Read Murder with Lens: A Sherlock Holmes Case (221B Baker Street Series) for Free Online Page B

a postage-stamp landing.
    No one moved.
    Holmes raked fingers through his hair. He squeezed out water, but even then, his hair was drenched black, and sticking to him, a mass of curls. “John, you’re at a distinct advantage here,” he said, almost to himself, before steeling his will and passing down the stairs. There were mere inches between the top of his curling head and the wainscot ceiling. The worn wood stairs creaked alarmingly.
    Original structure.
    “Old,” Reese said, “this part of the building. Not renovated like the front. The wainscot, and the size of this passage. Victorian.”
    “Yes,” Holmes said. “But notice along the closed risers and the treads.”
    She tapped her heel on a stair, “DSL cable running into the basement, new.”
    “A wireless network,” Sherlock held his phone up over his shoulder and showed her the network name. At the bottom of the stairs, the door, which was a custom job for certain, was shut and crime-scene taped. Sherlock glanced up the stairs. “Very dark in this well. Anyone have a torch?”
    Reese burst out laughing, which echoed in the small space.
    Lestrade, at the top of the stairs, looked over his shoulder. “Someone fetch a torch.”
    Reese reached past Sherlock and pushed the door open. “Well, until they get you a ‘torch’, we should let some light out.” The door made a pronounced squeak. Sunrise-coloured light from the room beyond fell across Sherlock and Reese – stuffed into the small landing as they were. Sherlock glanced at the colour on his hand and turned. The entire well was papered with fliers.
    “So they held events in their downstairs fire-trap?” Reese snickered. “How classically stupid.”
    Sherlock scanned the wall beside him, “Book clubs; book readings; doll parties; D&D-”
    “Ohmigod, blast from the past, much?” the girl giggled. “It’s geek-tasia.”
    Holmes looked at her. “Do speak English.”
    “Anyone have a torch?” She said in a decent imitation of his speech pattern. It made John, who stood right behind them on the stairs, sputter. She could be inexpertly cute, this one.
    “Stop clowning, Reese,” Young’s complaint resounded like an alarm in the stairwell. John felt a nudge as the torch came down, passed hand-to-hand to him. Reese caught it.
    “In the civilised world, this is a flashlight.” She set it under her chin and flicked it on, then used her best mock-spooky voice, “You wouldn’t want a torch in here.”
    Sherlock snatched it from her, but John didn’t miss the obvious amusement on his face.
    Together, Reese, John, and Sherlock studied the postings on the wall until Reese stepped back up the steps a little and Sherlock shut the door. He found the latest posting, which was a simple white slice of paper with the date and the sans serif words: “The Photography Club.”
    Reese cocked her head at it. “How glib.”
    John caught her elbow and helped her up on the stairs so Sherlock could open the door again, and they could get access to the basement. Reese looked up behind her and said, “Clear the stairs. It doesn’t matter for you, but we need air to think with.”
    “Back up,” Young snapped her fingers at the London police. “Come on.” It was like she was training a collection of small dogs.
    Lestrade heaved a sigh, whirled a finger in air and called out, “Get out of the stairs, boys. Anderson, you’re up. You can stand in the landing and watch, but keep your mouth shut and do as he says.” The groan from the stacks was audible. Then Lestrade went down the stairs and entered the room along with John, who had hung back to let his eyes adjust to… twilight?
    John went to Reese rather than Holmes. She’d stopped dead and was hugging herself.
    “All right?”
    “I… I don’t usually come to the crime scene,” she told him. “It smells really gross in here. What if I throw up, or something? I’ll contaminate the scene.”
    “You’ll be okay. Deep breaths through the mouth, and