In the Shadow of Sherlock Holmes - The Adventures of Mary Morstan Watson E-Book

Mauro Castellini

• Herausgeber: Delos Digital
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Beschreibung

Giallo - anthology (179 pagine) - Behind every great man, there is a great woman.

We have all read the stories by Dr. John Watson in which he narrates his adventures with Sherlock Holmes, but behind every great man, there is a great woman… and Mary Morstan holds her own place in the hearts of all Sherlockians. Today, newly discovered papers reveal the role she played in the adventures we know so well, which cast a light on her frequent absences from home and which recount her own thrilling personal adventures in Victorian London in a series of poignant tales full of passion and mystery, pain and suspense, love and hope.

Stefano Guerra is a pediatric neuropsychiatrist, psychoanalyst, professor, and retired school headmaster. He is the author of theatrical texts and film scripts, and he founded “Uno Studio in Holmes”, the Italian Sherlockian Society, of which he has also been president. He is a member of the Baker Street Irregulars and has authored several articles published in Italy and abroad on the world of Sherlock Holmes, as well as a Sherlockian encyclopedia (with Solito).

Enrico Solito is a pediatrician and child neuropsychiatrist who has worked extensively with Emergency. He is a past president of Uno Studio in Holmes, the first Italian member of the Baker Street Irregulars, and also a member of other Sherlockian associations. With Stefano Guerra, he has co-authored the only Italian Sherlockian encyclopedia, as well as apocryphal Holmes stories and novels set in different contexts.

Mauro Castellini is a Los Angeles-based film producer. Born in Mantova, Italy, after obtaining his Master’s Degree in Communication Sciences at Milano’s IULM, he moved to Rome, where his film career took off. Having been introduced to Holmes’ world by his friends Mr. Solito and Mr. Guerra, he’s now teamed up with them to write this book, that marks his literary debut.

Gian Luca Guerra was born in Rome to a family connected to the film and cultural industries, in which he has passionately worked his entire life. Inspired by a story he found interesting, he joined Stefano Guerra, Enrico Solito, and Mauro Castellini in writing The Adventures of Mary Morstan Watson.

Leseprobe

Luigi Pachì, editor

Stefano Guerra, Enrico Solito, Mauro Castellini and Gian Luca Guerra

In the Shadow of Sherlock HolmesThe Adventures of Mary Morstan Watson

ANTHOLOGY

ISBN 9788825425741

© 2023 Stefano Guerra, Enrico Solito, Mauro Castellini, Gian Luca Guerra

Ebook edition © 2023 Delos Digital srl

Piazza Bonomelli 6/6 20139 Milano Italy

Version: 1.1

Printed Edition: MX Publishing

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Translated by Alfredo Hamill

Cover artwork by Dante Primoverso

Collection edited by Luigi Pachì

Contents

CoverThis bookThe AuthorsIn the Shadow of Sherlock Holmes - The Adventures of Mary Morstan WatsonThe Discovery Of A VocationThe Adventure Of The Redeemed AddictTwo Drops In The OceanThe Adventure Of The Love-Struck UnionistThe Adventure Of The Mysterious FiancéThe Red LampThe Final ProblemIn this series

This book

Behind every great man, there is a great woman.

We have all read the stories by Dr. John Watson in which he narrates his adventures with Sherlock Holmes, but behind every great man, there is a great woman… and Mary Morstan holds her own place in the hearts of all Sherlockians. Today, newly discovered papers reveal the role she played in the adventures we know so well, which cast a light on her frequent absences from home and which recount her own thrilling personal adventures in Victorian London in a series of poignant tales full of passion and mystery, pain and suspense, love and hope.

The Authors

Stefano Guerra is a pediatric neuropsychiatrist, psychoanalyst, professor, and retired school headmaster. He is the author of theatrical texts and film scripts, and he founded “Uno Studio in Holmes”, the Italian Sherlockian Society, of which he has also been president. He is a member of the Baker Street Irregulars and has authored several articles published in Italy and abroad on the world of Sherlock Holmes, as well as a Sherlockian encyclopedia (with Solito).

Enrico Solito is a pediatrician and child neuropsychiatrist who has worked extensively with Emergency. He is a past president of Uno Studio in Holmes, the first Italian member of the Baker Street Irregulars, and also a member of other Sherlockian associations. With Stefano Guerra, he has co-authored the only Italian Sherlockian encyclopedia, as well as apocryphal Holmes stories and novels set in different contexts.

