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

“No, there was nothing.” She squirmed in her chair, and her eyes became moist. “Unless they have sold some goods and left me.”

“There is, as yet, no reason to think that. I will, on your behalf, go to Scotland Yard to see what can be learned. I have some slight acquaintance with Inspector Lestrade, who may be able to throw some light upon the matter. No, put your purse away. My fees are on a fixed scale, but would not be appropriate here. I must impress upon you that I can neither condone criminal acts, nor aid in their concealment, but if these men have simply met with misfortune, then I will assist if I can. Now, Madam, I will wish you good morning.”

So dismissed, she rose and left without a word of thanks, with the air of one who feels slightly insulted, and I wondered whether she realised that I had refused payment because it was likely to be in stolen money.

I decided to visit Slaughterer’s Lane before consulting Scotland Yard. It was a dismal street, currently deserted and devoid of traffic, on the edge of Whitechapel, one side being completely taken up with the high wall of the cemetery behind the church on the far corner. On the opposite side, the abattoir which gave the street its name had long since been replaced by a row of square houses that had seen better times. Outside one of these, a hooded and darkly-cloaked figure stood, apparently peering through a window. As I drew nearer, it hurried away in the direction of the church. A woman I thought, from its movements, and I stood for a moment in the weak early afternoon sun until I identified Number 79, which Mrs. Rander had given as the intended scene of the burglary.

I saw at once that the official force had been here before me. The lock, a very poor quality affair, had been easily forced, and a police mechanism applied to reseal the door. A glance through the window revealed only a bare, square room with a dull wooden-tiled floor and paintings arranged around the walls in the manner of an exhibition. It seemed strange that such works which, according to Mrs. Rander, were quite valuable enough to attract the attentions of experienced art thieves such as her husband and son, should be housed in such a poor district and protected by a cheap lock.

I found a corner coffee house in an adjacent street and pondered my meagre discoveries as I ate a beef pie, washed down with a cup of their strongest brew. Shortly after, I set out in the direction of Mile End Road, where I hailed a passing hansom. I reached Scotland Yard full of questions, which I hoped Lestrade would answer.

The desk sergeant gave me an uncertain look, but obliged me by sending a constable for the inspector. He appeared from one of the dull and innumerable corridors a few minutes later, and we shook hands.

“Mr. Sherlock Holmes!” he exclaimed. “I saw you last at the investigation of the Mortland Bonds scandal. As I recall, you identified the swindler just moments before I came to the same conclusion. I thought then that you have the makings of a fine officer, should you ever choose to join the force.”

This was not the way I recalled the incident, but I thought it better, in the circumstances, not to say so.

“Thank you, Inspector. I see from the newspapers that you have had many successes since then.”

He looked out of the side of his eyes, to ensure that the desk sergeant was listening. “Oh yes, Mr. Holmes, I have my moments, as we all do, here. But come to my office, and tell me how I can help you today. Sergeant, kindly send in some tea!”

The sergeant acknowledged Lestrade’s request, and I was led down a green-painted passage to a small room containing a file-laden desk, two chairs, and a hat-stand upon which he had draped his greatcoat.

When we were settled with the desk between us and the tea brought in, I told him of Mrs. Rander’s visit.

“I remember the business in Slaughterer’s Lane quite well,” he replied. “A curious affair, but it really began before this. I would say about six months ago.”

“I do not recall a great deal of it. I was abroad at that time.”

“Ah,” the little detective nodded, ‘then I will tell you from the beginning. You see, this was when 79 Slaughterer’s Lane was first broken into. Mr. and Mrs. Nathanial Pargeter were enjoying a quiet evening at home when the thieves forced the front door and entered. I imagine they thought the premises to be unoccupied, for they fled when they saw the couple. Unfortunately, the damage was already done, for Mrs. Pargeter had suffered for years from a weak heart, and the sudden sight of two masked men brought on a fatal attack.”

“The men were masked? So it could not be said for certain that they were the Randers?”

Lestrade’s bulldog-like face broke into a smile. “Not then, Mr. Holmes, but the younger Rander was heard recounting the incident a few days later, in a pub. We could prove nothing, of course, although how many more specialist art thieves do we have in London right now? Mr. Pargeter, naturally, was beside himself with grief. He swore revenge on the Randers, although he never carried out his threat.”

“Does he still live in Slaughterer’s Lane?” I asked.

“He stays there several times a year when he comes down from Causewell House, his home in Darlaston, in the Midlands, where he owns an ironworks. He was born in Slaughterer’s Lane and kept the place out of sentimentality, I suppose, although I wouldn’t have expected him to be sentimental, as he is thought of as a harsh taskmaster at his factory. For some reason best known to himself, he