The West End Horror Read Online Free PDF Page B

triumphant.
    “Why, man,” he cried, “your name is a regular passe-par- tout! Well, where’s the carrion?”
    “And who might this gentleman be?” Lestrade growled, looking fearlessly up into Shaw’s beard.
    “It’s all right, Inspector Lestrade. He’s a colleague of the deceased, Mr. Bernard Shaw of the Saturday Review.” The two men bowed slightly.
    “There’s a police wagon arrived downstairs with a stretcher in it,” Shaw informed Lestrade.
    “Very good. Well, gentlemen, as you can see–”
    “You haven’t yet told him about the book, Inspector,” interposed the young sergeant shyly. He had been following Holmes’s every move with eager interest, almost as though trying to memorise his actions.
    “I was going to, I was going to!” Lestrade shot back, growing more annoyed by the minute. “You just stay in the background, young man. Pay attention and you’ll learn something.”
    “Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.”
    His chief grunted. “Now where was I?”
    “You were about to show us the book poor McCarthy had used his last ounce of energy to retrieve,” Holmes prompted quietly.
    “Oh, yes.” The little man made to fetch the volume, then turned. “Stop a bit. Here, how did you come to know he was after a book before he died?”
    “What other reason for him to have struggled so valiantly towards the bookshelves,” Holmes replied mildly. “A volume of Shakespeare, is it not? I perceive one is missing.”
    Instinctively I stole a glance at Shaw, who heard this information with a snort and began his own examination of the room.
    “Kindly refrain from trampling the clues,” Holmes ordered sharply and signed for him to join us by the table. “May we see the book?”
    Lestrade nodded to the sergeant, who brought forth another object, wrapped in a second handkerchief, which he placed on the table. Before us lay a volume of Romeo and Juliet published by Oxford and obviously part of the complete edition which rested on the shelf above the corpse. Holmes brought forth his glass again and conducted a careful examination of the volume, pursing his lips in concentration.
    “With your permission, sir.” It was the sergeant, again.
    ‘When we found it, it was opened.”
    “Indeed?” Holmes shot a keen glance at Lestrade, who shifted his weight uncomfortably. “And where was that?”
    “The book wasn’t in his hands,” the little man replied defensively. “He’d let go of it when he died.”
    “But it was open.”
    “To what page?”
    “Somewheres in the middle,” Lestrade grumbled. “It’s a perfectly ordinary book,” he added testily. “No secret messages stuck in the binding, if you’re thinking along those lines.
    “I am not thinking at all,” Holmes replied coldly. “I am observing, as you, evidently, have failed to do.”
    “It was page forty-two,” the sergeant volunteered. Holmes favored him with an interested look, then began carefully turning the bloodstained pages.
    “You’re very keen,” he commented, studying the leaves. “How long have you been down from Leeds? Five years?”
    “Six, sir. After my father–” The sergeant stopped short in confusion and regarded the detective with amazement.
    “Here, Holmes,” his superior broke in, “if you know the lad, why not say so?”
    “It is no great matter to infer his birthplace, Lestrade. Surely you can’t have failed to remark on his distinctive a’s and his peculiar manner of handling diphthongs? I would hazard Leeds or possibly Hull, but then, he has been in London these last six years, as he says, and acquired a local overlay, which makes it difficult to be precise. You live in Stepney now, don’t you, Sergeant?”
    “Ay, sir.” The sergeant’s eyes were wide with awe. For his part, Shaw had listened to the entire exchange with the strictest attention stamped on his features.
    “But this is wonderful!” he shouted. “Do you mean you can actually place a man by his speech?”
    “If it’s in English, within