Mauro Castellini is a Los Angeles-based film producer. Born in Mantova, Italy, after obtaining his Master’s Degree in Communication Sciences at Milano’s IULM, he moved to Rome, where his film career took off. Having been introduced to Holmes’ world by his friends Mr. Solito and Mr. Guerra, he’s now teamed up with them to write this book, that marks his literary debut.

Gian Luca Guerra was born in Rome to a family connected to the film and cultural industries, in which he has passionately worked his entire life. Inspired by a story he found interesting, he joined Stefano Guerra, Enrico Solito, and Mauro Castellini in writing The Adventures of Mary Morstan Watson.

The Discovery Of A Vocation

Alone in the World

In 1878, at the boarding school in Edinburgh where I had lived since I was a child, I received a letter from my father, Captain Morstan, who was stationed in the Andaman Islands, India. After the death of my mother, I had been sent home to Great Britain because lacking maternal guidance, it was considered the only place where I would be safely cared for and receive a proper education. However, my father never failed to be present in my life, even if only through letters.

In that letter, as affectionate as always, he informed me of his retirement from the service and arranged to meet me in London at the Langham Hotel on the day he would arrive. A few weeks later, a telegram informed me of his arrival, and I rushed to London with a tumultuous heart. However, what happened shocked me and remained a great mystery for a long time: my father had arrived but, after going out the night before, he never returned. I waited for him all day without any news. Together with the hotel manager, we searched for clues in his luggage, full of curiosities and memories from the Andaman Islands, but found nothing. I reported his disappearance to the police that same evening and placed an advertisement in the newspapers. In the following days, I tried every possible avenue, including speaking with Major Sholto, a friend and former comrade of my father, but it was all in vain. My father had disappeared like a stone sinking in a river, and I was forced to return to the school in Edinburgh, whose tuition had already been paid until I reached adulthood.

The disappointment was excruciating, especially for a girl who suddenly found herself alone in the world, forced to forge her own future without anyone preparing it for her. Those were mentally challenging years, but I refused to be defeated. I discovered that my resilience was greater than I had ever believed.

A few years later, as my time in Edinburgh came to an end, I embarked on a new path, perhaps the only dignified one available to an orphan with limited means: with the help of the school, I found employment as a governess in the house of Mrs. Violet Cecil Forrester in London. Mrs. Forrester, more than an employer, proved to be almost like a friend, showing immediate concern for me and making me feel cared for like never before. This warmed my heart and filled me with joy, motivating me even more to do everything in my power to live up to the task entrusted to me. I lived in peace and serenity for several months until a fateful day in May 1882.

From Mary’s Diary

London, May 4, 1882

I was surprised to read an anonymous advertisement in The Times seeking my address, informing me that it would be advantageous for me to come forward. Having nothing to hide, I discussed it with Mrs. Forrester and decided to respond. This afternoon, I received a small box in the mail, which, to my great surprise, contained a large pearl with a marvelous glow, without a message, a word, or a clue that could lead me to the name of the donor.

London, May 4, 1883

One year later, another pearl arrived in a similar box, once again without a single line of comment. This situation is becoming increasingly difficult to bear. Not only has my father’s disappearance remained an open wound in my heart, but the presence of a mysterious person who feels compelled to send me such a precious object without an explanation could push someone more fragile and prone to imagination to the brink of madness. I discussed at length with my friend and landlady about the possible hypotheses behind these deliveries.

London, July 7, 1888

Once again, this year, in May, the mysterious pearl arrived, as has happened for the past six years. However, this time there is something new: the pearl was followed, a couple of months later, by an equally mysterious letter promising to reveal all the details of this story if I went to a certain place accompanied by two friends, who must not belong to the police force. Since my father’s disappearance, I have found no peace. Could it be that the time has finally come to learn the truth about his fate? What if he is somehow involved?

I discussed it with Violet again, and she insists that I should do everything humanly possible to unravel this mystery. She argues that if I were someone else, capable of accepting the considerable fortune that is being revealed to me bit by bit without asking further questions, she would advise me to let it go and accept what fate brings. But she knows me too well now to know that this worry is capable of poisoning my existence. She recommended that I turn to an acquaintance of hers, a sort of private consulting detective who has been very helpful to her in the past. His name is Sherlock Holmes. I can’t take this tension any longer, so I’ve decided to go see him today.

London, July 8, 1888

Yesterday afternoon, I was received by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, a decidedly interesting person with a clearly superior intelligence. He was courteous, very professional, clearly interested in what I had to say, but his gaze wandered into space as I spoke, as if searching somewhere for the possibility of organizing the things I was telling him. Then, suddenly, his gray eyes fixed on me, never losing sight of me for a moment, and I couldn’t help but feel embarrassed. It wasn’t the gaze of a man observing a woman; there was no interest in me as a person. I felt observed like a scientist would observe, I would say, an entomologist.

