Read Online The Sherlock Holmes Megapack: 25 Modern Tales by Masters: 25 Modern Tales by Masters by Mike Resnick, Michael Kurland - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Mike Resnick, Michael Kurland
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looked out upon the grounds in front of the mansion. Despite its rifled appearance, the room was neatly furnished, with some scattered Persian rugs, a few armchairs before the fireplace, and a large mahogany desk interposed between the entrance and the French doors. And it was here that Lord Morris sat with his head resting upon the desk’s bloodstained blotter. Also upon the desk lay a small pistol, directly in front of his right hand. The man’s hunched but tall form still retained its frock-coat with only a pair of black patent leather slippers indicating that his day’s exertions were coming to an end.
“Does that gun belong to Lord Morris, Inspector?”
“Yes, according to the butler, Mr Holmes. It appears to be unfired.”
Holmes leaned over and glanced into the gun’s barrel. Then, with a nod from Nicholson, he picked it up and began to examine it.
“It is a .41 rimfire, single-shot Colt derringer. How closely did you examine it, Nicholson?”
“Again, Mr Holmes, I refrained from picking it up, knowing that you would want to see the room exactly as it was.”
“That and the wind would account for the error, for it has, in fact, been fired recently. It is obviously a second round which is undischarged,” he said, handing the gun to Nicholson.
“Yes, you’re right. I can smell the powder.”
“What do you make of the wound, Watson?”
I looked down upon a middle-aged profile that had once been quite dashing but was now pale and expressionless, and replied, “It is obvious from the burns around its rim that it had to have been inflicted at very close range. In all honesty, Holmes, I would probably have taken this for a suicide, if it weren’t for the gun’s being re-loaded. Lord Morris’ death would have been instantaneous. The wound seems consistent with this pistol, but until the bullet is retrieved from the skull, it is impossible to say for sure that it is the murder weapon. I assume there is no need to infer the time of death?”
“No,” said Nicholson. “Perkins, the butler, heard the shot at approximately 12:45 a.m. and entered the room moments after.”
“He saw no intruder?”
“No, Mr Holmes.”
“What about all of these papers lying about? Is there anything of any significance?” asked Holmes, as he stooped to look at them.
“Quite possibly there is something significant which is missing, but those I have seen are nothing but household bills.”
“Yes. Here is one for coal, for gas, the green grocer’s.”
“Holmes! There’s an appointment book under this armchair,” I cried. “It appears the pages corresponding to the past four days have been torn out.”
“Excellent, Watson! Why don’t you and Nicholson examine the rest of it, while I have a look around.”
“Good luck, Holmes. The ground is as hard as a rock out there,” replied Nicholson.
Actually, I had almost been able to forget the cold while we were busy in our investigations, but now, I was grateful when Holmes, crawling around on all fours behind the desk, finally made his way onto the patio and closed the French doors behind him. While Nicholson and I paged through Lord Morris’s appointment book, I would glance up occasionally to see how Holmes progressed in his search, crawling upon the frozen ground outside, in ever-widening semi-circles. When he returned, I could have sworn he had found some clue.
“What did you find, Holmes?” I asked.
“Nothing whatever,” he replied with an odd note of triumph in his voice. “How does your research progress?”
“I told you that you wouldn’t find anything out there,” said Nicholson. “There’s very little of interest in here—mostly Parliamentary meetings and lunch dates with his Bagatelle Club companions. It’s all rather pedestrian.”
“With whom was the last appointment?”
“His wife,” I answered, “for their anniversary dinner.”
“I see. May I have a look at it, please?”
Holmes flipped through the book for some time
“Does that gun belong to Lord Morris, Inspector?”
“Yes, according to the butler, Mr Holmes. It appears to be unfired.”
Holmes leaned over and glanced into the gun’s barrel. Then, with a nod from Nicholson, he picked it up and began to examine it.
“It is a .41 rimfire, single-shot Colt derringer. How closely did you examine it, Nicholson?”
“Again, Mr Holmes, I refrained from picking it up, knowing that you would want to see the room exactly as it was.”
“That and the wind would account for the error, for it has, in fact, been fired recently. It is obviously a second round which is undischarged,” he said, handing the gun to Nicholson.
“Yes, you’re right. I can smell the powder.”
“What do you make of the wound, Watson?”
I looked down upon a middle-aged profile that had once been quite dashing but was now pale and expressionless, and replied, “It is obvious from the burns around its rim that it had to have been inflicted at very close range. In all honesty, Holmes, I would probably have taken this for a suicide, if it weren’t for the gun’s being re-loaded. Lord Morris’ death would have been instantaneous. The wound seems consistent with this pistol, but until the bullet is retrieved from the skull, it is impossible to say for sure that it is the murder weapon. I assume there is no need to infer the time of death?”
“No,” said Nicholson. “Perkins, the butler, heard the shot at approximately 12:45 a.m. and entered the room moments after.”
“He saw no intruder?”
“No, Mr Holmes.”
“What about all of these papers lying about? Is there anything of any significance?” asked Holmes, as he stooped to look at them.
“Quite possibly there is something significant which is missing, but those I have seen are nothing but household bills.”
“Yes. Here is one for coal, for gas, the green grocer’s.”
“Holmes! There’s an appointment book under this armchair,” I cried. “It appears the pages corresponding to the past four days have been torn out.”
“Excellent, Watson! Why don’t you and Nicholson examine the rest of it, while I have a look around.”
“Good luck, Holmes. The ground is as hard as a rock out there,” replied Nicholson.
Actually, I had almost been able to forget the cold while we were busy in our investigations, but now, I was grateful when Holmes, crawling around on all fours behind the desk, finally made his way onto the patio and closed the French doors behind him. While Nicholson and I paged through Lord Morris’s appointment book, I would glance up occasionally to see how Holmes progressed in his search, crawling upon the frozen ground outside, in ever-widening semi-circles. When he returned, I could have sworn he had found some clue.
“What did you find, Holmes?” I asked.
“Nothing whatever,” he replied with an odd note of triumph in his voice. “How does your research progress?”
“I told you that you wouldn’t find anything out there,” said Nicholson. “There’s very little of interest in here—mostly Parliamentary meetings and lunch dates with his Bagatelle Club companions. It’s all rather pedestrian.”
“With whom was the last appointment?”
“His wife,” I answered, “for their anniversary dinner.”
“I see. May I have a look at it, please?”
Holmes flipped through the book for some time
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