Professor Vance’s house in Kensington was a mausoleum of mahogany and ticking shadows. Every surface held a clock—grandfathers, mantels, cuckoos, regulators. They ticked not in unison, but in a maddening, arrhythmic cacophony.

The study was a disaster. Papers strewn, a chair overturned. But Holmes paid no attention to the chaos. He went straight to the far wall, where a large, ornately carved longcase clock stood. It was silent. Dead.

Eleanor Vance swayed. I caught her arm.

glqxz9283 sfy39587stf02 mnesdcuix8
sfy39587stf03