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

later, Holmes had the room to himself. He rubbed his hands together in satisfaction and got to work.

He estimated the room was about eight foot square. The chest of drawers stood at the left, the small bed at the right. Between the two, a narrow window overlooked the street.

He followed the clear evidence of the footprints. Three men in this cramped space: The late Dutch Winkle, the killer, and the victim. One man had lain upon the bed. The outline of his body remained intact. Holmes’s sniffed the bluish stain on the pillow and smiled.

Most of the blood spatter covered the wall slightly to the right of the door. Holmes surveyed the scene and reconstructed the events in his mind. Yes, he thought. That scenario made sense.

By the time Cubby returned, Holmes was back in the lounge warming himself by the fire. Outside the rain continued to pour down.

The landlord shivered and dripped onto the floor. “I sent word,” he chattered. “I hope we won’t have to wait too long. I feel proper sick after seeing all that blood.”

“Sit down, Mr. Cubby. You are very pale.”

“Be so kind as to pour me a brandy would you, sir? I’m afraid my nerves are all to pieces.”

Holmes obliged and handed the landlord a stiff measure. He said, “You were not here when this happened?”

“No, me and the missus were with mum last night. The room was spick and span when we left. I only got back an hour ago.”

“Who was in charge while you were away?”

“My brother, Albert.”

“And he reported nothing untoward this morning?”

“He wasn’t here.” The landlord’s face darkened. “Unreliable little beggar. Can’t never trust him with nothing. Every time I leave him alone here, there’s some bother.”

“Has he ever been in any trouble?” Holmes asked.

“Only since he was born. In and out of prison since he was just a nipper. Broke mum’s heart, so it did.” He looked up at Holmes with a regretful expression. “It’s not that he’s a bad lad, just easily led. He’s none too bright, and people take advantage.”

“I understand. He’s been in Pentonville?”

“Released just a week ago . . . You don’t think he’s killed someone? On my word, sir, he’s no killer.”

“No,” Holmes said, gently. “Not a killer.”

The landlord’s eyes filled with tears and spilled down his cold wet cheeks. “You reckon it’s his blood, then?”

“I’m afraid it does seem likely.”

Cubby downed the brandy in one gulp. Then he said, “Where is he, then?”

Where indeed.

As they waited for Lestrade, Holmes asked about the inn’s dealings with the Necropolis Railway. “I’ve only had to call them once, that was back in ‘79. Man killed himself in the little back room. Hanging. God, that was awful. We had police, doctors. Tried to keep it quiet – it’s bad for business if people hear. Especially a suicide. Sent word to the Necropolis Railway and they took care of everything in the middle of the night, nice and quiet.”

“That’s the only time you’ve dealt with them?”

“Me, yes. Albert called them another time, only he didn’t know the routine. Found this fellow out cold and just figured he was dead. Never thought to call a doctor – we have to have a certificate, you see. Anyway, it turned out the geezer was just dead drunk. Albert thought that was a fine joke. Told the story to anyone who’d listen. Can’t say the undertaker was best pleased, though, and we were charged, even though they hadn’t made a pick-up.”

“Was your brother acquainted with a man called Hieronymus Pennyfeather?”

“The actor, you mean? Yes, Mr. Pennyfeather often stayed here. Perfect gentleman. I never saw any of the deviance they accused him of. Those women must have made a mistake, or else they lied.”

“His last victim was lucky to escape with her life. I’m surprised he wasn’t hanged, though I suppose life in Pentonville is a sort of living death.”

Twenty minutes later a wet, tired, and cranky Lestrade arrived. He scowled at Holmes but kept his temper in check.

“Thank you for coming so promptly, Inspector,” Holmes’s said genially. “With Mr. Cubby’s permission, I shall take you up to the room.”

“Go,” Cubby said. “I never want to set foot in the place again. Oh God, all that blood . . . .”

Lestrade followed Holmes up the rickety staircase and stepped into the room.

“Good heavens,” he said.

His mouth seemed undecided what to do with itself. It made several grimaces, purses, and pouts. At last, he took a breath, forced his mouth to behave, and said, “Well, Mr. Holmes, I take it you believe this is connected with that Westminster Railway Bridge case.”

“Indeed, so, Inspector. More to the point, I believe this shall lead you to the apprehension of your escaped convict, Hieronymus Pennyfeather.”

He had Lestrade’s full attention now.

“Pennyfeather used to stay in this inn,” Holmes continued. “He even left some of his belongings here. The landlord’s brother, Albert Cubby, was released just last week from Pentonville.”

“And you think this Albert Cubby helped Pennyfeather escape? Well, that makes sense. We thought he must have an accomplice.”

“Once out of the prison, Pennyfeather needed to get out of the city, but the streets were being carefully watched. This inn is just across the street from Pentonville, so he hid here, but he knew it could not be for long. He remembered something Albert Cubby once told him, that when a person dies in a hotel or inn, the Necropolis Railway comes in the dead of night to remove the body.

“I believe he intended to pass himself off as a corpse and jump off the train when it got out of London. Once in the countryside, he could easily disappear.”

“It’s a pretty theory, Mr. Holmes,” Lestrade said, grudgingly. “But that’s all it is: A theory. Where is your