Free Gaslight Grimoire: Fantastic Tales of Sherlock Holmes by Jeff Campbell, Charles Prepolec

go to the door once and take a note from a street urchin, but had not inquired what it meant at the time.
    Gregson nodded. “The culprit is in that house, I am sure you are right, but let us be clear, gentlemen, this is a ruthless, ambitious man. The fact he knew the location of Pethebridge’s secret exit-way suggests that he knew of its existence beforehand, and that tells me that Pethebridge was likely his accomplice.”
    Holmes clapped the inspector on the shoulder. “Yes, Pethebridge was to authenticate the fakes, not expose them, but some dispute between the two men destroyed their plan.”
    We quietly approached the house. Lights were on, but no sound could be heard. Gregson and his officer went first, and knocked on the door.
    Amazingly it swung open at their touch. They paused, listening, but no sound came, so with the two official men at the front the four of us entered the house.
    The place was almost bereft of furnishings, save for the living room where a chair and table gave the room some sense of habitation, and a roaring fire filled the grate. On the mantelpiece, over the fire, there rested an unbroken arrow just like the one that had killed Pethebridge, and above the arrow, on the wall, hung a framed photo of a collection of soldiers and native tribesman loosely gathered around together. I studied it carefully and found myself rudely surprised. I turned to Holmes. I felt ill, I felt as if I did not know what I was talking about, but the words tumbled from my lips as if forced.
    “This man in the centre, the one in local garb — Holmes, he’s the man who came looking for you this morning! Faroukhan! He is much older now, but that is him, I’m certain.”
    Holmes seemed stunned. “Watson, I dare say you are right, and this bodes poorly for us. I fear that what you say means he meant me ill, that he knew I would be consulted in a case like this. Can a man this well prepared be caught off guard by such an obvious approach as we have just made? Perhaps we had better—”
    There was a blood-curdling cry and I turned.
    Faroukhan stood in the room with a scimitar raised before him.
    He lunged at Holmes with the weapon but the detective dived for the floor. The blade followed, but was stopped by the table, and sent wood splintering in all directions. The sword-wielder turned to me, and I felt my life was to end there. He shook his head, actually looking at me with sadness, when without warning, Gregson’s pistol sounded three times, and bullets tore through Faroukhan’s neck and chest. He seemed struck with disbelief but still he clutched the sword. Again, he turned towards me, this time he did move forward, but only to collapse against me, his fingers grasping for my coat.
    Faroukhan’s lips parted one last time, but only to spill frothy blood while his eyes pleaded with me. He died then, his hands so tightly locked on my shirt-front that I had to pry them free. In one was an object that I could feel before I even looked at it. I was struck with a desire to conceal it, to examine later, when the horror of this moment was behind me. I discreetly pocketed the item.
    “An ugly, demented affair, old fellow. The anxiety of which I should have been able to spare you, had I been less concerned with my own sense of drama,” Holmes said. “Forgive me, old friend, I am not yet used to having you at my side again.”
    I did not know what to say, but there was much going through my mind. I was silent until we arrived back in Baker Street, where I then excused myself to have an early night.
    Before I went to bed I looked at the triangular piece of stone that I had earlier secreted in my pocket; it was identical to the one I had found on our own mantel.
    That night I slept fitfully. After struggling for several hours I arose, and in the darkness I dressed and went quietly out into the night. At first I just walked the city’s thoroughfares aimlessly, but eventually found myself standing before the empty house in