Adventures in America, 1883 , livre ebook

Andrews UK - John Raffensperger Dr.

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119 pages

English

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Here is the third of the "lost" diaries of young Arthur Conan Doyle, written in 1883 while he was a young doctor starting out in his career. This rollicking story of high adventure tells of how Arthur Conan Doyle serves as a British spy along with the legendary Doctor Joseph Bell - who became the real-life inspiration for the world's most famous literary detective, Sherlock Holmes. This diary details how Doyle and Dr. Bell journey to America on a secret forensic mission to stop a series of murders and what could escalate into a world war. Peopled with Doyle's real-life literary contemporaries - including Herman Melville and Oscar Wilde, it is an exciting mix of murder, mystery, literary history, and humor sure to please Sherlock Holmes fans everywhere!

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Publié par	Andrews UK
Date de parution	11 décembre 2017
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781787051577
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0350€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

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The Diary of Young Arthur Conan Doyle
Adventures in America, 1883
Edited by Dr. John Raffensperger & Richard Krevolin

First edition published in 2017
Copyright © 2017 Richard Krevolin and John Raffensperger
The right of Richard Krevolin and John Raffensperger to be identified as the authors of this work has been asserted by them 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 unauthorized 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 or used fictitiously. Except for certain historical personages, any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. Any opinions expressed herein are those of the authors and do not necessarily represent those of MX Publishing.
MX Publishing
335 Princess Park Manor, Royal Drive,
London, N11 3GX
www.mxpublishing.co.uk
Covers painted by Ewa Czarniecka, graphic design Kyra Dunn, compilation Brian Belanger.

To our esteemed editor, Nancy Cohen, our wonderful agent, Paula Munier, Renee Braeunig, Melanie Jappy, Kathy Copas, Colleen Sell, Dr. Wally Duff, Dr. Glenn Shepard, John Haslett, Penny Macleod, Steve Callender, Katja Bressette, Katia Haddidian, Coach Bob Orgovan, and the Sanibel writing group four.

Editors’ Note
Sherlockians know of the many adventures of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle through his diaries and books. From his first overseas trip to Austria at the age of sixteen to his adventures serving as a ship’s surgeon, supervising a hospital in South Africa during the Boer War, and touring Europe and North America, Sir Conan Doyle was an inveterate traveler.
This diary is the last of three that we discovered in the bottom of an antique trunk purchased at auction. Several entries, written with a dip pen, were illegible due to water stains. Other penciled entries were smudged. Rodents had nibbled at the cover. Fortunately, museum curators were able to restore most of the diary. We assume these three diaries were never made available to the public because either Sir Conan Doyle simply lost them over the years or he intentionally hid them since each contained sensitive material relating to national security. There may be a more prosaic reason. Conan Doyle recorded his brief love affairs - or infatuations - with several young women, notably Miss Penelope Walshingham, a secret agent and one time mistress of the Prince of Wales.
This third of the three diaries, written in 1883, describes a journey from Edinburgh to the far west of America. Its tales of derring-do include everything from pioneering surgical procedures to thwarting a murderous, land-grabbing plot, the outcome of which - had it been different - would have altered the course of world history. Aficionados may even recognize the possible inspiration for one or two of the Sherlock Holmes mysteries.
Therefore, it is with great aplomb and joy that we now share with you, dear reader, the story of young Arthur Conan Doyle’s adventures during those fateful months in 1883 as detailed in this fabulously exciting journal. Enjoy.
- Dr. John Raffensperger and Richard Krevolin, Oxford, England, 9 October 2017

15 May 1883, Bush Villas, Southsea
I attended the butcher’s epileptic fit until he was out of danger and left him with a packet of bromide powders. His wife paid with a pound of bacon and twenty pence. This afternoon, I opened the door at a knock only to see a one-horse gypsy caravan. I expected they were begging until I heard a piteous cry. It was a baby with pustules, a clear case of measles. I dabbed carbolic ointment on the sores and gave the poor mother a bottle of very dilute laudanum so the exhausted babe could sleep. They offered three pence, but I surmised that would leave them with nothing for food. I took their coppers and gave them the butcher’s twenty pence.
A typical day... Earnings: a pound of bacon and three pence.

