The Final Page of Baker Street Read Online Free

recall the picturesque grounds of the college - the graceful structures of red-and-white brick, the large swaths of lush, green lawn, the armies of stately chestnut trees. I have always found that such pastoral beauty aids the acquisition of knowledge. Even with my own schooling in London - ”
    Reality interrupted my reverie.
    â€œHis son, old fellow,” Sherlock Holmes was informing me. “Charles Barry, Junior , was the architect of Dulwich College.”
    â€œIt’s still a beautiful place,” I responded weakly. No one likes being corrected, even by a man with Holmes’ reputation for accuracy.
    Oblivious to my embarrassment, Holmes simply cleared his throat and resumed his narration: “Mrs. Chandler escorted me to the athletic field where we concealed ourselves behind a hedgerow. From this hide, she pointed out her son, a middle-sized, athletic-looking lad with dark hair and brooding eyes. As I watched him racing his mates across the pitch, she placed her arm on mine and, giving it a supportive squeeze, silently waved good-bye and, as we had earlier planned, retreated to her home. I was left standing there to see where the boy might be off to.
    â€œFortunately, I had not long to wait. It soon grew dark and some wisps of fog hovered above the grass, but I could still distinguish the black suits and white collars of the young boys exiting the changing rooms. Almost immediately one parted from the group, shouting something about seeing them on the morrow. It was Raymond, of course. When the others had gone, he broke into a kind of canter, and I followed him at a distance even as he loped across the lawn. He continued up a hillock and finally down among a grove of leafy oaks, arriving at a small, square, wooden outbuilding not far from the gymnasium. He’d given me quite a run actually. With his galloping gait, it’s easy to see why his mother couldn’t keep up with him. If truth be told, old fellow, it wasn’t so simple for me either.”
    I chuckled in sympathy. “Didn’t Oscar Wilde have something to say about the shame of wasting youth on the young?”
    â€œI believe you’ll find that most people attribute the sentiment to Bernard Shaw,” Holmes said. How much my friend knew about literature never failed to amaze me, especially in light of how often he claimed to be ignorant of the subject. His knowledge of literature, I had once described as “nil”.
    â€œBut they’re both Irish,” he added. “You got that part correct.”
    Unable to discern whether I’d just been complimented or ridiculed, I silently watched Holmes sip his tea. He took a moment to enjoy the brew, then replaced his cup and continued his account: “I followed the boy to the outbuilding. Had I not been trailing behind him, I might well have missed it in the darkness. The building, a small square structure with darkened windows on each wall, is shielded from pedestrian traffic by the oak trees. Taking cover behind a broad trunk within the grove, I could just make out young Chandler creeping towards one of the windows.
    â€œIt had grown quite dark by then, but the fog was thin enough to allow me to distinguish what was happening. On closer inspection, I could see that broken lines of light framed the glass of each casement. It seemed obvious to me that someone on the inside had done his best to cover the windows with dark paper to conceal what was going on within. But his best was not good enough, Watson. The tell-tale light emitted at the edges of each large pane revealed the amateurish skill of whoever had attached the paper to the glass. Quietly, I stole up to a window on the side opposite Raymond to witness for myself what had been attracting the young man to this spot.”
    â€œAnd,” I asked Holmes between bites of a chocolate biscuit, “what did you see?”
    â€œIt was a make-do photography studio, Watson, complete with lights,