Free The Confidential Casebook of Sherlock Holmes by Marvin Kaye Page A

occasion that I have heard Lestrade sing, I’ve considered shooting him myself. Making light of the attack, I said how lucky I was to have been run down by that coach so that I was still armed with my cane. “I struck the fellow’s hand with it and took out after Lestrade, who chased him down an alley. We never caught him, though.”
    â€œI’m glad no one was hurt,” Sir Henry said after we stopped chuckling and the invisible Warrington had refilled our glasses and relit my cigar. “And if Lotte Collins is that good, perhaps I’ll take Abigail to see her.”
    â€œOh, I think not,” I said, sobering. “Too risque for young ladies, if you know what I mean.” To change the subject I said, “Here, this is what I drove the fellow off with,” and showed him my cane. “Holmes gave me this. Heavy enough for a cudgel. And see, inside it has a little compass. And twist this and out comes . . .” and I showed him the Italian stiletto. “And here in the center, turn this silver cylinder and look! A little flask for brandy! It was one of Holmes’s favorite things,” I added, letting Sir Henry examine it. “He always loved gadgets.”
    â€œWhat a noble mind he had,” Sir Henry said sadly. “What a fine, if peculiar, character.”
    I found myself in danger of being overwhelmed by emotion. “I could desire nothing more in the world than to sit in this odd, overstuffed chair where Holmes once sat,” I told Sir Henry with perfect sincerity, “and talk with you about your future with Abigail and my past with Sherlock.”
    â€œWell supplied with cigars and brandy,” my host added, lifting his glass to touch mine.
    â€œTo past and future,” I said and I quite meant it, feeling happy for Sir Henry and nostalgic for myself all at the same time.
    As I left, old Warrington caught my eye for a moment, then glanced quickly downward. I blamed myself for talking so openly before a servant, even an invisible one, but he was most discreet as he showed me out of the club. As the heavy front door swung silently open, I gasped with surprise. The shadowy figure of a woman quickly turned away and fled down the stairs. Old Warrington was so startled by her sudden appearance that for a moment I thought he would fall down. I even put out a hand to steady him, but he jerked himself upright and very properly wished me a good evening.
    â€œSteady, Watson,”
a strangely familiar voice whispered in my head.
“What’s this?”
    Several days later, Sir Henry generously invited my wife and me to dine with him in the Ferncliffe city residence to meet his fiancée and prospective father-in-law. Abigail Ferncliffe is indeed abeautiful young woman, and whether or not her family line is as fertile as it is reputed to be, her charms are every bit as alluring as Sir Henry indicated. Her father, the old Baronet, was cordial and hearty, a country man who enjoys horses and good port. It would have been an entertaining evening, for life in the country has not dulled the Ferncliffe wits, but Sir Henry spoiled everything. He seemed happy to welcome my wife and myself, but shortly after our arrival he stepped out of the room for a moment, and when he returned he seemed a different man.
    I can hear Holmes now.
“What do you mean a different man, Watson? Surely you mean he was the same man, but something was different about him. What was it? Can you think?”
I think that when Baskerville returned to the room he seemed disturbed. He was not attentive to Abigail, who was plainly hurt when she whispered something in his ear and he answered her curtly, staring into space.
    â€œHow long was he gone from the room?”
Yes, of course, that’s it, what could have happened when he left the room that changed him so? But I don’t know. He wasn’t gone long enough to have done anything, barely long enough to have combed his hair. Or