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

It is not my intention to do the work of the official force in arresting them. I wish no more than to find them.”

After a moment of consideration, she frowned and looked down at her empty plate. “I helped in the job on that house, Number 79. I was their look-out.”

“Did they tell you where they intended to go, afterwards?”

“They were not able to. The lock was easy enough, for them, and they went into the front sitting-room. We couldn’t see, but they had dark lanterns and they knew from before where everything was placed. I kept watch up and down the street, but saw no one, and then I heard a door slam inside. There was a cry, I thought from Jared, and then silence. No other sound came for a few minutes and I got worried and looked in. I called his name, but there was no longer anyone there. I became frightened but I waited until I saw a constable approach. While he was still some distance away, I left in the opposite direction.”

“Did you actually enter the room?”

She shook her head. “I leaned into the doorway, nothing more.”

“And, as far as you know, neither man has been seen since?”

“Jared had arranged to meet me the next day. Said he’d take me out for a meal, like now, he did. I waited for an hour, but there was no sign of him. After that, I thought I’d hear from him as soon as he was able, but I never did. It’s been two months now, and all I can do is to go back to where I last saw him. That house has become a shrine to me.”

We talked for perhaps fifteen minutes more, by which time I became convinced that she had nothing more to add of any significance. I rose to leave, ordering more coffee for her and advising her to remain in the warmth of the shop for a while. As we parted, I took the opportunity to slip a sovereign into a pocket of her cloak, unnoticed.

I formed several theories and discarded them during the walk back to 79 Slaughterer’s Lane. My information was insufficient. Lestrade’s key released the clamp on the door, and I stepped into the sitting-room cautiously.

It was as I had seen through the window, previously. There was no furniture here, but the paintings dominated every wall. One by one, I examined them. I have no great knowledge of art, but a few of these examples I had read about. Again I asked myself: What possessed Mr. Nathanial Pargeter to leave them in a house in a district such as this? Near to Whitechapel, the murky alleyways and dark streets were ridden with crime. Few places were safe in daytime, much less at night. The lack of protection too, was a mystery. Lestrade had said that a bent pin would suffice for any self-respecting burglar.

Then I looked more closely, first at one painting and then the rest. There was something odd, and this puzzled me at first until I realised that both the frames and the canvas were new! Some attempt had been made to artificially age these works with chemicals, but I was now certain – they were substitutes.

I then began to consider why the thieves would have replaced the originals, since they had made no effort to conceal their entry to the house. I thought it best not to reason on such an unqualified assumption and locked the premises once again, while I telegraphed Mr. Peter Gelder, of the Art Department of the British Museum, from a nearby Post Office.

I returned to the house to await his arrival. I recalled that Miss Farrell had mentioned hearing a door slam during the robbery, and so I checked the internal door and found it to be bolted from the other side. Next I rapped upon the walls at intervals, seeking a hidden exit, but my only discovery was that this was a very solid house indeed. I was on my hands and knees in the centre of the room, thinking that a trapdoor might exist somewhere in the unpolished floor, when a hansom drew up outside. I went to welcome a stooped man with skin the colour of parchment, who took only moments to tell me that I had wasted his time, since a child could tell that these were recent and not very well executed reproductions. He declined payment for his services and immediately boarded the waiting hansom with the air of a man who has been insulted, saying that he had already been kept from his work for too long.

I resumed my inspection of the floor. This proved fruitless until I discovered a join around the entire edge of the room, so skilfully hidden that it must surely have been the work of a master carpenter. I now knew why there was no trapdoor in the centre of the room or near the doors – the entire floor was one!

I tried again to free the internal door, but it was immovable. I left the house, relocking the police clamp, and walked past the bakery to the end of the street. Running parallel was Carmody Alley, a grimy passage along which I progressed carefully until I reached the rear of Number 79. The lock here was of a much more intricate design, but I had brought my pick-lock tools with me and the door was soon opened.

I closed the door behind me and listened, as the echo of my entrance passed through the house. I stood in a short corridor, with three rooms to my right and a single door to my left. The door to the sitting room was immediately ahead, secured, like the others, by a stout bolt.

I stood still, in the silence and stale air of the place, and wondered how the thieves had discovered the hidden exit in