Free The Problem of Threadneedle Street (The Assassination of Sherlock Holmes Book 2) by Craig Janacek Page B

him. The villains were practicing a moon-less run last night, when the man must have heard too much, or became suspicious of their plans. He was therefore jettisoned over the fields of Runnymede.”
    “But, Mr. Holmes,” cried Lestrade, “would not the Army know if one of their balloons suddenly went missing?”
    “Not if they made their own,” I pointed out.
    Holmes looked thoughtful and remained in silence for some moments. “Well, Watson, there is this to be said for your theory. It does tie together many of our loose threads. It explains why the goldbeater’s skin was stolen and what was hidden in that Lambeth Gardens shed. It even explains the theft of Mr. Mac’s hydrogen gas. But it still does not tell us who is behind this masterful plot. I don’t suppose, Lestrade, you have any more peculiar crimes that you have yet to share with us?”
    “Well, now that you mention it, Mr. Holmes, there is one.”
    “Oh, yes?” said Holmes, with some interest.
    “Something notable vanished from the Scotland Yard Museum a few nights ago.”
    I laughed. “You have a museum at Scotland Yard?”
    “Indeed, Doctor. It is where we keep all of those objects that we confiscate from the scenes of notable crimes. And the particular object that was stolen could be considered the pièce de résistance of our little collection. It is the famous air-gun of Von Herder.”
    Holmes sprang upright, apparently thunderstruck by Lestrade’s news. “Moran!” he exclaimed.
    These words sent a chill to my heart. “Surely he is dead by now?”
    “No, Watson, it would take a mighty force to bring down that old shikari. ”
    “But was he not given the death sentence for his murder of the Honorable Ronald Adair?”
    Holmes shook his head. “There was a commutation of his sentence due to some political maneuvering on behalf of his father, the former Minister to Persia. I am afraid, Watson, that Moran is very much alive.”
    “But he must be in prison?”
    “So I was led to believe, however, I think we must now verify whether or not this actually remains true.” He refused to speak another word, but sat with his chin upon his breast, and his eyes closed, sunk in the deepest thought. I had the sensation of an unseen force, a fine net drawn round us with boundless skill and care, holding us so imperceptibly that it was only at the ultimate moment that one was indeed fully ensnared in its tangles. Perhaps Holmes felt it too, for even after Lestrade finally left us, he sat motionless for so long that it seemed to me that he had forgotten my very presence.
    “Watson,” said he, as he finally stood. “I am about to make several telephone calls from Mycroft’s splendid system. You may take this time to avail yourself of a brief rest, for I fear tonight may be a long one.” He glanced at his pocket watch. “In an hour we will head out. When we do so, kindly put your revolver in your pocket. We have an excursion to make this evening, and I think it best that you go armed. You would also oblige me by bringing with you your very excellent field glass.”
    “What about you, Holmes? This may not be the time for loaded hunting crops or canes.”
    “Indeed, Watson, you will be happy to learn that I had more than just my violin sent up from the Downs. I now have my old favorite Webley with me, and I fear that it may see some use tonight.”
    The appointed hour flew by, and soon I found myself bundled with Holmes in the back of a brougham, on our way to some critical dénouement. The thrill of adventure was again in my heart as we dashed away through the endless succession of somber and deserted streets, which widened gradually, until we were flying across a broad balustrade bridge, with the murky river flowing sluggishly beneath us. Beyond lay another broad wilderness of bricks and mortar, its silence broken only by the laughs of drunken revelers. A star or two twinkled dimly here and there through the rifts of the clouds. I suddenly recalled that