Free THE IRREGULAR CASEBOOK OF SHERLOCK HOLMES by Ron Weighell Page A

until this winter. One morning I found that most of the poppies essential for my distillations had died. Some blight or pest had wiped them out. Once more my supply of the potion would run out, but this time I feared I could produce no more. You know what followed.
    ‘On my last visit to Karl, I had poured out all my troubles, as I always did, and told him of my fears. Before the end of my visit he had begun to show signs of distress, though there was no way of knowing the cause. I now realise that he had understood, and sought the first opportunity to escape and make his way here.’
    ‘Too late,’ croaked a hoarse, faint voice, dry with years of unuse.
    Sherlock Holmes showed no emotion but shook his head and replied in a level tone.
    ‘Not too late. I would say just in the nick of time.’
     
    Once more in the warmth and comfort of Baker Street, Sherlock Holmes stirred up a good blaze in the hearth and settled back in his favourite armchair.
    ‘Your conclusions concerning the other unmentioned son were right as far as they went, Watson, but left certain questions unanswered. Freya claimed her stepmother was trying to kill her. Why would it take so long? She could have been poisoned in days or weeks, and would not still be healthy after decades. Clearly her interpretation that the drugs she was being given had harmful intent could not be correct. It seemed more likely to be treatment for some regularly occurring malady. Do you remember how upset Mrs Sturleson was when she told us of the death of her Tibetan blossoms? More than she would have been over a mere hobby. And the death of those flowers occurred around the time when the “werewolf” began to appear.
    ‘My memories of Tibet may have been prompted by Mrs Sturleson’s clothing and conservatory, but a mind trained to analyse goes on analysing even when one is not conscious of the process, and rarely fixes on anything that is not germane to the matter in hand. I simply applied my Everest experiences to the present matter.
    ‘For instance, my vision of Moriarty was so real, but it was a symptom of my own mental state. Freya had claimed to “see” a werewolf, but was it any more external to her than Moriarty was to me? What if it were a symptom of her malady? I also considered the general assumption that the mountain man of Tibet was a dangerous monster. That had proved false. In fact the killer was a quite different, and altogether unexpected, person. What if the “werewolf” was not the person you suspected, and had been blamed for the clandestine activities of another less likely culprit?
    ‘The theft of a knife made of silver, the material traditionally anathema to werewolves, and faint marks of dirty wet soles on the floor by the cutlery cabinet, forewarned me that someone had arrived from outside, and was taking an extreme hand in the matter. You prompted my realisation of the significance of the silver knife by your comment that no one would steal a single item among so many if it were merely for gain. Only after I realised there was a world unseen and unexplored above our heads did it occur to me that Freya, devoted, doting Freya, had a room next door to her father. In other words, on the top floor and only a short scramble from the roof.’
    ‘One thing still haunts me, Holmes. Can there really be such a thing as a werewolf? The body on the roof was that of a young girl, yet only seconds before, the thing that attacked you was more like a ferocious beast than a human being. I have sought for a rational explanation, but I can think of no more fitting description for what I saw than a werewolf! How can that be?’
    ‘Oh Watson, Watson! The vanity of Humankind! Our time on this planet has been but the blink of an eye. Only yesterday our ancestors emerged from caves and gazed out over dense forests and endless plains that teemed with the claws and teeth of sudden death. Every living thing was a potential threat or a potential victim, every day a