by J. R. Rain
SHERLOCK HOLMES
and the Missing Shakespeare
by
J.R. RAIN
and CHANEL SMITH
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My Big Fat Accidental Superheroine Wedding
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The Vampire With the Dragon Tattoo
The Vampire Who Played Dead
The Vampire in the Iron Mask
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Aladdin Relighted
Aladdin Sins Bad
Aladdin and the Flying Dutchman
THE WALKING PLAGUE TRILOGY
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Bad Blood
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Chronology
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Naughty or Nice
Sherlock Holmes and the Missing Shakespeare
Published by J.R. Rain
Copyright © 2016 by J.R. Rain
All rights reserved.
Ebook Edition, License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. All rights reserved.
Sherlock Holmes
and the Missing Shakespeare
Introduction:
Mr. Sherlock Holmes
The simplicity with which the details of this latest case fell into place was not particularly unusual but it had amazed nonetheless for it.
Even now, as I think back to the mystery of the Missing Shakespeare, I am hard pressed to comprehend all the fine details of how my friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, had ever managed to unravel some of the key evidence surrounding the matter. At the time, I had chalked up a lot of his cursory deductions to his in-depth knowledge of the British aristocracy; the man is a veritable walking glossary for Burke’s Peerage, Baronetage and Knightage. It was only later, as I put pen to paper to transcribe our adventure in my journals, that it occurred to me just how he’d done it.
Backward reasoning was what Sherlock called it; the ability to recreate a sequence of events which produced a result.
In my reverie and my renewed admiration for Mr. Holmes, I was taken back to how I’d completely and unexpectedly met my dear friend and colleague all those years ago. Some might even say randomly, but not Holmes. No, he believed quite rigidly that everything meant something, everything had a purpose for happening or existing.
In 1878, I had received my degree of Doctor of Medicine from the University of London, and proceeded to enroll myself in the course prescribed for surgeons in the army. But when the training was completed, I was attached to the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, a regiment that was stationed in India at the time, as an Assistant Surgeon. And before I could join them, the second Afghan war broke out.
I served at the fatal battle of Maiwand where I was shot in the shoulder. The bullet shattered the bone and grazed the subclavian artery. At that point, I might have fallen into the hands of the enemy but Murray, my orderly, managed to transport me away fro
m the battlefield and safely back behind British lines.
I rallied from my wounds in the hospital and had improved greatly when I was suddenly struck down by enteric fever. For months, I was in despair for my life when at last I came to myself and finally began to convalesce. I was so weak by then that I was immediately sent back to England.
Naturally, I made my way to London; a city where fortunate and unfortunate alike mingled freely. Despairingly, I was in the latter category, for I had neither kith nor kin there, only an army pension of eleven shillings and sixpence a day. Oh, and regular sessions with a mental therapist to carry me through the transition.
I resided for some time at a private hotel in the Strand, where I managed only to spend what money I had in a considerably freer way than I should have. Soon, the state of my finances became so alarming that it was clear I would either have to leave the metropolis for somewhere in the country, or make a change in my style of living. Of course, having grown accustomed to city life, I chose the latter alternative, and decided to look for some less pretentious and less expensive domicile.
On that very same day, I was standing at the Criterion Bar, when I was tapped on the shoulder by a young man I recognized as having worked as a dresser under me at Bart’s Clothing before the war. Stamford was suddenly a friendly face for me in the great wilderness of London. I greeted him with enthusiasm, and, in turn, he appeared to be delighted to see me. In the exuberance of the moment, I asked him to lunch with me at the Holborn, and we set off to our destination in a hansom cab.
On the ride over, I gave him a summary of my adventures, and hardly managed to conclude the tale by the time we reached our terminus.
“Poor devil!” he’d said. “What are you up to now?”
“Looking for lodgings,” I’d replied. “In particular, a comfortable room at a reasonable price.”
“That’s a strange thing. You are the second man that has expressed this need to me today.”
“And who was the first?” I’d asked.
“A fellow who is working in the laboratory up at the hospital. He was rather upset this morning because he could not get someone to go halves with him in some nice rooms he had found, but were too much for his own limited purse.”
“By Jove!” I’d cried. “If he really seeks someone to share the rooms and the expense, I am the very man for him. I should prefer having a partner to being alone.”
And with that, Stamford had taken me to meet Mr. Sherlock Holmes and I could never, with clear conscience, record that the encounter had been anything but bizarre. Despite the strangeness of the whole affair, however, he had turned out to be quite a memorable man and one whose convictions I could agree with. So, I broached the subject of sharing residences with him. Sherlock Holmes seemed delighted at the idea of sharing his nice rooms with me.
“I have my eye on a suite of rooms on Baker Street,” he’d said. “I do believe that they would suit us rather well. You don’t mind the smell of strong tobacco, do you?”
I shook my head. “I always smoke ‘ships’ myself.”
“That’s good enough. I occasionally conduct experiments and almost always have chemicals about. Not too annoying, I hope?”
“By no means.”
“Let me see—what are my other shortcomings? It’s just as well for two fellows to know the worst of one another before they begin to live together, wouldn’t you agree?”
I agreed and laughed at this cross-examination, then threw in my two pence. “I object to rows because my nerves are shaken, I get up at all sorts of ungodly hours and I am extremely lazy.”
“After effects of the conflict in Afghanistan, eh?” he’d surmised more than asked.