With him was the person introduced to me as his colleague, Dr. John Watson, who had a completely different attitude. He was a very kind person, almost gallant. Reserved, when he realized I was talking about a matter that deeply affected me, he was about to leave, and it was me who begged him to stay. Robust, while the other appears as fragile as a reed, solid, slightly limping, his mustache reminds me a bit of my father. Perhaps the fact that he had been a military man gave me the sense that I could trust him. The other one impressed me with his perspicacity and i could feel that my logical side resonated with him immediately, but the doctor seemed like the kind of man you could rely on without fear of him causing harm. He didn’t take his eyes off me, certainly with a gaze very different from Sherlock Holmes’. I would describe it as captivated, devoted, enraptured. Embarrassing in its own way as well. However, he made it clear to me not only that he had perceived my emotional difficulties but also that he would be ready to take care of my fragility.

Sherlock Holmes, too, was ready to take on my case, but as an intellectual matter, as a mental challenge between himself and the enigma that I brought to his attention.

John Watson understood me, seeing beyond my problem.

Another interesting person in this peculiar family is the landlady, Mrs. Hudson. A widow, I believe. She, too, has been very welcoming and courteous, and I appreciate her ability to take care of others. The attention she paid to making me feel comfortable and ensuring that everything ran smoothly, while also being able to stand up to Sherlock Holmes’s idiosyncrasies and eccentricities, has won me over. I would like to be a person who knows how to take care of others like this lady does. A fine example of womanhood.

The Sign of the Four

I have transcribed above the pages of my diary that concern the beginning of that strange and, for me, shocking affair, which later became known as “The Sign of Four,” as recounted by Dr. John Watson. That day, as I left the apartment on Baker Street, struck by the personalities of the two gentlemen I had just met, I felt supported and reassured for the first time in facing a difficult ordeal. I returned home feeling slightly relieved.

When I arrived, I found Mrs. Forrester in a state of agitation, like a hive of busy bees. She took my hands and forced me to sit down and tell her everything. Her curiosity was not mere nosiness but genuine interest, which warmed my heart. I gladly recounted everything: my impressions of the detective and his kind and competent friend, Dr. Watson; the expertise with which Mr. Holmes examined the envelopes and messages and the deductions he made from them; the approving look he gave me for being precise in my narrative and for bringing not only the letter but all the packages I had received over the years.

“Oh, Mary, you are extraordinary. I could never be as attentive and precise as you, let alone. So, you will return to them and go together. I’ll stay awake for you, my dear, and I must confess I am quite agitated.”

“Thank you, Violet, but now calm down. It’s almost four o’clock, and it’s time for me to give your children their lessons. I still have to earn my salary, I think!”

Being with the children helped me control the increasing tension I felt as the time for the mysterious meeting approach. When I reappeared at Baker Street, wrapped in a dark cloak, I had the awareness that, despite my pounding heart, I was completely in control of myself. Mr. Holmes carefully examined a strange sheet that I had found among my father’s papers: a kind of map signed with a cross and four names that I was unfamiliar with, three of which were certainly Asian. He told me the paper was Indian, but otherwise, the mystery was absolute.

The fog grew thicker in the streets as our carriage headed to the appointed location. Sherlock Holmes fell into a gloomy silence, and his friend, on the other hand, engaged in a friendly and polite conversation, undoubtedly attempting to distract me. He was a handsome man, with a solid appearance and a compassionate and loyal gaze, a man ready to put himself at the disposal of an unknown girl to protect and help her out of a sense of chivalry, sensing the curious mix of nervousness and melancholy that tormented me. That evening, a feeling of gratitude and friendship began to grow in me, which would only increase over time.

What followed was told much better by Dr. Watson himself in his account of our adventure. I remember the barely controlled pounding of my heart as I waited in the foggy crowd outside the theater. I was surprised to be approached by a sort of driver and invited to join with my companions in a carriage that then took off on a mad race through streets I couldn’t recognize. And then, the figure of Dr. Watson, who continued to speak incessantly during the long journey to the outskirts. I barely managed to control my tension as we entered a strange house, an environment both oppressive and laden with strange aromas, abounding in carpets, tiger skins, and Oriental furniture. It felt as if I were living in a dream, unsure whether it would turn into a nightmare or a moment of liberation. The question pulsating in my mind was: What happened to my father? Could he still be alive? And if so, why had he remained silent all these years? Or should I resign myself to the worst?

