Sherlock Holmes and the Case of the London Dock Deaths , livre ebook

Andrews UK - Margaret Walsh

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71 pages

English

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It is August 1889 and the Great London Dock Strike is in progress. In the East End of London, a man is found stabbed to death near the notorious Ten Bells public house. The police call it the result of a drunken brawl; the man's brother calls it murder, and asks Sherlock Holmes to investigate the circumstances of his brother's death. Amid rising tensions between dock owners and dock workers, Holmes and Watson, ably assisted by Inspector Lestrade, find themselves plunged deep into the dark heart of London, where death and terror are ever present companions.

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Publié par	Andrews UK
Date de parution	06 janvier 2021
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781787056374
Langue	English
Poids de l'ouvrage	1 Mo

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0200€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

Extrait

Sherlock Holmes and the Case of the London Dock Deaths
Margaret Walsh

First published in 2020 by
MX Publishing
335 Princess Park Manor
Royal Drive, London, N11 3GX
www.mxpublishing.com
Digital edition converted and distributed by
Andrews UK Limited
www.andrewsuk.com
Copyright © 2020 Margaret Walsh
The right of Margaret Walsh to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him 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.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

To Penny & David

Author’s Notes
The Great London Dock Strike was a real event. All the dockers and labourers downed tools and walked off the job on 14th August 1889 in protest at the pittance being offered to rapidly unload the ship the ‘Lady Armstrong’ at the West India Docks. Two days later the labourers on the East India Docks and the Surrey Commercial Docks joined them. By 20th August the entire Port of London had ground to a halt. Contemporary estimates suggest that as many as 100,000 men were on strike. The strike set the basis for the trade union movement which continued to make advances in workers’ rights well into the twentieth century.
The famine in Ireland in the early part of the 19th century caused many families to have to make the choice between leaving or starving. Many went to London, or to Wales and Scotland. Others went further afield to Canada, the USA, Australia, or in the case of my own family, New Zealand.
Duncran Wharf did not exist. I have named it for the village, now gone, somewhere on the border of Galway and Tipperary where my family came from. As it no longer exists and I can find no trace of it on the internet, I situated it on the coast. I doubt that it was on the coast, because coastal villages tend to fare better in famine situations because of the availability of fish to eat. I sited Duncran Wharf roughly where Hermitage Steam Wharf is located.
As always I consulted quite a few books in the course of my research, the most useful being:
“Dynamite, Treason & Plot: Terrorism in Victorian and Edwardian London” by Simon Webb.
“London’s Docklands: A History of the Lost Quarter” by Fiona Rule.
“Dockland Life: A Pictorial History of London’s Docks 1860-2000” by Chris Ellmers and Alex Werner
“How to be a Victorian” by Ruth Goodman once again supplied me with the small details of daily life.
Sharp eyed readers will note the appearance of Inspector Edmund Reid in this novel. While he was the main character of the delightful BBC series “Ripper Street”, played by the dashing Matthew Macfadyen, Edmund Reid was also a real person.
“The Man Who Hunted Jack the Ripper” by Nicholas Connell and Stewart P. Evans gave some insight into the life of this quite extraordinary man. Incidentally, Reid became a private detective after he retired. I like to think Holmes had a lot to do with that career choice.
The final book to get a lot of use was “The Victorian Dictionary of Slang and Phrase” compiled by J. Redding Ware. Unfortunately the book was originally compiled in the Edwardian era and is often extremely coy as to actual meanings to the point of being annoying. I have therefore had to double check across several language websites for the best usage. I think my usage of “dollymop” was quite clear, but if you’re still confused, tallywags were testicles. Rawmaish is an Irish word meaning nonsense. “Wagtail” was another charming term for prostitute.
As usual, I have a number of people to thank.
Geri Schear for her advice on what happens when you stab someone in the kidneys. I am sure she would like me to point out that this knowledge comes from years of renal nursing.
Thanks is due to Catherine Howat for her advice on suitable German firearms of the period.
David Marcum advised me on suitable Holmesian chronologies to reference.
Finally, thanks is due once again to Steve Emecz, my publisher, and to Richard Ryan, my editor. Without these gentlemen my books would not see the light of day. Thank you

