Read Stone Cold for Free Online Page B

his Uncle Sherrinford had written for sending to ministries all over England and abroad, ‘that people went
straight to heaven or hell when they died. I didn’t realize they had to wait around until the Resurrection. And how do they get out of their coffins, which have been buried six feet
underground? It’s all going to be a bit messy, isn’t it?’
    A look of panic crossed Millard’s face. His gaze skittered around the dining room as he tried to think of some theological response, and failed.
    Sherlock’s mind – at least the part of it that wasn’t still thinking about the moment of resurrection, when literally millions and millions of dead people would be climbing out
of their buried coffins – was still fixed on Charles Dodgson and his connection to these bizarre thefts. ‘Why was Dodgson questioned?’ he asked. ‘I mean, he’s a
mathematician and a lecturer, not a pathologist or a doctor. What possible connection could he have?’
    ‘Ah, there’s the interesting part,’ Musgrave explained. ‘Dodgson is well known around Oxford for this photography lark that he does – capturing a picture of a scene
or a person using light and chemical stuff and glass. Apparently, as well as taking photographs of the river, the college buildings and of his friends, he also takes them of dead bodies.’
    ‘Why?’ Sherlock asked, noticing that Vijayaraghavan beside him was shuddering again.
    ‘What he told the police is that he’s fascinated with the way that the body works, and he wants to make a record of all the bits for posterity, and to help with the teaching of
anatomy here at Oxford.’
    ‘As if anyone needs to,’ Chippenham sniffed. ‘Leonardo da Vinci drew all the aspects of the functioning human body three hundred and fifty years ago. There is no more to be
said on the matter.’
    And that was the end of the discussion about Charles Dodgson.
    They repaired to the sitting room after dessert, which was sherry trifle. Coffee was served, and Paul Chippenham fetched a bottle of port from his room, which they drank out of small
glasses.
    Musgrave pointed at the stuffed cat, curled up – as it always would be – by the fire. ‘You’ve met Macallistair, I take it?’ he asked Sherlock.
    ‘I have. What’s the story there?’
    ‘It was before my time, but apparently Mrs McCrery was completely in love with that cat. She used to heat up its dinner every night, and it’s said that the cat ate better than any of
the students who were here. When it died – as all pets do, in the end – Mrs McCrery was devastated. She stopped cooking, stopped cleaning the house and just retreated into herself. One
of the students in the house at the time was studying anatomy, and was a bit of an amateur taxidermist. In desperation, he offered to stuff the beast for her, so she could always have it around.
She agreed, it’s been here ever since, and the house has been happy all that time.’
    ‘There’s a parrot in the visitor’s room,’ Vijayaraghavan said quietly. ‘I am told that it is much the same story. She loved the parrot, the parrot died, and one of
her lodgers offered to stuff it for her – although whoever did it was not as talented as the person who stuffed the cat. It looks decidedly dowdy.’
    ‘I did hear,’ Chippenham added, ‘that the student who stuffed the parrot kept all the meat on ice, and then had a friend of his who was a butcher sell it back to Mrs McCrery as
fresh grouse. The entire household dined on parrot that night, without anyone apart from the student in question knowing.’ He paused. ‘Apparently it was delicious.’
    Sherlock remembered his talk with Matty earlier. ‘Has anyone seen any of the students who used to be here since they left?’ he asked casually.
    There was a long silence as the other four thought for a while and glanced at each other.
    ‘I’m sure we’ve seen them around – somewhere,’ Millard said with a trace of concern in his voice.
    After that,