The Final Tales of Sherlock Holmes - Volume 1 by John A. Little

and subterfuge. Why weren’t we baiting a trap for the Potter swine, rather than running away from him? Attack, attack, attack! That had been the cry up the Khyber Pass in the Great Game! Those were the days, right enough. Kill or be killed. Day-dreaming of those wonderful times, and with my leg starting to throb again, I followed the collector dutifully back to where the grand old dame was sitting at the back of the empty dining carriage with a rug covering her dress and sipping tea in a most delicate manner.
    â€˜Do sit down. So delighted you could join me,’ she murmured.
    Once the conductor was out of hearing, Holmes returned to his normal voice.
    â€˜Who’d be a woman, eh, Watson?’ he whispered. ‘The fussy dresses, the reeking perfumes, the high heels, the make-up, the complicated underclothes. God, it’s disgusting!’
    â€˜Holmes, I must protest,’ I cried. ‘Women are the jewels of our species, the very beacons of shining light in an increasingly dark universe. Without them, we men would simply revert to our animal nature, and return to the caves. I won’t have you malign their sex like that.’
    â€˜Here, old man,’ said Holmes, smiling tolerantly. ‘Have some Earl Grey. It’ll calm you down.’
    â€˜I don’t need to be calmed down,’ I replied, thoroughly nettled by his customary patronising attitude and refusal to take me into his confidence. ‘I just want to know if we’re safe here, and if you have made any progress on Mycroft’s murder. What about that cipher within a cipher, for instance?’
    â€˜Have you brought your weapon?’
    â€˜Of course.’
    â€˜Good. I have my stick sword and knuckle-duster. Now place the gun where it cannot be seen but can be drawn swiftly. Hopefully our friend will have been led to believe that we are travelling all the way to Brighton. We will disembark at Haywards Heath at the last moment and pray that he does not follow us. I intend that we shall spend the night at The Dolphin. Tomorrow, old fellow, I’m hoping you will help me break the news of Mycroft’s death to our father. I fear I cannot broach the event alone.’
    â€˜Your father!’ I almost screeched, as I fumbled my life-preserver under a newspaper on the seat. ‘But Holmes, you told me your parents had died many years ago. Before we even met!’
    â€˜I know. I apologise, Watson, for having misled you on that. I’m sure there was a good reason for it at the time. If only I could remember it. The truth is that Teddy Holmes is a very frail, wheelchair-bound, slightly deaf ninety-eight-year-old who lives with a pretty young Norwegian housekeeper in the Sussex home that he moved to from Yorkshire after our mother’s death. Ellie looks after things at the Old Rectory. I fear the shock of Mycroft’s death will be too much for the old man.’
    â€˜But surely he will have read of it in the newspapers.’
    â€˜He never reads them. He is a total recluse, and has not received a single visitor since our mother died, thirty years ago. Apart from Mycroft, of course, who used to go down regularly. This is my first trip since her funeral. Good grief, how do women wear these things? My feet are killing me.’
    Holmes kicked his shoes under the dining table and started rubbing his heels.
    â€˜Holmes, do you seriously mean that you haven’t seen your father in thirty years? I find that difficult to understand. And have you warned him of our arrival?’
    â€˜I’ll explain it to you later. There is a logical reason for everything, Watson. And no. It will be quite a surprise. Now, this damned poetry quote. I must confess my failure to you. Even after three pipes, I still could not come up with a single thing, other than the quote itself. ‘Who is the Potter, pray, and who the Pot.’ You do remember it, don’t you?’
    â€˜Of course,’ I replied.