Doctor Who_ All-Consuming Fire - Andy Lane [16]
Holmes and I beat a hasty retreat upstairs.
'Interesting.' Holmes passed the card across to me as we reached the landing. 'See what you make of it, Watson.'
Printed in a gothic script, it read: The Doctor; underneath, in the corner, was the word: Travelling.
Rather flippant, I thought. I flexed it between my fingers. Good quality, judging by the rigidity of the stock.
'Not a gypsy,' I ventured, 'despite the obvious connection with the word
"traveller". A man of some means.' I sniffed. 'Recently printed, I'll warrant.
The smell of fresh ink is quite pronounced.'
'Bravo, Watson.'
'Have I missed anything of importance?'
He smiled, rather cruelly, I thought.
'Practically everything, dear chap. Despite the fact that the ink is still fresh there are no traces of it on the back of the card, as there would be had it been stacked with the rest of a recently printed batch. This would suggest that it was printed singly: presumably for us. The logical conclusion would be that this person is attempting to disguise his true identity, although -' and Holmes frowned ' - the choice of nom-de-plume and the lack of address seem to suggest that he wishes us to come to that conclusion.' He frowned, then shook his head and continued. 'The slight but noticeable rounding of the card further indicates that it has been kept in a pocket, rather than a wallet. I would suggest a waistcoat pocket: trousers would have left it too rounded and a coat not rounded enough. And, most important of all, remember that "The Doctor" was one of the names on the lift of visitors to the Library of St John the Beheaded that we were given this morning.'
'The list that you did not wish me to see.'
Holmes looked away, discomfited, and said nothing. He took the card from my hand and walked into our sitting room.
The Doctor was standing in the window alcove. In his hands he held one of Holmes's files: the volume marked "T". I recognized him at once as the man I had conversed with in the Library, the one who had babbled of custard and metaphors.
'I will trouble you to put down that file,' Holmes snapped. Within two strides he was towering over the Doctor and removing the offending object from his hands. 'It ill behoves a visitor to rifle through private papers unasked.'
'It wasn't Spink, you know.'
'What?'
'I couldn't help reading the details of one of your cases. The terrible murder of the Atkinson brothers in Trincomalee. Spink was innocent.'
I noticed that the word "terrible" rolled off his tongue with relish. There was the hint of an accent in his voice that I could not place.
'The man robbed the world of justice by taking his own life.' Holmes strode across the room and replaced the volume. 'The case was simple; the solution obvious.'
'Ah,' said the Doctor, 'but did you take into account the significant delay in the onset of rigor mortis in tropical climates? It's all in that file.'
Holmes's face suffused with fury. I thought he was going to throw our visitor bodily through the window, so great was his rage, until a strange thing happened. A look passed across Holmes's face: a look of sudden realization and, even worse, shock.
'I. . ' he started to say, and trailed off into silence. His gaze travelled across the little man, and I had learned enough about reading expressions to tell that he was attempting to descry some detail about our visitor: his work, his character, his manner.
'I see from your appearance that you . . ' Holmes trailed off into silence; puzzled. 'Your cuffs suggest . .'
Again, he halted. He frowned. I could see that he was at a loss. 'That soil on your gaiter, I do not recognize it,' he said finally.
The Doctor grabbed at his foot and pulled it up to eye level.
'Ah,' he said, 'a slurry of clay and dust from Menaxus. Now there's a place to go for a show.'