Sherlock Holmes Never Dies - Collection Three: New Sherlock Holmes Mysteries - Second Edition (Boxed Sets Book 3)

Home > Other > Sherlock Holmes Never Dies - Collection Three: New Sherlock Holmes Mysteries - Second Edition (Boxed Sets Book 3) > Page 1
Sherlock Holmes Never Dies - Collection Three: New Sherlock Holmes Mysteries - Second Edition (Boxed Sets Book 3) Page 1

by Craig Stephen Copland




  Sherlock Holmes

  Never Dies

  Collection Three of

  New Sherlock Holmes Mysteries

  The Engineer's Mom

  The Notable Bachelorette

  The Beryl Anarchists

  The Coiffured Bitches

  By Craig Stephen Copland

  Note to Sherlockians

  T hese four novellas are pastiche stories of Sherlock Holmes. The characters of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson are modeled on the characters that we have come to love in the original sixty Sherlock Holmes stories by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

  The settings in the late Victorian and Edwardian eras are also maintained. Each new mystery is inspired by one of the stories in the original sacred canon. The characters and some of the introductions are respectfully borrowed, and then a new mystery develops.

  If you have never read the original story that served as the inspiration of the new one—or if you have but it was a long time ago—then you are encouraged to do so before reading the new story in this book. Your enjoyment of the new mystery will be enhanced.

  Some new characters are introduced and the female characters have a significantly stronger role than they did in the original stories. I hope that I have not offended any of my fellow Sherlockians by doing so but, after all, a hundred years have passed and some things have changed.

  The historical events that are connected to these new stories are, for the most part, accurately described and dated. Your comments, suggestions, and corrections are welcomed on all aspects of the stories.

  I am deeply indebted to The Bootmakers of Toronto (the Sherlock Holmes Society of Canada) not only for their dedication to the adventures of Sherlock Holmes but also to their holding of a contest for the writing of a new Sherlock Holmes mystery. My winning entry into that contest led to the joy of continuing to write more Sherlock Holmes mysteries.

  Over the next few years, it is my intention to write a new mystery inspired by each one of the sixty original stories. They will appear in the same chronological order as the original canon appeared in the pages of The Strand. Should you wish to subscribe to these new stories and receive them in digital form as they are released, please visit www.SherlockHolmesMystery.com and sign up.

  Wishing joyful reading and re-reading to all faithful Sherlockians.

  Respecfully,

  CSC

  Contents

  The Engineer's Mom

  The Notable Bachelorette

  The Beryl Anarchists

  The Coiffured Bitches

  About the Author

  More Historical Mysteries by Craig Stephen Copland

  The Adventure of the Engineer’s Mom

  Chapter One

  The Wounded Engineer

  THE CONTRAST BETWEEN THE PLEASANT SERENITY of the locale of my new medical practice and the strange and brutal events of the case that began there could not be more stark and unforgettable. It was only the second case that I had introduced to the notice of my friend and former roommate, Sherlock Holmes, and although it began as no more than a concern for finding an aging parent, it escalated into one of international intrigue, greed, guile, and murder. There have been several brief accounts in the press; all incomplete and misleading. It is useful, therefore, to place the details of the case, The Adventure of the Engineer’s Mom, now upon record en bloc so that the citizens of Britain, the Empire, and those other countries who follow the adventures of Sherlock Holmes may have a full understanding of how he put his unique powers of imagination and deduction to work in bringing a solution to this mystery.

  The year of Our Lord 1899 brought England the coldest summer in living memory. Some of the scientists down in Greenwich were claiming that the frigid weather was caused by all of the coal gas and dust our factories were belching into the atmosphere and blocking out the sunlight. They were prophesying that if we did not mend our ways the next ice age would soon be upon us. Others said that it was no more than a passing instance wrought by the massive explosion of the Krakatoa volcano on the other side of the globe and that it was only a hiccup in Nature’s grand scheme and would soon pass. Regardless, the weather had been miserable, even for England.

  I had recently opened a surgery just north of Paddington Station and within sight of that part of England’s Grand Canal that had been dubbed our Little Venice. The poet who gave it that name, the one the wags called Alfie Tennis Anyone, can be forgiven his pretensions and exaggeration since this quiet corner of our great metropolis had long ceased to be an industrial harbor. It had become a garden of delight where ladies and gentlemen and families with children went to enjoy the view of the small lake and the sounds of the abundant bird life. The greatest disturbance was likely to be no more than a barking dog or a screeching infant.

  What had begun as a mere trickle of patients to my surgery had turned into a steady flow. I had advertised at Paddington Station amongst the railway employees and a growing number of them had found it convenient to drop in to see me once their shifts had ended. Most of them had nothing wrong with them that a prescription of one or two good nights’ sleep would not cure, yet they swore by my healing abilities when their symptoms vanished and proceeded to refer their railway colleagues and passengers to me. One chap, Terrance Fitzmorris, had a dreadful and embarrassing cough that he feared was caused by tuberculosis and was certain that he was not only going to die but that before doing so he would be let go from the Great Western for fear of infecting the passengers. I had cured him by giving him a bottle of sugar pills, tainted with a few drops of alum so as to make them taste like a respectable medicine. I had told him however that the pills would not only fail to cure him but would make matters worse if their essences came into contact with tobacco smoke. On pain of death, he immediately ceased using his cigarettes and within three weeks his cough had vanished. He became my most loyal reference.

