Sherlock Holmes and the Hampstead Ponies

A. Little John

Description

In this enjoyable Sherlockian short story, a headless baby is discovered upon the heath, forcing Holmes to become a carnie and disappear across Europe in search of her murderer. But when he discovers a more complicated international crime than he first expected, his old pal Watson is needed to help out. This intriguing tale was first published in 2015 in the second collection of the Final Tales of Sherlock Holmes.

Informations

• Publié par: Andrews UK
• Date de parution: 21 février 2017
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781787050624
• Langue: English

Extrait

Sherlock Holmes and the Hampstead Ponies
John A. Little



Publisher Information
First published in 2015
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 2015, 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 Hampstead Ponies
‘Do you know, Watson. My late brother had quite a fondness for this dish.’
For a brief second I imagined that my dear old comrade-in-arms, Sherlock Holmes, was about to display something I had never witnessed before. Emotion. But the moment passed, as I realised he was examining his Weiner Schnitzel with the eyes of the world’s first consulting detective, and finding that something was, indeed, rotten in the state of England.
‘Waiter!’
We were celebrating my birthday with a late supper in Simpsons-In-The-Strand, having spent the early part of the evening guffawing at Buster Keaton’s hilarious antics in ‘Sherlock Jr.’, cinematic evidence that my friend’s fame was now truly international.
It had been some time since the dreadful murders of Sherlock’s brother and father, events that brought us back together after almost twenty years apart. The case had revealed certain details about Holmes’ childhood which helped to explain his ambivalent attitude towards members of the opposite sex. Details that my companion had refused to discuss openly with me, a decision I had willingly accepted. After all, any close friendship between two human beings need not involve complete disclosure about everything in their past. And ours was a covenant, just like that between David and Jonathan in the Book of Samuel. It did not depend upon a selfish end.
I had hoped that further adventures might ensue, but the six months since February had provided precious few problems for Holmes to get his teeth into, apart from the well-publicised but quite simple affair of the bungled theft of the Greenwich Observatory Shepherd Gate Twenty-four hour clock. At least he had broken his cocaine habit, and seemed content in his old age - in early August of 1925 he was an extremely fit grey-haired seventy-one, whereas I was now an overweight white-haired dodderer of seventy-three - to study the latest developments in his field, and to relax by composing and playing his violin music, reading, walking around London and attending the latest concerts and silent motion pictures. His moods no longer vacillated in accordance with his level of boredom. Yet he still did not suffer fools gladly.
‘Waiter!’
A pimply youth scurried through the buzzing dining-area to our table.
‘Yes, s-s-sir? Is s-s-something wrong?’
‘Weiner Schnitzel should be made with veal. This is pork.’
Holmes handed his plate to the stuttering waiter.
‘I’m ... s-s-sorry, Mr Holmes. We’ve r-r-run out of veal. Most c-customers don’t m-m-mind pork. Can I r-r-replace it w-w-with s-some other dish?’
‘I’ll have the stroganoff, provided it’s real beef.’
‘Y-yes, s-s-sir.’
‘Excellent. I perceive that you are new to your job, cannot whistle, have poor hearing, are studying to be a chef during the day, have no siblings and just one parent, an overly-protective mother. You should dab those pimples with horseradish sauce for fifteen minutes. Also I suggest you start reading books out loud to yourself. It’ll teach you how to breathe properly and may even cure your stammer,’ Holmes finished kindly, if somewhat loftily.
The waiter backed away in horror at Holmes’ uncanny revelations, obviously worried at the thought of having to read books.
‘Holmes. The things you do know,’ I murmured.
‘You see, Watso ...’
‘...but I do not observe. The distinction is clear. Just put me out of my misery. Tell me how you did it.’
‘Elementary. You know my method. I have trained myself to see what other people overlook. He is our buxom housekeeper’s first cousin, and she told me all about him this afternoon, when she heard we were dining here.’
‘Hah! Perfectly simple, as usual.’
Holmes sat back in his seat, grinning broadly at his little joke.
‘But the cures for pimples and stuttering ...?’ I queried.
‘... are my own. I looked them up in my medical dictionary before coming out. That’s me. Sherlock Sr., the crime-crushing criminologist, at your service. Remember the rules of detection, Watson, according to Buster Keaton. One : Search everybody. Two : Look for a clue. Three : Shadow your man closely.’
I had not fully adjusted to my colleague’s glittering new personality since he had returned to London from his long sojourn in a Sussex apiary. He claimed it was the result of a regular diet of Royal Jelly, and that his research into the bees’ product had enabled him to distil a serum to slow down his aging process. He had even persuaded me to take the foul stuff. Sometimes I found his lustre a trifle annoying and almost wished that he would return to his usual morose self. Even take to the cocaine needle again. Little did I realise how soon my wish would come true.
‘Do start without me, Watson.’
‘Thank you, Holmes.’ I already had.
‘As you know, I’m normally not that bothered about food. Perhaps my fussiness has something to do with the absence of a decent case to absorb my interest. My mind simply rebels at stagnation. I need work. A problem to solve is all I ask. Where are the murderers, thieves, kidnappers and blackmailers of today? Are they in jail? Have they all retired? Has Scotland Yard improved its service to the public? I doubt that. Is it not strange, Watson, that my profession, the profession I invented, is now depicted humourously in the cinema for all to see, and that there are at least two other consulting detectives at work in London, competing with me for clients?’
‘Really? Who are they?’ This was a game we played from time to time.
‘That appalling Belgian, Poirot, with his waxed moustache and his insufferable little grey cells, and the oh-so-delicate Lord Peter Wimsey, with his crass money and title. They might be getting all the best cases. Someone with a really difficult problem might be mounting their stairs at this very moment.’
‘They are not in your class, Holmes,’ I suggested loyally, between mouthfuls.
‘I agree. But youth is on their side. And we are getting on in years. There. I said it before you had to, Watson.’
He lapsed into a moody silence after this familiar exchange. Soon I noticed the acned waiter had begun to edge nervously through the noisy crowd towards our table again.
‘M-m-mister Holmes. T-telephone f-f-for you.’
Holmes leapt up eagerly and followed Lily Hudson’s cousin out to the foyer. I grabbed the opportunity to finish off my splendid roast partridge in cider, with leeks and smoked bacon. I believe it was George Herbert, that undervalued English poet, who wrote that living well was the best revenge. He hit the nail right on the head. As neither Holmes nor I had been blessed with children, we could afford the little luxuries of old age, fine food and wine being of paramount importance to me.
I had just completed my repast when Holmes returned, all fuss and bother.
‘Come, Watson. That was young Lestrade. Rather desperate, I fear. He needs our help. We must away to Hampstead.’
‘Why?’ I enquired petulantly. I had been planning some dessert. Crème brûlée, perhaps?
‘Because, old fellow, they have found the dead body of a baby girl in some bushes on the Heath.’
‘And what is so unusual about that, may I ask? Modern women are forever leaving their unwanted babies up there.