Sherlock Holmes by George Mann

index finger against his lips. “But of course! How naïve of me. I take it then, Mr. Holmes, that you believe Mr. Grange’s death to be suspicious in some way? The newspapers reported it as suicide, but perhaps you suppose he was murdered?”
    “No, Mr. Baxter,” said Holmes. “It is clear to me that Herbert Grange did, in fact, take his own life. Of that there is no question. What as yet remains unanswered is the reason why.”
    Baxter smiled. “The human mind is a wondrous thing, Mr. Holmes, but I fear even
your
celebrated deductive powers may struggle to comprehend the emotional intricacies that would drive a man to take such a terrible step. To my mind it has less to do with logic and fact, and everything to do with the irrational and unexplained. I’m sure, being a medical man, Dr. Watson would agree.” He glanced at me, as if seeking approval. I remained impassive.
    “You sound as if you might even believe that a man in such a position might be influenced by otherworldly forces, Mr. Baxter?” said Holmes, raising an eyebrow.
    “Perhaps so,” replied Baxter. “Although I fear it would be almost impossible to prove either way.”
    “How interesting,” said Holmes. I sensed the judgement behind the comment.
    There was a moment of silence while Baxter lit himself a second cigarette. “I take it, Mr. Holmes, that you wish to interview the three men in question?” The sudden change in the topic of the conversation was palpable.
    “That will not be necessary at this time,” said Holmes, much to my surprise. “Although in due course, I may yet prevail upon you to that end, if the need arises.”
    “Of course,” said Baxter. “You can count on any assistance that it is in my power to give.”
    “My thanks to you,” said Holmes. “Then perhaps if I might venture one further question?”
    “Be my guest,” said Baxter. His expression was earnest, but I couldn’t shake the feeling he was toying with us for his own amusement, drawing things out.
    “Do you happen to have a personal acquaintance with Lord Foxton, of Ravensthorpe House?”
    “As a matter of fact, I do,” said Baxter. “Although it is most definitely a case of acquaintance and not friendship.”
    “Indeed?” queried Holmes. The way Baxter had said it made it sound as if there was no love lost between the two men. I wondered what had occurred to create such a definite rift between them.
    “Oh, it’s not as if we’re at each other’s throats,” said Baxter. “We just didn’t quite hit it off, that’s all. I’ve been to one or two of his parties, although admittedly, not for some time. I find him a bit staid, if I’m honest. A little too stuck in his ways. Why do you ask? Do you believe Foxton is in some way connected to Mr. Grange’s death?”
    “Far from it, Mr. Baxter,” replied Holmes. “Forgive me, it was simply inquisitiveness on my part.”
    Baxter laughed. “An admirable trait in a consulting detective, eh?” he said. Holmes inclined his head in acknowledgement of the compliment.
    “Well, I do believe that we have taken up enough of your valuable time, Mr. Baxter,” said Holmes, rising from his seat. “My thanks to you. We shall call again if we need to speak to your men.”
    “Very good,” said Baxter. “A pleasure to meet you both. I hope you’ll forgive me if I don’t show you out.” He indicated the spread of papers on his desk. “I fear I have ledgers to balance.”
    “Good day to you, then,” I said.
    “Good day.”
    I held the door open for Holmes and we quit the bank through the waiting room, nodding our thanks to the receptionist as we crossed the foyer to the main doors.
    Once we were outside, out of earshot of the clerks, I turned to Holmes. “What did you make of the man?”
    “To my mind, Watson, Baxter is an admirable example of his kind,” said Holmes.
    “Really?” I said, somewhat incredulous.
    “Quite so,” said Holmes. “I have yet to meet a banker who is not a perfidious