The Strange Return of Sherlock Holmes by Barry Grant Read Free Book Online Page A

Bundle.
    â€˜We must ponder that possibility,’ said Coombes. He leant back in his seat, closed his eyes, and pressed his fingers together. He did not speak for the rest of the short journey. But when we reached Chancery Lane Coombes said to Bundle, ‘By the way, sergeant, could Lydia be the girl’s name that the victim mentioned to Mr Twembley?’
    â€˜Yes, yes, that was it!’ cried Bundle. ‘ Lydia , yes. Where did you see that name, sir?’
    â€˜Just a guess, Bundle, just a guess.’
    That evening Coombes was much changed. He was no longer depressed. He seemed alternately in a state of alert agitation, meditative calm, and reflective melancholy. He sat in front of the fire with his fingers pressed together, staring into the flames or up at the ceiling. All at once he sprang from his chair – as if he had been tied there and suddenly burst his bonds – and he began to pace the floor mercilessly, wall to wall, around and around. Suddenly he stopped. A faraway look invaded his face. His shoulders fell a little, as if an unwelcome thought had just overtaken him. He turned to me and said, ‘Do you think they really need me on this case, Wilson? Or are Bundle and my Scotland Yard contact merely concocting therapy?’
    â€˜Therapy?’ I said, looking up from my book.
    â€˜Therapy for an old man, yes.’
    â€˜I haven’t the foggiest idea what you are talking about. Whatever can you mean, Coombes? You say the strangest things sometimes. I begin to wonder if you are keeping some deep dark secret from the world.’
    â€˜Perhaps I am, Wilson,’ said he, in a faraway voice. ‘Perhaps I am.’
    â€˜Who is this mysterious contact of yours at Scotland Yard? And what has he to do with Sergeant Bundle? Bundle is always referring to your famous contact – with a wink wink , and a nod nod . I am not a terribly clever man, Coombes, but I do pick up on the obvious.’
    Coombes stalked back and forth across the floor with renewed anxiety, rubbing the back of his neck with his hand. ‘Yes, yes, I doubt you could help me unless you knew all the facts.’
    â€˜I don’t wish to pry into any man’s secrets,’ I said. ‘But I have wondered why the police should be consulting you on a murder case. I’ve been baffled from the beginning. A common man such as me needs to be provided with a few facts before he can judge a matter.’
    â€˜Quite so, quite so.’
    â€˜If ever you wish to tell me what your connection is with this mysterious “Scotland Yard” contact, I’d be very glad to listen.’
    For a moment he paused in front of the fire and seemed about to tell me something. Then he walked on, at a gentler pace, still rubbing his neck. ‘It is a very long story, Watson . . .’
    â€˜Wilson.’
    â€˜I could hardly expect you to believe it even if I dared tell you.’
    There we left it, for the time being.

FOUR
    Suspicions of the Impossible
    I did not sleep well that night. Coombes reminded me of someone. How very odd! More and more I had the feeling he was a person I had once known well – perhaps in Afghanistan, or in schooldays at Eton, or even back in the early days of childhood in my father’s garden. The notion grew on me that Coombes had been not merely a remote acquaintance but someone I had been more or less intimately acquainted with. Stuff and nonsense! Impossible. Very odd, though. Perhaps I felt this way only because I was living in a retirement dream where nothing seemed entirely real, living in a town that was a fairy tale – a Kingdom of Books! I wandered through its crooked streets as if under a spell, navigating into tiny bookshops where I hoped to meet Mr Pickwick, or Miss Havisham, then prowling through a gloomy castle heaped with books so ruinously mouldy that I scarcely dared touch them for fear of being poisoned. I began to wonder if the horrors of