Sherlock Holmes by Gregg Rosenquist

Author:Gregg Rosenquist [Rosenquist, Gregg]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Sherlock Holmes, mystery, crime, british crime, sherlock holmes novels, sherlock holmes fiction, sherlock holmes short fiction
ISBN: 9781780927374
Publisher: Andrews UK
Published: 2015-04-10T05:00:00+00:00

Bane of the Black Brigand

I

Holmes had just captured my queen with his knight when we heard the voices coming from downstairs, 221a, Mrs Hudson’s flat.

At first they were just mumbles and I found it odd that Mrs Hudson was keeping company with another person, especially a man, at this late an hour on a Friday night. Then the mumbles became hurried, angry declarations - words like No! Stop! and Mine! could be clearly discerned. Mrs Hudson’s voice rose and fell with the man’s voice and when I glanced up at Holmes, I saw that he was clearly troubled by what he was hearing. His concentration on the game had been irrevocably broken as he stared at our front door, listening, my queen dangling in his two fingertips like a piece of fish bait suspended in time.

In the three years we’d been living there, I’d never heard Mrs Hudson’s voice in such a state of agitation or fear. I must say, it brought out the protective inkling in my make-up; I wanted to go straight down and make sure she was all right. Then the banging started, the floor trembled under our shoes, the portraits on the walls vibrated, nearly falling off. When Mrs Hudson let out a sudden scream, Holmes dropped my queen down on to the table and stood up. I joined him immediately, but we stood silently like pawns on a chess board, listening with concern. There was a loud, deep thump, followed a short time later by a violent bang that shook the whole flat, then there was a long silence.

“Holmes,” I said, my voice trembling. “I think we should-”

“Right, Watson,” he interrupted, grabbing his loaded Webley from a nearby book shelf. “And now!”

We sprang for the door, opened it then raced down the seventeen steps it took to reach Mrs Hudson’s darkened parlour. No one was in there but a small fire flickered in the hearth against the far wall near the couch. From the kitchen came the familiar clicking of the water pump and a series of fierce hisses, alerting us to a presence in there. Holmes, his pistol pointed forward, led the way.

The gas lights overhead were on full, nearly blinding me as we rushed in. We found Mrs Hudson standing in front of the sink basin, her gray hair, usually pulled back in a tight bun, was loosened and hanging down around her aged face like weary cobwebs. Her face was flushed of color and matted with a layer of perspiration, the glare of her eyes never left their focus on what she was furiously washing in the basin with a rag; a long, wood handled carving knife covered in a thick, red viscose material. The water in the basin was stained pink but was becoming darker the more she splashed and scrubbed.

But the true gobsmacker was on the kitchen floor near the opened inner door to the mud room, just beyond Mrs Hudson - a copper haired man lay there

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