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

. . ? I know . . . I just . . . .” Then her face was hard again. “You must leave, Mr. Holmes.”

“Is there nothing more I can do to assist you?”

“You can never speak of this, to anyone! Or else . . . .” her hand had slipped down to the knife concealed at her waist.

Holmes managed a nonchalant air. “Or else what, Madame Withers?”

“Never you mind. Just cease your meddling!”

“May I remind you that you came to me?”

Holmes was back in the hotel hallway now, the door to 307 resolutely closed to him. As he walked back to the stairs, he found a pair of maids making up one of the rooms.

“Pardon me, do you know when Room 307 might be cleaned?”

One of the maids consulted a list in her pocket. “Eight in the evening, as per Madame’s request. Has there been a change?”

“I hope not,” Holmes said, skipping down the stairs. He spent an hour in the lobby reading the newspaper, just to be sure Madame Withers wouldn’t rush right out in her panic. Satisfied that she was in until the evening, Holmes went home for a nap and a light dinner. At half-seven, he was up the street from the Grand Royal Hotel, feigning an interest in the wares on display in the windows of various shops. When Madame Withers emerged, her serpentine gait was unmistakable. She slithered up into a waiting carriage and set off. Holmes hopped into the cab nearest to him and set off after her. In the yellowbacks, carriage chases seemed so exciting, but in reality the two conveyances simply clattered along at a moderate speed. Madame Withers seemed unaware that she was being followed. Her cab went straight to the millinery flat. After a few moments inside, she came out, rending the sleeves of her dress. Her already pallid face was drained of all color. Next, her cab stopped at a cemetery, and Holmes had his driver pull to the side of the road so that he might disembark unobserved. The coins Holmes left on the seat seemed to silence whatever qualms the man might have had. Cabmen probably aid in a lot of suspicious behavior, Holmes mused.

Madame Withers moved through the cemetery with great certainty. Having to engage in various little subterfuges along the way, Holmes almost had trouble keeping her in sight. Finally she arrived at a fresh grave, where she stomped upon the ground. It seemed rather undignified to Holmes until a bell propped up by the headstone rang in response. The stomping and ringing went on for several minutes, reaching a crescendo and then seemingly winding down. Madame Withers appeared to be quite dissatisfied with the interview. She stormed back the way she came, forcing Holmes to duck down behind a memorial to remain unseen. He had a moment to decide between investigating the grave further or following the woman, and in that moment he found his feet moving after her.

He lingered near the gate to hear her destination before flagging down his own cab. Holmes emptied his pockets, promising the driver the lot if he arrived at the Grand Royal Hotel before the carriage that had just left, and by an alternate route. The cabman grinned, and Holmes suspected he had hit upon some natural rivalry between the drivers. He held to his seat with both hands as the carriage took careening turns through crowded streets, once even taking an ill-advised shortcut under an archway and through a communal garden. When they intersected the street just up from the hotel, Holmes clasped the man on the shoulder, shouting that he had well earned his money, and leapt down onto the road. He smoothed his coat and re-settled his hat before calmly strolling into the hotel and ascending the stairs to the third floor. He planned to listen at Madame Withers keyhole to discover what all of that grave knocking was about. As he stepped out into the hall to look for some spot to hide, he was surprised to find three men already waiting outside Madame Withers’ door. They wore fine suits, but had the rough necks and thick hands of laborers. As they whispered among themselves, a cruel laugh rippled through the trio. It appeared Madame Withers had been found by her criminal betters. Still unseen, Holmes stepped back into the stairwell.

As he did, the lift began moving, and moments later Madame Withers emerged, only to be shocked into stillness at the sight of the three men.

“You’ve been remiss, Madame Withers.”

“I didn’t know how to find you. My husband is missing and he handled all the business affairs.”

“Tsk, tsk, and now you’re a liar too. You’ve been hiding from us, Madame.”

“No, truly, I’ve tried, but it has been so hard, all alone and bereft. You don’t know what it is like for a lady in this city.”

“You’re no lady.” The man who had been talking now cuffed Madame Withers, and she was knocked against the wall.

Her head coiled back to face him, all the more haughty for the blood trickling from her mouth. Through a sneer she said, “More’s the pity for you.” Her blade was in her hand then, slashing up at the brute, drawing a red line across his white shirt that didn’t end until the point of her knife was caught under his chin. She laughed. The second man wrenched her arm around until she dropped the knife. The third seized her by the throat, his fingers disappearing into her flesh.

That’s just enough, Holmes thought. He sprung forth from the darkness. “You there, stop harassing this innocent woman!” The men turned and bared their teeth at Holmes, even the one lying on the floor pressing his hands against his bloody chest. Holmes banged upon the hotel room doors as he passed, hoping at least some were occupied. “This kind of violence