Adventure of the Long-Lost Enemy , livre ebook

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16 pages

English

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Jonas Shenk has died. His brother has kept his corpse in the basement of Grim House, but the police have finally found it out. For the sake of public health the body must be declared dead and removed. Dr. Watson's thoughts were on holiday carolling and celebrations of the year drawing to its end, but the Yard's job-offer is a welcome bit of income. Before long it becomes clear that there is something very, very wrong with Grim House, and it will take Sherlock Holmes to see all of it...

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Publié par	Andrews UK
Date de parution	04 mars 2021
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781787057302
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0100€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

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The Adventure of the Long-Lost Enemy
Marcia Wilson

Published in 2020 by
MX Publishing
www.mxpublishing.com/
Digital edition converted and distributed by
Andrews UK Limited
www.andrewsuk.com
Copyright © 2020 Marcia Wilson
The right of Marcia Wilson to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
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.
All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

The Adventure of the Long-Lost Enemy
From Cox & Kings (formerly Cox & Co. ), August18 th , in the Year of Our Lord, MCMXXX:
It is rare to discover a case that demonstrates the editing between Dr. Watson’s natural verbose style and the final, polished result from Sir Arthur. The following may be the only one of its kind, being complete in the Doctor’s original voice and in possession of no “failed” feats of deduction, nor the other alleged “failures” that led to so many adventures’ consignment to the limbo of Cox. From the perspective of History, the worthy Detective will doubtless argue that this case is a paltry show of his abilities. We respectfully posit this manuscript is an insight into the unique methods that he used in solving crimes.
It was late on December the 18 th , the Thursday before Christmas. It was my custom to pay my patients a last call before the holidays, and my rounds were circuitous. Frost sprinkled over the black ice-piles in the gutters like anthracite, and it was all any light could do to cast some feeble glow into the black lumps for my safe passage. My old wounds stung as a sour wind blew from the North, bringing flakes the size and texture of Brittany’s bitter grey salt to gently rest a carpet over the cobbles. A haze grew around the nimbus of light hissing about the street-lamps as distant carolers practiced their arts, their songs and bells echoing softly back and forth over the valleys and mountains of brick and stone. Here and there winked the few brave lights of Christmas, and wafts of fresh greenery cleansed the nose of soot. More vocal proofs of midwinter rested on the countless playbills: tonight was the night to pay respects for Sebastian among the Eastern Orthodox. A newspaper pasted to the door of a Confectionary’s advertised the feast of Winibald, brother of Walpurgis; a crude painting of the saint with his bricklayer’s trowel in hand stood by a pretty little ikon of his sister cradling her corn dolly – doubtless a petition for her gentling hand against the storms that had plagued our city from the sea.
The closed-down Indian spice shops were liberally painted with festival. Thanks to my military days, I could read the praises for a peaceful Al-Hijra that had passed on the fourth, and in gold paint were notices of the Day of Ashura, so reminiscent to the Occidental eye of the Jewish Hanukkah. A child from somewhere in the high tenants’ housing was singing a high, sweet ululation in praise of the Prophet. Typical of the tolerance of the sub-Continent, across the street the devout were winding down their day-long fast of Durgashtam. Lord Shiva’s day had been on the Wednesday, and I could see his serene form behind beaded curtains. A plump Ganesh smiled in a tiny sill, the tip of his broken tusk winking by the light of a single butter-lamp.
In the Chut quarters, the prayers and fastings had ended with rich aromas that would have set an aesthetic’s stomach growling. Earlier that day, I had passed this spot and paused to listen to two lively children excitedly relating to their younger siblings the moment when Adam created fire with two stones in blessing to God for the way of the world turning to darkness, then light. Now these children were in bed, their door-way empty but for a curled-up beggar, sleeping with a new loaf of bread inside his arms and two dozing moggies curled for warmth inside the folds of his oversized coat. A Rabbi prayed in a sing-song voice in an attic glowing from tiny seven-tier candelabras.
I passed from one country’s street to another: The Irish feted their Saint Flannán with happy toasts. Strains of O Adoni wafted through the air where an Armenian chapel practiced late Vespers. I was surprised to find a Zoroastrian colony on my way, and stopped for a moment to regard the humble scenes in the barred glass, thinking of my wanderings between India and the East. These quiet folk were preparing for Shab-e- Yaldā , for they see Christmas as the first day of winter. Red being felicitous, they had arranged a brilliant display of tiny Christmas apples and the holly wreaths that could scarce be seen for the scarlet berries and red marzipan pears and pomegranates. They must have been long residents of England, for they knew the trick of forcing the pale pink cherry blossoms to bloom in water.

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