Think of England

The next morning was a bright October autumn day, with blue skies and a warm yellow sun on the hills, and Mrs. Armstrong had made arrangements for her guests.

"We are going hiking in the mountains, and we can have a picnic at noon, my dears." She clapped her hands and greeted everyone, "Let's go out and get some fresh air together. We have climbing tools of various sizes." She organized the guests into a team without any explanation , but there are still two people who do not plan to leave with her.

One of them was Curtis. "Sounds fantastic, but I can't take the risk. I got shot in the knee at Jacobsdale." He was still staring at his wounded hand as stray bullets from panicked colleagues pierced through it. off his leg. "It's gotten better recently, but the uneven road is still inconvenient to walk, and it's even worse after taking the train for a day. If I want to do activities in the next week, I have to rest today."

"Oh, but we can get you a carriage—or a horse?"

"There's no need to be so troublesome. My reading progress has also dropped a lot. It's better to stay here and study." Curtis insisted on his position as much as possible, and only hoped that she would stop trying to persuade him.

"I can be with Mr. Curtis." A silky voice sounded behind him.

Curtis tried hard to restrain his expression.Mrs. Armstrong frowned. "Seriously, Mr. Da Silva, you really should get some fresh air and stretch your muscles."

"My dear lady, I am afraid that my muscles and bones cannot bear this kind of activity. Just breathing in the country is hard work for me. Such fresh air is harmful to my soul." Da Silva shrugged exaggeratedly shrug.Miss Carus giggled. "No, I'd better put my heart and soul into my work. I have to work hard."

"What job?" Curtis felt he had to continue asking.

"The art of poetry." Da Silva looked radiant this morning in his green velvet coat.He was also—Curtis had to notice—wearing a pair of trousers that were cut to an indecently tight fit, the material clinging to his truly handsome limbs, but making the ridges of his skin too sharp.God, could this guy be any more explicit about his taste?

"The art of poetry?" he repeated, shaking his head at Holt's exaggerated look of desperation.

"I have had the honor of editing Edward Levi's latest collection of poetry." Da Silva paused, looking at him expectantly.Curtis looked back blankly.Da Silva rolled his eyes indistinctly, "Haven't you heard of the fragment poet—? Of course not. Well, a genius is always lonely. Maybe Kipling's "Barrack Ballad [ 1]" is your food for thought, and it should be more in line with the taste of muscular men. Those are poems with 'serious rhymes', I've heard that saying many times."

He waved elegantly to Mrs. Armstrong, then floated away, leaving Curtis dumbfounded.

"So much—" He stopped.

"Dirty Latino," James Armstrong finished for him, with impertinent precision, "this one's a real one. Seriously, Sophie, why did you invite him—"

"He's a poet in his own right, you know," said Mrs. Armstrong, "incredibly clever, and trendy."

"And he's damn handsome," added Fenella Carus, looking shyly at her companion. "Isn't he, Pat?"

"I'm afraid that gold and jade are beyond the reach." Miss Morton said mercilessly, "If you ask my opinion, I will only say that he is too good at showing off."

***

The guests set off after enjoying a hearty breakfast and recharging their energy, leaving Curtis and Da Silva to enjoy the entire villa alone.Da Silva declares that he is going to meet his muse in the library; and Curtis, expressing sympathy for the muse, expresses his desire to get acquainted with the building.

He did intend to investigate, but he wasn't aiming for the modern facilities.

The door of Sir Hubert's study was open.Curtis slipped in, turned the key and locked himself inside.His heart was beating like a drum and his mouth was parched.

It's not his style.He's not a spy, for heaven's sake he's a soldier.

It should be said that he used to be a soldier until the guns exploded in Jacobsdale.

He made his way to the desk, but was almost given up on it: a photograph in a silver frame of a smiling young man in the uniform of a British captain.He recognized the man, whose features appeared in one of the large life-size oil paintings that hung in the drawing room, next to a stunning portrait by Sargent of the present Lady Sir Armstrong.Sir Hubert's eldest son, Martin, was killed on the scorched earth of the Sultan.

A man who had lost his son in war would certainly not have betrayed the British Army.Certainly not.

On the opposite side of the desk is another portrait of the deceased, who is looking down at Curtis with a thoughtful smile.On one side of it was a simple watercolor of what Curtis guessed was Armstrong's first wife; on the other was a pastel sketch of Armstrong's wife, Sophie.There appears to be no portrait of James here.

