Chapter 31 Sweet Taste

Watson sat by the window of the detective agency, browsing books.

With the advancement of the industrial revolution, the extensive use of printing machines has greatly reduced the cost of disseminating text information, and knowledge seems to have become cheap.

Nowadays, text is printed everywhere in the world, books, newspapers, magazines... even posters on the street. Text information can be said to be everywhere. Sometimes they contain precious knowledge... but more often, they are just useless garbage.

Just like the meaningless collection of shit, urine and fart jokes in Watson's hand at this moment, but he still pretended to be immersed in it, nodding slightly from time to time as if he agreed with the remarks in the book, but the corner of his eyes was always scanning the street outside the window.

As early as when Watson returned to Baker Street, he felt a knife-like sharp and hostile gaze quietly falling on his back.

His face was calm, but he just silently pushed open the door of the detective agency, opened the tightly closed curtains to let the eyes of those with bad intentions in, and sat in a position convenient for the other party to observe and quietly read the book.

The other party was quite cunning, hiding his figure in the slow-moving crowd, but after many back and forths, Watson finally caught a trace.

He was a young man with two dark eyebrows that were bent down like hooks, a mustache on his lips, and a collar that was raised high to cover his neck.

Victor Feuerbach didn't know that his disguise, which he thought was exquisite, had been seen through. He was complacently imagining that he would sneak in and cut off the target's head with a sharp blade when it was late at night and dedicate it to the great leader!

………………

On the night Harris died, in a luxurious manor outside the city.

The Marquise of Bute was tasting black tea in the study, and suddenly there was a light and urgent knock on the door.

The door of the study was often open, and the knocker was just to inform the lady of his arrival.

That was the butler of the Butt family, who was in charge of all matters inside and outside the manor. He smiled lightly and bowed slightly to the lady who came over after hearing the sound.

"Madam, the master is waiting for you in the office."

"Yes, I know."

Mrs. Butt replied unhappily, office, office, office... Every day in the office!

Marquis Butt had not returned to the bedroom for many days. He had been soaking in the office recently, eating, bathing, and sleeping without leaving. She was wondering if there was a secret room in it with a few canaries.

Having said that, she still asked the head maid who came with her from her mother's family to put on her makeup and change into luxurious clothes.

Two knocks were just Mrs. Butt's courtesy. She pushed the door open without waiting for a response from inside.

As expected, Marquis Butt was sitting behind the large solid wood desk, writing and scribbling with his head down, not caring at all about his wife who suddenly broke in, letting the other party's careful dressing go to waste.

Mrs. Booth curled her lips, "What do you want to talk to me about? Tell me quickly."

The Marquis of Booth then raised his head. Perhaps because of the thick glasses on his nose, he had almost no crow's feet, and his skin was elastic and tight. If it weren't for the few strands of white hair mixed in his temples and his eyes showing the maturity and vicissitudes of life, he would have been mistaken for a young man at first glance.

"Harris is dead."

The Marquis lightly uttered this shocking news, but his expression was as cold as if he was talking about a stray dog ​​that was run over by a carriage on the street.

Even Mrs. Booth was deceived by this nonchalant attitude. She thought that her husband, who had a dull personality like a piece of wood, finally had a brain and was even joking, but this joke was too much!

"Puh, phuh, phuh, what nonsense are you talking about? How can you joke about your son's life and death."

The Marquis of Booth raised his head and glanced at his wife. Although he always knew that her brain was not very bright, how could he not even understand what he said?

"I'm not kidding. Harris died this morning."

Harris died...

Harris died...

My baby son died...

My husband's words kept echoing in her ears, sometimes loud and sometimes low, sometimes sharp like a howl and sometimes thick like a stone bell. Mrs. Bute suddenly felt a heavy head, as if lead water was poured into her ears and swayed in her head.

The carpet under her feet was particularly soft and slippery, almost like stepping on a pile of newly picked cotton. Mrs. Bute stumbled and fell to the ground with stars in her eyes. She screamed and fainted. Before the darkness completely eroded her vision, she saw her husband who continued to work.

Butter... You have a cruel heart!

When Mrs. Bute woke up, she was back on the bed in the master bedroom.

The grief of losing her beloved son made her heart ache. Resentment and resentment gradually burst out from the depths of her eyes, and her voice was as shrill as the friction of rotten wood chips.

"Maid!"

"Go and urge Charlotte from the Holmes family to find out who killed her cousin as soon as possible!"

The charming head maid showed a trace of embarrassment and embarrassment on her face. She hesitated and stammered. Before she went to the office to bring back the lady, she knelt under the desk in front of the fainted lady to solve the problem for the Marquis as a matter of routine.

When the head maid stood up, she wiped the muddy liquid from the corner of her mouth and accidentally saw the investigation report on the death of the young master hidden in the neatly organized text on the table.

She finally decided to tell what she saw and heard:

"Madam, it was Miss Holmes' assistant, John H. Watson, who killed Young Master Harris."

"What!!!"

Mrs. Boot's roar almost brought down the roof, "Get me a car right away. I want to go to Holmes's house. I want to ask my niece how the investigation turned into murder!!!"

At the right time, there was thunder and torrential rain, and a hurricane. The rain pattered on the roof of the carriage, and the temperature inside the carriage dropped as cold as ice.

But the biting cold wind failed to calm Mrs. Bute's anger. On the contrary, it only fueled the fire.

She was so angry that her whole body trembled, her upper teeth bit her lower lip tightly, and traces of blood dyed the corners of her hanging mouth red.

After the Marquise left, the butler came to the office with quick yet elegant steps.

After he knocked three times and got the master's reply, he dared to open the door and enter.

"Sir, Madam has gone to the house of Marquis Holmes to inquire about the crime."

Marquis Bute said without raising his head:

"Just let her go. The Duke is a sensible person and will not behave like a random shrew like her."

"Yes, I will take my leave first. Sir, please take care of yourself and rest early."

"Um."

The butler turned and left and gently closed the door. Marquis Bute was the only one left in the huge office.

As if he had listened to the butler's advice, he blew out the oil lamp on the table, and the room fell into silent darkness.

Marquis Bute didn't seem to be in a hurry to fall asleep. He leaned down and rummaged for something in the desk cabinet.

Suddenly, cold white lightning flashed through the gap in the curtains, and the office became incandescent in an instant.

The most dazzling electric light struck the Marquis like a crack, revealing the object in his hand.

It was a glass of red wine, a glass of bright red grape wine served in a transparent goblet.

The Marquis shook the wine glass slightly, and the bright red wine rippled in the glass.

It is hard to imagine that the juice squeezed from the grape carcasses still shows such a lively and bright red color after being stored for such a long time.

Marquis Bute had a crazy look on his wooden face. He sniffed the wine carefully as if he was afraid of damaging the purity of the wine. He raised the glass and took a sip, letting the mellow and sweet taste reverberate on his tongue.

He let out a hearty moan, this was really a rare delicacy!

After finishing the glass of wine, the Marquis seemed a little tipsy. He slowly shook his head and sighed:

"Harris...you are such a useless piece of trash."