The Brothers of Baker Street Read Online Free Page A

incompetent way.
    Then there was a voice from the client chair to Reggie’s right. A woman’s voice.
    “Your clerk let me in. But don’t blame her; I insisted. I hope you don’t mind.”
    The woman had not gotten up from the chair; at the moment, all Reggie could see was the lower portion of two shapely legs in nude-toned stockings—smooth and subtly shining, like the voice.
    Reggie walked around behind the desk to get to his chair, and to see her face. He still had the copy of the Daily Sun under his arm, and as he crossed behind the desk, he dropped the beat-up tabloid as surreptitiously as he could into the waste basket.
    “I’m Reggie Heath,” he said. His inflexion involuntarily changed when he saw her face. “Tell me what I can do for you.”
    Her hair was dark as jet, and its curls set off skin that was white to the point of translucence. She had green eyes—not warm olive green, like Laura’s, but crystalline green—framed in round gold-rimmed spectacles that were so unembellished and out of fashion that Reggie guessed they had to have been deliberately chosen to add severity to the face.
    She was small-boned, almost pixielike, in a forest-green wool business dress. Except for that glimpse of leg, the deep leather chair had nearly swallowed her up. She leaned forward now to speak.
    “Lunch,” she said, and then she smiled. “I’m Darla. I’ll tell you all about my client; but first things first, and it feels like ages since I had a decent meal.”
    Her skin said she was in her early twenties; the sophistication in her voice suggested possibly a few years more.
    “And what does decent mean?” said Reggie. From the look of her, he made it even odds that decent meant a Portobello mushroom salad with fresh spinach, or kelp-wrapped sushi and rice, or a very small and selective portion of a free-range hen.
    “Anything deeply fried,” said the young woman.

3
    Reggie and the new solicitor sat down on plastic chairs at Marylebone Fish Fryer, which if not absolutely the best fish-and-chips in London, was certainly the closest. And Darla seemed unconcerned about it either way. The air was filled with the scent of vinegar and deep-fat fried food, and she seemed to almost bask in it.
    “My client,” she said, liberally dousing the crisp batter, “is a driver of a Black Cab. I wish to engage you to represent him in a criminal proceeding.”
    “What is the accusation?”
    “Robbery homicide,” she said. Then she paused to bite eagerly into the fish; she sat back with a contented sigh, and wiped her mouth. She looked back at Reggie watching her, and she gave a little smile.
    Then she continued: “A tourist couple from America, robbed and killed after going to the theater in the West End, and their bodies found several miles away.”
    “I believe I saw something in the news about that,” said Reggie.
    “Really? I haven’t seen it, so little time. I can imagine it would make the papers. But publicity is not always a bad thing for a chambers, is it?”
    “Not always,” said Reggie. And then he paused. It wasn’t the high-profile nature of the case that caused him to hesitate. It was another reason, and the solicitor seemed to sense it.
    “I am absolutely convinced my client is innocent,” said Darla. “And I won’t hold you to the cab rank rule if you are not equally convinced after speaking with him.”
    This was not a huge concession on her part. The rule, that a barrister must accept the client presented to him in the same way that the next cab in line must accept the next passenger, could almost always be got around if need be.
    “Fair enough,” said Reggie. “But why me?”
    “For starters, I know you have not had much lately, Mr. Heath.”
    “Excuse me?”
    “In the way of new work. My client is of limited means and he cannot afford, if you’ll forgive my saying so, the rates of the current top-ranked criminal advocates.”
    “I see your point,” said Reggie, “although I would