Sherlock Holmes , livre ebook

Andrews UK - V Stapleton Robert

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162 pages

English

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Sherlock Holmes is a Yorkshireman, born and brought up on the North York Moors, but he spent much of his life at 221B Baker Street in London. He is more than a character from Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's imagination. For many thousands of followers, he still lives in their minds through films, television, stage and radio plays, and written stories. Ever since Holmes first appeared in print, people have used the stories, together with knowledge of the culture of the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, to speculate about his life. They wanted more than the 60 stories in the Canon. This speculation is known as The Game, and has included the writing of pastiches, tales which his friend Doctor Watson, and others, might have written, but never quite got around to publishing. Until now.

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Publié par	Andrews UK
Date de parution	08 septembre 2021
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781787058033
Langue	English
Poids de l'ouvrage	1 Mo

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0300€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

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Sherlock Holmes: A Yorkshireman In Baker Street
Robert V Stapleton

Published in 2021 by
MX Publishing
www.mxpublishing.com
Digital edition converted and distributed by
Andrews UK Limited
www.andrewsuk.com
Copyright © 2021 Robert V Stapleton
The right of Robert V Stapleton 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.
Edited by David Marcum
Cover design by Brian Belanger

To Rosemary, my loving wife for nearly 50 years

Sherlock Holmes: A Yorkshireman in Baker Street

The Penny Murders
“I see you have discovered something of interest in the morning newspaper, Watson,” said Sherlock Holmes as he surveyed me through the smoke of his early morning pipe.
I looked up from scrutinizing the pages of The Times . “How can you tell?”
“Simplicity itself, my dear fellow,” came his rejoinder. “Whenever you come across an article worthy of note, you invariably shift in your seat and furrow your brow. Your entire expression grows decidedly studious.”
I raised my eyebrows in surprise.
“What is it this time? Another bizarre death, like the one reported two days ago? A pig farmer in the Fens, I seem to remember, who was trampled to death by his own herd.”
“Your memory serves you well.”
He laughed.
“But you are quite right,” I told him. “Today’s article tells of a man, in rural Leicestershire, who has been killed and partially eaten by a Bengal tiger.”
“In Leicestershire? Now that is indeed remarkable.”
“It seems he was employed as a groundsman at the country house of a prominent peer of the realm. The article explains that his Lordship maintains a small menagerie in the grounds, and that this man somehow fell victim to the animal when nobody else was around. A singular coincidence, do you not think?”
“Two incidents too similar to dismiss as coincidence. I sense something darker in this matter.”
It was a fine late spring morning in 1882, but I could already sense the shades of human tragedy invading the day. “Your imagination is proving as agile as your memory today, Holmes,” said I. “But what possible connection could there be between these two events?”
“It is too early to tell, but if there is one, then we shall undoubtedly hear from Scotland Yard when they finally admit themselves at a loss. Then we shall see.”
A sparkle in my friend’s eye displayed an appetite for action. I too can read expressions.
Holmes stood up abruptly and glanced toward the window. “Look sharp there, Watson. We have a visitor.”
I put down my newspaper and turned my attention to events unfolding downstairs. I heard the doorbell ring, and then two female voices, one of which I instantly recognized as our landlady, Mrs. Hudson, but the other, sounding urgent and pressing, was unknown to me.
By the time the knock came upon our sitting room door, Holmes had changed out of his dressing gown and was standing before the unlit fireplace, dressed and ready to receive our visitor.
The door opened, and Mrs. Hudson announced, “Mrs. Elsie Horchester to see you, Mr. Holmes.”
A woman in her mid-thirties hurried in. She stood approximately five-feet three-inches in height, wore a dark blue bonnet pulled down over greying-brown hair, and gazed at the world from brown eyes animated with urgency. Without a word of explanation, Mrs. Horchester hurried across the room to the window, from which position she looked down onto the busy thoroughfare of Baker Street.
Whilst I watched on in alarm at such an abrupt entrance, Holmes surveyed the woman with serene and dispassionate curiosity.
“They’re still out there,” exclaimed Mrs. Horchester.
“Who are still out there?” demanded Holmes.
“Why, those three men, of course. Can’t you see them?”
