an unusual thing to do. ‘e owned a little tobacconist shop on the main road. Said that paper was the best ever made and wouldn’t ‘ave any of the new. Stupid goat, it was the same. I wonder if that old crate is still alive.”
Within an hour, Sherlock Holmes is at the tobacconist’s shop in Little Barford. The old man is indeed very much in the land of the living. And more importantly, he appears harmless.
Inside, the shop looks like no one has purchased a thing since Shakespeare’s days. The cracks in the plank floors are lined with dirt, cobwebs hang from much of the merchandise.
“You want WHAT ?” shouts the wizened little owner in the long orange garment from behind his dusty counter. Heplaces his tin hearing horn, which looks like a silver petunia, into an ear that is flowering with a mass of thick white hair. “Speak into the machine!”
Sherlock puts his lips right into the spout and loudly repeats his request for paper with a two-headed watermark.
“Fourdrinier brothers?” asks Muddle.
“The very one.”
“Or two!” exclaims the old man, almost collapsing into a paroxysm of laughter. “You see, there are two Fourdrinier brothers!” He holds onto the counter in order to keep himself from falling backwards with mirth.
“Yes, I am aware of the source of the humor,” says Sherlock.
“Speak! Into! The! Machine!”
The boy firmly grips the hearing aid again.
“Much call for it lately?”
“You haul for it bladely? That doesn’t make any sense, my boy.”
“ MUCH … CALL … FOR … IT … LATELY! ”
“You don’t need to shout!”
Sherlock steps back from the counter, awaiting the answer.
“As a matter of fact, yes, I have had, as you say, call for it lately; but just lately. Had one sale of this marvelous paper in the past thirteen years. It came about two months ago. I believe the folks who bought it lived up there.”
He motions over his shoulder and upwards with his thumb.
Sherlock’s pulse quickens.
“Up where?” he asks.
But the old man can’t hear. He has set down his hearing aid. The boy seizes it to bellow, but the owner snatches it back and waves him off.
“I am tired. My nap was to begin at precisely …” he fiddles around in his faded red waistcoat under the orange garment, searching six pockets until he finds his watch, “… three minutes and thirteen seconds ago. I never miss my forty winks, you know. Good day, sir. You may come back tomorrow.”
He drops his hearing horn into a drawer in the counter and swiftly locks it.
At the very point of a sale, old Muddle walks away, heading for a door at the rear of the shop. It seems incredible. He trudges through the door and closes it behind him. The latch clicks. Still standing at the counter, the boy is frantic. The man was about to tell him who purchased the old paper: the
only
customers to buy it at the
only
place it has been available for the last thirteen years.
Sherlock considers following the old man and getting it out of him. But Muddle is in a locked room and his hearing aid is secured in the drawer.
The boy walks outside. He
cannot
wait until tomorrow.
Then he notices something up on the hill and thinks of where Muddle was standing at the counter, which direction his thumb pointed when he said, “… from those folks
up
there.”
The shop owner had been motioning up the hill. Sherlock turns to it. Sitting there in the distance, lookingdown on the town like an enormous watchdog, is the manor house he had seen just as he fell asleep last night: the one with the lamplight swinging on its grounds, the one with the looming phantom shadow, with the eerie sounds rising in the darkness, the ghostly place he thought he had dreamed. He looks at again. It is real indeed. It appears bleak and abandoned: a haunted house on a hill.
Sherlock turns toward St. Neots and starts walking, careful not to allow anyone near, especially vigilant for the local constable. He has a dangerous day in front of him.
Within an hour, Sherlock Holmes is at the tobacconist’s shop in Little Barford. The old man is indeed very much in the land of the living. And more importantly, he appears harmless.
Inside, the shop looks like no one has purchased a thing since Shakespeare’s days. The cracks in the plank floors are lined with dirt, cobwebs hang from much of the merchandise.
“You want WHAT ?” shouts the wizened little owner in the long orange garment from behind his dusty counter. Heplaces his tin hearing horn, which looks like a silver petunia, into an ear that is flowering with a mass of thick white hair. “Speak into the machine!”
Sherlock puts his lips right into the spout and loudly repeats his request for paper with a two-headed watermark.
“Fourdrinier brothers?” asks Muddle.
“The very one.”
“Or two!” exclaims the old man, almost collapsing into a paroxysm of laughter. “You see, there are two Fourdrinier brothers!” He holds onto the counter in order to keep himself from falling backwards with mirth.
“Yes, I am aware of the source of the humor,” says Sherlock.
“Speak! Into! The! Machine!”
The boy firmly grips the hearing aid again.
“Much call for it lately?”
“You haul for it bladely? That doesn’t make any sense, my boy.”
“ MUCH … CALL … FOR … IT … LATELY! ”
“You don’t need to shout!”
Sherlock steps back from the counter, awaiting the answer.
“As a matter of fact, yes, I have had, as you say, call for it lately; but just lately. Had one sale of this marvelous paper in the past thirteen years. It came about two months ago. I believe the folks who bought it lived up there.”
He motions over his shoulder and upwards with his thumb.
Sherlock’s pulse quickens.
“Up where?” he asks.
But the old man can’t hear. He has set down his hearing aid. The boy seizes it to bellow, but the owner snatches it back and waves him off.
“I am tired. My nap was to begin at precisely …” he fiddles around in his faded red waistcoat under the orange garment, searching six pockets until he finds his watch, “… three minutes and thirteen seconds ago. I never miss my forty winks, you know. Good day, sir. You may come back tomorrow.”
He drops his hearing horn into a drawer in the counter and swiftly locks it.
At the very point of a sale, old Muddle walks away, heading for a door at the rear of the shop. It seems incredible. He trudges through the door and closes it behind him. The latch clicks. Still standing at the counter, the boy is frantic. The man was about to tell him who purchased the old paper: the
only
customers to buy it at the
only
place it has been available for the last thirteen years.
Sherlock considers following the old man and getting it out of him. But Muddle is in a locked room and his hearing aid is secured in the drawer.
The boy walks outside. He
cannot
wait until tomorrow.
Then he notices something up on the hill and thinks of where Muddle was standing at the counter, which direction his thumb pointed when he said, “… from those folks
up
there.”
The shop owner had been motioning up the hill. Sherlock turns to it. Sitting there in the distance, lookingdown on the town like an enormous watchdog, is the manor house he had seen just as he fell asleep last night: the one with the lamplight swinging on its grounds, the one with the looming phantom shadow, with the eerie sounds rising in the darkness, the ghostly place he thought he had dreamed. He looks at again. It is real indeed. It appears bleak and abandoned: a haunted house on a hill.
Sherlock turns toward St. Neots and starts walking, careful not to allow anyone near, especially vigilant for the local constable. He has a dangerous day in front of him.
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