Sherlock Holmes: Before Baker Street David Marcum (reading eggs books .TXT) 📖

She turned back towards Holmes, but only incrementally, first her head, then her body, and finally her feet. The strange action reminded Holmes of a cobra uncoiling. He renewed his grip on the riding crop but kept it tucked up his sleeve.

“Mr. Holmes, the gentleman from the tobacconist’s.”

“I was not certain you had seen me, Madame Withers.”

“Of course I saw you, I simply did not notice you. Until your little missive in the paper.”

“I thought that might catch your attention. Locked up in your room all day, I assumed you must take the paper to which the hotel subscribes.”

“Indeed. I am a lonely woman.”

“I understood you to be married.”

A smile pulled at the woman’s lips, but did not affect her eyes. “You are a clever lad. It would be more accurate to say I am a woman alone in the world.”

“Your husband has abandoned you?”

“I fear my husband has abandoned this mortal coil.”

“Suicide?”

“Never!” Now some emotion did reach her eyes: Fury. “My husband would never leave me like that. However, he has had some difficulties in his line of business.”

“I understand it is now your line of business.”

Again came the mirthless smile. “I have not heard from my husband in a week. Even under our current circumstances, that is unexpected and distressing. Since you feel the need to interject yourself into my business, I thought you might at least make yourself useful.”

“A gentleman is always at the service of a lady.”

“I fear for my safety as well as my husband’s, and so I am hesitant to leave the hotel for any prolonged period of time. Even this interview distresses me greatly.” Holmes noted her relaxed pupils, the gentle pulse in her throat, the soft breath on her lips. “There’s a place we used to live, a place I think he might retreat when in fear for his life. We are too well known in the area, which is full of cut-purses and cutthroats, for me to dare venture there. Might you check and see if Mr. Withers is present, and safe? It would bring some small relief to my fevered mind. I could pay you, of course.”

“No need, dear lady. I am honor-bound to see this through, and besides, you make the destination sound so alluring.”

“Here,” she handed Holmes a note already written. “This is the address. Be sure to check thoroughly, even if there is no answer. I hate to think of my poor husband lying undiscovered in some back room.”

She left then, without another word. Holmes examined his trusty map of London, memorizing three different routes to and from the address. He then exchanged his current clothes for a threadbare suit from his days before University. It was moth-eaten and well out of style. Rubbing up against the walls of a few alleys would complete the desired effect. There was an important difference between a country squire with empty pockets and a genuine unfortunate. One would attract much less notice than the other where Holmes was heading. He secured the crop inside the jacket, as well as putting his lock-picks, a folding knife, and a whistle in his pockets. He left all but a pittance in his room. Duly prepared, he slipped out into the flow of London, the streets becoming darker and the people more desperate as he went. Overhead, the sun dipped below the rooftops, and Holmes found himself relying on ever sparser gaslights, and spillover from the windows of homes, pubs, and other less reputable establishments.

The streets were nearly abandoned by the time Holmes arrived at the address that Mrs. Withers had given him. He began to have the uncomfortable suspicion she had sent him to his own execution, and like a lamb he had let himself be led merrily along. The address was for a defunct milliner’s. Holmes easily found the door to the residence above, and even in the dark he could see the grime covering the rest of the door had been wiped away from the knob. It wouldn’t budge, so Holmes turned to scan the street. There were the ambient sounds of city life all around him, but no obvious eyes upon him. He fished the picks from his pocket and went to work upon the lock. Sweat ran into his eyes, and his hands throbbed with the beating of his heart. He had trouble finding the pinion points for the tumbler, but at last the lock was sprung. Holmes eased the door open, its whining creak seeming as loud as a constable’s whistle to him.

Inside, he found candles in fixtures along the wall. He broke the first one free and lit it with a lucifer from his pocket. The pasteboard walls bulged under the bubbling wallpaper. The building had been cheaply constructed and poorly maintained. In the brighter parts of London, these tenements had long since been razed to the ground and replaced. The stairs creaked beneath his feet and one fully snapped, sending Holmes reeling for a moment. At the top, in the candlelight, he could clearly see recent footprints in the dust. There were a few going in every direction, but most carried through down the hall to a back room. Cautiously, Holmes followed the trail and looking through an open doorway, he saw trash and fallen plaster from the walls and ceiling. In the middle of the room, he observed a pile of discarded clothes. Then he noticed the flies buzzing about it. He stepped closer in, now smelling a pungent, fetid stench, much stronger than the odor of mold and dust in the rest of the building. Tentatively, Holmes nudged the pile with his shoe. Something solid was inside, so he heeled the top of the