Sherlock Holmes: Before Baker Street by David Marcum (warren buffett book recommendations TXT) 📕

“‘You’re not going away in an unkind spirit, Hudson, I hope,’ said my father, with a tameness which made my blood boil.

“‘I’ve not had my ‘pology,’ said he sulkily, glancing in my direction.

“‘Victor, you will acknowledge that you have used this worthy fellow rather roughly,’ said the dad, turning to me.

“‘On the contrary, I think that we have both shown extraordinary patience towards him,’ I answered.

“‘Oh, you do, do you?’ he snarls. ‘Very good, mate. We’ll see about that!’ He slouched out of the room, and half-an-hour afterwards left the house, leaving my father in a state of pitiable nervousness. Night after night I heard him pacing his room, and it was just as he was recovering his confidence that the blow did at last fall.’

“I’ve not had my ‘pology,’ said he sulkily.”

“‘And how?’ I asked eagerly.

“‘In a most extraordinary fashion. A letter arrived for my father yesterday evening, bearing the Fordingbridge post-mark. My father read it, clapped both his hands to his head, and began running round the room in little circles like a man who has been driven out of his senses. When I at last drew him down on to the sofa, his mouth and eyelids were all puckered on one side, and I saw that he had a stroke. Dr. Fordham came over at once. We put him to bed, but the paralysis has spread, he has shown no sign of returning consciousness, and I think that we shall hardly find him alive.’

“‘You horrify me, Trevor!’ I cried. ‘What then could have been in this letter to cause so dreadful a result?’

“‘Nothing. There lies the inexplicable part of it. The message was absurd and trivial. Ah, my God, it is as I feared!’

“As he spoke we came round the curve of the avenue, and saw in the fading light that every blind in the house had been drawn down. As we dashed up to the door, my friend’s face convulsed with grief, a gentleman in black emerged from it.

“‘When did it happen, Doctor?’ asked Trevor.

“‘Almost immediately after you left.’

“‘Did he recover consciousness?’

“‘For an instant before the end.’

“‘Any message for me?’

“‘Only that the papers were in the back drawer of the Japanese cabinet.’

“My friend ascended with the doctor to the chamber of death, while I remained in the study, turning the whole matter over and over in my head, and feeling as sombre as ever I had done in my life. What was the past of this Trevor, pugilist, traveler, and gold-digger, and how had he placed himself in the power of this acid-faced seaman? Why, too, should he faint at an allusion to the half-effaced initials upon his arm, and die of fright when he had a letter from Fordingham? Then I remembered that Fordingham was in Hampshire, and that this Mr. Beddoes, whom the seaman had gone to visit and presumably to blackmail, had also been mentioned as living in Hampshire. The letter, then, might either come from Hudson, the seaman, saying that he had betrayed the guilty secret which appeared to exist, or it might come from Beddoes, warning an old confederate that such a betrayal was imminent. So far it seemed clear enough. But then how could this letter be trivial and grotesque, as described by the son? He must have misread it. If so, it must have been one of those ingenious secret codes which mean one thing while they seem to mean another. I must see this letter. If there were a hidden meaning in it, I was confident that I could pluck it forth. For an hour I sat pondering over it in the gloom, until at last a weeping maid brought in a lamp, and close at her heels came my friend Trevor, pale but composed, with these very papers which lie upon my knee held in his grasp. He sat down opposite to me, drew the lamp to the edge of the table, and handed me a short note scribbled, as you see, upon a single sheet of gray paper. “The supply of game for London is going steadily up,’ it ran. ‘Head-keeper Hudson, we believe, has been now told to receive all orders for fly-paper and for preservation of your hen-pheasant’s life.’

“I dare say my face looked as bewildered as you did just now when first I read this message. Then I reread it very carefully. It was evidently as I had thought, and some secret meaning must lie buried in this strange combination of words. Or could it be that there was a prearranged significance to such phrases as ‘fly-paper’ and ‘hen-pheasant’? Such a meaning would be arbitrary and could not be deduced in any way. And yet I was loath to believe that this was the case, and the presence of the word ‘Hudson’ seemed to show that the subject of the message was as I had guessed, and that it was from Beddoes rather than the sailor. I tried it backwards, but the combination ‘life pheasant’s hen’ was not encouraging. Then I tried alternate words, but neither ‘the of for’ nor ‘supply game London’ promised to throw any light upon it.

“And then in an instant the key of the riddle was in my hands, and I saw that every third word, beginning with the first, would give a message which might well drive old Trevor to despair.

“The key of the riddle was in my hands.”

“It was short and terse, the warning, as I now read it to my companion:

“‘The game is up. Hudson has told all. Fly for your life.’

“Victor Trevor sank his face into his shaking hands, ‘It must be that, I suppose,’ said he. ‘This is worse than death, for it means disgrace as well. But what is the meaning of these “head-keepers” and “hen-pheasants”?’

“‘It means nothing to