Sherlock Holmes - The Stuff of Nightmares Read Online Free

Street?”
    “You misunderstand,” said Holmes, untroubled by his brother’s broadside of sarcasm and scorn. “This is not the type of case I normally investigate. Far from it. The police have ample resources and manpower to deal with it.”
    “Holmes, really!” I ejaculated, unable to contain myself. “I can scarcely credit what I’m hearing. Surely you can’t stand idly by while mass murderers rampage unchecked and the cohesion of our society is imperilled. This is not like you at all.”
    “Your friend is right,” Mycroft chimed in. “How dare you shirk your patriotic duty, Sherlock. Granted, there is nothing glamorous here as there usually is in your cases. Nobody has been murdered inside a locked room. There are no exotic, deadly animals involved, no strange faces at windows, no Mitteleuropean monarchs or contested legacies. All the same, I would have thought that mere love of queen and country would persuade you to devote your energies to this problem, for all that it is outside your customary remit.” He made an effort to look humble and importunate. It did not come naturally to him. “I would regard it as a personal favour if you agreed to help, dear boy.”
    “I never said that I wouldn’t help,” Holmes replied. “But the bombings themselves seem to me to be of secondary importance.”
    “I beg your pardon? Secondary to what?”
    “There is another phenomenon that has featured in the newspapers of late. It may not have made the front pages or consumed as many column inches, but it is a great deal more peculiar and, I am almost certain, has relevance to the matter under discussion.”
    Mycroft Holmes cocked a bushy eyebrow. “Why do I have the feeling I’m not going to like what I’m about to hear?”
    “Put it down to your general choleric disposition,” said his brother. “Or else dyspepsia from the devilled kidneys you had for lunch.”
    “The devilled –? Oh, Sherlock, there is a time and place for these little parlour games you so enjoy, and this is not it.”
    “Hardly a parlour game, brother. I was trying discreetly to draw your attention to the morsel of food adhering to your left lapel. Conceivably I could have been less subtle about it, but manners – and a concern for what others might think of you – would not permit me to overlook it altogether.”
    Mycroft looked down at his ample front, located the offending fragment of his midday meal, and whisked it away with his handkerchief and a loud harrumph.
    “But as we’re on the subject of your haberdashery,” Sherlock Holmes continued, “I see that your tailor has at last handed in his notice.”
    Mycroft set his face in an expression that was both resigned and exasperated.
    “Let me guess. The stitching on my trousers.”
    Holmes nodded. “The waistband has been let out a couple of inches – again – but the quality of the workmanship isn’t up to the usual standard. You remain loyal to your outfitters, Messrs Reade and Whittle of Jermyn Street, because you have been their customer for over fifteen years and it would not be like you to change now, you being such a creature of habit. The elderly Mr Popplewell at that establishment was a particular genius with needle and thread, and any alterations he made to your clothing were always nigh on invisible. That it was apparent that your trousers had been altered at all indicated to me that Popplewell was not involved. At his advanced age, the likeliest explanation was that he has retired. Death was also a possibility, but I plumped for the less morbid of the two options. Besides, a master craftsman like him would have merited a mention in the Times obituary column, of which I am an avid reader, and I have seen none.”
    The older Holmes heaved a testy sigh. “Yes, yes, all very ingenious, and I know how your deductive talents impress the police and the rest of the lower orders. But you forget that you are talking to a man every inch your mental equal, if not more so, and I