The Seventh Bullet Read Online Free PDF Page A

the Senate back in 1906, the receipt of threatening letters and telegrams had become a way of life.”
    “ The Treason of the Senate the series was titled, if I’m not mistaken,” Holmes said.
    “That’s right,” Mrs. Frevert replied. “I’m flattered that its title is familiar here in England.”
    “The topic is very much a part of our history too, Mrs. Frevert. The Tower of London is a grim reminder of our own bouts with treason, isn’t that so, Watson?”
    “Of course,” I replied, but I confess in these pages that I recognised the title of Phillips’s articles that day only because I remembered at the time of their publication that they were written by a friend—not because I had ever actually read them myself.
    “At any rate,” Mrs. Frevert continued, “Graham took little notice of these threats. He’d grown accustomed to such rubbish and had long since vowed not to let himself be vexed by messages of that kind or by the sick minds who composed them.”
    “But surely,” Holmes said, “a telegram addressed to and signed by oneself is unique enough to cause even the most inured recipient to take some notice?” This last comment was more of a statement than a question.
    “It was not the first of its kind, Mr. Holmes. Graham thought them the work of a crank. I have already learned that material only becomes evidence in retrospect— after the crime has been committed—however unspeakable the deed.”
    At the word “crime,” Mrs. Frevert seemed to shudder. Clutching the white handkerchief and black fan more tightly, she intensified her waving.
    “Graham left our apartment shortly after receiving the telegram. He was bound for the nearby Princeton Club in Gramercy Park where he picked up his mail. It was a cold day, and I can still see him walking out the door in his black hat and great raglan coat.” Mrs. Frevert smiled. “It seems pointless now to recall that I was worrying he might not be warm enough.”
    “Yes,” Holmes said quietly. His pipe having extinguished in the brief silence that followed, he extracted from his dressing-gown pocket a silver match container. It was the one I recalled him receiving as payment for his help in returning the abducted son of a London mortician and was fashioned to look like a skull. Holmes had always enjoyed the responses it provoked. In this instance, however, he concealed it in the palm of his hand as best he could. Striking a Vesta, he held the flame just above the pipe’s bowl. Again, the smoke wafted upward.
    “How was your brother travelling?” he asked when both he and his guest were ready to resume.
    “Graham was on foot,” Mrs. Frevert answered with renewed vigour. “He loved to walk whenever he got the chance. He thought it was good for his health.”
    “Ah, yes,” Holmes observed. “The carriage is the vehicle of the rich, I believe he wrote. Stick to the pavement and you’ll never lose touch with the masses.”
    “Exactly, Mr. Holmes. I see you are familiar with my brother’s writing.”
    “I try to keep up with current trends, Mrs. Frevert,” Holmes surprised me by saying. He tended to shun contemporary literature unless of the most sensational variety. Examining the latter provided him with a perspective altogether foreign to hisnature. Of belles lettres , he had always been surprisingly ignorant; but, as he himself went on to explain, his retirement had enabled him to alter his reading habits. “Since I am rather isolated here in Sussex,” Holmes said, “my idle moments have provided me with the opportunity to keep abreast of many a modern novelist. But, pray, continue.”
    “My brother started for the Princeton Club that horrible afternoon, but just before he reached his destination, that wretch Goldsborough—Fitzhugh Coyle Goldsborough—accosted Graham—shot him six times—and then immediately turned the gun on himself. Goldsborough was dressed like a vagrant; and Graham, poor soul, was about to offer him a coin. The