He forced himself to keep probing.The desk drawers were locked, but the filing cabinet was open, so he questioned what the hell he was doing as he rummaged through the files and folders inside with the fingers of his left hand.

The downfall of Lafayette's munitions business had made Sir Hubert a fortune, but that didn't mean anything.After all, Hubert is a munitions manufacturer. When a war breaks out, someone has to take over the business.Moreover, Mr. Lafayette definitely hopes that his factory can evade responsibility, and he himself does not want to take the lives of Jacobs Dahl.He stood slovenly and gaunt in the drawing-room of Sir Henry Curtis, babbling about frame-ups, intrigues, betrayals, murders, and within two weeks his body lay in the Thames. was salvaged ashore.What he said at the time, if he said it was a crazy thing driven by guilt, it was not completely unreasonable.

But if what Lafayette said has a one-in-a-million possibility to be true, Curtis cannot miss this clue.He needs to find out, even if he doesn't know what he's doing or what he's looking for, so he can only rummage through the owner's private papers with a blushing face and suppressed shame.

He bravely stayed there for a long time, paying attention to the voices in the corridor and the passing servants, and he was greatly relieved when he searched to the bottom of the cabinet.There was nothing suspicious here, just some bills and letters, which looked like a rich man's routine.

He rummaged in the study for the key to the desk, but found nothing.Sir Hubert undoubtedly hung the key on his key chain, and Curtis began to think about how to get it.

Well, unless he decides to destroy the drawers like a normal robber, there's nothing he can do to stay any longer.He made sure he didn't leave any trace of intrusion as best he could, then walked to the door, checking for footsteps outside.There was silence.He glanced back as he opened the door and went out quietly, before he ran straight into someone.

"Jesus!" he exclaimed.

"I'm afraid not," the silky voice sounded, and Curtis realized that he bumped into Da Silva. "Of course, he and I are both Jewish, but there's nothing else in common."

Curtis took a few steps back to stay away from the opponent, but his back hit the door frame.Da Silva didn't try to hide his smile, and moved aside with feigned gallantry.He looked at the owner's study and asked, "You really did a thorough visit, didn't you?"

"How is your muse?" Curtis backed away, feeling his face burn.

God, how embarrassing, how unlucky he was.Fortunately, it was the southern European guy who bumped into him.Perhaps da Silva would have no problem loitering in the owner's private room.

The idea was appealing, but unlikely; even the most uneducated fool would know what he was definitely up to.The point is whether he will mention this to others.Just in case, Curtis had to come up with some excuses.

He went upstairs to his room, cursing da Silva in his mind, unsure of what to do next.He guessed that a real spy would infiltrate Armstrong's bedroom, but the thought made him sick.He had to search elsewhere.

A few minutes later, Curtis regained his composure. He went to the library, and before going in, he checked his head to make sure that there was no one there.It's spacious, with wood-grain paneling in the style of an old building, but the interior is dark.The upper shelves held leatherbound volumes neatly arranged by the spine, references and academic books that upstarts would buy to fill their shelves.The lower shelves, within reach, contained the entire collections of Dickens and Trollup, as well as the latest ingeniously written novels, and a series of sensational yellow-covered pulps.The only thing hanging in the library is a portrait of a boy of about nine years old with a baby in his arms.Curtis guessed that this painting was of Martin and James.If it was true, this was the first painting of James that Curtis had seen; he wondered if the man hated posing for portraits as much as he did.

Besides the bookcases and some easy chairs for reading, there were coffee tables with clunky lamps and a desk.He checked the desk drawers and found only some stationery and papers.

Curtis looked around and noticed an inconspicuous small wall-mounted door at the far end of the room, which was embedded in the middle of the wall. He quickly recalled the structure of the villa, and felt that behind this door was unlikely to be a corridor leading to other places , and more likely an ancillary cubicle.Could it be a private study?He tried to turn the doorknob and found that the room was locked.

"Yo, you're really curious." Someone whispered in Curtis's ear, and he almost jumped up in fright.

"My God." He turned to face Da Silva standing behind him.The man moved as lightly as a cat, "Can you stop being so sneaky?"

"Oh, am I the one sneaking around? I can't even figure it out."

Hit the nail on the head.Curtis tightened his jaw. "This is a very interesting house," he saw Dasilvain's smiling lips, helplessly and annoyed.

