THE IRREGULAR CASEBOOK OF SHERLOCK HOLMES by Ron Weighell Read Free Book Online Page A

the ancestral curse and the savage beast were reminiscent of one of our strangest cases. But come, there is no time to be lost. We must make a search of the house and be certain that nothing has been overlooked.’
    During the hours that followed, Sherlock Holmes stalked through every room, examining, measuring, comparing the internal and external dimensions of the house to eliminate the possibility of hidden spaces.
    ‘Do I take it from your search for a hiding place that you suspect some unseen hand in this, Holmes?’
    ‘I have reached no conclusions yet, Watson. I merely seek to exclude impossibilities.’
    ‘And whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.’
    Holmes shrugged. ‘I suppose so, Watson. Though when I said that I did not have werewolves in mind! Now as to our course of action, shall we watch the suspects? Mrs Sturleson? The Tantric path is a dark and sinister one, but hardly constitutes proof that she is a murderess. In any case, what use would we be against—what did she call it—an astral body? Is the doting father more mobile than he pretends? Is his obsession with a curse a harmless eccentricity, or a sign of dangerous unbalance? There are too many variables here. So let us forget the culprit and guard the most likely victim. Let us see. First Miss Sturleson’s pet is killed, then her beloved brother. It is not unreasonable to conclude that she is, herself, the next victim. I think we could do worse than to keep an eye on the young lady’s room tonight.’
    We ascertained that a room close to Miss Sturleson’s was vacant, and it was agreed that I should wait there with my revolver at the ready. Holmes insisted on taking up a position outside the house, where he could watch the only other means of ingress, the window.
    On taking up my post, I looked out of my window. It was a bitterly cold night, the moon large and bright against driving rags of cloud that ran before a north-east wind. There had been a light fall of snow earlier, deepening the carpet on the lawns to a frozen crust that broke with sharp detonations, audible through the panes, as Holmes trudged into view and took up his position by the wall.
    Two hours later I looked again, and he had not moved an inch. Had I not seen his arrival, I would have taken him for a statue.
    I fear that I had dropped into a fitful doze when a shrill cry rang through the house. I was on my feet and out of the room, revolver at the ready, before I had realised that the cry had not been that of a woman. Even as I stood undecided, Holmes came bounding up the stairs, the blade of an unsheathed swordstick glinting in the lamplight.
    ‘It came from the studio, Watson.’
    Holmes was soon battering at the studio door. From beyond the unyielding panels came cries of agony and fear. We threw our combined weight against the door, but it held. Before our second assault a silence fell in the studio. Again the door withstood our charge. At our third attempt the frame splintered and we fell into the room. At once Holmes closed the door and jammed a chair under the handle to prevent anyone else from entering.
    I will never forget the sight that met our eyes. I had thought Marie Kelly’s room in Mitre Square a shambles, but this was worse. Sturleson’s remains lay half on the floor, half on that weirdly magnificent couch. In the moonlight everything glittered blackly with blood. I have seen terrible injuries in war, but nothing to equal the carnage of that place. And on every side, the gaping jaws of wolves slavered from blood-spattered canvases. A superstitious dread fell on me then, for what had been done in that room was the work of a beast, not a human being.
    Holmes looked even more shocked than I. Carefully skirting the growing blood pool, he peered out of the window and shook his head.
    ‘I do not understand Watson. This was not—well, it is too late now; we must go and check the house and grounds.’
    Pausing only to tell Dodds to lock the door to