The blow struck by the fat, bald though youngish man who greeted us, who bluntly declared that my father was dead, was swift and brutal, but at least it shattered any illusions: Deep down, I had known the truth and yet I confess I faltered, collapsing with a pale face into a chair. That was Thaddeus, one of Major Sholto’s two sons. He tended to ramble, and I couldn’t follow the thread of his speech. I had to apologize and insistently ask him to get to the point before he decided to do so.

However incredible his story was, it shook me and captured my attention. His father and mine had come into possession of a fabulous treasure brought from India to England by Sholto; my father, while discussing with his comrade on the very night he had arrived in London, had a heart attack and fell, hitting his head against a corner, and consequently died. If the police had been called, the ensuing investigation would likely have incriminated the Major, with the incident’s dynamics appearing highly improbable. But, above all, it would have revealed the story of the treasure. Thus, to avoid trouble, the body had been made to disappear, and when, years later, Sholto had decided to reveal the matter to his sons, he, in turn, died immediately afterward, unable to disclose where the treasure was hidden. But finally, it had been found, and the time had come to return my share to me. It was the two Sholtos, Thaddeus and Bartholomew who had sent me the pearls over the years, part of what their father had left behind, but now it was a matter of hurrying to the brother’s house, the family home in Norwood, to take possession of everything that was rightfully mine.

That very long night had just begun, and I found myself in the carriage again, dazed, saddened, and amazed to go from being a governess to a wealthy heiress, yet with a frozen heart: for the first time, what I feared had become a reality. I was alone in the world, completely alone. That was the thought tormenting my mind while Sholto, a real hypochondriac, tormented poor Dr. Watson throughout the journey, listing his ailments, while Holmes gazed into the night with a furrowed brow.

We arrived after eleven, and after gaining entrance at the gatehouse, we discovered the unimaginable. The grand house was dark, without a single light, except for a small window, the housekeeper’s which appeared illuminated. From that direction came the sobs of a terrified woman who let Thaddeus Sholto in while we waited outside in the park, which was wrecked by holes dug everywhere evidently in the search for the treasure. Instinctively, I grasped the doctor’s arm beside me. I later apologized, but my weeping in the dark of the night was the final outpouring of the frightening emotions of that night and being able to rely on him, to accept his hand holding mine, to seek comfort and protection from him, was so natural for me that I still marvel at it today.

In an instant, we were inside the house, in the room of the terrified housekeeper who was trembling like a leaf. It was instinctive for me to approach her and reassure her, calming her, while the men went upstairs to see what had happened to Bartholomew Sholto.

I spent a long time comforting that poor woman, who cried helplessly, but we could only speculate about what had happened. The arrival of the police, the commotion that engulfed the house, Thaddeus Sholto’s coming and going gradually made it clear that Bartholomew Sholto had been murdered and the treasure stolen. I managed to remain calm and clear-minded until the end of that incredible night when Dr. Watson put me in a carriage to return to the Forresters’ house in Lower Camberwell.

From Mary’s Diary

London, July 9, 1888

Last night, after such an overwhelming day, I burst into tears in the carriage in which Dr. Watson was bringing me back to Violet’s. The tension of the day, Bartholomew’s death, the theft of the treasure, the realization that I had been in personal danger and had put my new friends in danger as well, caused me to collapse after I had expended all my remaining energy to calm Mrs. Bernstone, the Sholto housekeeper. And while I cried desperately, inexplicably, Dr. Watson didn’t say a word of comfort to me: He appeared cold and indifferent, staring out of the window, as if eager to arrive and leave me in Violet’s care. What a disappointment, to have been so wrong about him! Fortunately, Violet welcomed me with her usual kindness: Even though it was two in the morning, she had stayed up waiting for me and tenderly accompanied me to bed. This morning, no one was around. I hope to have some more news in the afternoon.

London, July 10, 1888

Since this whole story began, my imagination has swung between the brightest prospects and the darkest outcomes. The fear that it would bring me immense suffering proved to be true, as I learned about the fate of my poor father, but no matter how much I let my imagination soar, I couldn’t even dream of a happiness as intense as the one I’ve been feeling since last night. Yesterday, Violet allowed me to sleep in, so when Dr. Watson came in the afternoon to tell us about the latest developments of the investigation, I had regained my energy and even some cheerfulness. He also seemed more relaxed as he recounted in detail Sherlock Holmes’s discoveries about the murderers’ identities and declared his readiness to confront them alongside his friend. Violet was very impressed by the events, comparing them to the plot of a novel, and by the extent of the riches I could possess. I, however, was primarily anxious for poor Thaddeus to be quickly exonerated, unfairly accused of his brother’s murder. I likened Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson to two knights errant, engaged in a battle against evil to save the damsel in distress, and it seemed that the doctor didn’t dislike the comparison at all.

