The West End Horror Read Free Page A

glancing at the titles of works he had forgot he owned.
    “I say, Watson, look at this,” he began, but subsided on to the floor with the tome in one hand whilst with the other absently felt into the pocket of his dressing gown for a pipe.
    He devoured the book, along with several bowslful of shag
    (almost as malodorous as some of his chemicals), and then went on to another volume. He had become interested in ancient English charters and now prepared to devote himself to serious research on the subject. His preoccupation did not greatly astonish me, as I knew his range of interests to be wide, varied, and occasionally odd. He had mastered a number of arcane topics–matters quite unrelated to the art of criminal detection–and could speak brilliantly (when he chose) on such diverse matters as warships of the future, artificial irrigation, the motets of Lassus, and the mating habits of the South American jaguar.
    Now English charters occupied his mind with a passion which totally conformed to his other pursuits in its single- minded application of his powerful intellect. He had apparently been interested in them at some earlier date, for most of the books he had purchased (and neglected to open) dealt with this peculiar subject, and at the end of the week the floor of our sitting room was virtually paved with them. Eventually such volumes as were at his immediate disposal were deemed insufficient for his purposes and he was obliged to sally forth into the snow and make his way to the British Museum for sustenance. These forays lasted for several afternoons during the last week of February, the nights which followed being spent in the laborious transcription of his notes.
    It was a sunny, cold morning, March 1, when he flung his pen across the room in disgust.
    “No use, Watson,” said he. “I shall have to go to Cambridge if I am to approach this seriously. The material simply isn’t here.”
    I remarked that his interest threatened to develop into a mania, but he appeared not to have heard me. He hunted up a morning like his pen on the floor whither he had hurled it and prepared to address himself again to his notes, observing the while, with a didactic formality which contrasted oddly with his posture upon hands and knees, “The mind is like a large field, Watson. It is available for cultivation only if the land is used sensibly and portions of it are permitted to lie fallow periodically. Part of my mind–my professional mind–is on holiday at the moment. During its leave of absence I am exercising another quarter of it.”
    “It’s a pity your professional mind is out of town,” I remarked, looking out of the window and into the street.
    He followed my gaze from his position on the floor. “Why? What are you looking at?”
    “I believe we are about to have a visitor, someone interested in that portion of your intellect that is currently lying fallow.”
    Outside, I could see stepping–or rather hopping nimbly– between the shovels of the snow cleaners and the brooms of the housemaids, one of the queerest creatures I had ever beheld.
    “He certainly appears a likely candidate for admittance to 221b,” I went on, hoping to distract my companion from the volumes which had failed him.
    “I am not in the mood for visitors,” Holmes returned moodily, thrusting his fists into the pockets of his dressing gown. “What does he look like?” The question was automatic and escaped his lips involuntarily.
    “He isn’t wearing a coat, for one thing. On a morning like this he must be mad.”
    “Clothes?”
    Norfalk jacket and knickerbockers—in this weather! They look well worn, even at this distance. He keeps adjusting his shirt cuffs.”
    “Probably false. Age?”
    “Roughly forty, with an enormous beard, slightly reddish, like his hair, which is blowing over his shoulder as he walks.”
    “Height?” Behind me I could hear a vesta being struck.
    “Rather tall, I should say, under medium