\t\tThe policeman Lance's narrative

We left No. 3 Garden Street, Lauriston at 1:00 pm. Sherlock Holmes and I first sent a telegram to the nearby telegraph office. Then we called a carriage and rushed to Lance's house.

"The evidence obtained directly is more important than anything else. Although I am confident about this case, I still have a good idea to check the situation clearly."

"Holmes, you are really inexplicable. Are you so sure about the details you mentioned just now?"

"Of course," he replied, "As soon as I got there, I saw two traces of carriage wheels along the road. Because it cleared for a week before the rain last night, the deep rut must have been there last night. In addition, there were marks of horse hooves. One of them was much clearer than the other three, which undoubtedly meant that the hooves were newly equipped. Since the carriage came there after the rain, and Gladyson also said that there was no carriage passing through the whole morning, so the murderer and the deceased took the carriage to the empty house."

"It seems quite simple to hear what you said," I said, "but how do you know the height of the murderer?"

"That's right, it's very simple. A person's height can be measured according to his pace, but it's useless to teach you the method now. I measured the pace of the person on the muddy road outside the house and the dust on the floor inside the house. Then I used another method to verify my calculation results - when people write on the wall, they usually write naturally in a place parallel to their sight - and the handwriting on the wall is exactly six feet high, which is very coincidental."

"Where is his age?" I asked again.

"It's also simple - if someone could easily cross a puddle of four and a half feet wide, he could not be an old man. There was such a wide puddle in the corridor of the small garden. He took one step forward, while the dead in patent leather boots walked around it - this is not mysterious at all, it's just the application of some observation and reasoning methods proposed in my article in practice. Do you have anything else to understand?"

"Where are nails and Indian cigars?" I continued.

"The words on the wall were written by a man dipped his index finger in his blood. He scraped off a lot of wall powder when writing - this was what I saw with a magnifying glass - if the murderer's nails were trimmed, it wouldn't be like this. I also found some ash on the floor, which was dark in color and flakes. I have specialized in cigar ash and have written papers on this. No matter what brand of cigar or cigar ash, I can tell it, so I can tell at a glance that this is an Indian cigar. The difference between a capable detective and Glassen and Lestrade is reflected in these subtle details."

"How did you infer the red face?" I asked again.

"Well, that's a bolder speculation, but I believe I'm right. Please don't ask me this question before the case is cleared."

I touched my head and said, "I'm getting confused more and more - how did the two men get into the house, what's the coachman who sent them? How can one force another to take poison? Where does the blood come from? Since the murderer didn't kill someone for money, what is his purpose? Where did the woman's ring come from? The most important thing is, why did the murderer write the words "revenge" on the wall in German before leaving? - I can't connect these questions together."

Sherlock Holmes smiled approvingly.

He said: "You have summarized the doubts of the case very well, concisely and concisely. Although I still have many things that are not clear enough now, I have already made a general idea. As for the bloody word found by Restrade, it is just a trap, trying to make the police mistakenly think that it was done by the secret party and the league. In fact, the word was not written by the Germans. The real Germans used Latin fonts to write 'A', but he was not. So I am sure that this word was not written by the Germans, but by a self-righteous person imitating it. This trick is a bit like adding extravagance. Well, doctor, I can only tell you this. You must know that once the magician's trick is said through, you will not get praise from others. Similarly, if I tell you my secret, you will think that I, Sherlock Holmes, is just a very ordinary person."

"How can this be?" I said, "I think you have almost developed detective techniques into an accurate science."

When Holmes heard this sincerely say this, his face turned red with joy, just like a girl who heard someone praise her for her beauty.

"I'll tell you a little more," he said, "the deceased and the murderer came in the same carriage, and they were very friendly, walking through the garden path with their arms in each other. After they entered the house, the deceased in patent leather boots stood still and did not move, while the man in square-toed boots kept moving around the house - I saw these things from the dust on the floor - he was getting more and more excited and his steps grew bigger and bigger. He was talking while walking, and finally got angry, and the tragedy happened. Now I've told you everything I know, and the rest are speculations and conjectures. Fortunately, we have a good foundation to do the next step, and we have to hurry up. There is still a concert in the afternoon, and I heard it was Norman Neruda, and I want to go and listen."

As we spoke, the car kept walking through the dim streets and alleys. Finally, at the dirtiest and most desolate alley, the driver stopped the car, "Audley Courtyard is there," he pointed to a black brick alley and said, "I'm waiting for you here."

Audley Courtyard is a large slum. We walked through the narrow alley and arrived at this square courtyard, which was paved with stone slabs and surrounded by dirty and simple houses. After we passed through the pile of ragged children, we passed through several rows of faded clothes, and then came to the front door of No. 46. A small bronze medal with the words "Lance" was nailed to the door of No. 46. When we inquired, we knew that the Lance police were taking a nap, so we waited for him to come out in the small living room in front.

Lance came out soon, but because we disturbed him to sleep, he said with some displeasure: "I have reported everything I know to the bureau."

Sherlock Holmes took out a pound and a half gold coin from his pocket and played with it suggestively. He said, "I want to ask you to say things again from beginning to end."

Lance stared at the little gold coins and said, "I'm happy to tell you everything I know."

"I want to know what happened, the more detailed the better."

Lance sat down on the wool couch, frowned as if he was determined not to let his narrative miss a little.

"It's something to start from the beginning," he said. "I'm on the evening shift, from 10 pm to 6 pm the next morning. At 11 pm, there was a fight on Baihart Street, and the area I patrolled was very calm. At 1 AM, it started to rain. At this time, I met Heri Moche, who was patrolling the area around the woods of the Netherlands. We stood around the corner of Henrietta Street and chatted. By about two o'clock, I thought it was time to go around and see if something happened on Brixton Road.

