Read Sherlock Holmes 01: The Breath of God for Free Online

there was only one thing worse than being talked about and that, as Oscar Wilde so astutely said, was not being talked about. In the rarefied atmosphere of the theatre openings and galas, the house parties and regattas, gossips like Pike were the fuel that kept your star burning brightly.
    His “office” was the bowed window of his club on St James’s Street where he would sit, a small notebook close to hand which he would consult or add to as the day went on. He was a receiving house, a bottomless pit of flimsy news and allegation, topped up by every servant’s whisper or jilted lover’s accusation. From his pocket he would pull sharp, clean banknotes, paying out for every nugget of worth. And he paid well, he could afford to. Rumour had it that he earned a four-figure sum per annum from his newspaper articles. Which, as someone who has some experience in publishing, is no mean task I can assure you.
    Holmes was tolerant of Pike’s occupation – indeed he often traded information with him – but personally I considered him to represent everything I found reprehensible about modern society.
    Upon spotting us through the window Pike smiled and gave a delicate, regal wave.
    We were led through to his private lounge by an elderly waiter who gazed upon the perpetually flamboyant Pike as if caught in the glare of the silk lining of his jacket.
    “My dear Sherlock!” Pike rose and clasped Holmes’ hand. There was a sweet puff of cologne as Pike opened his arms and gestured for us to sit. “You will of course join me for lunch? There is some quite exquisite game pie.” For once, my natural inclination towards dining was tempered. I had no great desire to eat in this man’s company. Perversely, Holmes, a man whose main subsistence was tobacco, informed Pike that we would do so with pleasure.
    “To what do I owe this visit, Sherlock?” Pike asked. “Or can I guess?”
    “I would be disappointed if you couldn’t,” Holmes admitted.
    Pike chuckled. “You have come to find out what I know of the late Hilary De Montfort,” he said, “in the hope that I can shed some light on what is unquestionably one of the most bizarre deaths to have reached my ears in the last twenty-four hours.”
    “Not longer?” I asked, somewhat sarcastically.
    “My dear Doctor,” Pike replied, “this is London, where the bizarre is a daily occurrence, thank God. If it were not so then I imagine both Sherlock and I would be forced to relocate.”
    “I fear you give the city too much credit,” said Holmes, “it has been many weeks since something has threatened to grasp my attention.”
    “Ah, but then you always were hard to please, I find the streets positively bristling with intrigue.”
    “It takes more than affaires and new frocks to stimulate me,” Holmes agreed. “I am also fiercely impatient.”
    Pike sighed and reached for his little notebook. “Indeed you are.” He shuffled through the pages, apparently refreshing his memory. I doubt Holmes was fooled. Given De Montfort’s very recent demise there was little doubt in my mind that Pike had already reminded himself of all he knew in preparation for writing about it.
    “Of course,” he said finally, “young Hilary was always the black sheep of the De Montfort family. But then with such a boring clan that’s not difficult. Old money, old land. The sort of family that place more stock on knowing family history than they do current affairs. Heads in the past.”
    “A family of noble heritage in other words,” I countered.
    Pike shrugged. “If you say so. I see nothing worthwhile in looking in any other direction but towards the future.”
    “Whereas, presumably,” Holmes said, “young Hilary struggled to look beyond the here and now?”
    “One would imagine so,” Pike said, “though Hilary’s interests were considerably broader than you might imagine. In fact he was a member of the Golden Dawn.”
    “The Golden Dawn?” I asked, “What’s that? One of the new