The Mammoth Book of New Sherlock Holmes Adventures Read Online Free

with no very great enthusiasm that I accompanied her from Paddington station on the short journey to England’s most ancient centre of learning. As usual my beloved helpmeet was right. The Hungerfords were an intelligent and relaxed couple of middle years who gave us a welcome as warm as it was genuine.
    It was on the second evening of our stay that Adrian Hungerford invited me to dine with him at his college. I enjoyed an excellent meal on the high table in Grenville’s ancient hall over which I was able, with some effort, to hold up my end of an erudite conversation with the master and the dean. After dinner I retired with the dozen or so fellows to the senior combination room where, over the ritual of claret, port and cigars, discussion, somewhat to my relief, ran into less scholarly channels.
    “Am I not right in thinking, Dr Watson, that you were at some time associated with that detective fellow … what was his name … Hutchings?” The speaker was a shrivelled little man enveloped in a rather gangrenous master’s gown who had been earlier introduced to me as Blessingham.
    “Holmes, Sherlock Holmes,” Hungerford corrected before I had a chance to reply. “Watson helped him with several of his cases, isn’t that so, John?” He turned to me with an apologetic smile. “You must forgive our isolationism, old man. We spend most of our time here behind a raised drawbridge protected from the more sensational doings of the outside world.”
    “Helped with several cases, did you say?” Blessingham, who was obviously hard of hearing, cupped a hand to his ear and leaned closer. “Well, you weren’t here for his first case, were you?” He reached for the claret decanter, drained it into his glass and brandished it in the direction of a steward who hurried forward with a replacement.
    “You refer, Sir, to the Gloria Scott, I assume,” I said.
    “Gloria who? Never heard of the woman.” The old man gulped his wine. “No I mean the nonsense about that painting.”
    I was suddenly aware that other conversations had stopped and that all eyes had turned towards Blessingham. Several of them registered alarm.
    Rather hastily the dean said, “Our guest doesn’t want to hear about that lamentable incident.”
    By this time my curiosity was, of course, thoroughly aroused. “On the countrary,” I said. “I am always eager to hear anything about my late friend.”
    The master made a flapping gesture with his hand. “It was nothing and best forgotten. Holmes was only with us for a short time.”
    “Holmes was here?” I asked with genuine surprise. “At Grenville? I had no idea …”
    “Yes, 1872, I think … or was it ‘73? I know it was around the same time that Sternforth was up. He’s making quite a name for himself in Parliament now. Have you heard from him recently, Grenson?” Skilfully, the master turned the talk to other matters.
    It can be imagined that this unlocking and hasty refastening of a hitherto unknown part of Holmes’s early life stirred considerable excitement within me. It was with difficulty that I contained all the questions I was longing to ask about it. Not until the following afternoon did I have the opportunity to interrogate Hungerford on the matter. Mary and I were taking a stroll through Christchurch Meadows with our host and hostess and I contrived to urge Hungerford to a slightly faster pace so that we might walk on ahead.
    “What was that talk last night about Sherlock Holmes and a painting?” I enquired. “It seemed to embarrass some of your colleagues.”
    “A number of the older fellows are certainly still troubled by the episode even after all these years,” Hungerford mused, directing his gaze along the river. “I must say that surprises me rather.”
    “But what was it about ?” I almost shouted in my exasperation. “Old Blessingham called it Holmes’s first case yet I have never heard of it.”
    Hungerford smiled at my impatience. “Well, Holmes was obviously an