Consulting Detective Vol 3 by Ron Fortier (ed)

Author:Ron Fortier (ed)
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: anthology, detective, illus, mystery, Sherlock Holmes, victoriana
Publisher: Airship 27 Productions
Published: 2014-07-17T07:00:00+00:00

The Rookery was much like I imagined the inside of a honeycomb to be, with perforations in the form of numerous blind courts and alleyways with no other outlet than a grim, grinning entrance. Everywhere there were wretched hovels with shattered, gaping windows patched with old, yellowing news sheets and filth ran freely in the gutters. Lines and poles of barely clean linen flapped in a cool breeze, obscuring the sky from the sight of those standing below.

Unnerved, I followed Holmes into one of the slumped, sagging houses, where grubby children streamed past us and out onto the streets. Some cried out to Holmes in a familiar manner and I knew at once the method by which Holmes had ascertained Septon’s whereabouts.

Holmes glanced back at me and smiled, as if reading my thoughts. “Information, Watson, is worth its weight in coin.”

“Then where is he?”

“Upstairs. Waiting for us, I’ll be bound.” Holmes gestured with his cane. “If he isn’t attempting to escape.”

“Shouldn’t we hurry, then?” I asked, concerned.

“No need Watson. Those youths who scampered past are watching the street for me. Luckily, I can pay more handsomely than young Mr. Septon.” Holmes started up the stairs and I hurried after him.

On the second floor of the hovel, inhabitants watched us through partially opened doors, slamming them whenever I looked at them directly. All except for one. Holmes held a finger to his lips and waited. Then, at the sound of glass breaking, he stepped aside and swept his cane out.

“Watson. If you please.”

Keeping hold of my hat, I put my shoulder to the door, snapping the rusty lock with ease. I nearly tumbled to the floor even as a thin, raggedly dressed youth whirled, fingers darting inside his coat. Holmes swooped past me and thrust his cane out with all of the grace of a champion fencer. The end smacked into the youth’s wrist with a loud crack and he yelped and fell back onto a sagging mattress. Clutching his injured limb, he cursed us both roundly until he saw Holmes’ face full on.

“You!” he shouted. Holmes kicked the door shut and bent forward, pressing the head of his cane to the center of the young man’s breast bone.

“Me. Hello, Mr. Septon. I see the wainscoting has defeated you yet again,” Holmes said, gesturing with his free hand to the broken window.

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