Sherlock Holmes by George Mann Page A

wretch, and Mr. Baxter, it seems, is no exception. I’d wager he counts amongst his clients some of the more notorious criminals in Europe, and that his portfolio of ‘investments’ would not stand a great deal of scrutiny in a court of law. And there is the small matter of his gambling habit. Not a laudable quality in a man who has control over other men’s money.”
    “Gambling? What on earth makes you say that?” I asked.
    “The newspaper, Watson. Open to the racing section, and yet no significant gatherings are held today. A true adherent, then. Together with the fact that his cigarette case bore the initials ‘F.W.S.’ and was therefore not his own – taken in a card game, I’d wager – I’d say that Mr. Baxter likes more than the occasional flutter.”
    “Then you feel he is worthy of further investigation?” I said.
    “I do. I cannot yet put my finger on it, Watson, but mark my words: Mr. Henry Baxter has a role to play in the proceedings yet to come.”
    “Yes. I had a sense of that too,” I said. “He seemed to be holding something back. And did you happen to notice the paperweight on his desk?” I ventured. “Almost identical to the one we saw at the War Office, on Grange’s bookcase.”
    Holmes laughed. “Yes, I wondered if you’d notice that, Watson. Excellent!”
    “You think there might be something in it?”
    “Indubitably,” said Holmes, in his usual, dismissive fashion. “Come now. Let us discover if our associate, Sir Maurice, has made the necessary arrangements for our trip to Ravensthorpe House. A party could be just the thing to revitalise the spirits, eh, Watson?”
    My heart sank. “If we must, Holmes,” I said.

CHAPTER SEVEN
    Newbury had been as good as his word, and upon arriving back at the house I found a note on the mat, informing us that arrangements had been made to visit Lord Foxton’s house that very evening.
    Holmes seemed most animated by this development and immediately repaired to the second bedroom, for what undertaking I could not begin to imagine.
    We had a couple of hours to spare, however, before necessity dictated a journey across town, and so given the opportunity I reclaimed my favourite armchair and sat for a while with my notebook and pen. It was my intention to set down all that I could recall of proceedings so far. I had a notion that in detailing an account of this new adventure with Holmes, I might in some way break the deadlock I had otherwise encountered with my writing. It felt good to have the words flow once more, and before long I had lost track of time, covering page after page with my spidery, inky scrawl – I have, after all, the handwriting of a general practitioner – which I planned to later transcribe on my trusty typewriter.
    “I see, Watson, that you have once again found the use of your pen.”
    I glanced up from my work to see Holmes standing over me, looking immaculate in a formal black dinner suit. His hair was brushed neatly back from his forehead, his collar was buttoned and dressed with a bow tie, and he had even taken the time to fold a handkerchief and place it neatly in his breast pocket. It seemed most unlike Holmes.
    I frowned, and then glanced at the clock. I realised with horror that time had indeed run away with me, and that I risked making us late for our appointment. With some bluster I set down my pen and paper, and stood, stretching my tired back. “Well, I must say, Holmes – you still scrub up rather well,” I said, attempting to wipe a smear of ink from my fingers.
    Holmes inclined his head and offered me a look of wry amusement. “It seems that scrubbing will indeed be necessary in your case, Watson,” he said.
    I glanced at my hands. The ink had become deeply ingrained. “Well, give me five minutes and I’ll be with you,” I said. I hurried off to see to my ablutions, leaving Holmes laughing, loudly, in the sitting room.
    Minutes later, and feeling a little out of breath, I found Holmes in the