Think of England

When he returned to the villa for a party, his state of mind was already quite different from before.Mrs. Lambton and Mrs. Grayling asked him more about his uncle during lunch; and, as ever, the legend of the tall and handsome explorer graced his family.Curtis answered these same questions absent-mindedly.

Even a conversation in the Tower seems surreal now, especially seeing Da Silva pretending to be a femininity esthete again, sly and glib, making the ladies giggle and the men roll their eyes to the back of their heads.He actually agreed to the host who designed them together with Dasilva?

Will da Silva be right?Who in the world could be blackmailed?Certainly not the Lambtons, who were related to Mrs. Armstrong.The Graylings?They were rich, and Curtis always felt that Mrs. Grayling's eyes were not serious.Miss Carus?Not too possible.Was it him that Armstrong was trying to blackmail?What excuse does he have?

After lunch, he retreated to the deserted library to avoid the invitations of James Armstrong and the gallant Mrs. Grayling.The popular novels collected in the library also include many suspense novels and erotic novels by Edgar Wallace and Phillips Oppenheim[1]. The stories are full of upright and noble spies, mysterious Aliens and provocative flowers and butterflies.Curtis also likes this kind of novel, but now he doesn't feel like reading it.As a so-called upright spy, in his opinion, he just sneaks around all day long and repays kindness with revenge, which has nothing to do with integrity.And the only mysterious foreigner nearby is Da Silva.He's also most likely the provocative butterfly in Bigholm, to be fair.

In Oppenheim's story, Da Silva would be the villain.Curtis wished he was the bad guy now, he didn't want to find out that Sir Hubert was actually an intimidator, or even a traitor who had cost him his finger and George Fisher's life...

He pulls back the derailed thoughts before his anger flares up, and forces himself to keep looking at the bookshelves.He scanned the pages, and suddenly a name printed on the spine caught his eye.

He pulled out a thin volume of poetry, with the name printed on the plain gray cover—"Fish Pond: The Poems of Daniel Dasilva"

He should read it carefully.

Curtis picked a comfortable leather chair and sat down, flipping through a page at will.After a few minutes, full of doubts, he turned back to the first page and started reading from the beginning.

He is not someone who can read poetry.He could bear Tennyson's short poems, and he also liked the blood-boiling and popular poems, such as "Invincible", and the "Arise! Arise! Go Forward". That poem, even though the poetry of the "sand stained red with blood" is no longer after personal experience, it still makes him unforgettable.In South Africa, some comrades would read Mr. Kipling's works during the long nights, which were catchy and funny collections of poems, with serious rhymes--Da Silva said it as if there was something wrong with rhymes-- The rhythm is strong, even rough people can read it with fun.

Da Silva's poems are different.

Most of them are fragmented and fragmented, and it is even difficult to form sentences.They...have meanings, which are obvious, but the words and phrases are entwined and separated from each other, pointing to the end that Curtis can't see clearly, leaving only the heavy meaning to upset him.The poems are full of vivid imagery, arranged in a unique way, but unlike Curtis's vague impression of poems, these poems are not about sounds of nature or beauty or flowers.They are littered with shattered glass and water—muddy water—with scaled creatures stalking the shadows.There seemed to be one recurring image that could be seen as the answer to everything, it was in the abyss, but Curtis couldn't say what it was.The scales on its body flicker, emit dim crystal light, nimbly slide close to a careless hand, and then disappear without a trace; but in fact it lingers, always waiting where you can't reach.

He turned back to the beginning and read the preface, a quotation dedicated to "Webster."

As I gaze at the pond in the garden

I seem to see shadows with teeth and claws

trying to knock me down

When he looked up from the book again, Da Silva was leaning against the bookshelf watching him.

"I, this," Curtis faltered, and any Englishman who got caught stealing a poem would be as embarrassed as he is now, "I just, uh, picked it up and read it." He wondered that How long has the man been standing here, and how can he come and go without making a sound.

"Poetry is for people to read," Da Silva took him up. "I won't ask your opinion, so as not to embarrass you even more."

