Captain Croker in âThe Adventure Of The Abbey Grangeâ. I felt safe in pledging my loyalty to him after these two great losses. And for a second I felt sorry for our nemesis.
âWhat does the note say?â I asked.
âOh, much the same as the first one. Except the gobbledygook is different. Itâs probably a pigpen cipher, as itâs made up of symbols rather than letters. He just canât help showing me how smart he thinks he is. I should be able to work it using some tables I have. But not at the moment, though.â
His hand shook as he gave it to me. It was the same bible quote, torn from another King James Bible, followed by the same threat on the same type of paper, and a similar set of incomprensible letters which I could make neither head nor tail of. They made my head spin:
Even as Sodom and Gomorrah, and the cities about them in like manner, giving themselves over to fornication, and going after strange flesh, are set forth for an example, suffering the vengeance of eternal fire.
Think on your sins, Sherlock Holmes, as you are on the list:
Love and bubbles, The Goatslayer.
While waiting for the police to arrive, I found a half-empty bottle of Martell brandy in a cupboard, poured two large glasses and sat Holmes down at the kitchen table. He fumbled with his pipe and shag tobacco. It occurred to me that he was not quite as much in control of himself as he pretended to be. Of course I didnât wish to make the obvious suggestion that he might be next on the list.
âBut, Holmes. Who would want to murder an innocent old man, and in such a vile manner? What kind of creature is this?â
âI donât know, John,â he sighed. âBut I do wish that I had visited my father more often.â
Holmes had never called me by my Christian name in all our years together, and it truly shocked me.
âItâs me he wants. Donât you see that?â Tiny sparks flew from Holmesâ poorly-filled pipe as he drew on it to soothe his shattered nerves. âMaybe I have met my match at last. It had to happen some time.â
I gulped down my cognac and poured myself another.
âNo. I refuse to believe that. It must be someone from your past. Some villain you have put away, and who has been granted his freedom by some dastardly liberal judge,â I exclaimed warmly.
âNot necessarily, Watson. Not necessarily. It may well go back a lot further than that.â
He leaned forward and puffed thoughtfully. âOh, yes. A lot further.â His eyes looked wounded as he paused.
âLet me explain.â
It was then that Sherlock Holmes told me the story of his childhood.
Chapter VII. The Childhood Of Sherlock Holmes.
âYou may recall me telling you at the time of the Greek Interpreter business that my great-grandmother was the sister of Claude-Joseph Vernet, the famous French artist. She had seven children, six boys and one daughter, who married an Irish politician named Seamus Fitzgerald, a member of the United Irishmen, and a man committed to the cause of Irish independence from Britain. My mother was one of their three daughters, and was raised in an atmosphere of genteel refinement, with the emphasis on fine arts and literature. She became a decent painter in her own right. My father hailed from a long line of country squires, and was basically a farmer all his working life, who drank and gambled several fortunes away. I shall never know what they had in common or why they married, as they were like chalk and cheese. The family farm, Hillcroft House, was a few miles outside Richmond near Carperby, Wensleydale, in the North Riding district of Yorkshire. I grew up there.
If you imagine that I was a studious boy, Watson, with my nose in a book most of the time, you would be very much mistaken. My interest in the forensic analysis of criminal activities began later, while at university. Before that I led a perfectly healthy outdoor life, with the
âWhat does the note say?â I asked.
âOh, much the same as the first one. Except the gobbledygook is different. Itâs probably a pigpen cipher, as itâs made up of symbols rather than letters. He just canât help showing me how smart he thinks he is. I should be able to work it using some tables I have. But not at the moment, though.â
His hand shook as he gave it to me. It was the same bible quote, torn from another King James Bible, followed by the same threat on the same type of paper, and a similar set of incomprensible letters which I could make neither head nor tail of. They made my head spin:
Even as Sodom and Gomorrah, and the cities about them in like manner, giving themselves over to fornication, and going after strange flesh, are set forth for an example, suffering the vengeance of eternal fire.
Think on your sins, Sherlock Holmes, as you are on the list:
Love and bubbles, The Goatslayer.
While waiting for the police to arrive, I found a half-empty bottle of Martell brandy in a cupboard, poured two large glasses and sat Holmes down at the kitchen table. He fumbled with his pipe and shag tobacco. It occurred to me that he was not quite as much in control of himself as he pretended to be. Of course I didnât wish to make the obvious suggestion that he might be next on the list.
âBut, Holmes. Who would want to murder an innocent old man, and in such a vile manner? What kind of creature is this?â
âI donât know, John,â he sighed. âBut I do wish that I had visited my father more often.â
Holmes had never called me by my Christian name in all our years together, and it truly shocked me.
âItâs me he wants. Donât you see that?â Tiny sparks flew from Holmesâ poorly-filled pipe as he drew on it to soothe his shattered nerves. âMaybe I have met my match at last. It had to happen some time.â
I gulped down my cognac and poured myself another.
âNo. I refuse to believe that. It must be someone from your past. Some villain you have put away, and who has been granted his freedom by some dastardly liberal judge,â I exclaimed warmly.
âNot necessarily, Watson. Not necessarily. It may well go back a lot further than that.â
He leaned forward and puffed thoughtfully. âOh, yes. A lot further.â His eyes looked wounded as he paused.
âLet me explain.â
It was then that Sherlock Holmes told me the story of his childhood.
Chapter VII. The Childhood Of Sherlock Holmes.
âYou may recall me telling you at the time of the Greek Interpreter business that my great-grandmother was the sister of Claude-Joseph Vernet, the famous French artist. She had seven children, six boys and one daughter, who married an Irish politician named Seamus Fitzgerald, a member of the United Irishmen, and a man committed to the cause of Irish independence from Britain. My mother was one of their three daughters, and was raised in an atmosphere of genteel refinement, with the emphasis on fine arts and literature. She became a decent painter in her own right. My father hailed from a long line of country squires, and was basically a farmer all his working life, who drank and gambled several fortunes away. I shall never know what they had in common or why they married, as they were like chalk and cheese. The family farm, Hillcroft House, was a few miles outside Richmond near Carperby, Wensleydale, in the North Riding district of Yorkshire. I grew up there.
If you imagine that I was a studious boy, Watson, with my nose in a book most of the time, you would be very much mistaken. My interest in the forensic analysis of criminal activities began later, while at university. Before that I led a perfectly healthy outdoor life, with the
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