Mystery
Date Published: 03-01-2023
Publisher: Tekrighter, LLC
Return to the streets and alleys of Victorian London, where the game is
afoot once again! The Great Detective, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and his
steadfast companion Dr. Watson are back for ten new cases, spanning the
length of the quintessential detective’s illustrious career. Beginning while
Holmes was still a green investigator in Montague Street, this collection
encompasses the 1880s and the 1890s, up to the dawn of the new
century. Walk with Holmes as he puzzles over the problem of a drunken
teetotaler, celebrates an old English Christmas at the Red Lion, tracks down
the Camberwell poisoner, and experiences the horror in King Street. If
you’ve been pining for new traditional, canonical Sherlock Holmes tales, Ten
Steps from Baker Street is the collection you’ve been waiting for.
EXCERPT
The Adventure of the Persistant Pugilist
After the singular and baffling affair at Lauriston Gardens, I had an occasion to reconsider my association with Sherlock Holmes, of whom I had learned was employed as a consulting detective and assistant to Scotland Yard. Holmes was gracious enough to allow me to participate in the investigation and observe his methods, and he brought the perpetrator to heel in our very sitting room at 221b Baker Street. Whilst the investigation was in progress, I experienced a thrilling reintroduction to an active lifestyle, which I had eschewed since my return as a convalescent from Afghanistan, and I must say that I found it most invigorating. However, I had not reckoned with the subsequent sequalae that such exertions would bring.
Thus, it was on Monday, March 7 of 1881, I awoke in a bed of pain in the wee hours of the morning, my wounded shoulder throbbing as if that Jezail bullet I received at Maiwand was still in place, with aches in every joint, and a debilitating headache as well. I tried to roll over and retreat once more to the blissful solace of sleep, but that simply was not to be. I dragged myself into the sitting room. It was a mild night, so the windows overlooking Baker Street were thrown open wide. Of course, Holmes was not present―doubtless he was snug in his bed. I went to the sideboard and poured myself a stiff whisky, followed by a splash of soda from the gasogene. Then I sank into a comfortable chair to sip my drink and reflect on the probable reason for my sudden infirmity.
I have told elsewhere of my misadventures as an Army surgeon in Afghanistan and India. I had first-hand knowledge of the damage that enteric fever could do to a body, but during the thrills of last week’s chase, I had forgotten that my Army doctors had informed me that my recovery was apt to be protracted, and that I should refrain from sustained physical activity and mental strain for many months. But I had been feeling so much better of late that I neglected the doctors’ prescriptions. Now, I was likely paying for my recent lack of attention to my health.
The whisky worked its magic however, and in a little while I was feeling nearly human again, when suddenly there arose a commotion at the downstairs door.
I struggled out of the soft chair and went to the window, where I beheld a street Arab, pounding on our door.
‘I say!’ I shouted from the window. ‘What is the meaning of this?’
‘Doctor Watson?’, the lad yelled. ‘Mr. ‘Olmes wants youse to meet ‘im at Davies Street and Brooks Mews!’
I was incredulous. ‘What? At this infernal hour?’
‘ ‘E sez ‘e needs youse, Doctor. He told me to say to youse, “Come at once!”’
The unbridled cheek of the fellow! Come at once? Really? It was an open question whether I would even be able to dress myself, never mind hieing off all over London to satisfy Holmes’ peremptory demand.
The boy was lingering at the door, so I tossed him a tanner for his trouble. My earlier pains had ameliorated somewhat, but I was still by no means in the pink. The thought of struggling into my clothes and venturing into the street to find a cab at this hour was disagreeable, to say the least. I flopped back into my chair.
Then the pangs of guilt began to assail me. Perhaps Holmes was in trouble, and had no one else to turn to for aid. One of the things that had attracted us as to share the same abode was that neither of us had family in the City. And Holmes had told me how much he appreciated my assistance with the murders of Drebber and Stangerson, even though I thought my contribution to the solution was minimal, if not non-existent.
The long and the short of it was that, fifteen minutes later, I found myself walking toward Marylebone Road, a major thoroughfare, where I would be much more likely to find a cab at this hour than in Baker Street. Brooks Mews off Davies Street was only about a mile away towards the centre city, but walking such a distance in my present condition was out of the question. I was in luck—I found a cabbie in Marylebone Road who was either starving or an incontrovertible optimist, who agreed to take me to Holmes.
The ride was a rapid one, clattering through London’s empty thoroughfares. Davies Street was just off Grosvenor Square, one of the toniest areas in all of London. As I exited the hansom in the yellow glow of the gas lamps, I noticed a group of men huddled just inside the mews, seemingly studying the pavement with rapt attention. Two of them were constables, recognisable by their tall helmets, and one was shining a bullseye lantern into the mews. I also thought I recognized that ferret-like fellow Inspector Lestrade, who had visited Holmes several times at 221b. I handed the cabbie one and six and approached the group, then I saw that another man kneeling on the cobblestones a little way beyond them. It was Sherlock Holmes, intensively examining the prostrate form of a man.
‘Here now!’ exclaimed Lestrade as I neared, moving to block my access to the scene. Holmes turned his head and saw me.