Normally, commenting on an anthology of poetry is the last thing Curtis would like to do, but he said this in a really hurtful way.He may not have read a lot of poetry and books, but he is not illiterate, and the dust in the black water still occupies his mind.

"I didn't understand it. I dare say it's not meant for people to understand." He saw Da Silva lower his eyes, and before the other party was about to attack his literary accomplishments, he said again: "Actually, it reminds me of Sula."

Da Silva looked puzzled. "think--?"

He finally caught that smart man once, and Curtis was rather proud. "Sula, the Impressionist," he explained, "a guy who paints with dots of color."

Da Silva narrowed his eyes. "I know who Sula is. Why do my poems remind you of Sula?"

For a second, a defensive look appeared on his face, and he was not as self-important as before. At that moment, Curtis thought that if he wrote a poem himself, he would definitely not want to be criticized by others.Especially this kind of poetry that seems to dig out fragments deep in the author's heart.He doesn't know what "Fish Pond" tells about Da Silva, but out of intuition, he feels that this collection of poems is full of sensitivity and fragility under the hard shell of the other party, those parts that will tremble and curl up due to external forces.

"Sula's paintings," he said, pondering his own thoughts, "if you look at them carefully, the whole painting is just a group of colored spots, like a confusing noise. Wait until you step back and stand still. Far enough that they come together as a panorama. That's how I think about it." He glanced at the book in his hand and added: "I guess I need to step back further to understand it, maybe to Manchester Bar."

Da Silva looked surprised for a moment before his face lit up with a smile.That was probably the first sincere and frank expression Curtis had seen on his face. The combination of surprise, interest and pleasure made him immediately come to life, removing the pretense of sophistication and making him look younger.An uninvited thought visited Curtis's mind: Miss Carus was right.Daniel da Silva is indeed quite handsome.

"That's the most pertinent analysis I've heard lately," Dasilva said. "You should write a review for New Age."

The New Era was one of those esoteric contemporary socialist journals.Curtis has never turned over in such a big way, but he doesn't need to say this, Da Silva must have already guessed it. "Oh, no big deal," he replied. "Maybe Boys' Own Magazine will need a poetry review column."

Da Silva laughed out loud. "Well said. 'Essay teaching: learning the Scout knot all at once; wartime thrillers; and writing sonnets with General Gordon.'"

Curtis also laughed. "'Deconstructing: Boys' Adventures in the Fragmentist Community[8]'."

Da Silva snorted obscenely, his shoulders twitching in laughter.Curtis was very happy that he could match the quick wit of the opponent.He hadn't seen anyone at a party make da Silva laugh like this.

His expression was gentle and da Silva smiled at him, but gradually the smile faded, changed, and now it no longer looked childish.It gets... more intimate.It's like an invitation.Even though Curtis was not good at this, he could still tell that the pair of black eyes resting on him were sizing him up, their eyes wandering around his body with undisguised admiration.

He was in a room alone with a gay guy, and the man was looking at him.

Curtis couldn't speak a word.

Da Silva's mouth curled into a mysterious smile, as if enjoying a joke no one heard. "You know," he pushed himself forward, straightening his slanted body, when the door opened, and he looked there quickly.

"Finally found you, Curtis." Holt and Armstrong walked in yelling, "What do you think about playing a game of billiards?"

Both of them excluded Da Silva from the invitation, but he had already swayed to the other side of the bookshelf, moving quickly as usual, with an expression of nothing to do with himself, as if he didn't notice everyone present .

"What the hell is that?" Armstrong pointed to Curtis's book on the arm of the chair and questioned him. "A book of poetry? Jesus, you can't read this crap, can you? Fish Pond?" He read it aloud, his voice full of contempt. "What rubbish—oh, I'll say," obviously he recognized the author's name, "let's see."

If Curtis wanted to watch the bullying, he could go back to school and watch the bullying.He stood up, leaning on the railing, and snatched the book out of Armstrong's hands before he could open it.He limped to the bookshelf to put the books back in place, his knees were stiff from sitting for a long time.He stretched his legs impatiently. "If you want to play, come play."