  And so it was on a Thursday in late July that at half-past five o’clock, just past sunrise, I was up and ready to take myself for my chilly morning walk along the canal when there came a knock to my door. I opened it to see Terry, looking hale and hearty, but with his arm around a young man, not more than five and twenty, who was obviously in debilitating pain.

  “Good morning, Doctor Watson,” said Terry. “Knew you would be up and at ’em already so I just had to bring this lad to see you. He’s in a bit of a rough shape he is. Aren’t you there, laddie?”

  The poor fellow said nothing but nodded. Even though it was a crisp morning, the sweat was dripping off of his face and he was struggling to breathe. A deadly dizziness appeared to have come over him so I motioned for Terry to enter help the lad into my examining room. He pulled one of the fellow’s arms over his shoulders and put his own strong arm around the waist and started walking. The young fellow was hopping on one foot and holding the other off the ground. When his protected foot chanced to touch down, I could hear him grunt with pain.

  “Right,” I said. “Just help him up onto the table. I’ll look after him.”

  Terry bid me good day and hurried back out and off to the station. I could see even before taking off the young man’s boot and sock and rolling up his heather-tweed pant leg that he had a serious sprain in his ankle. It was swollen but not otherwise misshapen and most likely needed no more than some cold compresses, a tight bandage and keeping off of it for a week. He also had a bandage wrapped around his hand and some blood had seeped thr
ough it. Must have had a nasty fall and done damage to both hand and foot.

  “Please doctor,” he said. “Please. Just wrap it up and give me a bit of morphine and a pair of crutches. I have to be on my way. I have terribly urgent business to attend to.”

  “Very well,” I said. “Keep your head back on the table and I will do just that.”

  With a sterilized needle and syringe, I injected a generous shot of morphine into his upper arm. It was more than what was needed to quell the pain and within a couple of minutes, it had the desired effect of soothing his spirit as well as his body. I brought some ice from out of the chest, wrapped it and held it against the ankle and was relieved to see the swelling diminish. I took the bandage off his hand and saw that the blood had come from a straight cut. He must have landed on a shard of glass as he fell. It was not so deep as to need sutures so I just cleaned it up and applied a tight carbolized bandage.

  My patient continued to lie on his back, staring up at the ceiling with vacant eyes. After some ten minutes passed he lifted his head and spoke to me.

  “Thank you, doctor. That is much better. I was in terrible pain.”

  “Much of that,” I said, “you brought on by trying to walk after you had injured yourself. You should have just sat down and called for help.”

  “I could not do that. I had to keep going. I cannot stay here any longer. My situation is urgent.”

  “I am sure it is but you will not go far without a pair of crutches and I will not get them for you for another five minutes. But I will organize a cup of tea and some nourishment. And then you will be able to move faster than ever and make up for whatever time you are delayed here. Meanwhile, young man, tell me what it is that is distressing you.”

  For a moment I thought he was going to argue with me but he nodded, sat up on the edge of the table and stretched his limbs.

  “My mother has gone missing. I have to find her. I fear something untoward has happened to her.”

  “You don’t say. Usually, it’s mothers who are desperately looking for their sons. They themselves do not wander off. I am sure she will be back shortly. Most likely already waiting for you at home.”

  “No doctor. She has been missing now for a week. Something terrible has happened to her.”

  “Oh dear. Have you contacted the police?”

  “I went immediately to the local police in Reading and reported it. They laughed in my face and told me to go home and wait for her.”

  “Rather rude of them. Not at all what I would expect from the Reading constabulary,” I said.

  “Now I am on my way to Scotland Yard. As soon as you can help me with a pair of crutches I will be on my way.”

  “Good heavens, man. Scotland Yard will only look into something if they have evidence that there is some serious criminal concern. They aren’t likely to send their inspectors off on a search for a missing mom.”

  “But it is criminal. She has been kidnapped. I am sure of it. And her life is in danger.” There was obvious anguish in the fellow’s voice and I sought to calm his spirit.

  “Oh, come now. You mustn’t horrify me. Why would you think such things?”

  “Because last night, at her home just outside Reading, two men tried to kill me. They were in her house when I arrived and one of them came after me with a knife. I held him off, but he took a nick out of my hand. The other one drew a pistol and I ran away. I went straight for the woods as I used to run harrier in school and escaped them but in running came to a fallen tree. It was high, but I thought I could jump it. I did not clear it and fell and hurt my ankle. That is why the railway man brought me here. But now I have to get to Scotland Yard and see if they will help me. If they will not then, I do not know what to do. She is in terrible danger. I know she is.”

