Sherlock Holmes - The Patchwork Devil E-Book

Cavan Scott

• Herausgeber: Titan Books
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2016

Beschreibung

London, 1919. While the world celebrates the signing of the Treaty of Versailles, Holmes and Watson are called to a singular mystery. A severed hand has been found on the banks of the Thames, a hand belonging to a soldier who supposedly died in the trenches. But the hand is fresh, and show signs that it was recently amputated. So how has it ended up back in London two years after its owner was killed?

Leseprobe

Contents

Cover

Also Available from Titan Books

Coming Soon from Titan Books

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter One: To the Beat of a Different Drum

Chapter Two: Elsie Kadwell

Chapter Three: Pritchard

Chapter Four: Living in the Past

Chapter Five: Inspector Tovey

Chapter Six: The Hand of Mystery

Chapter Seven: Of Mud and Murk

Chapter Eight: The Dynamo

Chapter Nine: A Charnel House

Chapter Ten: Devil in the Dark

Chapter Eleven: The Cold Room

Chapter Twelve: Unwanted Visitors

Chapter Thirteen: Closed Shutters

Chapter Fourteen: The Stranger’s Room

Chapter Fifteen: The Scene of the Crime

Chapter Sixteen: Like Soldiers of Old

Chapter Seventeen: An Ultimatum

Chapter Eighteen: The Attic

Chapter Nineteen: A Most Singular Skeleton

Chapter Twenty: On the Trail

Chapter Twenty-One: A House Call

Chapter Twenty-Two: All in a Name

Chapter Twenty-Three: Two Old Fools

Chapter Twenty-Four: Into the Den

Chapter Twenty-Five: Quis Custodiet Ipsos Custodes?

Chapter Twenty-Six: Holmes V. Holmes

Chapter Twenty-Seven: Secrets

Chapter Twenty-Eight: Mrs Stevens

Chapter Twenty-Nine: John

Chapter Thirty: Progress

Chapter Thirty-One: Face to Face with a Monster

Chapter Thirty-Two: The Cenotaph

Chapter Thirty-Three: Eliminate the Impossible

Chapter Thirty-Four: Here be Dragons

Chapter Thirty-Five: All Aboard

Chapter Thirty-Six: The Eye of the Storm

Chapter Thirty-Seven: New Life

Chapter Thirty-Eight: Brave New World

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Sherlock Holmes

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Sherlock Holmes: The Breath of GodGuy Adams

Sherlock Homes: The Army of Dr MoreauGuy Adams

COMING SOON FROM TITAN BOOKS

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Sherlock Holmes: Cry of the Innocents (July 2017)Cavan Scott

Sherlock Holmes: The Patchwork DevilPrint edition ISBN: 9781783297146Electronic edition ISBN: 9781783297153

Published by Titan BooksA division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd144 Southwark Street, London SE1 0UP

First Titan Books edition: April 20162 4 6 8 10 9 7 5 3 1

This is a work of fiction. Names, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead (except for satirical purposes), is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2016 by Cavan Scott. All Rights Reserved.Visit our website: www.titanbooks.com

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For Clare

CHAPTER ONE

TO THE BEAT OF A DIFFERENT DRUM

From the papers of John H. Watson, MD

It wasn’t every day that I witnessed Sherlock Holmes assaulting a police officer. I have to admit, however, that, in this case, the bounder had it coming.

It was the summer of 1919. The signing of the Treaty of Versailles had finally drawn a line beneath the dark days of war that had blighted Europe. The spectre of that dreadful conflict still hung over us, and would for generations to come, but for now the streets of the capital were a hive of industry. Preparations were under way for a citywide celebration, culminating in what the newspapers were already calling the Victory Parade. Companies of the French, Belgian and United States armed forces would join our own troops as they marched to be greeted by the King at Buckingham Palace. The route was being marked out by a series of temporary monuments, and I could already imagine the flags waving and the crowds cheering. After so much misery and uncertainty, the people of Britain were in dire need of some good old-fashioned pomp and circumstance, and by God, they were going to get it!

I myself was in exceptionally high spirits, warmed by the sun and buoyed by a visit from my long-time friend, Sherlock Holmes.

