may have had about his feelings for his father were banished as I witnessed his obvious distress at the possibility of injury or worse to the old man.
But what kind of fiend would want to kill a ninety-eight-year-old man? Then I remembered. Who is the Potter, pray, and who the Pot?
I felt beneath the newspaper for the comfort of my Webley.
Chapter VI. The Second Murder.
A faint twilight edged across the horizon as we stepped off the train at Haywards Heath. The station was eerily quiet, with no sign of other passengers. I breathed in gratefully. We had left Londonâs storm behind and the air seemed positively balmy in comparison. The stationmasterâs whistle sounded clearly as I prayed inwardly that all was well at the Old Rectory.
Holmes rushed ahead of me through the gates. Pain shot through my gammy leg as I struggled with my Gladstone to keep up with him. All thoughts of further disguises seemed to have vanished. Along with Lady Forsythia Moriarty, thank goodness.
âHurry up, Watson,â he grunted, hailing one of his damned Beardmores. Placing my bag on the side of the cab, I consoled myself with the hope that the traffic might be less frenetic than London.
âThe Old Rectory, cabbie. And it will mean a double fare to you if you can make it within the half-hour.â
âIâll do my best, sir,â grunted a pock-marked giant of a man, whose body seemed to stretch through the side window and onto the road.
âHave your Service revolver ready, Watson,â Holmes whispered urgently to me.
I patted the pocket of my ulster in response and settled down to a journey which I shall never forget as long as I walk this earth. The enormous cabbie was obviously determined to get his double fee, as he slammed his foot onto the pedal and we jounced our way through the village streets and out onto roads that had been built for country traps and not for motorised suicide machines. Each time we pounded over a rock or a stone I groaned, as my old wound ached abominably. Holmes seemed oblivious to my torment. He leaned forward on his cane, his grim haunted features a picture of deep concentration and the remnants of his flaky make-up giving him the appearance of an ascetic sunburned monk. Not for the first time, I found myself wondering about his childhood and family life in Yorkshire. Why had he become the insensitive adult detective, interested only in reason and logic? Had he been thwarted in love as a young man, and was that the reason he avoided female company so assiduously? Surely it couldnât have been that experience of being bettered by the late Irene Adler, of dubious and questionable memory ? And why had he ignored his poor father for so long? I resolved that some day I would get answers to these questions, before it was too late.
Our cabbie excelled at his dangerous art, and we shuddered to a halt outside an isolated brightly-lit Tudor mansion after twenty minutes of excruciating misadventure. Fortunately he had managed to avoid killing anyone along the way, although a sluggish sheep may not have been quite so lucky.
Holmes paid off the giant and we hurried out of the cab together, through the white picket gate, along a stony, weed-filled path and up to a crenellated front door, leaving our bags in the road outside. It was slightly ajar and swung gently inwards at his first push.
âI do not like the look of this,â he muttered. âWatson, the gun.â
I withdrew my pistol and followed him noiselessly into a low-beamed narrow hall.
âHello?â shouted Holmes. âIs anybody home? Father?â
Silence.
âStick behind me, Watson. We had better check each room together. Itâs just possible they may have gone out for a walk, or to some local village do.â
His words sounded as convincing to me as Iâm sure they felt to him.
Our progress through the country house was slow, nerve-wracking and thorough, but brought no explanations as to the
But what kind of fiend would want to kill a ninety-eight-year-old man? Then I remembered. Who is the Potter, pray, and who the Pot?
I felt beneath the newspaper for the comfort of my Webley.
Chapter VI. The Second Murder.
A faint twilight edged across the horizon as we stepped off the train at Haywards Heath. The station was eerily quiet, with no sign of other passengers. I breathed in gratefully. We had left Londonâs storm behind and the air seemed positively balmy in comparison. The stationmasterâs whistle sounded clearly as I prayed inwardly that all was well at the Old Rectory.
Holmes rushed ahead of me through the gates. Pain shot through my gammy leg as I struggled with my Gladstone to keep up with him. All thoughts of further disguises seemed to have vanished. Along with Lady Forsythia Moriarty, thank goodness.
âHurry up, Watson,â he grunted, hailing one of his damned Beardmores. Placing my bag on the side of the cab, I consoled myself with the hope that the traffic might be less frenetic than London.
âThe Old Rectory, cabbie. And it will mean a double fare to you if you can make it within the half-hour.â
âIâll do my best, sir,â grunted a pock-marked giant of a man, whose body seemed to stretch through the side window and onto the road.
âHave your Service revolver ready, Watson,â Holmes whispered urgently to me.
I patted the pocket of my ulster in response and settled down to a journey which I shall never forget as long as I walk this earth. The enormous cabbie was obviously determined to get his double fee, as he slammed his foot onto the pedal and we jounced our way through the village streets and out onto roads that had been built for country traps and not for motorised suicide machines. Each time we pounded over a rock or a stone I groaned, as my old wound ached abominably. Holmes seemed oblivious to my torment. He leaned forward on his cane, his grim haunted features a picture of deep concentration and the remnants of his flaky make-up giving him the appearance of an ascetic sunburned monk. Not for the first time, I found myself wondering about his childhood and family life in Yorkshire. Why had he become the insensitive adult detective, interested only in reason and logic? Had he been thwarted in love as a young man, and was that the reason he avoided female company so assiduously? Surely it couldnât have been that experience of being bettered by the late Irene Adler, of dubious and questionable memory ? And why had he ignored his poor father for so long? I resolved that some day I would get answers to these questions, before it was too late.
Our cabbie excelled at his dangerous art, and we shuddered to a halt outside an isolated brightly-lit Tudor mansion after twenty minutes of excruciating misadventure. Fortunately he had managed to avoid killing anyone along the way, although a sluggish sheep may not have been quite so lucky.
Holmes paid off the giant and we hurried out of the cab together, through the white picket gate, along a stony, weed-filled path and up to a crenellated front door, leaving our bags in the road outside. It was slightly ajar and swung gently inwards at his first push.
âI do not like the look of this,â he muttered. âWatson, the gun.â
I withdrew my pistol and followed him noiselessly into a low-beamed narrow hall.
âHello?â shouted Holmes. âIs anybody home? Father?â
Silence.
âStick behind me, Watson. We had better check each room together. Itâs just possible they may have gone out for a walk, or to some local village do.â
His words sounded as convincing to me as Iâm sure they felt to him.
Our progress through the country house was slow, nerve-wracking and thorough, but brought no explanations as to the
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