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

“Let us not venture into conjectures, gentlemen,” Mycroft admonished softly. “While both of you have set forth valid points, we should await further facts before we leap to conclusions.”

Melmoth and I nodded sagely. Becky, however, regarded Mycroft with horror, her comely features twisted in anguish.

“It cannot be true,” she cried. “It cannot!”

Much to Mycroft’s consternation, she flung herself at him and sobbed hysterically on his shoulder. He patted her awkwardly.

The housekeeper chose that moment to enter the kitchen.

“Get away from Master Mycroft, you witch!” she shouted. “Is it not enough that you got poor Patrick killed?”

Becky let go of my brother and slumped to the floor.

“That is enough, Mrs. Johnson,” Mycroft retorted sharply. He knelt next to Becky and helped her to a chair.

Mrs. Johnson gaped at them. “But Master Mycroft . . . .”

Mycroft held up a hand to silence her. “Lady Rebecca is our guest, and is to be accorded every courtesy as such,” he ordered.

Mrs. Johnson was clearly displeased, but she did not argue. She busied herself with preparations for breakfast.

Becky had regained her composure by then.

“Mycroft,” she said quietly. “Tell me exactly what you saw when you found Patrick.”

“It was Sherlock who found him, actually,” Mycroft replied. “However, given his reaction, I do not think he would have been able to observe everything clearly.”

Becky turned to me.

I fidgeted. Mycroft was right. I had not noticed much. I closed my eyes, recalled the scene in my mind and narrated what I could see.

The door had been open, but the windows had been shut. I could smell blood, even out in the corridor. I had not entered the room, but from the doorway, I could see him on the hardwood floor, away from the carpet, lying on a bed of roses – six across and eighteen down. Mycroft was right, there were a hundred-and-eight roses. His face was pale and colourless, his eyes closed, and his arms folded across his chest. He was dressed in bloodstained clothes . . . Oh, that was his best suit! Strange, why would he be in his best suit in the middle of the night? Had he gone out? There was mud on his shoes – I knew that mud, it was from Mother’s private garden, with a peculiar colour from the special manure she used for her prize roses. That meant he had been to the garden . . . but why?

“I focused on the suit. There were thorns and leaves caught in the fabric. There were scratches on his hands, too, as if he had been working bare-handed amongst the rose bushes. There was a lot of blood all over him, but I could see no gashes or blades that would justify it. Where did the blood come from? The roses closest to the body were covered entirely in crimson blood, but the ones farthest from him only had bloodstains on the petals that touched the floor. So, the flowers had been laid out on the floor earlier, where he had bled. There was a pool of blood on the floor, but where did it come from? Where did the blood on his suit come from? Where were his injuries? How was he killed? Where did the killer come from? Why was he away from the carpet? Why were there no bloodied footprints?

A gentle hand on my shoulder brought me out of my thoughts. Had I said everything out loud? I realised I was trembling. Mycroft pulled me into an embrace.

“Enough, Sherlock,” he commanded, his voice gentle yet firm. “You did well. Very well. Let go now.”

I opened my eyes. Becky had dissolved in a fresh outburst of tears, and Melmoth was sobbing by her side. Mycroft himself was rather pale.

I clung to my brother, reassured by his presence. “I do not know how he was killed,” I told him – rather tearfully, much to my embarrassment.

Mycroft patted my hair, his eyes shining with pride. “You did very well, little brother,” he whispered in my ear. “I am very proud of you.”

“Mycroft,” Becky called, her face tear-stained, but her eyes determined. “If Sherlock saw that much, I know you must have seen more, and I am positive you know what happened. Tell me.”

Mycroft shook his head. “It is mere conjecture.”

“Are you not putting your brother and his friend in danger by protecting the killer?” she accused. “Who do you think the murderer will target next? Is Sherlock not the primary witness?”

My brother did not reply, but I knew he carried Father’s revolver in his pocket.

“At least tell me what else you saw,” Becky begged.

“Only slightly more than Sherlock.”

“Please.”

“The floor was very clean,” Mycroft said.

“For heaven’s sake, Mycroft!” Becky screamed. “How was Patrick killed?”

Mycroft sighed. “I may be wrong, but I believe he was stabbed from behind.”

“Was a knife found in the room?” she asked.

“No.”

Becky opened her mouth to ask another question, but Mrs. Johnson’s arrival stopped her. The housekeeper glared at her as she lay the tea-tray on the table.

“Has Miss Bennet been found yet?” Mycroft asked her.

Mrs. Johnson blinked. “Alice? I am afraid not, Master Mycroft. Poor girl must be heartbroken . . . she adored Patrick so.”

“We must find her,” Mycroft declared. “I am heading to Mother’s private garden. Mrs. Johnson, would you please request Burton and Smith to meet me there at the earliest? Sherlock, fetch my swordstick and request Emily to send word to the constabulary. Melmoth, look after Lady Rebecca.”

Mrs. Johnson frowned. “Master Mycroft, perhaps you ought to wait here while I fetch Burton and Smith. I will arrange for word to be sent to the nice inspector as well. Your swordstick should be with Burton. He did say last evening that he would be polishing it.”

Mycroft shook his head. “I would