The Mammoth Book of New Sherlock Holmes Adventures - Mike Ashley [82]
MacPherson pulled an enormous watch out of his pocket, and consulted it for a moment.
“You’ll all get where you’re going,” he said shortly. “If you would just step through into the dining-room for a moment – ”
The hotel servants were setting the tables for lunch, and looked up in surprise as we all filed in and arranged ourselves as best we could, here and there about the room. Old Mrs Baird Duthie was the last to shuffle in, Angus Johnstone supporting her elbow. His brother brought a chair forward for her and relieved her of her stick, and she sat down heavily. All eyes were on Sherlock Holmes, who stood patiently until everyone was settled, his hands behind his back.
“Now,” said he at length. “A serious and ingenious crime has been committed. The famous MacGlevin Buckle has been stolen from the museum on the Island of Uffa. It must be returned to its rightful owner.” He glanced at MacGlevin, who was standing with his arms folded by the doorway, a brooding expression on his face.
“It is, of course, most unfortunate,” said Doctor Oliphant; “but what is it to us?”
“The buckle is in this hotel,” returned Holmes. “Constable MacPherson and his deputed officers therefore propose to search the building until they find it.”
There were loud groans about the room.
“Why, man, that could take days!” said Angus Johnstone.
“Let us make a start, then,” said Homes. “beginning with that.”His long thin finger indicated the small leather and canvas satchel which hung from Mrs Morton’s shoulder.
“But this contains only my painting and sketching things,” said she, rising to her feet, the expression on her face a mixture of surprise and indignation.
“Will you open it, Madam, or shall I?” inquired MacPherson.
Reluctantly, she lowered the little bag to the floor, and began to unfasten the straps. “This is an absurd waste of time,” said she, as she tipped the contents of the bag onto the carpet. I craned forward to see. There were numerous tubes of paint, several brushes and pencils tied up in a ribbon, a palette, a pad of paper, and a very dirty rag, stained with every colour of the rainbow.
“Kindly unfold that cloth,” said Holmes.
“It is dirty,” said she. “It is only the rag I wipe my paint-brushes on. I shall soil my gloves – ”
Even as she was speaking, Holmes leaned quickly down and unfolded the screwed-up cloth. There in the middle of the multi-coloured wrapping, lay a large and ornate silver buckle. There were gasps all round the room, and, in that split second of quiet, Hamish Morton suddenly shot from his seat and bolted for the door. He had his hand on the door-knob, but MacGlevin, too, was quick, and grabbed him in a smothering embrace.
“You fool!” cried Mrs Morton to her husband, in a harsh voice. “ ‘Let’s leave Glasgow,’ you said. ‘Let’s get away and lie low for a while’! But you just couldn’t resist this, could you! And now see what you have done!”
It was startling to hear the violent tones of the woman’s voice, and almost made my hair stand on end. Her husband, held tightly in the bear-like grip of the Laird of Uffa, made no response. Next instant, my blood ran cold, for with a quick, darting movement, her hand had dipped into her reticule and re-emerged gripping an evil-looking little revolver.
“Stand aside, all of you!” she said in a cold, clear voice, as she pointed the gun menacingly, from one person to another. “This pistol is loaded, and I am quite prepared to use it.”
I saw Holmes catch the eye of Fergus Johnstone, then he spoke. “Mrs Morton,” said he. For a fraction of a second, she turned her head, and in that instant, in a blur of movement, the gun was dashed from her hand. Fergus Johnstone, who had been standing a little to the side of her, had brought down the old lady’s walking-stick on her wrist with a loud crack. Mrs Morton cried wildly with pain, and clutched her wrist, and Holmes stepped forward quickly and picked up the gun. In a minute MacPherson had