"I have to leave, Watson," Holmes said during our breakfast one morning.

"Leave? Where are you going?"

"To Dartmoor, to King's Pyland."

I wasn't surprised. In fact, I wondered why he hadn't already gotten involved in this strange case, which was the main topic of conversation all over England. For a whole day, Holmes had paced around the room with his chin down and his brows furrowed, repeatedly filling his pipe with strong black tobacco. He didn't pay any attention to my questions or comments. New editions of every newspaper had been delivered, but he only glanced at them before tossing them aside. Even though he was silent, I knew exactly what he was thinking about. There was only one problem in the public eye that could challenge his analytical skills: the mysterious disappearance of the favorite for the famous horse race, the Wessex Cup and the tragic murder of its trainer. So, when he suddenly announced his plan to go to the scene of the crime, it was exactly what I had expected and hoped for.

"I'd be happy to go with you if I won't be a bother," I said.

"My dear Watson, it would be a great help if you came along. And I believe your time won't be wasted, as there are aspects of the case that seem to make it truly unique. We still have time to catch our train at Paddington, and I'll explain more about the case on the journey. It would be helpful if you brought your excellent field-glass."

And so, about an hour later, I found myself in a corner of a first-class train carriage heading towards Exeter, while Sherlock Holmes, with his sharp, eager face peering out from under his ear-flapped travel hat, quickly skimmed through the stack of fresh newspapers he had picked up at Paddington. We had left reading far behind us before he stowed away the last newspaper under the seat and offered me his cigar case.

"We're making good progress," he said, looking out the window and checking his watch.

"Currently, we're traveling at fifty-three and a half miles per hour."

"I haven't been keeping track of the mile markers," I replied.

"Neither have I. But the telegraph posts along this railway line are sixty yards apart, so the calculation is straightforward. I assume you've looked into the murder of John Straker and the disappearance of Silver Blaze?"

"I've read what the Telegraph and the Chronicle have reported."

"It's one of those cases where the skill of the detective should be used more for sorting through details than for gathering new evidence. The tragedy has been so unusual, so complete, and so personally significant to many people that we're overwhelmed with speculation, conjecture, and theories. The challenge is to separate the facts – the absolute undeniable facts – from the speculations of theorists and journalists. Once we've established a solid foundation, our task is to analyze what conclusions can be drawn and identify the key points on which the entire mystery hinges. On Tuesday evening, I received telegrams from both Colonel Ross, the horse's owner, and Inspector Gregory, who's handling the case, asking for my assistance."

"Tuesday evening!" I exclaimed. "And it's Thursday morning now. Why didn't you go down there yesterday?"

"Because I made a mistake, my dear Watson – which, unfortunately, happens more often than one might think from reading your accounts of my adventures. The truth is, I couldn't believe that the most famous horse in England could remain hidden for long, especially in such a sparsely populated area as the north of Dartmoor. Throughout yesterday, I kept expecting to hear that Silver Blaze had been found and that his kidnapper was the same person who murdered John Straker. But when another morning arrived and I learned that nothing had been discovered beyond the arrest of young Fitzroy Simpson, I realized it was time for me to intervene. However, in some ways, I feel that yesterday wasn't entirely wasted."

"So, you have a theory then?"

"At the very least, I've grasped the fundamental facts of the case. Let me outline them for you, as nothing clarifies a case more than explaining it to someone else. And I can't expect your assistance if I don't share with you the starting point of our investigation."

I relaxed against the cushions, puffing on my cigar, while Holmes, leaning forward, used his long, thin finger to count the key points on his left hand as he explained the events leading up to our journey.

"Silver Blaze," he began, "comes from the Somomy bloodline and boasts a remarkable racing history, much like his famous ancestor. Now in his fifth year, he has won every prestigious prize for Colonel Ross, his fortunate owner. Until the recent tragedy, he was the top contender for the Wessex Cup, with odds of three to one in his favor. Despite these odds, he's always been a favorite among racing enthusiasts and has never failed to impress. So, even at such high odds, large sums were wagered on him. It's clear, then, that many people had a vested interest in ensuring Silver Blaze didn't make it to the race next Tuesday."

"Naturally, this fact was recognized at King’s Pyland, where the colonel's training stables are located. Every precaution was taken to protect the favorite. The trainer, John Straker, is a former jockey who rode for Colonel Ross before retiring due to weight constraints. He has faithfully served the colonel for twelve years, both as a jockey and as a trainer, demonstrating dedication and honesty. He had three assistants, as the stable was small, housing only four horses in total. One of these assistants stayed awake each night in the stable, while the others slept in the loft. All three had impeccable reputations."

