The Hudson Diaries Read Online Free

or threaten before he would kill outright. And I can never imagine him using a gun like this in his entire dastardly career.”
    “Might it be an associate?” Dr. Watson suggested.
    “That is a definite possibility,” Mr. Holmes replied with a frustrated sigh, “but the only way to know for sure is to see the impression in the snow outside and make further inquires there.” He shot a heated glance at Dr. Watson, who held up his hands.
    “Would you have preferred that I allow you to die when I could save you?”
    “No.” He smiled weakly, and his face softened. “I only wish that my health would permit an investigation. I fear it may soon be too late to obtain the culprit.”
    “You have Miss Beauregard and myself at your disposal,” Dr. Watson insisted. “Really, Holmes, you should have more faith in us.”
    “Come now, Watson,” Mr. Holmes cried. “You know that I would use you if there were no possible danger to you or Martha. I fear there are games afoot that might catch you in the crossfire.”
    “Do not fear, sir,” I said, hoping to sound more confident than I felt. “Fate thus far has been kind; let us hope for better things to come. We also need to get you to a safer spot, lest this man should return and win his objective.”
    “I am all right here,” Mr. Holmes said with a shrug of his shoulders. “I do not think he shall come again so soon. After observing my fall yesterday, he most likely believes you are preparing for a funeral.”
    I nodded and Dr. Watson followed me out the door. Arriving at the hedges, we discovered that the impression, though faded, had hardened. Pondering for a time, Dr. Watson placed his own foot inside the mold. The frozen impression was slightly longer, of which the doctor told me to take note, and then said, “Search for any queer signs or unnatural objects about.”
    After some time searching in the cold, I saw some discoloration on the leaves of the hedge. “Will this be of service to us?”
    I held up the leaves. Dr. Watson hesitated, and for a time did not speak. In deep concentration, he said at last, “Everything, even the smallest detail, is important somehow. Though I do not see a connection at present, I am sure our good friend will see one.” He then held up a bit of ragged cloth, and urged that we go back to the house before we catch our own deaths. It was in this somber mood that we entered the house, with Mr. Holmes anxiously awaiting our return.
    “What have you brought me, old chap?” he asked. When he saw our faces, his own twitched.
    “We believe we have found some fresh evidence, but can make nothing of it,” Dr. Watson said as he handed him the cloth and leaves. Mr. Holmes took up his glass and became intensely engrossed in his work. After a time, Mr. Holmes observed, “I am sure of one fact… It is not Chandler.”
    “But sir,” I asked, frustrated, “How do you know—”
    “By simple deduction, Miss Beauregard,” said Mr. Holmes dismissively. “If Watson’s measurements are correct, that would make Chandler much too short. Now, what’s this?”
    He was holding the bit of cloth as if it were a precious jewel. Pulling away a few fibers, he scrutinized them carefully; a slight frown crept over his lips. As he drew the cloth under the microscope the frown grew deeper, and as he withdrew his eye it seemed as if a great weight suddenly appeared in an instant upon his shoulders.
    “What is the matter, sir?”
    “I am sure it is nothing of consequence,” he replied lightly, though I knew better than to believe him, for he did not leave his chair for an hour and a half thereafter.
    A couple of days passed, and to my relief Mr. Holmes was making a rapid recovery. One morning after breakfast, he asked me if I would like to do some shopping with him.
    “Surely. What is it you’re looking for, Mr. Holmes?”
    “A coat. I find myself fancying a new one this year.”
    “Very well. Shall I fetch Dr. Watson as well?”
    “No. I do not