Sherlock Holmes and The Body Snatchers

P. Turnbloom Dean

Description

With Baron Barlucci escaping London on his way to New York with Abigail Drake, Dr. Watson is certain they've seen the last of the Whitechapel Vampire; Sherlock Holmes isn't so sure. They soon learn the Animus Lacuna, barque of the now infamous Barlucci, was reported lost at sea and a longboat carrying the body of Abigail Drake was recovered by Newfoundland fishermen. But when Inspector Andrews of Scotland Yard arrives to retrieve her remains, the body suddenly disappears and Sherlock Holmes is called in to investigate. "Sherlock Holmes and the Body Snatchers" takes up the story of the Whitechapel Vampire in New York, where Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson meet, work with, and sometimes work against, New York detectives Mylo Strumm and Michael Murray. Holmes and Watson are on a quest to find the missing body of Miss Abigail Drake, while Strumm and Murray are investigating a string of unusual murders that bear a striking resemblance to the 'Ripper' murders in London. Fast-paced and well-researched, "Sherlock Holmes and the Body Snatchers" sequel to "Sherlock Holmes and the Whitechapel Vampire" takes the famous detective out of his familiar London environs and places him in 1888 Manhattan, a place of sin and vice, rivaling the worst London has to offer. Holmes chases his nemesis while he struggles with the enigma Barlucci presents.

Informations

• Publié par: Andrews UK
• Date de parution: 20 décembre 2016
• Nombre de lectures: 1
• EAN13: 9781780925394
• Langue: English

Extrait

Title Page
SHERLOCK HOLMES AND THE BODY SNATCHERS
(WHITECHAPEL VAMPIRE II)


By Dean P. Turnbloom



Publisher Information
Digital edition converted and distributed by
Andrews UK Limited
www.andrewsuk.com
© Copyright 2014 Dean Turnbloom
The right of Dean Turnbloom 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. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The opinions expressed herein are those of the authors and not of MX Publishing.
Published in the UK by MX Publishing
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London, N11 3GX
www.mxpublishing.com
Cover design by www.staunch.com
Grateful acknowledgment to Conan Doyle Estate Ltd. for the use of the Sherlock Holmes characters created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.



Dedication
For Nanette...



Prologue
The canvas topping of the longboat provides little protection from the frigid night air; her hair, dampened by the spray of icy water, stiffens in the wind. Abigail Drake drifts into and out of consciousness, the cold stealing away her life. The storm tosses her from crest to trough to crest. During her more lucid moments she strains to see the silhouette of the Animus Lacuna as it tops a wave. Each time it does her spirit sinks as the lighting flashes show the ship more distant than before.
Cold, disheartened, and exhausted, she fights against the relentless onslaught of sleep, knowing it’s a sleep from which she might never awaken. Only his promise gives her hope - a promise that now seems as remote as her Antonio.
“Can you forgive me?” he’d said as he cradled her in his arms. “I should never have brought you on this journey.”
“Tonietto, don’t. I wanted to come, to be with you.”
“But the ship is lost, the hull breached. I’m not sure how long she’ll hold together. Even with all my strength I can’t protect you, can’t shield you from the storm...from the cold.”
“What will become of us, Tonietto?” tears streaming from her eyes.
“Abigail, you know what I am...you know I will survive...” the plaintive tone in his voice is more chilling than the night air.
“Yes, yes, I know, Tonietto,” she answers. Frightened by his eyes as much as by the ominous sounds of twisting timber and water rushing into the ship, decks below, she draws his arms around her even more tightly.
“But there is a way we can still be together.” His voice takes on a tentative tone, one she has never heard from his lips.
“How? What is it?”
“You must trust me. It won’t be easy for you and you may find it too horrifying to contemplate but it’s the only way.”
“I don’t want to die, Antonio.”
Gently he caresses her face, smiling into her uncomprehending eyes, “I can’t prevent that, but if you trust me, you can survive. We can survive together.”
“But how?” Her eyes plead for an answer.
“Do you trust me?”



