Sherlock Holmes: The Coils of Time & Other Stories (Sherlock Holmes Adventures Book 1) Read Online Free Page A

Moran.”
    At Lestrade’s nod, the constables roughly removed the shackled prisoner from the room and hurried him down the stairs to the police wagon waiting on Baker Street.
    Holmes examined the air-rifle.  “An admirable and unique weapon, having tremendous power and being virtually silent,” he commented.  “Professor Moriarty ordered its fabrication by the blind German mechanic Von Herder some years ago, and it has caused its share of misery in London and abroad, both in the snuffed lives of its victims and to dozens of police departments in the form of unsolved crimes.  I had never thought to have the opportunity to handle it.  When you link this gun, its unique bullets and Colonel Moran to the murder of the Honourable Ronald Adair at 427 Park Lane, many of your fellow detectives worldwide will owe you a great debt of gratitude.  I commend it into your care, Lestrade.”
    “You can trust me to look after it, Mr Holmes,” said Lestrade.  “And after Colonel Sebastian Moran. Short of a miracle, it’s the hangman’s noose for him.”
    Sherlock Holmes frowned.  “Then you should be on your guard, for many a barrister has pulled an eleventh-hour miracle from out his bag of tricks.”
    They exited the empty house and stood on the walkway.  It was a cool spring night, clear above and with gaslamps flickering serenely along the quiet thoroughfare.  With the presence of the Metropolitan Police dissipated, there was no evidence Baker Street had seen any recent excitement.  Even the shattered window of 221-B was not immediately noticeable to the casual observer, save for the occasional and gentle flutter of the sash curtain beyond what remained of the pane.
    “I know I’ll get all the credit for this nab, but never think me fool enough not to know who really brought the blighter to ground,” said Lestrade.  “It is so very good to have you back amongst the living, Mr Holmes, and, believe me, sir, my sentiments have nothing to do with either crime or criminals.”
    They shook hands.
    “Good night, Inspector Lestrade.”
    “Good night, Mr Holmes…Dr Watson.”
    When they were alone, Watson said: “Peculiar fellow.  Just when I think I have him figured out, he surprises me.”
    “People are as complex as the world in which we live,” Holmes remarked.  “It is a serious mistake to think that what we see is all there is of either.”
    “I have many questions about what happened tonight, Holmes, and about Adair’s murder,” Watson said, gesturing upward with a glance.  “Perhaps a glass of sherry and a cigar, like old times…”
    Holmes hesitated, clearly reticent, yet his sharp features betrayed no emotion.  “A half an hour, perhaps, but no more.  You’ve had enough shocks for today.”
    When Watson entered the chambers he had shared for so many happy years with Sherlock Holmes, he uttered a small gasp of recollection.  They were exactly as he remembered, with all the old landmarks in their proper places – the chemical corner and the acid-stained, deal-topped table; the shelf of formidable scrap-books and reference books which would have been welcome at many a criminal’s bonfire; the violin-case, the pipe-rack, even the Persian slipper packed with shag.  So overcome was Watson by the spirits of evenings past he did not at first notice the diminutive figure of Mrs Hudson standing near a wax-coloured bust perfectly recreating the features of Sherlock Holmes, except for a small hole in the temple and a much larger one out the other side.
    “I did as you told me, Mr Holmes,” the landlady said.
    “And observed all the precautions I specified, Mrs Hudson?”
    “I went to it on my knees, sir, just as you instructed,” she replied.  “And I moved it every quarter hour.”
    “And took in my would-be attacker completely,” Holmes said.  “Well done, Mrs Hudson.  Did you see where the bullet went?”
    “It ruined your marvellous bust when it passed through and flattened against the