Read Online Sherlock Holmes: The Coils of Time & Other Stories (Sherlock Holmes Adventures Book 1) by Ralph Vaughan - Free Book Online Page B

Wells, a writer of increasing note upon a variety of subjects, but having proclivities toward fiction.  He turned a sympathetic ear toward Maddoc when we three were at the Royal College.  He wrote a piece of flippancy back in ‘88, fictionalising his charlatanry, but they may yet be acquaintances in spite of it.  I’ve no idea, for I no longer have anything in common with either of them, though I have nothing against Wells personally.”  He wrote an address on the back of an envelope and handed it to Kent.  “He lives not five miles from here, so if you want further intelligence about Moesen Maddoc and his chicanery, please leave me to my rest and seek instead H.G. Wells.”
     
    The address given was Number Twelve, Mornington Terrace, just north and west of the great expanse of Regents Park.  They hailed a hansom at the intersection of the Chelsea Embankment and Flood Street, then raced up Kings Road into Knightsbridge and Piccadilly.  At this hour of the morning, traffic was of course sparse, but they were hardly alone in the streets, for it was not the nature of the capital of the world to ever fully slumber, and it no great surprise to see representatives of all social classes about on one errand or another.  Up Park Crescent to Marylebone Road, then onto the Hampstead Road and, finally, Mornington Terrace, a quiet lane named after the Earl of Mornington, brother of the great Wellington and  Governor-General of India, home to rows of attached brick residences, neat and unpretentious, set back from the broad walkways behind wrought-iron fences, with doorways atop short stairs.
    Unlike other homes on the street, a light burned within Number Twelve.  Their quiet knock upon the door was answered by a thin, neatly groomed man with a straggly brown moustache and active blue eyes.  There was something about the man that exuded vitality despite the lateness of the hour.
    “Mr Wells?” Kent said.
    “Yes, I am Herbert Wells,” the man admitted.
    “I’m Inspector Kent of Scotland Yard, and this is Mr Sherlock Holmes,” he said.
    “A great and very unexpected pleasure, Mr Holmes,” Wells enthused.
    “Thank you, Mr Wells.”
    “Please forgive the lateness of our visit, Mr Wells,” Kent continued, “but our mission is quite urgent.”
    “By all means, please come in, gentlemen,” Wells said.  “You are my first visitors since moving here.”
    “Recently moved?” Holmes asked.
    “Quite recently,” Wells replied.  “From January till March, I lived nearby at Number Seven, Mornington Place, following…well, personal difficulties of which I am not disposed to speak.”
    Wells ushered them into a nicely furnished sitting room.  The only light came from a paraffin lamp upon a desk littered with writing paper, but Wells turned up two gas lamps, driving back the shadows. 
    “Please be seated.  You did not awaken me,” Wells explained, gesturing toward the desk, “as I was working upon a story for publication.”
    “A novel?” Holmes asked.
    “A short novel,” Wells replied.  “A form of fiction I have termed the scientific romance, a genre utilising many of the conventions of the traditional romantic novel, but also employing philosophies of science.”
    “Such as the possibility of travelling through time?” Holmes asked.
    Wells’ eyes flew wide open at Holmes’ words.  “Mr Holmes, I have heard many outlandish claims made about you and your powers of observation and induction, but how could you possibly know what tale upon which I am currently engaged?”
    “Then it is true that you are fictionalising the geometric theories of Moesen Maddoc?” Kent asked.
    “Actually, yes,” Wells replied, perplexed.  “Are either of you gentlemen familiar with ‘The Chronic Argonauts,’ which I penned some years back?”
    Neither was.
    “Well, it was a tale which saw publication before I had carried the idea to full fruition,” the writer admitted.  “If it were possible to buy back every