Sherlock Holmes the Golden Years

H. Krisco Kim

Description

Sherlock Holmes lamented, "I fear that retirement will elude me." It surely does in this five-story chronicle:The saga begins with The Bonnie Bag of Bones that lead the infamous duo on a not-so-merry chase into the mythical mountains of Scotland and ultimately to the "the woman" who is tangled within a mystery that has haunted Holmes for a quarter century.Curse of the Black Feather continues the adventure in which Holmes teams up with the Irregulars and a gypsy matriarch, to expose a diabolical "baby-farming" enterprise. Their quest arouses a vicious adversary, Ciaran Malastier, who has Holmes struggling for his very life.Maestro of Mysteries begins with a summons to Mycroft's office and ends with a deadly chase in Undertown, far beneath the streets of London. Malastier escapes, but only into the next adventure.The Cure that Kills sees Holmes and Watson in hot pursuit of Ciaran Malastier, racing across America and pitting them against the largest detective organization in the world.In the final story, The Kongo Nkis Spirit Train, Holmes and Watson travel to the Dark Continent to derail a "spirit train" that ensnares people's spirit, and enslaves their bodies.In the end, this historically accurate chronicle sheds new light on greatest mystery of all, Sherlock Holmes himself.

Informations

• Publié par: Andrews UK
• Date de parution: 20 décembre 2016
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781780926728
• Langue: English

Extrait

Title page
Sherlock Holmes — The Golden Years
Kim H. Krisco



Publisher information
© Copyright 2014
Kim H. Krisco
2014 digital version by Andrews UK Limited
www.andrewsuk.com
The right of Kim H. Krisco 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 or used fictitiously. Except for certain historical personages, 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.
Originally published in the UK by MX Publishing
335 Princess Park Manor, Royal Drive,
London, N11 3GX
www.mxpublishing.co.uk
Cover design by www.staunch.com
Edited by Joe Revill.



Acknowledgements
If you could, in reality, see what lies beneath the author’s name on the cover, you might see many names—stretching back to my second grade teacher, Sister Mary Frances, who awarded me a Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer snow globe for a Christmas story I wrote sixty-one years ago. However, let me focus my gratitude on those people who directly contributed to the writing of this book:
Sir Arthur Conan Doyle—the consummate storyteller. I hope that you will see his inspiration in these stories.
Dan Andriacco—whose books I sought when I needed “more Holmes.” When I reached out to him as a fellow author, he was available, helpful and encouraging.
Steve Emecz—whose love for Sherlock Holmes ripples out to an international audience of Holmes aficionados, through his works, and via authors like me, whom he supports, encourages, and publishes.
Bob Gibson—a talented artist who designed and rendered a cover that captures the “spirit” of this collection.
Joe Revill—a talented author, who generously gave his time and talents to make this a better book. His editorial guidance would make Holmes proud.
Sara Rose—who consistently reminds me to taste life—not just write about it.
And you —who complete the human connection that writing, and all art, is about. Thank you.



Preface
These five, totally new, Sherlock Holmes adventures take place after Holmes and Watson believe they have gone into retirement. Of course, you and I know, such a notion is irrealizable for either of them. Indeed, some of their most remarkable, and dangerous, adventures await them.
While each story is a separate adventure, the five tales within this collection follow one another chronologically. Some characters move from one story to the next as well. Therefore, it is suggested that you read each of the stories in the order in which they appear in this book.
While it is not necessary to be familiar with Doyle’s Sherlock Holmes stories in order to enjoy this collection, it would definitely enhance your reading experience. Certainly, if you are not already a Sherlock Holmes fan, it is hoped that these stories will encourage you to indulge in the original canon, as well as the many excellent stories and books from MX Publishing that are keeping the spirit of Holmes and Watson alive in the world.
Finally, this collection is only the first of the “golden years adventures.” You can look forward to more.



