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

Afghanistan were with me still, causing me to hallucinate.
    I opened my eyes to a bright morning. As I shaved I could smell toast, tea. Coombes had been up for hours, apparently. I resisted the temptation to be the first to say good morning . I poured myself a cup of Earl Grey, sat down before the cold fire, and sipped.
    Coombes was staring at the wall, evidently deep in contemplation. He appeared to spend half his life energetically gathering facts and details, the other half sitting in a stupor while processing those facts in his brain. I had to admit that I liked the man, cold and analytical as he was. He seemed to mean well. When he wasn’t impatiently seeking out more facts, he was genial enough. When his strange, cold passions made him, for a moment, rude, he was always ready to see his fault and apologize. Yet his strange silences and occasional dramatic poses seemed at times to border on affectation. I found them annoying. I sipped the Earl Grey and made the slightest move to reach for my book, intending to go read it on the patio. But Coombes stopped me with a sudden cry. ‘You know, Wilson, this case has some very singular features!’
    â€˜Horrible,’ I said. ‘A literal blood bath.’
    â€˜It has rejuvenated me enormously,’ he said.
    â€˜I’ve noticed that,’ I said, feeling a twinge of revulsion.
    He sprang from his chair and almost sprinted to the window, hopping slightly on his injured leg. ‘I wish I had a pipe,’ he said.
    â€˜If you smoke I’ll be obliged to move out,’ I said.
    â€˜Oh, I shan’t smoke ever again. My London doctor strictly prohibits it and I wouldn’t wish to disappoint him after he has worked so hard. I have an appointment with him next week, and he would find me out.’ Coombes laughed.
    â€˜I thought you had an appointment with him just a few weeks ago. Are you ill, Coombes?’
    â€˜Not ill – though I ought to be. I feel perfectly healthy, apart from my injured leg, but he has good reasons for wishing to check on me once a month.’
    I let this cryptic statement pass. I stood up and poured another cup of tea. ‘Well, tell me, Coombes, have you cracked the case for Sergeant Bundle?’
    â€˜Not cracked it, I’m afraid, though the general outlines of the crime are clear enough.’
    â€˜Well, I’m certain Sergeant Bundle will be happy to hear any theory you may have,’ I said. ‘He appeared to be completely at sea.’
    â€˜Ah, poor Bundle. He is one of those blustering, ambitious sorts who grabs on to things with great gusto and heaves each detail, willy-nilly, into the scales of judgement. But as he does so he is apt to drop facts and crush evidence and inadvertently leave his thumb on the scale as he weighs the evidence. He has not the delicacy of touch or refinement of mind to nudge the truth out of trifles. He is boisterous and willing, but lacks true talent.’
    It was just this sort of supercilious comment that sometimes rubbed me the wrong way and made me wonder what sort of man Coombes really was. ‘Come, now, Coombes. The man was doing his job. I rather like him.’
    â€˜He is a splendid fellow,’ said Coombes. ‘He has a big heart and he does his best. I would even go so far as to say that in certain crude situations he is just the man who can . . . well, speak of the Devil.’
    A uniformed blur appeared beyond the whorled leaded panes of our sitting room. A moment later Sergeant Bundle filled the small doorway, loomed into the room, and joined us for tea.
    â€˜Just a wee cup,’ said he, rubbing his hands together. ‘And then I must be on my way. Mr Coombes, I have come for the book. The crime lab wishes to take prints from the cover – I know you have been very careful with it.’
    â€˜Very careful,’ said Coombes. ‘I have kept my prints off of it.’
    â€˜We are thorough, Mr Coombes. Our department