Sherlock Holmes and the Shepherds Bushman

A. Little John

Description

In this compelling short story, a dying aborigine appears at 221B Baker Street leading our intrepid duo to travel across the water to an old mining village in Ireland. There, a devious plot is uncovered, but can Watson's heroic actions foil the dastardly scheme? This Sherlockian gem was first published in 2016 in the third volume of The Final Tales of Sherlock Holmes.

Informations

• Publié par: Andrews UK
• Date de parution: 21 février 2017
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781787050723
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 1 Mo

Extrait

Sherlock Holmes and the Shepherds Bushman
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 Shepherds Bushman
‘One club,’ opened Sherlock Holmes, sucking eagerly on his cherrywood.
‘One diamond,’ whispered Jasper Lestrade nervously.
‘One spade,’ I followed dutifully.
‘Two ‘earts’.
‘One no trumps.’ Holmes’ saturnine features were lit by a manic grin.
‘Three hearts. Ahem.’ Jasper was following Lily’s lead, as usual.
‘Eh, three no trumps?’ What was my partner telling me, in some obscure coded fashion?
‘Faur nah tramps.’
‘Seven no trumps.’
‘No bid.’
‘No bid.’ Good grief! A grand slam! Typical Holmes!
‘Dahble.’ Lily upped the anti aggressively.
‘Redouble,’ replied Holmes savagely.
‘No bid.’
‘No bid,’ I reiterated.
‘Nah bid.’
‘All thirteen tricks? Doubled and redoubled? That really is a bit reckless, Holmes. We are already three thousand, four hundred and seventy-five points down. And why do I always have to be the dummy anyway?’ I grunted disconsolately, as I placed my cards in four vertical rows upon the table.
‘There is no answer to a question of such profundity,’ replied the great detective, much to the amusement of Jasper Lestrade and Lily Hudson.
‘Very funny.’ I poured myself another stiff brandy and left the table for the fifth time that evening, grabbing my stick and limping over to the window, from where I could hide my annoyance by observing the passers-by on Baker Street. Now that I had reached the ripe age of seventy-four, my Maiwand wound had deteriorated to the extent that I needed a permanent aid to getting around, and I found myself envying the strollers their comfortable promenade through the hazy November fog. Winter in 1926 was proving to be one of the mildest on record.
Since they had returned from their honeymoon two months earlier, our weekly rubber of bridge with the Scotland Yard detective - son of our old nemesis, George - and his wife, our housekeeper, Lily Hudson, had become a welcome relief for Holmes, if not for me. He had been down in the dumps since the frustrating case of the Hammersmith Hounds, and the subsequent passing of Irene Adler. Time lay heavy upon his shoulders and the absence of a decent murder had led to his return to a daily seven-per-cent solution of cocaine. I had given up trying to control his filthy drug habit. At seventy-two, he was fully entitled to destroy his own body, if that was what he wished to do.
I continued to savour Hennessy’s excellent ‘ drop that cheers ’ with my sixth Arcadia pipe of the day as the threesome played the hand noisily behind me. Gazing out the window, I felt a momentary sense of loss at the memory of those wonderful hissing gas lamps, now fully replaced by modern, silent, electric orbs. The atmosphere on Baker Street seemed entirely different. The shadows did not flicker. Change, change, change. Everything changes. But why?
When Holmes had won his predictable Grand Slam, Jasper enquired, ‘How did you do that? How did you know which cards were spread between Lily and myself? And in Doctor Watson’s hand? Have you developed x-ray vision? Are you a magician?’
‘Neither,’ replied the great detective, gathering the cards, shuffling them, and passing them over to Lestrade. ‘Having had nothing better to do, and not liking to lose at anything, I spent some time studying the Vanderbilt bidding system of contract bridge, which was published earlier this year in an edition of the New York Times. Also I know the good doctor so well that I can read his mind, especially if he insists on holding his cards up in front of the mirror on the wall behind hi...’
‘Holmes!’ I cried. ‘Come here, quick!’
I had spotted a giant figure staggering across the road. He looked as though he was about to collapse on the street. Instead he stopped right in the middle of the traffic, gazed up at me with intense loathing and shook his fist accusingly, before staggering on, completely indifferent to honking horns and irate cab drivers. What had startled me was his dense head of wild hair and black contorted features. Not since that same Afghan war had I witnessed such malevolence in a human visage. Were it not for his upright gait, I might have taken him for a member of the animal kingdom. An ape or gorilla, perhaps. Escaped from some zoo.
Before my friend had time to move, the front doorbell shattered the evening calm with a peal that echoed shrilly through the house.
‘Ah’ll gehhit,’ said Lily.
‘No, you won’t!’ I insisted firmly. ‘It could be dangerous. Lestrade? Will you come with me downstairs? Just give me a second to fetch my Webley.’
In the end all four of us were standing inquisitively in the hall as Lestrade edged the front door back cautiously to reveal the same monstrous character, his wild yellow eyes glaring at each one of us in turn from within their paint-striped countenance, and his huge arms spreading across the wide jamb in supplication, like Our Saviour upon the Cross. Then he screamed the same word twice - ‘ cooee’, ‘cooee’, his eyes disappeared up into his head, and he fell facedown onto the hall rug with a resounding wallop that rocked the building to its rafters.
I felt for a pulse, but could find none.
‘Dead,’ I stated flatly. ‘He has entered the dark valley in which all paths meet.’
‘Hardly surprising,’ mused Holmes, as he pointed to a slender stiletto, lodged in the giant’s left side. ‘This looks like a case for Scotland Yard, Lestrade. I think we can discount suicide. I wonder what he wanted at 221B?’
‘He seemed to be very angry at someone in this house,’ I suggested. ‘He shook his fist at me from the street.’
Jasper looked even more shocked than his new wife at the sight of the corpse. I wondered how many dead people he had seen in his career to date.
‘’e’s an Abo,’ said Lily matter-of-factly. ‘Oi read abaht ‘em in thah nusepaiper. Thay eat woims, an’ foxes, an’ ‘orrible fings loik thah.’
‘That is correct, Lily,’ said Holmes. ‘He is an aborigine. From within Australia, I would guess. Some people call them bushmen. They also happen to be a part of the oldest surviving human culture in the world, at about fifty thousand years. Well, Lestrade?’
I guessed that Holmes was seeking the detective’s permission to become involved in what promised to be a fascinating new case. As well as showing off his knowledge of the nonsensical ramblings of that Darwin lunatic, of course.
‘I will set the wheels of an investigation in motion,’ replied Lestrade. ‘Perhaps you could apply your experience to the matter, Mr. Holmes?’
‘Of course. Let us see what we can find.’
With that, Holmes knelt down abruptly and hauled the body unceremoniously onto its back, taking care not to touch the knife. ‘Most interesting. Quite an unusually fine wool. Cheviot, I do believe,’ he muttered, picking fluffs of a white substance from the surface of the coat. He felt the lining all around and searched the deep pockets, removing a comb, a wad of banknotes, a few coins, a faded photograph, a strange curved instrument and a pair of live worms that wriggled about on the floor before a hysterical Lily stamped on them. He felt the man’s fingers, checked under his nails and removed a red scarf from around his neck. Like some kind of dog, the poor chap wore a black collar with white letters stencilled into it. Holmes felt for the clasp to the rear and removed it.