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66 pages

English

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The light of an open doorway beckons through the mist of a London Particular, one of those smothering fogs for which turn-of-the-century London was famous. But in reality - as Sherlock Holmes soon discovers - though the doorway does indeed offer respite from the fog, it also leads to the gruesome remains of a double-murder. Two corpses, a stolen diamond necklace, a Russian connection, and a dandified American writer who pals around with denizens of the theater - all add up to a murder investigation with international implications. Leave it to Sherlock Holmes who, in a classic assemblage of suspects in a high-tone British men's club, employs his celebrated powers of deduction to reveal the guilty party.

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Publié par	Andrews UK
Date de parution	06 mars 2019
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781787054219
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0350€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

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SHERLOCK HOLMES
AND
THE LONDON PARTICULAR
[Being another manuscript found in the dispatch box of
Dr. John H. Watson
In the vault of Cox & Co., Charing Cross, London]
Book Five in the Series,
Sherlock Holmes and the American Literati
As Edited By
Daniel D. Victor, Ph.D.

First edition published in 2019
Copyright © 2019 Daniel D. Victor
The right of Daniel D. Victor 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 are those of the author and not of MX Publishing.
MX Publishing
335 Princess Park Manor, Royal Drive,
London, N11 3GX
www.mxpublishing.com
Cover design by Brian Belanger
Digital version converted and distributed by
Andrews UK Limited
www.andrewsuk.com

Also by Daniel D. Victor
The Seventh Bullet:
The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes
A Study in Synchronicity
The Final Page of Baker Street
(Book One in the series,
Sherlock Holmes and the American Literati)
Sherlock Holmes and the Baron of Brede Place
(Book Two in the series,
Sherlock Holmes and the American Literati)
Seventeen Minutes to Baker Street
(Book Three in the series,
Sherlock Holmes and the American Literati)
The Outrage at the Diogenes Club
(Book Four in the series,
Sherlock Holmes and the American Literati)
Sherlock Holmes and the Shadows of St Petersburg

Another for Norma, Seth and Ethan

Acknowledgements
Many thanks to Mark Holzband, Barry Smolin, Sandy Cohen, David Marcum, Judy Grabiner, Ethan Victor, Seth Victor, and Norma Silverman for their time, their suggestions, and their encouragement.

True London fog . . . reached maturity in the 1880s when its repeated visitations during the winter months caused widespread social anxiety and nervous concern about crime and disorder and inspired many writers to treat it as a looming presence, alive and malignant.
- Christine L. Corton
London Fog: The Biography

A Note on the Text
Footnotes followed by (JHW) were included by Dr. Watson in the original manuscript. Footnotes followed by (DDV) were, like the book’s title and chapter headnotes, added by the editor.

