Sherlock Holmes and the Clapham Witch

A. Little John

Description

In this excellent short story, sad old men are throwing themselves under trains for a variety of reasons and Holmes must place himself in harm's way to discover the truth of a rather bewildering case. Bordering on the supernatural, this Sherlockian short was first published in 2016 in the third collection of the Final Tales of Sherlock Holmes.

Informations

• Publié par: Andrews UK
• Date de parution: 16 février 2017
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781787050785
• Langue: English

Extrait

Sherlock Holmes and the Clapham Witch
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.



The Clapham Witch
‘So. Watson. I perceive you have discovered that the baby is to be a male child, and you are hoping he will be called John Hamish Lestrade.’
My old friend and colleague had not budged from his position in front of a bubbling bunsen burner, his back angled away from me.
‘Good God, Holmes! How on earth could you possible know such a thing?’
I really felt I had him this time, and that he was merely playing one of his ridiculous games with me.
‘Simplicity itself, my dear fellow. I can see your face reflected within this glass, and you have been smiling away for the last ten minutes, as you perused the Times Register Of Births column.’
‘Yes, but how did you ... oh, never mind. You are correct as usual. I am reading about the birth of a seven-pound-three-ounce baby boy to Lily and Jasper Lestrade. They have said nothing about a choice of name, though. That was merely an accurate guess on your part. Holmes, do you realise what this means?’
‘Indeed. A squalling infant downstairs to disturb my work. Watson, I think I can rely upon you to cuddle and placate the little beast, when necessary. Will you do that for me?’
‘Oh, of course.’ Privately I was looking forward to having some younger blood around the house.
‘And I never guess, as you know. The fact is that you have been writing the name John Hamish Lestrade several times upon the corner of the newspaper to see what it looks like.’
‘But how ...?’
‘By reversing the letters through the glass. There! That should do it. I shall continue my experiment with hexasulfide of acetone this afternoon.’
Holmes turned around and relit his foulest morning pipe. I moved to open the window.
‘Do we know when our housekeeper will be returning to her duties?’ he continued. ‘I am getting a little tired of eating all my meals at Simpsons, fine though their menu might be.’
‘Lestrade told me it was not an easy birth, and she must remain in situ for at least another three days. Even then she may be too involved with her baby to pay much attention to her two tenants upstairs. Ah. That is much better. Fresh air.’
It had been a long, hot summer in the city. Baker Street looked busy and cheerful beneath the shimmering August sun, although filled with too many Beardmore taxis and motor-buses for my liking. The year 1927 found my old colleague and I sharing our middle-seventies with the London temperature. Holmes was eager for yet another case to tempt his fertile mind. I was damned glad that I had absconded from the Notting Hill murders for some pleasant carp fishing in Kent, when I heard the details of the futile efforts of those venal twins to usurp His Majesty, King George V. Their welcome justice had been realised at the end of a rope. Subsequently my friend and I made a promise to each other over a glass of brandy that there would be no more mention of Jack The Ripper, Stripper, Dipper or Flipper in our lives. Ever again.
‘Is there absolutely nothing of interest in the morning paper, apart from a record of new people?’ enquired Holmes mordantly. ‘No hint of a murder or two, some blackmail or fraud, an assassination, kidnapping or theft of the Crown Jewels?’
Limping over to the rattan chair, I picked up the Times and handed it to my friend.
‘Nothing much,’ I replied. ‘The usual catalogue of minor crimes, but nothing substantial.