Sherlock Holmes and a Hole in the Devil's Tail , livre ebook

Andrews UK - Viktor Messick

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49 pages

English

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Holmes and Watson have been handed the challenge of solving the London Tarot Killings. It is a shadowy episode equaling any dark conspiracy ever committed in the ancient city. Some fiend is brutally murdering random people in Lower Havering and pinning cards from the Italian deck on their faces. The string of murders seems to have some connection to the strange, unsolved slaying of the renowned solicitor Richard Corkright in his cozy, secure Merton office. At the request of the police, Holmes and his faithful chronicler begin an investigation. But unraveling the treacherous scheme of the sinister Tarot Master proves to be no simple task. As the two dauntless men pursue the case, they begin to piece together a vast plot stretching from London's lofty perches of wealth and privilege all the way down to its seedy backstreets and byways. In the course of resolving this intricate mystery, the Great Detective and his devoted assistant will deal with ritual murder and remorse-driven suicide, confront shady characters both clever and dangerous, uncover dark secrets of affluent society, and face at every turn the violent wrath of a ruthless, diabolical genius.

Informations

Publié par	Andrews UK
Date de parution	03 novembre 2016
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781787050198
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0150€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

Extrait

Sherlock Holmes
And
A Hole in the Devil’s Tail
(A Narrative of Dr. John Watson)
By
Viktor Messick

First edition published in 2016 by
MX Publishing
335 Princess Park Manor, Royal Drive
London, N11 3GX
www.mxpublishing.co.uk
Digital edition converted and distributed by
Andrews UK Limited
www.andrewsuk.com
© Copyright 2016 Viktor Messick
The right of Viktor Messick to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1998.
All rights reserved. No reproduction, copy or transmission of this publication may be made without express prior written permission. No paragraph of this publication may be reproduced, copied or transmitted except with express prior written permission or in accordance with the provisions of the Copyright Act 1956 (as amended). Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damage.
Although every effort has been made to ensure the accuracy of the information contained in this book, as of the date of publication, nothing herein should be construed as giving advice. The opinions expressed herein are those of the author and do not necessarily reflect those of MX Publishing or Andrews UK Limited.
Cover design by Brian Belanger.

Dedicated to my inner circle: Annie, Nala, Henry and Cecil.

