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99 pages

English

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Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson are summoned to Theobald Grange, the Warwickshire home of Lady Heminworth. Being of a nervous and superstitious disposition, her Ladyship lives in fear. Her husband and elder son were recently murdered, apparently by the ghost of a court jester who was executed on the site centuries before. The apparition has warned that she, too, is to die. Holmes rejects a supernatural explanation, although his adversary seems unaffected by gunfire and is able to take flight and disappear. The Great Detective brings his powers to bear, but still the killings continue...

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Thriller

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Publié par	Andrews UK
Date de parution	26 juillet 2017
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781787051874
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0374€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

Extrait

The Demon of the Dusk
The rediscovered cases of Sherlock Holmes Book 1
Arthur Hall

2017 digital version converted and published by
Andrews UK Limited
www.andrewsuk.com
Copyright © Arthur Hall 1997, 2017
The right of Arthur Hall 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.
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. The opinions expressed herein are those of the author and not of MX Publishing.
MX Publishing
335 Princess Park Manor, Royal Drive,
London, N11 3GX
www.mxpublishing.co.uk
Cover design by Brian Belanger
www.belangerbooks.com and www.redbubble.com/people/zhahadun

About the Author
Arthur Hall was born in Aston, Birmingham, UK, in 1944. He discovered his interest in writing during his schooldays, along with a love of fictional adventure and suspense.
His first novel “Sole Contact” was an espionage story about an ultra-secret government department known as “Sector Three” and was followed, to date, by three sequels.
Other works include four “rediscovered” cases from the files of Sherlock Holmes, two collections of bizarre short stories and two modern adventure novels, as well as several contributions to the continuing anthology, “The MX Book of New Sherlock Holmes Stories”.
His only ambition, apart from being published more widely, is to attend the premier of a film based on one of his novels, possibly at The Odeon, Leicester Square.
He lives in the West Midlands, United Kingdom, where he often walks other people’s dogs as he attempts to create new plots.
The author welcomes comments and observations about his work, at arthurhall7777@aol.co.uk