When he left to join Holmes, I felt the weight of responsibility for the danger I had exposed both of them to, and I felt deeply grateful for their generosity. John Watson returned in the night to bring me the news of Jonathan Small’s arrest, his accomplice’s death, and the recovery of the treasure, locked in a chest that he brought with him, with the police’s permission, so that I would be the first to see it. Once again, knowing in detail the risks he had taken for me unsettled and moved me, just as his modesty touched me. But the moment that will remain unforgettable for me, for the rest of my life, was when John forced open the lock of the chest and opened it, only to find it empty.

He thanked the Lord; he couldn’t, didn’t contain his joy in discovering that I was no longer fabulously wealthy and therefore no longer out of reach for him: “I love you, Mary,” he said, “as truly as ever a man loved a woman!”

And we lost ourselves in each other’s arms.

London, August 24, 1888

I feel as if I’m intoxicated with happiness. Violet, who claims she has never seen me like this before, urges me to hurry with the preparations for the wedding because “it’s a crime to be so happy and still wait,” and John would agree. But my pragmatism, instilled in me by the boarding school, reminds me that we need to find a house large enough for us and the children to come, with sufficient space for my husband’s clinic (husband: a word that excites me). Yes, because the enthusiasm for the new life that awaits us has shaken John so profoundly that it has convinced him to return to his profession, and I am certain he will be an excellent doctor. So here I am, in the midst of summer, searching for houses while continuing to live with the Forresters, educating those adorable children. And already I can’t help but think about when I will have my own to take care of! Will I be capable? I had no difficulties with other people’s children, but I realize it’s not so simple for Violet… may God help me.

London, September 16, 1888

These splendid summer days are ideal for taking the children to the park. I thought of studying botany “en plein air,” right among the plants and shrubs. Books are too dry for them. They seem happy with the novelty, and for a few days now, I’ve been wandering near the ponds, among children spinning hoops vigorously on the path and others launching ships from the shores, with nannies bringing the little ones to sunbathe and elderly ladies walking with careful dignity while hiding under their parasols.

Usually, these hours spent outdoors make me cheerful and carefree, and I have to make an effort not to let go completely and start running and laughing with the Forrester children like a silly girl (“you should do it, instead,” Violet would tell me, always insisting on my excessive maturity). But today, I witnessed an unpleasant scene that saddened me throughout the day, and I want to record it here, in my diary, so as not to forget the details.

I have known Louise for a long time, a saleswoman at the glove and hat shop where Violet is a loyal customer, and where I also go when I need something. She is a girl of modest beauty, reserved, who gives me the impression that she fears being too forward, even by laughing, or appearing happy. While I was in the large open space of the park near the central lake, I saw her talking to a man accompanying her as they wandered about. He was a tanned young man with an open gaze and a determined manner.

I was about to approach and greet them when I noticed that something strange was happening. Louise continued to speak in a calm tone, but the man started raising his voice, taking a step back and staring at her sternly with an angry expression. From my position, I couldn’t hear the words, but what I saw was enough to consider it a real argument, which ended when he rudely turned away, leaving the girl alone and in tears despite her attempts to hold him back. It was none of my business, of course, and I refrained from interfering in such a delicate situation, but I couldn’t help but try to help that poor girl in some way. So I waited until the shops reopened and went to see her, using the excuse of buying a pair of gloves. I know well that in moments of distress, a smile, a kind word, warm the heart more than many speeches. So I approached the girl and asked her for what I needed, making sure to do it as gently as possible and with the intention of thanking her warmly for her kindness and competence. She must have appreciated it because those who are sad feel pleased when they are treated kindly. But as she turned to reach for the new pair of gloves, I had asked to see, her sleeve slightly pulled back, and I distinctly saw purple bruises on her wrist: the girl had been violently shaken. I left with a heavy heart, unable to do anything for her. I don’t know the origin of the altercation, but her male friend is certainly a scoundrel.

London, September 18, 1888

I have discussed the incident regarding Louise, the young saleswoman at the glove shop, with Violet at length. I haven’t even mentioned it to John: He is too much of a gentleman to even consider doing such a thing, but I know he would tell me that the law allows for it and more. Violet explained to me, to my horror, that a husband can even beat his wife without fearing any consequences. It’s true that in this case, he’s a fiancé, but it doesn’t change much.