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

Mycroft must have understood my thoughts, for he kept me by his side for the rest of the day except for the ten minutes or so he needed to take the policemen to the scene of the crime. Melmoth glued himself to our side as well. He was too terrified to return, so Mycroft had sent word to his relatives that he would be staying with us for a couple of days.

The day passed in a flurry of activity with Mycroft at the epicentre, issuing instructions with a precision even our father could not. The servants and even the local constabulary rallied to his side and obeyed him without hesitation. By the time everything was over, it was already time for supper. Mrs. Johnson, grief evident in her red, puffy eyes, served us a simple fare of soup and bread while complaining about the cook, who was nowhere to be seen. We ate quickly in silence.

When we were done, Mycroft pulled Mrs. Johnson – our housekeeper – aside and spoke to her in a soft, gentle voice. I could not hear what he said, but I noted that he was taking the time to speak to each servant individually to reassure them. He had handled the hysterical footman Smith particularly well.

Mrs. Johnson was an elderly widow and had been with our family for many years. She had been rather fond of our tutor. Her own son had been killed in an accident at a young age, and since Mr. Fitzgerald was of similar age, she lavished her motherly affection on him.

“It is a crying shame, Master Mycroft,” she sobbed openly. “Patrick was such a dear boy. He would not hurt a fly. Why would someone murder him in such a fiendish manner? It must be the work of a devil, Master Mycroft! No, it must be that black-haired witch! Poor Patrick! Oh, why could he not fancy little Alice instead – and that silly girl, she has probably locked herself away somewhere to cry her eyes out!” Alice was the cook and she was quite taken with our tutor.

Mycroft’s lips thinned with displeasure, but he simply handed her his pristine white handkerchief and murmured soothingly. My brother could be very charming when he wanted to be.

“Black-haired witch,” Melmoth muttered. “White roses dyed red with blood.” He turned to me, his eyes bright with unshed tears. “I think it may be my fault, Sherlock. This is just like one of the stories I had written in my notebook.”

I was quite shocked. “Was that the story you asked Mr. Fitzgerald to look at?” I asked.

Melmoth shook his head.

“In that case, it cannot possibly be your fault,” I told him.

He shook his head vehemently. “It was in the same notebook. I have never shown those stories to anyone before. Mr. Fitzgerald was really interested and he told me I had a vivid imagination and that I could be a writer if I wanted to and I . . . .” He broke off and burst into tears.

I was not surprised. Melmoth, unlike Mycroft or I, was an expressive person. He was only a few months younger than me, but as is common with small children, even a minor difference is important. I had always been the youngest in the family, so to have a younger playmate made me feel rather superior. I comforted him as Mycroft used to comfort me.

“Tell me about the story you wrote,” I told him when he had finally calmed down.

“I would like to hear the tale as well,” came Mycroft’s soft voice. I had not noticed him end his conversation with the housekeeper and approach us. “Perhaps you two could wait in Sherlock’s room for a few minutes? I shall join you shortly.”

Melmoth nodded tearfully. The two of us made our way to my room. By the time we were done with our bath and ready for bed, we were both tired and sleepy.

“You are fortunate,” Melmoth muttered enviously, kicking off his slippers and climbing up on my bed.

I stared at him blankly.

Melmoth giggled nervously. “Your brother . . . he is magnificent. You said he was lazy, but he has taken care of everything today.”

“It is unusual for Mycroft to be so energetic,” I retorted. “However, there is no one more reliable or responsible than him.”

Mycroft chose that moment to enter, already dressed for bed. From his smug expression, it was clear that he had heard my compliment. He ruffled my hair affectionately.

Melmoth gazed at us with a longing look. Mycroft reached out and ruffled his hair as well. I was mildly annoyed, but I did not protest. Melmoth was younger and terrified. I could afford to share my brother for a short while.

Melmoth, however, had other plans. He clung to Mycroft’s arm like a limpet, pale and scared. Mycroft detests physical proximity as much as I, if not more, but surprisingly, he did not say a word. He merely sighed and took a seat on the bed, resting his back against the headboard. Melmoth burrowed into his left shoulder without letting go of his arm.

My annoyance must have shown on my face for my brother smiled slightly and beckoned me to his right side. As soon as I climbed in and rested my head against his shoulder, I realised why Melmoth drew such comfort from Mycroft. Even if he was only fifteen, Mycroft had always been tall and well-built, and he was warm and reassuring.

“If you are not too sleepy, Melmoth, could you tell us your story?” my brother asked gently.

Melmoth nodded eagerly, adoration shining in his eyes. Clearly my brother was his new hero.

“It is not entirely mine,” Melmoth confessed shyly. “One of my father’s acquaintances recently returned from the Far East . . . some place called ‘Korea’, and he narrated a folktale about how a