The Final Tales of Sherlock Holmes - Volume 2 by John A. Little

Author:John A. Little
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Sherlock Holmes, mystery, crime, british crime, sherlock holmes novels, sherlock holmes fiction, sherlock holmes short fiction
ISBN: 9781780927923
Publisher: Andrews UK Limited 2015
Published: 2015-11-25T00:00:00+00:00

We emerged from the filthy tunnel to find ourselves standing in the middle of a strangely quiet road, directly outside number 40 Norland Square. The air was like oxygen to my mind, it was so refreshingly clean in comparison to the sewer.

‘All right, Holmes,’ I gulped. ‘But she could hardly have been dumped down there in broad daylight. Even at night the killer would have been taking a significant risk, with the street lamps, would he not?’

‘Maybe. Maybe not. Depends how it was done. There’s no sign of blood on the road around the grille. She may have been carried in a blanket or bag. She may even have been alive when she was dumped.’

‘Oh, I do hope not,’ I said.

‘Now, to work. With a bit of luck nobody of interest has seen us emerging from the sewer. We will become beggars, Watson. Veterans of the war effort, Major. Down on our luck. We smell like them already, do we not? Here, smear this mud on your face. Turn your jacket inside out, like... so. And pull your tie off to the side, like... that. Open your shirt and your flies.’

‘My flies?’

‘Just do as I say! Where’s that famous limp of yours? Bring it out to play. Oh, very good. I’d give you a half-crown myself. Let us start at the end of this side of Norland Square, bearing in mind the houses nearest to the drain may provide the best clues. Otherwise the killer might have been seen dumping poor Maureen.’

And so began our short, unsuccessful career as professional beggars, caps in outstretched hands, looking for ‘a little bit of ‘elp in these ‘ard times, ma’am’, a cockney accent being the best that I could manage at short notice. A deranged Holmes had transformed himself miraculously by rumpling his thick mass of grey hair, twisting his face into a damaged rictus, turning in his toes and bending his back, as though he had been run over by a Beardmore taxi. While we awaited dismissals out of hand, doors shut in our faces, a choice oath or two and a spare bob here or there, we focussed our eagle eyes upon whoever answered the door, and the hall inside.

We had managed to harbour a few meagre coins, but nary a single pointer to Maureen’s killer by the time we arrived back at number 40. There the door was opened by an extraordinarily beautiful young woman with bouncing chestnut curls, who could not have been more than twenty-five years of age, and who bestowed upon us one of the sweetest smiles that my aged melting heart had ever encountered.

‘You poor darlings,’ she purred, flicking a drooping ringlet away from her eyes with a delicate, floury hand. ‘Please do come in. You look like you could eat a hearty meal. My name is Cynthiah Fitzwilton, by the way. Cynthiah. Spelled with two aitches.’

Her accent contained more than a hint of broad Australian, but it was a delicate violin compared to the one that followed.

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