Astounding Murder at Cloverwood House

D. Victor Daniel

Description

A young inventor - the man whose name appears in the title of Dr. Watson's narrative, "The Adventure of the Bruce-Partington Plans" - lies dead on the floor of an old house, two bullet holes in his back. To solve the gruesome murder, Sherlock Holmes enlists the aid of William Gillette, the celebrated American actor renown for his portrayal of the famous detective, and Arthur Conan Doyle, conveniently familiar with the world of spiritualism that serves as backdrop to the brutal crime. In a plot replete with foreign spies, young lovers, eerie seances, and an array of the dead inventor's strange mechanical devices, Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson press on to discover the identity of Bruce-Partington's cold-blooded killer.

Sujets

• Love
• Love (disambiguation)

Informations

• Publié par: Andrews UK
• Date de parution: 13 juillet 2020
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781787055742
• Langue: English

Extrait

The Astounding Murder at Cloverwood House
Book Six in the Series, “Sherlock Holmes and the American Literati”
As Edited By
Daniel D. Victor, Ph.D.




First edition published in 2020
Copyright © 2020 Daniel Victor
The right of Daniel Victor 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.
Published by MX Publishing
335 Princess Park Manor, Royal Drive,
London, N11 3GX
www.mxpublishing.com
Cover design Brian Belanger




Here’s another for
Norma, Seth, and Ethan



Acknowledgements
Many thanks yet again to Judy Grabiner, Sandy Cohen, Mark Holzband, Barry Smolin, David Marcum, Richard Evidon, and Norma Silverman.



A Note on the Text
Footnotes followed by (JHW) were included by Dr. Watson in the original manuscript. Footnotes followed by (DDV) were, like the book’s title and headnotes, added by the editor.




I thought he was the handsomest man I ever had looked at. The first time I seen him, I didn’t know who it was and I could hardly take my eyes off him, and I says to Mrs. Clemens . . . , “Why, who is that man—that handsome man—the best looking man I ever laid an eye on?” And she laughed and said, “Why Katy, don’t you know? That’s William Gillette, the actor. He is handsome,” she says—and he was! He became very famous afterwards.
Katy Leary
Quoted by Mary Lawton in A Lifetime with Mark Twain: The Memories of Katy Leary, for thirty years his faithful and devoted servant




