Stone Cold Read Online Free PDF Page B

much to see – apart from the portraits on the walls and a ginger cat dozing by the glowing fireplace the room was remarkably bare – no
knick-knacks or odd little possessions that might have helped Sherlock get a handle on Mrs McCrery’s personality, although he had already begun to develop an opinion.
    He walked over to the fire and bent down to stroke the cat. Best to start making friends straight away, he thought. He ran his hand over the cat’s back, brushing it from head to tail. It
didn’t seem to mind. In fact, it didn’t even seem to notice. Possibly it was fast asleep, but it didn’t seem to be breathing: its sides were stationary, rather than going in or
out. Listening closely, he couldn’t hear any purring either, and he noticed that it was cold.
    Maybe the cat was dead. That would be a terrible way to start his time here – having to tell Mrs McCrery that her cat was dead.
    He rested his hand cautiously on its back again. No reaction. He pressed harder. The cat was curiously stiff. Maybe rigor mortis had set in – that stiffening of the muscles that apparently
occurred within a few hours of death.
    He pressed harder still, but there was no give at all in the cat’s flesh. It was as hard and as cold as stone.
    ‘It’s stuffed,’ he said in surprise, leaning back on his heels.
    ‘What is?’
    ‘The cat – I think it’s stuffed.’
    ‘Well –’ Matty started to say, but before he could get the words out Mrs McCrery reappeared in the doorway with a tray. She set it down on a low table next to Matty, turned her
head to look at Sherlock, and said: ‘Ah, you’ve met Macallistair then?’
    ‘Macallistair?’ He glanced at the cat. ‘Yes – we’ve made our introductions.’
    ‘The poor thing, he died last winter. It was fearfully cold, and I found him on the front step one morning, frozen solid.’
    Sherlock glanced at the cat again. Surely it wasn’t still frozen? Not in front of that coal fire.
    ‘So you had him stuffed,’ he said casually.
    ‘So he could always be here with me, curled up in his favourite place.’ She straightened and gestured towards the contents of the tray. Tea and scones and jam and cream. ‘Just
help yourselves, and don’t stand on ceremony. I’ll come and show you to your room later, Mr Holmes.’
    She turned and sailed out of the room.
    There was silence for a few moments.
    ‘I wonder what she did with her husband,’ Matty said eventually. ‘If I were you, I wouldn’t go down into the cellar, especially at night.’
    ‘Maybe all of her previous lodgers are somewhere still in the house,’ Sherlock observed darkly, ‘all curled up comfortably in their favourite places.’
    Matty looked dubiously at the tea tray, then at Sherlock. ‘Do you want to try the tea and the scones first?’
    Sherlock laughed suddenly. This was just too stupid. ‘She’s not a mass murderer,’ he said, ‘she’s just a lady who loved her husband and her cat. There’s no
law against that. The tea isn’t poisoned, and neither are the scones. Come on – let’s eat.’
    They did, and the scones were lovely – crumbly and still warm. After he’d finished two of them, and had a cup of tea, Matty decided it was time to go. He left, and Sherlock sat there
for a while in the sitting room, letting his thoughts wander.
    ‘I’ll show you to your room now,’ Mrs McCrery said, reappearing quietly in the doorway. ‘Och, you and your young friend certainly enjoyed the scones.’
    ‘They were perfect,’ he said, following her out of the room and up the stairs.
    ‘I made the jam myself,’ she announced. ‘You’ll never guess what fruit I used.’
    ‘Holly berries?’ he asked innocently.
    ‘Oh, no,’ she said, shocked, ‘those are poisonous! I used redcurrants.’
    Sherlock’s room was on the third floor. It was small but very tidy, with a comfortable-looking bed and a desk where he could work. There was also a stuffed chair where he could relax and
maybe read, and a