Introduction
Once again I set pen to paper in order to chronicle the exploits of my good friend and colleague, Mr. Sherlock Holmes. However, this particular tale is in need of a bit of explanation as it appears to start in the middle of the story. And for good reason, for it is the middle of the story that begins this account. Let me explain.
This tale concerns the vile murderer Baron Antonio Barlucci. With regret, I am unable to relate the entire story of how he became known to us owing to a promise I’ve given both to Mr. Holmes and to the Home Secretary, Mr. Henry Matthews. The reasons for this are varied but it suffices to say that the portion of the story that occurred in England must, of necessity, be omitted.
Anyone who has followed these chronicles must recognize it has been some little while since I’ve found the time to do any writing at all. Scarce as my articles have been since Holmes has retired, they’ve been all but non-existent in recent years. That isn’t to say the material is lacking. I’ve piles upon piles of cases that faithful readers would undoubtedly find entertaining, but for quite some time I’m afraid I’ve been occupied with a number of personal misfortunes that have stayed my pen. Not the least of these was the too recent passing of my adored third wife.
Her sudden illness and subsequent passing caught me so much by surprise that I fell into a fit of despondency. So deep was my depression that I thought it likely I might never climb out of it. There were times, I’m ashamed to say, that I contemplated crossing the Acheron on my own sixpence, so to speak.
I fear my dark mood must have found its way into my correspondence for in less than a week after posting a letter to Sussex, who should show up on my door step but Sherlock Holmes himself. He claimed some pretense about attending a gathering of apiarists in London and hoped I might put him up for a few days. The look on his face when first he saw me made me realize I must be further gone than I imagined.
Just seeing him once again, full of his characteristic vigor, was like a tonic for me. After a few days, during which we reminisced about our adventures together at Baker Street, he admitted to me he suspected I was a bit down and decided to come see for himself. Once satisfied it was nothing irreversible, he recommended my getting back to work again, perhaps writing about one of our former cases. On his suggestion I agreed to take a trip. He told me oftentimes he had noted a change of scenery is just the medicine needed to shake out the doldrums and get a body back in the pink. I suggested, of course, that he accompany me but he declined, saying this was something I needed to do alone.
With his visit concluded, Holmes returned to Sussex and I began to pack for my trip. I gathered my notes from some of the more grotesque cases that lay gathering dust while I was incapacitated with grief. I thought I might take a cruise on the Mediterranean and ready a few for publication. But while searching for a tweed jacket I intended to take upon the trip, I happened upon a leather-bound journal and a small bundle of papers tied up with brown twine. These were the notes I’d kept on the Barlucci case, which became the basis for this account.
I immediately pulled them out and examined them, thinking I might be able to organize them into yet another chronicle of Mr. Sherlock Holmes while on my cruise. As I explored their pages, it became evident to me why I’d not chronicled the story before. The case was, of course, one of the most unusually grotesque I’ve had the pleasure to accompany Holmes upon. But due to the myriad details and loose ends of which Holmes and I were not privy at the time it was quite unsuitable for recording.
I determined at once to change my plans and instead of relaxing on a cruise I should root out those missing details and travel instead to America. I would find the missing pieces and perhaps therein find some usefulness to my remaining life.
Now, having just completed that trip and having composed my notes with all relevant material that can be ascertained assembled, and after consulting once more with Mr. Holmes, I am ready to put the entire story, or rather, that part of the entire story that occurs in America, down on paper. I ask only the forbearance of my audience for certain departures of style, which are owing to the way in which this particular story came together. Where I’ve needed to resort to literary license to reconstruct what is most likely to have occurred based upon the result I’ve checked my reasoning with Mr. Holmes and have received his blessing that it is sound.
I hope I’ve pieced together this extraordinary tale in such a way that does not embarrass anyone who has assisted me in ascertaining the facts as they were, or exasperate any of my faithful readers.



Chapter 1
The end of the beginning...
It was a late November morning in the year 1888 and I was having a leisurely breakfast with Mr. Sherlock Holmes. Mary, my fiancée at that time, was still visiting in the country and Holmes and I were recovering from recent exertions on a case - a case I was under a strict promise not to chronicle, but which is inextricably connected to the case on which we were unknowingly about to embark.
The day was bright, though bitter cold out of doors. We were, however, warm and comfortable with a roaring fire and some of Mrs. Hudson’s finest German sausages and potatoes. A recent trip to France had afforded us a chance to purchase some excellent coffee and while we consumed the breakfast Mrs. Hudson had served, we were both enjoying a steaming cup of espresso from the machine Mr. Holmes had constructed from a design he’d acquired while in Italy during the Moriondo forgery case. I recall with amusement Mrs. Hudson’s reaction to the contraption when Holmes first set it up; she was apparently scandalis ed that he was “distilling spirits under her very roof”.
Although our recent exploits did not turn out in an altogether satisfactory conclusion, our moods were light and carefree as we discussed that part of our endeavors that resulted in the exoneration of a young immigrant wrongly accused of the murder of a young woman on the high seas while they both made their transit from