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

on the landing. Rescue it, Watson, before it is confined to the dustbin. In such a context, I fear it would hardly prove edifying to your readers.”

 

The Painting in the Parlour

by David Marcum

That August had been cooler than typical, for which I was grateful, and my evening walks were more pleasant because of it. On that particular night, with the apparent sunset occurring unnaturally early due to the heavy clouds overhead, I was met at my door upon my return by my faithful housekeeper, who handed me a telegram.

As she shut the door on Queen Anne Street, I opened it to discover a terse communiqué from my old friend, Sherlock Holmes: Available tomorrow for epilogue to old case.

It was no surprise to receive such a laconic message. In fact, I had the manuscript of one of our old investigations, relating to the strange events of nearly twenty years before in the home of Professor Presbury, lying on my desk upstairs, to be submitted at some unspecified point in time to The Strand. It had begun with just such a message from the famous detective, summoning me to his side with the certain assumption that I would join him. My only question about the current communication was whether my friend meant to end the seven words with a question mark, or if it was a declarative assertion. I suspected that it was sent exactly the way he intended.

No time of arrival was given, but if he was traveling up on the usual train from where he’d lived since his retirement, in a “villa” near Beachy Head, I knew when he would likely appear.

I was correct, and my bell rang promptly the next morning at the expected time. I made my way to the door to greet my friend, who had already been admitted by the housekeeper.

“No bag?” I asked.

He shook his head. “I’m only up for the day. A coda related to an old case.” He followed me into my study. “In any event, I have had enough traveling for a few weeks.”

“And how was Dublin?”

“Wet and cold, the same as here. What an unusual August.”

I knew that he had been in Ireland earlier in the month for the formal transfer of Dublin Castle to the Irish Republican Army. The Empire would probably never know what he had accomplished when unexpectedly involved at the last minute in that tense and frustrating imbroglio.

Holmes explained that we had time for a cup of tea, and we chatted about the old days. He informed me that his brother Mycroft, who had remained at his post even after the War, finally intended to retire the next month. We both agreed that it would truly be the end of an era, except for the fact that he would not truly retire, no doubt continuing to provide his unique skills as a fixture at the Diogenes Club until they carried him out.

Finally, Holmes stood and said it was time to go. “Are you game for a walk?” he asked. When learning that we only had to make our way to Montague Street, I let him know that I was more than able.

We wound down into Wigmore and Mortimer Streets, and on across Tottenham Court Road. The morning was still cloudy but not unpleasant. We trod near that house close to the corner of Gower and Keppel, which I shall always associate with the murder of old Mr. Raines. Finally, passing behind the Museum, we entered Montague Street.

As usual, the short street was very quiet, considering how close it was to Russell Square on one end and Great Russell Street at the other. Our footsteps echoed off the stone faces of the houses. On the right, the edifice of the British Museum loomed over everything. Holmes and I had strolled in companionable silence for most of the way, and I wasn’t surprised when we stopped at No. 24, where he had lived when first coming up to London, now nearly fifty years before.

There was a handsome brougham parked in front, and as we had approached, a portly man in his late sixties, a contemporary to Holmes and myself, hefted himself with a grunt onto the pavement. I recognized him at once.

“Watson,” he said. “Good to see you. And Holmes,” he continued. “How long has it been?”

“Two years, Sir Clive. The matter of the fraudulent McGander.”

“That’s right. That was a snorter.” He waved his stick toward No. 24, now joined with No. 23 next door, and part of a hotel. “Shall we go inside?”

Still ignorant as to the reason for our visit, I followed them up the short flight of steps. We rang the bell, and in a moment a girl answered with a curtsy. Sir Clive stepped in and we followed him into the hallway. Apparently we were expected, as no explanations were given or required.

At the very back of the hall on the left was the door to the parlour. Beyond it was a narrow passage to the kitchens beneath us, and then the very narrow and steep stairs leading up to the lodger’s rooms. I recalled that Holmes had occupied a room on the top floor front when he first came up to London, although he had finally been able to afford something a bit larger, lower down on the first floor, in the year before he had moved to Baker Street.

“They think they’ve identified the painter,” Sir Clive said to me, turning to make this whispered comment.

Making our way to that curiously curved parlour door on our left, Holmes said, “Officially, then? We established that fact to our own satisfaction almost half-a-century ago.” Sir Clive harrumphed.

Stepping through the door, I still had no idea what this was about, but I certainly remembered the painting to which he referred.

“Yes,” answered Sir Clive, “but Richardson,