We both joined her at the window, standing back slightly in order to make our surveillance of the street less obvious from below. On the opposite side of the road stood three men. They appeared bulky and robust, dressed in dark clothing, and all were watching our window with singular attention.
“A man of the sea, together with two London thugs,” observed Holmes calmly.
Our visitor turned from the window. “How can you tell?”
“In the one case, mere observation, my dear lady,” replied my friend. “He stands as though swaying with the rolling of the waves, whilst the others I recognize from previous encounters with London’s criminal underclass. Those two ruffians go by the names of Withyburn and Smith.”
“They sound like a firm of solicitors,” I commented.
“Quite the opposite, I can assure you,” replied Holmes dryly.
“I have no knowledge of their names,” said Elsie Horchester, “but I think you must be close to the truth, Mr. Holmes. You are Mr. Sherlock Holmes, I assume.”
Holmes laughed. “Kindly take a seat, Mrs. Horchester, and tell us the nature of the predicament that has brought you here on behalf of your husband.”
The woman sat down, and looked up at him in amazement. “You know about my husband?”
Holmes took the chair facing her. “No, but the ring on your hand proclaims that you are married,” observed Holmes, “and the urgency of your visit is only such as a troubled wife might make concerning her spouse.”
Clasping her hands together, as though in urgent supplication, she began. “As you already know, my name is Elsie Horchester. And you are right, Mr. Holmes. My husband, George, does appear to be in some kind of trouble.”
“And what does this misfortune have to do with those men out there?’
“My husband believes they are intent on killing him.”
“For what reason?”
Elsie Horchester shook her head doubtfully and let out a deep sigh. “The full nature of that predicament has not yet been made clear to me, Mr. Holmes, but it has to do with the tragedy of the Henrietta Baldersby .”
“A ship?”
“A fishing boat. Her home port was a famous fishing town on the east coast of England. The incident took place ten years ago, and was reported in all the newspapers at the time.”
Holmes stood up and searched through his extensive and mysterious filing system. After several minutes, he returned, holding up a dog-eared and badly foxed newspaper cutting. “Here we have the contemporary report from The Times ,” he declared. “It tells of a certain fishing vessel breaking up in heavy weather and stranding the crew on an island in the North Atlantic.”
“That is quite right, Mr. Holmes,” said Mrs. Horchester.
“And you think this present business has something to do with that tragic incident?”
“It was certainly the reason why my husband came to London, but that was before we met and were married, so I am ignorant of the details.”
Holmes steepled his fingers thoughtfully. “Am I to understand that your husband has sent you here to request me to visit him?”
Mrs. Horchester’s look of embarrassment was as good as a nod. “But what about those men? They followed me all yesterday, though I managed to lose them in the end. They followed me again this morning, and they are out there now. I believe they are intent on following me home, in order to discover the whereabouts of my husband. And George is fearful for his life.”
“Then we must evade them once again.” Holmes slapped his knees decisively, and stood up. “I am intrigued by this story. Come, we must leave at once.”
Immediately we were outside in the street, Holmes flagged down a cab, and we all climbed aboard, with Mrs. Horchester between us, concealed beneath the folds of her coat. But our subterfuge failed to outsmart the watchers, for as soon as we were rattling toward the far end of Baker Street, they bundled into their own vehicle, and were soon in hot pursuit.
Animated by the chase, Holmes called to the cabbie, “Lose them, and I’ll give you another sovereign.”
We all held on as best we could, as our cab rolled from one side to the other along the busy streets of central London. By the time we reached the street-end closest to our destination, the other vehicle was nowhere to be seen.
Holmes paid the cabbie and, staying alert to any sign of our pursuers, we followed Mrs. Horchester down the narrow alleyway adjacent to where we had alighted.
She stopped at a darkly-stained door, pushed it open, and led the way inside, slamming it firmly shut against the world.
The gloomy building held the smell of mildew and decay, and a thin ray of daylight, filtered in through an upstairs window, lit up motes of dust floating in the chill atmosphere of the hallway.
We followed Elsie Horchester into the parlour, where we discovered a man of approximately forty years of age, lounging in a badly upholstered armchair at the far end of the room. He looked up as we entered, an expression of suspicion showing in his dark eyes.
Holmes removed his hat but retained his coat. “Good morning, Mr. Horchester,” said he, addressing the seated figure. “We have come at your wife’s invitation. And at your own behest, I believe.”
The seated man leaned forward in his chair. “Ah, yes. You must be Mr. Sherlock Holmes. People tell me you are a man who can be trusted.”
“