The West End Horror Read Online Free PDF

Jonathan McCarthy lay on its back at the base of a set of bookshelves, the eyes open and staring, the black- bearded jaw dropped, and the mouth wide in a terrible, silent scream. McCarthy’s swarthy looks were not pleasant in and of themselves, but coupled with his expression in death, they combined to produce a truly horrible impression. I had seldom beheld a more unnerving sight. The man had been stabbed in the left side, somewhat below the heart, and had bled profusely. The instrument of his death was nowhere apparent. I knelt and examined the corpse, determining that the blood had dried on the silken waistcoat and on the oriental carpet beside it. The body was cold, and parts of it were already quite hard.
    “The other rooms are undisturbed, I take it?” Holmes enquired behind me. “No handwriting on the walls?”
    “Gad, sir, but you’ve a long memory,”*[ In 1881, the word Rache was found written in blood on the wall of an empty house in Lauriston Gardens. The only other feature of interest was the corpse of a man, recently murdered. Watson’s account, titled “A Study in Scarlet,” was the first of Holmes’s cases to be written up. It was published in the Beeton’s Christmas annual of 1887 under the pen name of Watson’s literary agent, Dr. A. Conan Doyle.] Lestrade laughed. “No, the only writing on the walls is on those pictures. This room’s where the business took place, all right.”
    ‘What are the facts?”
    “He was found like this some two and a half hours ago. The girl came up with his breakfast, knocked on the door, and receiving no answer, made so bold as to enter. He’d overslept before, it seems, on more than one occasion. As to what happened, that’s clear enough, up to a point. He was entertaining here last night–though he came home late and let himself in with his latchkey, so nobody got a look at his company. They sat down to a brandy and cigars here at the table when an altercation began. Whoever it was reached behind him to the writing desk and grabbed this.” He paused and held out his hand. The young sergeant, taking his cue, passed over something wrapped in a handkerchief. Lestrade set it gently on the table and threw back the folds of material to reveal an ivory letter opener, its yellowish blade tinged a tawny red, some of which had run onto and splattered the finely worked silver hilt.
    “Javanese,” Holmes murmured, examining it with his magnifying glass. “It came from the desk, you say? Ah, yes, here is the sheath which matches it. Go on, pray.”
    “Whoever it was,” Lestrade resumed with a self-important air, “seized the letter opener and stabbed his host, knocking over his brandy glass as he thrust home. McCarthy crumpled in a heap at the foot of the table while the other departed, leaving his cigar burning where he had left it. McCarthy stayed beneath the table for some time–you can see quite a pooi of blood–and then with his last reserves of strength, he crawled to those bookshelves–”
    “So much, as you say, is obvious,” Holmes observed, drily, pointing to a ghastly scarlet trail which led directly to the body. He stepped forward and carefully picked up the cigar, holding it gently in the middle. “This cigar is less so. I cannot recall having ever seen one like it. Can you, Lestrade?”
    “You’re going to tell me about all those tobacco ashes you can recognise,” the inspector scoffed.
    “On the contrary, I am trying to tell you about one I cannot. May I have a portion of this?” He held up the cigar.
    “As you wish.”
    Holmes inclined his head in a little bow of thanks. He withdrew his penknife, leaned on the edge of the table, and carefully sawed off two inches of the cigar, putting the stub back where he had found it and pocketing the sample where it would not be crushed. He straightened up ready with another question, when a noise was heard below, followed by a thunderous rush upon the stairs. Shaw arrived, breathless but