Sherlock Holmes and The Scarlet Thread of Murder

Benjamen Kuhns Luke

Description

Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson feature in three brand new and exciting adventures that you won't want to miss.The Scarlet Thread of Murder: Three seemingly separate crimes, three detectives. A mysterious stalker is on the loose in London known only as the Goblin Man and his sights are set on a wealthy businessman, David Daniels. A horrific explosion rips through Whitechapel Underground Station and the prime suspect is a Jewish anarchist. And a Mrs Clara Edwards is searching for her missing lover, Philias Jackson. What connects these three? It's a dangerous and complex game that links Sherlock Holmes, Investigator Martin Hewitt, and former Ripper investigator and head of H Division Edmund Reid.A Scandal in America: In 1888 Mr Sherlock Holmes was beat by Irene Adler aka the Woman. After her marriage to Godfrey Norton she left London. Two years later her husband is found dead in his New York office, apparently having committed suicide. Irene Adler believes it to be staged, unable to accept Norton capable of such an end. There is one person, if any, who she can turned to: Sherlock Holmes. Holmes and Watson are headed to America where they must dive into the mysterious life of Godfrey Norton to learn how and why he died. No one is ready for what they learn.The Allegro Mystery: Someone lurks in the shadows and is sending mysterious and haunting letters to the beautiful ballerina, Mademoiselle Dipin. Believing her life to be endangered by a ghost from her past, she bursts into the study of 221b to plead with Sherlock Holmes for aid. Can Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson find and expose her ghost before something terrible happens to their client?The game is afoot.

Informations

• Publié par: Andrews UK
• Date de parution: 05 octobre 2015
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781780927862
• Langue: English

Extrait

Title Page
The Scarlet Thread of Murder
By
Luke Benjamen Kuhns



Publisher Information
First edition published in 2015 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 Luke Benjamen Kuhns
The right of Luke Benjamen Kuhns to be identified as the authors of this work has been asserted by her 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.
Cover layout and construction by www.staunch.com



Dedication
Dedicated to each and every person who plays the game for the game ’s own sake.



