Sherlock Holmes and the Adventure of the Tainted Canister Read Online Free Page A

protect me from the errors that I, acting alone, was bound to make. On several previous occasions in our partnership, one of us had lain in hiding while the other extracted a confession from an unsuspecting criminal. If we could turn the trick again, Anstruther could be charged with murder. It would be one more triumph for the team of Holmes and Watson, one more arrest for Scotland Yard. My wife’s death, and the apprehension of her killer, would become the final episodes (the dénouement , if not the climax) in our destruction of the criminal gang of Moriarty. Then the woman I had loved could pass into the pages of my case book, avenged—like so many others—by the great detective, Sherlock Holmes.
    Somehow, this thought only filled me with depression. Yet, there was another reason why I balked at what should have seemed the only proper course to take. Suppose that Anstruther was brought before the bar, based on a confession that Holmes had overheard. Would he be convicted? In any other case, the testimony of so trustworthy a witness would be unimpeachable; but—as any competent barrister for the defence was bound to argue—Holmes was my closest friend. Suppose that Anstruther, in the dock, denied making any such confession. The defence could plausibly dismiss it as a fantasy of my imagination, the product of some wild delusion or vendetta against a former rival for my wife’s affection. And what other evidence had we? The tainted canister of tea (for by now I had surmised that Anstruther had infused its leaves with some poison or infection) had disappeared almost three years ago. Moran, already charged with one murder, would not readily confess to his part in another. In short, there seemed better than an even chance that Richard Anstruther would walk away from Mary’s murder a free man.
    No. I had been Mary’s husband, and it was intolerable.
    Having reluctantly come to this conclusion, I left early on that rainy Monday morning, bound for Pinchin Lane, near the river’s edge in Lambeth. Here there resided an eccentric old fellow named Sherman, whose dog Toby (“a queer mongrel with a most amazing power of scent,” as Holmes described him) had been of assistance to us in tracking down Jonathan Small, during that memorable case in which Miss Mary Morstan lost one priceless treasure and I gained another as my wife. On other occasions, Mr. Sherman had taken custody of the more exotic creatures we encountered during our investigations. He was a kind and gentle caretaker; but an elephant might easily have vanished among his vast, disorderly menagerie.
    I considered disguising myself again for the trip to Lambeth, before recalling that on my initial visit as a stranger, Mr. Sherman had threatened to “drop down a wiper” on my head. On the whole, it seemed better to retain my credentials as Holmes’ agent, even though on this occasion I was acting for myself. It was as Dr. Watson, therefore, that I called at No. 3 Pinchin Lane, where old Sherman was as cooperative as I could have wished. I obtained what I needed without question and returned to Kensington, where I had several patients to see that afternoon before another visit in the evening.
    It was shortly before half past nine when I arrived at the imposing Brook Street residence. I rang the bell and wondered what I should say if Anstruther (on that of all nights) had varied his usual procedure and remained at home.
    â€œWhy, it’s Dr. Watson!” cried Merrick, upon opening the door. Anstruther’s manservant, now butler, looked even more elderly and frail than I remembered; but his livery was of a quality that he had never worn in Paddington. “How long has it been, sir? It’s good to see you.”
    â€œGood evening, Merrick. I had a call this evening in the neighbourhood” (here I brandished my medical bag for his inspection) “and decided to drop in uninvited. As you say, it’s been