Sherlock Holmes by George Mann Read Free Book Online Page A

discover he was already climbing out of the motorcar, despite the fact we had not yet come to a complete stop. I mobilised myself quickly in order to keep up.
    “You should come inside with us, Carter,” I said to our driver, as I opened the door and climbed down into the road. “You’ll catch your death out here.” The sun had long since set, and the bright, clear skies of earlier had given way to a chill and starry evening.
    “Oh, don’t worry about me, Dr. Watson. I’m quite happy to wait for you out here. I’ve a good book and a warm coat. You go about your business, and I’ll be right here waiting for you when you’re ready.”
    “If you’re sure?” I said, offering him a final chance to change his mind.
    “Perfectly sure, Dr. Watson,” he replied.
    I took him at his word, hurrying round the vehicle to catch up with Holmes. “Decent chap, that Carter,” I said.
    “Quite,” replied Holmes. “Shame about his heart.”
    “His heart?” I queried. “What the devil do you mean, Holmes?”
    Holmes issued a disapproving tut. “Watson, I should have thought to a medical man it was obvious. Our driver suffers from a chronic weakness of the heart. Consider the facts: pale skin, breathlessness…”
    “The very fact he’s here, in London, rather than at the front…” I cursed myself for my poor observation. “I should have seen it. Poor boy.”
    Holmes said nothing, but took the steps up to the house and rapped loudly on the door with the brass knocker. It was cast in the shape of a rather undignified, impish face, its mouth fixed open in a screaming grimace.
    Footsteps followed, and a moment later the door yawned open and Inspector Foulkes stood in the light, his considerable figure cast in stark silhouette.
    “Evening, gentlemen,” he said. His voice sounded muffled, and it took a moment before I was able to discern that he was speaking around the mouthpiece of a pipe, which he’d clenched between his teeth. “This is something of an unconventional hour to be making house calls.”
    I offered him an apologetic shrug from behind Holmes.
    “Well come in, come in.” He stood to one side and ushered us both over the threshold.
    “I understand, Inspector, that Herbert Grange lived alone,” said Holmes.
    “That’s correct, Mr. Holmes. He was a bachelor,” replied Foulkes.
    “No lodgers, tenants, housekeeper?”
    “The housekeeper comes in on Monday, Wednesday and Friday to take care of the washing and cleaning. I gather Mr. Grange had no love of home cooking and preferred to eat out.” Foulkes shook his head, as if finding it difficult to comprehend such a notion. Holmes had already pushed on past him and was at the other end of the hallway, taking stock of his surroundings. “There were no lodgers or other inhabitants,” added Foulkes.
    “Very good,” said Holmes. “Now, if you’ll give me leave?”
    “Be my guest,” said Foulkes, with a gregarious shrug. “Take as long as you need.” At this, I felt my stomach grumble once again. “We’ve disturbed nothing. The house is as it was the day Grange died.”
    “Excellent,” said Holmes. He passed along the hallway and disappeared down the short flight of steps to the kitchen.
    Foulkes glanced at me, realised that I was not about to follow Holmes, and gestured for me to join him in the sitting room instead while we waited.
    The room, and from what I could gather the rest of the house, was well appointed. Grange had obviously lived comfortably, and lived well. The house had the well-worn feel of a place that had been
inhabited
. Trinkets clustered on the mantelpiece, and on top of the sideboard stood framed photographs of people I took to be close friends and family.
    Papers were spread out on a small table beside a high-backed chair in the bay window. A cut-glass decanter and a half-finished tumbler of whisky had been placed on top of them.
    The curtains were drawn, but I had the distinct impression that the room was indeed very much