Free Sherlock Holmes and the Ghosts of Bly by Donald Thomas

If the notice pinned on the headmaster’s board in his corridor is correct, early prep is at six forty-five. With their appetites sharpened by intensive study, the boys are then fed at seven-thirty. Morning Prayers follow at eight-thirty and the first period of instruction is at nine. We should arrive no earlier than eight-thirty and certainly no more than five minutes later.”
    â€œMorning Prayers?”
    As I rubbed the sleep from my eyes, I tried to imagine how Morning Prayers could have any bearing on our case.
    â€œThat is when Reginald Winter, in his scarlet M.A. hood and his Oxford gown, will be officiating in chapel. We shall have the main building to ourselves.”
    â€œIt may be,” I said, pulling myself upright, “but there is still a good deal to be resolved before we close this matter.”
    â€œYes, yes,” he said impatiently. “I shall tell them downstairs to have our breakfast ready in quarter of an hour.”
    â€œQuarter of an hour? The place is only twenty minutes’ walk from here!”
    â€œThere is a call to make on the way.”
    â€œWhere?”
    But he had closed the door and gone.
    It was almost eight o’clock when we left the King Charles Hotel for St Vincent’s. We walked leisurely up the picturesque village street of Bradstone St Lawrence with its thatched and tiled dwellings. Ahead of us I noticed a bright scarlet post-box with Her Majesty’s insignia embossed upon it. The post office itself was a picture-book cottage which really did have a rambling rose round its door, as well as Sweet William and jessamine in a narrow border. A notice in the glass panel of the door informed us that the office was open from 8 a.m. until 6 p.m. on every day from Monday to Saturday.
    A bell jangled as Holmes pushed open the door, and we stepped into what might have been the large front room of a cottage or village house, with a smaller room behind it. The lath-and-plaster wall had been taken down, so that the near side of the wooden counter was open to the public and the far side reserved for official business. A middle-aged woman stood at the counter, sorting through pages of postage stamps. Her companion, to judge from her appearance, was surely a younger sister. She sat on a high stool in the back room, entering figures in a business ledger. To one side of her, a telegraph boy in a peaked cap and short jacket was perched on a bench with a copy of a penny-dreadful, “Varney the Vampire; or, The Feast of Blood,” open on his knee.
    Holmes introduced us, and Mrs Franklin at the counter summoned Miss Henslowe, who was indeed her younger sister. Miss Henslowe was a maiden lady of forty or so with a fine-boned beauty, what the weekly magazines describe as features of “a tea-cup delicacy.” The telegraph boy stopped reading and gaped at us.
    â€œI shall not interrupt you for more than a moment,” said Holmes politely. “I have been asked to review the case of Patrick Riley on behalf of the Admiralty. I merely need to confirm with you what you have said and done already.”
    â€œThere was little enough,” said Miss Henslowe, responding to him with a half-smile. With such a charming smile, I wondered why she was still a maiden lady.
    â€œJust so,” said Holmes courteously. “Tell me, were you alone in the post office on the Saturday afternoon in question?”
    â€œAlone at the counter,” she said readily. “My sister and her husband had gone into town. Freddie who takes the telegrams was sitting on his stool.”
    Freddie, whose mouth had been gaping at the sight of us, closed it at the mention of his name and pretended to read his comic.
    Holmes continued to question his witness.
    â€œA boy came in, signed his postal order form at the counter and then handed it in? You saw that?”
    â€œI was busy with telegram forms, Mr Holmes, so I did not watch his every movement. But he certainly did as you