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

absently, leafing through a tattered, coverless book, which he promptly discarded. “The offer was a genuine one. I have never found reason to avail myself of it.”

“Then this is by way of gratitude?”

“Quite so. It was a curious affair, and not without features of interest.”

“I should surely like to hear of it.”

“Well, then,” he began, rising from his position to seek the comfort of his usual chair. “It was a few months after I had abandoned my studies and settled in the capital. Those first years were difficult, Watson, I do not deny it. My tenure at Montague Street was short-lived, and set the pattern for the first of many impromptu evictions. The London landlady is an unforgiving and intolerant creature, and more than once I was obliged to find new lodgings on account of some minor misdemeanour involving one of my less sociable experiments. It was on one such occasion when I found myself suddenly homeless a few days before Christmas, with all my worldly goods on the pavement and scarce enough in my purse to afford a few days in an East End lodging house, let alone decent rooms. I was pondering my dilemma when I heard a familiar voice call my name and I found Zeal coming down the street towards me at a fair clip. Are you familiar with the name?”

“No, indeed,” I replied.

Holmes took a moment to fill his pipe before proceeding. “He is well known in farming circles. The Zeals were originally from Cornwall, and had thirty acres near Penzance. Because of their dwindling fortunes, it had been the father’s wish that his son study law, a most unfortunate choice, for Zeal had little interest in legal matters. His talents lay elsewhere, much to the amusement of his fellow students. It is often the case that people are apt to mock what they do not understand. It saves them the trouble of using their imagination. The others found it far easier to rib him relentlessly and make ‘Piggy’ Zeal’s life a misery.”

“A stout fellow, was he?”

“On the contrary, he was as thin as a wand.”

“Then why ‘Piggy’?”

“Because of his interests, Watson. He had a passion for pigs that knew no bounds. When he should have been at his studies, he was often to be found at the livestock markets, talking to the farmers. Instead of learning tort, he would consume all the library had to offer on pig husbandry. He once lectured me for an hour on the superiority of the Berkshire pig over the Tamworth. For that brief time, I could have passed for an authority on the subject. Indeed, I can never look upon gammon than I think of Zeal, with his fresh-faced, boyish enthusiasm, rambling on about selective breeding and the proper care of farrows.”

“It sounds as though he lived up to his name.”

Holmes nodded. “It took a twist of fate for him to realise his ambition. His father died unexpectedly in his second year at college and he succeeded to his title as the 5th Marquess of Zeal. He abandoned his studies the same day and exchanged thirty acres in the south-west for a tumble-down estate in Wiltshire. A good county for pig-rearing, so he told me. He became the foremost authority on all matters porcine and regularly contributed to the Pig Breeders’ Gazette until his untimely death two years ago.”

“Were you consulted?”

“The circumstances were not suspicious. He fell into a slurry pit and drowned whilst attempting to save a sow from a flood.”

“Poor fellow.”

Holmes shook his head. “Lord Zeal would not have agreed with you. It is exactly the manner in which he would have chosen to depart this life. By then, his legacy was intact. The bloodlines which he established had already spread far beyond the county borders, even to foreign shores. How many of us can say the same?”

“No, indeed,” I said dubiously.

“But that was many years distant when Zeal appeared on my doorstep,” Holmes went on. “Truth be told, I was somewhat embarrassed to see him. One never appears at one’s best when banished to the street as one’s former landlady hurls books from an upstairs window. I fear it does not inspire confidence in potential clients. Zeal was a rare fellow, however, and if anything my predicament seemed to inspire an urge to lend assistance.

“‘Well, I never,’ said he merrily. ‘Bless my soul, it is you – Sherlock Holmes. I would know that profile anywhere. Do you remember me?’

“It would have been difficult to forget him. When a valuable book went missing from the college library, Zeal had been implicated. I exonerated him, and he had sworn he would one day return the favour.

“‘Have I called at a bad time?’ he asked, with the sort of guilelessness one can only employ when a man’s tobacco is fluttering down on his head from a great height.

“‘If this is a social visit, Zeal, I am afraid I must disappoint you. I am not “at home”, as the saying goes.’

“‘Yes, I can see that,’ said he with genuine sympathy. ‘Well, I’m glad I found you because I heard you were still solving mysteries, Holmes.’

“‘I have made it my profession. You have a problem?’

“‘In a manner of speaking, yes.’

“‘If it concerns pigs, you have had a wasted journey.’

“‘No, it’s worse than that.’ His brow contorted. ‘It’s devils.’

“I began to gather up my possessions. ‘You need a priest, Zeal, not a detective.’

“‘You misunderstand,’ said he, plucking at my sleeve to draw my attention. ‘I don’t believe it – pure stuff and nonsense – but others do. It’s making everyone nervous. It didn’t help when Lady Hester died.’

“‘Murder?’ I queried, my interest piqued.

“‘A twisted gut. One day she was a healthy specimen, the next she was laying on her back with her trotters heavenwards.’ He saw my expression and hurriedly