The Strange Return of Sherlock Holmes Read Free Page A

obtain one as soon as possible.’
    â€˜Do you play well?’
    â€˜Exquisitely, if I do say so myself,’ said Coombes. ‘Anyway, I used to play exquisitely. But I can assure you, Watson . . .’
    â€˜Wilson.’
    â€˜Sorry, yes. Wilson. I can assure you that if I find I no longer play the violin exquisitely, I will instantly give it up. A violin played less than perfectly is too painful to bear. I could not put myself through the agony – much less anyone else.’
    â€˜That’s all right, then. Any other faults?’
    â€˜Not that I can think of.’
    I had to laugh at his logical approach to this whole problem, as if setting up a balance sheet of pluses and minuses would really help anyone decide anything. But I had decided to go along with his fantasy.
    â€˜So it is my turn to confess,’ I said. ‘Then, I must tell you, first of all, that I am opinionated. I try to restrain myself from voicing my opinions when they are not wanted, but I do not always succeed.’
    â€˜I don’t mind wrong opinions. I find them amusing,’ said Coombes.
    â€˜Also, I am by nature impatient.’
    â€˜So am I,’ said Coombes.
    â€˜Third, I stay up very late and rise very early, and though I will promise to be as quiet as a mouse, I cannot change the sleep habits of a lifetime.’
    â€˜Sometimes I don’t go to bed at all,’ said Coombes.
    â€˜Well, there we are,’ said Ffoulkes, smiling and rubbing his hands together like a broker who has just seen his clients conclude a deal.
    â€˜If you are agreeable,’ said Coombes, ‘we can meet at the property tomorrow at nine, so you can decide whether it suits you. I’ll call the agent.’
    â€˜Excellent,’ I said.
    Coombes gave me a sheet describing the cottage and how to find it. Then we shook hands and he said, ‘Everyone talks so much about Afghanistan these days. How did you like it there?’
    â€˜I confess,’ said I, ‘that it was not . . . I say, but how did you know that I . . . ?’
    The doorbell rang again and Coombes hurried to answer it. An old woman wearing a backpack was on the front stoop. ‘Is this Oxford Cottage?’ she asked. ‘I have a reservation.’
    While Coombes showed the woman into the kitchen to await the arrival of the manager, Ffoulkes and I left and strolled back towards the centre of town.
    â€˜By the way,’ I said, suddenly stopping and turning to Ffoulkes, ‘how in the world did he know I had been to Afghanistan?’
    â€˜I don’t think either of us told him.’
    â€˜No, I’m sure we didn’t. But it was curious, wasn’t it? And then all this folderol about cooking books to learn their owners – I don’t know what to make of him.’
    â€˜Nor do I,’ said Ffoulkes. ‘But he seems harmless enough. And anyway, Wilson, you always liked puzzles when we were at school. Mr Cedric Coombes is a puzzle you can work out in your spare time, when you tire of buying first editions of Dickens and hiking the foggy hills.’
    We walked to the car park by the tourist information centre and said our goodbyes, and we vowed to meet up in London someday soon – one of those vows old friends make in the heat of sudden meeting, but seldom carry out. Percy Ffoulkes climbed into his Range Rover, waved, and through the window his face seemed suddenly young, as I had known it years ago in the flower of our youth. And then he was gone in a swirl of leaves.
    I walked towards the Boz Books shop, anxious to examine a first edition of Pickwick Papers that I had found there – and anxious, also, for morning to arrive so I could learn more about my curious new acquaintance.

TWO
    The Logic of Poetical Leaps
    I met Coombes next day in Chancery Lane, as he had arranged, in front of a pretty stone cottage in a row of stone cottages that walled one side of the street.