The Final Tales of Sherlock Holmes - Volume 1 by John A. Little

Author:John A. Little
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Sherlock, Holmes, mystery, murder, crime, serial killer, british, novel, fiction, Watson, Lestrade, Hudson
ISBN: 9781780925660
Publisher: Andrews UK
Published: 2014-04-14T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter IX. The Second Puzzle.

Despite my doubts about the notion, I moved back into 221B Baker Street early the following morning. Temporarily, of course. It was another of those famous soupy London days, when you had to strain your eyes to see other people through the fog. Lily Hudson welcomed me down from my trap with one of her humorous mock-curtsies, pretending that she was in the presence of royalty. She grinned and fluttered her eyelids demonically while grabbing one of my two cases and leading me up the stairs to my old quarters.

‘Blimey! Jes’ movin’ in for a li’l while, are we, Watsey? Yer cuddah fooled me! I’ll betcha go’ lead pyjarmas an’ awll!’

‘Is Mr. Holmes at home?’ I enquired, as we reached the landing and dropped our cases. In truth, I had no adequate response to her challenging energy and levity.

‘Indeed he is, Watson,’ came a cheery voice from inside the apartment. ‘Just finishing an experiment on paper. There we are. Most interesting! Well, come on in, old chap! Don’t delay. What do you think of the room now?’

Magically, the chemistry bench was back in its rightful place, as were my old chair, desk and bookcase. And for once, Holmes looked like his old self, sans disguise, dressed in one of his dull mouse-coloured dressing-gowns.

‘So you see, Watson. You were not forgotten. We even have your old room ready for you. Miss Hudson will carry your cases up to it.’

‘Bleedin’ ’ell! She will if she bleedin’ well can! He’s go’ a full setah cutlery in ’ere, oi reckons. An’ some form o’ weaponry too, oi shudden be a bi’ supprised. An’ iron boots. Yer in the cavalry, was yer?’

‘Here, let me get them, Lily.’ I hauled the suitcases up the stairs into my old room, and was pleasantly surprised to find it almost unchanged since my last sojourn many years earlier, apart from the redecoration and a new bed. I felt that I was entering Wells’ time machine again, as I returned to the first floor.

‘Welcum to the mad’owse, Watsey. Ain’t it jes’ grawnd? Oi’ll be seein’ a lo’ more o’ moi fav’rite teddy bear. Cuppa’ tea, anywun?’ asked Lily.

‘Yes, Miss Hudson. That would be very nice. Never mind unpacking for now, Watson. Sit down in your old chair, fill your pipe and we’ll update each other on our progress.’

‘Certainly, Holmes.’

As he puffed away on his filthy dottles from the previous day, I reflected that this man did not look like someone who had lost both his only sibling and father in less than a week. And whose own life was in imminent danger of coming to its end. Even the story of his childhood did not fully explain his cold-blooded indifference to the normal, everyday emotions of the rest of us. His heart must have been chiselled from a block of ice.

‘Eh, what arrangements have you made for your father’s funeral?’ I continued.

‘All done, Watson. He was cremated yesterday, in Haywards Heath. I insisted there be no autopsy.

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