Music of Sound , livre ebook

Andrews UK - Ian Jarvis

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145 pages

English

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Description

A modern-day Sherlock Holmes, Bernie Quist operates as a consultant detective from Baker Avenue in York. His assistant is Watson, although this Watson is a youth from the Grimpen housing estate and he's definitely no doctor. The mismatched duo take on bizarre cases which invariably lead into the realms of the supernatural, a shadowy world Quist is all too familiar with.Rex Grant has vanished from a hotel without paying the bill, but the police seem more concerned with the murdered girl in his room. Investigating their friend's disappearance, Quist and Watson are intrigued by his connection to the superstar singer Ligeia and the lethal mercenary soldiers who act as her management team. Irana Adler heads the squad - a female Colonel who doesn't take kindly to intrusion - and Quist is amazed to discover that Laurel and Hardy are part of the singer's entourage, something which is not only surprising, but pretty much impossible.A dark and very peculiar game is afoot, and Ligeia's musical voice may not be as sweet as it sounds...

Informations

Publié par	Andrews UK
Date de parution	09 mai 2019
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781787051393
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0250€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

Extrait

The Music of Sound
By
Ian Jarvis

First edition published in 2017 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 2017 Ian Jarvis
The right of Ian Jarvis 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 belong to the author and do not necessarily reflect those of MX Publishing or Andrews UK Limited.
Cover design by Brian Belanger

