The Seventh Bullet Read Online Free PDF

police said that Goldsborough had stretched his arm out rigidly and fired in a circular manner to hit as many parts of Graham’s body as possible. After he was wounded, Graham held himself up against the fence as best he could until he was carried into his club by some of its members. Finally, an ambulance took him to Bellevue Hospital. And would you believe that during that night his condition actually improved? But late the next evening he died.”
    If the tears were going to come, I expected them now, but despite the ever-ready square of linen, they did not flow. Like her brother the journalist, Mrs. Frevert reported—bravely— the story as she knew it, her only display of greater stress the tighter clenching of her white handkerchief. Unlike many others of the fair sex who in our old sitting room had told similarly heart-wrenching stories of grief, Mrs. Frevert did not require comforting. That she was neither frail nor fragile seemed to give greater credibility to her account.
    “After he was shot, Mr. Holmes, he said, ‘I could have beatenfour bullets, but six were too many.’”
    Holmes nodded, allowing the remark to register. Then he asked, “Did he say anything else?”
    “Only that no-one should tell our mother, who was living in California at the time. Graham feared the news would kill her. That was Graham, always thinking about someone else—even when he was mortally wounded. And, do you know, she did die less than half a year after hearing of her son’s murder?”
    “A tragic story indeed, Mrs. Frevert,” Sherlock Holmes said. Then, propping his pipe back in the abalone shell and placing the fingertips of both hands together, he looked at her with his hawklike eyes and proceeded to ask her the paramount question: “Since all these details are known to the police, why do you believe that there is any more to be examined?”
    The sky was beginning to darken, a reminder that, if we were to catch the 5:15 train from Eastbourne back to London, we would have to leave the cottage shortly. But here was the crux of what had brought the determined Mrs. Frevert to see Sherlock Holmes in the first place. She was not about to squander the opportunity.
    Awaiting her answer, Holmes leaned forward in his chair, chin now resting on his interlocking fingers.
    “Some people might call it women’s intuition, Mr. Holmes—”
    Her response, obviously deemed meagre by Holmes, caused him to lean back with an audible sigh.
    “—but,” she continued, “I just cannot for the life of me ignore the numerous and, I might add, powerful enemies my brother had. Too many people in high places had threatened him—to his face or indirectly. He even reported them to the police.”
    “I’m sure that is the case, Mrs. Frevert, but I’m afraid it’s hardlyenough to dispute the official findings. If, as Watson informed me, you were seeking my advice, I fear I’m going to have to disappoint you. Now, as you have a train to catch—” Holmes rose and indicated with a sweep of his arm the direction back into the house.
    Mrs. Frevert, too, stood up, fixing her eyes on my friend. “Mr. Holmes,” she said, “do you take me for a fool? I didn’t travel all the way from New York to tell you about intuition. What’s more, I’d thank you to at least extend the courtesy of hearing me out.”
    Holmes’s humble smile and nodding head, an attitude he seldom displayed—especially to a woman—righted the moment. “Pray be seated,” he said softly, and they both resumed their chairs.
    “There is also the question of the bullets,” she announced triumphantly.
    “Bullets?” I repeated.
    “The number, I mean.”
    “He was shot six times,” Holmes reminded us.
    “Precisely!” Mrs. Frevert exclaimed. “All the reports agree. Six times! And then the assassin pointed the gun at his head, firing once.”
    “I see,” Holmes said slowly. He appeared to possess some sense of the direction in which her argument was going. For my part,