"That's the data storage room." Da Silva gestured to him the door helpfully. "Sir Hubert locked his personal documents inside and kept them safe."

"Sensible," Curtis muttered, feeling a burst of relief when the lunch gong sounded.

But that relief turned to frustration when he found out Da Silva was going to be having lunch with him, and it looked like the guy was going to be haunting him all day.

"I hope your work is going well," he said, trying to be polite.They sat facing each other, separated by a banquet table.

"It's going well, thank you." Da Silva carefully buttered the bread rolls, "So how is your progress?"

Curtis stopped breathing for a while. "I just wandered around. Looked around, it's an amazing house."

"Isn't it?" Da Silva kept looking at him while he was speaking, with an unpredictable expression, Curtis had to try his best to restrain himself, not to let himself be restless under the other's gaze.

To change the subject, he grabs the nearest plate to share. "Have some ham?"

"no thank you."

"This ham is pretty good."

Da Silva blinked slowly, like a lizard. "I dare say it's a very good ham, but I haven't converted since our last conversation."

"C-oh. Oh, excuse me, I forgot you were a Jew."

"How fresh. Few people forget that."

Curtis wasn't sure how he should feel about this sentence, but the other party didn't seem to care much either.His uncle, Sir Henry, was a devout Christian and a well-informed man. One of the most strict disciplines that Curtis was taught when he was a child was not to be disrespectful to other people's beliefs.Although this was not a prevalent concept among his peers, and Curtis didn't think he needed to show kindness to the guy in front of him, but a principle is a principle.

"I beg your pardon," he reiterated, "I meant no offense. Uh, how about some beef?" He held out his plate apologetically, seeing a smile flash in those dark eyes.

"I can accept beef, thank you." Da Silva solemnly accepted his apology. "Ham doesn't offend me, you know, I just don't eat it. The only meat that does offend me is the kidney, which goes against my aesthetics."

This was the unorthodox reaction that Curtis had expected, and it was more cynical than Dasilva's earlier scrutiny and previous series of behaviors.But in this way, he didn't know how to deal with it.

"So, uh, you're a religious man?" he tried.

"No, I wouldn't describe myself that way. I don't abide by the religious rules[4]." Da Silva suddenly showed a cat-like smile, "But I usually have sharp eyes."

Curtis believed that he meant something, but Da Silva did not continue, but turned his attention back to the food in front of him.Curtis took this opportunity to look at him: he is indeed a handsome man, he thought, if you don't reject this type.A pair of deep, dark eyes, full and well-shaped lips, high cheekbones, and almost too gracefully arched black eyebrows.Curtis wondered if he was well-manicured, and he figured the answer was yes.He'd seen them in London in particular bars: They fixed their eyebrows, put on foundation and blush, and exchanged artificial pleasantries.Does da Silva do the same in his private time?with other men?

Dasilva coughed lightly before Curtis realized that he had said something. "Sorry, what did you say?"

"I'd like to know about your plans for the afternoon. Or can we continue, um, bump into each other?"

"I guess I'll go for a walk outside." Curtis replied bluntly.

Da Silva's lips curled into a mysterious smile, as if laughing at a joke that Curtis hadn't heard. "I'll be in the library. Don't let me get in your way."

***

It was night, and Curtis waited until the bell rang at one o'clock in the morning before sneaking out of the room.The passage was rather dark, but he had explored his way beforehand, and he was sure he would not bump into any specimens, tables, or other furnishings.

He came down the steps, heavy on his feet.There was no sound of human activity in the house.The servants should all be asleep, and the guests who haven't fallen asleep should be exhausted.

There was no accident on the way to the library, but he could hear his own pulse beating, and he closed the door behind him more cautiously.At night, the windows of the library are closed, and the inside of the room cannot be seen.He opened the gate of the night light in his hand, and a ray of yellow light leaked out, making the silence and darkness seem more urgent.

After making sure that the storage room door was still locked, he took out a set of master keys he had bought uncomfortably in the East End, and tried to unlock it.

He tried all the keys, but none of them fit.He cursed under his breath, but then a sound made his whole body stiffen.Although only a very slight sound—

He heard a "squeak".Someone is opening the door.

