Sherlock Holmes and the Adventure of the Tainted Canister , livre ebook

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18 pages

English

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A lost chapter in the Holmes canon finally appears, as Dr. Watson recounts the mystery behind the tragic death of his beloved Mary Morstan. Join him as he attempts to bring a murderer to justice. Along the way, readers will encounter old friends and enemies from several of the other stories, leading to a startling conclusion that may baffle even Sherlock Holmes.

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Publié par	Andrews UK
Date de parution	19 mars 2014
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781780926223
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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Sherlock Holmes and the Adventure of the Tainted Canister
Thomas A. Turley

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2014 digital version by Andrews UK
www.andrewsuk.com
© Copyright 2014
Thomas A Turley
The right of Thomas A Turley 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. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The opinions expressed herein are those of the authors and not of MX Publishing.
Originally published in the UK by MX Publishing
335 Princess Park Manor, Royal Drive,
London, N11 3GX
www.mxpublishing.com
Cover design by www.staunch.com

Sherlock Holmes and the Adventure of the Tainted Canister
The death of Dr. Richard Anstruther was not widely reported in the London press and aroused little interest in the city. The man himself had been quite unknown to the public, although his work on tropical diseases (a product of his years in India) had begun to win admirers in the medical community. He left no family in England and few friends, having in his last years shunned society while pursuing his research. Moreover, the manner of his demise was soon determined to be unremarkable. My readers may therefore wonder why these annals of Mr. Sherlock Holmes, the celebrated consulting detective, should contain a case that provided little scope for his rare talents and, indeed, hardly amounted to a “case” at all. My reasons for including it will become apparent as the tale proceeds, as will my reasons for withholding it from publication for so many years beyond my own demise. It is to my readers of the next millennium—if any should by then exist—that I offer this account and final reckoning.
It was early in the summer of 1894, some weeks after Holmes’ triumphant return from the exile that followed his final confrontation with Professor Moriarty. My friend was again out of England at this time, engaged in one of several cases of international importance that occupied him during that eventful year. I had agreed, meanwhile, to sell my practice and return to our old rooms in Baker Street; but the practice’s eventual buyer (who proved to be a relative of Holmes) had not as yet appeared. On that afternoon, a Tuesday, I sat alone in my consulting room, having spent the morning on an errand near the docks at Lambeth. My last scheduled patient had departed, so I was surprised when the maid announced another visitor. It was our long-time colleague, Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard.
I had seen little of Lestrade since his arrest of Colonel Moran for wilful murder. During the time of Holmes’ absence, our relations had gradually become a bit remote. He had genuinely regretted what we both assumed to be the great detective’s death, and for awhile he showed an unexpected courtesy by keeping me apprised of his more interesting cases. After several episodes of suspicious death, he even requested my services as medical examiner; yet, he treated my tentative efforts to put Holmes’ methods into practice with the same tolerant derision he had once shown toward their creator. While, in his better moments, Lestrade might have acknowledged Holmes as his superior, he was not prepared to accept Holmes’ assistant as his colleague. Thus, my participation in his cases grew less frequent, and prior to Holmes’ return I had not seen him for six months. Now, however, he burst into my consulting room with all his old ebullience of manner, and a veiled suspicion beneath the self-importance that I had not experienced before.
“Ah, Doctor! I’m glad not to have caught you at an inconvenient moment. Are there no patients who require your services today? I hope that does not bode ill for your practice.”
“Don’t worry; I had three appointments this afternoon before your arrival: two neuralgias and one incipient consumption. You do recall, Lestrade, that I intend to sell my practice and return to Baker Street?”
“Yes, indeed!” The inspector dropped into the chair I indicated, rubbing his hands together with enthusiasm. “Won’t that strike terror into the hearts of our criminal classes: ‘the world’s greatest private consulting detective’ and his biographer reunited in the old H.Q.! I trust I may continue to be in at the finish of your cases, if only to arrest the miscreants and earn a footnote in your latest opus .”
“You may rely on it,” I assured him smoothly. “You know, of course, that Holmes is on the Continent. I believe that Mrs. Hudson expects him back in London by tomorrow night.”
“Oh, yes, Doctor, we at the Yard keep track of Mr. Holmes. Actually, this time it’s you I need to see. I’m afraid that one of your medical colleagues has met with an untimely end.” He gave me a keen glance, meanwhile accepting my silent offer of a glass of sherry.
“Indeed? And who is the unfortunate?”
“Richard Anstruther. I believe he was a friend of yours.”
“My God, yes!” I collapsed into the chair behind my desk. “Of Mary’s, too. He knew her when she was a girl.” And once asked her to marry him , I might have added, but I saw no reason to impart that fact to the inspector. “We were neighbours near Paddington Station when I first began my practice. He used to see my patients for me when I was away with Holmes.”
“But you’d not seen him for some time.” Although Lestrade appeared to state a fact, his face wore that bulldog look it sometimes got when he had clenched his teeth around some unwarranted assumption.
“Not often since he moved to Brook Street. In fact,” I added, forestalling an impending question, “I decided—quite upon the inspiration of the moment—to visit him last night. I waited at his home for perhaps half an hour, but he did not return.”
“That would explain why we found your calling card in his foyer.

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