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

“Will you be able to go back to sleep?” my brother asked softly. “It is still quite early.”

Both of us shook our heads.

Mycroft smiled wryly. “I shall fetch us some milk and biscuits, then.”

“May we accompany you?” Melmoth whispered.

“Certainly,” Mycroft replied. “Put on your dressing gowns and follow me.”

We found Becky sitting listlessly in the kitchen. I noticed that her hands and feet were neatly bandaged. She did not even look up when we entered. It was only when Mycroft pressed a cup of warm milk into her hands that she seemed to register our presence.

“You will find the person who murdered my Patrick, will you not, Mycroft? Promise me that you will,” she pleaded.

“The police are investigating,” Mycroft said evasively.

“The police are idiots,” she hissed angrily. “They think he killed himself. I heard from Burton. You and Sherlock have more brains in your little finger than the entire police force of this county.”

We stared at her.

“Promise me, Mycroft, Sherlock – if you ever thought of me as your sister, promise me that you will bring my Patrick’s murderer to justice,” she begged, her eyes filled with tears.

Mycroft and I exchanged a glance.

“We promise,” we intoned.

Becky smiled, regaining some of her spirit. “Thank you,” she said gratefully. “Now I can be at peace.”

“No!” Melmoth shouted. “You cannot!”

Becky looked at him, a strange smile on her lovely face. “What a perspicacious child,” she murmured.

“He is right,” Mycroft said sternly. “Our promise will be void if you are dead.”

Tears poured down Becky’s cheeks. “Have mercy on a heart-broken woman, Mycroft. You will understand when you have grown up and been in love.”

I finally understood. “Help us investigate, Becky,” I said, taking her hand. Her hands were cold as ice. “Please.”

She sighed, defeated. “Very well, then. What do you wish to know?”

“Do you know of anyone who might have wanted to kill Mr. Fitzgerald?” I asked.

Becky shook her head.

“What about your fiancé?” Melmoth asked bluntly.

Becky looked surprised. “Richard? He does not care. He has a mistress, and he told me I could have Patrick as a lover. As long as we were discreet, there would be no problem.” She hung her head in shame. “I know it was not fair to Patrick, but I was so selfish . . . . I did not want to let him go, but he did not wish to continue an affair with a married woman.”

“It is amusing that the lower classes expect fidelity in marriage,” Melmoth muttered.

Becky stared at him. “You are too young to say something like that,” she said. “Where did you hear it?”

Melmoth shrugged.

“Marriage should be based on fidelity and respect,” Mycroft said quietly. “If you are unable to remain true to your spouse, it is better not to marry at all.”

Becky sighed. “A few months ago, I would have agreed with you, Mycroft. To be honest, I would rather be Patrick’s widow than Richard’s wife, but my stepmother . . . .” She stared into the distance, her eyes brimming with tears.

“Do you know of anyone who bears a grudge against Mr. Fitzgerald?” I asked quickly, attempting to curb a fresh round of weeping.

She blinked. “Other than my stepmother? No, not really. Patrick was fairly well-liked, was he not?”

“Could you think of someone who would wish to harm you?” Mycroft asked softly.

“One? I can think of several,” Becky said bitterly. “You have met every member of my family, Mycroft. Do you imagine there is a single person who does not detest me?”

Mycroft sighed.

Awkward silence fell. I was not entirely aware of Becky’s family relations, but even I knew that they were not exactly fond of her. Her father was her sole supporter, and he was often absent or unwell.

“It has to be someone with unfettered access to our gardens,” I said finally. “Those were Mother’s prized roses, Mycroft. Even I am not allowed to touch them.”

My brother rewarded me with a proud smile. “Very good, Sherlock. However, the gates to Mother’s private gardens were broken open last night – quite brutally, I am afraid.”

“So, it could be anyone at all?” Melmoth asked.

Mycroft shook his head. “We have plenty of white roses in the area. The murderer targeted Mother’s special roses – that would imply a certain degree of familiarity.”

“Is it possible that Mr. Fitzgerald was not the intended target, but Mother’s roses?” I asked Mycroft. “I heard Mother say that they were valuable . . . and it would take a considerable amount of time and effort to pluck so many.”

Mycroft nodded thoughtfully. “Indeed. The roses were snipped expertly with a pair of gardening scissors. Gathering a hundred-and-eight of those, and laying them out so precisely would take at least a few hours.”

Becky looked aghast. “Someone killed Patrick over flowers?”

“It is possible,” Mycroft said gently. “Mother did say she was going to display her new roses at the next flower show of the Royal Horticultural Society. There was also some talk of planting her roses in the new garden at South Kensington, if I am not mistaken.”

“If someone was trying to steal the roses, Mr. Fitzgerald would have seen them from his room,” I observed.

“Maybe he tried to stop the thief, and the thief killed him. Then the thief found my notebook in Mr. Fitzpatrick’s room, saw the story about roses, and decided to act it out?” Melmoth suggested.

“Why would anyone do that?” I asked. “If the purpose was to destroy the roses, they would not have bothered to clip them precisely and gather them. They could have set fire to the rose bushes, and if Mr. Fitzgerald caught them, they could have simply killed him and run away. Why the elaborate ruse? It had to be someone with