Second Collection: Sherlock Holmes E-Book

Francis London

• Herausgeber: via tolino media
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Beschreibung

The Egyptian Treasure: Sherlock Holmes's cool intellect is confronted with a ghostly apparition: is it truly possible that the spirit of Sir Sydenham murdered the unknown beggar during a séance? Lady Monica Sydenham turns to Sherlock Holmes to unravel the mystery, while he is simultaneously summoned by Inspector Gregson to another case, involving the murder of a former Major General in the British Army. 221b, Baker Street: It was intended to be just a brief visit that Watson planned to undertake in the spring of 1903 at his friend Sherlock Holmes' place, as he hadn't visited him for quite some time. However, on this particular evening, two old acquaintances unexpectedly appear in Holmes' apartment and captivate the master detective with the mystery of a missing watch, a task that requires Holmes' full concentration. Francis London guides his Sherlock Holmes through an extraordinary investigation with polished dialogues and sharp trains of thought. Deadly Escape: An exciting, action-packed thriller from the year 1904. Sherlock Holmes's greatest adversary, Colonel Sebastian Moran, escapes from prison and eagerly anticipates a reunion. Holmes relies on his longtime scout, Shinwell Johnson, who devises a plan that holds a sinister conclusion.

Leseprobe

Table of Content

The Egyptian Treasure 3

Baker Street 221b 57

Deadly Escape 105

Time Line (Extraction) 168

Reading Sample: Around the World in 80 Days 171

The Egyptian Treasure

Among the many thrilling and extraordinary cases I had the privilege of experiencing with my friend Sherlock Holmes, there were, in my recollection, only two in which this master of cool logic appeared to be challenged by eerie supernatural beings.

One of these cases was the chilling ordeal of Robert Ferguson from Lamberley, which I published just last year under the title "The Sussex Vampire." The other case occurred much earlier, during a time when Sherlock Holmes' reputation was just blossoming, and he was constantly and impatiently seeking new and unusual adventures to stimulate his restless mind, soon providing fodder for my pen as well.

I hesitated for a long time before publishing this account, as it is my intention to portray my recounted experiences with Sherlock Holmes as what they are: criminal cases that can be explained and solved through the power of intellect and logic, rather than childish ghost stories that lend credence to dubious hocus-pocus. The composed and serious letters I received in response to the publication of the first case were confirmation enough that I can bring the second case of this nature to the attention of my readership. Sherlock Holmes gave me full freedom in its publication, as he considered the case highly amusing but rather straightforward, a judgment that I, considering the intricate entanglements and monstrous connections reflected in this case, find difficult to fully share.

However, this case may also serve as a lesson in how Sherlock Holmes manages not to get lost in the details but, with the aid of those very details, is able to discern and delineate the bigger picture. While in the aforementioned case, the uncanny creatures of Transylvania seemed to threaten the southern coast of England, in this case, it is the curse of an Egyptian pharaoh whose dark power Lady Sydenham, a highly esteemed figure, feared in the lively, summery London of our time.

It was a pleasant September day in the year 1884 when I returned from the club at noon. As I approached the front door of our shared apartment on Baker Street, I encountered a messenger who had a dispatch for Holmes. I accepted it and made my way upstairs to our living room, where Holmes sat in his large, comfortable armchair, idly flipping through a stack of documents.

Handing Holmes the dispatched addressed to him, I was about to turn away when he addressed me after a brief glance at the dispatch. "Well, Doctor, I see that you have continued your scientific inquiries into infantile dehydration at the club. Have you discovered anything new? Was the club's archive fruitful?"

I had not discussed this matter with Holmes, and I could not fathom how he would be aware of it. For a moment, I was surprised, but I had grown accustomed to his peculiarities. On that day, I decided to meet his surprise with an intentionally matter-of-fact demeanor. "To answer your question directly, Holmes, in my opinion, cases of infantile dehydration would significantly decrease if the ladies of the Empire reverted to the antiquated method of nursing their children rather than relying on the now-prevalent gruel."

I paused briefly, adopting a reproachful look, and continued, "However, I am certain that your inquiry stems less from a genuine interest in medicine and more from your mind's craving to compensate for the current absence of a case by astounding me with an observation imperceptible to the average observer!"

