The Great Detective Read Online Free PDF

improving the mechanical limbs currently in use by the army. Clumsy, monstrous things they are, forever having to be adjusted. The men hate them.”
    Tacy smiled encouragingly. “There’s a fine ambition. And a practical one.”
    â€œNot without extensive training in mechanics, which I can by no means afford. Thus my advertisement.”
    â€œIndeed.” Tacy made her decision. “The position is yours, should you choose to accept it. That will make a beginning, at any rate. I can at least promise you a mystery, and perhaps even an adventure. But first, I must give you a little background.”
    Their food arrived, and over Brown Windsor soup and a chop, Tacy recounted everything she thought he needed to know of Angharad and Sir Arthur and the Reasoning Machine. When she had finished, the doctor regarded her with wonder. “An extraordinary story,” he said.
    â€œI suppose it is extraordinary,” she said, surprised, “if you haven’t been living in the thick of it. Just my life, it is to me, nothing out of the way in it at all.”
    He nodded thoughtfully. “If I understand correctly, you need a kind of bodyguard-cum-fellow-conspirator to help you find your colleague and your friend.”
    Tacy had not thought of doing the finding herself, but as soon as the doctor suggested it, she knew that was what she wanted. No empty waiting, no fearful imagining, no endless explaining. No Gregson.
    Her heart lightened. “That’s it in a nutshell, Dr. Watson. Will you do it?”
    â€œI will, if only so I may make the acquaintance of Sir Arthur and Mistress Angharad Cwmlech. What do you need me to do?”
    â€œIf you will procure a cab, Dr. Watson, I will tell you as we go.”
    *   *   *
    After the bright shops of Baker Street, Shoreditch was unrelieved grey. The sky was grey, the streets were grey, the high walls of the manufactories were grey with smoke and soot. The mechanical hansom dropped Tacy and Dr. Watson at a huddle of grey stone structures built around a yard. A smart sign with the words S TEYNE & S ONS painted on it in gold hung over a shop displaying trays of brightly polished gears.
    â€œOnly remember,” Tacy said. “Your name is James Watkins, and I am your sister.”
    The young doctor looked at her gravely. “I know my part, Miss Gof. Do not be anxious.”
    â€œI am not anxious,” Tacy said. “Should I be caught spying, I will have the vapors. Men can seldom withstand a thoroughgoing fit of the vapors.”
    Inside the shop, a clerk approached them inquiringly. He was a small, square man, amazingly hairy as to the jaw and eyebrows and bald as to the head. Dr. Watson introduced himself as a neophyte eager to learn. The clerk, a true enthusiast, professed himself glad to answer his questions, and they were soon deep in discussion.
    Grateful, for once, for the masculine prejudice that dismisses all females as more or less decorative featherbrains, Tacy wandered to the back of the shop, where a promising-looking ledger stood open upon a high desk. A wary glance forward confirmed two masculine backs bent over a tray. She drew a small notebook and silver pencil from her bag and prepared to snoop.
    Alas for her plan, the desk was too high, the light too low, the angle impossible—Tacy could not see the ledger entries, much less examine them. She nipped around the counter and mounted the clerk’s platform. Ah, that was better!
    As she was running her finger down the column of names, the clerk turned to collect another tray. Hurriedly, she ducked behind the desk and peered cautiously around its side. The clerk was holding a tiny, bright gear up to the light to display its intricacies. She turned back to her task.
    The ledger was arranged in a series of columns: date of purchase, client’s name and direction, number and description of the items each had purchased. In addition to Sir Arthur’s own