***

He didn't know whether he was looking forward to or avoiding the arrival of one o'clock in the morning, maybe both.Going upstairs to his room early with a tired body, he needs to get rid of those young men who play billiards, bridge, whist, whatever, and don't get tired of playing one game after another.He was lying on the bed fully dressed.The mirror that took up more than half of the wall made him fidgety, the empty mirror looking down at him.

Is there anyone watching him from behind at this moment?No, that would be ridiculous.But he couldn't help but think of the beautiful maid who had suddenly appeared in his room earlier that night.Is it a coincidence?Or was she really waiting for him?Or if Mrs. Grayling's provocative smile had piqued his interest?Will there be someone watching all this secretly then?

The downstairs party broke up around 11:30.At twelve forty-five, the house was silent.Curtis waited for a few more minutes before setting off, and he had to act before he got too nervous.He wore a black suit and trousers under a dark blue nightgown, and with a night light in his hand and wires in his pocket, he slipped downstairs as quietly as possible.

He checked the storage room door to make sure the circuit he planned to set up worked.He waited tensely and impatiently for several minutes in the library, not sure whether he should do it without waiting for da Silva to arrive or whether he should stay here.What if it's a scam?Maybe he shouldn't trust da Silva?If his master came downstairs and caught him, here—he thought of it, shuddering.

The clocks in the hall and the whole room struck together, and then the door let out a puff of air and slid open.Even though Curtis was concentrating on it, the sound of Da Silva's footsteps slipping in was still hard to hear.

Da Silva closed the door before turning on the flashlight. "Hi," he whispered, "ready? Good. Shall I pick the lock first or will you do your electric magic first?"

"Can you pick the lock without opening the door? If you can, do it. Don't open it, not even a crack."

"Understood. You pay attention to the movement in the hall and listen carefully."

Curtis nodded and handed the night light to his accomplice.He was standing guard in the dark, listening to the voices coming from the corridor, while observing the skillful and precise movements of Da Silva's hands in the dim light around the door lock. After a while, he heard a slight clicking sound .

"It's up to you next," Da Silva said softly, "I'll take care."

Curtis switched places with him, and he felt like a giant beast next to his sensitive companion.But after a while, he successfully extended the entire electrical contact with the wires he brought from the workshop, and he also used tin ash to make the joints to ensure that the lines were not interrupted.

"What's that?" Da Silva asked in Curtis's ear, the breath bouncing on his cheek almost made him jump up.

"For heaven's sake," he hissed, "can't you make a noise!"

"Not really. What is this?"

"I added a piece of electrical wire, hoping to maintain access even after opening the door. This wire is long enough to maintain the connection when we open the door. Just be careful not to tear it."

"Got it. You, uh, 'hope'?"

"I can't guarantee that there are no other devices on the other side."

"Ah. Well, if you don't go into the tiger's den, you won't get a tiger's cub. Can I go in?"

"Be careful."

Da Silva opened the door of the storage room, and Curtis took the flashlight and carefully observed the wire junctions until the door pulled the wires to the limit.He breathed a sigh of relief when he didn't hear the alarm bell.

"Good job," Da Silva murmured, "No problem. Come in?"

He slipped in through the crack of the door.Curtis, though much bulkier, barely made it through.He closed the door behind him and pulled back all the enclosures of the night lights to see the scene in front of him clearly.It was a small, windowless room with a few stacked chairs, a table, and a large wooden cabinet.He tried to open the top drawer and it locked.

"Excuse me." Dasilva took a small metal object and inserted it into the keyhole, turning it lightly, and there was a clicking sound almost immediately.He opened the drawer. "You're in charge of this floor, I'll check the bottom one, meet in the middle?"

Curtis nodded.Da Silva took out a second flashlight, then turned off the night light so that the illumination came only from the light source in their hands.He squatted down casually and opened the bottom drawer.

Da Silva at his feet made him a little awkward, and Curtis began to look through the displayed files.It took only a few seconds for him to find a stack of photos, and he pulled one out, his mouth dry.

"look."

Da Silva straightened up from Curtis's side, looking at the photo through the light source.

"Well, if anyone wants to blackmail this lady, that's enough. Return it where it belongs."

