Sherlock Holmes: The Devil's Dust by James Lovegrove

Author:James Lovegrove
Language: eng
Format: azw3, mobi, epub
Publisher: Titan Books
Published: 2018-07-24T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

THE SKELETON KEY THAT UNLOCKS MANY A DOOR

On our way back to Baker Street I remarked to Holmes, “At least we know now why Quatermain is involved in this affair.”

“And why he is pursuing it so vigorously,” said Holmes. “Obsessively, even. He has a personal stake. He believes something occurred at Silasville which impinged directly – lethally – upon his son.”

“Is he misguided in that belief?”

“On the scant evidence available at present, I cannot make a definitive determination. However, the balance of probabilities suggests he is not.”

Upon arriving home, Holmes skipped up the seventeen steps of the staircase to our rooms and immediately resorted to his library, busying himself amongst his reference books, almanacs and scrapbooks of newspaper cuttings. I, knowing I was surplus to requirements, repaired to bed.

At breakfast the next morning, which I came down to rather late, I found my friend in a smirking, self-satisfied mood. He looked like a cat that is being petted. I do not think he had slept a wink.

“I have sent a telegram to Lestrade of the Yard,” said he, “letting him know what transpired last night in Shoreditch. I have told him where Daniel Greensmith’s body may be found, although I strongly suspect it will not be there any more.”

“Starkey will surely have disposed of it by now – had it dumped in the river, most likely.”

“True, alas. I have mentioned Starkey’s name to Lestrade in connection with the death, anyway. We shall see what eventuates. Nothing, I suspect. Starkey will have a cast-iron alibi, no doubt, and the police will not be able to place him anywhere near the scene at the time. But it seemed the least courtesy I could offer poor old Greensmith. As for Greensmith’s dying word…”

“Fanthorpe,” I said, smearing a slice of toast with Patum Peperium, not too thickly because a gentleman does not relish excessive amounts of anchovy paste. “What of it?”

“I now know who Fanthorpe is. Or rather, who and what. Really I should have made the connection instantly upon hearing the name. Sometimes I wonder if the attic of my brain has become too crammed with extraneous lumber and is in need of a good clearing out. How does one go about forgetting facts for which one no longer has any use? How? A blow to the region of the cerebellum concerned with memory perhaps, to shake loose the accreted excess like tapping mud off a boot? A phrenologist might know.”

“And who, or what, is Fanthorpe?”

“Finish eating,” said Holmes, lighting a cigarette, “and then you shall find out.”

* * *

Less than an hour later we were in the lower reaches of Mayfair. There, in a terraced street leading off from St James’s Square, we presented ourselves at the door of one of the many imposing business premises to be found in that district. A brass plaque beside the bell-pull read: FANTHORPE OVERSEAS VENTURES.

A bespectacled, sallow-skinned clerk let us in, and after Holmes had presented his card and requested a meeting with the board of directors, we were bidden to wait.

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