“That leaves you, John,” said Clowes. “I suppose you didn’t know him either.” “No,” said John. “I knew him quite well. He was my tutor.” “Really?” said Clowes. “In what studies?” “Ancient languages, primarily,” said John. “That was the bulk of it, with additional coursework in mythology, etymology, history, and prehistoric cultures. Although,” he added, “in point of fact, I was a rather less than diligent student.” “Aha,” murmured Clowes. “And why is that? Was he not a good teacher?” “An excellent one, to be precise,” said John. “But the priest who helped to raise me when my father passed, who paid for the bulk of my schooling, in fact, believes that this kind of study is, ah…not practical.” “I see,” said Clowes as he scribbled on his notepad with a stubby piece of graphite. “And just what is ‘practical’?” “Banking,” replied John. “Commerce. That sort of thing.” “Humph,” snorted Clowes. “And you disagree?” John didn’t reply, but merely shrugged as if to say, What can one do? “Well,” said Clowes, “I’m just about done here. But as you seem to be the closest thing Sigurdsson had to family, would you mind taking a look at the scene of the murder? It may be that you can spot whether something is amiss, where another could not.” “Certainly,” said John. Jack and Charles waited with the constable in the foyer while John and the inspector proceeded to the library. The smell hit John first—burned leather, accented by the cinnamon-tinged tobacco that only the professor smoked—but the room itself was a disaster. Books were strewn about everywhere, and the backs of the shelves had been hacked to pieces. There was not a single piece of furniture unbroken. A number of books had been placed in the hearth to burn, with limited success. “It was the bindings what done it,” said Clowes. “Leather, with metal clasps. Thick, holds moisture. Made a stench like the devil, and smoke black as his beard. That’s what drew the attention of the messenger when he got no reply at the door.” John glanced around the room, settling his gaze on a dark, crescent-shaped stain on the rug near the partners desk where the professor worked. “Yes,” said Clowes. “That’s where he was found. Bled out quick—he didn’t suffer, lad.” John thought this was a lie, but he appreciated the gesture nevertheless. “I couldn’t tell you if anything’s missing, inspector. It seems that everything that isn’t chopped to bits or burned is…well, nothing worth noting. The books have some value, but only to persons like myself—and there’s nothing here worth killing for.” Clowes sighed. “That’s what we were afraid of. Well,” he concluded, snapping his notebook closed, “I appreciate your time and cooperation. And I’m sorry for your loss.” “Thank you,” said John. He turned to leave, then stopped. “Inspector? If I might ask, just how was the professor killed?” “That’s the other thing,” said Clowes. “He was stabbed, of that there’s no doubt. But the point of the weapon broke off against a rib, and so we got a good look. “As far as we can tell, he was killed with a Roman spear. A Roman spear of a make and composition that hasn’t been forged in over a thousand years.” The gray drizzle of the evening had become a truly miserable English night, and the business of the murder investigation had kept the three newfound companions out past the last scheduled trains.
“I know a club just a few streets over,” Charles offered. “Shall we repair there and remove ourselves from this dismal, damp night? We can catch our trains in the morning, after we’ve had a bit of warmth and a nip of something to settle our nerves.”
Jack and John concurred, and they let Charles lead the way through the labyrinth of streets.
“Funny that he was a book collector,” Jack said after they had gone a few blocks. “A Shakespeare scholar, even.”
“Funny? In what way?” asked John. Jack shrugged. “Because—he was killed yesterday, on the fifteenth.” Slowly it dawned on John, then Charles. “Julius Caesar,” John said. “Yes,” said Jack. “It may not have meant much in Caesar’s time, or even in Shakespeare’s, but it would’ve been a warning well heeded last night, if anyone had been around to sound it. “Beware the Ides of March.” As it turned out, the club to which Charles led them had literary allusions of its own. It had been a privately rented flat not two decades earlier, and had since been transformed into a club accessible to a private group from Oxford, of which Charles was a member. “221B Baker Street?” John said with a hint of incredulity. “Are you quite serious, Charles?” “Completely,” Charles replied. “Oxford paid for its conversion, and it’s very useful to have such a retreat when on business in London.” He opened the door and ushered his two companions into the entry hall. The main establishment consisted of a couple of private meeting rooms and a single large, airy sitting room, with adjacent entryways to what John assumed were the neighboring flats, converted to a similar use. The large room was cheerfully furnished, and illuminated by two broad windows that looked out onto a solitary gas lamp and the worsening gloom of night and storm. The fireplace, attended to by an inconspicuous manservant, was at full roar and brightened their spirits considerably as they moved toward it, their clothes exchanging dampness for a light draping of steam. “Much better,” said Jack. Jack took up residence in an immense Edwardian wingback chair and made himself quite at home. John preferred to lean on the hearth, the better to warm himself and dry his clothes, while Charles, with an ease born of familiarity, opened the liquor cabinet at the far side of the room and began pouring drinks. “I’ve let the manservant go for the night,” said Charles. “I don’t expect any other members will be turning out on a night such as this, and to be candid, after our adventure with inspector Clowes, I rather appreciate the privacy.” “I’m looking forward to doing as you have, John, and joining the war effort,” said Jack. “I was hoping to get in a term or two at school, but it seems the chancellor has other plans.” “You’re young,” said Charles. “You may find time and experience curb your taste for adventure.” “That was a bit of an adventure tonight, wasn’t it?” Jack continued. “Imagine getting mistaken for the student of a dead professor…” Charles’s scowl wasn’t quick enough to cut off the younger man before a pained look crossed John’s features. “Oh, dear—Look, John, I’m sorry,” said Jack. “I wasn’t thinking.” “It’s all right,” John said, staring into the fire. “If the professor had been here, he’d have thought it was funny.” “You must mind your decorum,” Charles admonished Jack. “Especially once you’ve begun your courses at…Jack—I say, are you listening to me?” The younger man shook his head, stood, and crossed the room. “There’s a very strange man outside,” said Jack. “He was standing across the street under the lamp for
