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

I finished my tea and replaced the cup. “From what I could see, it does not appear well protected.”

“Now there’s another curious thing,” Lestrade said. “Not long afterwards, Mr. Pargeter began to have work carried out on the house. He had men come down from his factory, and they were there for a while. In fact, we had a complaint from the bakery next door about the noise. Yet when we were called in about the second attempted burglary, we could see no sign of any alterations.” The inspector shook his head. “He even placed an article in The Standard about new additions to the paintings.”

“Curious indeed. But, the second time, nothing was stolen?”

“That’s how it looked. As Mrs. Rander must have told you, Mr. Holmes, this was about two months ago. The strange thing is that, though we’ve wired Mr. Pargeter several times, he hasn’t replied or come down to London to have another look at the place since. I really cannot understand it. If I owned valuable paintings, I would be very quick to ensure their safety.”

“Quite. After this second incident, did you or your men search the house?”

“There was no need,” Lestrade shrugged. “The door leading from that room into the house was bolted from the other side, and I remember Mr. Pargeter mentioning when I interviewed him that every door in the place would be kept that way. I did, of course, try the back door in Carmody Alley, but that is fitted with a stout lock.”

“It appears then that the thieves simply broke in and left empty-handed?”

“They must have, since they could get no further. There was no sign that the inside door was forced.”

“Yet the valuable paintings were left untouched?”

“Curious, as I said. We could make nothing more of it.”

“Would you have any objections, Inspector, to my making a further search?”

Lestrade looked slightly bemused, then nodded. “To see if you can go one better than the Yard, Mr. Holmes?” He opened a drawer, took out a key, and slid it towards me. “You”ll need this to get past the official lock we left to secure the front door. That’s another thing – the lock that Mr. Pargeter left could have been opened by any self-respecting burglar with a bent pin. Look if you must, but I cannot see that you will find anything.”

I paid off the hansom at the end of the road, as I had at the same time the morning before. To my surprise, I saw at once that the same figure peered, anxiously it seemed, into Number 79. I stepped into the shadow of the cemetery wall and waited until she, with a last despairing glance, moved away. I followed the billowing cloak and concealing hood to the end of the road, where it disappeared into St Thaddeus’ Church. After a moment, I entered also, into an echoing cavernous expanse of semi-darkness.

No service was in progress. Near the altar, the vicar consoled an elderly couple. Here and there, scattered among the rows of pews, worshippers prayed silently. The woman I had followed kneeled, clutching a Bible from the shelf before her. I heard her sobbing softly.

After a while she rose, and I left the church. I waited on the path near a weather-worn stone angel, until she appeared.

“Good morning,” I said as I accosted her. “Pray be kind enough to allow me a few minutes of your time.”

Her eyes settled on me in a nervous stare, as I saw beneath the hood for the first time. Probably she was once a pretty girl, but now her face was clouded with worry and pinched from the cold. That she was underfed was obvious, and she trembled violently.

“Who are you, sir?”

“My name is Sherlock Holmes.” I gestured towards Slaughterer’s Lane with a sweep of my arm. “I am curious as to why you are interested in Number 79.”

Fear came into her face. “You are mistaken, sir. I was looking into the bakery next door, to see if they would give me some scraps.”

“Come, come, now. I saw you yesterday also. I am interested in that house myself, and in the two men who attempted a robbery there.”

Her expression changed abruptly to one of surprise that I should know of this, and then settled into resignation. “Perhaps you may succeed where others have not, and I will know the truth.”

“I promise to do my utmost. But what is your part in this?”

“I am . . . .” Tears filled her eyes, and she fought to keep from crying. “I am engaged to Jared Rander. I am Miss Elizabeth Farrell.”

“Well, Miss Farrell,” I said, taking out my pocket watch. “I see that it is almost time for an early lunch. Perhaps you would do me the honour of joining me, and we can talk further.”

She gave me a long look, but in the end hunger and her need to know the fate of the man she had intended to marry triumphed over suspicion.

“Thank you, sir,” she said simply.

We walked to the coffee shop of the previous day. The restorative powers of a bowl of hot soup were soon evident as colour crept into her face. We had both consumed excellent chicken pies before she spoke.

“You are not from Scotland Yard, Mr. Holmes?”

“I have said as much.” I smiled at the thought. “I am a consulting detective, hired by the mother of the man you wish to marry. I confess to being surprised that she made no mention of you.”

Miss Farrell wiped crumbs from her mouth. “That woman never did take to me, but her husband is different. I even worked with him and Jared.”

She stopped, as if wary of saying too much. I saw her difficulty, and reassured her.

“Have no fear. I am aware of their occupation.