Death at the Diogenes Club by Anna Elliott & Charles Veley

Author:Anna Elliott & Charles Veley [Elliott, Anna & Veley, Charles]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Amazon: B077C78C4C
Publisher: Wilton Press
Published: 2017-11-24T06:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 22

“How is Constable Kelly?” Watson asked in an undertone.

We were on Marylebone Road, walking in the direction of Regent’s Park. Becky was skipping along a few feet ahead of us, holding tightly to Prince’s leash.

Uncle John planned to take both Becky and Prince to the park while I met with Suzette Teale. I was trying to ignore the cold thread of fear that tightened inside me at having Becky out here, on a public street this way.

But I couldn’t let Becky feel as though she were a prisoner or she would start trying to break free. Besides, I had been watching very, very carefully for any sign that we were being followed, and I had seen no one—no sign of anything suspicious at all.

If we were right in our suppositions, Flint Bayles had more urgent business to attend to just now than thinking about Becky or Jack.

“He’s worried about Becky, of course.” I spoke quietly so she wouldn’t hear. “And I don’t think he’s doing his injuries any good, with all the physical stress he’s putting on them.”

“Hardly surprising in either case.” Uncle John was watching Becky’s blond braids thumping against her shoulders as she skipped and hopped over puddles in the street. “But not what I meant.” He rubbed his grizzled mustache, then glanced at me. “I don’t believe I’ve often spoken to you of my time here in London before I met Holmes.”

“No. But I have read what you wrote about how you and my father met. You needed to find cheaper lodgings and a flat mate to share them with.”

“Yes, quite. But the reason I needed to economize in my mode of living—” Uncle John stopped, looking at the street ahead of us as though he were staring back across the years. “It has been years since I wrote those first stories about my association with Holmes. But as far as I can remember, I glossed over my initial few months here in London in a few brief generalities about my comfortless, meaningless existence and the habit I had fallen into of spending what little money I had more freely than I ought.”

A big, four-wheeler carriage rumbled past us in the street.

I frowned. I had read those words of Watson’s, but strangely it only now occurred to me that I had never really stopped to visualize what they meant.

“I hadn’t descended to the levels of our visitor Mr. Carey. But I was gambling.” Uncle John’s voice was blunt. “Drinking more than I ought, as well. Not because I particularly enjoyed it. I didn’t. It was more because …” He stopped, as though searching for words. “Because I felt an urge to punish myself in some way.”

“Punish yourself? But why?”

I couldn’t help but stare at him. Up until this minute, I would have said that Dr. John Watson was sober, careful, steady, and above all dependable to his core. What he had just told me was like a stray puzzle piece that refuses to fit in anywhere with the picture you happen to be working on.

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