There was a deviant and rotten road, and there was no one on the road, only a carriage drove past me. I walked slowly, thinking, how good it would be to have a pot of hot wine to drink. Just as I was thinking, I suddenly found that there were lights in the house. I knew that there were two empty houses on Lauriston Garden Street, and the last tenant in one of them died of typhoid fever, and the landlord was still unwilling to repair the gutter. So when I saw the lights in the house, I was shocked and thought, something must have happened. When I walked to the door-"

"You stopped and turned back to the door of the small garden." Sherlock Holmes suddenly interrupted, "Why did you turn around?"

Lance jumped up and stared at Sherlock Holmes in surprise.

"Oh my God, it's true, sir, how did you know - alas! When I walked to the door of the house, I suddenly felt too deserted. I thought it would be better to find someone to go in with me. I am not afraid of the things in the world. God knows what happened. I suddenly remembered the tenant who died of typhoid fever. Maybe he came to check the gutter that killed him. Thinking of this, I was so scared that I turned around and left, retreated to the gate of the garden to see if I could see Moche's lamp, but I didn't see anything."

“Is there no one on the street?”

"No one, sir, I didn't even see the dog. I had to pluck up the courage to go back and push the door open. The room was quiet, so I walked into the room with lights. I saw a red candle lit on the mantel, and the candle flames were swaying, under the candlelight-"

"Stop it first. I know all the situations you see. You walked around the house for a few times and knelt down next to the body, then you walked over and pushed the kitchen door, and then-"

Lance suddenly jumped up again when he heard this, with a look of fear and suspicion on his face. He shouted: "Where were you hiding at that time? You can see so clearly? I think these things are something you shouldn't know."

Sherlock Holmes smiled and took out his business card and threw it to the policeman across the table. "Don't catch me as a murderer," he said. "We are actually our own people, and we will prove this point Gleeson and Mr. Restrade--you continue to talk about it, what have you done in the future?"

Lance sat down again, still with a look of suspicion on his face. He continued, "I ran to the gate and blew the sirens. Moche and two other policemen rushed over to hear the sound.

"Are there no other people on the street at that time?"

"No, anyone who is more serious has gone home long ago."

"What does this mean?"

Lance smiled and said, "I have seen many drunken men in my life, but I have never seen anyone as drunk as that guy. When I ran out, he was leaning against the railing at the door and singing the tune of Kaolingban[1] loudly. He was so drunk that he couldn't even stand firmly. Such a person really couldn't do anything to him."

"What kind of person is he?" asked Sherlock Holmes.

The interruption of Holmes made Lance a little unhappy, saying, "He is a rare drunk. If I had time at that time, I would definitely take him to the police station."

"Have you noticed his face and clothes?" Sherlock Holmes couldn't help but interrupt.

"I noticed that Moche and I had helped him. He was a tall man with a blushing face and a circle-"

"Okay, enough," Holmes shouted, "What happened to him later?"

"We were too busy at that time and had no time to take care of him," he said.

Then, the policeman said unhappily: "I bet he must know the way home!"

"What clothes are he wearing?"

“A brown coat?”

"Did he hold a horsewhip in his hand?"

"Horsewhip? No."

"He must have thrown the whip," muttered Holmes, "have you ever seen or heard a carriage passing by?"

"No."

"Okay, this half pound gold is yours," said Holmes, standing up and putting on his hat. "Lance, I think you will never be able to improve in your life. Your head is so white. You could have taken a sheriff's job. Do you know, the drunkard who slipped away in your hand last night was an important clue to this case, and we are looking for him. Now, nothing to say is useless. OK, let's go, doctor."

After saying that, we came out to find our carriage together, and the policeman stayed there half-believingly.

On the way home by car, Sherlock Holmes said angrily: "What a fool! Such a once-in-a-lifetime promotion opportunity has been spared in vain."

"I still can't figure it out. Of course the drunken policeman said was exactly the same as the situation of the murderer you thought, but why did he go back?"

"Ring, sir, he came back for the ring. If we had no other way, we could use this ring as bait and lead him to the bait. I will definitely catch him. Doctor, I dare to make a bet with you. Two to one, I will definitely catch him-I have to thank you all this. If it weren't for you, I wouldn't care about this case. I missed the best research opportunity I've never encountered. Let's call this action 'blood-word research'? In this ordinary life, murder is like a red thread that runs through it. Our task is to find it, clean it up, and expose it completely. Let's go to dinner first, and then go to Norman Neruda's concert. Her fingering is simply unspeakable. She played the little piece of Chopard so wonderfully: Tra-La-La-L-L-L-L-L-L-L-L-L-L-L-L-L-L-L-L-L-L-L-L-L-L-L-L-L-L-L-L-L-L-L-L-L-L-L-L-L-L-L-L-L-L-L-L-L-L-L-L-L-L-L-L-L-L-L-L-L-L-L-L-L-L-L-L-L-L-L-L-L-L-L-L-L-L-L-L-L-L-L-L-L-L-L-L-L-L-L-L-L-L-L-L-L-L-L-L-L-L-L-L-L-L-L-L-L-L-L-L-L-L-L-L-L-L-L-L-L-L-L-L-L-L-L-L-L-L-L-L-L-L-L-L-L-L-L-L-L-L-L-L-L-L-L-L-L-L-L-L-L-L-L-L-

Seeing Sherlock Holmes sang in the carriage like a skylark, I couldn't help but think that the human mind is really omnipotent.
Chapter completed!