Read Online Sherlock Holmes Murder Most Foul by Gordon Punter - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Gordon Punter
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clawing at the rock face with both hands, which eerily dissolves into grimy brickwork, Holmes plunges down the side of a gloomy building, ripping away a street nameplate.
Standing alone in a gas-lit cobbled street partially shrouded by fog, he stares at the nameplate, Buck’s Row , before it shatters violently in his hands, revealing a vision of locked stable gates.
Two distinct shadows are chillingly cast across the gates. A man throttles a woman, who drops lifelessly to the ground. Swiftly kneeling beside her, the man produces a long bladed knife and, ferociously wielding the lethal instrument, slices open her throat.
Abruptly awakening, Holmes sits upright in bed, utters a forlorn cry and clutches his throat with his hand.
♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦
Calming himself and removing his hand from his throat, Holmes stares at the hypodermic syringe and needle lying next to the brown vial upon the bedside table beside him.
Watson bursts into the bedroom, holding a glowing oil-lamp in one hand and his revolver in the other.
Holmes raises a censorious eyebrow, “Do come in, Watson.” He glances at the revolver, “And please put that away.”
Flustered, Watson slips the firearm into his dressing-gown pocket, “I heard you cry out.”
Holmes picks up the hypodermic syringe and needle, “Yes, you did. A momentary lack of discipline on my part.” He thoughtfully fingers the syringe, “I really should stop using this.”
Placing the oil-lamp on another bedside table, Watson sits on the edge of the bed, “Holmes, I speak to you as both your friend and a doctor. Persist with this morbid habit and it could soften your brain as [87] syphilis does to a person inflicted with the disease.”
Holmes puts the syringe down, “My dear fellow, crimes are conceived in the imagination. How else am I supposed to know the thoughts of my adversaries?”
Watson stares at Holmes sombrely, “With a clear mind, Holmes.”
With an inspired expression, Holmes smiles, “You are quite right, Watson.” Tossing aside the bed clothes, he leaps out of bed and pulls on his dressing-gown.
Taken by surprise, Watson quickly stands, “What is it, Holmes?”
Holmes raises a solemn finger, “It may be murder. Cold-blooded murder, Watson.”
He snatches the hypodermic syringe and needle from the table, “Quickly, Watson, bring the lamp.”
Holmes hurriedly enters the darkened sitting-room, takes a map of London from a book shelf and eagerly spreads it out upon the dining-table.
Picking up a magnifying glass, he beckons Watson with a swift movement of his hand, “Let the hound see the hare, Watson. Bring the lamp closer.”
Sidling up next to Holmes, Watson holds the oil-lamp over the map. Stooping, Holmes peers through his magnifying glass and begins to concentrate on a specific locality, scouring streets with the tip of the hypodermic needle.
Watson yawns, “Why the urgency, Holmes? Could this not wait until morning?”
Staring through his magnifying glass, Holmes pauses and squints at an almost indefinable street, “Murder is invariably committed before breakfast, Watson. Wait until then and one may lose the trail.”
Holmes jubilantly stabs the hypodermic needle into the map, “Watson, the street does exist! It is just off the Whitechapel Road.”
Watson frowns, “Unlike a mushroom, I abhor being kept in the dark. What street, Holmes?”
Holmes excitedly plucks the hypodermic syringe and needle from the map, “My dear fellow, you are quite right.”
Totally mystified, Watson frowns again, “I am?”
Holmes hands the syringe to Watson, “I dislike altering my habits, but I would be exceedingly gratefully if you would dispose of this and its contents. You will find a further bottle in the top drawer of the bureau.”
Pleased that his advice has been heeded, Watson smiles, “Yes, of course, Holmes.”
Holmes quickly brushes past Watson, “Come on, Watson, get dressed.”
Watson frowns once more, “Good Lord, Holmes!
Standing alone in a gas-lit cobbled street partially shrouded by fog, he stares at the nameplate, Buck’s Row , before it shatters violently in his hands, revealing a vision of locked stable gates.
Two distinct shadows are chillingly cast across the gates. A man throttles a woman, who drops lifelessly to the ground. Swiftly kneeling beside her, the man produces a long bladed knife and, ferociously wielding the lethal instrument, slices open her throat.
Abruptly awakening, Holmes sits upright in bed, utters a forlorn cry and clutches his throat with his hand.
♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦
Calming himself and removing his hand from his throat, Holmes stares at the hypodermic syringe and needle lying next to the brown vial upon the bedside table beside him.
Watson bursts into the bedroom, holding a glowing oil-lamp in one hand and his revolver in the other.
Holmes raises a censorious eyebrow, “Do come in, Watson.” He glances at the revolver, “And please put that away.”
Flustered, Watson slips the firearm into his dressing-gown pocket, “I heard you cry out.”
Holmes picks up the hypodermic syringe and needle, “Yes, you did. A momentary lack of discipline on my part.” He thoughtfully fingers the syringe, “I really should stop using this.”
Placing the oil-lamp on another bedside table, Watson sits on the edge of the bed, “Holmes, I speak to you as both your friend and a doctor. Persist with this morbid habit and it could soften your brain as [87] syphilis does to a person inflicted with the disease.”
Holmes puts the syringe down, “My dear fellow, crimes are conceived in the imagination. How else am I supposed to know the thoughts of my adversaries?”
Watson stares at Holmes sombrely, “With a clear mind, Holmes.”
With an inspired expression, Holmes smiles, “You are quite right, Watson.” Tossing aside the bed clothes, he leaps out of bed and pulls on his dressing-gown.
Taken by surprise, Watson quickly stands, “What is it, Holmes?”
Holmes raises a solemn finger, “It may be murder. Cold-blooded murder, Watson.”
He snatches the hypodermic syringe and needle from the table, “Quickly, Watson, bring the lamp.”
Holmes hurriedly enters the darkened sitting-room, takes a map of London from a book shelf and eagerly spreads it out upon the dining-table.
Picking up a magnifying glass, he beckons Watson with a swift movement of his hand, “Let the hound see the hare, Watson. Bring the lamp closer.”
Sidling up next to Holmes, Watson holds the oil-lamp over the map. Stooping, Holmes peers through his magnifying glass and begins to concentrate on a specific locality, scouring streets with the tip of the hypodermic needle.
Watson yawns, “Why the urgency, Holmes? Could this not wait until morning?”
Staring through his magnifying glass, Holmes pauses and squints at an almost indefinable street, “Murder is invariably committed before breakfast, Watson. Wait until then and one may lose the trail.”
Holmes jubilantly stabs the hypodermic needle into the map, “Watson, the street does exist! It is just off the Whitechapel Road.”
Watson frowns, “Unlike a mushroom, I abhor being kept in the dark. What street, Holmes?”
Holmes excitedly plucks the hypodermic syringe and needle from the map, “My dear fellow, you are quite right.”
Totally mystified, Watson frowns again, “I am?”
Holmes hands the syringe to Watson, “I dislike altering my habits, but I would be exceedingly gratefully if you would dispose of this and its contents. You will find a further bottle in the top drawer of the bureau.”
Pleased that his advice has been heeded, Watson smiles, “Yes, of course, Holmes.”
Holmes quickly brushes past Watson, “Come on, Watson, get dressed.”
Watson frowns once more, “Good Lord, Holmes!
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