  For the first time since he had arrived, I took a close look at his face and remarked to myself that he was a singularly unattractive young male. His face was oddly unbalanced with one eye sunken and hooded and the other protruding and slightly askew. His nose was too large for his narrow head and small mouth and, most striking of all, on the left side of his face was a large wine-colored birthmark that extended from his temple all the way to his neck before disappearing under his collar. He was not sickly in any way. I could tell by my grip on his calf muscle that his body was taut and conditioned by strenuous exercise. He effortlessly pushed himself off the table, balanced on his one good foot and reached into his suit pocket and brought out his card and handed it to me.

  It read: Victor Hatherley, Ph.D. Hydraulic Engineer. Department of Engineering. University of Cambridge.

  Below it was an address on Victoria Street in Cambridge.

  By this time in my life, I had already seen scores of people enter the presence of Sherlock Holmes in his Baker Street rooms and had a rather good sense of those who were in serious straights and those who were no more than a few bricks short of a full load. I knew right off that Mr. Hatherley was in the first lot.

  “When you get to Scotland Yard,” I said. “I suggest that you ask to see Inspector Lestrade. He is a bit on the brusque side but generally competent. If anyone can help you, he can.”

  The lad looked at me with his sunken eye directed toward my eyes and the other one toward my right ear. “How is it that you are familiar with Scotland Yard? What if this inspector will not listen to me?”

  “I have had a few dealings with them over the years. And if he will not attend to your case then I have another suggestion.”

  “Yes?”

  “Have you heard of the detective, Mr. Sherlock Holmes?”

  “Yes. I have heard of that fellow. I read about him in The Strand. You know, all those exaggerated sensational stories that make him seem superhuman.”

  “He happens to be a friend of mine. If Scotland Yard will not be of help, then come back to me and I will see if he can take you on.”

  He gave me a bit of a look and then glanced up at my medical diploma on the wall and nodded. A blush came to the side of his face that was not already colored.

  “You’re …?”

  “I am indeed. The exaggerating sensationalist and happy to assist you, Dr. Hatherley. Now be on your way. One of those cabs over there will take you to The Embankment. And do come back if you need to.”

  Chapter Two

  Mom is Missing

  THE REMAINDER OF THE DAY PASSED uneventfully. I was visited by a gaggle of nannies with their coughing and running-nosed children, by two young mothers-to-be who had been sent by husbands that clearly did not have sufficient basic intelligence to know that there is nothing healthier on God’s good earth than a young woman in the mid-term of her expectancy. There were also two elderly retired railway men who were bent over and wobbling but who could not refrain from telling me the most outrageous and hilarious stories of medical emergencies that had taken place in the nation’s rail cars. By four o’clock the waiting room had emptied and I was walking out my door and on my way home when I heard my name being called. Moving quite rapidly down the pavement I saw a young man taking first a long stride on a pair of crutches followed by an athletic hop on his one good leg. Within a few seconds, he was standing in front of me.

  “No help from Scotland Yard?” I asked, although his presence had already answered my question.

  “No. I had to wait for several hours before getting to see Inspector Lestrade. He laughed at me as well and sent me off.”

  This struck me as out of character for Lestrade. He never laughed at anything and his reported reaction seemed a bit odd. I thought it quite possible that there was some facet of young Victor Hatherley’s story that I had failed to perceive and I feared that I would be doing no more than wasting the time of Sherlock Holmes. However, I had told the chap I would help him and so I hailed a hansom and we made our way along Marylebone Road and over to 221B Baker Street.

  Mrs. Hudson welcomed me like a long-lost prodigal son. I made my way up our seventeen steps followed by the young engineer, who managed them surprisin
gly well for a man on a brace of crutches. Sherlock Holmes was sitting in his customary armchair reading what appeared to be a scientific journal of some sort, sipping on a snifter of brandy, and enjoying his beloved pipe. He rose and welcomed me.

  “Ah, my dear Watson. How goes the battle? Married life is treating you well I must say. I have never seen you looking so fulfilled.” He gave a pat with the back of his hand to my midriff section that, I must confess, was not suffering. He offered to have Mrs. Hudson bring us an early supper but I declined, saying that I would return to my home and my wife shortly but came only to introduce a young man in need of the unique special services that were his exclusive province and introduced him to Victor Hatherley.

  “Please then be seated,” he said graciously and turned to the young man who had accompanied me.

  “Let me begin by asking the obvious,” said Holmes. I assumed that he was about to question Victor concerning his foot, but I winced in outrage at the question he posed instead.

  “What orphanage did you grow up in? Most likely one on the East Side. Stepney Causeway perhaps. Ah yes. You are a Bernardo boy.”

  The young man looked surprised, as had many men before and after him who had sat in the same chair and been introduced to Sherlock Holmes.

  “Yes, sir. I am a Bernardo boy.”

  “Of course, you are. With a face like yours, no mother would want you and you were left on the good Dr. Bernardo’s doorstep. But then someone did adopt you. Your clothes and bearing, your accent and your athleticism all say that at some point somebody took pity on you and took you home and raised you. And now my dear friend Doctor Watson has brought you to see me so you must be in dire straits else he would not have done so. Either your situation is not appropriate for Scotland Yard or you tried and they have refused to help. Ah yes, the latter, your good eye says so. I do believe that we have an interesting case being presented to us, Watson. What say you?”

 

‹ Prev