As I have stated in previous accounts, my friend had by this time retired from London, swapping the bustle of Baker Street for the tranquillity and solitude of a smallholding upon the South Downs. Usually, when he returned to London, Holmes would take rooms at the Goring, but on this occasion I insisted that he stay with Mrs Watson and me. My wife accepted his imminent arrival with her usual good grace, although after Holmes had descended on our Chelsea townhouse, I made every effort to ensure that we spent as little time as possible within its walls, for the sake of her continued sanity.

So began a whirlwind tour of museums and theatres; visits to old friends and even older haunts. It was thrilling to be in his company again, and, at times, more than a little infuriating, which of course was always part of the charm of our friendship.

The charm was, however, wearing a little thin when, in early July, towards the end of his visit, I found a note pinned to the mantelpiece by my regimental letter-opener. Pulling the offending item free, I opened the paper and read:

Watson,

Meet me at the Mallard Club, Duck Lane, 8.30pm sharp.

S.H.

“You’re not going to go?” asked my wife as I swiftly moved a photo of her dear departed mother to cover the wanton act of vandalism. “You’ll catch your death.”

Gloomily, I glanced out of the window. The weather had taken a turn for the worse the previous day, gloriously blue skies banished by leaden clouds and driving rain.

I tried to counter her concern as I pulled on my greatcoat. “It must be important, dear. I haven’t seen Holmes all day. He went out before dawn.”

“And hasn’t it been marvellous,” I heard her mutter beneath her breath, as I hurried out into the downpour.

The drive into town was a quick one, the roads quiet due to the inclement weather. I parked my Swift on Broadwick Street and, considering that I should have listened to my wife, turned up my collar to traipse in the direction of our rendezvous.

Duck Lane itself was empty, although music was spilling out of an open door at the far end. I passed boarded-up warehouses and shops, the clamour of trumpet and drum increasing with every step. By the time I had crossed the threshold of the Mallard Club, I could barely hear myself thank the doorman who graciously took my hat and coat.

With more than a little trepidation, I entered the inner sanctum of the nightclub. Despite the exertions of the band, I was pleasantly surprised as I stepped through the door and found myself in what had obviously once been some kind of restaurant. The place was tastefully decorated, with a bar to the left of the room and a stage for the musicians at the front. Circular tables dominated the floor, save for an area near the band that had been cleared for dancing. The atmosphere was smoky, but no more so than the venerable clubs of St James’s. It had to be said that the clientele certainly seemed to be enjoying themselves more than the dour-faced gentlemen who gathered in the Carlton or Boodles.

Indeed, while the music was not to my taste, the sheer joy exhibited on the dance floor was infectious. I found myself tapping my cane on the floor in time to the beat as I surveyed the room in search of my friend.

Any amusement I felt soon turned to annoyance as I realised that there was no sign of Holmes at any of the tables. The man was my oldest friend and confidant, but he could try the patience of even the most tolerant of saints. I consulted my watch to find that it was now a quarter to nine, a mere forty-five minutes to last orders. Eight thirty sharp, indeed! I snapped my watch shut and considered walking out of the door to return home there and then. It had been good to see Holmes these last few weeks, but I was unwilling to allow him to fall back into his old ways, assuming that I would jump like a faithful hound whenever he called.

My mind made up, I started back for the entrance.

“Dr Watson?”

I turned to see a man sitting at a nearby table. He was almost completely bald, save for a strip of clipped grey hair above a pair of prominent ears, and the lines on his well-worn face put him at maybe ten years my senior, some seventy-five years old or so. He motioned me over, the glow of electric light bulbs reflecting in his large brown eyes.

“You have me at a disadvantage, sir,” I said as he stood, his chair scraping across the black and white tiles. The stranger thrust out a hand.

“Albert Norwood, at your service,” said he as I grasped his hand. It was warm and strong. “We have a mutual friend.”

“One who wouldn’t know the meaning of punctual if Big Ben struck him around the head?”

“The very same,” said another, more familiar voice to my left. I turned to see a pair of intelligent grey eyes sparkling back at me. The thick eyebrows were now flecked with silver, as was the crop of once raven-black hair on the high domed head, but the angular chin was as well-defined as ever, the thin lips twitching with an amused smile.

“Mr Holmes,” Norwood exclaimed before I could conjure up a suitably withering response, “thank you for coming. I am in your debt.”

“No,” Holmes replied, indicating for Norwood to retake his seat. “It is I who am in arrears, as well you know.”

