Further Little-Known Cases of Sherlock Holmes

Arthur Hall

Description

Revelations from the despatch box of Doctor John Watson. These seven stories previously featured in various volumes of The MX Book of New Sherlock Holmes Stories and other anthologies. They come together in their own collection for the first time.The Incident of the Absent ThievesHolmes, left alone temporarily by the newly-married Watson, narrates an early episode in his career. While living in Montague Street he is approached by the wife of a well-known thief to discover the whereabouts of her husband and son. It seems that, two months previously, they had entered premises in Whitechapel with the intention of stealing a private art collection - and disappeared from the face of the Earth.The Adventure of the Ten Tall MenMrs Fanshawe, a middle-aged resident of the Kent village of Tarnfields, tells Holmes of her curiosity about the ten near-identical men who, one after another, repeatedly visit the local tailor's shop for no apparent reason.The Adventure of Canal ReachMycroft's clerk relates a strange experience. While on holiday, he met a man who befriended him and insisted, to his astonishment, on paying all his expenses. On responding to his new-found friend's invitation to visit him at a later date, he is astonished to find that the address is a derelict house beside a canal.The Adventure of Marcus DaveryA client relates the story of his son's demise. It has been accepted as suicide as a result of mounting gambling debts, but Holmes is asked to investigate the case as one of murder. The alleged perpetrator, Marcus Davery, is a man without conscience who openly boasts of his scandalous behaviour and the lives he has wrecked. When Holmes refuses to abandon his investigation, Davery requests a meeting to discuss the matter after completing preparations to murder once more.The Adventure of the Phantom CoachmanMycroft enlists his brother's aid in the case of Rodney Trasker, a fellow member of the Diogenes Club. His sleep disturbed during the night, Trasker discovered his newly-hired coachman ransacking the library. Faced with a drawn pistol, he struck the man, accidentally killing him. Three nights later, he was again awakened, this time by his sister's screams at midnight. He entered her chamber to be directed to the window, from where he looked down to the road in astonishment. The slain coachman leered up at him, apparently fully restored, before whipping up the horses and vanishing into the night. Trasker, still suffering from severe shock witnessed the same scene the following night with no less astonishment. The coach appeared once more at the same time on the night after, but this time Trasker was ready. He discharged both barrels of his shotgun, blowing the coachman to pieces as the horses bolted. The next day was spent in a worried and puzzled state, but Trasker convinced himself that the coach could not now return. And yet, promptly at midnight it stood outside his house as before, again seemingly unaffected. Holmes is at first unimpressed by the tale, until his brother confides that agents of Imperial Germany are somehow involved. He resolves to discover how this coachman can continue as if indestructible and concentrates his powers on what proves to be an extraordinary case.The Adventure of the Frightened ArchitectA fake seance sets Holmes and Watson on the trail of a multiple killer obsessed with revenge.The Adventure of the Moonlit ShadowA dark and stormy night finds Holmes and Watson in Norfolk, on their way to visit Lord Trentlemere who has obtained proof that his daughter was murdered. Because of the weather they are obliged to approach Trentlemere Hall by way of a windswept wood and a field, where they experience several strange and apparently inexplicable events. Holmes insists that nothing unnatural has occurred, but Watson is far from convinced.

Informations

• Publié par: Andrews UK
• Date de parution: 13 juillet 2020
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781787055773
• Langue: English

Extrait

Further Little-Known Cases of Sherlock Holmes
Arthur Hall




First edition published in 2020
Copyright © 2020 Arthur Hall
The right of Arthur Hall to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him 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. Any opinions expressed herein are those of the author and do not necessarily represent those of any other party.
MX Publishing
335 Princess Park Manor, Royal Drive, London, N11 3GX
www.mxpublishing.com
2020 digital version converted and distributed by
Andrews UK Limited
www.andrewsuk.com
Cover design by Brian Belanger