Curtis put the photo back.Da Silva was already searching for another folder, and Curtis quickly realized that what he found just now was not just his novice luck.Inside each folder are secrets.He frowned and looked at the series of black and white images, some of which were too blurry, but all captured moments of joy or depravity.

"My God!" Da Silva hissed as he pulled out a picture that made his stomach knot. "Don't look at it."

Da Silva did not comply.He was still staring at the photo, and Curtis glared at him. "For God's sake. I know him. He was my fellow at Oxford, a few years behind me. Don't look."

"which one?"

"That... the one below." The man was on all fours, his expression contorted in pain or joy, and his shoulders were tightly grasped by the strong man kneeling behind him.

"Who is he?"

"none of your business."

"Don't be so stupid. Who is he, or more importantly, what is his identity?" Da Silva's tone was not contemptuous, and seemed urgent.

"He works for the Foreign Office," Curtis replied reluctantly, "undersecretary."

"It's ironic," Dasilva said succinctly, "because in the photo he is also under the chief, or at least a diplomat. The blond man in the back is the Prussian ambassador."

Curtis stared at the extremely light-haired Prussian, his posture of roughly controlling another man was faithfully preserved.The tension of immorality made him feel a strange, domineering anxiety. "I don't think a man who works in the Foreign Office should have this kind of relationship with a Prussian diplomat."

"I don't think so either." Da Silva put the photos back where they were, and started flipping through the next folder, "There are more here."

Curtis grabs the photo in disbelief. "For God's sake, I know the guy too. He's in my house. We're still in the same club."

"Speaking of which, he also went to a few clubs with me. Don't be too cautious, isn't he a royal servant?" Curtis nodded. "No cover at all. The other guy's face can't be seen." The squire was clearly advancing into a man, but the recipient buried his head in the sheet.Da Silva frowned. "Blonde. I suspect it's the eager servant."

"The one named Wesley?" Curtis tried to remember. "It's very likely, I think so."

"And—oh, look."

Curtis looked at the photo Da Silva handed over, a woman enjoying being enjoyed and her hunter - a man with a 'Y' shaped scar on his shoulder.He didn't recognize her, but when his eyes moved from the man's body to his face, he was speechless, "Isn't this Lambton?"

"That's right, and..." Da Silva pulled out the first photo again from the upper drawer.The photo has been cropped so the man is not shown from the neck up, but da Silva points to the iconic scar on his shoulder. "It appears to be the same man. Mr. Lambton has played an important role."

"Sir Hubert will never even blackmail his brother-in-law!"

"How do you know that Lambton is the one who was blackmailed? To be honest, how can you be sure that Sir Hubert is the only culprit? Look at these, Curtis." Da Silva looked at the drawers full of files. Waving, "How many Oxford alumni do you recognize in it? Those who are at the same level as you or even younger?"

"Three." Two of them were photographed with the man.The third man had a smooth career in the Catholic Church, and the picture of him having sex with a young, buxom woman didn't help his prospects.

"Who in this room also studied at Oxford, just a few years behind you? Who would have heard those campus rumors? Who is the most suitable to invite those outstanding men to hunt and get to know his father?" Da Silva pretended maliciously Speak of the upper class.

"You mean James Armstrong, don't you?"

"Look at these combinations. Use your brains. James invites young men whose careers are on the rise and who will lose everything if they are caught. Sophie chooses among the ladies. The women say what she can Find out who's getting married and who doesn't want to turn away. They target and strike; and the servants, or her charming brother, or that goddamn Prussian diplomat, do the actual work. It's a family business .”

Curtis was full of thoughts, he held the flashlight, and Da Silva quickly rummaged through other drawers.There were more photos of people he didn't know, even a middle-aged man and a girl who was no older than 12, and a bundle of documents.Da Silva was halfway through the pages, when Curtis suddenly grabbed his hand.

"what happened?"

Curtis turned back to the page of the file that caught his attention just now.He pulled out a blueprint, and the picture was too familiar.He stared at it, his temples twitching with blood.

"what is this?"