With a gesture of modesty, I acknowledged his intellectual prowess. "Very well, I concede that you have succeeded once again."

The relaxation on his face indicated his anticipation of the game that was about to unfold. Just as a parched individual eagerly absorbs every drop from a bottle that could save them from death, Holmes's mind eagerly absorbed every opportunity for even the smallest intellectual delight. It would also be a pleasure for me, as Holmes's ability to observe and combine minutiae was astonishing in the highest degree and a constant source of admiration for me, his friend.

After a moment of contemplation, which he graciously afforded me, curiosity gleaming in his eyes, I decided to at least attempt to meet him on his level. "I can partially follow your train of thought, Holmes. Your knowledge of my interest in infantile dehydration must surely stem from my carelessness in leaving my medical books lying around."

His satisfied smile confirmed my deduction and filled me with pride. Now, I eagerly embarked on the journey of unraveling the rest of the puzzle. "However, I wonder how you managed to correctly guess the precise topic amidst the vast array of subjects covered in my medical books!"

Holmes reached beside him and picked up one of my books from the small side table, clearly subjecting it to examination, as his magnifying glass, a small scalpel, and a petri dish lay beside it. He held the closed book up to me, allowing me to glimpse the pages. He pointed out the yellowish discoloration on the pages and explained that with a textbook, it was easy to recognize whether it was a single subject that an eager student sought to delve into, as this pursuit left distinct traces: "It is inherent in the nature of learning as a process requiring constant repetition that the pages of particular interest in a book must show noticeable wear. So, this part of the observation was not too difficult, Watson. What intrigued me was recognizing that this literary masterpiece also revealed that it is Mrs. Hudson who patiently and regularly returns it to the shelf. I suspect she does so whenever she wants to set the table."

This addition piqued my interest. "How do you recognize Mrs. Hudson's traces?"

"On the cover, there are smaller, dark discolorations. They are entirely imperceptible to the naked eye, but with the magnifying glass..." He let the sentence hang, turned the book, and critically examined the dust jacket.

"It seemed plausible to me that these traces must be present, so I searched for them, and I found them. The trained mind directs observation toward where insights are expected, even when they must remain hidden from the unaided human eye. The mind, Watson, sees more than the eye."

He pointed with a finger at the cover. "I allowed myself to remove a small layer of the exterior with the scalpel at an inconspicuous spot and collect it in the petri dish. I have no doubt that it is coal; a closer examination will reveal it." He gestured toward the stained pine table where his collection of chemical instruments lay.

"But the coal could also come from my fingers, Holmes!" I cunningly interjected, challenging him, eager to see his response.

Holmes smiled at me. "No, Watson, that's not possible because it's September. We haven't heated the fireplace since those bitterly cold days in April when Colonel Kingsley used that unpleasant storm to break into Mrs. Brookmyre's lodge. You surely remember?"

He waited for my confirming nod and continued, "On the other hand, Mrs. Hudson handles coal every day to conjure up marvelous creations such as roast goose with red cabbage salad." As he uttered these words, he sniffed the air, trying to extract the secret of the imminent lunch from the kitchen's rising aromas.

"Well, Holmes, that's your discovery regarding the topic I've been occupied with. I must admit that I'm impressed by your ability to remember even those terms that have nothing to do with your areas of expertise. It's remarkable!"

Holmes chuckled and replied, "Watson, it's simply a matter of mindset and the discipline not to be distracted by the trivial. The criteria by which Holmes distinguished the essential from the nonessential have remained elusive to me to this day. However, I must admit that he often assessed this matter correctly, leading me to believe that there were very few situations in which one would find him unprepared, perhaps none at all."

To satisfy my growing curiosity, I urged him, "Let us now turn to the inevitable open question, the answer to which you are surely eager to hear, Holmes."

"I'm sure I'm not the only one eagerly interested in the answer," Holmes interjected nonchalantly.

I confirmed this with a smile and a slight nod, then posed the question, "How did you come to the conclusion that I continued my studies at the club using the books from their library?"

"Quite simply, I can see it from your nose: the imprints on it are from your reading glasses."