The Incident of the Absent Thieves
Now that my Watson has left me to become entangled in the coils of marriage, I find myself, especially as I await a new client, with increased time at my disposal. At our last meeting my friend expressed an eagerness to transform more of my records of the problems that have been set before me and their solutions, into the dramatic episodes that have found their way into popular periodicals. Therefore, as a respite from looking down into Baker Street on a particularly dark and stormy evening, I resolved to drag out my battered tin trunk in which are consigned many accounts of past events. I chose one, a remaining few sheets of yellowed paper, from the years when I had rooms in Montague Street. By some, this account will be deemed a tragedy.
I had no Boswell then to record the circumstances and so it fell to me, for the sake of future reference and, later, my friend’s ambitions, to put pen to paper.
* * *
I recall this as one of the few instances in my career, when the client was already known to me. At least, I was familiar with Mrs Joan Rander and her family by reputation. She burst into the room abruptly, hardly having been announced.
‘Mr Holmes! Mr Holmes! You are my last hope. I must have your help!’ she cried in a Cockney accent that I will not attempt to reproduce here. I rose and waited until my landlady had withdrawn, before indicating that my visitor should be seated.
‘Take the chair nearest to the fire Mrs Rander, for the winter chill has arrived early this year, don’t you think?’
My remark remained unanswered, and the lady lowered her ample form into an armchair. Her eyes darted around the room warily, before settling upon me. I had never seen her before but her appearance held no surprises, the coarseness of expression and signs of excessive pipe smoking and consumption of spirits were quite evident.
‘It’s my husband and son, Mr Holmes, Thomas and Jared!’ she blurted out quickly.
‘If they are again in the hands of the police, I can do nothing to help. Their reputation for stealing works of art is known throughout the capital. A lawyer would probably serve you better.’
‘They were on a job, I cannot deny that. Pargeter’s place, number 79 in Slaughterer’s Lane, has paintings that Thomas has a good buyer for. But, Mr Holmes, they never came home. I’ve not seen hide nor hair of them for two months.’
I looked at her, critically. ‘And you have not reported their absence, until now?’
‘I’ve been to Scotland Yard, but they don’t seem over-concerned about missing petty criminals, that’s what one copper said. It’s not unusual though, for them to steer well clear of home after a job, until the coppers have done their rounds and asked their questions. But never for as long as this, without any word at all.’
‘Have you, yourself, any notion as to what could have become of them? Perhaps there was something else that they might have been planning?’
‘No, there was nothing.’ She squirmed in her chair, and her eyes became moist. ‘Unless they have sold some goods and left me.’
‘There is, I take it, no reason to think that as yet. I will, on your behalf, go to Scotland Yard to see what can be learned. I have some slight acquaintance with Inspector Lestrade, who may be able to throw some light upon the matter. No, put your purse away, my fees are on a fixed scale but would not be appropriate here. I must impress upon you that I can neither condone criminal acts, nor aid in their concealment, but if these men have simply met with accident or misfortune then I will assist if I can. Now, Madam, I will wish you good morning.’
So dismissed, she rose and left without a word of thanks, with the air of one who feels slightly insulted, and I wondered whether she realised that I had refused payment because it was likely to be in stolen money.
* * *
I decided to visit Slaughterer’s Lane, before consulting Scotland Yard. It was a dismal street, currently deserted and devoid of traffic, on the edge of Whitechapel, one side being completely taken up with the high wall of the cemetery behind the church on the far corner. On the opposite side, the abattoir which gave the street its name had long been replaced by a row of square houses that had seen better times. Outside one of these a hooded and darkly-cloaked figure stood, apparently peering through a window. As I drew nearer it hurried away in the direction of the church. A woman I thought, from its movements, and I stood for a moment in the weak early afternoon sun until I identified number 79, which Mrs Rander had given as the intended scene of the burglary.
I saw at once that the official force had been here before me. The lock, a very poor quality affair, had been easily forced and a police mechanism applied to reseal the door. A glance through the window revealed only a bare, square room with a dull wooden-tiled floor and paintings arranged around the walls in the manner of an exhibition. It seemed strange that such works which, according to Mrs Rander, were quite valuable enough to attract the attentions of experienced art thieves such as her husband and son, should be housed in such a poor district and protected by a cheap lock. I found a corner coffee house in an adjacent street and pondered my meagre discoveries as I ate a beef pie washed down with a cup of their strongest brew. Shortly after, I set out in the direction of Mile End Road until I hailed a passing hansom. I reached Scotland Yard full of questions, which I hoped Lestrade would answer. The desk sergeant gave me an uncertain look, but obliged me by sending a constable for the inspector. He appeared from one of the dull and innumerable corridors a few minutes later, and we shook hands.
‘Mr Sherlock Holmes!’ he exclaimed. ‘I saw you last at the investigation of the Mortland Bonds scandal. As I recall, you identified the swindler just moments before I came to the same conclusion. I thought then that you have the makings of a fine officer, should you ever choose to join the force.’
This was not the way I recalled the incident, but I thought it better, in the circumstances, not to say so.
‘Thank you, Inspector. I see from the newspapers that you have had many successes, since then.’
He looked out of the side of his eyes, to ensure that the desk sergeant was listening. ‘Oh yes, Mr Holmes, I have my moments, as we all do, here. But come to my office, and tell me how I can help you today. Sergeant, kindly send in some tea!’
The sergeant acknowledged Lestrade’s request, and I was led down a dismal passage to a small room containing a file-laden desk, two chairs and a hat-stand on which he had draped his greatcoat.
When we were settled with the desk between us and the tea brought in, I told him of Mrs Rander’s visit.
‘I remember the business in Slaughterer’s Lane quite well,’ he replied. ‘A curious affair, but it really began before this. I would say about six months ago.’
‘I do not recall a great deal of it. I was abroad at that time.’
‘Ah,’ the little detective nodded, ‘then I will tell you from the beginning. You see, this was when 79 Slaughterer’s Lane was first broken into. Mr and Mrs Nathanial Pargeter were enjoying a quiet evening at home when the thieves forced the front door and entered. I imagine they thought the premises to be unoccupied, for they fled when they saw the couple. Unfortunately, the damage was already done, for Mrs Pargeter had suffered for years from a weak heart and the sudden sight of two masked men brought on a fatal attack.’
‘The men were masked? So it could not be said for certain that they were the Randers?’
Lestrade’s bulldog-like face broke into a smile. ‘Not then, Mr Holmes, but the younger Rander was heard recounting the incident a few days later, in a pub. We could prove nothing, of course, although how many more specialist art thieves do we have in London as of now? Mr Pargeter, naturally, was beside himself with grief. He swore revenge on the Randers, although he never carried out his threat.’
‘Does he still live in Slaughterer’s Lane?’ I asked.
‘He stays there several times a year when he comes down from Causewell House, his home in Darlaston, in the Midlands, where he owns an ironworks. He was born in Slaughterer’s Lane and kept the place out of sentimentality, I suppose, although I wouldn’t have expected him to be sentimental as he is thought of as a harsh taskmaster at his factory. For some reason best known to himself, he keeps his art collection there.’
I finished my tea and replaced the cup. ‘Strange ind