The Scarlet Thread of Murder
A Sherlock Holmes, Martin Hewitt, & D.I. Edmund Reid Mystery
Prologue
I don’t believe that I, Doctor John H. Watson, shall ever run dry of the fantastic tales in which I accompanied my great friend, Mr Sherlock Holmes. We had a remarkable and long lasting career, which began in the late Victorian era and even to this day, in our elder years, is still ongoing. Sherlock Holmes, who now lives in Sussex, is still as sharp as ever. I often look over our old cases and wonder which of our tales I should disclose next. Some I do not believe will ever be released, unless I myself have passed from this life. However, it was on a summer day in June 1920 that I came upon a series of notes that had not been touched since late 1890.
Sherlock Holmes, you see, was not the only detective in London. There were a great number of others. What made Sherlock Holmes unique was his singular position as a consulting detective. There was another in the profession who went by the name of Martin Hewitt. His adventures were chronicled by a journalist named Brett, and though they were not as popular as those adventures I shared with Holmes, Mr Hewitt was a brilliant detective with a powerful mind. Holmes’ client list boasted members of the Yard, his brother, and personages of even higher position, while Hewitt did extremely well amongst the general public, when Holmes was otherwise engaged or unavailable. And while Holmes often scolded the efficiency of Scotland Yard there were some officers who shone bright. One of whom was D.I. Edmund Reid of Whitechapel, one of his most notable tasks being his work on the Ripper Case.
In 1890, these three men found themselves tangled in a web of intrigue. It is important to note that the events that transpire in this narrative are compiled from the notes of myself, the journalist Brett, and D.I. Edmund Reid. They have never shared their stories with the public, but they did share their notes with me, making it my responsibility to disclose the outré events that we endured.
Chapter 1
D.I. Edmund Reid
Disaster in Whitechapel
August 1890
Very few things have so shaken my faculties as the events which began on this late Summer’s day. As Detective Inspector of Whitechapel it creates a certain type of immunity. One feels prepared and braced for horrors, both weird and wild. Whilst I sat at my desk at Leman Street buried in piles of paperwork, I found myself suddenly moved by a heart-stopping boom. The windows shook, and I could hear panicked shouts in the street. It did not take long to realise the cause of the incident; it was an explosion in the underground railway. I jolted from my seat and took my hat as I raced outside. I could see a cloud of smoke rising above the buildings. It was coming from the Whitechapel and Mile End station.
Two officers and myself arrived first on the scene. A terrible sight lay before us. More people than I could count had come to watch as smoke poured out of the station entrance. Survivors were stumbling out of the station: men, women, and children coloured grey and black from the heavy smoke were collapsing upon the street. My men immediately began attending to the fallen. I could hear the choking screams of the people still inside unable to find their way out, I covered my mouth with a kerchief and raced inside to help the desperate. The heat within the station was immense, as if walking through a wall of fire. The smoke blocked my vision making it nigh impossible to quickly assist those in need. I stumbled into someone, a woman; I took her by the arm and led her out. She wrapped her arms around me.
“You are safe now,” I informed the woman. Her skin was darkened by the smoke and dirt. Something fell from her person - a silver oval pendent. It opened upon hitting the ground. Inside I noticed a picture of a crown. She took it and clutched it tightly while she coughed.
“Thank you, thank you!” she gasped. I motioned for an officer to take her, and I went back inside. I found the body of a man on the floor, he did not move. I hauled the corpse outside and laid him upon the ground; to my horror, not only had the body been trampled, and bones protruded from his flesh, but his face was severely burned, the skin charred and peeled back. More officers and the fire-brigade arrived as I looked over the charred body. The smoke began to clear as the fire brigade battled what flames were left. In total, it was over four hours before all the bodies were moved and some form of peace restored.
“Detective Inspector,” called Officer Kipling swiftly approaching me. “We need you to come see something.” I followed him down into the wreckage. Looking over the scene it was clear the train had pulled in on time, while passengers were embarking and disembarking the engine had exploded. The two carriages nearest the engine were affected most by the blast, and were now twisted heaps of metal and charred wood. The remaining carriages had been knocked off the tracks, and were black from the fire. Officer Kipling leapt down into the wreckage and I followed. “You see this?” he said, showing me the epicentre of the destruction. “This was no accident. This was a bomb.”
As I looked up and down the line of carriages, the chain reaction of explosions which had followed was utterly devastating. I found myself drifting, thinking about the innocent that were carelessly slain as I gazed upon the destruction.
“Sir... sir?” Kipling’s voice called me back.
“Yes, an explosion,” I confirmed. “I can see that.”
“Suppose it was Jewish rebels?” Kipling asked. “They’ve caused a lot of trouble lately.”
“It could be the Irish, or Scottish, or Welsh!” I snapped. “For all we know it could be the Americans!”
“Americans, sir?” Kipling questioned.
“My point, Officer, is that we know not who it was. Don’t assume blame upon anyone until you have all the facts.”
“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.” Kipling hung his head a moment.
“We need to get this cleaned up... get Mr. White down here first. I want him to take a look before we start removing the scrap,” I ordered,
“Right away, sir.” Kipling darted off out of the abyss.
I continued to look around the dismantled carriages. I observed the bodies that remained. They were horribly charred, unrecognisable. Clothes and flesh ripped open, like a hot knife through butter. A foul stench was trapped in the station, a smell fit only for the seventh circle of hell. The scorched bodies and burning coals stung my sinuses. It would take some time to identify the remains and contact relatives. I thought back on Kipling’s remarks: This could be Jews, or even Irish Rebels. Either way, this was no mistake, the explosion had a purpose not yet known. An extremist at the engine, perhaps?
Whitechapel, these street run wild with moral insanity. Here whores are gutted like pigs, men from the highest ranks of society transform into drunkards and rapists as they indulge in opium and give in to their animalistic urges. It feels as if God himself had turned his face away, leaving me, and a band of men, to battle the devils that haunt this modern Sodom and Gomorrah.
Within the hour, Kipling returned. With him was Mr. Vigo White. A man of average height, with fiery red hair and wild sideburns. He walked towards me, I could see his beady blue eyes surveying the wreckage. He wiped his mouth in amazement at the destruction. Lifting a pair of spectacles from the arch of his pointy nose he rested them atop his head pushing his ginger locks back.
“I found him, Mr. Reid,” Kipling called.
“Thank you for coming,” said I, stretching out my hand towards Mr. White. Setting his case upon the ground, he took my hand.
“Of what service may I be?” Mr. White returned as his observations continued. “Looks like quite the mess.”
“Indeed it is. We found traces of an explosive. I want you to have a look at it and see if we can gather any clues from what is left behind; a maker or seller, perhaps.”
“Don’t you have other people who could do this?” White asked. He took his spectacles into his hands and rubbed them clean with a cloth. He returned the cloth to his grey tweed jacket with exaggerated care. “I don’t even work for the Yard.”
“You don’t work for anyone, you’re a vagabond,” said I.
“I have my experiments and a more than generous lump sum every six months,” said White with a smirk. He enjoyed his anonym