Murder at Tragere House
David Stuart Davies
I returned to Baker Street one evening in the autumn of ‘95 after dining at my club and indulging in a game of billiards with my friend Thurston. And as I approached our sitting room door I could discern voices within which informed me that Sherlock Holmes was engaged with a client. With some diplomacy I entered with the intention of going straight to my room, but Holmes waved me to my chair by the hearth.
‘Ah, Watson, just in time,’ he cried. ‘When there is a crie de cour, I am quite lost without my Boswell,’ he said, addressing his remarks to his visitor who sat in the shadows on the chaise longue. He was a young man, somewhere in his early twenties with tousled sandy hair and was leaning forward in a crouching fashion which indicated his em
