Sherlock Holmes Mystery Magazine #10 by Arthur Conan Doyle

Author:Arthur Conan Doyle [Doyle, Arthur Conan]
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Tags: elementary, alfred hitchcock, mystery magazine, sherlock holmes, ellery queen
ISBN: 9781434442994
Publisher: Wildside Press LLC
Published: 2013-10-16T04:00:00+00:00

FOOL’S GOLD, by Martin Rosenstock

In my endeavour to render truthfully the methods by which my friend, Sherlock Holmes, arrived at solutions to some of the most intricate cases, I have focused on the scientific side of his character. Undoubtedly, it is the remarkable amount of knowledge that he commands in such areas of human inquiry as chemistry, botany, and anatomy that accounts for much of the success he has achieved. However, I desire not to lay myself open to the charge that I present a skewed portrait of his character; therefore, I should like to emphasize that Holmes is also a shrewd reader of the human soul. These few sentences may suffice as a preface, and I now turn to the task of reconstructing from my notes a case which was solved not only by my friend’s understanding of the laws by which the natural world operates, but also by his ability to discern that ephemeral world concealed in each and every one of us.

* * * *

“Ah, good morning, Watson,” said Holmes, as I walked into the living room of our quarters in 221B Baker Street. “You had better hurry up with your breakfast. Lestrade sent word. He will be stopping by shortly.”

Mrs Hudson was already pouring my tea. I sat down and lifted a warm scone from the basket in the centre of the table.

“I trust you have an idea as to the nature of the inspector’s call.”

My companion exhaled smoke from a cigar, adding to the cloud that was already hovering below the ceiling. “Well, it would appear our dear Lestrade has once again followed a trail till it turned cold.”

I sipped my tea and looked out of the window. It was a fine spring morning. Small white clouds were moving at a brisk pace eastward across a pale blue sky. It rained heavily during the night, and the downpour cleared the London air. The yellow brickwork of the house across the street shone brightly. In the distance a dog was barking.

“Don’t you remember the murder that caused such consternation on Monday?” Holmes continued.

He was in high spirits, I noticed now that Mrs Hudson’s tea had chased away the last vestiges of sleep. His grey eyes shone with the gleam of anticipation I had so often observed before.

At that moment, the doorbell rang, and Mrs Hudson could be heard going to answer it.

Recalling an article I had read in The Times, I asked: “Neville Cavendish?”

Steps were coming up the staircase.

“Precisely, my dear Watson,” said Holmes, then lifted an index finger to his lips in a gesture that betokened silence on the content of our conversation.

There was a sharp knock on the door, and Lestrade stepped into the room. “Mr Holmes, good morning.” He nodded to me. “Dr Watson, good morning to you, too. I am sorry to be interrupting your breakfast.”

“Not at all,” I said. “Urgency is a feature of your profession, Inspector. Please don’t mind me. I shall enjoy the privilege of listening quietly while you and Holmes discuss the business at hand.

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