Free A Farewell to Baker Street by Mark Mower Page B

Moriarty. He is constantly risking exposure and relying on criminal associates who show him no loyalty. And he has not been Machiavellian enough to rule as the Professor did. It will only be a matter of time before he slips again, and when he does, I shall be waiting.”
    With that, Holmes refused to elaborate any further on the exploits of Edwin Halvergate. We moved on to talk about the audacious crime that had taken place two days before, which was still dominating the headlines of most provincial newspapers. Namely, the theft of the Football Association Challenge Cup - an expensive silver trophy which had been taken from a shop window display in Birmingham and, for which, the police had offered a £10 reward. Holmes told me in confidence that he had already offered his services in the pursuit of the thief or thieves, and had yet to hear from the Birmingham City Police who had, thus far, chosen to pursue the case on their own.
    ***
    It was in early December of that same year that Edwin Halvergate was to occupy Holmes’ thoughts once more. And, ironically, it was the still missing FA Cup that was to have a bearing on the events that followed.
    I had just returned home one Friday from a visit to an elderly patient in Kensington whose neuralgia I had been treating for the previous six months. As I put my key into the lock of the door, I was greeted by a short telegram boy who had just arrived by bicycle. Having established that I was the intended recipient, he thrust a telegram into my hand and asked me to sign his log book to confirm that the message had been delivered. When I had stepped inside and relieved myself of my heavy medical bag, I opened the telegram. It read: ‘ Impending visit from Birmingham Police... come to BS immediately = SH .’
    I smirked at Holmes’ brevity. In his customary manner, he had shown little regard for the fact that I had a business to run and patients to attend. Fortuitously, I had no other calls of an urgent nature, so acceded to his request that afternoon and hailed a cab a short while later. When I reached Baker Street, Mrs Hudson greeted me warmly and relieved me of my coat, hat and scarf before whispering that an ‘Inspector Walcott’ had arrived not twenty minutes earlier and was already seated with Holmes. I smiled and nodded my thanks.
    When I entered the study, Inspector Walcott rose from his seat and extended me a very cordial welcome. He was a thickset man in his late-forties, with thinning hair and bushy grey whiskers and sideburns, and wore a loose-fitting tweed suit with brown ankle boots. His cheeks were flushed, but his eyes bright and alert. A broad smile was etched across his craggy features and a large, bulbous nose hinted at his inclination towards strong liquor. I could see that Holmes had already drawn the same conclusion, for a large whisky glass sat on the small chestnut table to our guest’s side. Holmes, I noted, had not joined him in partaking of the single malt.
    Walcott’s accent was as distinct as it was deep. There was no mistaking his Black Country inflection, but the intonation was but a low growl, accentuated by a wheezy breathlessness which forced him to clear his throat or cough every three or four sentences. He was clearly not a man in the best of health, but seemed unconcerned and certainly jovial enough.
    With the introductions concluded, Holmes offered to provide me with a short précis of the reason for Walcott’s visit: “Watson, the good inspector has brought us some interesting news. You will recall our earlier deliberations over the criminal aspirations of a certain Edwin Halvergate, the would-be gang master and one-time poet?”
    â€œYes, indeed,” I replied, noting that Walcott had raised an eyebrow at the mention of Halvergate’s poetic inclinations.
    â€œWell, I have reason to believe that Halvergate has been trying to extend his influence beyond the capital and into the heart of the