Chapter One: In Medias Res
Upon sallying out this morning
encountered the old-fashioned pea soup London fog
-of a gamboge color. It was lifted, however, from the ground & floated in mid-air. When lower, it is worse.
- Herman Melville
Journal of a Visit to London and the Continent
I
A large rectangle of light exploded in the dense fog before us.
“What is it?” I cried out.
“An open door, Watson!” Sherlock Holmes exclaimed, his words muffled in the thick air. “Follow me,” he said, pointing at the sudden illumination.
The sun had set hours before, and we had been feeling our way through the murk as best we could. What had begun as harmless wisps in the morning air had by late evening thickened into one of those impenetrable yellow fogs that used to roll down the streets of London during cold winter nights. Even now, some thirty years later, one finds it difficult to forget those smothering, all-encompassing shrouds - dense enough to cause the unfamiliar to lose their way at their very own thresholds, thick enough to rattle the most knowledgeable of pedestrians concerning their whereabouts.
“Through this gate!” Holmes commanded. “Whoever’s inside should be able to fix our location.”
Marking Holmes’ voice and positioned only a few paces behind him and our new acquaintance - American journalist Richard Harding Davis - I inched forward. After a few more paces, I was close enough to see Holmes point out the pilaster to which the gate was hinged. One more step through the yellow mist and I could distinguish a brass plaque with the number eleven etched into its face. As good fortune would have it, the numeral heralded the very house we had been seeking.
Suddenly, a human silhouette filled the brightness; and an instant later the shadowy figure was rushing out the door. The dark shape ran past us toward the open gate, and I sensed more than saw a long, black coat and wide-brimmed hat.
“I say!” shouted Holmes, but the phantom had disappeared - safely concealed behind an oily curtain of fog.
With the muted tap of the American’s walking stick indicating the way, I shuffled up the wide, black-asphalt path towards the light and proceeded to stumble over a trio of steps I had not seen. To make matters worse, I careened into a small but protruding wooden letter-box attached to the inside of the open door. It hung about a yard below the fanlight and bore a small brass lock on its lid. Even in the confusion created by the fog, I remember wondering as I followed Holmes and Davis inside, why an interior letter-box required locking.
II
In contrast to the atmospheric gloom we had just escaped, everything within the entrance hall - the parquet floor, the burgundy-papered walls, the candle flames dancing wildly in their brass sconces - appeared especially sharp and crisp. I had to rub my eyes to regain my normal vision.
Sherlock Holmes, however, was already focusing his attention on an adjacent hallway.
“Hullo?” he called down the empty corridor.
Silence.
“Hullo?” he tried again.
Besides the lingering remains of the faintest of echoes, there was again no answer. Yet Holmes held up a cautious forefinger. “Listen,” he said softly. “Do you hear it?”
Davis and I stood motionless, straining our ears for the slightest sound.
It took a moment, but then I did manage to discern a faint rasping - something like the heavy breathing one associates with deep sleep, and I pointed in the direction of the sitting room from where it seemed to come.
Holmes nodded and fixed Davis with a questioning stare. I recognised the look. It was designed to elicit from the American a final decision about moving forward or quitting the premises. After all, it was at Davis’ request that we had braved the fog to come here in the first place.
In point of fact, we were seeking the mysterious woman who earlier that day had stolen a valuable diamond necklace from the American. Though its financial worth alone warranted its return, there was more to the piece than its monetary value. The necklace had been given to Davis for safe delivery to a mutual friend at the behest of the Queen.
Even with so distinguished a provenance, however, I wondered if Davis would dare trespass into a private house to negotiate the necklace’s recovery. I had no doubt that Holmes and I were prepared to take the risk. For proof of our resolve, one need look no further than two years before when in search of the murderer of Cadogan West, the two of us had illegally entered the rooms of Hugo Oberstein, the notorious German agent.
About Davis’ bravado I was much less confident. It was then only 1897. He had yet to perform those deeds of derring-do that would earn him the title of adventurous reporter. He had, for example, not yet involved himself in actual combat, as he would in Cuba when reporting the Spanish-American conflict - or faced down the prospects of a German firing squad when mistaken for a British spy as would occur years later at the start of the Great War. No, when we entered the house at No. 11 Boston Street that foggy night, we knew little about the pluck and mettle of Richard Harding Davis.
In retrospect, of course, the answer to Holmes’ query should have been obvious. Presaging the daredevil Davis would become, the American responded with a quick nod; and my friend, having gained the encouragement he sought, led us through the hallway and into the brightly lit sitting room.
III
Our attention immediately fell upon a grey-haired man in evening dress who sat collapsed on a red-plush couch before the remains of a fire in the hearth. Breathing loudly with his chin upon his chest, he might have been asleep or in some sort of stupor. Clearly, it was his snores that we had heard from the entry hall.
“Do you suppose he lives here?” I asked.
“He’s the butler,” Holmes observed. “Note the horizontal stripes of his waistcoat.”
“And the out-dated cut of his suit,” Davis was quick to add. Extending his stick, the American attempted to poke the inert butler into consciousness. “You there!” Davis commanded. “What’s going on here? Where is everyone?”
In response, the man’s eyelids fluttered open; his rheumy brown eyes rolled upward; and then, with the lids closing, his head lolled further down upon his waistcoat.
I leaned forward and smelt his foetid breath. “Drunk,” I announced, wondering aloud why a servant in such a state had been allowed to occupy a place in the sitting room.
Holmes creased his brow; and the hollow silence in the rest of the house allowed an ominous feeling to take hold in each of us.
Motioning for Davis and me to follow, Holmes led us back into the corridor through which we had just