The Seventh Bullet Read Online Free Page A

else—might somehow transport us all back to a more youthful time.
    Mrs. Hudson led us through Holmes’s extensive library. I saw many a familiar tome of chemistry and law on the sagging shelves, not to mention the two unidentifiable books lying open on the leather desk chair or the tower of eight more volumes precariously perched at the edge of the low butler’s table. Magazine cuttings on a desk already cluttered with pens, scattered papers replete with Holmes’s precise handwriting, numerous Petri plates, and a half-dozen upright test tubes no doubt responsible for the malodorous smell of sulphur lingering in the air—all reassured me that, despite Mrs. Hudson’s repeated attempts to curb Holmes of his incredibleuntidiness, he still remained unfettered. It was testimony to the loyalty of his housekeeper that for so many years she had continued picking up whatever his Bohemian nature would allow.
    We followed Mrs. Hudson to a pair of open French windows at the rear of the cottage. Through the casements we could see four dramatic horizontal stripes: the cloudless, azure sky; the slate-blue sea highlighted intermittently with tiny white horses like frozen dollops of cream on a gelatinous dessert; the chalky white earth; and the broad green lawn directly behind the house into which the chalk melded.
    Suddenly, as if making his entry on stage from the wings, Sherlock Holmes stepped into the scene. Except for the flecks of grey in the receding hair at his temples, he looked unchanged from his Baker Street days. It is true that he navigated more slowly and that on his perambulations he often carried a walking stick out of necessity rather than as a nod to any current fashion; but, tall and lean, he appeared ready to spring into action when so summoned. Holmes was robed in his favourite dressing gown, once royal purple now a faded mouse colour. In his left hand was a copy of the T.W. Cowan British Bee-Keeper’s Guide Book , in his right, the graceful amber curve of a calabash. The latter was a recent gift of the American actor William Gillette, who, in his theatrical impersonation of Holmes, had found the large pipe a more dramatic prop than Holmes’s smaller ones made of bentwood or clay. Although the colour of Holmes’s amber-hued calabash had not yet metamorphosed into the more familiar henna, a thick halo of blue smoke wafting heavenward from the creamy meerschaum bowl suggested it soon would.
    “My dear Watson!” Holmes exclaimed. “How good it isto see you. And this must be Mrs. Frevert about whom you telegraphed.” Setting the book on a nearby table and the pipe in a large, iridescent abalone shell which seemed set out for just such a purpose, Sherlock Holmes stepped forward to take her two hands in his. “May I say, Mrs. Frevert, how saddened I was to hear of your brother’s death. On occasion, Dr. Watson and I would join him for a tankard of ale at the Royal Larder, his favourite public house. His death was a great loss to your family, of course, but perhaps an even greater loss, if I may be permitted to say so, to that brotherhood of modern knights errant who do their jousting with pens rather than with swords.”
    “Thank you, Mr. Holmes. You may indeed be permitted to bestow such compliments upon my brother. As I have told Dr. Watson, Graham had only the kindest words for you both. Such faith in his work from so valued a source means a great deal to me.”
    Holmes smiled in response. Then, while exchanging his dressing gown for a Norfolk jacket, he announced, “Mrs. Hudson has prepared a luncheon for us. Since the winds have subsided, she insists that we eat outside. Afterwards we will discuss the matter that has brought you here.”
    As the long journey to the Downs had awakened in both Mrs. Frevert and myself a hearty appetite, we immediately followed Holmes’s lead through the open French windows. We proceeded to discover waiting for us on the terrace a wooden table, its rusticity softened by the