Part One
The Materialists
1. The Arrival of the Actor
I would rather see you play Sherlock Holmes than be a child again on Christmas morning.
Booth Tarkington
Letter to William Gillette, 1929
The knock on the door startled us both.
Sherlock Holmes jerked up his head. He was sitting cross-legged in the centre of our bearskin rug, a single volume from his set of large indexes perched in his lap. Though there were no immediate investigations pending on the 24th of August in that case-filled year of ’95, we were but a few days removed from the resolution of the unfortunate business with the Norwood Builder. In fact, Holmes was employing the time afforded from the lack of clients to refresh his index. He was just then pasting onto a stiff page the misguided report in the Daily Telegraph that had prompted our journey to Blackheath and then to Lower Norwood in defence of John Hector McFarlane.
For my part, I was seated in an armchair by an open window. So engrossed was I in my copy of The Times that the knock on the door actually caused me to jump. Though it had rained two days before, the current heat wave had not broken. Delusional perhaps, I had intended to mitigate the effects of a sweltering Saturday afternoon by immersing myself in the latest news concerning the railway races. For the past few weeks the competition between the East and West Coast railways from London to points north in Scotland had become a bit of an obsession with me.
Needless to say, Sherlock Holmes could not be bothered by such folderol. “Where is the logic, Watson?” he complained. “The winners change nightly. There is too much inconsistency; there are too many variables.”
He was right, of course. The results were extremely unpredictable; and despite my lifelong penchant for gambling, I offered no wagers. Yet now that the competition had ended, I hoped that The Times story titled “Race to Scotland” would offer me insight into the identity of the ultimate winner.
Alas, the knocking at our door thwarted my intention.
“Hot air rises, old fellow,” said Holmes as he looked up at me from his seat on the bearskin. With a shrug, he added, “The temperature remains coolest nearest the floor.”
That it was easier for me to lay down my newspaper, get to my feet, and greet whoever was calling than to expect Holmes to set aside the large volume in which he was working and be forced to rise from the floor was beyond dispute. Nonetheless, such reasoning did not make the matter any easier to accept. Racing results aside, I—like the next man—prefer as little movement as possible in hot weather.
But I anticipate myself. The knock on the door still beckoned, and so I tossed aside The Times and with a grunt got to my feet.
“Yes?”
Billy, our page-boy, entered. As was his custom when introducing a visitor, the lad stood stiffly at attention. He pulled down on his short, burgundy jacket; cleared his throat; and then, to the great surprise of my friend and me, slowly and clearly announced the name of our caller: “Mr. Sherlock Holmes.”
Did I hear correctly? Eyebrows raised, I stared at the stranger who crossed into our sitting room.
Despite the heat, his shoulders were cloaked in an olive-green Inverness cape, and his head was adorned with a brown deerstalker of hound’s-tooth-tweed. Erect of carriage, his was a sinewy figure over six feet in height. To be fair, the stranger’s aquiline nose appeared less hawk-like than Holmes’s; but with the man’s long face and piercing eyes, he bore an unsettling resemblance in age and aspect to my esteemed colleague who, I might add, remained seated on the rug despite the entrance of so singular a visitor.
I, on the other hand, stood directly in the strange fellow’s path. It was with the utmost certainty, therefore, that I could attest how even more disconcerting than his outfit was the large, round magnifying lens through which his right eye peered. Though he employed the glass to scrutinise my own facial terrain, from my perspective its convex lens simply served to enlarge the lidded, deep-blue orb behind it.
“No, you’re not he,” the man muttered and marched right past me towards Holmes. The curious Doppelgänger proceeded to bend over my friend and, after scrutinising him through the glass, announced with a broad grin and an accent more American than British, “Unquestionably, a detective.”
“Really!” I shouted.
“Contain yourself, old fellow,” Holmes said to me with a laugh as he pushed the index aside and rose to his feet.
Young Billy looked confused. Cocking his head at the visitor, the boy whined, “He paid me a shilling to announce him that way, Mr. Holmes. ‘Bit of a joke,’ he said.”
Holmes waved Billy off. “It’s all right,” he called as the lad backed out of the room, “I know the fellow.” Then turning to me, he said, “It’s been many years; but unless I am very much mistaken—his lean look is misleading—I have the distinct pleasure of presenting to you the distinguished American actor, Mr. William Gillette.”
“You’ve got that right, Holmes,” the man said, his voice dry and metallic. “But,” he added with a wink, “don’t forget that I’m also a playwright and director.” Then doffing his cap, he proceeded to bow as formally as if he were taking a curtain call.
Gillette offered a firm handshake to both of us, and in return Holmes presented an armchair to our guest. [1]
“If you please, gentlemen, before I sit down, let me remove my costume. In hot weather like this, unless you’re actually performing on stage, I’m afraid that capes and caps are out of season. I marched over here in this get-up from the Langham where I’m staying. It’s quite warm out there, as you can well imagine.” Mopping his brow with a white linen handkerchief, he eyed our cut-crystal water pitcher on the table. “Some water would be greatly appreciated.”
Holmes poured Gillette a glass whilst I hung the actor’s cape and deerstalker on our pegs near the door. Soon enough we were seated together like old friends.
“It has been a long time, Gillette,” said Holmes.
“Sixteen years,” the actor replied with a slow shake of his head. Drinking more water, he smacked his lips in approval, and placed the glass on the small side-table next to him. To me he said, “Holmes and I met in New York back in ’79 when your detective-friend was part of an acting troupe run by an old Russian.”
“Sasanoff,” I remembered Holmes telling me.
“Exactly,” Gillette nodded. “You know, Watson, I do believe I’ve read somewhere that the stage lost quite the performer when Sherlock Holmes decided to exchange acting for detecting.”
“Yes,” I said, appreciating the actor’s droll wit, “I seem to recall having written something like that myself.”
“Indeed,” said Gillette, eyes a-twinkle.
It was obvious he was pleased to have scored by quoting back to me a variation of my own words. (What I had actually said about Holmes in the sketch called “A Scandal in Bohemia” was, “The stage lost a fine actor, even as science lost an acute reasoner, when he became a specialist in crime.”)
“Holmes went by the name of Escott in those days,” Gillette said, “William Escott. He was playing Shakespeare at the time.”
“Ah, yes,” Holmes sighed. “Shakespeare—and don’t forget that I did some panto as well. I remember Robinson Crusoe in particular . . . So long ago. So many diversions since those days.” Staring out the window, he seemed uncharacteristically lost in a reverie—but only for a moment.