One Hundred per Cent Society

Arthur Hall

Description

Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson take on the case of Mr Avery Quill, whose daughter has mysteriously disappeared. The investigation has hardly begun when her body is discovered, and Mr Quill is himself murdered in the same manner. The killer leaves visiting cards, emblazoned with the head of the Gorgon, at the scenes of his crimes, and Holmes connects these to a strange club known as 'The One Hundred per Cent Society'. He learns little there, except that the members are all outcasts from noble families. The following morning a visitor arrives at Baker Street, to tell Holmes and Watson that the Society has a sinister purpose and that its leader has identified them as an obstacle to his plans which must be removed. Thus begins a battle with a new and merciless adversary, whose madness and thirst for revenge threaten to bring about the deaths of an apparently unconnected group of people. The Great Detective pits his skills against an enemy whose very appearance is uncertain.

Informations

• Publié par: Andrews UK
• Date de parution: 07 novembre 2017
• Nombre de lectures: 3
• EAN13: 9781787051904
• Langue: English

Extrait

The One Hundred Per Cent Society
The Rediscovered Cases of Sherlock Holmes
Book 2
Arthur Hall



Publisher Information
Published in the UK by
MX Publishing
335 Princess Park Manor
Royal Drive, London, N11 3GX
www.mxpublishing.co.uk
Digital edition converted and distributed 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. The opinions expressed herein are those of the author and not of MX Publishing.
Cover design by Brian Belanger
www.belangerbooks.com
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]



Mr. Sherlock Holmes
The nature and methods of my friend Mr. Sherlock Holmes were unique, certainly in my experience, among men. When I first realised this, and expressed my determination that his achievements should not pass into history unrecorded, it was with great reluctance that I was permitted to act as chronicler of some of his cases. His extraordinary feats often astounded me, but I always knew that he saw them as no more than exercises of his supremely logical mind.
There have been however, instances where to make an account available to the public would have caused lasting scandal, and so at my friend’s insistence I have consigned the relative papers to my box at Cox & Co., to be read long after he and I are gone.
Nor were these the only documents that were stored in this fashion. On other occasions when I proposed sending a completed story to my publisher I faced a firm refusal from Holmes, on the grounds that the contents, although true, were too fantastical to be readily believed, and occasionally he refused for reasons known only to him. Again I have had to obey his wishes, but reserved the right to preserve the documents so that they may be read by those possibly more enlightened in years to come. The following is an account of events that my friend at first forbade me to divulge, but he later relented.
I recall that it was shortly after the closing of the nineteenth century, during an autumn with rumours of further instability across Europe rampant in the newspapers, when I noticed a predictable change in Holmes’ manner.
Some little time ago, he had been jubilant with the success of the adventure in which Lady Heminworth was so cruelly tormented, in contrast to the affairs of Blessington and Mr. Kratides some years earlier, the memories of which occasionally depressed him still.
One morning he emerged from his bedroom late, after I had finished breakfasting. He sat in the chair across the table from me and I was warned. In general, since I had succeeded in weaning him off his habit of injecting a solution of seven per cent cocaine, his spirits had been lighter. But now he adopted his old, sombre look and the restlessness in his eyes told me the cause.
Already, it had been too long since Holmes had exercised his powers. Weeks had turned into several months, and daily I had seen the pressure of inactivity mounting in him. He would smoke or play a tune on his Stradivarius, his eyes straying towards the shelf where the cocaine bottle had been formerly kept, before moving abruptly to the window to gaze down on the ceaseless daytime parade along Baker Street. I could not tell if my presence inspired his resistance, or if it came from an effort of his iron will.
Physically, my friend had changed little. His tall, gaunt figure stood more upright than ever, the hawk-like nose and domed forehead appeared unaltered since our first meeting. Only his eyes and movements told me of the conflict within.
“Will you eat, Holmes?” I asked when we had greeted each other. “I will call Mrs. Hudson. The bacon today is excellent.”
He gestured dismissively, with a thin hand. “There is little point, when I have no appetite. Some coffee, perhaps.”
I summoned Mrs. Hudson, who looked gravely at Holmes as she brought a fresh coffee pot. This was his third day without food.
“Cheer up, old fellow,” I exhorted him as I crushed out the remains of my first cigarette of the day. “Something will come along. You have had stretches between cases before. Why not occupy yourself as usual, with research, until a client appears?”
He pulled at his morning coat to straighten it, and raised his eyes to me. “You are right of course, Watson. I am prone to melancholia between investigations, but it is foolishness itself to allow it to cloud my mind like this. I apologise, old friend, for how I must appear to you.”
“Not at all. After you have finished your coffee, might I suggest we take a walk together? Fresh air will help to clear your head.”
“Always you have my best interests at heart. Very well, a walk it shall be. I recall that your practice is in the care of a locum until the end of the week.”
“I returned early from Cheltenham, so Dr. Topping has a few days left to run.”
As we rose, a coach pulled up outside, and Holmes stiffened like a terrier and turned towards the window.
Moments later the bell rang, and we heard Mrs Hudson hurrying to answer the door.
“It may be that we will postpone our walk, Watson.” Holmes said with the ghost of a smile.
“But you were intending to go out before I mentioned it.”
“How pray, did you deduce that?”
“You are wearing your morning attire,” I observed, “rather than your usual dressing-gown at breakfast as of late.”
“Ha!” He cried, looking pleased. “Truly, I never get your measure, Watson.”
His words were hardly spoken, when the door opened and Mrs Hudson announced our visitor.
“Mr. Avery Quill to see you, Mr. Holmes.”
The man who staggered into the room alarmed me by his appearance, and I saw that Holmes also was taken aback. I was dimly aware of Mrs. Hudson withdrawing, for my attention was riveted on our visitor before the door was quietly closed.
He had been a tall man, but now his body was bent and he moved painfully. His face was as grey as that of a four-day-old corpse, and his sparse hair stood up in disarray. Even from several feet away I could see that his eyes were clouded by grief, and his hands shook as he looked from Holmes to me and back again.
“Good morning, gentlemen. I am here to see Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and I must begin by apologising for having no appointment.”
Holmes’ eyes were fixed upon him, but with concern rather than the usual glitter of anticipation at the prospect of a new client.
“My dear sir,” my friend exclaimed, “you are clearly unwell. Watson, some brandy while our visitor is seated.”
I poured a glass from the sideboard decanter, and put it into Mr. Quill’s hand. He drank deeply and leaned back in the chair, fighting to control his breathing. He closed his eyes and his mouth tightened as the harsh spirit reached his stomach, and I felt a racing pulse in his wrist.
“I must apologise again.” His words were barely audible, but grew stronger as he continued. “As you see, I have been ill. This threat hanging over me will hasten my end.”
Holmes’ keen glance had, I knew, taken in the many signs that this man was not merely ill, but at death’s door. At the same time, I myself observed that his clothing was fairly new and well pressed.
“Please take a few moments to compose yourself,” my friend said, “Then, when you are quite ready, tell us how we may assist you. There is no need for haste.” He saw that our visitor had shot a questioning glance in my direction, and explained my presence at once. “This is my associate and friend, Dr. Watson. He has accompanied me most usefully on many of my previous cases, and I can assure you that his discretion is absolute. Anything you would say to me, you can say to him also.”
Mr. Quill seemed to make a considerable effort and sat up in his chair. He thanked me as I took the empty glass from him.
“I must explain, gentlemen, that I have already taken this matter to the official police force. That was a week past and nothing has come of it. I heard your name favourably mentioned by one of the plainclothes