A Study in Terror Read Free Page B

open case only at its zenith, when its rays were not obstructed by the buildings on the opposite side of the street. Thus the pawnshop stands on the north side of a narrow street.”
    â€œAnd your observation of the pawnbroker as of foreign extraction?”
    â€œObserve the numeral seven in the chalked pledge-mark on the spine. There is a short cross-mark on the ascender. Only a foreigner crosses his sevens in such a fashion.”
    I felt, as usual, like a fifth-form school-boy who had forgotten the words to the national anthem. “Holmes, Holmes,” said I, shaking my head, “I shall never cease to marvel—”
    But he was not listening. Again, he had stooped over the case, inserting his tweezers beneath the velvet lining. It gave way, and he peeled it off.
    â€œAha! What have we here? An attempt at concealment?”
    â€œConcealment? Of what? Stains? Scratches?”
    He pointed a long, thin finger. “That.”
    â€œWhy, it’s a coat of arms!”
    â€œOne with which I confess I am not familiar. Therefore, Watson, be kind enough to hand me down my copy of Burke’s Peerage .”
    He continued to study the crest as I moved dutifully towards the bookshelves, murmuring to himself. “Stamped into the leather of the case. The surface is still in excellent condition.” He came erect. “A clue to the character of the man who owned the case.”
    â€œHe was careful with his possessions, perhaps?”
    â€œPerhaps. But I was referring to—”
    He broke off. I had handed him the Burke, and he leafed swiftly through the pages. “Ah, here we have it!” After a quick scrutiny, Holmes closed the book, laid it on the table, and dropped into a chair. He stared intently into space with his piercing eyes.
    I could contain my patience no longer. “The crest, Holmes! Whose is it?”
    â€œI beg your pardon, Watson,” said Holmes, coming to with a start. “Shires. Kenneth Osbourne, the Duke of Shires.”
    The name was well-known to me, as indeed to all England. “An illustrious line.”
    Holmes nodded absently. “The estates, unless I mistake, lie in Devonshire, hard by the moors, among hunting-lands well regarded by noble sportsmen. The manor house—it is more of a feudal castle in appearance—is some four hundred years old, a classic example of Gothic architecture. I know little of the Shires’s history, beyond the patent fact that the name has never been connected with the world of crime.”
    â€œSo Holmes,” said I, “we are back to the original question.”
    â€œIndeed we are.”
    â€œWhich is: this surgeon’s-case—why was it sent to you?”
    â€œA provocative question.”
    â€œPerhaps an explanatory letter was delayed.”
    â€œYou may well have hit upon the answer, Watson,” said Holmes. “Therefore, I suggest we give the sender a little time, let us say until—” he paused to reach for his well-worn Bradshaw’s, that admirable guide to British rail movements “—until ten-thirty to-morrow morning. If an explanation is not then forthcoming, we shall repair to Paddington Station and board the Devonshire express.”
    â€œFor what reason, Holmes?”
    â€œFor two reasons. A short journey across the English countryside, with its changing colours at this time of year, should greatly refresh two stodgy Londoners.”
    â€œAnd the other?”
    The austere face broke into the most curious smile. “In all justice,” said my friend Holmes, “the Duke of Shires should have his property returned to him, should he not?” And he sprang to his feet and seized his violin.
    â€œWait, Holmes!” said I. “There is something in this you have not told me.”
    â€œNo, no, my dear Watson,” said he, drawing his bow briskly across the strings. “It is simply a feeling I have, that we are about to embark upon deep