• Choose a category
• All
• Classic-Fiction

“My father was no lover of literature, Mr Holmes, he only read sporting books and those medieval works. Mostly reprints, as you will see, and some books appertaining to that period.”

“Hmmm.” Holmes’s expression had changed, he was staring fixedly at the open pages of the volume in his hands. From where I stood I was just able to read the title on the spine, “Herbs and Plants of the Thirteenth Century; Their Cultivation and Uses“ Holmes read intently, he seemed oblivious of our presence in the room.

“Mr Holmes,” there was a new nervousness in Gloria Morgan’s voice, “the day’s shooting usually concludes towards mid-afternoon in order that the unscathed pheasants may go to roost in peace. The party will be returning shortly. I had not anticipated that your investigations would take so long.”

“Tell me, Miss Morgan”, Holmes appeared not to have heard her warning or else he chose to ignore it, “what was your mother’s taste in reading?”

“English literature. She read and re-read her favourite authors.”

Sherlock Holmes turned his attention back to the bookshelves, his gaze searching out that section which contained works of literature.

“Ah!” His exclamation was one of triumph as he reached down a book which protruded from one of the neat rows. “This is the one which your mother was reading at the moment of her untimely death, I perceive. It was returned to its rightful place, presumably by your butler when he tidied up the room, but, in his haste, he failed to replace it fully. Charles Dickens, I see, although I have not read his works myself.”

“Little Dorrit,” Miss Morgan answered. “I know because she mentioned it at dinner that night. Also, the volume was lying beside her when we … we found her. As you point out, Jenkins must have returned it to the shelves when he tidied up the room after Doctor Lambeth and the mortician had finished.”

Sherlock Holmes carried the volume across to the mahogany reading table where he pored over it with an intensity which I had witnessed many times in the past.

“Your mother showed little respect for books.” He was turning the pages delicately, almost as though it was a sacrilege to touch them. From where I stood I could see that each leaf was creased in the top right hand corner as if it had been turned down to mark the reader’s place.

“It was a habit which she developed in childhood, Mr Holmes, and never relinquished, that of turning each page with a wetted forefinger.”

Holmes examined the pages with his lens, blew gently upon one. A faint puff of something white, it might have been dandruff from a previous reader’s hair, was dislodged, fell to the floor and became indiscernible. A cloud of what I took to be some kind of ash floated down in its wake.

My colleague snapped the tome shut and, in a couple of strides, was at the window, staring out with an intensity which told me that he had spotted something which was relevant to our investigations.

“The moles,” he snapped, “they have made a devil of a mess of the lawns and borders. What method is being used to halt their depredations?”

“My father has been attending to the matter himself.” Gloria Morgan was visibly surprised by yet another digression. “I believe that he obtained some substance from Randall with which to kill the creatures. I recall him mentioning it to my mother a few days ago when she expressed concern at the damage done by the moles. Something which was put down the holes, I believe, although I did not take much interest at the time.”

“Capital!” Holmes cried. “Everything fits at last, the final piece in the jigsaw has slotted into place.”

“Mr Holmes!” Gloria Morgan’s cry of alarm interrupted my companion’s moment of exultation, and in the brief moment of silence which followed we heard the slamming of the front door, followed by heavy footfalls in the hallway. “Mr Holmes, it is too late, my father has returned!”

At that very moment the library door crashed back on its hinges and I was afforded my first view