Two Hundred and Twenty-One Baker Streets Read Online Free Page B

everyone’s been working the show since then. Not a soul to find him.”
    “Jim,” Trenet said, her voice nasal as she pinched her nostrils shut, “you stay here with the body and Haus. I have to call the local police.”
    “No!” Crash barked. “No police.”
    “Sanford, I have to.”
    “You can’t.”
    “It’s my job!”
    “Locals get sight of coppers on my lot, they’ll assume the worst.”
    “They’d be right!”
    “They’ll stop coming and my people will lose money. If word carries too far, we could lose the rest of the season.”
    “You can’t seriously think I’ll just let a murder—the latest in a string of them, I might add—go unnoticed.”
    “He’s not a towner, Adele. He’s not even a gaucho like me. Arty ��Chloed—had been thrust through his mouth, pinning his head to the rotting wood of the wheel. His face was fixed with a terrified expression. I raced forward and knelt, the prosthetic protesting as I did. I checked the boy for a pulse, but it was a futile effort.
    “Marks on his wrists,” I said. “He was bound.”
    Haus paced with mounting anger. “What else?”
    I leaned in close to sniff the boy’s waxy face. “Chloroform.”
    “Someone drugged him, tied him up and did this,” Trenet surmised. “When did you last see him, Sanford?”
    “Just before the gates opened,” he answered. “Sometime after two in the afternoon.”
    I stood up, took out my handkerchief and spoke from behind it. “The blood has been clotting for a while. Flies are on him, too. A few hours. Six at the most.”
    “And everyone’s been working the show since then. Not a soul to find him.”
    “Jim,” Trenet said, her voice nasal as she pinched her nostrils shut, “you stay here with the body and Haus. I have to call the local police.”
    “No!” Crash barked. “No police.”
    “Sanford, I have to.”
    “You can’t.”
    “It’s my job!”
    “Locals get sight of coppers on my lot, they’ll assume the worst.”
    “They’d be right!”
    “They’ll stop coming and my people will lose money. If word carries too far, we could lose the rest of the season.”
    “You can’t seriously think I’ll just let a murder—the latest in a string of them, I might add—go unnoticed.”
    “He’s not a towner, Adele. He’s not even a gaucho like me. Arty ��Chloed—had been thrust through his mouth, pinning his head to the rotting wood of the wheel. His face was fixed with a terrified expression. I raced forward and knelt, the prosthetic protesting as I did. I checked the boy for a pulse, but it was a futile effort.
    “Marks on his wrists,” I said. “He was bound.”
    Haus paced with mounting anger. “What else?”
    I leaned in close to sniff the boy’s waxy face. “Chloroform.”
    “Someone drugged him, tied him up and did this,” Trenet surmised. “When did you last see him, Sanford?”
    “Just before the gates opened,” he answered. “Sometime after two in the afternoon.”
    I stood up, took out my handkerchief and spoke from behind it. “The blood has been clotting for a while. Flies are on him, too. A few hours. Six at the most.”
    “And everyone’s been working the show since then. Not a soul to find him.”

Half There/All There
Glen Mehn
    I met Glen through mutual friends at various London publishing events, and have had the good fortune to appear alongside him in two anthologies; Glen’s a thrilling new talent, and you’ll be seeing more from him. ‘Half There/All There’ a beautiful story set in the bohemian world of Andy Warhol’s ‘Factory,’ and perfectly grounded, not just in the mood of that crowd, but in the events of the time. It also imbues Holmes with a sort of fierce sadness and regret that took me by surprise, and which will follow you long after the story’s done.
    T HE WORLD KNOWS Sherlock Holmes through these pages as a calculating machine, seeking justice with cold logic, but I know another side of him. A soft side, a less serious side.