Secret Assassin

Arthur Hall

Description

The body lying on its back before us was unquestionably that of the man who had attempted to kill Holmes and I with explosives, at Glenbury Gardens. He wore the same dark clothing, although his hat was gone, and the hare lip was a livid scar on his pallid face. Strangely, it crossed my mind that what could be seen of his expression in death was softer than that he had worn in life.

Informations

• Publié par: Andrews UK
• Date de parution: 28 novembre 2017
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781787052314
• Langue: English

Extrait

The Secret Assassin
The rediscovered cases of Sherlock Holmes Book 3
Arthur Hall




2017 digital version converted and published by
Andrews UK Limited
www.andrewsuk.com
Copyright © Arthur Hall 2015, 2017
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 1998.
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 or used fictitiously. Except for certain historical personages, 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 MX Publishing.
MX Publishing
335 Princess Park Manor, Royal Drive,
London, N11 3GX
www.mxpublishing.co.uk
Cover design by Brian Belanger
www.belangerbooks.com and www.redbubble.com/people/zhahadun



About the author
Arthur Hall was born in Aston, Birmingham, UK, in 1944. He discovered his interest in writing during his schooldays, along with a love of fictional adventure and suspense.
His first novel “Sole Contact” was an espionage story about an ultra-secret government department known as “Sector Three” and was followed, to date, by three sequels.
Other works include four “rediscovered” cases from the files of Sherlock Holmes, two collections of bizarre short stories and two modern adventure novels, as well as several contributions to the continuing anthology, “The MX Book of New Sherlock Holmes Stories”.
His only ambition, apart from being published more widely, is to attend the premier of a film based on one of his novels, possibly at The Odeon, Leicester Square.
He lives in the West Midlands, United Kingdom, where he often walks other people’s dogs as he attempts to create new plots.
The author welcomes comments and observations about his work, at [e-mail]