Curtis had no time to think, he pulled down the gate of the night light, turned off the light source, and moved to the side of the door as silently as possible.He clutched the skeleton key, knowing he had to pocket them before anyone found them, and without making a sound—

Whoever opened the door did not turn on the light.

He could see the faint light in the hall through the crack of the door, and it disappeared after the door was closed silently.Then a faint, pale light came across the very center of the room, and the intruder—another intruder turned on some kind of lighting.

Someone was moving quietly in the dark holding a flashlight.

Definitely a thief.Bad luck.He couldn't sit back and watch the owner of the house be stolen and confront the man, but it would definitely cause trouble.A commotion would wake the whole house, and he had a skeleton set of keys in his pocket and a night light by his side.Can he pass it all on to the thief when someone else hears it?

The thief advances in total silence, and can only judge his position from the trajectory of the light source.The others were coming towards the door of the storage room at the back of the library, and Curtis was standing here.If he got closer, Curtis could easily catch him.Curtis prepares to attack.

The light source meanders upwards, across the desk, and stops suddenly beside the nightlight left by Curtis.His whole body was tense, and after the light source surrounded him for a while, it directly illuminated his face.

Curtis was startled, his eyes were so stimulated by the light that he couldn't open his eyes, but he still rushed forward without hesitation, raised his left fist and punched - nothing, because the intruder was not there.He heard a very slight movement, and then a hand covered his mouth, warm fingers pressed against his lips.

"Oh, Mr. Curtis," whispered in his ear, "we really should stop meeting like this."

Curtis froze in place, and the soft hand moved away from his mouth before he hissed, "What the hell are you playing?"

"I should have asked you the same question." Da Silva was right behind him, clinging to his body, sliding his free hand over his hip with shocking intimacy.

He threw a sharp elbow back and heard a satisfying cry of pain when he touched Da Silva, although it was not as effective as expected; There was no one in sight.He stared at the darkness in frustration.

"Look, look." Da Silva's soft voice appeared a few steps away.The little light source came on again.Curtis rushed towards it, planning to fight back violently, but stopped when he saw the thing reflecting the light source.His master key is in Da Silva's hands at this moment.

"You fucking picked my pocket!"

"Quiet." The key reflected the light on the table and in the room, "Don't shout, and please don't do anything. None of us want to be caught."

Even more infuriating, he had a point. "What are you doing here?" Curtis tried to question him with the same volume as Da Silva whispered.

"I was planning to break into Sir Hubert's storeroom. And, from the skeleton key and night-light, I think you have the same idea."

Curtis opened and closed his mouth in the darkness.He barely opened his mouth: "Are you a thief?"

"Each to each other. Even though it may seem unlikely at first glance, maybe we are kindred spirits."

"I think it's impossible!"

"Then what is possible? This is possible?" Da Silva swept the light of the flashlight towards the extinguished night light, "Archibald Curtis, a brave general who is loyal to the King of England, wants to say Whoever looks like a little reader of The Boys' Own Paper[5] is yours—and you're a thief? I don't think so. I hope you're not, because you're terrible at it .”

Curtis said angrily: "You are born to be in this profession."

"Keep down." Da Silva's voice was steadily controlled at the minimum volume that only two people could hear.

"Give me a reason why I shouldn't call someone." Curtis gritted his teeth.

"If you wanted to shout, you would have shouted. Two options, Mr. Curtis. First, implement noble virtues and call for help. Then I will expose you when you expose my plan. Or..."

"Or what?"

He could almost hear Da Silva's purring of pleasure in his voice. "Or I can open that door."

Curtis didn't answer because he had nothing to say.Da Silva continued: "When we go in, we will know whether we have a common purpose. If not, then I will not interfere with your affairs, and I believe that you will not interfere with mine. If neither of us Find what you want, just apologize to our master from the bottom of your heart, and pretend it never happened. But everything depends on getting in. How?"

This is simply outrageous.He should tell him to fuck off.He shouldn't even think about working with this low moral person.

As a result, what he said was: "Can you pick the lock?"

"Probably. Can I borrow it?" Da Silva moved to the side of the night light, and gently opened a slit so that the leaked light illuminated the door lock. He handed the flashlight to Curtis, as if They are a pair of partners who often work together. "Hold this and watch what happens."

Da Silva knelt by the door, silhouetted by the nightlight.Curtis leaned closer and saw him manipulating a long, thin wire.

"Are you picking the lock?" he demanded.

"Worse than using a skeleton key?"

