The Adventure of the Pharaoh's Curse (The Assassination of Sherlock Holmes Book 1) Read Online Free PDF

expect to find him at the Alpha Inn?”
    “I cannot say with absolute certainty, of course, however, I think the likelihood is very high.”
    “Why so, Holmes?” I asked.
    “As we strode through the passenger foyer at the station, I noted that it was shortly after half past five o’clock. Unless the hours of the Museum have been altered since I retired to the Downs, I know that this is very near the time when the night watchmen congregate at the Inn to share a small beer before starting their duties.”
    “But Mr. Bedford has refused to report for work,” I protested.
    “True, Watson, but the habits of many years do not change overnight. He is well used to the company of his fellows, and may still seek them out, even if he does not join them afterwards on their trek to the Museum’s doors.”
    A few minutes later we found ourselves in Bloomsbury, at that small public house on the corner of Oxford Street and Coptic Street. Although a score of years had passed since we first crossed that threshold looking for the origin of a singular goose, the same white-aproned landlord, his face even ruddier and more weathered, continued to stand guard behind the bar.
    “Good evening, Mr. Windigate,” Holmes called. “I trust you are well? Is Mr. Bedford a guest of the house this evening?”
    “Ah, yes, Mr. Holmes,” said that man, clearly recognizing my famous friend. “He is indeed. You see the stout and swarthy fellow in the corner, nursing a beer? The one with the grizzled hair and whiskers?”
    “Indeed!” replied Holmes with a triumphant glance in Lestrade’s direction. “Well, prosperity to your house, sir,” he said, sliding a pair of shillings across the bar.
    When we approached the indicated table, the older man looked up at us with unfriendly brown eyes. However, when he recognized Lestrade, his manner changed to one of servility. “What can I do for you, Inspector?”
    “This here is Mr. Sherlock Holmes and his companion, Dr. Watson. They have some questions for you.”
    “I’ve answered plenty of questions. I’ve got no more information for you.”
    Holmes slid into the seat opposite Bedford and turned the full force of his gaze upon the man. “Come now, Mr. Bedford. You are a man of the world, are you not? You have seen some near sixty years in your day, and you have fiddled at many a music hall in Shadwell.”
    I was sufficiently familiar with my friend’s methods to be able to follow his reasoning. I observed that the peculiar blue clay on his boots might signify to Holmes that the man trod in some particular district of town, and noted that the red inflammation on the left side of Bedford’s neck provided the data for Holmes’ deduction of the man’s free-time habits. However, the man’s eyes grew larger and larger as Holmes’ narration went on. “You are a wizard, Mr. Holmes,” he whispered in amazement. “How could you know all that?”
    “It is my business to know things, Mr. Bedford. That is my trade, or at least was. Just as I know that your tale of a cursed statue is ridiculous. Don’t tell me you honestly believe such nonsense.”
    The man only shook his head. “I am very sorry, Mr. Holmes. But I saw what I saw, and you can’t tell me otherwise. There is a black statue in the gallery, about yea high,” he held out his hands about three feet apart. “It sits in a glass case, where no one can touch it, and no breeze could make it stir. But it moves, I tell you. It is some form of dark magic, I am sure of that. I will swear to it in a court of law, or before the King himself, if need be.” His voice vibrated with terror.
    “That won’t be necessary,” said Holmes mildly.
    But the man’s excitement could not be contained. “And then there was the murdered inspector, the thin red band encircling his throat, and his purple-colored face screwed up into a horrible contorted mask. I will never forget it. It’s devilish, Mr. Holmes, devilish!” cried Bedford, his voice rising with