Sherlock Holmes and the Battersea Fetishists

A. Little John

Description

In this compelling short story a secret society is hiding some truly murderous rituals. Watson's membership of the organisation enables him and his long-standing partner to identify a killer; a killer who happens to be a well-known politician who has risen to the rank of Sovereign Inspector-General within the arcane society...This Sherlockian gem was first published in 2016 in the third collection of the Final Tales of Sherlock Holmes.

Informations

• Publié par: Andrews UK
• Date de parution: 06 février 2017
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781787050808
• Langue: English

Extrait

Sherlock Holmes And The Battersea Fetishists
John A. Little



Publisher Information
First published in 2016
This edition published in 2017 by
MX Publishing
335 Princess Park Manor, Royal Drive
London, N11 3GX
www.mxpublishing.com
Digital edition converted and distributed by
Andrews UK Limited
www.andrewsuk.com
© Copyright 2016, 2017 John A. Little
The right of John A. Little 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 and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The opinions expressed herein belong to the author and do not necessarily reflect those of MX Publishing or Andrews UK Limited.
Cover design by www.staunch.com



The Battersea Fetishists.
After a gap of almost forty years, I am now in a position to release this particular story, which was withheld from publication at the time, in order to protect the reputation of a certain secret organisation. The events took place in March of 1889, shortly before the marriage to my first wife, Mary Morstan, may God rest her precious soul.
How well I can recall the London of those days! The hissing gas lamps, the dense choking fogs, the wonderful horse-drawn growlers and the musical clacking of their hooves along the cobbled streets, Her Majesty still upon the throne. Not a single Beardmore taxi to be heard. The city seemed so full of life then! As, of course, were the great detective and myself.
Holmes had spent a frustrating winter with little detective work on his plate since the strange but satisfying case of the disappearing racehorse called Silver Blaze , that featured the curious incident of the dog in the night-time, whereas I had been completely involved in preparations for my forthcoming wedding.
***
I have never divulged my membership of the Masonic Order to that cynical friend of mine called Sherlock Holmes, although he must be aware that my periodic absences from Baker Street every fourth Tuesday evening might have nothing whatsoever to do with billiards and Thurston and everything to do with the solemn rites of freemasonry ritual. Whisper it not, but between you, me and the gatepost, I am a York Rite Master Mason, who has undergone the third degree initiation ceremony, and am therefore entitled to take on the role of Worshipful Master at meetings. I also have a strong family connection to the Order, in that my father was raised to the position of twenty-fifth degree Knight Of The Brazen Serpent in the Scottish Rite, a title that would have my old colleague in absolute tears of howling laughter if I were to summon up sufficient courage to tell him. And as I am sworn to secrecy on the subject, that is all I will say about my own status within the brethren. I mention it merely because the Order has a significant role to play in the appalling tale of murder I am about to relate, and in the certain knowledge that Holmes will never read my report of it. After complaining bitterly about my romantic, unscientific approach to the problems we encountered in our first few adventures, he ceased to be interested in reading any of them, more’s the pity.
The word freemasonry means a system of morality that lies hidden in allegory and is illustrated by symbols. There should be an instinctive sympathy between its members, who are supposed to be searching for the lost union between man and God. The cliches are often stated that freemasonry is not a secret society, but it is a society that has secrets, and that it is a philanthropic organisation, dedicated to the mutual benefit of its members and their widows and orphans. Brotherly love, really. The events in the following tale will prove that this is not always the case. Do forgive me, pater. You are, I am certain, up there in Heaven, sitting on the right hand side of God the Father Almighty, but if I have learnt anything from my time with Holmes, it is that I must always search for the truth in everything. Secret or not.
The city had begun to calm down after the terrible murders of the previous year, when Jack The Ripper was spreading terror through the alleyways of Whitechapel. Although an occasional prostitute was still being killed in that part of London, the method lacked the Ripper’s trademark butchery, and the story had become yesterday’s news to the tabloids. It was assumed that the villain had either retired, vanished, or better still, passed away.
‘Well. How do I look?’
I was standing to attention in front of Holmes’ chair by the fireside, dressed in my Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers uniform, complete with medals, epaulettes, sword with flaming grenade at its hilt, blue beret and red over white plume.
‘Great heavens, Watson!’ exclaimed my old friend. ‘Has someone started another war? Don’t tell me you are on your way back to Afghanistan!’
‘I am getting married in my army uniform,’ I replied testily. ‘It is no matter to me if you think my attire is unsuitable for the occasion. Mary likes it.’
‘Watson! Do forgive me. Marriage must be such an important event in one’s life. I suppose.’
Holmes leapt out of his seat and started to inspect me, as though he was a brigadier general and I was a private on parade. Without removing his pipe, he flicked his fingers at imaginary dust motes upon my sleeve, straightened out my tie, adjusted my beret and examined my shoes closely, until I could stand no more of his ironic nonsense and collapsed onto the sofa in complete misery.
‘My dear chap. What is the matter?’ asked Holmes.
‘Nerves. Just nerves. I am worried that I will not be a worthy husband to Miss Mary Morstan. She is such a beautiful woman and I am an overweight, middle-aged doctor with a painful leg wound, who has just bought out an unsuccessful medical practice in Paddington. Will I be able to cope?’
Holmes settled himself once more upon the sofa, picked up the Times and commenced to read it silently. But after a few moments the newspaper began to shake as he was unable to control his laughter. I was about to storm out of the sitting room in disgust when the door opened and Mrs Hudson entered, carrying a welcome lunch tray. She was followed by the enormous rolling girth of Mycroft Holmes, wheezing noisily from the effort of climbing the seventeen stairs to our room.
‘Here you are, gentlemen. I have included provisions for a third party, as I thought you might wish Mr Mycroft to join you at the table,’ she said.
‘Of course, of course,’ cried my friend, jumping up again and knocking out his pipe. ‘Mycroft, old chap, how are you? Let me take your coat. Is it still snowing? Do sit down. Pay no attention to the good Dr Watson. He is on his way to a fancy dress ball. Thank you, Mrs Hudson. That will be all.’
Sherlock’s elder brother kept glancing at me in alarm until I explained the true situation to him. Over lunch it transpired that he had an excellent reason for his visit.
‘I have come to you, Sherlock, with a delicate matter, that requires the utmost discretion. The very reputation of the current government might be at stake.’
‘My dear brother, what else would drag you away from your beloved Whitehall or the Diogenes Club at this time of day?