"You are clearly a thief!"

"On the contrary," Da Silva said nonchalantly, "my father was a locksmith, and I learned his trade in the cradle. Someday you should hear how useless he thinks the master key is. You didn't spend too much money on it. Pay more for this pair of keys."

Curtis swallowed an angry response, and he knew that any rebuttal would be just a bluff.Da Silva's finger movements are steady, deft, and deliberate.

The whole house was silent, he could only hear his own breathing.Unable to help, Curtis switched on the flashlight, admiring its light source intensity.Novelties of late were usually breakable and insecure, but this one performed surprisingly well; he should really take a closer look at it when he got the chance.He had nothing to do but scan the door with the flashlight, looking for other locks and deadbolts, and his eyes widened as the light swept over something he hadn't noticed before.

"Da Silva," he called him in a low voice.

"Busy now."

"Da Silva." Curtis grabbed his shoulder and exerted force with his fingers.The black-haired head turned around with dissatisfaction in his eyes.

"what?"

"That." Curtis spun the flashlight around to illuminate what he found.

"Which one?"

Da Silva knelt on the ground, the tool still in the lock, and he looked at the ordinary metal plate without a clue.Curtis also squatted down so that the eyes of the two were at the same level. When his legs were bent, his knees softened, and he felt a stabbing pain.He grabbed Da Silva's shoulders to keep his balance, he leaned on the kneeling man, and heard a slight muffled groan from the man bearing Curtis' weight.

Curtis squatted down again, still holding the slender shoulders that were tense due to exertion or tension.He whispered into Dasilva's ear, so close that he could feel his warm breath bouncing off his skin. "There's a wire to the door. There's a metal plate on the frame and the door, and it's an electrical contact, and you open the door and it breaks the circuit."

"meaning is?"

"I think it might be a siren."

Dasilva's body stiffened under Curtis' palm. "Well," he sighed, "it's astonishingly modern. You really don't want us in, do you?"

Curtis should have sternly protested against the word "we", but his thoughts were raging and he was deeply involved.If Sir Hubert is hiding something...if what Lafayette says is true...

If it's true, he doesn't care about hospitality or respect for the elderly, he'll break that man's damn neck.

"The power system is beyond my knowledge," da Silva whispered, "do you know how to deal with it?"

Curtis inspected those metal plates, he had to make sure that the wiring inside would not be damaged when he opened the door, so...

"Okay, but I need some tools."

"Can you get it?"

"Can not do it now."

Da Silva let out an audible sigh. "When will it be?"

"Tomorrow night. But we need to talk first. I want to know what you're up to."

"We discussed it just now, and our goals are the same."

"Talk first, then act," Curtis reiterated, and then took advantage of the victory to pursue, "Otherwise, I can also go to Sir Hubert, and then I will bear the consequences."

Da Silva opened his mouth, but obviously decided not to argue with him, just gave him a sinister look, "Okay, then tomorrow."

"Can you lock it again?"

Da Silva didn't answer, but gave him another slap in the eye.It took him a few extra seconds to lock the door again, then put away the pick bar. "Very well, the whole night was wasted. Let's go. You go first, and don't forget your belongings."

Curtis quietly climbed up the stairs, holding the night light in his hand and the key in his pocket.He went back to his room and changed his clothes as silently as possible when he heard a click from a room in the corridor.He was alert for a moment, and then realized that it was Da Silva's return to the room.

Of course the man slept next door.if not.He thought a little irritably—of course his irritability was not unreasonable: it would be great if fate would not let that petty, soft-handed Latin guy get in the way of him anymore.

[1] Rudyard Kipling (Rudyard Kipling), British writer and poet, winner of the Nobel Prize in Literature. "Battle Ballads" is Kipling's most famous collection of poems, mainly about the British army in the late Victorian period, and most of them are written in dialect.

[2] John Singer Sargent, American artist, trained in Paris before moving to London.Known as "the leading portraitist of his time" for his depictions of Edwardian luxury, he gained a reputation for painting portraits.

[3] Yellow-backfiction, cheap novels popular in England in the nineteenth century, often with brightly colored covers, became widely circulated as education and the popularity of the railways attracted a new class of readers.

[4]Observe means not only obeying the rules, but also observing.

[5] TheBoy'sOwnPaper, a British publication published between 1879 and 1967, the content is designed for children to young men.