Sherlock Holmes by George Mann Read Free Book Online Page B

how Grange had left it, as if he had simply got up from where he’d been sitting and left for the day, with every intention of returning later.
    “So, Dr. Watson,” said Foulkes, “did you manage to turn up anything useful at the War Office?”
    I shrugged. “With Holmes, even the most trifling detail might be the key to unlocking a mystery, but I fear his method is not to reveal anything until much later in the game.”
    Foulkes nodded. “Keeps his cards close to his chest, does he? Can’t say I blame him. Although I admit, Doctor, this whole business has me somewhat baffled. I mean – a suicide is a suicide, is it not? No matter the victim or how much it pains us to acknowledge the rather unseemly deed. I cannot see that there is much of a mystery to unravel.”
    “I rather fear that if the matter has piqued Holmes’s interest – and, indeed, that of his brother – then there will be layers to this case that have yet to become apparent,” I replied.
    We lapsed into silence for a moment, both standing by the fireplace, contemplating the implications of what I’d said. After a while I noticed that my back was beginning to ache, and cursed myself for not taking more care. I wasn’t getting any younger, and I’d pushed myself harder that day than I had in months, if not years. That was the thing about spending time with Holmes, I realised – being caught up in a new case, dashing about like we had when we were younger – it felt a little like old times. There was a joy in that, of course, but nevertheless, I had to remind myself that I no longer had the stamina I once did.
    “Do you mind if I sit?” I said. “It’s been something of a trying day.”
    “Not at all,” replied Foulkes. “Help yourself.”
    I chose the armchair by the window and slumped into it gratefully. Foulkes, in the meantime, had drifted over to the sideboard, where he was taking in the unsmiling faces in the photographs. I cast around, looking for anything of interest.
    The papers on the small table caught my eye and I reached for them, sliding a handful out from beneath the decanter, careful not to spill the remains of Grange’s drink in the process. I transferred them to my knee. They were, it seemed, a series of bizarre colour photographs.
    Clearly the subject was Grange himself, sitting in a repeated pose across six photographs: a head-and-shoulders shot. His expression was decidedly serious, perhaps even vacant, as he stared, unseeing, into the lens of the camera. The photographs had clearly been taken in sequence; although his pose had not altered, there were minute alterations in the curve of his lips, the direction of his eyes. Most unusual, however, was what could be seen above Grange’s head.
    In every print there were strange shapes and cloudy patterns, like some sort of gaseous aura surrounding the man. The pattern changed from photograph to photograph, but it was clearly present in all of them. I peered more closely. Within these patterns were striations, segregated bands like the pattern of a rainbow, and just as colourful. They were unlike anything I had ever seen. How the photographer had managed to achieve such colour and vibrancy in his prints, I could not say.
    “What do you make of these?” I said to Foulkes, holding them aloft.
    He turned, saw what I was looking at and crossed the room to stand over me, looking down on the photographs. “Yes. Damned unusual, aren’t they?” he said. “Some sort of double exposure, I presume. A sequence of portraits that have gone wrong.”
    I shook my head. “I don’t think so, no. Look at Grange himself. His image is sharp and clearly in focus. If the photographs were double exposed, it would be evident here, as well. And besides, look at his countenance, his posture. He’s not posing for a studio portrait. It’s as if he’s not really there. He looks – well,
haunted
, I suppose. He doesn’t look engaged. No, this is something else.”
    “Then what?” said