The Gospel of Sheba Read Online Free

peculiarly narrow Library byway, I stood seeking out a book on native Esquimaux art for a member. “More to the point, how is Mr. Holmes?”
    Watson smiled, a sincerely meant expression that nevertheless failed to meet his eyes. As a collector of dichotomies, I am rather fascinated by Watson. I met him four years ago, before being hired at the London Library, when I used to frequent his club prior to my marriage to Lettie. We share an interest in cricket, and I think the kaleidoscopic quality of my studies amuses him. Watson is a doctor and a soldier, about two decades my senior but no less hearty for that, and the man is so utterly decent that he ought to be the most appalling bore in Christendom. The fact that he is just the opposite is therefore rather baffling. He is well-built and sturdy, a bit shorter than I am, with a neatly groomed brown moustache and an air of rapt attention when he is listening to you. But this evening he looked exhausted, a solid line etched between his brows and his hat clutched a bit too hard in his fingers.
    â€œBetween the two of us, Lomax, Holmes is better than can be expected, which … frankly, is still not well at all,” he sighed, shaking my hand. “I’m to lay it on thick for the papers, but I trust in your discretion. He’ll make a full recovery, thank God.”
    I have never been introduced to Sherlock Holmes, but, like the rest of London and possibly the world, am deeply intrigued by Watson’s accounts of his exploits. “His attackers are known to you?”
    Watson’s determined jaw tightened as he nodded once. “The case is a complex one, with the safety of a lady at stake, or I should have horsewhipped them by this time.”
    â€œNaturally. Can I do anything?”
    â€œAs a matter of fact, you can. I’m to spend the next twenty-four hours in an intensive study of Chinese pottery.”
    â€œTo what purpose?”
    The smallest hint of mystified good humour entered his blue eyes. “Surely you know better than to ask. I haven’t the smallest notion.”
    Laughing, I waved the doctor further into the labyrinthine stacks. He left with a mighty book under his arm, making promises of an evening of billiards. Watson has a brisk military stride, and I could not help but compliment myself that it appeared more buoyant as he exited than when he’d first appeared.
    I saw the two of them once, outside of a tobacconist’s in Regent Street. I’d have known Mr. Holmes from his likeness in the newspapers, not to mention the Strand Magazine , but when Watson appeared in his wake, I was sure of myself. Sherlock Holmes and John Watson were exiting with replenished cigarette cases, Dr. Watson casting about for a cab, and they were so complete together. Wanting no other company save themselves. Watson, just as their hansom slowed, stopped to flip a coin to a crippled veteran by the side of the road—and Mr. Holmes, who cannot be a patient man at the best of times, rather than pull a face, simply called out to the driver to ensure they kept their cab. They reminded me of my wife alongside her cohorts at the end of a lengthy curtain call, air reeking of hothouse roses and the heat sending trickles of sweat down the faces of worshipful spectators—and all the while, the performers in perfect, casual tune.
    They are just as Grace and I are together, I’ve decided. The harmony. The friendship, the complete ease. Mr. Holmes’s genius seems the icy sort, all edges and angles, but despite his legendary prickliness, he is most certainly held in the highest esteem. I don’t like to think of how Watson looked this afternoon.
    I must turn the lamp down and retire shortly. What odd connections we make as we pass through life—old friends, new ones, perhaps if we’re lucky even ones we’ve brought into being. But why do I remain so pensive over such a happy topic? I must confess, though camaraderie of the