Curtis licked his lips. "This is Lafayette's design drawing for his rifle." He took a deep breath, and continued to look through the documents put together, carefully examining them one by one. "A floor plan of the Lafayette factory. More guns. And—" He paused, swallowing hard, and handed out the paper in his hand, "This is the revolver I used at Jacobsdale. "

"Oh my God," Da Silva said softly, "Curtis..."

"Why would Armstrong lock these up? Unless—"

These documents, hidden in secret cabinets full of infamy, can only mean one thing.The explosion of Jacob Stahl's gun was not accidental; factory-produced guns had been sabotaged.Sir Hubert Armstrong murdered Curtis's brother-in-arms, his soldier, his friend; he pulled the trigger himself.

The documents trembled in his hands.Da Silva gently took them away, "I'm sorry."

"Armstrong betrayed us. He would send us to hell for personal gain."

"Keep your voice down." Da Silva held Curtis's trembling wrist, and he raised the flashlight so that part of their faces were illuminated. "It must be unbearable, I can't imagine how angry you are right now, but you have to stay calm."

"I'll kill him." Curtis's voice was choked in his throat.

"You'll have to compete with the executioner for the job. Deliberately sabotaging British operations in wartime? Surely treason."

"Oh my god." Curtis clenched the useless hand into a fist in the black leather glove. "I live under the roof of this beast. Eat his food, be his guest." He wanted to spit out every meal he ate here.He wanted to drag Sir Hubert out of bed and beat him all over the place.

"We'll make him pay. I promise you, Curtis, we'll see him die. But don't get carried away with hatred now." Da Silva stared at him until Curtis Nod stiffly.Dasilva's slender fingers rested firmly on Curtis' wrist, and he stayed for a while before letting go and returning to the drawer.

Curtis stood where he was, trying to control the anger rushing through his body.He hadn't fully trusted Lafayette before, he'd acted because he couldn't stand by, but now the truth was beyond doubt.The whole picture of Armstrong's conspiracy unfolded in his mind: dead dead, maimed.The bewildered face of George Fisher.His own empty future.He could no longer pursue the military life, the high ambitions, the life-and-death friendship.These are all for the purpose of lighting up Sir Hubert's mansion with electricity, so that Mrs. Armstrong can wear fine clothes, and James can have a horse to ride.

"It's crazy." Dasilva's low voice sounded clearly.

Curtis recovered from the overwhelming anger. "What's wrong?"

Da Silva flung a document before his eyes.Curtis took a closer look at the title: Insider Confidential. "This is something from the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, why is it here?"

"Go and ask your old classmate with the Prussian in his ass." Now Da Silva moved faster, and his fingers quickly rummaged through the papers from typewriters or manuscripts. "No. Tell me, what does it look like to you as a soldier?"

"Army supply plan." Curtis glanced at it; these documents were stamped top secret. "What—? How did Armstrong get it?"

"How do you think you got it?" Da Silva said angrily.

"People from the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. Threat letter. Could it be that Armstrong is selling state secrets?" A thought almost crushed him, and the hair on the back of his neck stood on end. "This morning you said he needed another war."

Da Silva took a deep breath, put all the files back into the folder, and arranged the parts they had just read in order. "Let's get out of here first. Put your things away, don't leave any traces. And you can't reveal a word. Before we escape from this villa, I don't care how angry you are. I will keep everything I see and hear today secret. The evidence in this cabinet Enough to hang Armstrong five times, and we're still in their house, outnumbered and alone."

"You're not serious, are you?"

"I'm not serious?" Da Silva snorted. "Grave treason? State secrets? Lafayette's dead body at the bottom of the river after asking for help? Oh, damn it. When did they invite you, Curtis? In Lafayette Before or after I went to you?"

"After that." Curtis shivered vigilantly. "But Sir Henry is Sir Hubert's classmate, and I am his nephew, so this invitation is not unexpected..." Although at that time he really thought that the invitation came at the right time. "You think they invited me to find out how much I know?"

"I don't know. There's something else going on here. Lafayette wasn't the only one found in the Thames with a bloody head."

"what?"

"There was another victim. Furious, he considered publishing everything and handing over the threatening letters to the authorities. He disappeared shortly after, and his body was found a few days later in the river with a hole in his head. The cause was uncontrolled highway robbery. The medical examiner concluded."

