Read Online Mycroft Holmes by Kareem Abdul-Jabbar - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Kareem Abdul-Jabbar
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manageable chunks, boiled the pieces, then scattered them all over Norwich… a thumb here, a foot there, her entrails clogging up some poor innocent’s drain. And of course they never did manage to locate her head…”
“Why the gruesome and the macabre fascinates you so, I cannot fathom,” Holmes interjected. He had heard of the story, of course—everyone had, as it was strange indeed. The murder had occurred some eighteen years back, and the man had escaped punishment. In subsequent years he’d not only remarried, but had become the proprietor of the Key and Castle Public House in Norwich.
In spite of that, on the first of January, 1869, he’d walked into a London police station, confessed to the murder of his first wife, and had promptly been hanged for his trouble.
Sherlock leaned across the table. “If there is moral insanity,” he said in a conspiratorial whisper, “then there may be the reverse, a moral sanity, if you will, that comes upon one suddenly, like a fever. In thrall to this moral sanity, Sheward may have been compelled to come clean. It was, after all, the first of the year—a time for resolutions and whatnot. Later, when the fever passed, he tried to recant, but by then it was too late.”
“You look a mite feverish yourself. Do you really believe that?” Holmes asked, smiling.
“Of course not, it’s perfectly daft,” Sherlock responded sourly. “Nonetheless, the facts of the case are even more absurd than my theory. I’ve been wracking my brain, trying to conjure up a reason for his behavior.”
“Well, you’ve been wracking it too thoroughly,” Holmes said. “Think more simply. What grieved him? What prompted arguments with his wife? It was in the papers…”
Sherlock shrugged. “What prompts most arguments amongst couples? Money.”
“Yes. But you dismissed that clue out of hand, because you yourself dismiss money as beneath you. You allowed your feelings to get in the way of your deductions.”
“I did no such thing…” Sherlock protested, but his tone betrayed him.
“And the time of year?” Holmes went on. “What of that? Once again you dismissed a clue because you are not fond of holidays and celebrations.”
Holmes watched his brother’s face and could almost see the gears in his brain turning.
Sherlock’s eyes opened wide.
“The Key and Castle!” he exclaimed. “Perhaps it was undergoing financial difficulties… Perhaps their New Year’s Eve was not up to snuff, did not meet expectations…”
Holmes nodded his encouragement. “Go on,” he said.
Sherlock did so, his excitement building.
“He was now remarried,” he said, “and found himself in the same situation again, bickering with the wife over money. He’d had too much to drink the night before—perhaps had been drinking all night. He knew perfectly well what he was capable of, yet perhaps he loved her and did not want her to meet the same end as her predecessor. With age comes regret, and he was older and wiser.
“So, in order to stop himself from doing her great bodily injury, he confessed… and then he sobered up! Once again in control of his faculties, he tried to take it back, but it was too late.”
He stood up, very nearly vibrating with energy. “All I need do is make a quick trip to Norwich and ascertain how the business was faring a year back,” he continued. “Interrogate the wife about whatever bickering they did—”
“Though I am certain she would love nothing more,” Holmes interrupted, “you have your studies to think of.”
Sherlock frowned, sat down again, and fell into a sullen silence.
“But before you get on with that,” Holmes added, “how about a nice round of boxing? It’ll put some color in those sallow cheeks.” Sherlock didn’t look any happier at the prospect. If anything, he looked less pleased.
“Have you not read, dear brother,” he said in that slightly annoyed cant that he always affected, “that ‘bodily exercise profiteth
“Why the gruesome and the macabre fascinates you so, I cannot fathom,” Holmes interjected. He had heard of the story, of course—everyone had, as it was strange indeed. The murder had occurred some eighteen years back, and the man had escaped punishment. In subsequent years he’d not only remarried, but had become the proprietor of the Key and Castle Public House in Norwich.
In spite of that, on the first of January, 1869, he’d walked into a London police station, confessed to the murder of his first wife, and had promptly been hanged for his trouble.
Sherlock leaned across the table. “If there is moral insanity,” he said in a conspiratorial whisper, “then there may be the reverse, a moral sanity, if you will, that comes upon one suddenly, like a fever. In thrall to this moral sanity, Sheward may have been compelled to come clean. It was, after all, the first of the year—a time for resolutions and whatnot. Later, when the fever passed, he tried to recant, but by then it was too late.”
“You look a mite feverish yourself. Do you really believe that?” Holmes asked, smiling.
“Of course not, it’s perfectly daft,” Sherlock responded sourly. “Nonetheless, the facts of the case are even more absurd than my theory. I’ve been wracking my brain, trying to conjure up a reason for his behavior.”
“Well, you’ve been wracking it too thoroughly,” Holmes said. “Think more simply. What grieved him? What prompted arguments with his wife? It was in the papers…”
Sherlock shrugged. “What prompts most arguments amongst couples? Money.”
“Yes. But you dismissed that clue out of hand, because you yourself dismiss money as beneath you. You allowed your feelings to get in the way of your deductions.”
“I did no such thing…” Sherlock protested, but his tone betrayed him.
“And the time of year?” Holmes went on. “What of that? Once again you dismissed a clue because you are not fond of holidays and celebrations.”
Holmes watched his brother’s face and could almost see the gears in his brain turning.
Sherlock’s eyes opened wide.
“The Key and Castle!” he exclaimed. “Perhaps it was undergoing financial difficulties… Perhaps their New Year’s Eve was not up to snuff, did not meet expectations…”
Holmes nodded his encouragement. “Go on,” he said.
Sherlock did so, his excitement building.
“He was now remarried,” he said, “and found himself in the same situation again, bickering with the wife over money. He’d had too much to drink the night before—perhaps had been drinking all night. He knew perfectly well what he was capable of, yet perhaps he loved her and did not want her to meet the same end as her predecessor. With age comes regret, and he was older and wiser.
“So, in order to stop himself from doing her great bodily injury, he confessed… and then he sobered up! Once again in control of his faculties, he tried to take it back, but it was too late.”
He stood up, very nearly vibrating with energy. “All I need do is make a quick trip to Norwich and ascertain how the business was faring a year back,” he continued. “Interrogate the wife about whatever bickering they did—”
“Though I am certain she would love nothing more,” Holmes interrupted, “you have your studies to think of.”
Sherlock frowned, sat down again, and fell into a sullen silence.
“But before you get on with that,” Holmes added, “how about a nice round of boxing? It’ll put some color in those sallow cheeks.” Sherlock didn’t look any happier at the prospect. If anything, he looked less pleased.
“Have you not read, dear brother,” he said in that slightly annoyed cant that he always affected, “that ‘bodily exercise profiteth
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