The Sherlock Holmes Megapack: 25 Modern Tales by Masters. Michael Kurland
and though no snow had yet fallen, the frigid blasts of winter rattled every pane and resonated in every chimney in London. During one particularly bitter morning, I arose shortly before dawn and was surprised to find my friend awake and already dressed. What was even more surprising was that, in spite of the early hour and the forbidding, slate-grey frigidity which had permeated the city, Holmes was in remarkably high spirits. He was standing in front of a roaring fire and filling his morning pipe which was comprised of all the plugs and dottles left from his smokes of the day before, all carefully dried and collected on the corner of the mantlepiece. Upon my entrance, he picked up a letter which was also on the mantelpiece and turned to greet me.
“Good morning, Watson. I am so glad you have already dressed.”
“Good morning to you, as well, Holmes, but I must say that I am surprised to see you up and dressed so early.”
“I was awakened about an hour ago by a messenger,” he said, as he handed me the letter. “Do you remember my mentioning an Inspector Nicholson of the Yard?”
“Yes. He has called you in on a couple of cases within the past year, hasn’t he?”
“Actually, he has enlisted my help on no less than three occasions. He is very young but has already made quite a name for himself in the press. He was the one who finally managed to apprehend the Spotts gang and that without my help. This time, however, he hasn’t wasted an instant in contacting me, which can only mean that he has stumbled upon something unusual.”
At a nod toward the letter from Holmes, I unfolded it and, in my customary fashion, read it aloud:
“Sherrinsthorpe, Kensington
“3:30 a.m.
“My dear Mr Holmes,
“I should be very glad of your immediate assistance in what promises to be a most remarkable case. It is something quite in your line. So far, I have been able to keep everything as I have found it, but I beg you not to lose an instant, as it is difficult to leave Lord Morris there.
“Yours faithfully,
“Geoffrey Nicholson.”
“Well, this leaves little doubt as to the result of the crime,” I remarked, “but I must confess that the name of the victim is unfamiliar to me.”
“It is to me, as well. Since Mrs Hudson has been kind enough to prepare breakfast, why don’t you have something to eat while I look him up.”
As I sat down to breakfast at the table, Holmes retrieved a red-covered volume from one of the shelves and slumped down into his armchair. When, after several minutes, he stopped flipping through the pages and re-lit his pipe, I hazarded the question: “Well, what does it say?”
“That the victim was noble … not that I doubted it. No, I am afraid we shall have to begin our investigation at the scene of the crime.”
With that, I hurriedly finished Mrs Hudson’s excellent breakfast, and in no time, we had abandoned the comfort of Baker Street for a west-bound cab. Holmes, obviously excited over the prospect of an interesting case, talked animatedly of music and the theatre, but I, uncharacteristically, became withdrawn once our growler entered High Street and the precincts of my old neighbourhood. Even Hyde Park and the Gardens looked lifeless on this relentlessly cold morning, and none but the hardiest tradesmen were out and about.
Within an hour, we passed through a wrought iron gate and into a long drive, at the end of which stood Sherrinsthorpe Manor, a massive red-brick mansion of three floors. As we alighted and Holmes paid the driver, a moon-faced and somewhat dishevelled young man emerged from the entrance, said a couple of words to a constable posted by the door, and hurriedly walked over to us.
“Mr Holmes, I’m so glad you decided to accept my invitation!” he said smiling.
“It is good to see you, as well, Nicholson. This is my friend and colleague, Dr Watson.”
“It’s good to finally meet you, sir. I hate to rush you both, but we should probably have a look at the scene before the coroner arrives to examine the body.”
“That’s fine, but let me first congratulate you on the birth of your child,” said Holmes, causing Nicholson to suddenly turn around again.
“Thank you. Our son Adam was born a few weeks ago. Did Inspector Lestrade tell you?” asked Nicholson with a hint of expectation in his tone.
“No, there are several other indicators. In fact, when I first noticed the wrinkled condition of your suit and that you looked unusually weary, even for one aroused so early, I began to worry that your domestic fortunes had suffered a decline. However, once you turned, exposing the dried milk stain upon your left shoulder, I was glad to find that quite the opposite was true.”
“Let’s hope Mr Holmes can make such short work of this murder, Dr Watson. Follow me, gentlemen.”
And with that, we entered the main hall.
“You will probably want to keep your coats on,” warned Nicholson. “As I stated in the letter, nothing has been touched, and the French doors of the study have been open all night.”
Indeed, it was absolutely freezing in Lord Morris’s study, and I was able to feel a blast of wind the moment Nicholson opened its door, which was on the left-hand side of the hall. The French doors were directly across from the entrance, and the only other window, which was closed, was on our left and 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.