"John Straker, a married man, resides in a small villa approximately two hundred yards from the stables. He and his wife have no children, employing only one maid, and they live comfortably. The surrounding countryside is quite isolated, but about half a mile north, there's a small group of villas constructed by a Tavistock contractor for those seeking the fresh air of Dartmoor. Tavistock itself lies two miles to the west, while two miles east across the moor is the larger Mapleton training establishment, owned by Lord Backwater and managed by Silas Brown. In every other direction, the moor is desolate, inhabited only by a few wandering gypsies. This was the situation on the night of the incident last Monday."

On that evening, the horses had their usual exercise and were given water, and the stables were locked at nine o'clock. Two of the assistants went to the trainer's house for supper in the kitchen, while the third, Ned Hunter, stayed behind to watch over things. A few minutes after nine, the maid, Edith Baxter, brought Ned his supper, which was curried mutton. She didn't bring any drinks because there was a water tap in the stables, and it was the rule for the assistant on duty to only drink from there. Edith carried a lantern because it was very dark outside, and the path crossed the open moor.

When Edith was about thirty yards from the stables, a man suddenly appeared out of the darkness and called out to her to stop. As she stepped into the circle of light from the lantern, she saw that he looked like a gentleman, wearing a grey tweed suit, a cloth cap, gaiters, and carrying a heavy stick. But what struck her the most was how pale his face was and how nervous he seemed. She guessed he was probably a little older than thirty.

"Can you tell me where I am?" he asked. "I was just about to sleep on the moor when I saw your lantern."

"You're near the King’s Pyland training stables," she replied.

"Oh, really? What luck!" he exclaimed. "I heard that a stable boy sleeps there alone every night. Maybe that's his supper you're carrying. Now, I'm sure you wouldn't mind earning some extra money for a new dress, would you?" He took a folded piece of white paper from his pocket. "Make sure the boy gets this tonight, and you can have the prettiest dress money can buy."

She was scared by how serious he seemed and quickly ran past him to the window where she usually handed meals to Hunter. The window was already open, and Hunter was sitting at the small table inside. She started telling him what had happened when the stranger approached again.

"Good evening," he said, looking through the window. "I wanted to talk to you." The girl remembered seeing a corner of a small paper packet sticking out of his closed hand as he spoke.

"What are you doing here?" the boy asked.

"I have some business that could benefit you," the stranger replied. "You have two horses in the Wessex Cup – Silver Blaze and Bayard. Give me some insider information, and you won't lose out. Is it true that Bayard could give Silver Blaze a hundred yards head start in a five-furlong race, and that the stable is betting on him?"

"So, you're one of those pesky tipsters!" the boy exclaimed. "I'll show you what we do to them in King's Pyland." He jumped up and hurried across the stable to unleash the dog. The girl ran back to the house, but as she ran, she looked back and saw the stranger leaning through the window. A minute later, when Hunter came out with the dog, the stranger had vanished, and despite searching all around the buildings, they found no trace of him.

"One moment," I interrupted. "When the stable boy went out with the dog, did he leave the door unlocked behind him?"

"Brilliant, Watson, brilliant!" whispered my friend. "The importance of this detail struck me so strongly that I sent a special message to Dartmoor yesterday to clarify the matter. The boy locked the door before he left. Also, the window, I should mention, was too small for a man to pass through.

Hunter waited until the other stable workers returned, then he sent a message to the trainer, informing him of what had happened. Straker was alarmed upon hearing the story, though he didn't fully grasp its true significance. Nevertheless, it left him feeling uneasy. Mrs. Straker, waking up at one in the morning, found him getting dressed. When she asked why, he explained that he couldn't sleep due to worrying about the horses and intended to check on them at the stables. Despite her pleas for him to stay home because of the rain, he insisted on putting on his large raincoat and left the house."

"Mrs. Straker woke up at seven in the morning and realized her husband hadn't returned. She quickly got dressed, called the maid, and went to the stables. The door was open. Inside, Hunter was sitting on a chair, looking completely dazed. The favorite horse's stall was empty, and there was no sign of the trainer.

The two boys who slept in the loft above the harness-room were awakened. They hadn't heard anything during the night because they were deep sleepers. Hunter seemed to be drugged and couldn't make sense of anything, so they let him sleep while the two boys and the two women went out to look for the missing people. They hoped the trainer had taken the horse out for an early morning exercise, but when they climbed the hill near the house, where they could see all the nearby moors, they not only couldn't spot the missing horse, but they also noticed something that suggested they were facing a serious situation."

