Free The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes: The Whitechapel Horrors by Edward B. Hanna

20

Six

    S ATURDAY , S EPTEMBER 8, 1888
    “It is a capital mistake to theorize before one has data. Insensibly one begins to twist facts to suit theories, instead of theories to suit facts.”
    — A Scandal in Bohemia
    W atson emerged from his bath wrapped in dressing gown and towel to find Holmes, still occupied with his chemical apparatus, hunched over the cluttered, acid-stained deal table in the corner, test tube poised over Bunsen burner, totally oblivious to the pungent odors issuing forth from his efforts. He had been thus engaged since their return from Whitechapel over an hour earlier, hardly pausing to remove his suit coat, which was still draped untidily over a chair where he had flung it. When Watson returned from dressing ten minutes later Holmes was gone, a thin blue layer of haze the only sign in the room that he had been there at all.
    It was not until considerably later in the afternoon that he reappeared, his expression troubled and thoughtful. His only response to Watson’s questioning look when he walked through the door was a shake of thehead and a curt wave of dismissal. Clearly he was in no frame of mind for questions or conversation. He fell into his chair, placed a finger to his lips, and lapsed into deep thought.
    When he finally did speak some little while later, it was in a quiet, subdued manner, his words hesitant, uncertain — so uncharacteristic of him as to cause Watson to look over in surprise, his attention gained as readily as if Holmes had shouted.
    “This is most disturbing,” Holmes murmured, shaking his head. “Most disquieting. I cannot credit it at all.”
    “You’ve been unable to discover the origin of the cigarette?” asked Watson.
    Holmes gave him a contemptuous sidelong look. “To the contrary, all too easily. I had only to visit three tobacconists in Belgravia before ascertaining the manufacturer. It was Grover’s, of course.”
    “Good Lord!” Watson looked at him with widened eyes.
    G. Grover, Tobacconist, conducted a highly successful trade from a fashionable shop in Buckingham Palace Road not far from the palace itself, a discreet plaque over the door proclaiming, BY APPOINTMENT TO HRH THE PRINCE OF WALES. Largely as a result of the prince’s patronage, Grover’s had an exclusive clientele that included many of the most prominent names in England, among them peers of the realm, of course, and individuals highly placed at court and in government.
    “As I suspected,” said Holmes, “the cigarette is made from a particular blend of fine Virginia tobaccos with an almost imperceptible touch of Turkish. Chemical analysis reveals that it is cured with brandy, would you believe — unusual in a cigarette tobacco. All very easy to trace, of course, as was the cigarette paper, which is manufactured exclusively for Grover’s use. This specific blend was identified by their manager immediately — he hardly had to look it up to confirm it: It’sprepared especially for one client, and one client only.”
    Watson leaned forward in his chair expectantly. “And that would be?”
    But Holmes did not reply. Instead, he gazed pointedly up at the ceiling, and for a moment Watson wondered if he had even heard the question. Finally Holmes drawled: “I think it would be best, old man, if I kept that knowledge to myself.”
    Watson was startled by Holmes’s response, his curt, even cutting response — and more than a little hurt. It was rare for Holmes to keep anything from him, to deny him at least a civil reply, no matter how delicate the question or ticklish or touchy the matter at hand. But more than that, his remark had been made in such an offhand manner, in a tone so aloof, so patronizing, that had it come from anyone else it would have been grossly insulting. As it was, Watson did take umbrage, did feel some resentment. Color rising in his cheeks, he looked down at his hands to cover his confusion.
    An awkward, embarrassed silence fell between them, and Holmes rose