Free Sherlock Holmes by George Mann

a most excellent, reliable fellow. I understood that Holmes, however, would likely feel differently about the situation. He had never put much stock in talk of the supernatural, and I didn’t imagine he was about to start now. Nevertheless, as Holmes well knew, it wasn’t so much a question of whether either of
us
believed in whatever hokum was behind the photographs, but whether Grange himself did. Holmes’s hope was that Newbury might be able to help us understand the context of the photographs, no more.
    Whatever the case, I found the notion of catching up with Newbury after all this time most appealing, and I said so to Holmes.
    He responded by withdrawing his cracked old briar pipe from his coat pocket and stuffing it full of shag.
    I had visited Newbury’s home once before, during the adventure I have previously chronicled as “The Case of the Night Crawler”, and so, after fishing out my address book, I was able to search out the location of his Chelsea home for the telephone operator.
    A quick call established he was not at home, but his valet – who, despite it being over ten years since I’d visited, appeared to remember me when I gave my name – helpfully informed me that Newbury was to be found at his office in the British Museum. I recalled then that Newbury maintained a post at that august establishment, for the times when he was not actively pursuing an investigation for the Crown. A further telephone call to his secretary there confirmed an appointment for later that morning.
    While I tidied away the remnants of our breakfast, Holmes also made use of the telephone to call his brother Mycroft, with the express purpose of informing him of the sad death of his driver the previous evening. Their call was brief and somewhat stilted, although I made a point of not overhearing the content of their conversation.
    When he was finished, Holmes came to find me the kitchen. He was already wearing his coat and gloves, and was holding a manila folder containing Grange’s photographs. “To the British Museum, then?” he said.
    “Yes, I suppose so,” I replied. “It’ll be good to see Newbury again after all this time.”
    Holmes offered me an enigmatic smile in response.
    * * *
    I have always been fond of the British Museum. I believe it symbolises the cultural wealth of our nation – indeed, of our empire. It represents perhaps the greatest collection of historical artefacts in the world. I would often enjoy whiling away afternoons there with my wife, touring the exhibits and soaking up the atmosphere of ancient lands.
    On occasion I have wondered whether, if Holmes had not given himself entirely to his chosen profession of consulting detective, perhaps he might have made an exemplary historian. Not that he showed a particular interest in such matters, I hasten to add – indeed, it was fair to say that he was quite ignorant of much of what is generally considered historical fact. Unless, that was, those facts happened to pertain to a particular criminal investigation. Ask him to name the successive kings and queens of England, for example, and he would be quite flummoxed.
    No, it was more that I understood the pursuit of historical data to be a series of puzzles to be solved, of mysteries to be unravelled. I was certain that if Holmes had chosen to put his mind to it, he might have caused quite a stir in the field. Knowing him as I did, however, I understood that he would find such work meaningless, and that the lack of empirical evidence and reliance on supposition would drive him to distraction.
    Newbury, of course, had a deep affinity for such matters, and although I’d never been certain whether it was simply a cover for his more practical work for the Crown, or a genuine attempt to establish an academic career, his interest in the field seemed most genuine. Where Holmes would dedicate his time to producing a monograph on the identification of tobacco ash and its application in criminal investigation,