Warlock Holmes--A Study in Brimstone Read Free

quantity of mud would surely have dried on the journey from the Strand. Nevertheless, he had guessed exactly and I had no means to refute him.
    “Ahem… Holmes?” Stamford interjected, “I think you said you have already found lodgings?”
    “I have,” said Holmes. “A fine suite of rooms at 221B Baker Street.”
    My heart sank. Though Baker Street was not the most fashionable area of London, its central location and proximity to Regent’s Park assured it would be beyond my meager means. Nevertheless, with flagging hope, I inquired, “What should be my share of the rent?”
    “Oh, a sovereign,” Holmes replied.
    What did he mean? A sovereign a month would be nice, but so would having a passing leprechaun present me with underwear, woven of solid gold. The two phenomena were equally unlikely. Most probably, Holmes meant a sovereign a week. Yet, the more I reflected on it, even that figure seemed optimistic. Surely not one per day, I hoped.
    “A sovereign… how often?” I asked.
    “Just once,” he said. “One sovereign, once, and you may stay however long you please.”
    My jaw dropped. Surely, he was strange company, but what other company was I fit for? And here—here on the proverbial platter—was presented to me the cure to all my present woes. The leprechaun, it must be said, failed to appear. Yet might that not be a blessing, too? When one considered the advantages of cotton over gold, as an undergarment material: durability, breathability, ease of cleaning… not to mention the difference in weight…
    “However,” Holmes continued, “there are some circumstances you should know. Are you averse to the smell of strong tobacco smoke?”
    “Not at all,” I said.
    “What about sulfur?”
    This, I presumed, would be a result of his scientific pursuits, so I nodded my agreement and informed him that—should I establish a medical practice—I might also need to bring home odorous chemicals or medicines. He agreed immediately.
    “Let’s see… let’s see… what are my other faults?” he said, beginning to pace. “You must be constantly wary of poisons, for I seem to have some always about. I am sometimes the victim of periods of melancholy or elation that have no apparent cause. Also, I play the accordion. When I say I play it, I mean with no warning, at whatever hour I must. I shall endeavor to keep this to a minimum, and make it up to you if I should begin it at untoward hours, but… well… there is the truth of it. What do you say, can this arrangement be satisfactory?”
    For the cost of one sovereign’s rent—ever—I should not have cared if he had the entire London Philharmonic strapped to his back, perpetually blaring “Aunt Petunia’s Pepper Pot.”
    “Absolutely,” said I, then blushed to have to mention this in front of Stamford, “except that… owing to a few outstanding obligations, and the daily demands of my belly… ah… it may take me almost two weeks to raise the sum of… a sovereign.”
    Even as I said it, I could scarce believe it, but that was the fact of the matter. But it did not seem to bother Warlock Holmes in the least.
    “That is of little consequence,” he said, “so long as you are willing to move in at exactly midnight tonight and agree to step backwards over the threshold the first time you enter.”
    Hmm… Odd… Odd but not impossible and—as my own situation seemed more desperate every time I stopped to consider it—I agreed that I could. At this point, Stamford leapt between us, jabbed his finger into Holmes’s chest and declared, “I think you must admit, Holmes, that Dr. Watson here outstrips me in every criteria that is of value to you!”
    “Indeed,” Holmes agreed. “I doubt you should have lasted the week.”
    “Take him then,” Stamford urged, “and release me.”
    Holmes fixed me with his searching, green-eyed gaze and asked, “You’ll do it then, Dr. Watson? You’ll move in tonight? At midnight? Backwards?”
    “I shall,” I