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

enough the dirt is still soft enough to work them out without re-digging the whole bloody grave. Besides, the smell comes right through, as you observe. Vermin can also run down in the pipe, for what little that matters. Matters to some.”

“Then you are about to remove this pipe? I see it has been almost a week.”

“It’s about due but that pretty widow keeps coming, so I might let it sit a little while longer. Once that bell is gone it really hits some people that it is final.”

“Most kind of you.”

“A little kindness is about all I have to share in this world, but I’m right where people need it the most. Let me know if you decide to plant yourself in my garden. I’ll take good care of you.” The gravedigger staggered away.

“Did you hear that, Mr. Withers?” Holmes whispered down the bell pull tube. “These devices stay in place only as long as Madame Withers continues attending Mr. Laramie’s grave. I regret to say that she finds herself otherwise engaged presently and she will not be back. If it is any consolation, this is a lovely spot in which to await eternity.” Holmes gave the bell cord a couple of jaunty tugs and headed back to Montague Street.

Late the next afternoon, Holmes presented himself at Scotland Yard. “I would like to speak to an inspector,” Holmes told the desk sergeant.

“Whom might you be?”

“Mr. Sherlock Holmes.”

“Who?”

“Sherlock Holmes.”

“Never heard of you.”

“I don’t know why you would have.”

“Upon what business would you like to consult an inspector, sir?”

“I have identified an extortionist, and I know the location where he has accidentally confined himself by misadventure.”

“Where might that be exactly?”

“Within a coffin.”

“So he’s dead then?”

“Not as yet, but I suspect he is about at the limit.”

“How do you come to know this?”

“It all began in a tobacconist’s shop, when the extortionist’s wife came to wring out the proprietor so she could pay her hotel bill. It seems she was already hiding from a grander criminal organization that was trying to kill her husband.”

“The one in the coffin?”

“Correct.”

“Who is not actually dead?”

“Yes. You see, he had switched places with someone who had actually died, leaving the dead body at his old hideout for these criminal enforcers to find.”

“How do you know this?”

“I found the dead body.”

“Where is it now?”

“I’ve hidden it.”

“Why?”

“To force the wife into drastic action. I believe both she and her husband were waiting for the other body to be found, so that the extortionist would be reported as dead and they could escape to a new life together.”

A thought slowly formed in the desk sergeant’s brain. “Say, this isn’t about a Madame Withers in the Grand Royal Hotel, is it?”

“Yes, that’s just the extortionatrix.”

“Two of a kind, you are. She’s barking mad, too. Escape from the same asylum, did you? Come to think about it, she was complaining of being harried by some amateur interloper. Just one of many complaints, but we’ll have it sorted out soon enough.” The Sergeant waved to the constables across the room. “Now, Mister . . . what was your name again? Why don’t you wait back here and you can tell the nice doctor all about it when he arrives.”

“This is absurd!” Holmes shouted as he twisted his body around and slipped the grasp of the constables. “I’m giving you the solution to a series of crimes, and rather than thank me, you mean to lock me up?” Holmes was out the door now and into the teeming crowds of London. He doubled back a dozen times, criss-crossing roads and passing through shops until he finally felt like he was free of any pursuit. Then, circuitously, he made his way back to Montague Street. He had barely closed his door behind him when there came a knocking. Holmes was flabbergasted to find one of the policemen standing outside.

“I guess I’m not as clever as I thought,” Holmes said.

“You were clever enough, too clever by half. We’d completely lost you within the first few minutes. I’ve been waiting here for two additional hours for you to return.”

“How did you find me then?”

“Sherlock Holmes. Your name stuck with me. Not too many of those in London.”

“I am under arrest then?”

“Not quite yet. Maybe I’m naive, but I’ll take a look at this buried extortionist.”

“That’s rather kind of you.”

“I’m looking for an exceptional case to make my name, and it’s worth an evening to me to see if this is the one.”

“Perhaps the Yard isn’t a total loss. Well met, Inspector – ?”

“Lestrade, sir. Inspector Lestrade.”

Holmes could not ride in a police carriage without raising suspicions, so the two walked all the way. Holmes described his adventures in detection at university, and Lestrade talked about his yet meagre career.

“You’ve the makings of a fine policeman, Holmes. I can write a testimonial for you if you wish to join the Yard.”

Holmes laughed. “I’m afraid I would be a very poor policeman in fact. I do have a talent for observation and deduction, but I fear a uniform would only stifle me.”

“Do you mean to go into business for yourself then? Some sort of private detective?” Lestrade laughed heartily at the idea.

“I don’t think I could make a career of it, but an occasional consultation to the police might amuse me.”

They had arrived at last, the shadows cast by the headstones lying long across the ground. Holmes led the way to the grave, and they weren’t even upon it yet when the bell began to ring frantically.

“Help! Help!” came a muffled voice from the bell pipe.

Lestrade began to dig at the earth with his hands but Holmes gestured for him to stop.

Holmes leaned into the