"My God. Do you think—"

"That's right." Da Silva mocked. "Lafayette lifted from the water and the victim of the threatening letter, plus two people who disappeared? Sounds like a coincidence?"

"No," Curtis said seriously, "it's not a coincidence."

"I think the Armstrongs are killing people to keep their secret, and we have to prepare for the worst. If we get this information out, they're going to kill them. What would we know if they found out, except to bring us What choice is there to kill? As long as we're in this house, they'll have the upper hand. If you can't keep a secret, we're dead."

Curtis frowned. "How many people do you think we have to deal with? Just the Armstrongs, or—"

"Plus some servants. I don't think there is enough manpower to arrange this kind of conspiracy. There may be a lot of people, but—"

"You know that many of his servants are from the army," Curtis said.

"I didn't know." It seemed that Da Silva was not happy to hear the news.

"Sir Hubert's eldest son Martin died in the first Boer War. In memory of Martin, Sir Hubert took care of the local soldiers who were in his company as much as possible after the war. He just talked to me yesterday." He told Ke Tees prattles on how beloved, bright, and memorable Martin was, a hero in his father's memory.As if none of the other men who died in the Jacobsdale incident had a tearful father. "The retirement allowance is not enough to maintain a living, and the environment here is much better than the factory. These men have been trained and committed to loyalty, will they be willing to kill for him..."

Da Silva frowned. "I think we'd better avoid knowing the answer. Don't get caught."

"Ugly words first, I'm not good at pretending to be deaf and dumb."

"Then learn. We've got to get these papers brought to justice, and being buried in a vault under the redwoods won't do that. Until we can leave, you're going to have to behave like you always have. Play a few rounds of pool with Armstrong, and a few games with Huber." Sir Terry, talk about some military deeds."

"The invitation I received was for a two-week visit," Curtis said, "I can't stay in this poisonous snake den for two weeks, and—" I have to have fun with the man who murdered his comrade-in-arms.The thought was unbearable to him, and just thinking about it seemed to be in the same boat.

Da Silva's eyes followed him closely. "You don't have to stay here. I'll send you out as soon as possible, so no one will be suspicious. Leave it to me, Curtis. I'll figure out a way."

Curtis nodded, feeling an indescribable gratitude for the understanding in those black eyes. "I... really, thank you."

"I can't thank you until I figure out a way. We'll discuss it tomorrow, we've been here too long." He closed the last drawer as he spoke, locked the cabinet with a metal plate, and put away his flashlight. "Okay, let's go."

Curtis turned around and pushed the door open.On the other side, the wires were disconnected from the tin dust on the electrical contacts.The room suddenly burst into light, stinging their eyes accustomed to the darkness.And what was faintly audible was an alarm bell ringing somewhere in the villa.

[1] Edgar Wallace, a British novelist, has sold more than 5000 million copies of various works and is one of the most prolific thriller novelists in the 20th century; the latter E. Phillips Oppenheim is also a British novelist, famous for genre novels, and his works Quite abundant.

[2] Alfred Tennyson, the British Poet Laureate in the [-]th century, gained a very high reputation during his lifetime.The poems have a wide range of themes, rich imagination and gorgeous words.

[3] A famous article by the English poet William Ernest Henry (Willaim Ernest Henley).

[4] From the poem "The Torch of Life" (Vita? Lampada, 1892) by the British poet Henry Newbolt (Henry Newbolt), the next sentence "the sand stained red by blood donation" is also from this article.

[5] Seurat, a French Impressionist painter in the [-]th century, whose paintings are characterized by pure color dots to form landscapes.

[6] The New Age is a British literary magazine founded in 1894.

[7] General Gordon, Charlie George Gordon, Major General of the British Army.He came to China with the British and French allied forces. Later, he was nicknamed "Chinese Gordon" because he assisted the court in fighting the Taiping Army and was awarded a yellow jacket by the Empress Dowager Cixi.

[8] Fragmentalist, here should refer to the impressionist fragmentism in literature. From the above, Da Silva should be a fragmentist.