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Barbican Press - David Bagchi

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41 pages

English

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Jerome K. Kerome'sThree Men in a Boat meets Sherlock Holmes

London, the early 1890s. Jerome and his fox-terrier Montmorency have recently moved to a new set of rooms in Mrs Hudson’s establishment in Baker Street. The tenant of the floor below has some anti-social habits, such as working with odoriferous chemicals and, when bored, firing a revolver into his ceiling. But at least the rent is low.

Jerome and his friends are planning their latest jaunt - and indulging their favourite pastime of bemoaning the inconveniences of modern nineteenth-century living—when Miss Briony Lodge calls at Baker Street to ask their help. Who is sending her orange pips? Whoever it is, they are getting closer by the day. When two, more sinister, strangers call, it becomes clear that the beautiful young schoolmistress is in deadly danger. But what match are a bank clerk, a lawyer’s assistant, a dog and a novelist for a international gang of desperadoes? None whatsoever. Until Mrs Hudson takes charge...

Sujets

Traditional

Detective

Mystery

Fiction

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Publié par	Barbican Press
Date de parution	01 septembre 2016
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781909954106
Langue	English
Poids de l'ouvrage	2 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.

Extrait

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Born in Walsall of Indian and Welsh stock, and educated there and at Oxford, DAVID BAGCHI is an academic now based at the University of Hull. Starting out as a historical theologian he recently became, in what he describes as a shock career move, a theological historian. In 2010 he started pressing the wrong keys on his laptop, and two years later his first novel, a Tudor conspiracy thriller, won the TBS Novel Prize. The Mystery of Briony Lodge is his second work of fiction.

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First published in Great Britain by Barbican Press in 2016 © David Bagchi 2016
This book is copyright under the Berne Convention No reproduction without permission All rights reserved
The right of David Bagchi to be identified as the author of this book has been asserted by him in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988
We blithely acknowledge the living spirit of Jerome K. Jerome & Arthur Conan Doyle, especially as imbued in Three Men in a Boat & ‘A Scandal in Bohemia’
Barbican Press, Hull and London Registered office: 1 Ashenden Road, London E5 0DP www.barbicanpress.com @barbicanpress1
A CIP catalogue for this book is available from the British Library
ISBN: 978-1-909954-10-6
Text design, typesetting and eBook by Tetragon, London Cover by Jason Anscomb of Rawshock Design

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Contents Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen Chapter Sixteen Chapter Seventeen Chapter Eighteen
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To Fiona
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‘This book would not elevate a cow. I cannot conscientiously recommend it for any useful purposes whatsoever.’
—JEROME K. JEROME

‘“It’s quite exciting,” said Sherlock Holmes, with a yawn.’
—ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE

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‌ Chapter One
A civilized conversation—On work and idleness—Harris the pedant—The exotic adventures to be met with at home—An interruption
Wednesday 12 June 1889
T o Montmorency she is always the woman. The effect she had upon him, the day she intruded so bizarrely into our bachelor existence, was both instant and lasting. It happened in this way. Montmorency and I were discussing, in the civilized manner that only old friends can, the advantages to be gained from holidaying at home. Montmorency agreed with my every word. He really is the most intelligent soul I know.
At least, we were attempting to discuss this theme in a civilized way. There were four of us in the sitting-room, relaxing with our cigarettes after one of our landlady’s better dinners—Montmorency, and George, and William Samuel Harris, and myself. George and Harris kept interrupting with oafish ideas of their own, quite out of keeping with the elevated tone of our conversation.
‘What we want is rest,’ said Harris.
‘No, we don’t,’ I said.
‘Rest and a complete change,’ said George.
‘Nonsense,’ I said definitively, reaching for another cigarette. ‘We need stimulation. The daily round of labour, the routine of work, has dulled our senses.’
I spoke charitably, as befits a Christian gentleman, for Harris does no work of any discernible kind and George’s wits were dulled long before he started in that bank of his. Indeed, I believe it is a requirement of his employment. Of the four of us, only Montmorency and I could justly be described as having useful occupations. My work is the writing of superbly-crafted historical novels, which have achieved no small success among a select, discerning readership. I refer of course to The Perils of Hypatia , a rollicking yarn set in fifth-century Alexandria, and The Crucifer of Sidon: A Tale of the Crusades. Montmorency, for his part, has an extensive practice which covers the entire neighbourhood, picking fights with opponents large and small. He more than earns his rations at home by terrorizing the rodent community of Baker Street, W1. Most have already packed their bags and gone. For all I know they have left warnings for any of their ilk who may wish to take their place, and penned furious letters to The Times about the appalling manners of the modern fox terrier.
‘The quotidian diet of mere drudgery…’ I continued, warming to my theme.
‘Oh, do get on with it, J. You can be such a windbag at times.’
Ignoring Harris’s ill-natured interruption, born of course of jealousy, I pressed on with my usual remorseless logic.
‘Young men such as ourselves, with active minds (naturally I excuse you from this generalization, George) and active bodies (forgive me, Harris, I don’t mean you, of course) do not need rest. Rest for us is the mere counterfeit of death. There will be time enough for rest when the Grim Reaper taps us on the shoulder and asks to see our ticket. No—what we need is stimulus , an opportunity to channel our boundless masculine energy into some new and unfamiliar direction. Just as when, in days of yore, a new-made knight was sent alone, unaided, into the furthest reaches of his liege-lord’s kingdom, there to try his valour against all manner of foe and…’
‘He wouldn’t have been alone,’ cut in Harris.
‘What?’ I asked, blankly.
‘He wouldn’t have been alone. Or unaided. He would have had a page. Someone to go before and announce him. Someone to carry his banner, so that people would say, “Oh look, there goes Sir Whatsisname”.’
‘All right,’ I conceded grudgingly. ‘He would have had a page. He would be sent alone, accompanied only by his loyal page, into the furthest…’
‘Don’t forget his squire,’ Harris interrupted again. ‘A knight must have a squire.’
‘Isn’t that the same thing as a page?’ I inquired, less sure of myself now.
‘“The same thing as a page”! Honestly, J., you seem to know remarkably little about history for someone who writes historical novels. Perhaps that’s why no-one buys them. A squire is a knight’s apprentice, a young gentleman who will grow up and be knighted himself. While he’s learning the trade, he looks after the knight’s armour. Gets out the old Brasso and polishes it up at the end of the day. You can’t expect a knight to do that sort of thing for himself.’
‘All right,’ I said testily. ‘The knight was sent alone, accompanied only by his loyal page and his trusty squire, into the…’
‘You’re forgetting the groom,’ cut in Harris yet again. ‘You can’t have three horses and no-one to look after them.’
For a full half-minute, I did not speak. I could not trust myself to do so. Luckily for Harris, I possess a more-than-ordinary power over my base animal instincts. It was what saved his life that day. When at length I broke my silence, it was with a finely-judged admixture of dignity, ratiocination, and compassion for those who dwell on a lower intellectual plane than myself.
‘The point I was making, Harris, was the general one that the young male of the species requires to be challenged. I was not discoursing upon the travelling habits of the medieval knight. Only a pedant of the most literal-minded stripe could possibly think I was.’
It was gratifying to see Montmorency announce his loyal support of my position by jumping up onto the window sill and barking at the street and wagging his tail in agreement. He goes through just the same ritual whenever a cab pulls up at the street door, but I suppose a fox terrier, lacking the power of speech (or so he says) has only a limited repertoire of signals with which to express his feelings. I thought it best to proceed to my conclusion as swiftly as possible, given that Harris was in a disputatious mood.
‘But whereas many, including ourselves on past occasions, have sought adventure by travelling abroad, I maintain that in this great, brooding metropolis we call our home, there is to be found as much mystery, excitement, and romance as in the darkest souks of Maroc or the furthest pavilions of the Chinee.’
‘Look, old man, if you’re short of a bob or two for a trip abroad, you only have to ask: I’m sure George would lend you whatever you need.’
‘No, Harris, I speak in earnest; yea, and never in greater earnest. Depend upon it: that our great mother-city of London longs to open up her treasure-chest of adventure to all her children. All she asks is that we agree to seize the very next opportunity that presents itself to us, without questioning or prevarication, without hesitation or procrastination. We must cast no backward glance, as did tragic Orpheus, nor turn again from the plough having once laid hand upon it. Provided one is open to all possibilities, adventure—blessed adventure—awaits.’
‘What, in a dingy Second Floor Front in Baker Street?’ asked George, who had been woken by Montmorency’s barking. ‘What adventure could possibly happen upon us here?’
At that precise moment, the Boots opened the door to my sitting room.
‘Miss Briony Lodge,’ he announced.
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‌ Chapter Two
Of the power of female beauty upon the male brain—A decorated ceiling—On the supernatural abilities of dogs—The railway guide a threat to public morality—On the glorious freedom of God’s special creature, the locomotive—Harris has an idea—The moral degeneracy of the downstream man
A s our fair visitor entered, we rose as one man. Or, rather, as two men, for George had in the meantime fallen asleep again and had to be roused from his slumbers by a well-aimed cricket boot.
‘Do come in, miss,’ I said, hastily retrieving the boot, which had bounced off George’s forehead. No harm had been done. The leather was quite undamaged, and the spikes had not been bent. George’s head, thankfully, had taken the brunt of the impact.
‘And, pray, take a seat.’ I indicated the chair that George had so recently, and hurriedly, vacated. ‘Harris, if you would be so good as to ring for tea.’ He did so, but with such a bad grace that he broke the rope and had to go down and find Mrs Hudson himself.
‘Thank you, sir. And thank you, gentlemen, for permitting me to disturb you. I know that your time is precious, Mr Holmes, so let me come straight to the poin