Free The Confidential Casebook of Sherlock Holmes by Marvin Kaye

Henry Baskerville at The Continental Club, his residence when he is in London. We had not seen each other since before Holmes’s death, and I was glad to see him looking well. He has gained some weight since I last saw him, andlost that ruddy, weather-beaten appearance. He is a short man and he looked directly up into my eyes as he heartily shook my hand and took pains to let me know how grateful he is to Holmes for having saved his life.
    He showed me around the club, which was quite grand and once the home of a member of the Royal Household. I had been there years ago with Holmes, and was pleased to see that not much had changed. The service is the best that I’ve ever experienced, one barely has time to recognize a desire than to find it instantly fulfilled. The staff is so discreet that they are almost invisible.
    After a search, we found the suite that I remembered, The India Room. Enjoying myself fully, I admired the dark woodwork and comfortable atmosphere of the place. As I paused to admire the stuffed head of an immense water buffalo mounted on the wall, a chair upholstered in red Moroccan leather was placed behind my knees. Moments later a cigar materialized from out of nowhere and was lit without my having to so much as turn my head. Throughout the evening brandy never seemed to disappear from my glass.
    All this magic was performed by an army of servants who lurk silently in corners, quite invisible until they sense the faintest hint that they are needed. A few seem to have been with the place all their lives, as they are quite ancient. One fine old fellow called Warrington was especially attentive to us.
    Sir Henry has completely recovered from the trauma of his cousin Roger’s—whom I still think of as “Stapleton”—attempts on his life, and I quite enjoyed his quick wit and amusing company. He is in love. The lady in question, Abigail Ferncliffe, is a young woman from an old and wealthy family. The “Fecund Ferncliffes” I have heard them called, for Abigail is the youngest of twelve brothers and sisters and has something like thirty-five nephews and nieces. Apparently even such an abundant population hasn’t been able to deplete the family fortune. The joke going around is that with this union, the House of Baskerville (which has died out but for Sir Henry) will soon have an abundance of heirs.
    Much of the evening was spent with him extolling his fiancée’scharms, but toward the end he asked me about my limp. I told him about the coach that came out of nowhere and almost ran me over. He expressed his sympathy and asked when it had occurred.
    â€œApril 28th,” I remembered. “A ghastly night.”
    â€œAh. Rain, with flashes of lightning,” he said promptly. “An hour before sunset, London was as dark as midnight.”
    â€œAmazing!” I exclaimed. “How did you remember?”
    â€œThat was the day my engagement was formally announced. Notice in
The Times
, party at her father’s home. I remember every detail of the day.”
    Then the conversation turned to how perilous life could be in London these days, and I told him about the attack on Lestrade at the theatre. “It was around the anniversary of Holmes’s death. I suppose Lestrade was determined to cheer me up, for he bought a pair of tickets to hear Miss Lotte Collins sing. It certainly seemed to cheer old Lestrade—he quite enjoyed the show! I think his inviting me was just an excuse to go himself. After the performance we were walking down a dark street not far from the theatre (with Lestrade whistling
Ta ra ra boom de yea
, if I recall rightly), when some fellow stepped out of the shadows and fired a pistol at Lestrade’s head. Missed him, of course.”
    â€œGood Lord! What fellow?”
    â€œNo idea, couldn’t see his face.”
    â€œPerhaps he was upset by Lestrade’s voice,” Sir Henry joked.
    I laughed, because on the rare