Sherlock Holmes and the Missing Shakespeare Read Online Free Page B

were perfectly aligned and not one was out of place. The walls were spotless and the windows overlooking the lawn had been cleaned that very morning. I could still smell a whiff of rubbing alcohol.
    At the end of the hallway, Holmes halted. He knocked on the door. A strong voice bade him enter. I went in behind him and saw a young man reclined on a chaise lounge. He had a book in his hands and was looking up at us.
    “Good day, Mr. Fitzwilliam,” Holmes greeted him. “I am Sherlock Holmes; this is my associate, Doctor Watson.”
    The man rose and offered us each his hand to shake in turn.
    “Gerald Fitzwilliam,” he introduced himself. “Your fame precedes you, Mr. Holmes.”
    “Thank you, Mr. Fitzwilliam.” Holmes gestured to a sofa by the large bay window. “May we?”
    Not waiting for a positive answer, Holmes plunked himself down in the plush velvet covering of the sofa. I sat down next to him.
    “To what do I owe the honor of your visit, Mr. Holmes?” Fitzwilliam began. “I sincerely doubt such a famous sleuth would be calling on me without good cause.”
    “We are looking for a Mr. John Miller, former gardener at Galham House.” Holmes smiled then.
    I knew by the delicate shade of crimson in the face of young master Fitzwilliam that we had come to the right place.
    Holmes continued, “Your father holds similar beliefs as Lord Harcourt, I imagine.”
    Young Fitzwilliam nodded. “He does not exactly approve of marrying within the peerage either. He has an American heiress lined up for me to wed.”
    “Did you know Miss Harcourt before taking up the job at Galham House?”
    Fitzwilliam shook his head. “I did not. I had only seen her from afar, never met her or spoke to her.”
    “How is that possible? You live so near to each other, there must have been ample opportunities to meet,” I demanded of him, interrupting the conversation between Holmes and him.
    “I spent my childhood in America and Ireland and then most of my time here I have been at Eton and at Cambridge.”
    “How does a Cambridge man end up as a gardener at Galham House?” I blurted out, beside myself with curiosity.
    Fitzwilliam gave a wry smile. “Business is rather dull work. I suppose I am good at it, a talent I must have been born with, but I do not enjoy business. Simple tasks please me much more. Obviously, I could never allow a lowly position like that under my own name, so I took an alias.”
    He got up and poured himself a double measure of whiskey at the well-stocked bar located in a corner of his room. He poured the contents of his glass straight down his throat and returned to his seat. “As you are already aware of my alias, Mr. Holmes, I then I assume you are making these inquiries in regard to the manuscript Miss Harcourt and I discovered?”
    Holmes nodded. “You knew instantly it was written by William Shakespeare.”
    “I did.” Fitzwilliam smiled. “I studied him extensively at Cambridge. I even managed to lay eyes on some original handwritten documents. I recognized the handwriting immediately.”
    Holmes said nothing for a while. He did not have the frenzied look he tended to have when working out a problem. I had to remind myself of his claim of having solved the mystery already.
    Eventually, Holmes got up.
    “I do implore you to speak to your neighbor’s daughter and reveal your true identity. She is quite worried about young Mr. Miller. And it is obvious that you care deeply about her.”
    “I assume I exhibited all the characters of a man in love?”
    “You did,” said Holmes. “And then some.”
    Mr. Fitzwilliam smiled meekly and rose to shake our hands again. “I shall, Mr. Holmes.”
    We made our way back to the station to catch the train back to London, but Holmes decided we could catch a later train and guided me into the Penstone Arms Inn across from Penstone Heath Station.
    A helpful hostess seated us in a corner of the pub for a rather well-prepared lunch of roast beef and some very good