Read Online Sherlock Holmes Stories of Edward D. Hoch by Edward D. Hoch - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Edward D. Hoch
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with his fresh face giving the impression of extreme cleanliness. Holmes greeted him with a gentle handshake.
“Our Christmas greetings to you, sir. I am Sherlock Holmes, and this is my dear friend, Dr. John Watson.”
The man shook my hand, too, and spoke in a soft voice. “Charles Lutwidge Dodgson. I am pleased to meet you, sir and I…I thank you for taking the time to see me on this most festive of days.”
As he spoke, I detected a slight stammer that trembled his upper lip as he spoke.
“Please be seated,” Holmes said, and he chose the armchair between the two of us. “Now, tell us what brought you out on Christmas day. Certainly it must be a matter of extreme urgency to keep you from conducting the Christmas service at Christ Church in Oxford.”
Our slender visitor seemed taken aback by his words. “Do you know me, sir? Has my infamy spread this far?”
Sherlock Holmes smiled. “I know nothing about you, Mr. Dodgson, other than that you are a minister and most likely a mathematician at Oxford’s Christ Church College, that you are a writer, that you are unmarried and that you have had an unpleasant experience since arriving in London earlier today.”
“Are you a wizard?” Dodgson asked, his composure shaken. I had seen Holmes astonish visitors many times, but I still enjoyed the sight of it.
Holmes, for his part, casually reached for his pipe and tobacco. “Only a close observer of my fellow man, sir. Extending from your waistcoat pocket, I can see a small pamphlet on which the author’s name is given as Rev. Charles Dodgson, Christ Church. Along with it is a return ticket to Oxford. Surely if you had come down to London before today, the ticket would not be carried in such a haphazard manner. Also, on the front of your pamphlet, I note certain advanced mathematical equations jotted down in pencil, no doubt during the train journey from Oxford. It is not the usual manner of passing time unless one is interested in mathematics as a profession. Since you have only one return ticket, I presume you came alone, and what married man would dare to leave his wife on Christmas Day?”
“What about the unpleasant experience?” I reminded Holmes.
“You will note, Watson, that the knees of our visitor’s pants are scraped and dirty. He would certainly have noticed them on the train ride and brushed them off. Therefore, it appears he fell or was thrown to his knees since his arrival in London.”
“You’re correct in virtually everything, Mr. Holmes,” Charles Dodgson told him. “I left the mathematics faculty at Oxford seven years ago, but I…I continue to reside at Christ Church College, my alma mater.”
“And what brought you to London this day?”
Dodgson took a deep breath. “You must understand that I tell you this in the utmost confidence. What am I about to say is highly embarrassing to me, though I swear to you I am innocent of an…any moral wrong.”
“Go on,” Holmes urged, lighting his pipe.
“I am being blackmailed.”
He paused for a moment after speaking the words, as if he expected some shocked reaction from Holmes or myself. When he got none, he continued.
“Some years ago, when the art was just beginning, I took up photography. I was especially fond of camera portraits, of adults and children. I…I liked to pose young girls in various costumes. With the permission of their parents, I sometimes did nude studies.”
His voice had dropped to barely a whisper now, and I noticed that his frozen smile was slightly askew.
“My God, Dodgson!” I exclaimed, before I could help myself.
He seemed not to hear me, since he was turned toward Holmes. I wondered if his hearing might be impaired.
Holmes, puffing on his pipe as if he’d just been presented with a vexing puzzle, asked, “Was this after you had taken holy orders?”
“I sometimes use ‘Reverend’ before my name, but I am only a deacon. I nev…never went on to holy orders, because my speech defect makes it
“Our Christmas greetings to you, sir. I am Sherlock Holmes, and this is my dear friend, Dr. John Watson.”
The man shook my hand, too, and spoke in a soft voice. “Charles Lutwidge Dodgson. I am pleased to meet you, sir and I…I thank you for taking the time to see me on this most festive of days.”
As he spoke, I detected a slight stammer that trembled his upper lip as he spoke.
“Please be seated,” Holmes said, and he chose the armchair between the two of us. “Now, tell us what brought you out on Christmas day. Certainly it must be a matter of extreme urgency to keep you from conducting the Christmas service at Christ Church in Oxford.”
Our slender visitor seemed taken aback by his words. “Do you know me, sir? Has my infamy spread this far?”
Sherlock Holmes smiled. “I know nothing about you, Mr. Dodgson, other than that you are a minister and most likely a mathematician at Oxford’s Christ Church College, that you are a writer, that you are unmarried and that you have had an unpleasant experience since arriving in London earlier today.”
“Are you a wizard?” Dodgson asked, his composure shaken. I had seen Holmes astonish visitors many times, but I still enjoyed the sight of it.
Holmes, for his part, casually reached for his pipe and tobacco. “Only a close observer of my fellow man, sir. Extending from your waistcoat pocket, I can see a small pamphlet on which the author’s name is given as Rev. Charles Dodgson, Christ Church. Along with it is a return ticket to Oxford. Surely if you had come down to London before today, the ticket would not be carried in such a haphazard manner. Also, on the front of your pamphlet, I note certain advanced mathematical equations jotted down in pencil, no doubt during the train journey from Oxford. It is not the usual manner of passing time unless one is interested in mathematics as a profession. Since you have only one return ticket, I presume you came alone, and what married man would dare to leave his wife on Christmas Day?”
“What about the unpleasant experience?” I reminded Holmes.
“You will note, Watson, that the knees of our visitor’s pants are scraped and dirty. He would certainly have noticed them on the train ride and brushed them off. Therefore, it appears he fell or was thrown to his knees since his arrival in London.”
“You’re correct in virtually everything, Mr. Holmes,” Charles Dodgson told him. “I left the mathematics faculty at Oxford seven years ago, but I…I continue to reside at Christ Church College, my alma mater.”
“And what brought you to London this day?”
Dodgson took a deep breath. “You must understand that I tell you this in the utmost confidence. What am I about to say is highly embarrassing to me, though I swear to you I am innocent of an…any moral wrong.”
“Go on,” Holmes urged, lighting his pipe.
“I am being blackmailed.”
He paused for a moment after speaking the words, as if he expected some shocked reaction from Holmes or myself. When he got none, he continued.
“Some years ago, when the art was just beginning, I took up photography. I was especially fond of camera portraits, of adults and children. I…I liked to pose young girls in various costumes. With the permission of their parents, I sometimes did nude studies.”
His voice had dropped to barely a whisper now, and I noticed that his frozen smile was slightly askew.
“My God, Dodgson!” I exclaimed, before I could help myself.
He seemed not to hear me, since he was turned toward Holmes. I wondered if his hearing might be impaired.
Holmes, puffing on his pipe as if he’d just been presented with a vexing puzzle, asked, “Was this after you had taken holy orders?”
“I sometimes use ‘Reverend’ before my name, but I am only a deacon. I nev…never went on to holy orders, because my speech defect makes it
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