1. Confessions of a Lady
I recall that it was on a bright April morning that I persuaded my friend Sherlock Holmes to contradict his usual languid nature, and accompany me on a short walk immediately after breakfast. After a half-hour tour of the West End, we found ourselves back in Baker Street almost opposite our rooms, strolling unhurriedly as neither my friend nor I had, at that precise time, any pressing engagements.
“I see that she is still there, Watson,” Holmes said as we neared our destination.
I glanced around, but failed to see the object of his interest. “To whom, pray, are you referring?”
“Surely,” he began with one of his quick smiles, “you cannot have failed to notice the young woman walking indecisively back and forth as we set out?”
“I confess that I did not.”
“Probably you were absorbed in relating to me the results of your latest submission to your publisher. An exaggerated account of my efforts as usual, I am certain.”
“That may have been what occupied my attention at the time,” I conceded. “But do you think that this lady intends to consult you?”
“Unless she is lost and seeks directions, I would say it is a near-certainty. She has clearly never set eyes on either of us before now, since she would have given some involuntary sign at our appearance.”
I said nothing, because we were almost at our door. Holmes had his hand on the knob as the lady he had been speaking of rushed up to us, her eyes wide and anxious.“Sir, please excuse me, but do you know if this is the residence of Mr. Sherlock Holmes?”
My friend turned to face her. “Indeed it is, and I am he. This is my friend and colleague, Dr. Watson. Pray come in and tell us how we can be of service to you.”
Having come to her decision she needed no further encouragement, and preceded us up the stairs to our rooms. At the top, Holmes called to Mrs. Hudson for tea before closing the door behind him.
“Please, be seated.” He drew a chair from near the window for our visitor, and we hung up our hats before sitting on the opposite side of the fireplace where wood and paper had been left unlit.
When we were comfortable I took out my notebook, as I knew Holmes would want. At that moment, there came a knock at the door, and as he went to receive the tea tray, I looked upon the lady with interest.
I would have said she was in her middle thirties, a handsome woman with shining brown hair and quite tall. Her eyes were wide, and her expression indicated that she had lately undergone much uncertainty or strain. From her deportment and the few words I had heard her speak, I concluded that she had attended some sort of finishing school, such as the establishments in Switzerland that are popular with some society families.
Holmes brought over the tray and set it down on a side-table. I rose to pour for us, as is our usual way, as he resumed his seat.
“Clearly,” he said, “something is causing you great anxiety. Unburden yourself to us, in your own good time, and we will make every effort to put matters right. As you drink your tea, put your thoughts in order, and then begin at the beginning when you are ready.”
She nodded at this suggestion, and took the cup from me. Since our meeting no more than ten minutes ago her eyes had been darting nervously from side to side, without being still for an instant.
Holmes and I had both finished our tea and replaced our cups before she did the same. Suddenly, she spoke:
“I have come to confess!”
Holmes and I glanced at each other in surprise.
“If that is the case,” he said, “it is to Scotland Yard you should go if you wish to disclose some involvement in a crime. Other than that, if it is your soul that is burdened, a priest would probably be of more assistance than I.”
She cast her eyes to the floor, and made a gesture of helplessness and frustration. “Gentlemen, I must apologise and beg your indulgence. My name is Mrs. Anne Foulkes, from South Croydon, and you see me in this pitiful state because I have placed my own life in danger.”
Holmes looked at her with new interest, straightening his morning coat. “Pray continue.”
Mrs. Foulkes raised her head and her eyes swept from Holmes to me and back. When she spoke, her voice trembled. “My husband, Mr. Seth Foulkes, ran a successful second-hand clothes business until six months ago. Indeed, he was often away from home for long periods, securing new stock. For some time he made a sizeable profit, much of which was at first intended to be saved for our old age. Then he decided, on a whim, to invest the entire sum in the Thurswell-Bolivian Gold Mine Corporation which as you may know, was very short-lived.”
“As I recall, the so-called mother lode quickly gave out. It was no more than a wide deposit with little else beyond it. According to the newspapers, many investors were ruined,” said I.
She nodded. “Indeed, and we were among them. My husband had entered into debt, in order to buy more shares only days before the collapse. The business had to be sold, and we were left with nothing. Then I received some even more devastating news.”
“Mrs. Foulkes,” said Holmes as she paused to draw breath. “All that I know of you at this moment is that your marriage is not your first, and that you have indeed fallen on hard times. This last I had deduced before you began to speak. Please tell us the rest of your story, keeping to the relevant facts, so that we can see what is to be done.”
The lady was at once still, as if she had been frozen. “But how do you know these things already, sir? I have not yet disclosed any of this. Can you read the thoughts in the minds of others, Mr. Holmes?”
My friend allowed a brief smile to cross his face. “Not at all. It is a simple matter of observation. The wedding ring that you wear now is slightly narrower than that of your previous marriage, which has left a visible mark. The fact that this mark has not faded also indicates that you wore the first ring until quite recently.”
“That is so. I felt that I still had a part of my dear Godfrey with me as long as I wore it.” She looked at Holmes with curiosity. “But how could you know of our failing fortunes, so quickly?”
“Your ears told me everything.”
“My ears?”
Holmes nodded. “The lobes are pierced, are they not? Yet you wear no earrings. Usually there would be a pair to match that most attractive necklace you wear which, unless I am mistaken, is an heirloom of sorts, for such items of jewellery are invariably made and bought in sets. Now, what husband would allow his wife to sell or pawn such prized items, unless the need were desperate?”
Mrs. Foulkes was taken aback. “I can see that it would be impossible to hide things from you, Mr. Holmes.”
“It is always better to submit the entire truth,” he replied. “Falsehoods, half-truths and incomplete statements can be dangerous, in my business. But please, go on with your most interesting account.
“Because I had felt unwell for some weeks, I consulted my doctor,” she continued after a moment. “The results of his examination were a heavy blow. He told me that I am suffering from a wasting disease, quite incurable, and that my life would be over within a few months.”
Holmes and I expressed our sympathies, but to our surprise her face brightened.
“But this was an error,” Holmes deduced.
“Yes. One morning, after my husband had left to make final