A Sherlock Holmes Adventure. Bonnie Macbird
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Название: A Sherlock Holmes Adventure

Автор: Bonnie Macbird

Издательство: HarperCollins

Жанр: Ужасы и Мистика

Серия: A Sherlock Holmes Adventure

isbn: 9780008129682

isbn:

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       Chapter 26: Man Down

      

       Chapter 27: Blood Brothers

      

       Chapter 28: The Winged Victory

      

       Part Nine: 221b

      

       Chapter 29: London Bound

      

       Chapter 30: Renewal

      

       Acknowledgements

      

       Unquiet Spirits Preview

      

       Chapter 1: Stillness

       Keep Reading …

      

       About the Author

      

       About the Publisher

       Preface

      During the Olympic summer of 2012, while researching some Victorian medical information at the Wellcome Library, I chanced upon a discovery so astounding that it completely altered my course. After requesting several old volumes, I was brought a small, dusty selection, some so fragile that they were held together by delicate linen ribbons.

      Untying the largest, a treatise on the usage of cocaine, I discovered a thick sheaf of folded and yellowed papers had been tied to the back.

      I opened the pages carefully and spread them before me. The handwriting was strangely familiar. Was I seeing clearly? I turned back the cover of the book; on the title page, in faded ink, was inscribed the original owner’s name: Dr John H. Watson.

      And there, on these crumbling sheets of paper, was an unpublished, full-length adventure written by this same Dr Watson – featuring his friend, Sherlock Holmes.

      But why had this case not been published with the others so long ago? I can only surmise that it is because the story, longer and perhaps more detailed than most, reveals a certain vulnerability in his friend’s character which might have endangered Holmes by its publication during their active years. Or perhaps Holmes, upon reading it, simply forbade its publication.

      A third possibility, of course, is that Dr Watson absent-mindedly folded up his manuscript and, for unknown reasons, tied it to the back of this book. He then either lost or forgot about it. And so I share this tale with you, but with the following caveat.

      Over time, perhaps from moisture and fading, a number of passages have become unreadable, and I have endeavoured to reconstruct what seemed to be missing from them. If there are any mistakes of style or historical inaccuracies, please ascribe these to my inability to fill in places where the writing had become indecipherable.

      I hope you share my enthusiasm. As Nicholas Meyer, discoverer of The Seven-Per-Cent Solution, The West End Horror, and The Canary Trainer said recently for himself, and all fellow lovers of Conan Doyle – ‘We can never get enough!’

      Perhaps there are more stories yet to be found. Let’s keep looking. Meanwhile, sit down by the fire now, and draw near for just one more.

       PART ONE

       OUT OF THE DARKNESS

      ‘I’ve got a great ambition to die of exhaustion rather than boredom.’

      Thomas Carlyle

       CHAPTER 1

       Ignition

      y dear friend Sherlock Holmes once said, ‘Art in the blood is liable to take the strangest forms.’ And so it was for him. In my numerous accounts of the adventures we shared, I have mentioned his violin playing, his acting – but his artistry went much deeper than that. I believe it was at the very root of his remarkable success as the world’s first consulting detective.

      I have been loath to write in detail about Holmes’s artistic nature, lest it reveal a vulnerability in him that could place him in danger. It is well known that in exchange for visionary powers, artists often suffer with extreme sensitivity and violent changeability of temperament. A philosophical crisis, or simply the boredom of inactivity, could send Holmes spinning into a paralysed gloom from which I could not retrieve him.

      It was in such a state that I discovered my friend in late November of 1888.

      London was blanketed with snow, the city still reeling from the extended horror of the Ripper murders. But at that moment, violent crime was not my concern. Married earlier that year to Mary Morstan, I was ensconced in a nest of comfortable domesticity, living at some distance from the rooms I had formerly shared with Holmes in Baker Street.

      One late afternoon found me reading contentedly by the fire when a note arrived by breathless messenger. Opening it, I read: ‘Dr Watson – he has set 221B on fire! Come at once! – Mrs Hudson.’

      In seconds I was hurtling through the streets in a cab towards Baker Street. As we tore around a corner, I could feel the wheels slipping in the mounding snow, and the cab lurched dangerously. I rapped on the roof. ‘Faster, man!’ I shouted.

      We skidded into Baker Street and I saw the fire wagon and several men leaving our building. I leaped from the cab and ran to the door. ‘The fire,’ I cried. ‘Is everyone all right?’

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