Sherlock Holmes by George Mann Page B

hallway, waiting to help me on with my light overcoat. “I’ve a carriage waiting,” he announced. “We shall be perfectly on time. Fear not, Watson.”
    “Fear nothing!” I replied, a trifle brusquely, as we bundled out of the house and into the waiting hansom.
    Dusk was settling over London, and the pleasantly sedate journey across town served as a reminder of all that had changed since the last time my friend and I had taken such a conveyance together. Motorcars were not yet in abundance, but were growing in popularity, thundering along the cobbled lanes and parping riotously at any pedestrians daring enough to get in their way.
    All around us work was being carried out repairing buildings damaged in the bombing raids. London was changing –
times
were changing – and I had not yet decided whether there was a place in it for a curmudgeonly old soldier such as myself. Perhaps Holmes had been right after all, retiring to the country to escape the altering landscape, and perhaps with it, the terrible, creeping feeling of irrelevance that comes with age.
    I hadn’t yet managed to shake the pronounced feelings of guilt that had worried away at me all day, following the death of Carter the previous night. I knew there was little I could have done for the man – he had insisted, after all, in waiting for us outside in the automobile – but I was nevertheless troubled by those fateful last words I had exchanged with him, warning him that he would “catch his death” out there in the cold. Today, those words felt like some unholy prophecy, a curse that I had inadvertently invoked when I’d left him out there, alone, to die.
    Holmes, as perceptive as he ever was, seemed to know what was troubling me. “There are never the right words, are there, Watson, for times such as this?”
    “What’s that, Holmes?” I said, feigning ignorance.
    “The boy,” he replied. “The driver who died last night. It troubles you.”
    I was silent for a moment, listening to the rattle of the hansom’s wheels on the cobbled road, the
clop clopping
of the horses’ hooves. “Does it not trouble
you
, Holmes? Surely you cannot mean to tell me you are not affected by the death of that boy.”
    “This war,” he said, glancing away, peering out through the window at the buildings passing by, “it eats away at you. I can see it, Watson, like a parasite that has inveigled itself in your mind. You think of little else.” He turned to look at me, his eyes piercing. “You feel your loss keenly, and for that, I am truly sorry.”
    I stared at Holmes, aghast. “Once again, you speak of Joseph,” I said. It was a rhetorical question, and Holmes did not deign to answer it. “How did you know?”
    Holmes waved a dismissive hand. “The matter is elementary.”
    I bristled. “I assure you, Holmes. The matter is
far
from elementary.”
    “Forgive me, Watson. I meant no offence,” he said. His tone was regretful.
    I sighed. “No. Of course you didn’t. It is I who should apologise to you, Holmes. I fear the subject is still a little raw. Thank you for your condolences.”
    We lapsed into silence, rocking gently in the carriage as we trundled on towards Lord Foxton’s house.
    * * *
    Ravensthorpe House was a rambling old mansion on the outskirts of the city, set amongst sweeping acres of lush parkland. As we crawled up the gravel driveway in our carriage, I peered out of the window, spotting a herd of deer bounding gracefully across a grassy expanse in the distance. Beyond that, a large belt of dark, wild woodland appeared to stretch away for miles.
    The driveway was bordered by an avenue of stately oak trees, and through their boughs I caught stuttering glimpses of an enormous lake to our left, its surface sparkling in the fading light. A rowing boat appeared like a tiny speck on the horizon, drifting on the glassy surface.
    The whole place felt serene and timeless, as if it had remained this way, untouched, for centuries. It was a far