Read Online Warlock Holmes--A Study in Brimstone by G.S. Denning - Free Book Online
Authors: G.S. Denning
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parts.
“Oh, God-a-mercy, thank ’ee, good sir.”
“You’re very welcome. Good day.”
“It belongs to me daughter, you see,” the murderer continued, visibly counting off his rehearsed speech on his fingers, point by point. “She married that Tom Dennis—regular fellow, he is, so long as he’s not in his drink. He’s true enough at sea, but in port, well, the women and the liquor they get the better of him. Oh sure, my good daughter was due for a savage beating had you not recovered her missing wrapper.”
“How lucky that I did. Please, take it back to her.”
“She lives at 3 Mayfield Place, Peckham and I live at 13 Duncan Street, Houndsditch. She was on her way to a circus that night, when she dropped the wrapper.”
“Ha!” I cried. “3 Lauriston Gardens does not lie between Mayfield Place and any circus that was open on the night of… Wait… I don’t care. Please take it.”
“Sally Sawyer, that was her name; now Sally Dennis since Tom Dennis wedded her. I have their marriage license here, if you care to see.”
“Not necessary, please…”
“Now ’ave a look, sir, and ye’ll know I speak true.”
“Please, I believe anything you say, no matter how preposterous!” I pleaded. “I have no intention of fact-checking any of this! Just take the wrapper and go!”
But he ignored me utterly and continued, “It was a token of their love you see.”
I gave a deep sigh and muttered, “How odd, yet perfectly credible.”
“It’s off the first donut what he bought her.”
“I’m sure it was a very nice donut,” I said, which turned out to be a terrible mistake.
The killer’s face went pale. A look of remorse and longing that would have drawn sympathy from the very stones crossed his face for a moment, but was chased away by a flood of vengeful hate that froze me where I stood. He howled with a rage so intense he managed to drown out Mrs. Hudson’s scrap grinder for a moment, then turned away to punch the wall. His fist shattered lath and plaster and sank in so deep I half fancied he’d broken through the opposite side as well.
“That it was,” he told me, all pretense of the fictional Mrs. Sawyer gone from his voice. “The best one ever.”
He closed his eyes, hung his head, withdrew his fist from the wall, then promptly plunged it through again, setting a second hole just six inches from the first.
With trembling hands, I picked the wrapper up from the table. Inch by inch, though terror gripped my heart, I approached him. A sudden inspiration took me; as stealthily as my unsteady fingers could manage, I tore a tiny corner from the wrapper and placed it in my pocket. I forced myself across the room to where he stood, with his fist in the wall and his petticoat all in disarray. I placed the wrapper in his free hand, closed his fingers over it and squeaked, “It’s yours.”
In my heart, I prayed he had not seen me tear away the corner of his precious wrapper. His back was to me. How could he have noticed? I hate to think what would have occurred if he had.
“Thank you,” he said. Strange how heartfelt his gratitude seemed. He sounded as if I had just saved him from the gallows and I had an instant of guilt when I realized I intended to do just the opposite. Without another word, he drew his fist from the wall and disappeared through the door. The moment he was gone, my knees gave out and I would have plunged to the floor, except I knew I must observe all I could about the man, in the hope of catching him later. I staggered to the window and sagged into the very armchair I had thought to deposit Warlock in just that morning. The killer walked into the street, approached a waiting cab and called out loudly, so that all the street might hear, “3 Mayfield Place, Peckham, driver.”
All this in spite of the fact that there
was
no driver. After shooting a fleeting glance up and down the street, the old crone bounded up into the driver’s seat herself and whipped the horse
“Oh, God-a-mercy, thank ’ee, good sir.”
“You’re very welcome. Good day.”
“It belongs to me daughter, you see,” the murderer continued, visibly counting off his rehearsed speech on his fingers, point by point. “She married that Tom Dennis—regular fellow, he is, so long as he’s not in his drink. He’s true enough at sea, but in port, well, the women and the liquor they get the better of him. Oh sure, my good daughter was due for a savage beating had you not recovered her missing wrapper.”
“How lucky that I did. Please, take it back to her.”
“She lives at 3 Mayfield Place, Peckham and I live at 13 Duncan Street, Houndsditch. She was on her way to a circus that night, when she dropped the wrapper.”
“Ha!” I cried. “3 Lauriston Gardens does not lie between Mayfield Place and any circus that was open on the night of… Wait… I don’t care. Please take it.”
“Sally Sawyer, that was her name; now Sally Dennis since Tom Dennis wedded her. I have their marriage license here, if you care to see.”
“Not necessary, please…”
“Now ’ave a look, sir, and ye’ll know I speak true.”
“Please, I believe anything you say, no matter how preposterous!” I pleaded. “I have no intention of fact-checking any of this! Just take the wrapper and go!”
But he ignored me utterly and continued, “It was a token of their love you see.”
I gave a deep sigh and muttered, “How odd, yet perfectly credible.”
“It’s off the first donut what he bought her.”
“I’m sure it was a very nice donut,” I said, which turned out to be a terrible mistake.
The killer’s face went pale. A look of remorse and longing that would have drawn sympathy from the very stones crossed his face for a moment, but was chased away by a flood of vengeful hate that froze me where I stood. He howled with a rage so intense he managed to drown out Mrs. Hudson’s scrap grinder for a moment, then turned away to punch the wall. His fist shattered lath and plaster and sank in so deep I half fancied he’d broken through the opposite side as well.
“That it was,” he told me, all pretense of the fictional Mrs. Sawyer gone from his voice. “The best one ever.”
He closed his eyes, hung his head, withdrew his fist from the wall, then promptly plunged it through again, setting a second hole just six inches from the first.
With trembling hands, I picked the wrapper up from the table. Inch by inch, though terror gripped my heart, I approached him. A sudden inspiration took me; as stealthily as my unsteady fingers could manage, I tore a tiny corner from the wrapper and placed it in my pocket. I forced myself across the room to where he stood, with his fist in the wall and his petticoat all in disarray. I placed the wrapper in his free hand, closed his fingers over it and squeaked, “It’s yours.”
In my heart, I prayed he had not seen me tear away the corner of his precious wrapper. His back was to me. How could he have noticed? I hate to think what would have occurred if he had.
“Thank you,” he said. Strange how heartfelt his gratitude seemed. He sounded as if I had just saved him from the gallows and I had an instant of guilt when I realized I intended to do just the opposite. Without another word, he drew his fist from the wall and disappeared through the door. The moment he was gone, my knees gave out and I would have plunged to the floor, except I knew I must observe all I could about the man, in the hope of catching him later. I staggered to the window and sagged into the very armchair I had thought to deposit Warlock in just that morning. The killer walked into the street, approached a waiting cab and called out loudly, so that all the street might hear, “3 Mayfield Place, Peckham, driver.”
All this in spite of the fact that there
was
no driver. After shooting a fleeting glance up and down the street, the old crone bounded up into the driver’s seat herself and whipped the horse
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