Chapter One
The summer of 1889 was a particularly busy one for Holmes and myself, coming as it did off the back of the dreadful case of the Molly-Boy Murders.
London was seething like a stew pot in the heat. The Great London Dock Strike was in full swing. The poor men who worked the docks for a mere pittance had been organized into a union that was proving to be more than competent at holding the management of the various docks to account.
It was in this atmosphere of mingled heat and animosity that Michael Geraghty came to our door early one evening in late August.
Mrs. Hudson showed him into our rooms, and Holmes gestured for him to take a seat.
I took Michael Geraghty to be in his mid-thirties. He stood a little under 6 feet tall, with brown curly hair, gentle hazel eyes, and a warm and friendly smile that lightened his otherwise saturnine features.
Our client introduced himself and then said “I don’t know who to turn to, Mr. Holmes. My brother is dead and I cannot get the police to take his death seriously.”
“Tell me what happened,” Holmes said, composing himself to listen.
“Three nights ago my brother, John Geraghty, was found dead in an alley near the Ten Bells pub in Whitechapel.”
“Cause of death?” I asked.
“He was stabbed in the back, Doctor,” Michael Geraghty replied. “The police in their wisdom have decided that my brother was just another drunken Irishman killed in a pub brawl. There was a perfunctory post mortem held, and no attempt made to find the killer or killers.”
“You believe the case is not as the police describe it?” Holmes asked, brows raised in query.
“Yes, Mr. Holmes. For one thing, my brother had no reason to be anywhere near the Ten Bells. We live on Whitechapel High Street. There are pubs much closer to our house if he wished to drink. Which he did not. My brother, Mr. Holmes, was a blue-ribbon teetotaller. He never went near a pub. Indeed, he was quite vehemently against them. That evening he should have been at the wharf.”
“The wharf?” Holmes asked.
“Duncran Wharf,” Michael Geraghty replied. “It’s only a small wharf. My grandfather started it when he brought the family here from Galway at the beginning of the famine. He’d operated something similar near Letterfrack. Grandfather was able to sell up, get the family out, and start again. But he could not afford much in London, the city being what it is. He purchased a run-down wharf with a few decrepit buildings, and even fewer customers.”
Geraghty paused, a look of pride coming over his face. “Over the years he built up a reasonable little business. We don’t make a fortune, but we do well enough. At least we did, until the strike started. I may end up having to sell to the London Docks people after all if the strike goes on much longer.” He shook his head sadly.
I looked at Holmes, never a patient man at the best of times. I expected him to be annoyed at this rambling, but instead his face wore an expression of intense concentration.
“Let me get this straight, Mr. Geraghty,” Holmes said. “Your brother was, essentially, found stabbed to death in a place he had no business being and the police have taken the expedient route in declaring his death as being the result of a pub brawl? Am I correct?”
“Yes, Mr. Holmes.”
“Very well.” Holmes’s tone was brisk. “Leave me your card. We shall make some enquiries and I shall call upon you when I have something substantive to share.”
Michael Geraghty got to his feet, his face breaking into a warm smile of relief. “Thank you, Mr. Holmes, and you too, Doctor Watson. My mother will be most relieved that you are taking our case.”
As he shook both our hands, Holmes said, “Be aware that I may not be able to find out what happened.”
“I am aware, sir. I am also aware that if you find nothing then it is because there is nothing to be found.”
Michael Geraghty took his leave and we waited in silence until we heard to sound of the street door below closing.
Holmes walked to the window and stood watching our client walk away.
“Well, Watson, what do you make of it?”
“Mr. Geraghty may well be right about his brother having no business being near the Ten Bells; however, it would not be the first time a blue-ribboner has broken his pledge,” I said.
“Very true, my friend.” Holmes turned back from the window. “The Ten Bells is in H Division, and I have no contacts there.”
“Time to call Lestrade?” I asked.
Holmes’s tone was desert dry. “Utilise the police grapevine?”
“Why not?” I countered. “After all, it is not much different from your Baker Street Irregulars.”
“Except the members are older, well-fed and, on the whole, smell better,” Holmes retorted.
He was silent for a moment. “You are correct, my dear Watson, it is indeed time to call Lestrade. I shall send him a telegram and invite him to supper. He will be only too pleased to sample Mrs. Hudson’s cooking again.
“You mean he does not come for the pleasure of our company?” Amusement coloured my tone.