He clapped his hands in satisfaction, but I shook my head to express my disagreement. "That's not convincing, Holmes. You know that I always read the newspaper at the club. Wearing reading glasses is not unusual and does not necessarily imply that I am studying."

"That you did not read the newspaper, Watson," Holmes continued, "I can tell from this telegram!" He winked at me with his right eye. "Given the pitiful quality of the printing ink our newspaper publishers settle for, you should have left black smudges on the telegram if you had indeed read the newspaper at the club. But that is not the case."

While I needed a moment to mentally follow and appreciate his brilliant deductions, he had already opened the telegram and skimmed through the message.

Holmes turned his attention away from the telegram and seemed lost in thought. I was about to turn around again and finally attend to my own affairs when I noticed a change in his expression that captivated me. I was surprised to see Holmes furrowing his brow in an unusual manner, a kind of furrow that I couldn't recall having seen on him before.

I soon discovered what had left my friend in such perplexity. "Watson!" he exclaimed, his expression filled with astonishment. "It appears that I will be dealing with a case today for which I lack any prior experience, and I have no reference works to consult."

He turned hesitantly towards his bookshelf and gestured towards the collection of the most extraordinary guides, references, and treatises one could find in all of London. "Years of effort, work, and passion have gone into this collection, and yet it will prove worthless for the task at hand!"

He shook his head in disbelief. "I must prepare for a laborious journey through unfamiliar territory."

Despite his lamenting tone, I couldn't help but notice a peculiar and joyful excitement overtaking him. He briskly walked to the fireplace, reaching for his pipe, but then swiftly set it aside. Absentmindedly, he picked up his violin with his left hand and the bow with his right, raising them to his chin without playing a note, not even producing the scratchy sounds he usually elicited from his violin during moments of deep contemplation.

He seemed oblivious to his own actions and eventually, with a continuing look of astonishment, gazed out of the window. His eyes were wide open, like those of a curious little boy, and his usually composed and often bored expression had transformed into one of excited childlike enthusiasm.

I could only recall one other moment when I had observed something similar in him. His posture mirrored that of the day he told me the story of the Gloria Scott, where his youthful pride had repeatedly surfaced, his enthusiasm for the experiences during those years when he discovered his calling, when what is routine for him today sharpened his intuition and shaped his character. In these rare moments, his excitement for his impetuous youthful energy overshadowed the analytical sobriety of his current cool demeanor.

"Holmes!" I exclaimed in surprise, "I've never seen you like this before. What has filled you with such enthusiasm?"

Snapped out of his trance-like state, he returned to our world and, after a brief moment of contemplation, asked me abruptly, "What do you think of seances, Watson?"

"Seances?" I exclaimed, taken aback. "What on earth prompts you to be interested in such a absurd form of entertainment?"

"This telegram, Watson. We are expecting a client who seeks our assistance with a matter concerning a séance. Listen for yourself!"

He glanced back at the telegram and read aloud, "Fear implication in beggar's death. Murder by my deceased husband during a séance tonight. Coming to you. Lady Monica Sydenham."

It was these pregnant words that led Holmes and me directly into a case so extraordinary that, even now, looking back, it sends shivers down my spine.

Holmes looked at me with interest over the edge of the paper and asked, "The telegram seems to have been sent by the lady in a state of great agitation. Help me out, Watson! What do you know about séances?"

"In a séance, Holmes, a person with extraordinary spiritual powers, known as a medium, establishes contact with long-deceased individuals, allowing others present to communicate with them. This phenomenon was already known during my university days and, if I may be frank, was regarded with skepticism by the scientific community even then."

I provided Holmes with further insights into what typically occurs during a séance to confuse the clients and convince them of the true existence of ghostly apparitions. I also described how we had made every effort during our time at university to debunk these alleged phenomena. Personally, I had never attended a private séance and expressed to Holmes that I considered it a futile and unnecessary exercise.

I felt a bit irritated during my explanations. People who believed in ghostly apparitions and similar phenomena held little interest for me, and least of all did I expect to encounter such a topic here in our Baker Street apartment, which I regarded as a bastion of cool logic.