The Gantlet is Thrown Down
Early evening tea is always an agreeable occasion, but especially pleasant on a Sunday. This is due to the fact that the holiest day of the week, by way of inviolable law (enacted with the best of intentions, I am certain) passes the slowest and consequently in the least stimulating fashion. Such was the case on a particular Sabbath day in March of 189-, corresponding with the outbreak of the horrific London Tarot Murders, an episode occupying a lofty place in the annals of all black deeds ever committed in the long memory of the ancient, regal city, higher even than the infamous affair with the Ripper. I recall the day being a principally uneventful, melancholy sort, gray and windless. I loafed about my apartment all morning and visited a recuperating friend in the afternoon, returning home at the onset of dreary twilight, bearing the angst of a man who has exhausted all serious business far before the day is spent. Upon my return, I recall perusing, for the third or fourth time that day, a thumbed copy of that morning’s edition, then, for the second or third time, reading a mildly interesting letter from a friend of mine who ran a missionary school near the banks of the Krishna in Kamataka. Try as I might to keep my mind occupied, however, the boredom became unbearable, and my humor suffered.
My mood, I should note, did steadily improve as the small hand of the clock dial approached its middle station, an occurrence which invariably coincided with Mrs. Hudson, my gracious landlady, appearing through the door bearing a silver tray with steaming teapot along with warm scones, as well as fresh copies of the evening Times, all for the pleasure and amusement of myself and my esteemed companion and fellow lodger, Mr. Sherlock Holmes.
As the hues of night gathered, the kind lady made her timely entrance with her faithful tray. A lamp was lighted at our backs, and with its steady brilliance behind us and the glow of the fire in the grate before us, we were afforded ample light for our long evening of digesting all the printed news at our disposal. I reached first for the edible contents, my friend for the inedible, namely a white envelope which sat atop one of the copies of the paper, an act quite justifiable as it bore his name upon it in letters black and bold. As I watched, he silently read its contents, then, after indulging in a small, private laugh, he turned his attention to the paper.
“Two more tarot murders, Watson,” said my friend a few moments later. “These done in by clubbing. Nasty business.”
“Holmes, please,” I protested, not yet half way through my buttery pastry. The previous day’s paper had been sufficiently graphic as to leave me unnerved. It recounted the mutilated condition in which the first two tarot murder victims were found. There was reported in the same edition a second grisly crime, an equally appalling narrative involving the demise of one Mr. Richard Corkright, a lawyer found strangled in his Merton office with a bloated white face and deep red welts around his neck. Such accounts of man’s inhumanity to man are sufficient to compel even the most hardened heart to wonder at the state of the world.
My friend went on, paying my plea not the slightest heed.”The three and four of rods were found on them, apparently from the same Italian deck previously used. You recall, Watson? The brothers Newquist found yesterday, mercilessly stabbed and left with Il Uni di Spades and Il Due di Spades pinned to their faces. Strangely (or perhaps appropriately) the two latest victims were also brothers, Larry and Robert Dornbeck the unfortunates’ names.”
Annoyed at Holmes’ insensitivity, I patiently finished my confectionary treat before responding.
“I’m afraid such events are more unnerving than amusing to us regular citizens. You, I’m sure, are fascinated with the particulars.”
“Quite so, Watson. Quite so,” said Holmes from behind his paper.
“It does, however, present you with a sore dilemma.”
“A dilemma, you said, Watson?” quoth my friend innocently.
“Yes, Holmes,” I answered. “Lacking time to pursue two investigations, you are forced to choose between the Corkright case and that of the Tarot murders.”
The paper came down in a flash and I beheld my friend’s smiling countenance. “Ah, there you err, my dear Watson, for my time is plenteous, with very little occupying it. No inviting prospects in the concert halls nor in the small theatres which I frequent. My assistance has already been officially requested by Inspector McVay concerning the Merton murder. And, with regard to the so-called tarot murders, well, the gauntlet has been thrown down!”
He tossed me a folded piece of paper, which I knew to be the very note contained in the alabaster envelope found atop Mrs. Hudson’s tray. The contents were in beautiful old-English calligraphy.
Dearest Sir! [ ran the note]
This correspondence is written by the hand of one more versed in your unrefined Germanic oriented language, but be assured that the sentiments are mine. I know you are a man not easily intimidated. I respect this. Nay, my good Sir, I admire it to the highest degree. As a gentleman I must inform you, however, that if you decide to meddle in MY affairs, as I fear the magnificent Sherlock Holmes might feel compelled to do, I give my solemn vow to inflict a vengeance horrible and unholy, not upon your distinguished person, but rather upon the lives of those you most cherish. I go about the Earth doing the work of a Higher Authority, handing out judgments reached in celestial courts far above the mortal world. My work is sacred - divine in its own right - and I will suffer no interference. As this evening’s paper will attest, I am a man dedicated to a solemn and severe calling. As this missive is penned, a third and fourth tarot card have just been assigned, and more cards remain at my disposal! The King of Terrors shall receive those against whom I set my will. He Who Shall Not Be Cheated! You have been warned!”
Most Sincerely,
The Tarot Master
“So, you see, Watson,” rejoined my friend, “Professional obligation necessitates the one investigation, personal honor the other. I thus have little choice but to divide my attention between the two cases.”
I frowned, the words of the note lingering in my mind like the musk of an unpleasant odor
“This note is the product of a deranged mind! Aren’t you the least bit concerned?”
“It is not my safety that has been threatened, Watson, but that of my only close relation, my brother Mycroft, and my only true friend, you. Men of my trade pursue their treasure well aware of the perils by which it must be won and think little of their own security. I will, however, suffer no harm to come to those I hold dear. Thus the villain wisely threatens their lives and not mine.”
I complacently leaned back in my chair. “Well, I refuse to be intimidated.”
My companion clapped his hands. “Exactly what I would expect John Watson to say! And I have no doubt that Mycroft Holmes would echo it. Therefore, I am inclined to proceed.”
“You have some competition this time,” I noted, having picked up my copy of the paper and perused it. “Says here that the ‘Friends of Richard Corkright’ are putting together a fund. A cash payment is to be paid for information leading to the capture of his murderer and the return of all stolen items.”
At this, the great detective became somewhat agitated. “Oh, Watson, do you really suppose me to be intimidated by amateurish crime solving methods involving talentless competitors? No, no. I shall enjoy a good sleep tonight and venture out to Merton tomorrow, bright and early. I would enjoy your company, if you are available.”
Fortunately, I was. The mixed feelings which these cases of Holmes inspire me, however, served to somewhat diminish the gaiety I felt upon noticing my companion, lost in the articles of the Daily, had left his pastry unclaimed. I helped myself, but before I had quite devoured it, my friend resumed our conversation.
“And how is that poem you’re working on coming along?”
The astonishment manifested on my face was reflected in the sly smile of my friend.
“I began it last night in my room. I am sure that the door was closed. How could you possibly know of it!”
Holmes Shrugged. “You told me, albeit not