• Choose a category
• All
• Classic-Fiction

“What a grim place, Holmes,” I said as we walked swiftly back through the gloom toward the faint glow that indicated the welcoming streets of Parvise Magna.

“Ah, I see you lack the artistic temperament, Watson,” said Holmes.

Our footsteps echoed unnaturally on the uneven, rocky surface of the path and dark clouds obscured the moon, only a few faint stars starting out on the horizon.

“I much prefer 221b, Holmes,” said I.

My companion chuckled, a long chain of sparks from his pipe, which he had lit on his way down from the cottage, making fiery little stipples on his lean, aquiline features.

“I certainly agree there, my dear fellow.”

4

The next morning I was up early but Holmes was earlier still for I found him at breakfast in the cheerful, beamed dining room, where a few sickly rays of sun glanced in at the windows. When we had finished our repast, Holmes jumped up swiftly and made for the door, hardly leaving me time to collect my overcoat from the rack and follow somewhat protestingly in his rear.

“We have very little time, Watson,” he said as I caught up with him in the surprisingly busy street.

“Firstly, we must just pay a call upon Mr Amos Hardcastle, the lawyer and see what he has to say about this matter.”

We had only some 300 or 400 yards to go and when we neared the brass plate which indicated that gentleman’s office, Holmes took me aside and pretended to study the contents of a saddlery shop window.

“Leave the talking to me, my dear fellow. My name will be Robinson for the purpose of this business.”

I had scarcely time to take this in before Holmes led the way up a dusty staircase to where a stout wooden door repeated the legend on the brass plate outside. A distant clock was just striking the hour of nine but the office was already astir and Holmes opened the door without further ado and I followed him in.

An elderly woman with grey hair rose from her desk in the dingy outer office and welcomed us with a wry smile. When Holmes had introduced himself as Robinson and explained that he would not keep Mr Hardcastle more than ten minutes, she nodded and crossed to an inner door, tapping before entering. There was a muffled colloquy from behind the panels and then the door was opened again. The solicitor was a man of heavy build and late middle age, who wore a snuff-stained waistcoat and gold pince-nez. His white hair fell in an untidy quiff over his forehead but his manner was cheerful enough and he asked Holmes and myself to sit down opposite his battered desk.

The room, which was lit by two large and dusty windows, was piled high with papers on the far side while the area behind Hardcastle’s desk was stacked with labelled tin boxes from floor to ceiling. Holmes, in his persona as Robinson said that Smedhurst was thinking of selling his cottage and that he, Robinson, was thinking of buying it. He had come down with myself to view the property but had found that Smedhurst had apparently gone away for several days. He wondered if the lawyer had a key to the house so that we could have a look at it.

A cautious, professional look immediately settled on the lawyer’s face.

“Dear me, Mr Robinson, this is the first I have heard of it. Have you any written authority for what you say? This is merely a formality you understand, my dear sir, but I’m sure you realize …”

“Certainly.”

I was even more astonished when Holmes produced a crumpled letter from the pocket of his ulster and passed it across to Smedhurst’s solicitor. He scanned it cursorily through his pince-nez, biting his lip as he did so.

“All seems in order, Mr Robinson,” he said as he handed it back.

He turned to the massed japanned boxes behind him and went down them rapidly. He took one up from the end of the piles and rattled it as though he expected to find something unpleasant inside it.

“Here we are.”

He put it down on his desk, brushing the dust from the top of the box with a frayed sleeve. He opened it and went through a pile of yellowing papers.