Read Online Gaslight Grimoire: Fantastic Tales of Sherlock Holmes by Jeff Campbell, Charles Prepolec - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jeff Campbell, Charles Prepolec
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shelving, until at one moment he paused — staring, his eyes darting back and forth over the rows of books — I followed his gaze intently hoping to see a volume recently displaced or some other item out of the ordinary, but all seemed in perfect order and no different to any other shelf.
But it was clear Holmes saw something I did not, and he was quite aware that both Gregson and I were scrutinizing him. He darted forward to the book case and, professorially, held up a hand.
“Note, if you will, that although this room is relatively free from dust — indicating it is regularly cleaned — that on this shelf, and this shelf alone, there is a great streak of dust — five furrowed streaks of dust, in fact. What does this suggest?”
I looked to where Holmes pointed. “Why, that could be a dusty hand-mark.” I exclaimed. I felt a weird queasiness as I said it for I had earlier examined the shelf myself and seen nothing of the print in the dust.
“Indeed,” said Holmes, “as if someone were firmly grasping the edge of the shelf while they exerted some effort to pull free one of the books tightly placed there, correct?”
“Yes, that is feasible,” I said, and noticed Gregson nodding in accord.
“My, how we can see without properly observing!” Holmes then said triumphantly. He grasped the shelf where the dust-mark was and pulled whilst holding in a knot of wood. There was a clicking sound followed by a creak and Holmes suddenly pulled an entire section of book case from the wall to reveal a hidden doorway and some sort of descending stair case!
Words were limited to exclamations of amazement as we swiftly followed Holmes down, below the building, and through what appeared to be some sort of sewer tunnelling that finally terminated after coming up through an empty cellar doorway behind a public house around the corner.
Holmes immediately saw an empty cab-stand across the street and sprinted over to an adjacent newspaper seller’s box, where he engaged the lad in a quick exchange and contributed lavishly to the boy’s takings for the day.
“We are in luck, the boy saw our man and he knows the cabbie who picked him up quite well; they often chat when things are slow. His name is Charles Netley. His number is 522.”
Gregson beamed. “Right-o. I’ll arrange for Mr. Netley to be interviewed and we’ll soon have the address to which this fellow was delivered. Would you like to come along for that part of the investigation, Mr. Holmes, Doctor?”
Holmes rubbed his hands together briskly, and agreed that we would.
Holmes and I were dining at Simpson’s some hours later when an officer from Scotland Yard interrupted us to advise that Inspector Gregson had news of the case. We immediately abandoned our meal and after paying our surprised hosts we headed off in a Scotland Yard-arranged carriage. It was not long before we reached a quiet street in Camden and alighted to find our friend the Inspector surreptitiously watching a particular house.
“Gentleman, a week ago that house was let to a fellow who arrived with a large selection of items bound for the British Museum. The Museum had paid a small fortune for these acquisitions and was planning a major exhibit about them.
Holmes surprised me again by adding to Gregson’s information. “Yes, Inspector, and an anonymous letter was received by the head of Collections that the bulk of the material was not authentic, that what had been examined in Cairo was carefully substituted en route to England, and the real artifacts were in fact being shown to French Museum officials next week — this was part of a systematic stratagem to sell worthless copies that the Museums would be far too embarrassed to publicly admit they had been cheated, or so I’ve been advised by my Baker Street Irregulars.”
I was astonished. I had been with Holmes all day and his ability to progress a case whilst scratching a violin or smoking a pipe was as marked as ever. I had seen him
But it was clear Holmes saw something I did not, and he was quite aware that both Gregson and I were scrutinizing him. He darted forward to the book case and, professorially, held up a hand.
“Note, if you will, that although this room is relatively free from dust — indicating it is regularly cleaned — that on this shelf, and this shelf alone, there is a great streak of dust — five furrowed streaks of dust, in fact. What does this suggest?”
I looked to where Holmes pointed. “Why, that could be a dusty hand-mark.” I exclaimed. I felt a weird queasiness as I said it for I had earlier examined the shelf myself and seen nothing of the print in the dust.
“Indeed,” said Holmes, “as if someone were firmly grasping the edge of the shelf while they exerted some effort to pull free one of the books tightly placed there, correct?”
“Yes, that is feasible,” I said, and noticed Gregson nodding in accord.
“My, how we can see without properly observing!” Holmes then said triumphantly. He grasped the shelf where the dust-mark was and pulled whilst holding in a knot of wood. There was a clicking sound followed by a creak and Holmes suddenly pulled an entire section of book case from the wall to reveal a hidden doorway and some sort of descending stair case!
Words were limited to exclamations of amazement as we swiftly followed Holmes down, below the building, and through what appeared to be some sort of sewer tunnelling that finally terminated after coming up through an empty cellar doorway behind a public house around the corner.
Holmes immediately saw an empty cab-stand across the street and sprinted over to an adjacent newspaper seller’s box, where he engaged the lad in a quick exchange and contributed lavishly to the boy’s takings for the day.
“We are in luck, the boy saw our man and he knows the cabbie who picked him up quite well; they often chat when things are slow. His name is Charles Netley. His number is 522.”
Gregson beamed. “Right-o. I’ll arrange for Mr. Netley to be interviewed and we’ll soon have the address to which this fellow was delivered. Would you like to come along for that part of the investigation, Mr. Holmes, Doctor?”
Holmes rubbed his hands together briskly, and agreed that we would.
Holmes and I were dining at Simpson’s some hours later when an officer from Scotland Yard interrupted us to advise that Inspector Gregson had news of the case. We immediately abandoned our meal and after paying our surprised hosts we headed off in a Scotland Yard-arranged carriage. It was not long before we reached a quiet street in Camden and alighted to find our friend the Inspector surreptitiously watching a particular house.
“Gentleman, a week ago that house was let to a fellow who arrived with a large selection of items bound for the British Museum. The Museum had paid a small fortune for these acquisitions and was planning a major exhibit about them.
Holmes surprised me again by adding to Gregson’s information. “Yes, Inspector, and an anonymous letter was received by the head of Collections that the bulk of the material was not authentic, that what had been examined in Cairo was carefully substituted en route to England, and the real artifacts were in fact being shown to French Museum officials next week — this was part of a systematic stratagem to sell worthless copies that the Museums would be far too embarrassed to publicly admit they had been cheated, or so I’ve been advised by my Baker Street Irregulars.”
I was astonished. I had been with Holmes all day and his ability to progress a case whilst scratching a violin or smoking a pipe was as marked as ever. I had seen him
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