16 May 1883, Bush Villas, Southsea
I awoke to fierce banging on my door in the grey light of early dawn. I hurriedly put on a pair of trousers and ran downstairs. It was the constable, William Beade, whom I knew from the rugby club. He wore no hat, his clothing was disheveled, and there was a two-inch, bleeding gash on his forehead. “Come right in. You need stitches,” said I.
“No, No, come immediately. Lady Stanhope has gone berserk again,” said he. I snatched my medical bag and raced after the constable to the most fashionable part of Southsea. The Stanhope sisters were widows and definitely upper-class gentry. My fortunes are taking a turn for the better , I thought.
As we turned the corner, I heard screams interspersed with pitiable wails. “Have mercy! Oh, oh, the rats! The horrible rats! Get them off me!” Lady Stanhope, a woman of about sixty, was in the street, half-naked, with her back against a brick wall. Her eyes were wild, her hands trembled, and her disheveled, grey hair hung like coiled snakes over her bare shoulders. She flailed the air with a stout cane that was thick enough to disable a strong man.
“She hit me with the cane,” said Constable Beade. A second constable darted close to the poor woman in an attempt to snatch the cane. She gave him a terrific smack on his right arm. He yelped with pain and retreated. It could have been bedlam, but this was one of our better neighborhoods, and the normally well-behaved Stanhope sisters were in the upper echelons of high society. My mind raced with the diagnostic possibilities. Could it be a brain tumor, an unusual stroke, or was she insane?
“Hold it, men. This calls for a change of tactics,” said I. The poor woman trembled, cursed, and tried to remove the rest of her already-shredded night dress.
“Oh, get them off me! Oh, please!” she screamed. She beat the cobblestones with her cane and dragged her fingernails across her naked breasts, leaving trails of blood. The neighbors were out in force. Some offered suggestions and others demanded an end to the commotion. I then noticed on the doorsteps another woman, also in a nightdress.
“Are you the sister?” I asked. She dabbed her eyes with a soggy handkerchief.
“Yes, Lady Jane is my older sister,” said she.
“When did this start?” I asked, aiming to retain my composure.
“Oh, the poor dear never went to bed, hasn’t had a wink of sleep, but kept up all night long, walking and muttering to herself until she ran out to the street.”
I was even more perplexed. The screaming stopped for a moment, then resumed, more intense than ever. “Help me God... The spiders!” Lady Stanhope had thrown down her cane and was tearing her hair with both hands, apparently in an attempt to remove what she imagined were spiders. Constable Beade quickly snatched up the cane, while the second constable managed to grab both of her arms. I hastily filled a syringe with a generous dose of morphine sulphate and jabbed the medicine into her arm. It should have been enough to subdue a strong man, but it had little or no effect; she managed to tear loose from the constables and fled down the street. Beade grabbed her with a flying tackle, and I administered a second dose of morphine. Lady Stanhope went limp, though continued to whimper piteously about spiders, rats, and a rabbit that she claimed was clawing her ankles.
We put her to bed and securely wrapped her in a sheet, but she continued to moan and, at times, cry out. Exhausted by the wild chase and chaos, I finally slumped into a chair before again addressing Lady Jane’s sister.
“Has this happened before?” I asked.
“Oh yes. She has gone off like this twice in the past five years.”
“How long do the spells last?”
“Three or four days or until Dr. Jones comes and prescribes for her.” Jones was one of Southsea’s most respected physicians who mainly looked after the upper-class gentry.
“What is the medicine?” I asked.
“That is the problem. She took two bottles on Friday, forgot to get more on Saturday, and the shops were closed yesterday. Perhaps I can find an empty bottle.” She left and returned with a bottle on which a pink label, illustrated with a picture of a kindly lady, read: ‘AUNT MARY’S FEMALE TONIC.’ It was a six-ounce bottle, and at the bottom of the label, in fine print, it read: ‘forty percent alcohol by volume.’
“Your sister is suffering from delirium tremens,” said I. “This medicine is no different from whisky and she is in alcohol withdrawal.”
“Well, I never heard of such a thing! This is medicine, not drink! How dare you suggest she is withdrawing from alcohol use? I shall call Dr. Jones. Young man, leave and never set foot in this house again!”
Later, I stitched Constable Beade’s forehead where Mrs. Stanhope had hit him. “Thank ye, sir,” said he. It is customary for physicians to treat the police and firemen for free. Thus, my day’s efforts added nothing to my cash balance. Fortunately, I still had a half-pound of bacon.
I have been making more time for photography as of late. It is a fine way to view the world and often helps soothe any agitation, such as that I was feeling after my visit with the Stanhope sisters. So, I picked up my folding, bellows-body, half-plate camera, and a tripod, and went for a short stroll. After attempting to capture an image of the setting sun, and spending the time outdoors in great contemplation, I made two decisions about my life. The fir