1 The Jester of Armington Keep
My friend Mr Sherlock Holmes was never, by any description, a follower of convention or of fashion. He was clothed, always, in garments appropriate for a given occasion or time of day, but when gentlemen’s collars began to be worn with a longer point, or their trousers cut a little more generously, Holmes would ignore the changes, fleeting as they usually were, and continue his existence as before.
So it was with places. Sometimes he would read, in one of the numerous newspapers he received regularly, that this restaurant or that gentleman’s club was a popular place to be seen, more often than not because someone of fame or notoriety was known to frequent the establishment. He found this distasteful, likening the practice to the herd instinct commonly displayed by animals.
Usually, Holmes shunned society. Indeed, he rarely entered any club in London, never doing so at all unless as part of a current enquiry or investigation.
My surprise was therefore complete as we emerged from a violin recital at St James Hall, Piccadilly, on a fine early April evening when my suggestion that we delay our return to Baker Street long enough to visit Brenner’s, the well-known and fashionable tea rooms, was approved.
“It is just off the Strand I think, Watson.”
“But not far, I have been given directions.”
He gave me an amused, sidelong glance. “I hope Mrs Watson was specific, so that we do not find ourselves wandering the district until we chance to come upon the place.”
“Holmes, I did not say that Brenner’s was recommended to me by my wife.”
“Indeed, you did not, but I recall that a faint aroma of an unfamiliar blend of fresh coffee clung to your morning coat on each of the recent occasions when we have met. By your own admission during our conversations, your social life has been somewhat restricted of late. You have for some little time visited regularly only my rooms in Baker Street, apart from your surgery, where I know you always drink tea. Therefore, my dear fellow, you drank the coffee at home. I have no doubt that Mrs Watson purchased it while at Brenner’s on an afternoon outing with her friends from the Women’s Circle.”
This, I thought, was too much, even from him. “Ingenious, but you overlook the obvious.”
His eyes shone with an amused twinkle as he raised his eyebrows. “How so?”
“Because,” I retorted triumphantly, “I could have called in to a coffee house anywhere, returning more than once if it were to my liking, at any time in the course of my travels about London. Would that not explain all that you have said?”
Holmes smiled. “No, Watson, that will not do. That particular fragrance was unknown to me, but it has the harshness of the newly popular South American mixtures. According to yesterday’s newspapers, Brenner’s is at present sole importers of these in London, and you have already indicated that you have never been there.”
“So you concluded that both the mixture and the tea rooms were introduced to me by my wife.” I applauded him. “Bravo, Holmes, as always you are correct.”
We made use of a passing cab for the short distance, and left it a few paces from the entrance. With several other men and two or three couples, we walked through the arched doorway.
We deposited our hats and coats and left the foyer, to find ourselves in a cavernous room that was almost completely walled with mirrors. Rows of tables, most of them occupied, stretched before us past white marble pillars. Waiters hurried between them, laden with steaming food and drink.
“I must say that I approve of Mrs Watson’s taste as to our surroundings,” Holmes remarked. “The décor is exquisite, and the spaciousness enhanced by the clever use of mirrors.”
We were soon seated near the edge of the room, next to one of the wide pillars, and I picked up a menu card from the starched white tablecloth. Already I could see why my wife had been so favourably impressed, for the bill of fare, like the room itself, compared well with many of the capital’s finest restaurants.
“What will you eat, Holmes?”
He studied the card. “Today my appetite is not very great. Some of these hot scones perhaps, with butter and some preserve. And,” he glanced at me, “a cup of the South American coffee, of course.”
“I will have the same,” I said to the waiter who had arrived and written down Holmes’ order as it was dictated.
“I may write a monograph on the peculiarities of different varieties of coffee,” he mused when the man had left us, “as I did on tobacco, should such a paper ever promise to be useful.”
Not for the first time recently, I studied his appearance carefully. Resplendent in his evening clothes, Holmes looked much healthier than of late. His nerves were apparently stronger, his complexion more ruddy, though this was always pale by normal standards, and his eyes sharply alive. Earlier I observed that he had adopted once more the upright posture of old, which made him appear taller than ever, and the gaunt expression brought on by overwork was gradually fading from his features. I could, to my immense relief, see no sign of a return to the cocaine bottle, which he had at last forsaken at my insistence. Finally, I decided that he was now quite recovered from the taxing exertions undergone during the affairs of the Peruvian Quintet and the Demise of Mr Antoine Valderer, as well as the unexpected recurrence of a situation from his days in Montague Street, about which I have been sworn to secrecy.
The food arrived, and we said little as we ate. His restless eyes took in our surroundings, his gaze swept over the leaning palms, the aspidistras and climbing shrubs and the gleaming brass of the gas chandeliers.
“Well, Holmes,” I said at length, “was the South American mixture to your taste?”
“It is a little coarse,” he said absently, “but I shall suggest to Mrs Hudson that that we might find it enjoyable at breakfast.”
His detached air caused me to glance at him as I pushed away my plate. He stared fixedly at the image in the mirrored wall behind me. I looked past him to see two couples leaving their table together, noticing that one of the women, a striking, black-haired girl attired in a scarlet gown, had halted abruptly and was staring in our direction. She approached her escort who had moved aside to allow her to pass, and spoke to him in a whisper, so that he was obliged to incline his head in order to hear. His reaction to her words was one of surprise and disappointment, but then he bowed once before leaving her to re-join their companions. After a moment the three looked uncertainly back, but the girl made no acknowledgement and they left her standing alone.
“A friend of yours, I imagine, Watson?” Holmes gave me a quick look from beneath raised eyebrows. “I hope so, since she seems set on renewing your acquaintance.”
“I have never before set eyes on the young lady,” I told him with some embarrassment.
But it did seem as if she had left her companions for reasons somehow connected with us, for as soon as it was certain that they had departed she turned and walked directly to our table.
“Mr Sherlock Holmes?” she enquired, addressing us both.
My embarrassment vanished and my glance at Holmes held a hint of irony, but his attention was captured already.
“I am he,” was his reply, “and this is Dr Watson. How may we assist you?”
“Gentlemen,” she said with apparent nervousness,