Free The Final Tales of Sherlock Holmes - Volume 1 by John A. Little Page B

only sibling. I am seventy-one. Despite the way they died, one could expect to be in this situation at my age. Look, I believe that’s the end of the story of my childhood, Watson. The part of it I am prepared to talk about, anyway. Judging by that siren, it sounds like the local constabulary have finally bothered to respond to your call. Good for them. It’s just as well the Goatslayer isn’t still around, isn’t it?’
    Holmes smiled cryptically as he took a second sip of his brandy.

Chapter VIII. The British Museum.
    I shall not bore my patient readers with the tedious details of the following few hours in Haywards Heath. Suffice it to say that the local police were suitably stunned by what they found, and were compelled to call in Scotland Yard, which meant young Jasper Lestrade, who arrived at the house around ten o’clock that night. Holmes told him what he knew, and Lestrade handled the rest. This included the return from a weekend away with friends of the fortunate girl Ellie, who was so shocked and hysterical that she had to be tranquilised and sent off by ambulance to a local hospital for the night. Holmes and I adjourned finally to The Dolphin around one in the morning, thoroughly exhausted, and grateful for our beds.
    My sleep was fitful and its intermittent dreams were haunted by a middle-aged woman standing in the corner of a greenhouse, smiling as she swallowed a can of slimy green liquid, watched by a small boy smoking a pipe, his chin resting on his tented hands as he noted with interest the clutching of the throat, the body falling to the ground, the writhing in agony, the death throes. In the background, a shadowy figure in a white straitjacket crept among the plants, giggling. I woke up several times during the night, but could not rid myself of the recurrent tortuous nightmare.
    There was a brief unsigned note from Holmes waiting for me at breakfast: ‘Must remain here with Lestrade for further tests and funeral, etc., Suggest you return to London by first train and pursue the British Museum angle. Would appreciate it if you could move back into Baker Street. No expenses to be incurred by you. Just until the case is solved, of course.’
    Well really!
    Frankly it suited me to return to London, as I still had patients to see, but I was annoyed that he should have risen so early and left me to my own devices in this way. I suspected he had other plans, quite apart from his father’s funeral. Plans that excluded me. As for setting up my plate once again in Baker Street, such a departure from my normal routine would require rather more than a mere line or two at breakfast! Who did he think I was? One of the Baker Street Irregulars? Wiggins? No expense, indeed! Mind you, the thought of seeing Lily Hudson every day did have its attractions.
    And so as usual I did as I was told, and spent that day clearing patients off my roster, and preparing to move back into 221B Baker Street. I still hadn’t heard from Holmes on the second day, so I took his advice and started to investigate the previous employees of the British Museum, in the hope that we might identify his childhood friend.
    After a hefty breakfast, I took a wonderfully lethargic hackney to the British Museum via Regent’s Park. It was a delightful journey. Apart from the musical clipping and clopping, spring was in the air and there was plenty of enjoyment to be derived from the snow drops and daffodils. The fog had cleared early, the sun shone bright as a diamond and the sky was a welcome azure blue. Squirrels crept cautiously out of hibernation, realised their mistake, and crept back in again. I did try to concentrate on the job in hand, but found myself thinking of Lily Hudson. And of Tennyson: In the spring a young man’s fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love. What a silly old codger!
    I arrived at the Museum around ten o’clock. Montague Street hadn’t changed much since my early days in