Sherlock Holmes Murder Most Foul by Gordon Punter Read Free Book Online Page B

Watson.”
    He leans across the table and switches a dessert spoon for a fork in front of a seated Watson.
    Watson smiles to himself, “Working again, Holmes?”
    Holmes seats himself opposite Watson, “Why, of course.”
    Watson shakes his head, amused.
    Slightly raising a silver plated dome cover, Holmes peers under the condiment.
    Watson chuckles, “Goose, Holmes. And it is quite dead.”
    Holmes glances at Watson and smiles, “Cooked to perfection, no doubt.” He replaces the condiment, “Put yourself in her place, my dear fellow. What better company could a solitary Mrs Hudson have than two semi-retired gentlemen like us?”
    Watson fidgets in his chair, “Speak for yourself, Holmes. I have a medical practice to run.”
    Holmes shakes open a napkin, “Therefore, in order to keep us here, Mrs Hudson will continue to indulge us with her cooking.”
    Watson stares at Holmes quizzically, “Are you all right, Holmes?”
    Holmes raises a corrective finger, “A part-time medical practice overseen by your associate Dr Sleeman, Watson. How else could you spare the time for our…”
    Holmes catches sight of his somewhat distorted face reflected in the silver plated condiment.
    Inexplicably mesmerised, he sombrely stares at himself.
    The pale sardonic face of Moriarty, equally distorted, gradually appears, superimposing itself upon his likeness. Merging as one, the bizarre double image blurs and then dissipates, leaving nothing, not even the reflection of Holmes.
    Watson snatches away the condiment, revealing a roasted goose, “Holmes, for heaven’s sake, what ails you?”
    Jolted out of his melancholy mood, Holmes throws down his napkin, rises from his chair and turns away from the table.
    Quickly, Watson stands, “Holmes, wait! The Reichenbach Falls, remember?”
    Holmes pauses, “How can I forget? There is nothing else.”
    Watson replaces the condiment, “Be advised, Holmes, to dwell in the past is to forfeit the future. You are alive. You survived for a purpose, to uphold and preserve justice.”
    Holmes turns to Watson and smiles gratefully, “Thanks to you, dear fellow.”
    Watson retorts, “Yes, thanks to me. Where is your gratitude?”
    Holmes gently pats the left side of his chest and smiles warmly.
    Embarrassed to a certain degree, Watson coughs and clears his throat, “Thank you. Now, please sit down. Our supper is getting cold.”
    Holmes resumes his place at the dining-table, “Do you treat all your patients the same way?”
    Watson casually removes the silver plated condiment, “Only one particular person.” He picks up a carving knife and fork, “Thinly sliced, as usual?”
    Holmes nods in agreement and then drops two theatre tickets on the dinner plate in front of Watson, “Norma Neruda plays [76] Chopin at the [77] Adelphi tomorrow night.”
    Holding the carving knife and fork before him, Watson stares at the tickets, “Chopin, Holmes?”
    Holmes picks up his napkin, “Yes, Watson. His music will be a tribute to your birthday tomorrow.”
    Watson lowers the carving knife and fork, “Oh, Holmes. About my outburst.”
    Holmes leans back in his chair, “I was scolded and deservedly so. Now, my dear fellow, the goose, it is getting cold.”
    Watson pierces the goose with the carving fork, “With five roast potatoes?”
    Holmes smiles, “As usual.”
     
     
     

 
     
     
    Chapter 3
     
    Mr Sherlock Holmes Investigates
     
     
     
    Covering only a square mile and comprised of the foul, rotting rookeries of Spitalfields, the district of Whitechapel contains one hundred and forty-nine registered doss-houses, offering a nightly sanctuary to eight thousand, five hundred deprived souls, of which one thousand, two hundred are prostitutes.
    Often called ‘the poor man’s hotel’, there are many types of doss-houses, but each and every one has one thing in common: from the smallest hovel to the larger monstrosities, all are utterly devoid of any hygienic amenities, merely providing the