"If you want my advice, Holmes," I concluded my discourse, "I would suggest that we dismiss séances as mere fantasy!"

I proclaimed this with the authoritative voice of a learned physician who had come into contact more than once with patients who described ghostly apparitions as credible or even causative factors for their suffering.

To my delight, Holmes had regained that pensive and sober expression that reassured me of his reliable thinking. He had packed his pipe and lit it. However, his subsequent words seemed to contradict my impression.

"I am not averse to the occult, Watson," he said, pulling on his pipe. "Every person who earnestly pursues and applies scientific methods knows that truly nothing can be completely ruled out. I found your descriptions highly interesting and thought-provoking."

Despite my friend's serious tone, I couldn't reconcile myself to the idea that his rational mind would genuinely delve into phenomena that most of us had long relegated to the realm of entertainment or even fraud. Regrettably, a few years ago, an occult wave had washed over from the States to our Empire, finding its expression in the dubious séances held in the parlors of the middle class.

I could tell from Holmes' expression that the telegram and our conversation had piqued his interest.

"Consider how often you yourself have accused me of relying on supernatural powers for my deductions," he explained. "So, what would be unusual about me entertaining the possibility that there are people who can see things differently—and more—than I can?"

"Well, in the case of a séance, we would have to speak of 'hearing more,' as it takes place in a darkened room," he added with a mischievous smile but quickly turned serious again. "It is conceivable that more sensitive individuals than you and I can observe things or have sensations that are inaccessible to you or me."

After a brief pause of reflection, during which I couldn't miss the heightened concentration in his eyes, he expressed a surprising desire: "Contrary to what you would expect from me, dear Watson, I would have been intrigued to participate in this séance of Lady Sydenham's, during which the spirit of her deceased husband killed a beggar."

"Why a beggar, Watson?" he interrupted his thought. "How did a beggar come to be at a séance in the Sydenham's residence?"

With a dismissive gesture, he set aside that topic and concluded, "We will receive this explanation from Lady Sydenham herself when she visits."

Then he turned to the table where today's newspapers were laid out. "But for now, let us first examine the facts as reported in the newspapers. I don't recall anything about a dead beggar from this morning, but there is a mysterious death in Covent Garden that even caught the attention of the Daily Telegraph, which deemed it worthy of a photograph. Have you had the opportunity to read the newspaper amidst your studies today?"

The use of the word 'opportunity' elicited a sigh from me.

Over the years, a habit had formed in our small apartment that was difficult for me to bear and even harder for Holmes to change. As often was the case, he had already had breakfast and, when I entered the living room in the morning, was deeply engrossed in reading the newspaper. There was nothing wrong with that—I had no qualms about reading a newspaper that had already been perused by someone else.

However, Holmes always prepared himself for his reading with scissors, glue, a notepad, and writing utensils. But when, to satisfy his own needs, he proceeded to cut up our shared newspaper, or more often impatiently tore it apart, rearranged the articles, and affixed them with glue in one of his scrapbooks under new headings, it would often rouse anger in me!

I frequently demanded, in a loud voice, that he desist from such actions and pointed out that I would like to read a newspaper over breakfast that hadn't been senselessly mutilated because, coincidentally, an adjacent article had fallen victim to his obsession with collecting.

However, Holmes remained unmoved by these protests. He would then point out the benefits we both derived from him organizing the news in the proper order and urged me to glean the recent events from the collages of his notes, designed like puzzles, in his own handwriting. My argument that there were indeed differences in our interests, which led me to consider other articles as important, was met with an almost incredulous astonishment.

In this matter, our views were as incompatible as fire and water, as irreconcilably opposed as the two poles of a magnet!

My enthusiasm for mentally unraveling the black-and-white puzzles affixed to large books and extracting meaning from Holmes' accompanying handwritten notes was limited. After a few hopeful yet ultimately futile attempts on my part, disillusionment had set in long ago. As a result, I began to develop the habit of reading the newspapers at the club or relying on Holmes to inform me about the important contents.

Once again, the relevant article had already been assigned to his collection, so he reached for the clipping and handed it to me. This clipping was adorned with an unpleasant image—a bloody corpse, with even the face recognizable.