Chapter 1
1912
Stained glass began to rattle in the decorative mahogany screen behind Bernard Quist and he twisted in his chair to look around the wood-panelled smoking room. The other clientele had paused mid-conversation, most turning to watch the crystal decanters tinkle noisily against one another on their shelves behind the bar.
‘Intriguing,’ said Quist, as the vibrations ceased. Settling back into the leather seat, he drew on his cigar and frowned curiously. ‘What on earth could that have been?’
Lenny Logan sat opposite Quist at the table. He’d placed his whisky too close to the edge and the tremors sent the glass tumbling over. The wiry Scotsman caught the drink and raised it to show that nothing had spilled. Logan belched and took a gulp. ‘How about that?’ He laughed loudly. ‘Lucky Lenny, they call me. Lucky, lucky, lucky.’
Several nearby aristocrats turned to scowl, appalled at the coarse sound of his voice. These people weren’t used to hearing drunken Glaswegian accents.
Sir Ronald Norberton sat beside Quist, eyeing Logan in a manner that couldn’t have held more contempt had the Scotsman been a negro. Norberton was proud of the British class structure; it was the finest in the world. He’d been stationed as an army officer in India and, although their caste system seemed to work, it was organised over five complex levels. England had a straightforward three : the cream, the pen-pushing middle class and the scum.
The lower classes were a necessary evil, needed to man factories, dig coal and keep the streets clear of shit, but Norberton never had cause to speak with these horrendous people and they knew their place. That place would soon be following the orders of their betters and marching towards German machine guns. These people were oiks and Norberton prided himself on his ability to smell them. You could bathe an oik, spray it with expensive cologne and clothe it in finery, but the seedy stench would remain. He glared again at the drunken Glaswegian. There were higher chances of women being allowed to vote than an oik getting into this first class lounge, and yet Logan appeared to have somehow managed it.
Norberton turned to the middle-aged man beside him. Bernard Quist’s large aquiline nose and dark wavy hair reminded him of the early portraits of the Duke of Wellington. Quist was cultured, intelligent and highly knowledgeable, but try as he might, Norberton couldn’t figure him out. His eloquent English voice was right and his clothes were right, but Quist simply didn’t feel right. Somehow he seemed classless , which, of course, was impossible.
‘We’re hundreds of miles from the coast,’ said Quist, looking around again. The smoking room had been constructed to resemble an exclusive gentleman’s club and a blue tobacco haze shrouded the ornate ceiling. ‘So what could have caused that shuddering? Has something happened down in the engine room? Perhaps a minor explosion?’
‘I very much doubt it,’ said Norberton. ‘Everyone knows this ship is the finest in the world. I’m sure you’re worrying unnecessarily.’
‘Ah, who cares?’ said Logan, leaning across the table to the two men. ‘I don’t know you chaps, but here’s a question for you both. What do you think of me? Be honest.’
Norberton’s rude grunt suggested he didn’t think much.
Quist was more diplomatic. He sat back in the leather chair and drew on his cigar. ‘What do you mean?’ he asked.
‘When you look at me, what do you think?’ The Scotsman gave an inebriated grin. ‘How much do you reckon I’m worth? Come on. Take a guess.’
Disgusted, Norberton raised his eyebrows. A gentleman would never dream of asking such things. Logan’s watch chain was gold and his clothes were certainly expensive, but his suit was the only one in the room that wasn’t handmade. It was the sort of thing a gambler might wear and far too flash for his discerning tastes.
‘I can’t imagine,’ said Quist. ‘That really isn’t for us to comment on.’
‘Yes, well...’ Copious amounts of whisky had loosened Logan’s tongue. ‘You wouldn’t believe me if I told you. There’s a lot of weird things you fine, upstanding chaps wouldn’t believe.’
Quist puffed his cigar and smiled. ‘Oh, you’d be surprised at the weird things I believe, Mister Logan.’
‘How about magic? Do you believe in that ?’ The Scotsman took out a pack of cards and placed three face-down on the table. He lifted one to show it was the Queen of Diamonds, then briskly moved them around. ‘Where is she now? Where’s the Queen?’
‘For God’s sake,’ growled Norberton. He’d heard about this stupid trick, but had never witnessed it before. Apparently, it was something the oiks wasted money on in taverns - a grubby gambling diversion for the weak-minded. He’d been watching carefully and tutted as he tapped the central card. ‘It’s that one, obviously.’
‘Really?’ Logan turned it to show the Two of Hearts and flipped over the one beside it. ‘No, the Queen’s there. Hey, it’s a good thing you didn’t bet a shilling on that.’
‘Indeed,’ said Quist. ‘Although, seeing as this gentleman owns most of Hampshire, I doubt such monetary losses would be cause for concern.’
Logan laughed loudly. ‘Find the Lady. Do you know how much that little trick has made me? How much it will make me?’ He reached over and produced a palmed shilling from behind Norberton’s ear. ‘I’m going to be the richest man in America.’
‘What on earth are you talking about?’ Norberton peered at the Glaswegian as though he were mad. ‘I know certain types practise such twaddle and I’m aware you can coerce idiot gamblers into parting with petty cash on street corners, but you’ll never make any real money. That stupid conjuring nonsense with the coin isn’t going to impress anyone.’
‘I only need to impress one person: Sarah.’ He pulled another shilling from Quist’s ear. ‘Sarah is fascinated by Find the Lady and my little feats of magic.’
‘Oh, yes, your travelling companion,’ snorted Norberton, disdainfully. ‘Your rather attractive and very young niece .’
Logan answered with an earthy chuckle which confirmed his suspicion - this sleazy character was most definitely not the girl’s uncle.
‘Sarah?’ Quist tapped his cigar in the ashtray and sat forward, suddenly interested. ‘Yes, I saw her with you at dinner. It’s approaching midnight. I assume she’s retired?’
Logan nodded. ‘She’s catching up on her beauty sleep, not that she needs it. Quite a looker, isn’t she?’
Quist nodded slowly. From the little he’d seen of this petite blonde, she appeared rather naïve and Uncle Lenny was doubtless enjoying bedtime fun and games in his cabin. Sarah hadn’t been aware of Quist until this evening, but after noticing him from a nearby dining table, she’d shown a great deal of interest. It didn’t seem to be romantic interest, but several times he’d caught her staring inquisitively and he was curious as to why.
‘I don’t suppose I’m making much sense,’ said Logan. ‘The card trick itself isn’t going to make money and neither is my sleight of hand magic, but they entertain...’ He hesitated, then decided against explanations. ‘Here’s to Sarah.’ He raised his glass instead. ‘The very best niece any man could wish for.’
The Scotsman gulped the whisky, hoping that Sarah really was asleep in their suite. She’d spent much of the voyage on a quiet area of the deck gazing at the ocean. The last thing he needed was for her to be washed overboard by some freak wave. Then again, that was hardly likely as he was lucky, lucky, lucky . Logan smiled to himself. He’d certainly been lucky the night he met Sarah shivering on the Glasgow docks . She’d stowed away on a boat from somewhere and he’d been the one to find her . The girl had made Logan a fortune in Scotland, but his gambling habit had forced him to flee. He was now able to pay his debts many times over, but he’d made too many enemies, the kind who didn’t like card cheats and were willing to write off lost cash for the pleasure of slicing him into pieces. He’d taken Sarah south by train and booked their sea passage to America, his new-found wealth ensuring they travelled first class. He finished his drink and smirked. New York would be a lucrative place to begin afresh. The east coast was filled with rich people who could easily be relieved of their money .
‘Excuse me.’ Quist gestured to a passing steward. ‘What was the shudder we felt a short while ago?’
The young man smiled politely. ‘Nothing to be concerned about, Sir,’ he said. ‘We almost collided with an iceberg.’
‘Almost