Free Warlock Holmes--A Study in Brimstone by G.S. Denning Page B

Charpontier here
poisoned
Mr. Drebber?”
    “Yah!”
    “With a cudgel?”
    “What you talking, Watson? Stick for hitting.”
    “That’s right, Torg,” I agreed, “but remember: Drebber was not found beaten to death; he had been poisoned. Probably not with a stick.”
    Torg stood for a moment. Blinked.
    “NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”
    He raised his giant fists to smash the closest piece of furniture he could find—likely our table—and, for the first time, I got to see Warlock employ his gifts on purpose.
    “Stop,” said Holmes, and Grogsson immediately did so, but not by choice. Understand that no visible force restrained him—it is hard to conceive of one that could. Not chains, but merely the
shadows
of chains sprung from the darker corners of the room and twined themselves not around Grogsson, but
his shadow
. He roared in frustration and strained with all his might, but could not move an inch.
    “We’re not going to have any of that in here, Grogsson,” said Holmes. “Watson raises a fair point. Also, I like that table. Now, I’m going to let you go and we’re not going to have any more of this nonsense, are we?”
    “But… but Lestrade make fun of me!” Grogsson complained.
    “He may indeed,” Holmes agreed. “He’ll be here soon. He’s coming. I can feel him.”
    Looking out the window, I realized he was correct. Lestrade was turning the corner onto Baker Street.
    “No, he won’t make fun of you, Grogsson,” I told the giant. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen him so downcast. Something has happened.”
    “Oh!” said Holmes eagerly. “The plot thickens.”
    How nice for Mrs. Hudson that she got to answer the door once that morning to someone who didn’t make her scream. The third time is the charm, they say. I listened for Lestrade’s step on the landing but could not detect it. Nevertheless, he soon stood in the open doorway, wearing a hangdog look. I began to welcome him, but Warlock clapped a hand across my mouth and said, “Lestrade, how good to see you. You have permission to enter,
only once
, for the purpose of solving this case.”
    Stepping through the doorway, Lestrade gave a resentful look and muttered, “You’ve no reason to fear me, Warlock.”
    “Caution is its own reward, Lestrade. Now tell us, why have you come?”
    “The same reason as always: some fool has got himself done in. I’m afraid I’ve located our Mr. Strangerson.”

9

    I MADE TEA. IT WAS A DREARY SORT OF DAY AND BOTH of our Scotland Yard friends had nothing else to savor but the bitter broth of professional defeat—a perfect day for Ceylon tea. Soon Warlock and I held steaming cups. For Grogsson, I filled our never-used watering can, though it still looked small in his hands. Lestrade also had a teacup. He held it close, as if treasuring the heat, but I never saw him drink. Arthur Charpontier didn’t touch his, either. As soon as we were all arranged in the sitting room, Lestrade sighed and began to recount his effort.
    “I don’t mind telling you, I suspected Joseph Strangerson of the murder of Enoch Drebber. The two were from out of town. Who here would even know Drebber, much less where to find him? Would any Londoner have had the time to form a vendetta? It seemed to me Strangerson was my man. I began looking for him. I went about by night, peeping in windows and knocking on doors. I went to public houses, taverns, hotels and rooms to let, hunting him, always hunting. The dark hours fled, but still I searched, beneath the cursed sun. At last, I came to Halliday’s Private Hotel, on Little George Street. When I asked for Strangerson, the desk clerk said, ‘Finally, you’re here. He’s been waiting for you all day and all night.’”
    “Oh? You told him you were Drebber?” I asked.
    “No, but he assumed so and I saw no need to correct him. He was perfectly willing to take me up to the room, despite the early hour. We had not made it to the top of the stairs before I realized something was