Free Sherlock Holmes by George Mann Page B

storerooms and disused offices. There were numerous doors stemming off the corridor, each of them with opaque glass, but lacking nameplates. We checked them one by one as we traversed the length of the corridor. Holmes was the first to spot it, the final door, about as far from the museum proper as you could get. Here, a small brass plaque was etched with a legend: “Sir Maurice Newbury”.
    Holmes rapped on the door, and then opened it without waiting for a response. He strode in, all sense of proper decorum ignored.
    Shaking my head, I followed after him.
    Inside, the office was not at all what I’d been expecting. Instead of a musty old room full of long-abandoned files and papers, there was a rather homely space containing a fireplace, stove, bookcase, filing cabinet and desk. The walls were adorned with an array of ancient weapons, including a mace, a rather deadly looking morning star, an elaborately engraved shield and a primitive axe, the head bound to the shaft with what looked like twine. On the left was a door to an antechamber, presently closed. There was no sign of the secretary I had spoken to that morning.
    “Hello?” said Holmes.
    There came the disharmonious sound of chair legs scraping across tiles from the antechamber, and through the glass partition I saw the silhouette of a man getting up from behind a desk. Moments later the door opened, and Newbury stood in the opening, a broad grin on his face. “Dr. Watson!” he said, with what sounded like genuine pleasure. “It’s good to see you after all this time.” He came forward, proffering his hand. I took it and he clasped mine firmly. He had aged well: his hair was still the same raven black as it had been almost ten years earlier, with only a peppering of grey; the lines on his face looked distinguished rather than careworn, and he was still lean. He must have been in his early fifties. I guessed he still continued in active service. “And you, Mr. Holmes,” he continued, releasing my hand and turning to Holmes. “You are most welcome.”
    “Thank you for agreeing to see us, Sir Maurice,” replied Holmes. “I am hopeful you can assist us with a rather delicate matter. It falls within your area of… specialist expertise.” He teased out the last two words, as if more comfortable with the euphemism than explaining himself outright. “I know we can rely on your discretion.”
    “Of course,” said Newbury. “I’m more than happy to help in any way that I can. But first, I have an important question.”
    “Go ahead,” said Holmes, with the merest hint of a frown.
    “Excellent!” said Newbury, clapping his hands together abruptly. “How do you take your tea?”
    * * *
    “So, what of Miss Hobbes? I hope she is well?”
    We were gathered around Newbury’s desk in the adjoining room, each brandishing a steaming teacup. Holmes, to my surprise, had accepted Newbury’s offer of tea, and Newbury had set to work at the stove, boiling up a pot of water. It was a primitive thing, clearly decades old, but Newbury handled it like an old expert. This was evidently a ritual he cared profoundly for, and as we watched, he warmed the pot and measured out the leaves from a battered old caddy.
    “She is quite well, Dr. Watson,” replied Newbury. “I’ll be sure to pass on your regards. I fear she’s currently engaged in an undertaking for the Secret Service Bureau, otherwise I know she would have been delighted to see you.” He looked plaintively at the empty desk across the room. I could see that it pained him to consider his friend – well, I wasn’t sure exactly
what
she was to him, but he evidently cared deeply for her – out there somewhere, probably engaged in an initiative to influence the outcome of the war. Whatever it was, it couldn’t have been less than dangerous work, given the political situation. I wished her well, wherever she was.
    Holmes set his teacup down upon on the surface of the desk, indicating that it was time to