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

I had seen Holmes spiral around these maudlin thoughts of fate before. I recalled once when he discovered the identity of the murderer, only to find that the man had really had no other choice than to kill. “God help us!” Holmes had said at the time, after letting the man go. “Why does fate play such tricks with poor, helpless worms?”

I could see that his thoughts were leading him that way again. But, I decided, Not this day! I finished the beer and set the glass down firmly. “Any number of alternatives can always be spun out. What if I hadn’t been shot at Maiwand? Or what if the bullet had been an inch to the right or left? Your foot might have slipped on the ledge at Reichenbach. The Titanic could have sailed fifty yards to the south and been spared. Perhaps things would have been much different if Franz Ferdinand’s car hadn’t taken a wrong turn, placing him in Princip’s sight. Who can know?

“That type of thinking,” I continued, “is a pointless path that should be avoided.” I stood up. “No one can know the end results of all the turns of his or her life. One can only make the best choice possible from all the available data, and then face forward bravely, and be willing to adapt as well as possible when the time comes.” I gestured toward Museum Street, now starting to brighten as the noonday sun illuminated it and the last of the clouds burned away. “It is too beautiful a day to ponder one’s missteps or might-have-beens. I believe that you mentioned lunch at Simpsons?”

He pulled his thoughts back from wherever they had been going, looked up, smiled, and nodded. Joining me, we stepped away from our table and out through the side door. I took a deep breath of the summer air. Beside me, Holmes pulled on his ever-present deerstalker, worn year after year in spite of season and social convention. Then, gesturing ahead of him with his stick, he said – as he had done on that night so many years before when we’d stood on this very same spot, that time on the path of another man’s poor choices and a Christmas goose – “Faces to the south, then, and quick march!”

NOTE:

The painting in the parlour at No. 24 Montague Street, now a part of the Ruskin Hotel, is still on the plaster wall above the fireplace mantel, where it has been located for over two-hundred years. Sadly, as Sir Clive Bartleby predicted, the vertical gold leaf markings on the bottom right have long since flaked away. Fortunately, Watson’s notes upon the matter have survived.

“The Painting in the Parlour”

Photograph taken by David Marcum

while staying at

No. 24 Montague Street,

September 10th, 2016

The Incident of the Absent Thieves

by Arthur Hall

Now that my Watson has left me to become entangled in the coils of marriage, I find myself, especially as I await a new client, with increased time at my disposal. At our last meeting, my friend expressed an eagerness to transform more of my records of the problems that have been set before me and their solutions into the dramatic episodes that have found their way into popular periodicals. Therefore, as a respite from looking down into Baker Street on a particularly dark and stormy evening, I resolved to drag out my battered tin trunk in which are consigned many accounts of past events. I chose one, a few sheets of yellowed paper, from the years when I had rooms in Montague Street. By some, this will be deemed a tragedy.

I had no Boswell then to record the circumstances, and so it falls to me, for the sake of future reference and my friend’s ambitions, to put pen to paper.

I recall this as one of the few instances in my career when the client was already known to me. At least, I was familiar with Mrs. Joan Rander and her family by reputation.

She burst in abruptly, hardly having been announced. “Mr. Holmes! Mr. Holmes! You are my last hope. I must have your help!” she cried in a Cockney accent that I will not attempt to reproduce here. I rose and waited until my landlady had withdrawn, before indicating that my visitor should be seated.

“Take the chair nearest to the fire, Mrs. Rander, for the winter chill has arrived early this year, has it not?”

My remark remained unanswered, and the lady lowered her ample form into an armchair. Her eyes darted around the room warily before settling upon me. I had never seen her before, but her appearance held no surprises: The coarseness of expression, symptoms of excessive pipe smoking, and consumption of spirits were quite evident.

“It’s my husband and son, Mr. Holmes, Thomas and Jared!” she blurted out quickly.

“If they are again in the hands of the police, I can do nothing to help. Their reputation for stealing works of art is known throughout the capital. A lawyer would probably serve you better.”

“They were on a job, I cannot deny that. Pargeter’s place, Number 79 in Slaughterer’s Lane, has paintings for which Thomas had a good buyer. But, Mr. Holmes, they never came home. I’ve not seen hide nor hair of them for two months.”

I looked at her, critically. “And you have not reported their absence until now?”

“I’ve been to Scotland Yard, but they don’t seem over-concerned about missing petty criminals. That’s what one copper said. It’s not unusual for them to steer well clear of home after a job, until the coppers have done their rounds and asked their questions. But never for as long as this, without any word at all.”

“Have you, yourself, any notion as to what could have become of them? Perhaps there was something else that they might have