Sherlock Holmes and the Twelve Thefts of Christmas by Tim Major

Author:Tim Major
Language: eng
Format: epub
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Publisher: Titan Books

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

There had been no sign of Holmes at the stations at either end of my journey. As I tramped in darkness to Child’s Hill, Toby trotting at my side, I began to lose hope entirely. By the time I reached the orchard which surrounded Nansen’s cottage it was almost ten o’clock and the trees made a black, almost impenetrable barrier before the building. Nevertheless, if I angled myself just so, I could see that a lamp was lit in the window of the drawing-room, and behind it was the ruddy glow of a fire in the grate. I circled the cottage at a safe distance and determined that no other lamps were lit elsewhere in the house.

I returned to a vantage point that overlooked the front doorstep, then hissed, “Holmes!” in the hope that he was already present and hiding far more effectively than I. Yet there came no answer.

Fighting a growing sense of resentment, I cast around in the darkness, searching for a site that might protect me from the worst of the cold while allowing me an uninterrupted view of the front of the cottage. The ground was littered with uneven heaps of snow which had penetrated the canopy of the fruit trees, and I realised now that I had taken no care to hide the tracks I made. I reassured myself that it hardly mattered – there ought to be no reason for anybody to emerge from the cottage unless it was in pursuit of the very perpetrator of the crime I was here to witness, at which point it hardly mattered whether I had hidden myself. All that mattered was to determine who was delivering the gifts of raw meat.

A nearby bush beneath a large apple tree seemed equal to my needs. I huddled within it and tried to urge Toby to lie at my feet – though his energy had mysteriously returned and he seemed far more intent on investigating every sharp noise that came from within the foliage. I sighed, held tight to the dog’s lead and tried to ignore his sharp odour – a mixture of pine and something more distasteful that eluded me – to concentrate on watching the building.

Around forty-five minutes later, the light was extinguished. I waited, squinting in the darkness, and was rewarded with another glimpse of light at a side window. Conjuring the layout of the building in my mind’s eye, I determined that this was Gylling’s bedroom. The room which the Nansens shared was out of sight, and I cursed Holmes for his failure to appear – if there had been two of us watching the house, one of us might have waited on its opposite side, affording a clear view of both bedrooms.

After half an hour more, this final source of light disappeared. I settled myself, preparing for a long wait. The moonlight was sparse due to the overhanging boughs of the orchard trees, producing only patches of greyness amid the black. This near-uniform darkness

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