Sherlock Holmes 01: The Breath of God by Guy Adams Read Free Book Online

position of being one of the Central London Railway’s major shareholders. In truth he rued the day he had ever become involved, at the way the business was currently running he may as well have ploughed his money directly into the dirt beneath the city. Certainly that is what he had done in spirit. They said it would open soon... after only ten years of planning and work! He tossed the letter to one side where it could stop vexing his digestion.
    The third was yet another call on his bank account. He was on the Board of Governors for the Lidster School for Girls, a dowdy establishment languishing somewhere in the north. It would seem their gymnasium was in need of repair, for which he was expected to share the bill. The headmistress, a creature of lace and cobwebs known as Mrs Shuttle (if she had ever had a Christian name it was long lost through her years of dispensing education), said it was “important for the future health of our charges”. Ruthvney added it to charity letter.
    Next came an invitation to attend the theatrical opening of a new play. Ruthvney did not like the theatre. The theatre was loud and full of expectation. One was expected to laugh in all the right places, cry in all the right places... Ruthvney did not enjoy labouring under such pressure. It joined the pile of kindling.
    The fire cracked again, a loud rifle shot that momentarily put him in mind of the safari plains. He coughed, the smoke irritating his throat. He took a large mouthful of brandy, hoping it would help, and returned to his letters.
    Next was a summons to a dinner party, an evening of old war stories and fatty pheasant with Major Thorkipps and his gluttonous wife. He’d probably go, the hosts were a terrible bore but for reasons he could never quite fathom they were well thought of in society and often attracted interesting additions to their dining table.
    Finally, a small, black envelope that, once opened, revealed little more than a thick piece of vellum with a line of strange symbols upon it.
    Ruthvney held it up to the light and examined the writing. What the devil was it?
    There was a roar of wind from outside the French windows and Ruthvney dropped the piece of paper, startled, despite himself. Shaken from his confusion, he picked up the scrap of paper, placed it on the pile of letters for burning and got to his feet.
    The wind roared again, the French windows swelling in their frame with a loud creak.
    Storm coming, Ruthvney thought, probably keep him awake for most of the night.
    The wind blew once more and this time it was so strong he thought it would push the doors wide open.
    He got to his feet, holding onto the edge of the desk as his head fizzed with dizziness. Probably the smoke, he thought, taking another mouthful of brandy, draining the glass. Like a badger in its set, I’m being smoked out.
    He moved over to the French windows, wanting to ensure they were locked tight and draw the curtains to keep as much of the foul night at bay as he could.
    The doors were, indeed, locked. He looked out on the moonlit grounds, the hems of the curtains in his hands. The moon was bright, he noticed, so maybe there wouldn’t be a storm after all. The trees were lashing back and forth almost fit to uproot themselves though, so who could tell what clouds would be blown over later?
    He yanked the curtains closed. Then immediately drew them back again, sure he had glimpsed something just before the heavy fabric had obscured his view. Yes! Out there on the far edge of the lawn, three figures, walking slowly towards the house. What the deuce time was this for callers? Too late for legitimate business, he thought, watching as they pushed their way against the wind, forcing themselves step by slow step closer to the building. Too late by half. He’d give them a welcome!
    He moved back into his study aiming for where his rifle was kept in the case beyond his desk. Suddenly his head grew dizzy again, a moment of terrible nausea as his