As I began to skim through the article, we heard footsteps on the stairs. With a sigh, I set the article aside and said, "I'll attend to this murder later. I suggest we first listen to Lady Sydenham's account."

Holmes shook his head with a laugh and said, "That expectation will be disappointed, Watson!" But before he could continue to provide an explanation, the door swung open, and Inspector Tobias Gregson stood there, his face flushed.

"Inspector," Holmes greeted him warmly, casting a sideways glance at me, "Your footsteps may not be as elegant as those of a lady, but you are most welcome. Come in!"

The inspector looked momentarily perplexed, but quickly set aside his confusion and strode towards us to greet us.

"You've probably learned about it from the newspaper, I assume?" he started, glancing at the scattered papers on our table, eager to discuss the matter that was troubling him.

"You mean the death in Covent Garden?" Holmes inquired, "I am aware of it, but perhaps you could briefly recount the case from your perspective, bringing Dr. Watson up to date, as he was engrossed in his scientific studies this morning."

The inspector turned to me and said, "This morning, one of our constables in Covent Garden noticed an unusually large amount of leaves in front of a hedge. Upon closer inspection, he discovered a corpse hidden beneath them."

He turned back to Holmes, seeking acknowledgment for his colleagues' diligence, which Holmes granted with a nod.

"We were called in and examined the crime scene. The deceased had been stabbed multiple times and was lying in a remarkably large pool of blood. However, Mr. Holmes, that is not what brought me here," he paused, his words heavy with significance, and looked at Holmes.

"The further investigations this morning revealed that the victim was Major General Alan Pinter, a high-ranking officer in the British Army. Needless to say, his death has caused quite a stir among the upper echelons."

Having taken a seat in his armchair, Holmes attentively followed the narrative and said, "Tell me more about Major General Pinter, Inspector. I'd rather not consult my reference books as I am currently engrossed in my own collections. It would be preferable if I didn't have to disrupt my sorting work by retrieving one of the volumes."

"The Major General served with General Graham during the Urabi Rebellion in Egypt. Two years ago, he lost his sight in an accident involving a cannon during the Battle of Tel-el-Kebir. After returning to Cairo, he left the army. We have no knowledge of his whereabouts during the intervening period until his body was discovered in Covent Garden this morning."

"The newspaper states, Mr. Holmes, that Major General Pinter was stabbed. However, I found some peculiarities on the body that I would very much like to discuss with you, preferably in the presence of the corpse itself."

"I am happy to oblige that request, Inspector. This case seems to be quite intriguing," Holmes concluded the conversation and rose from his chair. "I will visit you at the Yard later today. But first, I must await a visitor. By the way, Inspector, you have no news about a dead beggar today, do you?"

"A dead beggar?" The inspector blinked in disbelief. "Mr. Holmes, if you mention it, there might be such a corpse, but we at the Yard..."

Holmes kindly interrupted him, saying, "No, Inspector, it was merely a passing remark. Don't concern yourself with it. I must bid you farewell now."

It was only a few minutes later when Holmes sat calmly and thoughtfully in an armchair, while I tried to find an article about a beggar among the remaining scraps of newspapers. The ringing of our doorbell broke the silence of our home, followed by hesitant, slow footsteps on the stairs.

Shortly after, the door to our living room opened, and in the doorway stood an elderly lady, bowed down by the weight of many years and with a face filled with concern, even shock. She wore a simple blue dress that displayed its refined class in a reserved and elegant manner, and carried a black leather handbag, which she held in front of her body with both hands and bent elbows, as if it were her shield against the hardships of life.

On her head, she wore a hat with a narrow brim that matched the color of her dress. So she stood before us, casting timid glances from one person to another.

This figure, therefore, was the one who had confessed in the telegram to being responsible for the death of a beggar, of whom even Scotland Yard had learned nothing yet.

In the face of our client's distressing appearance, my friend Sherlock Holmes had sprung up, rushed to the door, and extended his arm in assistance, a gesture she gratefully accepted. Lady Sydenham, for that was who she was, entered the room with the slow, cautious steps of a lady of advanced age and allowed Holmes to guide her to a chair, where she took a seat with a contented sigh.

---ENDE DER LESEPROBE---