The Mammoth Book of New Sherlock Holmes Adventures - Mike Ashley [165]
“That would be most welcome,” Holmes said.
“Right then, toast it –” The sound of a door banging outside interrupted him and he turned to see who had just entered. “Ah,” he said, turning back to us, “Inspector Makinson has arrived. I’ll be back presently.”
Hewitt stepped back to permit entrance to a short gentleman with quite the most bristling moustache I have ever seen. The man removed his bowler and nodded to the officer who backed out and closed the door gently behind him. “Good morning, gentlemen,” he said offering his hand which, ungloved, was freezing cold to the touch. “Gerald Makinson.”
We made our introductions and took seats by the fire.
“Mr Holmes, it’s a great pleasure to meet you again, sir,” Makinson began as he rubbed his hands together vigorously in front of the flames, “though we might’ve hoped for more pleasant circumstances.”
“While Patience may well be a card game from which I have derived some considerable pleasure,” Holmes responded with a thin smile, “it is not, I fear, my strongest suit. I wonder if you might give us some indication of your situation. If I am not mistaken there had been further developments in the case even as we were travelling here from London.”
“Quite so, quite so. Well, it’s like this, gentlemen.
“Almost two weeks ago – the second of November, to be precise – the body of Terence Wetherall, one of the town’s most prominent landlords, was discovered by one of his tenants. Murdered.”
The Inspector imbued the last word with an almost absurd theatrical flourish and I had to stifle a smile, thankfully unobserved.
“What was the manner of his death?” Holmes enquired.
“He’d been strangled. No instrument was found but the nature of the marks around his neck suggests some kind of rope or string. We found traces of coarse hair in the wound. But the worst thing was the man’s heart had been removed.”
“Good Lord!” I ventured.
“Quite, Doctor Watson, his chest had been slit open and the unfortunate organ torn out. It was a messy affair, I can tell you,” he added. “There was no indication of careful surgical procedure – we’ve had a local surgeon examine the wound and it appears that the heart was just pulled out. His chest looked like a pack of wild dogs had been at it …”
“Suspects?”
The Inspector shook his head. “Mr Wetherall was extremely well-liked as far as we can make out. His wife – sorry: widow – knew of no reason why anyone would wish him harm. And certainly she knows of no one who would conceivably wish to defile his body in such a way.”
“I wonder if we might see the body,” I said.
“Of course, Doctor. You can see them all.”
I glanced across at Holmes who tented his fingers in front of his face and carefully studied the tips. “Do continue, Inspector.”
At that moment, Sergeant Hewitt reappeared with a tray containing a teapot, three cups and saucers, a small jug of milk, a large plate of buttered toast, a small phial of marmalade and one of honey, and three side plates. It was a meal which, despite its simplicity, was a sight for weary eyes. We set to pouring tea and helping ourselves to the toast, and Inspector Makinson resumed his story.
“A few days later, 7 November, a farmer was brutally slain in the nearby village of Hampsthwaite. Shotgun-blasted in the back of the head, point blank range. He’d gone outside to check his livestock – something he did every evening at the same time – and the killer must’ve been waiting.”
The Inspector took a sip of tea and returned the cup to his saucer.
“And, once again, the heart of the unfortunate victim had been removed, though this time the damage to the body was less.
“The third slaying was last week, the eleventh, and this was maybe the most