Sherlock Holmes - The Baker Street Epilogue , livre ebook

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77 pages

English

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Following the success of the earlier volume, The Baker Street Legacy, we have another collection of previously unknown Holmes and Watson tales that will excite the interests of readers across the globe - The Baker Street Epilogue.A decade before his death, Dr. Watson let it be known that with his passing he wished his nephew, Christopher Henry Watson MD, to be the executor of his will and guardian of all his personal and pecuniary affairs. One of the tasks he sanctioned was that his nephew should use his discretion in selecting for publication some of the three dozen or so cases involving Holmes and Watson which had not already seen the light of day. The six stories in this new volume are more overlooked gems. The first in the collection, The Curse of Cuttleborough, is set in 1883 and sees Holmes and Watson investigating a suspicious death for their client, the famous amateur cricketer Dr. W. G. Grace. The Paradol Chamber has our heroes looking into the affairs of the London-based Prevost-Paradol Society, a social, literary and debating club. From the mystery of The Groaning Stone to the threats posed by The Recalcitrant Rhymester, there is, as always, much to entertain and enthral us.As before, all of these tales are designed to contribute in some small part to the lasting memory of two extraordinary men who once occupied that setting we have come to know and love as 221B Baker Street. As ever, 'The game is afoot!'

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Publié par	Andrews UK
Date de parution	04 mai 2021
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781787057074
Langue	English
Poids de l'ouvrage	1 Mo

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
The Baker Street Epilogue
Mark Mower

Published in 2021 by
Mark Mower
www.don’t forget to create a hyperlink
Digital edition converted and distributed by
Andrews UK Limited
www.andrewsuk.com
Copyright © 2021 Mark Mower
The right of Mark Mower 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.

Preface
Dear readers – Following the successful publication of Sherlock Holmes: The Baker Legacy four years ago, you have once again challenged me to gather together another selection of previously unknown Holmes and Watson cases from the prized collection of stories I inherited from my uncle in 1939. This is my response to your polite requests – Sherlock Holmes: The Baker Street Epilogue . I trust you will embrace it as positively as you did for the three previous volumes.
Earlier this year we witnessed an audacious crime which would have been worthy of the attention of our heroes. The villains behind the Eastcastle Street robbery in the West End held up a Post Office van and got away with £287,000 – the nation’s largest post-war heist. It is widely believed that the criminal mastermind behind this stunt is a well-connected and dapper gangster from London. And yet, no robbers have been arrested to this point. Oh, how we long for the deductive capabilities of the Great Detective!
This fine country of ours has changed radically since 1881 when Watson was first introduced to Holmes by his friend Stamford. Had they not met and become the closest of friends our collective memory of the world’s greatest sleuth would be significantly diminished. Yet with the preservation of the good doctor’s narratives, we can relive that era and retrace those seventeen steps to their Baker Street apartment. The publication of every new story enables us to escape – if only for a brief period – from the humdrum nature of our post-war reality. As Vincent Starrett put it so articulately in his poem 221B :
“…Here though the world explodes, these two survive,
And it is always eighteen ninety-five.”
As before, these new stories are more overlooked gems. From the challenge of The Recalcitrant Rhymester to the unsettling affair of The Bewildered Blacksmith , there is, as ever, much to entertain and enthral us.
As you may have ascertained from its title, this book is likely to serve as the final volume of stories from my uncle’s cherished collection. I think it unlikely that I will be minded to release another book, but who knows! The fact that you have encouraged me to publish four books to date demonstrates clearly that there is no loss of appetite when it comes to new Sherlock Holmes stories. Long may that continue!
So, dim the gas lamp, get settled in your favourite wing-backed chair, and steady yourself with a glass of your favourite tipple. It promises to be a long night. For, as always, “The game is afoot!”
Christopher Henry Watson, MD
Bexley Heath, Kent – 18th September 1952

