Free Sherlock Holmes by George Mann Page A

Newbury was more likely to be concerned with Neolithic stone circles and their use in ancient fertility rites. In this, they could not be further apart.
    I admit to feeling a certain amount of anticipation at seeing Newbury again. This was partly because I looked forward to rekindling an occasional acquaintance I had much enjoyed during the last decade and a half, and partly because I was interested to see how Holmes would acquit himself. He had originally been critical of my association with Sir Maurice and his assistant, Miss Veronica Hobbes, writing Newbury off as a credulous charlatan who put too much stock in the affairs of the supernatural. Indeed, during the aforementioned investigation into the mysterious machine that later became known as the “night crawler”, Holmes had entirely refused to engage with the man, leaving it to me to act as a go-between.
    Years later, however, we once again crossed paths with Newbury during the episode I have laid out as “The Witch of Horburton Fen”, and this time, in coming face-to-face with a man I believe Holmes once considered a rival, his earlier scorn had given way to a begrudging respect. Newbury had been fundamental in the successful wrapping up of the case, aiding Holmes in bringing an errant vicar to justice. Then, as I suspected Holmes imagined now, the supernatural elements of the case had proved to be quite the opposite, with a perfectly rational – if somewhat distressing – explanation. What was more, at no point during the investigation did Newbury fall back on any ungrounded beliefs, or preach to us the likelihood of a supernatural cause. He approached the matter in much the same way as Holmes, examining each and every clue, deciphering its meaning, and refusing to make suppositions until all the data was in place. This, I knew, had impressed Holmes immeasurably, and as such his overall attitude towards Newbury had softened, to the extent that now, unexpectedly, he was counselling a visit to seek the man’s advice. Wonders, I decided, would never cease.
    Holmes had remained silent throughout our journey, but now, as our cab came to a stop before the main gates of the British Museum, he turned to me, his expression warm but serious. “I’m sorry for your loss,” he said quietly.
    Caught off guard, I mumbled an acknowledgement, fighting back an upwelling of unseemly emotion. He nodded once, and then turned and climbed out of the conveyance. I followed suit, but as I did, I noticed that my hands were trembling. It was, I realised, one of the kindest gestures that Holmes had ever made, in all of our years as friends. I swallowed and reached for some change to pay the driver.
    The museum grounds were quiet, with only a handful of people milling around the courtyard. It wasn’t surprising, given the events of the evening before. With so much clearing up to do, and the lingering threat of death at the hands of the zeppelin bombers, the last thing that people wanted to do was lose themselves in the artistic endeavours of the past. The present was simply too pressing.
    We crossed the forecourt in the shadow of the monolithic building, and I found myself thinking how grateful I was that the edifice had so far avoided becoming a target of the enemy bombs.
    At the top of the steps, close to the main entrance, I stopped to speak with a doorman. He looked rather harried, as if he had somewhere better to be. “We have an appointment with Sir Maurice Newbury,” I said. “I wonder if you could point us in the right direction?”
    “Across the main lobby,” he said, “and then follow the courtyard around to the right. You’ll come across a flight of steps. Can’t miss it. Sir Maurice keeps an office in the basement.”
    “My thanks to you,” I said.
    Newbury’s office was along a dimly lit corridor at the bottom of the stairs. At first I thought the doorman has given us the wrong directions; we seemed to be down in the bowels of the museum, amongst the dusty