"About a quarter of a mile away from the stables, John Straker's coat was hanging from a bush. Just beyond that spot, there was a hollow area in the moor, shaped like a bowl, and at the bottom of it, they found the dead body of the trainer. His head had been severely injured by a strong blow from a heavy object, and he had a long, deep cut on his thigh, made by a sharp tool. However, it was evident that Straker had fought back bravely against his attackers because he was holding a small knife tightly in his right hand, which was covered in blood, and in his left hand, he was holding a red and black silk scarf. The maid recognized it as the same scarf worn by the stranger who had visited the stables the night before.

Hunter, after recovering from his daze, was sure about the ownership of the scarf. He was also convinced that the same stranger, while standing at the window, had drugged his curried mutton, causing him to fall asleep and leaving the stables unguarded. There was plenty of evidence in the mud at the bottom of the hollow where the fight took place, indicating that the missing horse had been there during the struggle. However, since that morning, the horse has vanished, despite a large reward offered, and despite efforts by all the gypsies in Dartmoor to find him. Additionally, an examination revealed that the food left by the stable-lad for his supper contained a significant amount of powdered opium. Surprisingly, the people at the house ate the same dish that night without any harm.

Those are the main facts of the case, without any guesses, and stated simply. Now, let me summarize what the police have done so far."

"Inspector Gregory, who is handling the case, is a very capable officer. If only he had a bit more imagination, he could be even better at his job. When he arrived, he quickly found and arrested the man who seemed most suspicious. It wasn't hard to find him because he lived in one of those houses I mentioned earlier. His name was Fitzroy Simpson. He came from a good family and had a good education, but he had spent all his money on betting on horse races. Now, he made some money by quietly taking bets in the sports clubs in London. When they checked his records, they found he had bet ?5,000 against the favorite horse. When they arrested him, he said he had come to Dartmoor hoping to get information about the King's Pyland horses and also about Desborough, the second favorite, which was taken care of by Silas Brown at the Mapleton stables. He admitted to being where they said he was the night before but said he had no bad intentions and just wanted to get accurate information. When they showed him his scarf, he turned pale and couldn't explain why the dead man had it in his hand. His clothes were wet from being out in the storm the night before, and his cane, which had a lead weight, could have been used as a weapon to hurt the trainer. However, he didn't have any wounds on his body, while the knife of the trainer showed that at least one of his attackers would have been injured. That's the whole story, Watson. If you have any insights, I'd really appreciate them."

I was very interested in what Holmes explained to me. He made everything very clear, as he always does. Even though I knew most of the facts already, I didn't fully understand how important they were or how they related to each other.

I had an idea and said, "Could it be that the cut on Straker's body was made by his own knife during his violent movements after the head injury?"

Holmes replied, "That's not just possible; it's likely. If that's the case, one of the main arguments against the accused disappears."

I added, "But I still don't understand what theory the police are working on."

Holmes explained, "I'm afraid any theory we come up with has serious problems. The police probably think that this Fitzroy Simpson drugged the boy, got a copy of the key to the stable, and took the horse out, maybe to steal it. Since the bridle is missing, Simpson must have put it on. Then, he left the door open and was leading the horse away when he met the trainer. They argued, and Simpson killed the trainer with his heavy stick, without getting hurt by the small knife Straker used to defend himself. After that, Simpson either took the horse to a secret place or it ran off during the fight and is now lost on the moors. That's what the police believe, and as unlikely as it sounds, all other explanations are even more unlikely. But once I'm at the scene, I'll quickly check things, and until then, I don't see how we can make much progress beyond where we are now."

It was evening when we arrived at the small town of Tavistock, which sits in the middle of Dartmoor like the center of a large circle. Two men were waiting for us at the station. One was tall, with blond hair and a beard, and had striking light blue eyes. The other was a small, sharp-looking man, very tidy and smartly dressed in a frock-coat and gaiters, with neatly trimmed sideburns and a monocle. The smaller man was Colonel Ross, a famous sportsman, and the other was Inspector Gregory, who was quickly gaining recognition in the English detective service.

"I'm glad you're here, Mr. Holmes," said the colonel. "Inspector Gregory has done everything possible, but I want to make sure we leave no stone unturned in seeking justice for poor Straker and finding my horse."

"Any new developments?" Holmes inquired.

"I'm afraid we haven't made much progress," replied the inspector. "We have a carriage waiting outside. Since you'd probably like to see the place before it gets dark, we can discuss it on the way."

驯马师突然神秘死亡，而明星赛马Silver Blaze则消失无踪。驯马师的死亡是意外还是谋杀？失踪的赛马背后隐藏着怎样的秘密？那个面色苍白的陌生人，他的真实意图是什么？作案的方式和动机又是什么...

未完待续，欢迎收听下集！