The Curse of Cuttleborough
It was in the early part of 1883 that I joined the Norwood Cricket Club and was fortunate in being picked to play in half a dozen matches throughout the long summer of that memorable year. And despite the limitations on my agility, brought about by my persistent war wounds, I always seemed to give a good account of myself being no slouch when it came to batting.
Sherlock Holmes would occasionally accompany me to the Albert Road ground, cheering enthusiastically from the clubhouse whenever I took my place at the crease. And it was during that same summer that he became acquainted with another frequent visitor to the ground, the famous amateur cricketer, W. G. Grace. I was already on good terms with the busy medical practitioner, for he had asked me three or four times if I might stand in for him and visit some of the patients he regularly attended to.
Yet it came as something of a surprise to receive an unexpected visit from the man at our Baker Street apartment in the November of that year. The tall, slim, and clean-shaven thirty-five-year-old cut quite a figure in his neatly-tailored frockcoat and expensive top hat – a distinctly different vision from the huge frame, swarthy features, and bushy beard he was later to be known for. Mrs. Hudson seemed all aflutter in announcing his arrival, taking his hat and coat from him, and then asking if he would like a cup of tea. Holmes and I greeted the fellow warmly and my colleague was quick to direct him towards the armchair nearest the fire.
“Dr. Grace, this is indeed a pleasure,” intoned Holmes, taking his own seat and reaching for his churchwarden and tobacco. “I hope you will not mind me smoking while you outline the particulars of this troubling matter at Cuttleborough Manor.”
Our visitor’s quick dark eyes took on a wary expression. “Is the reason for my visit so obvious and transparent?” he asked in his strong Bristolian burr. “I know you to be an accomplished detective, Mr. Holmes, but had not expected you to be quite so quick-witted! As for your pipe and tobacco, smoke away – I’m not your doctor.”
Holmes ignored the directness of the response and sought to explain his own frankness, while returning the pipe and tobacco to the side table by his chair: “I’m sorry if my remark seemed a trifle brusque. But in meeting you previously, I was struck by your endless vitality and breeziness. Today you present yourself with a troubled expression and a distinctly downbeat tone. Ordinarily you are precise and fastidious in your attire, yet today I note that you are wearing odd socks. I know from my conversations with Dr. Watson that your medical priorities caused you to miss a recent Gentlemen versus Players match – the first such fixture you have been absent from since 1867. All of which leads me to believe that some significant matter is weighing heavily upon you.”
He pointed briefly towards a copy of The Times which sat on the table near the window. “It is a matter of public record that you have, in recent months, been treating a peer of the realm for an undiagnosed illness. That the death of the man in question was announced in the press some days ago, provides me with a strong indication that it could be this matter which has been at the forefront of your mind. And the letterhead bearing the name ‘Cuttleborough Manor’ – which is protruding from the right pocket of your frockcoat – provides the final confirmation. I believe that is the ancestral home of the late Earl of Rumburgh?”
Dr. Grace was momentarily speechless, but then smiled broadly and opened his arms in an expansive gesture. “I pride myself on my own observational skills and my professional ability to diagnose the hidden maladies and ailments of my patients. Eleven years of medical training has equipped me to do so. But you have a rare and unique talent, and you seem to play it with a straight bat. I feel even more confident that you are, indeed, the man to assist me, aided, of course, by this fine fellow here.”
Grace’s unexpected nod towards my own role touched me instantly. I was about to respond when the door opened, and Mrs. Hudson entered carrying a tea tray. “Your refreshments, gentlemen. And a plate of freshly-baked biscuits for our distinguished guest.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson,” said Holmes. “Our landlady is something of a cricket fanatic, doctor,” he added, as if some explanation were required.
“Evidently,” replied our visitor, with a beaming smile. “That is exceedingly kind of you, Mrs. Hudson. I am very partial to a decent biscuit.”
“Thank you, sir! Glad to be of service.” She left the room with a distinct spring in her step.
When we had distributed the tea and biscuits and resumed our seats, Holmes returned to the matter at hand. “I would be grateful if you could outline the details of the affair. I take it that you have some concerns as to the nature of the Earl’s demise?”
“Yes,” replied the doctor. “But I will get to that in due course. The letter that you have observed in my pocket is an invitation to attend the man’s funeral, which has been arranged for next week. I think it only fair to explain to you the full details of my association with Richard Silverton, otherwise known as the Third Earl of Rumburgh. After the events of the last two months, I had not expected to receive such an invitation.”
He took a large gulp of his tea and set the cup down on the saucer by his side. “As a child, I lived with my parents and siblings in a place called Downend House, near Bristol. After attending a couple of early preparatory schools, I was eventually enrolled as a pupil at a day school known as Ridgway House. There was nothing remarkable about the school, and – truth be told – I could not claim to be an overly scholarly pupil. But it afforded me a decent enough education and a curriculum which included plenty of outdoor activities, so I was content enough. However, what made my time there particularly enjoyable was my close friendship with young Richard Silverton, the second son of the then Earl, who owned the small, centuries-old, estate of Cuttleborough Manor which sat close to the school.
“Richard, or ‘D