Sherlock Holmes: Before Baker Street by David Marcum (books to read to be successful TXT) 📗

like to take a look at the garden immediately.” He levelled her with a commanding gaze. “If you would be so kind.”

Mrs. Johnson swallowed. “Yes, Master Mycroft.”

“Stay here, Sherlock, and take care of things,” Mycroft told me. Then he turned around and left. Mrs. Johnson followed him out.

“What’s wrong?” Melmoth asked me. “You are frowning.”

“Mrs. Johnson went the wrong way,” I replied. I suddenly understood what my brother had meant. I grabbed Melmoth’s shoulders. “Melmoth, Becky – Mycroft is in danger! Get Burton and get the police!”

I rushed out, grabbing one of Father’s walking sticks on my way.

I found Mrs. Johnson and Mycroft glaring at each other in Mother’s garden. There was a fresh pile of soil near the destroyed rose bushes.

“This must be where you buried her,” Mycroft said quietly.

Mrs. Johnson laughed. “Silly child. You are far too clever for your own good. You shall join her shortly.”

She advanced menacingly towards him, brandishing a large knife.

“Why did you kill them?” Mycroft asked.

“Patrick would not listen to me, and Alice was just stupid. She gathered the flowers for me, you know. Unfortunately for her, Patrick saw her and came here. I had to knock him out. Alice helped me take him to his room and set up the flowers in his quarters. I sent her back to pluck some more, killed Patrick, and then returned to the garden to deal with her.”

“Why the elaborate ruse with the flowers?”

“Patrick had been reading that Irish boy’s stories – I quite liked the one with the rose. Besides, I hate your mother’s roses.” She regarded Mycroft curiously. “How did you know?”

“The floor was too clean,” my brother said. “There were no traces of the murderer, no mess left behind. Your instincts as a housekeeper betrayed you. I knew right away.”

Mrs. Johnson laughed. “You have no proof.”

Mycroft smiled. “I do now.”

“What proof?”

“You just confessed, did you not?”

“I have already murdered two people, Master Mycroft. One more would not weigh on my conscience.”

Mycroft’s smile widened. “My little brother has outsmarted you, Mrs. Johnson. He brought along plenty of witnesses, and I daresay the police are on their way.”

Burton, Emily, and Smith leapt into action and restrained Mrs. Johnson. I ran to Mycroft.

“Well done, Sherlock,” Mycroft said, ruffling my hair.

Becky and Melmoth came up behind me.

“That was rather reckless of you,” Becky snapped. “You could have been seriously injured!”

Mycroft shrugged. “This was the only way. We could never have proven her guilt otherwise.” He smiled at me. “I knew Sherlock would figure it out.”

“And that, my dear Watson, is the first time I was involved in crime-solving,” Holmes concluded. “Although it was actually my brother who solved the crime.”

I stared at the detective in amazement. “Brilliant!” I exclaimed.

Holmes flushed and looked out of the train window. “Ah, excellent. We should be arriving in London soon.”

The Vingt-un Confession

by Derrick Belanger

“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been many days since my last confession, not since I left my sweet lass on the shores of my homeland, so many months ago. No, I’m sorry, Father. I did not mean to wander, but my confession has a story to it. While I have sins to confess, I also have to tell you of divine providence, of an Angel of the Lord appearing to me in the form of a University student, a lad near my own age no less, who helped me to see the light. He’s the reason I’m here today, Father. The sins, the student, and the miracle.

“I came here from Cork. Was a fisherman, but found my body didn’t much care for the life of a seaman, so I sought my fortune elsewhere and crossed the sea and voyaged to Britain. Started out tilling the fields, working the harvest, but the city has always been in my blood, and so I made my way to London and took work at the docks. A hard worker I was, and I started saving what little money I could scrape together to prepare to send for my wife. That’s when tragedy struck. Three weeks ago, the boys and I were hoisting up a crate, when the rope we were using snapped. The crate came crashing down, killed me mates Peter and Kevin. I was fortunate to escape with my life, but I was still maimed. When I tried to leap out of the way, I wasn’t fast enough, and the weight crushed my leg. Crippled I was from the accident.

“The doctor was able to patch me up enough and, after a week of bed rest, I was able to move around on the crutch I have under my arm now. But even though I could hobble around, the docks had no work for me. My meagre savings were spent quickly, and I took to begging to keep food in my belly and a roof over my head. Then, as if life could not treat me any worse, I get a letter in the post from my sweet lass. She tells me to come back to Cork, that her uncle has secured me a position in a tannery, and that we can be together and start a family.

“You can imagination, Father, how my joy at this news quickly turned to melancholia. For how could I, a beggar with barely enough money to keep my belly from growling, find my way back to dear old Ireland?

“Father, I confess, that I started gambling. There was a spot not far from where I stayed, a back alley where dice were rolled and cards were played. I started letting my belly grumble more and more to save what meagre earnings I could and then join in whatever game was being played in the alley. I never lasted more than a few rolls of