of course,” Hewitt answered, with his eyes fixed69 keenly on the veil which Miss Rewse still kept down. “Of course I understand that. Then there is nothing else you can tell me?”
“No, I fear not. I can only implore70 you to remember that no matter what you may see and hear, no matter what the evidence may be, I am sure, sure, sure that poor Stanley could never do such a thing.” And Miss Rewse buried her face in her hands.
Hewitt kept his eyes on the lady, though he smiled slightly, and asked, “How long have you known Mr. Main?”
4-2
“‘HOW LONG HAVE YOU KNOWN MR. MAIN?’”
“For some five or six years now. My poor brother knew him at school, though, of course, they were in different forms, Mr. Main being the elder.”
“Were they always on good terms?”
“They were always like brothers.”
Little more was said. Hewitt condoled71 with Miss Rewse as well as he might, and she presently took her departure. Even as she descended72 the stairs a messenger came with a short note from Mr. Bowyer enclosing a telegram just received from Cullanin. The telegram ran thus:—
Body exhumed73. Death from shot-wound. No trace of small-pox. Nothing yet heard of Main. Have communicated with coroner.—O’Reilly.
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advent
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| n.(重要事件等的)到来，来临 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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rattling
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| adj. 格格作响的, 活泼的, 很好的 adv. 极其, 很, 非常 动词rattle的现在分词 | |
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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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lurch
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| n.突然向前或旁边倒；v.蹒跚而行 | |
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bribing
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| 贿赂 | |
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pending
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| prep.直到，等待…期间；adj.待定的；迫近的 | |
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concurrently
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intermittently
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| adv.间歇地；断断续续 | |
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epidemic
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| n.流行病；盛行；adj.流行性的，流传极广的 | |
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abating
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| 减少( abate的现在分词 )； 减去； 降价； 撤消（诉讼） | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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contagion
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| n.(通过接触的疾病)传染；蔓延 | |
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thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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malignant
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| adj.恶性的，致命的；恶意的，恶毒的 | |
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succumbed
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| 不再抵抗（诱惑、疾病、攻击等）( succumb的过去式和过去分词 )； 屈从； 被压垮； 死 | |
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sordid
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motives
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queried
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considerably
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attain
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attaining
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的现在分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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survivor
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legacy
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trifling
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eyebrows
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modesty
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meek
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qualified
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wilderness
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agitation
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spoke
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entreaties
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persistent
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disingenuousness
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forth
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eruption
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| n.火山爆发；（战争等）爆发；（疾病等）发作 | |
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obtrusive
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| adj.显眼的；冒失的 | |
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zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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plausible
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| adj.似真实的，似乎有理的，似乎可信的 | |
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fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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invalid
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| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
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impartial
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| adj.(in,to)公正的，无偏见的 | |
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prostrated
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| v.使俯伏，使拜倒( prostrate的过去式和过去分词 )；（指疾病、天气等）使某人无能为力 | |
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certify
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| vt.证明，证实；发证书(或执照)给 | |
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foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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apprehensive
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| adj.担心的，恐惧的，善于领会的 | |
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positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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joint
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| adj.联合的，共同的；n.关节，接合处；v.连接，贴合 | |
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prudent
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| adj.谨慎的，有远见的，精打细算的 | |
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exhumation
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| n.掘尸，发掘；剥璐 | |
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gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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dissuade
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| v.劝阻，阻止 | |
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desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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solicitors
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| 初级律师( solicitor的名词复数 ) | |
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quelling
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| v.（用武力）制止，结束，镇压( quell的现在分词 ) | |
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62
faction
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| n.宗派，小集团；派别；派系斗争 | |
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finesse
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| n.精密技巧，灵巧，手腕 | |
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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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65
incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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66
apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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derive
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| v.取得；导出；引申；来自；源自；出自 | |
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69
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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implore
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| vt.乞求，恳求，哀求 | |
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71
condoled
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| v.表示同情，吊唁( condole的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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72
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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73
exhumed
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| v.挖出，发掘出( exhume的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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