I nodded and continued, “Often, I record my days or interesting things of notice in a journal. I do that to calm my frayed nerves, and when I journal, I am prone to become somewhat withdrawn. There is a whole other set of vices I exhibit when I’m well, but those are the principle ones.”
“Do you include violin-playing in your category of rows?” he’d asked, anxiously.
“It depends on the player,” I’d answered. “A well-played violin is a treat to the ears—a badly-played one, however, is altogether another matter!”
“Then it’s all quite set then, isn’t it?” he’d cried out, laughing merrily. “I think we might consider it settled—that is, if the rooms are agreeable enough.”
“When shall we see them?”
“At noon tomorrow. Call for me here and we’ll go together and get everything settled,” he answered.
“All right—noon it is,” I’d said, shaking his hand.
We left him working among his chemicals, and Stamford and I walked back toward my hotel.
“By the way,” I’d asked suddenly, stopping and turning upon Stamford, “how the devil did he know that I had been in Afghanistan?”
My friend smiled an enigmatic smile. “That’s just one of Holmes’s little peculiarities,” he’d said. “And believe me, a good many people have wanted to know how he finds things out.”
“Oh! A mystery is it?” I’d cried out, rubbing my hands together at the thought of a challenge. “This is all very piquant. On a more serious note, though, I am quite obliged to you for bringing us together. ‘The proper study of mankind is man’, as they say.” For I am always eager to learn, especially from my fellow man.
“You must study him, then,” Stamford had said. “You’ll find him a knotty problem, though. I’ll wager he learns more about you in a thrice than you ever do about him in a lifetime.”
We said our goodbyes and I strolled on to my hotel, completely obsessed with my new acquaintance.
The very next day we inspected the rooms at number 221b, Baker Street, just as we had arranged at our meeting... and that was the beginning of it all. And you all know how things progressed from there, don’t you—the adventures, the mystery, the murders, and, eventually, my own marriage? Yes, I’m absolutely positive that you do. Call it a deduction of my own.
So you see, my dear friends, our choices in life lead us down many roads. Most of the time, we are quite hard pressed to decipher where the destination will be and those are the times when we should try to enjoy the journey the most. Indeed, my own convoluted road had been leading me to Sherlock Holmes my entire life, and I would have it no other way.
John Watson, M.D.
Chapter One:
A Great Discovery
‘Elementary,’ he said. ‘It is one of those instances where the reasoner can produce an effect which seems remarkable to his neighbor, because the latter has missed the one little point which is the basis of the deduction.’ —Sherlock Holmes
I cannot now recall the exact date I dropped by Baker Street. It was a typical English summer day, though, with the rain lashing down in copious amounts. I had been visiting a patient close by when the rain broke and, knowing I would always have a welcome at Baker Street, I made the detour to escape the downpour.
The housekeeper opened the door and allowed me entrance to the hallway. I gave her my drenched coat and proceeded upstairs to the study, where I knew I would find my old friend.
“How goes it, Watson?” Holmes asked before I even entered the room.
Opening the door, I found Holmes in his usual chair, turned toward the fire, the chair preventing him from seeing the door.
“How did you know it was me, Holmes?”
“Who else could be coming in at this hour of the day... and in the middle of this torrent?” He looked around at me and smiled. “And the sound of those big regimental boots of yours that you persist in wearing when trudging around town is quite distinctive.”
“Ah.” That was the only answer I could muster in response to his conclusion.
“Sit yourself down, Watson,” Holmes said. “You ought to take advantage of the fire and get yourself dry before you catch a cold.”
“Thank you, Holmes.” I made my way to the other side of the fire where my usual chair was placed. From that vanta
ge point, I immediately observed Holmes was holding something on his lap. “What is that you have there, Holmes?” asked I.
“It is a missing play by the Great Bard himself.”
“Shakespeare?” I asked, perplexed by the curious string of words uttered by my good friend. “And did you say missing?”
“Who else? And yes.”
“Are you absolutely sure, Holmes?”
“Indeed, my dear Watson. It came to me today, and I am quite sure of its authenticity. As it turns out, I just happen to know a thing or two about the old boy.”
I blinked, digesting this news, and looked again at the bundled manuscript that lay on my dear friend’s lap. Holmes’s long, white fingers held the document delicately. Meanwhile, the fire crackled and popped in the hearth, and the occasional, mischievous gust of wind blew the curtains out like lilac ghosts.
“But how did you come by it, Holmes?” I asked, quite perplexed. “And whoever heard of a missing Shakespearean play, anyway?”
“It was a bit of a mystery.”
“Which you have already uncannily solved?”
“Of course, Watson.”
“Well, Holmes, do not leave me on tenterhooks. What is the mystery?”
“Was the mystery, Watson; it has already been solved.”
“You are being as elusive and frustrating as ever, Holmes. Very frustrating indeed.”
He placed the palms of his hands flat against the manuscript and tapped his boot to some unheard music. “Patience, Watson. All in good time.”
“Come, out with it, Holmes,” I said in slight agitation. “The least you can say is how you came about having it.”
“All shall be explained to you in due time, my dear friend.” Holmes smiled and looked up at the ceiling, closing his eyes. He put his fingers together, resting his elbows on the armrests of the chair. “That is, about an hour after we have indulged in our evening tea, I should say. We are, of course, proper gentlemen.”
I sighed. “Of course.”