Sherlock Holmes: Cthulhu Mythos Adventures (Sherlock Holmes Adventures Book 2) by Ralph E. Vaughan

landing.
    Holmes smiled thinly, then called: “Enter or go away, my dear Sherrington, but do not lurk just outside my door like a quavering footpad uncertain whether to cosh or run.”
    The door opened, and a thin, pale, aesthetic face seemed to float reluctantly into the room.
    “Are you quite sure?” asked Roger Sherrington. “It’s late…”
    “Not too late for you to be about town when you are usually otherwise occupied, nor for me to be up,” Holmes pointed out. “You have not brought your ‘nanny’ along, have you?”
    The tall young man, immaculately clad in evening attire, slid into the room, easing the door closed behind him.
    “No, I gave Giles the night off, to do whatever he does when not keeping me out of mischief, if you know what I mean.” The young clubman frowned. “You no doubt recognized my tread upon the steps, but you could not…well, I suppose Giles is rather catlike at that.” He paused. “I say, you appear quite industrious for the hour.” He coughed. “You make the miasma outside seem quite healthful by comparison.” He uttered a short high laugh. “But I mustn’t prattle; I decided to knock you up with a minor conundrum, but since you seem…”
    “Nonsense, old man,” Holmes interjected, knowing that unless he pinned Sherrington down he would drone on until he decided to sidle out the door, down the stairs and back into the night, having wasted Holmes’ time and his own. “Setting off into  the wilds of the Capital without finishing one of the most adequate mutton dinners in London surely portends some dire concern. Sit and tell me all.”
    “Yes, admittedly I departed the Cairo Club in some haste, but I would hardly call their fare…” He paused, gaped, then hurriedly checked sleeves, cuffs, lapels, and anywhere else that might have afforded the observant Holmes some clue as to his recent activities. “I swear you do this simply to vex me, and me alone, Holmes.”
    “Nonsense, Sherrington,” Holmes replied mildly. “Being quite egalitarian, I vex one and all. A scuff upon your otherwise mirrored left shoe, a daub of gravy in an incised gold button, the corner of a receipt protruding from your pocket, and I do believe this is Friday. Now, as I urged, sit and reveal your purpose in calling.”
    Sherrington frowned, moved toward a chair, but did not sit as instructed. “But I am obviously interrupting a complex study of some…I say, is that a map of Whitechapel?”
    Holmes nodded, his eyes narrowing at the man’s tone.
    “How very odd!” Sherrington exclaimed. “Perhaps this is a fortunate coincidence after all, then, for the matter which motivated me to rush through what was actually a rather indifferent mutton dinner at my club—yes, you are correct about that, damn you—does indeed involve a strange and disturbing event in the Whitechapel area.” He thrust a silencing palm toward Holmes, who had made no move to speak. “And, no, it has nothing to do with last year’s so-called Ripper murders which the irresponsible scribes of Fleet Street touted so shamelessly.”
    “Then, please sit,” Holmes repeated, “and tell.”
    Sherrington finally sat, but said: “I hesitate to trouble you with matters you will no doubt see as mundane in comparison. Obviously you are involved in a case of some importance, at least important enough for some Scotland Yard chappies to cart all these storage boxes across London to you. And I bring you naught but my usual foolishness, as you so often accuse me.”
    Holmes had already reclined in his chair, chin resting upon his entwined fingers. His thin lips curved slightly into the faintest of smiles. Yes, there were times when he had labeled Sherrington a fool, but not without cause, and certainly not with any malice; they were not accusations at all, but rather undeniable estimations rising from irrefutable logic. Besides, Holmes considered as he exhaled a bluish cloud toward the ceiling, no one called Sherrington a fool more