The Casebook of Newbury & Hobbes Read Free

billiards.”
    Black almost snorted as he attempted to fight back a guffaw. Newbury smiled. “I must say, Templeton—you do seem to have a fondness for rather raffish company.”
    Black grinned. “We are here for a party, Sir Maurice.”
    “Well, some of us, perhaps,” replied Newbury. “Are you ready to assist me in examining Mr Blakemore’s room?”
    “Mmm,” mumbled Black, taking a final draw on his cigarette and stubbing out the still-smouldering butt on the stone balustrade. “Yes. Coming.”
    He turned to find Newbury was already holding the French doors open for him, but he couldn’t resist one final glance over his shoulder at the brooding, ominous woods in the middle distance.
IV
    Henry Blakemore’s room was immaculately kept, ordered to an almost military precision. The furnishings were sparse and functional: a bed, a wooden nightstand, a small gentleman’s wardrobe. The man’s belongings appeared just as minimal, with very few personal effects, save for a hairbrush and toiletries, a handful of neatly shelved novels and a drawer full of papers and old photographs. A few carefully pressed suits hung in the wardrobe. A small window looked out upon the gardens. To Black it seemed more like a prison than a home.
    “It seems he lives a rather spartan existence,” he said, picking out one of the novels and turning it over in his hands. He read the title on the spine: The Moonstone by Wilkie Collins. It looked well thumbed, with some of the page corners turned over. He returned it to its place on the shelf.
    “A military man, I’d suggest,” said Newbury, glancing around. “We can confirm that with Sir Geoffrey, of course.”
    “You think it’s pertinent?” asked Black.
    Newbury shrugged. “Anything could be pertinent at this stage. It would certainly explain why he doesn’t appear to place much value in material acquisitions. Perhaps also why he leads such a private existence, and why he might have chosen not to share his problems with the rest of the staff.”
    Black nodded. “Makes sense.” He crossed to the dresser. “There’s little here that might help us to discover what’s happened to him, though. The whole place seems devoid of personality.”
    “Hmm,” murmured Newbury, distractedly. Black turned to see him folding back the bed sheets and lifting the pillow. “Ah-ha!” exclaimed Newbury a moment later, fumbling beneath the pillow for something small and blue.
    “What have you got there?” asked Black, joining him by the bedside.
    “A small bottle,” replied Newbury, holding it up to the light. It was corked and no more than six inches tall. A dark liquid sloshed around inside as Newbury turned it over in his hand, searching for a label. A little square of brown paper had been pasted on the side, with a handwritten legend scrawled upon it. It read: WARNER’S LUNG TONIC.
    “Quack medicine,” said Newbury, with distaste. He handed the bottle to Black, who took it, bemused. He shrugged and pulled the stopper free, bringing the vessel up to his nose, before recoiling in abject disgust.
    “Who the blazes could even consider ingesting such a foul concoction?” he asked, quickly forcing the stopper back into the neck of the bottle. He fought a brief wave of nausea, hoping that the oily, acrid scent of the tonic would soon clear from his throat and nostrils.
    “Someone who was very desperate,” said Newbury, thoughtfully. “Someone who had nothing to lose.”
    Black placed the bottle on the bedside table and glared at it balefully as if it were a living thing. “Someone with an iron stomach and no taste buds,” he said.
    “Nevertheless,” said Newbury, “it gives us something to go on.”
    “You think he might have disappeared because of an illness or affliction?” prompted Black, when it seemed clear that Newbury was not going to elaborate. “What if he simply collapsed somewhere by the side of the road? He could be lying in a hospital, or even dead.”
    “Quite,”