The Bonnie Bag of Bones
The Golden Years , as they are called, were becoming colourless for me. Holmes had long since moved from London to Sussex Downs to play the part of a gentrified English gentleman. As he predicted prior to his relocation, “I am ready to leave my profession, however I fear retirement will elude me.”
Since our separation, our meetings had become more and more infrequent. So, I was much surprised to receive his telegram in April of the year 1912:
WATSON
KNOWING HOW OUR TURBULENT WORLD NEEDS REASON MORE THAN EVER AM MISTIFIED AT YOUR LATEST OFFERING TO THE GULLIBLE MASSES.
YOU ARE PANDERING TO SUPERSTITION STOP
HOLMES
This brusque missive, no doubt, alluded to my latest series of articles for The Strand Magazine chronicling the mythology of the British Isles. I will admit to some small poetic licence as I retold folk stories that are as much a part of our culture as roast beef and Yorkshire pudding. However, Holmes’s assessment chaffed me. It was an affront to my character, and I intended to tell him to his face.
It took no small effort to find my way to his cottage. His modest dwelling sat adjacent to the Eastbourne to Brighton Road less than a mile from salt water. Unlike the craggy cliffs to the north, green hillocks rose from the channel, undulating ever higher to his modest estate. This verdant setting offered protection for his precious bees.
I arrived at a traditional thatched roof stone cottage. It was larger than I had imagined, with its huge pitched roof no doubt housing two or more bedrooms. The overgrown walkway led to a white plank door flanked symmetrically by two windows with questionable glazing. It was hard to imagine my cosmopolitan friend resting in this bucolic locale.
The anticipation of seeing my dear comrade again was barely contained. Get a hold, you old fool , I told myself. I took a moment to catch my breath before I knocked. When the second knock failed, I walked to the back of his lodgings and spied him across the laurel-clumped lawn, deep within a neglected garden, hunched over one of his hive boxes. As I approached, he spoke without turning to me.
“Honey is very precious, Watson. I estimate it takes the year-long toil of many hundreds of bees to produce one pound of honey.”
“Interesting, Holmes, but I did not make this trip to talk of bees.”
Ignoring me, Holmes continued.
“Honey is a natural healing potion, Watson. Alexander the Great was embalmed with it.”
Before I could intervene, he turned and looked at me sheepishly.
“No doubt my telegram brought you, my friend,” he said, as he removed his gloves and protective head-dress.
“Indeed, Holmes, you are insufferable at times.”
“My dear fellow,” said he, in an unusually effusive manner, “I apologize for causing offence, but your latest installment in the Strand , you must admit, falls into the realm of ghosts and goblins. The Grey Man of Ben MacDhui… really!”
“I might ask what you know about it, Holmes.”
My huffing seemed to bring a smile to his lips as he added, “I have missed you, my friend.”
He took my arm to walk us back toward his lodgings. However, he would not allow us to bask in sentimentality for long.
“Ben MacDhui, I believe, is the second highest peak in Britain. It’s situated among the Cairngorms, which I have always thought are Britain’s grandest range.” He paused. “As for this Grey Man creature, you must know that it is but shadows in the gloom—a figment of imaginations soggy with usquebaugh.”
“It’s funny you should mention that, Holmes,” I noted. “My first encounter with the Grey Man tale was at the Days of Yore inn in Aviemore. I had received a telegram from the innkeeper, who, evidently, had been reading my collection of stories. Bones were discovered upon Ben MacDhui, and he invited me to see them.”
Holmes and I walked through the open back door into the kitchen. He scrambled across the brick floor to the stove and began stoking the coals as well as his own curiosity. As he set the kettle on, he quipped, “No doubt, these were the bones of the Grey Man.”
“On the contrary. They were human bones.”
Holmes remained motionless at the stove, his back to me still.
“Really, Watson.” He turned to me with raised eyebrows, and a familiar glint in his eyes. “Pray, tell me more.”
“As I said, I received a telegram from a Mr. Duncan Munro at the Days of Yore asking that I come as his guest to examine the bones, which he felt may be those of the Grey Man,” I recollected. “So, I decided to take a bit of a walking holiday and visit the inn.”
“And, what, precisely, did you find there, Watson?”
“The premises seemed to be in disrepair and offered the barest of accommodations. The tavern was dark and fusty, and there was but one gentleman sitting at the bar. When I approached, Munro popped up from behind the counter and greeted me. He was a huge man with a face as craggy as the local foothills. When I made my introduction to Mr. Munro, his entire countenance lighted up. He thanked me for coming, offered me a drink, and began his tale.”
“You would say then, that the inn was a less than successful enterprise, Watson?”
“I would say so.”
“Did he show you the bones?”
“Only after recounting the strange reckonings of this grim creature he referred to as Fear Liath Mòr,” I said. “It seems that strange sightings and experiences, over the last several centuries, have amalgamated into a popular image of a huge, ape-like creature that has the malign power to send people into a blind panic down Ben MacDhui Mountain. Some have said that the creature attempted to push them over the steep cliffs of Lurcher’s Crag.”
“Blind superstition, Watson. The bones… tell me about the bones.”
“Eventually, Munro hauled a musty sack from under the bar and placed it in front of me. As he did, a friendless gentleman at the bar leaned closer. I pulled the bones out of the bag one at a time.”
“And…”
“There was a human skull—actually, part of a skull—the