Read Sherlock Holmes in Something the Cat Dragged In for Free Online Page B

the bad to spite them. I was a fool, but once a man sets his feet on that path, well, sometimes he can’t turn back.”
    I nodded. “I know something of the circumstances of Pentwood’s difficulties,” I said quietly. “I was a locum in the area a few years ago.” In that I was telling an untruth, but I comforted myself that it was in a good cause. “I also heard that the lesser portion of the estate is still tied up in the courts.”
    Western leaned over the table and met my gaze. “That’s so. I may never have my rights to it, but at least no one else shall be called its master. The family who farm the land care for it well, and the staff keeps old Marshford Hall as best they can. Any new owner may well dispossess them, and that would be ill-done.” His drawn face displayed a bitter grief I thought he demonstrated to few. “I love it, but despite my efforts the estate may be lost to me and old friends forced to go homeless.”
    I leaned forward. “Tell me.”
    He did so. Once he finished we parted, and I hastily returned to Holmes with the address, as well as another piece of news that Western had received from one of his acquaintances just before we separated.
    â€œThis man told Western that Brand was terrified and cursing his employer, whom he claims attacked him.”
    Holmes pursed his lips. “Well, Siddons was found dead, so it is not unlikely that whoever is behind this has decided that dead men tell no tales. We must find Brand at once. Come, Watson, the game’s afoot!”
    I hailed a cab, gave the address, and the driver looked at us doubtfully. “Sure you want to go there, guv? It ain’t exactly Mayfair.”
    Holmes regarded him. “You may be right. Take us to Scotland Yard, and make your best speed.” And quietly to me, he added, “I had forgot Lestrade, who has a right to be with us. The man speaks sense, too, for if Brand is as panicked as Western’s acquaintance says, in that area of the city he could raise a mob against us.”
    * * * *
    Lestrade wasted no time once we were shown to his office and explained our errand. In minutes he rounded up half a dozen strong constables, arranged for a diversion a street over from where Brand hid, and bundled everyone into two vans heading for Brand’s address: a block of single rooms let at usurious rents.
    All worked well. We three slipped into the building. A woman stuck her head into the corridor to see who was on the stairs, took one look at us, and vanished like a rabbit into its burrow. Plainclothes Lestrade might be, but she recognized a copper when she saw one, as she was stridently telling someone when we passed her door.
    Lestrade slipped to one side, pressed against the wall as Holmes tapped on the door to Persimmon Brand’s room. After a pause in which we could almost feel the panic we inspired, a voiced quavered a question.
    â€œWho is it?”
    â€œSherlock Holmes,” my friend replied. “You know of me, Brand. If you want to live the night out, let me and my friend in.”
    A chain rattled and the door opened a few inches, a portion of wan face showing at the gap. Brand stared at us.
    â€œYes, it’s you, Mr. Holmes. All right, you an’ your friend can come in.”
    He opened his mouth to protest when Lestrade followed us in, but then said nothing; no doubt he felt even entertaining a police detective could not make his life worse. The room stank. It was small, bare, and the only window faced a brick wall only yards away.
    Persimmon Brand was a rat of a man who looked to be in his fifties, difficult as it was to be certain. He fitted the description given us, but had in addition straggly hair and a few rotten teeth, and was permeated with a powerful aroma of drink and dirt. One arm was tied up in a filthy rag that showed bloodstains, which confirmed what we’d been told. Holmes seated himself cautiously on a broken-backed