Exorcism of the Haunted Stick , livre ebook

Andrews UK - Marcia Wilson

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14 pages

English

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Superstition and Science have always been at odds, but this time Sherlock Holmes is challenged to disprove a case that was solved years ago by 'supernatural means'. If he wins, the Yard wins a blow against a damaging element of thought within their ranks. If he loses, everyone suffers, for a powerful administrator believes a little too much in matters beyond the veil...He is presented the facts as they were written before the audience, but he may ask only one question before he makes his decision and solves the case with logic alone...

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Publié par	Andrews UK
Date de parution	08 février 2021
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781787057326
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 Exorcism of the Haunted Stick
Marcia Wilson
Publisher Information
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 Exorcism of the Haunted Stick
Inspector Stanley Hopkins (Second Class, NSY) jumped out of his cab and straight into the watery path of a groaning four-wheeler. His walking-stick flailed, and he swayed, bright-cheeked with the effort of surviving so soon off his sickbed. Not having the luxury of a uniform’s respect, he faced the derisive hoots of sailors before PC Hickey sent them off with a swing of his truncheon.
“I was going to show them my warrant card.” Hopkins smiled reproachfully. “But thanks for the rescue.”
Hickey chuckled. “Best they see me and not you – you might have to go in mufti and sort ‘em out at the wharves later. Headed to the show?”
Hopkins patted his coat pocket. “Ticket’s safe and sound.”
“You’ll tell us how it went?”
“First thing in the morning.”
“Fair enough! Give Mr. Holmes a salute for me, as I have my duty here for Hallowe’en.” And with cheerful resignation to his responsibilities, the old Bobby continued on his slow, long-legged stroll through his twenty-mile patrol.
Hopkins yanked down his bowler until it was headache-tight. Thus armed against this dying day, he turned his back on the kerb and hurried down a crippled looking alley, glass-smooth from generations of furtive foot-pads. As he’d suspected from his mental map of London, this had been a fine old road back in its heyday and the quarter-sections were still tight. He aimed for the crowned centre where the wet was least likely to threaten his shoes, nimbly skipping from high spot to high spot through a muddy sea of water with all the skill of his pluvian childhood in the marshes. He was panting by the time he came out of the alley to the open courtyard on the other side, for this was a sport of the hale and hearty, not a fellow just out of his sick-room.
Tiny charcoal fires smoked his nostrils. Here the beggars lived meekly in cleverly contrived rags, selling food and drink and being a part of the “authentic” sights of London. Amongst these folk, the older Nutcracker Night was chosen over Hallowe’en, and its proofs steamed in the heavy paper bags of filberts. Children lolled before their elders with amazing wares: Root-crops too woody for even the donkey’s tooth had been painfully hewn into leering lanterns, a farthing each with an extra farthing for a candle. (Tuppence for enough severed vegetable heads to decorate your house.) Hopkins shook his head at a mangel-wurzel cut to look like John Bull, smirking around a toy cigar at a stack of grinning purple Moorish carrots as large as anything from the farms at home.
Ten minutes later he was wheezing and leaning on his stick for more support than his poor holly’s wont. Too much weight from the top made the bottom slip and he had to catch himself from falling into the filthy street. Foolish Crane, he thought to himself. Keep the stick on level or above with your own feet if you don’t want to spill like milk! There would be no justice if he was sent straight back to the Crow.
His new freedom threatened to go to the young man’s head. The weather had been rotten for weeks and London had decided to trade all the sun with cold, and he wanted nothing more than to leave it all for a warm, dry room and the hope of a hot drink. Night was coming fast and he’d misjudged his driver’s ability to get him here on time. Not his fault, really, and he couldn’t blame the man for sticking to the High Street. On Hallowe’en Night, it was better to lose a fare than risk a mischief. He couldn’t see it, but he could smell the choking reek of rotten eggs.
At last his way took him to a crumbling flight of concrete that marched with some awkward success into a weighty stone building, past which a petitioner must appeal to the good graces of a sour-looking concierge inside a tiny stone kiosk upon the top of the steps. Far overhead loomed in heavily-painted lettering:
DANISH LECTURE HALL
This was almost forty years defiant of fashion, and flaking at its tips and the oblong splotches of the ornate tittles and diacritics.

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