‘Watson!’ he cried, springing to his feet, ‘How very good of you to come, old fellow!’
Lestrade moved aside to allow me to pass.
Holmes’ obvious delectation at my presence went a long way towards expunging my earlier rancour about his peremptory summons. ‘What has happened here?’ I inquired.
‘That is what I trust you can help me to ascertain,’ said Holmes.
I looked down at the unfortunate chap splayed out on the pavement, obviously dead. He was a man in his prime, about Holmes’ size, and his frock coat, waistcoat and ascot identified him as a gentleman, as did the crumpled Bowler hat lying just a few feet away from him. The dishevelled state of his clothing, coupled with the bruises and dried blood on his face, indicated that he had taken a terrific beating.
‘What would you like me to do?’ I asked Holmes.
‘Please examine this gentleman, and tell me what you think was the cause of his demise.’
I began to kneel, then asked, ‘I should have thought you had already done so.’
‘I have, but I am not a medical man. I want to see if your deductions agree with those of mine.’
I sank to the pavement and began my examination with the chap’s face. ‘He was battered while alive,’ I said, ‘as indicated by the extensive bruising.’ I tried to close his staring eyes with my thumb and met some resistance. ‘He seems to be in the early stages of rigor mortis, which would indicate that he died approximately two hours ago.’ I wiggled his jaw to be certain. Noticing the dried blood in his blond hair, I raised his head from the cobblestones, and found a considerable depression in the back of his skull. ‘This head trauma likely killed him, but I don’t understand how he could have suffered such a deeply depressed fracture like this by hitting his head on level pavement.’ I saw that Holmes was smiling at me now. ‘I really cannot tell you any more without a proper autopsy.’
‘That’s very good, Watson, and it agrees with my observations and deductions perfectly. Constable, would you be so good as to hand me your lantern?’ Holmes played the beam around in the mews, then out toward Davies Street. He continued, ‘In addition to the excellent reason that Watson stated, it is obvious that the fellow did not fall here, as indicated by the position of his hat off to one side. Also, the hat would not be in such a disreputable state if it had simply fallen from his head. Someone picked it up, crushed it, and threw it where it now lies. And consider his jacket, bunched up behind him, as it would be if he was dragged by his feet.’ Looking directly at Lestrade, he accused, ‘Had you and your army not rushed into the mews before inspecting the pavement, we could doubtless follow the marks left when the victim was dragged to his present location, to ascertain the place at which the beating actually occurred. However, that should not prove to be an insurmountable difficulty.’ Holmes moved back towards Davies Street, the beam of the lantern dancing before him as a herald. He held out his arm when the rest of us attempted to follow. ‘Hold, gentlemen. Let us not make the same mistake twice.’ Holmes walked a little way toward Brook Street whilst scanning the ground. ‘Ha! Here is where our unfortunate pugilist met his doom! Watson, come forth!’ He shined the lantern on a crimson splash on the kerbstone, then handed it to me. ‘Stand fast, all of you. The fight took place in the street. Watson, follow me with your light!’
Holmes whipped out a glass from his pocket and dropped to his knees, crawling about on the cobblestones like a child at play. I could see nothing special about the areas he scrutinized, but given the plethora of grunts, groans and ejaculations he uttered, he must have been learning much. Finally, he rose to his feet again. ‘All right, Lestrade. You and your men may approach.’ When the policemen arrived, Holmes clasped his hands behind his back and began lecturing them as if in a university hall.
‘This was no common robbery, gentlemen, even though no valuables were found on the victim. My examination of the street revealed that two men engaged in fisticuffs there, and it is no difficult deduction that our man in the alley lost the match, likely when he was struck and fell to be mortally wounded by yon kerbstone.’
‘Then the assailant drug his lordship into the mews to get the body out of sight,’ offered Lestrade.
‘His lordship?’ I asked. ‘Then you know who he is?’
‘Yes,’ said Holmes. ‘The miscreants did an exceedingly poor job of searching the body. They left his calling cards in the inside pocket of his frock coat. He was Sir Aubrey Strongheart, Lord Redthorne, a sitting member of the House of Lords.’
About the Author
is the author of the Natalie McMasters Mysteries. He
was born and grew up in New Jersey, attended Xavier High School in
Manhattan, earned B.S degrees in Zoology and Microbiology at Michigan State
University and a M.S. in Microbiology at North Carolina State University. He
currently resides in Wendell, North Carolina with his wife and son, four
cats and a Cardigan Welsh Corgi. As a kid, Tom started reading mysteries
with the Hardy Boys, Ken Holt and Rick Brant, and graduated to the classic
stories by authors such as A. Conan Doyle, Dorothy Sayers, John Dickson
Carr, Erle Stanley Gardner and Rex Stout, to name a few. Tom has written
fiction as a hobby all of his life, starting with Man from U.N.C.L.E.
stories in marble-backed copybooks in grade school. He built a career as
technical, science and medical writer and editor for nearly thirty years in
industry and government. Now that he’s retired to become a full-time a
novelist, he’s excited to publish his own mystery series, as well as to
contribute stories about his second-most favorite detective to the MX Book
of New Sherlock Holmes Stories.
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