A Study in Murder by Robert Ryan Read Free Book Online

bone.
    As Halbricht fussed in one of the cupboards, Watson looked around the room. It featured several items he had forgotten he missed: a carpet, for one, soft under the soles of his boots. A pair of
ornate table lamps with shades, suggesting quiet nights of reading. A splendid Winterhalder & Hofmeier mantel clock, from an era when time didn’t drag its heels. And there was art. Above
the fireplace was a portrait in oils of Halbricht in his younger days, posed holding a substantial tome under one arm and wearing what looked like a college gown. Adorning other walls were English
hunting scenes, the usual confection of red jackets, horses, horns and hounds. It made him homesick for a good coaching inn and a pint of ale.
    ‘Ah, here we are,’ Halbricht exclaimed, pulling free a bottle from the rear of the cupboard. ‘Port!’
    Watson, who had been expecting schnapps at best, said: ‘Splendid.’
    ‘It’s a habit I picked up in England,’ Halbricht said. ‘Along with marmalade. When I was younger and thinner.’ His eyes glanced up to the portrait.
    ‘You taught there?’ The gown in the portrait indicated a teacher; the marmalade and the port suggested, perhaps, a spell at High Table. Could the marmalade be Frank Cooper’s?
‘Oxford perhaps?’
    ‘For five years,’ he confirmed. ‘Jesus College. You know it?’
    ‘I know it helps if you speak Welsh.’ While he was in Cairo researching blood transfusion, Watson had met an alumnus of the college called Lawrence, who explained that because Jesus
was founded by a Welshman, some connection with the country helped facilitate entry. Lawrence, although brought up in Oxford, had been born in Tremadog. One day, Watson thought, he must write down
his Egyptian adventure with the diminutive Orientalist and spy.
    ‘Oh, no longer. Although we did discover a Jones on my father’s side, which smoothed my tenure. But I had to return to Germany ten years ago. My wife hated it there. And she wanted
my boys brought up in the German way.’ He looked wistful for a moment.
    ‘Are they well?’ Watson asked with some hesitation, only too aware that Germany’s sons, like Britain’s, had paid the highest price for this war. ‘The
boys?’
    ‘Yes, thank you. They are fifteen and twelve, so have not been part of this dreadful business. I know what you are thinking. What is an old man doing with such sprats? My wife is younger
than I, Major. I came back to Germany one long vac and found we had delightful new neighbours, who had an equally delightful daughter . . .’
    He handed over a glass of the port to Watson and raised a toast. ‘To the swift end to this nonsense between our countries.’
    Watson couldn’t disagree with that. ‘To peace. May we both live long enough to enjoy it.’
    He sipped, enjoying the once-familiar warmth and the rich, fruity overtones of the port. Now, relaxed, he felt the terrible import of what he had done descend on him, like a shroud of thick
chain mail. His shoulders slumped.
    ‘This is some business, Major,’ said Halbricht, his tone suddenly glum. ‘You are sure nothing is broken?’
    ‘Bruises. A little ringing in the ears. This eye aches. And I am sure my torso is an interesting colour. My orderly, Sayer, strapped up my ribs. Did a good job.’
    ‘You must let him spoil you, Major. A good orderly is invaluable. You are not as young as you once were, when you were running around London with Mr Holmes all those years ago.’
    ‘You don’t have to remind me of that.’ Except it seemed like centuries, not decades ago. A different life altogether. He supposed it was. London would never be the same again,
for better or worse, even when the conflict was over. The people returning from this abominable war would see to that.
    ‘I really have to thank you.’ Halbricht offered Watson a cigarette and, when it was accepted, lit it from a sturdy silver desk lighter. ‘It was a brave, honourable thing to
do.’
    ‘It doesn’t feel like