Free The Adventure of the Manufactured Miracle (The Midwinter Mysteries of Sherlock Holmes Book 1) by Craig Janacek Page A

to last. “Hark!” said Holmes suddenly. “What is this I hear? An excitable knocking upon the front door! Certainly no caroler calling upon Mrs. Hudson ever beat with such anxiety.” He strode over to the window and glanced down upon the street. “Ah, yes. No public cab for this client. A nice little brougham and a pair of fine horses. Perhaps not fit to draw a king, but there’s money in this case, Watson, that’s for certain.”
    A light but rapid step was then heard upon the stairs and in the passage, before our door was thrown open without so much as a knock. This revealed a woman of about fifty, tall, slender, and striking, with a face that still possessed features that suggested she was once a commanding beauty. Her complexion was somewhat dark, with brilliant brown eyes, arched eyebrows, a well-formed aquiline nose, pearl-white teeth, and long sable tresses. She was dressed in a somber yet rich style, her grey dress covered by a full-length fur coat. Her face was flushed with emotion and for a moment I feared that she may faint.
    I quickly sprang into action and guided her to a seat. Despite the earliness of the hour, I then fetched a brandy from the sideboard. [4] When I placed it in her hand, she smiled at me faintly.
    “Now, now, pray take a moment,” said Holmes solicitously.
    She nodded and then took a small sip of the brandy before setting it aside. She folded her hands in her lap and took a deep breath, which appeared to settle her. She studied both of us and appeared to quickly determine our respective identities. Holmes leaned forward in his armchair with obvious anticipation, and once she had recovered, her narration proceeded with admirable clarity.
    “Thank you, Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson. You are most kind. My name is Mrs. Rebecca Lowe. My husband is Dr. Benjamin Lowe, who is on the staff at St. Bartholomew’s Hospital [5] and the Hospital for Sick Children on Great Ormond Street.” [6]
    “Ah, yes,” I interjected. “I have heard of your husband. He is reputed to be a fine physician.”
    She appeared to become a bit choked up at this, but soon rallied. “Thank you for those kind words, Dr. Watson,” said she, nodding at me. “Recently, he has been treating a patient by the name of Mr. Clement Vaughan, a former jeweler, who lives on Vere Street. [7] Of late, Mr. Vaughan has been fading and my husband despaired for his life. Benjamin was called to Vaughan’s house yesterday afternoon, and remained there tending to him until shortly before dinner. When he returned home, I sensed absolutely nothing amiss. We went about our regular evening activities of dinner and reading, and turned in at our regular time. However, around 5 o’clock this morning we were awakened by a rough pounding upon the door. My husband threw upon his dressing-gown and hurried downstairs to see what the matter was. Although he is often called away to see to ailing clients, for some reason I had a foreboding that this call seemed different. I anxiously awaited his return to our bedroom, for I knew that even in the most urgent circumstances he would need to complete his dress before he could go out to tend to a patient. Typically, he would have any messenger wait for him in the hall, so imagine my shock when I heard the front door open again and then slam close with a grim finality. I sprang from the bed, and hurried to the window just in time to see a pair of uniformed constables forcing my husband into a four-wheeled police wagon. Stunned, I stood there and watched them drive away, until they turned the corner and were lost to sight. Shaking off my stupor, I hurriedly changed into the clothes I now wear and made all haste downstairs. My plan was to inquire about my husband’s whereabouts at the nearest constabulary, but I was spared this search by the presence of a plain-clothed inspector outside my door. He was a little sallow, rat-faced, dark-eyed fellow scribbling in a battered notepad. He looked up only to cruelly