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

little girl gave up all the blood in her body to make a red rose for her mother so that she would not be reborn as a thorn bush. I liked the idea, so I wrote of a young scholar who was tempted by a beautiful black haired woman, but the woman was avaricious and wanted to marry a knight instead of the poor scholar, so she asked him for a red rose in the middle of winter when she knew none bloomed. The scholar searched and searched, but there were only white roses in bloom. A bird, touched by the love and efforts of the young man, decided to help him. The bird pierced its heart with a rose thorn and sang all night, and the white rose turned red with its blood. The scholar found the red rose in the morning and went to give it to the woman, but she deserted him for a rich knight, so he threw away the flower and returned to his books.”

Mycroft nodded thoughtfully. “I see. When did you write this story?”

“Five days ago.”

“Were you inspired by the tragic affair of Mr. Fitzgerald and Lady Rebecca?”

Melmoth gaped at Mycroft. “How did you know?” he asked in a small voice.

“Black-haired witch! Becky? She would never!” I exclaimed, recalling the housekeeper’s words.

Mycroft favoured me with an approving smile. Becky – Lady Rebecca – was the stepdaughter of my mother’s best friend, Lady Elspeth, and she was a few years older than Mycroft. She visited us quite often. Mr. Fitzgerald and Becky had been friends ever since I could remember, and just recently, I had heard my mother say that Becky was engaged to be married to a viscount. We adored Becky – she was the older sister we never had – and she treated Mycroft and me better than her own half-siblings, for she claimed that her ladylike stepsisters bored her to tears.

“Sherlock is quite right,” my brother told Melmoth. “Lady Rebecca would not hurt a fly.”

“She is getting married for money!” Melmoth protested. “Mr. Fitzgerald was heart-broken. I saw him. He said he could not bear to live if she left him!”

“Could he have killed himself?” I asked Mycroft rather doubtfully. I recalled the horrible scene and attempted to see Mr. Fitzgerald’s wounds, but came up with nothing. Mycroft’s arm tightened around my shoulders as I shivered.

“No,” Mycroft said firmly.

We were interrupted by a soft knock on the door. Burton, the butler, stepped in apologetically at Mycroft’s response.

“I am sorry to intrude, Master Mycroft,” he began. “Lady Rebecca . . . .”

Becky burst into the room, her long hair dishevelled and her green eyes wild – her appearance not unlike her given moniker. Her cheeks were tear-stained and her dress was torn in several places. Her bare hands and feet were covered with scratches and dirt. She threw herself at us.

“Mycroft! Sherlock! Tell me it is not true! Where is Patrick? Where is he? I must see him!”

Mycroft and I leapt out of the bed to assist her. I took her hand and he put an arm around her shoulders, leading her to the only chair in my room. Becky wept hysterically, clutching at both of us.

“The first-aid kit, please, Burton,” Mycroft commanded. “Could you also call for Emily?” Emily was one of our maids.

I disentangled my arm from Becky’s hands. “You climbed out of your window,” I noted.

Becky nodded tearfully. “My stepmother locked me in.”

Mycroft’s face was thunderous. “You may stay with us as long as you wish,” he promised. “I will take care of it.”

She nodded absently. “Is it true what they say? Is he really dead? Did Patrick kill himself over me?” she whispered.

“He did not kill himself. He was murdered,” I told her.

Becky gave a little cry of horror and fainted. Mycroft regarded me reproachfully.

“Who would want to murder Mr. Fitzgerald?” Melmoth asked quietly.

“That is exactly what we need to find out,” Mycroft replied.

Burton reappeared with Emily. They carried Becky away to settle her in one of the guest bedrooms. Emily had been a nurse earlier, so she could treat Becky as well.

“Is her fiancé a jealous person?” Melmoth asked.

I shrugged, for I had never met the man. Mycroft rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

“I do not think so, but one never knows with affairs of the heart,” he said finally. “He does seem to care for Lady Rebecca.”

“Why do you address her differently?” Melmoth asked curiously. “Sherlock calls her Becky, but you call her Lady Rebecca.”

Mycroft puffed up. “I am nearly an adult. Sherlock is still a child.” He glanced at the clock. “It is well past bedtime for both of you. Good night, Melmoth, Sherlock.” He crossed his arms and waited until I climbed back into bed.

“Call for me if you need anything,” Mycroft said softly, putting out the light. He closed the door behind him.

Melmoth and I fell into an exhausted sleep almost immediately. It was at the crack of dawn that I was awakened by a terrified scream. Melmoth was in the throes of a nightmare. I shook him awake.

“It is all right,” I told him. “It was just a nightmare.”

He nodded tearfully.

“Should I get Mycroft?” I asked.

He shook his head and grabbed my hand, clearly afraid of being alone. I wondered if it would be wise to take him to Mycroft’s room. As if summoned by my thoughts, Mycroft threw open the door and rushed in.

“What happened, Sherlock?” he asked, breathing heavily. He must have run all the way from his room. “I heard a scream. Are you two all right?”

“Melmoth had a nightmare,” I told him. It was unsurprising, really. Melmoth was a sensitive child, after all, and it had been a traumatic day.

Mycroft’s shoulders sagged in relief. He poured a glass of water from the