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

sawdust and bone.
    At the periphery of his vision he was just aware of the wind crashing into his study, the French windows forced open.
    The three figures stepped in, one moved towards his desk, another towards the fire.
    Ruthvney died and they went about their business.

CHAPTER SEVEN
T HE R ETURN OF S ILENCE
    The story of Lord Ruthvney’s death coincided with my breakfast as I perused the morning edition at the dining table. I would like to say that it affected my appetite but that would be a lie. I’m an ex-soldier, once you’ve sipped soup under cannon fire there’s little that can interfere with your digestion.
    “Have you seen this, Holmes?” I asked as my friend strolled in from his bedroom, his un-oiled hair hanging over his eyes like a curtain. “It strikes me as recherché enough for your attention.” I folded the paper so as to give the article due prominence and tossed it next to his breakfast plate, then helped myself to another kipper.
    “Ah.” Holmes sighed. “Such is my lot: to become an investigator of the odd, a policeman of clowns.” He glanced at the article and raised an eyebrow. “Though certainly it is hard to ignore such a death as this.” He gave the article his full attention for a few moments, then tossed it aside. “Well,” he said, lifting the lid on the dish of eggs, “Lord Ruthvney clearly died a madman’s death. The question must be whether his lack of sanity was a new condition or one brought about by the involvement of others.” He scooped a couple of eggs onto his plate. “Either way. It is no business of ours, we have more than enough to occupy us.”
    “Have you come to any conclusions?”
    “Only that the good Dr Silence is clearly determined to gain our attention in this matter.”
    “Well, yes, he would hardly have sought an appointment otherwise.”
    “But why?” Holmes asked. “What is it for? He has neither engaged our services or set us a mystery to solve.”
    “The death of De Montfort.”
    “Is part of the whole story, certainly. But how big a part?” He began to eat his eggs.
    “What makes you think the young man’s murder is so incidental?”
    “One simply doesn’t go to so much effort to murder a social butterfly like De Montfort. If somebody wanted him dead then a drop of poison in an overpriced glass of champagne would serve the purpose perfectly well. His death was a piece of theatre, designed to cause attention, murderers who do that are rarely singular in their focus for victims.”
    “Why draw attention to murder?” I wondered aloud. There were several possibilities of course: a distraction, perhaps, or a warning. I said as much to Holmes.
    “Indeed,” he agreed, “or a message of some kind.”
    “A grisly telegram if so.”
    Holmes threw up his hands in despair. “There simply isn’t enough evidence upon which to theorise.” He got to his feet and paced, irritated, amongst the usual piles of detritus with which he littered the floor of our rooms: newspapers, police reports, charcoal sketches... It was as if Holmes’ brain leaked. He stopped at the window and turned back to me, all trace of despondency now gone. “But here is more coal for our engine, Watson!” he shouted. “The enigmatic Dr Silence has returned!”
    He resumed his place at the breakfast table and attacked the toast rack with the vigour of a man starved. When Dr Silence was ushered into our rooms by Mrs Hudson it was to be presented to a man who gave the impression his life depended on the greater consumption of marmalade.
    “Sit down, Doctor,” Holmes said. “Take some coffee and toast. Mrs Hudson has as much an idea of breakfast as any Scotswoman and I’m sure she will be happy to accommodate one more.”
    Mrs Hudson sighed. “Of course she will,” she said. “Given the other things I accommodate in his household, an extra mouth is nothing.”
    “I’ll take the coffee gladly,” said our guest, “but I’ve already breakfasted.”
    Holmes shrugged