Read Online The Secret Files of Sherlock Holmes by June Thomson - Free Book Online
Authors: June Thomson
Ads: Link
replied carelessly. ‘I know this area particularly well. An old acquaintance of mine lives only a few streets away – Ikey Morrison, a former pickpocket and a good one, too, who turned respectable when he married a widow, the proprietress of a second-hand clothes shop. Ikey now runs the business. He is a most useful fellow to me in a variety of ways.’
By that time, I had known Holmes for long enough not to be entirely surprised at anything he might tell me about himself.
At the end of the lane by the Britannia public house, Holmes turned off, plunging confidently into a series of narrow byways and alleys, thus demonstrating his familiarity with the neighbourhood, until we eventually emerged into a busy thoroughfare, full of shops and businesses, which he announced was Grace Street.
Buckmaster’s premises were half-way down on the left, a small, rather shabby establishment, consisting of an almost bare front office, minimally furnished with one chair and a deal counter behind which a solitary clerk was on duty.
On Holmes’ request to see the manager, we were shown into a back room where a plump, moist-faced young man was seated at a desk.
Littlejohn, for so the man proved to be, had an outward air of smiling affability, an open, hail-fellow-well-met manner which was belied by the wary expression in his eyes and by a looseness about his lower lip suggesting greed and self-indulgence.
On the way there, Holmes had warned me how he proposed conducting the interview and I was therefore prepared when he introduced me as Mr Sullivan, himself as Mr Chadwick, partners in a firm importing Benares brassware, and announced that we were looking for a warehouse in the district in which to store our goods.
‘I have been advised,’ Holmes continued, ‘that Buckmaster’s owns large premises and that, as manager, you might be willing to lease out some of the floor space.’
Mr Littlejohn smiled apologetically.
‘Unfortunately, I cannot accommodate you, Mr Chadwick. All our available space is needed for the storage of our own goods.’
‘Are there not even a few square feet to spare?’ Holmes persisted. ‘Or even a basement which is available for rent?’
‘There is a lower vault,’ Mr Littlejohn conceded. ‘However, it is too damp to be used.’
‘Benares brassware does not easily deteriorate. I might add that I am willing to pay above any fixed asking rent if you could oblige me.’
I saw Littlejohn pause at this offer of money in his own pocket, running his tongue over his lower lip so that it glistened greedily before his expression turned to one of regret.
‘I am sorry, Mr Chadwick, but I really cannot help you.’
Holmes continued to press the point.
‘Would it be worth my while to apply to Mr Buckmaster himself?’
At this, Mr Littlejohn dropped all pretence of joviality, his eyes growing hard and watchful, his voice coldly dismissive as he replied, ‘Mr Buckmaster is an elderly gentleman who leaves the management of the business entirely in my hands. You will oblige me by refraining from contacting him, Mr Chadwick. It will be of no use. Good morning to you, sir!’
Outside in the street, Holmes began to chuckle but he gave no reason for his amusement, merely remarking, as he hailed a passing hansom, ‘Highly satisfactory, Watson! A few more threads are in our hands.’
‘What threads, Holmes?’
But the only reply I received was the enigmatic comment, ‘To the cord which, like Ariadne’s clew, will lead us to the heart of the labyrinth where no doubt we shall find young Teddy Venables.’
To my secret disappointment, on our return to Baker Street Holmes made no further reference to the case, instead devoting the rest of the morning to reading the newspapers, leaving me to speculate on what exactly he had meant by his reference to threads.
It was only after luncheon had been served and cleared away that he turned his attention again to the inquiry.
Going into his bedroom, he emerged
By that time, I had known Holmes for long enough not to be entirely surprised at anything he might tell me about himself.
At the end of the lane by the Britannia public house, Holmes turned off, plunging confidently into a series of narrow byways and alleys, thus demonstrating his familiarity with the neighbourhood, until we eventually emerged into a busy thoroughfare, full of shops and businesses, which he announced was Grace Street.
Buckmaster’s premises were half-way down on the left, a small, rather shabby establishment, consisting of an almost bare front office, minimally furnished with one chair and a deal counter behind which a solitary clerk was on duty.
On Holmes’ request to see the manager, we were shown into a back room where a plump, moist-faced young man was seated at a desk.
Littlejohn, for so the man proved to be, had an outward air of smiling affability, an open, hail-fellow-well-met manner which was belied by the wary expression in his eyes and by a looseness about his lower lip suggesting greed and self-indulgence.
On the way there, Holmes had warned me how he proposed conducting the interview and I was therefore prepared when he introduced me as Mr Sullivan, himself as Mr Chadwick, partners in a firm importing Benares brassware, and announced that we were looking for a warehouse in the district in which to store our goods.
‘I have been advised,’ Holmes continued, ‘that Buckmaster’s owns large premises and that, as manager, you might be willing to lease out some of the floor space.’
Mr Littlejohn smiled apologetically.
‘Unfortunately, I cannot accommodate you, Mr Chadwick. All our available space is needed for the storage of our own goods.’
‘Are there not even a few square feet to spare?’ Holmes persisted. ‘Or even a basement which is available for rent?’
‘There is a lower vault,’ Mr Littlejohn conceded. ‘However, it is too damp to be used.’
‘Benares brassware does not easily deteriorate. I might add that I am willing to pay above any fixed asking rent if you could oblige me.’
I saw Littlejohn pause at this offer of money in his own pocket, running his tongue over his lower lip so that it glistened greedily before his expression turned to one of regret.
‘I am sorry, Mr Chadwick, but I really cannot help you.’
Holmes continued to press the point.
‘Would it be worth my while to apply to Mr Buckmaster himself?’
At this, Mr Littlejohn dropped all pretence of joviality, his eyes growing hard and watchful, his voice coldly dismissive as he replied, ‘Mr Buckmaster is an elderly gentleman who leaves the management of the business entirely in my hands. You will oblige me by refraining from contacting him, Mr Chadwick. It will be of no use. Good morning to you, sir!’
Outside in the street, Holmes began to chuckle but he gave no reason for his amusement, merely remarking, as he hailed a passing hansom, ‘Highly satisfactory, Watson! A few more threads are in our hands.’
‘What threads, Holmes?’
But the only reply I received was the enigmatic comment, ‘To the cord which, like Ariadne’s clew, will lead us to the heart of the labyrinth where no doubt we shall find young Teddy Venables.’
To my secret disappointment, on our return to Baker Street Holmes made no further reference to the case, instead devoting the rest of the morning to reading the newspapers, leaving me to speculate on what exactly he had meant by his reference to threads.
It was only after luncheon had been served and cleared away that he turned his attention again to the inquiry.
Going into his bedroom, he emerged
Similar Books
