Sherlock Holmes Murder Most Foul Read Online Free PDF

the narrow murky street. He hiccups drunkenly, “Ever ’eard o’ the [43] Black ’Ole o’ Calcutta?”
    Smoothing her skirt with her hand, Martha emerges from the darkness, “Can’t say I ’ave.”
    Leary glowers, “An airless dungeon, eighteen feet by eighteen. Nigh on a ’undred English prisoners were crammed int’ it wiv little or no water t’ drink. Next day, only twenty-three of ’em were alive. The rest ’ad suffocated durin’ the night.”
    Mystified by his comment, Martha frowns, “Wot’s that got t’ do wiv me, then?”
    Leary turns and sinisterly breathes in her face, “Like t’ do that t’ all whores, especially yer.”
    Martha angrily shoves him away, “Would yer, now? Go on, ’op it b’fore I call a [44] copper.”
    Leary haughtily tugs the bottom of his tunic, and then strokes the single white stripe on his sleeve, “’Ave no fear! I’m not ready t’ [45] swing fer the likes o’ yer yet.”
    Coming to attention and mockingly saluting Martha, he spins on his heel, teeters momentarily, corrects his balance and then reels off towards Wentworth Street.
    Martha belches and snorts, “’Ere, mate, yer goin’ in the wrong direction. Should be the other way.”
    Smugly smiling to herself, Martha adjusts her bonnet, hastily turns and bumps into a darkened figure.
    Stifling a startled shriek, she flinches, [46] “Wot’s yer game, then?”
    The figure silently extends an arm, revealing a silver coin held between the thumb and finger of a gloved hand. Instantly calming and avariciously casting caution to the wind, Martha grabs the coin, “Will ’ere do, or somewhere else?”
    Uncurling a finger, the figure points to the arched entrance of George Yard Buildings.
     
    ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦
     
    Still the worse for drink, and with her shoulder partially covered in dried vomit, Mary Ann Connolly throws open the door of the White Hart and lurches into the crowded smoked-filled tavern, bumping into a brawny merchant seaman.
    Spilling his pint of ale, the seaman angrily turns to Mary, sniffs the air and instantly recoils from the pungent sickly odour that exudes from her.
    Elbowing her way through the noisy revellers, Mary staggers to the bar and is immediately confronted by the surly proprietor, Mrs Fiddymont.
    “Wot yer want this time, Connelly?”
    Mary looks over her shoulder searchingly, “Martha!” She leans across the bar and stares at Mrs Fiddymont through glazed eyes, “Martha Tabram!”
    Mrs Fiddymont squirms, [47] “Gawd! Yer smell like a [48] rotten kipper.”
    Mary burps and then proudly displays the sixpenny coin, “Got the price o’ a bed fer the night an’ tu’pence fer me breakfast, though.”
    Mrs Fiddymont smirks avariciously, “Well, yer can buy yerself a drink whilst yer wait fer ’er, can’t yer?”
    Fingering the coin, Mary dithers, “It’s a warm bed I’d be losin’.”
    Mrs Fiddymont callously indicates the tavern door, “Best be on yer way then.”
    Mary continues to hesitate and then, sighing forlornly, slams the coin down on the bar, “All right! I’ll ’ave a [49] tot o’ gin.”
     
    ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦
     
    Partially cloaked by the darkness, a tall indistinct figure, wearing a soft felt hat with its wide brim turned down, slowly emerges from the entrance of George Yard Buildings.
    Stealthy hugging the side of the edifice in an endeavour not to be seen, the figure hurries along the wet cobbled street and, joining a dimly lit, shadowy woman loitering at a corner, departs with her and disappears into the gloom of Wentworth Street.
     
    ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦
     
    Just over two hours later and prior to daylight, waterside labourer John Reeves, having risen early for work, wearily steps out of his lodgings at number 37 George Yard Buildings. Locking his front door, he slips the key into his grubby jacket pocket, adjusts his close fitting cloth cap and begins to descend the inner stone steps whilst yawning. Traipsing down to the dreary first floor landing