Sherlock Holmes and the Highgate Horrors by James Lovegrove

Author:James Lovegrove [Lovegrove, James]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

I WALKED HOME WITH A SPRING IN MY STEP, FOR ALL that it was a cold, drizzly September evening. The rain might have dampened my clothing but not my mood.

Letting myself in to Baker Street, I offered a warm greeting to Billy, our page, who was at his usual station on a chair just inside the front door. The lad had been with us for almost three years and was as fresh-faced still as when he first entered our employ.

“Doctor,” said he, looking up from the book in his lap. “How was your day?”

“Most pleasant. What’s that you’re reading?”

Somewhat shyly, Billy showed me the cover.

“Villette,” I said. “I wouldn’t have had you as the Brontë type. Tales of piracy and derring-do, that’s more the thing for a boy your age. Still, reading is reading. Good for you.” I tousled his hair.

“Thank you, sir,” Billy said, smoothing his ruffled locks back into place. There had been a brief wince of displeasure on his face when I touched him, and I made a mental note not to repeat the action. I still thought of him as a child, but he must have been sixteen or seventeen now, nearly a man. My affectionate gesture would have seemed patronising rather than paternal.

No sooner had I entered our rooms than Sherlock Holmes braced me with an enquiry that contained more than a hint of rebuke. “And what, pray, have you been up to, Watson? You went out straight after breakfast, without a word about where you were destined.”

“A difficult confinement,” I replied. “The summons was urgent.”

“Really?” said Holmes. “And how fares the new mother?”

“Well,” I said. “Very well. She and baby both.”

“And is it customary for mothers to kiss their doctors after the successful delivery of a child?”

“I don’t understand.”

“I see a tiny smear of face powder on your cheek, as might have been transferred thereto from a feminine cheek. I see, too, a single long blonde hair adhering to your shirt collar. I can only assume you came by both courtesy of your patient.”

“Yes,” I said quickly. “Yes, that is exactly it. After the birth, the woman gave me a quick peck on the cheek. Out of gratitude.”

“What’s queer,” Holmes went on, “is that I spied a strand of the same length and hue on your jacket sleeve four days ago. It was present when you came home after attending the United Hospitals Challenge Cup Final at Kennington. Tell me, do many men in the stands at The Oval wear their hair down to their shoulders?”

“There were a few women in the crowd,” I offered. “I may have brushed up against one.”

Holmes gave an impatient tut. “Oh, come along, Watson. You forget whom you are talking to. It is quite clear to me that you were neither at the rugby then, nor at a birth today. Indeed, I can list three other absences in recent weeks for which you have not given me an honest account. Correct me if I’m wrong, but you, Watson, have been squiring a lady.

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