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

I must have looked as bewildered as I felt, for Holmes chuckled. “You need not be so shocked, my dear fellow. My brother and I are as capable of human emotion as anyone else,” he said.

“Well, you certainly spend a significant amount of your time pretending otherwise,” I grumbled in response.

Holmes laughed heartily.

“So, your tutor – do you visit him? How old is he now?” I asked. I would have certainly liked to meet this man.

Holmes looked away abruptly. “In my eighth year, the day after Mycroft returned home for the summer, I found him lying exsanguinated in his quarters.”

I could not help my exclamation of horror. Holmes’s eyes were distant, lost in the past. I know his memory recall is perfect, so he would be visualising the events almost as if they were happening in this instant. He continued his narrative, and I realised it would best for me not to interrupt until he finished the tale. I could only listen intently as he spoke.

Our tutor was a punctual person. That morning, when he did not appear at the breakfast table, Mycroft and I were quite surprised. The rest of the family had left for Edinburgh the previous evening, so his absence was even more conspicuous. It was most unlike him to leave two children unsupervised.

“Would you fetch Mr. Fitzgerald, Sherlock?” Mycroft asked me. Even at the age of fifteen, he was not particularly active.

I jumped up from my seat and dashed off. I met the footman in the hallway, accompanied by a young boy of my age. He was from Dublin, a distant relative of one of the neighbours with whom my mother was friendly, and had been sent to spend a few weeks in England by his parents. We were similar in age, and he was quite clever, so we got along well.

“Ah, Master Sherlock,” the footman – Smith – said. “Your friend Master Oscar is here.”

Oscar stamped his foot. “I am Melmoth!” he shouted. He had decided that he would not use his given name when he was out of Ireland and had chosen the name of one of his favourite fictional characters instead. He refused to answer to anything else.

I giggled. “Come along, Melmoth. I am going to find Mr. Fitzgerald.”

Melmoth frowned. “I am looking for him, too. He promised to look over my story.”

I was immediately interested. Melmoth had a fertile imagination, if slightly dark. “May I see it?” I asked eagerly.

Melmoth nodded shyly. “I left my notebook with Mr. Fitzgerald last evening. I shall read my story to you when I have it back.”

“Let us get it!” I grabbed his hand and we ran off. Smith followed us promptly. I suspect Mycroft had instructed the household staff not to leave me alone.

Mr. Fitzgerald had been given the corner room on the second floor. It was one of the nicest rooms in the house, and it had a beautiful view of the garden. It was also the sole room in use in the left wing of the second floor. The only other occupied room on the second floor was Mycroft’s room at the other end – the corner room in the right wing. Mother used to say that young men need their private space.

I was hit by the foul stench of blood as soon as I stepped foot in the left wing. I glanced at our tutor’s door at the end, and it appeared slightly ajar. Next to me, Melmoth gagged – he was of a delicate constitution. Smith looked green.

“Get Mycroft,” I ordered the footman. “Take Melmoth with you.”

Smith shook his head stubbornly. “I cannot leave you alone here, Master Sherlock.”

“Please bring my brother here, Mr. Smith,” I said politely. Perhaps it was his shock at my unusually courteous manner that urged him to move. He left with Melmoth in tow. I considered waiting for Mycroft before proceeding to what I knew to be the scene of the crime, for I was not unafraid. Perhaps it was morbid curiosity, or perhaps it was some form of sentiment . . . I soon found myself pushing open the door to Mr. Fitzgerald’s room.

I froze at the doorway. My tutor lay cold and colourless on the floor, on a bed of my mother’s prized white roses that she had painstakingly bred, the delicate petals stained crimson with blood. I stepped back in horror, too terrified to look further for injuries or weapons. My stomach lurched and my vision dimmed. A familiar pair of arms caught me before I fell, though.

Mycroft picked me up and rushed me to the nearest chamber pot. I vaguely heard him shouting instructions at a servant. He held me as I retched. He did not look too good himself, but my brother has always had an exaggerated sense of responsibility when he is put in charge, so he would not allow himself to show any weakness. When I was done, he wiped me clean with a damp cloth.

“He is dead,” I said stupidly.

“Yes,” Mycroft said softly. “Are you well enough to walk, Sherlock, or should I carry you to your room?”

I ignored his question. “Where are you going?”

“The police will arrive soon. I will assist them as much as I can,” he replied.

“I will come with you,” I said stubbornly. “I know him better than you do.” Tears pricked at my eyes as I realised the error of my words. “Knew,” I added softly.

Mycroft sighed and patted my head. “No, Sherlock,” he said firmly. “I cannot allow you to witness such a ghastly sight again.”

I closed my eyes involuntarily and immediately the scene reared up in my mind. I realised the disadvantages of my exact memory for the first time in my short life. The thought of being alone in my room with nothing but such images for