Holmes pulled up a chair, leaving me standing awkwardly. I waited for a second before, with a sigh, joining the two men.

“What is all this about, Holmes? Why did you call me here?”

“You found my note then?”

“Obviously.”

“I had hoped to speak to you in person, but returned to the house to find you indulging in your afternoon nap.”

The accusatory tone he placed on the last two words betrayed a distaste that only fuelled my frustration.

“A man is allowed to rest in his own home.”

“Quite so,” Holmes said, turning back to Norwood. “And you are looking well, Norwood. How is the garden?”

Norwood looked taken aback. “My pride and joy, Mr Holmes, although how—”

I had no time for Holmes’s games in my current mood. “You have soil beneath your fingernails, Mr Norwood,” I interrupted, “and your tan indicates that you have recently spent time in the sun.”

Holmes regarded me with amusement. “Very good, Watson. I’m glad that some of my methods have rubbed off on you… eventually. But tell me, what do you think of the Mallard Club?”

“The music leaves much to be desired,” I admitted, “but it seems pleasant enough, considering.”

Holmes’s eyes narrowed. “Considering what?”

“What one reads in the papers.”

“Of course,” said Holmes, “‘the corruption of our once great city’. If you believe the gutter press, establishments such as these are the modern day Sodom and Gomorrah.”

“Not just the gutter press,” I pointed out. “The broadsheets also—”

“—insist that these dens of iniquity make the opium pits of Limehouse look like genteel tea rooms. But now you’ve seen them with your own eyes. Does the excess and debauchery shock you to your very core?”

I glanced around, taking in the dance floor once again. “I see only young people enjoying themselves.”

“A sight many of us thought we would never see again,” Norwood added.

Holmes agreed enthusiastically. “I for one applaud their spirit, and find the choice of music intriguing. ‘Jazz’, I believe it is called?”

Norwood nodded.

“The sound of survival,” Holmes continued. “A breath of fresh air rushing across the Atlantic, unequivocally modern and yet somehow primitive. No wonder it is upsetting the status quo.”

“This is all very fascinating, Holmes,” I cut in, “but I don’t believe for a moment that you asked me here to discuss current trends in popular music.”

“As astute as ever, Watson,” Holmes said. “To business, then. Late last night, I received a telegram from Albert here.”

I frowned. “I do not remember it arriving.”

“It was after you and the redoubtable Mrs Watson had retired to bed.” Holmes turned back to Norwood, regarding the man with obvious affection. “I have known Albert for many years, indeed, longer than you and I have been acquainted, Doctor.”

“Is that so?” I bristled. “I can’t remember you mentioning Mr Norwood’s name.”

“Please, Dr Watson, call me Albert,” Norwood insisted. “I met Mr Holmes when he first started his practice in Montague Street.”

“Albert Norwood was already a legend, Watson. A master of his craft.”

“And what craft is that?”

“Theatrical make-up,” Norwood said. “I worked at Drury Lane all my life, my home away from home.”

Realisation dawned. “Of course! Your disguises, Holmes.”

Throughout his long career, Holmes had often applied the most astonishing make-up in order to pass unnoticed beneath the noses of both saint and sinner. From clergyman even to the fairer sex, his transformations were flawless, aided by my friend’s natural talent for theatrics.

“We met while I was investigating Drury Lane’s resident ghost.”

“A ghost?” I exclaimed. “You?”

Holmes chuckled. “I trapped the spirit with his phantasmagorical fingers in the till, as it were.”

“The theatre manager,” Albert interjected. “Edmund Talbot. Knew he was a wrong ’un from the moment he arrived.”

“I became fascinated by Albert’s art,” Holmes explained, “recognising immediately how it could aid me in my chosen profession. He, in turn, was generous enough to teach me everything he knew.”

“You should have seen his early efforts,” Norwood chuckled. “Plastering it on with a trowel, he was.”

Even Holmes had the humility to laugh at his youthful shortcomings. “Albert pointed out that stage make-up is always heavy—”

“Due to the distance from the audience, and the lighting and what-have-you,” I interrupted, having been the recipient of many a lecture from Holmes on the subject. Unfortunately, Norwood failed to pick up on my irritation.

“To fool someone close at hand demands a lightness of touch, you see, Doctor. Good make-up looks as if it’s not there at all.”

“Yes, yes,” I said, rather more brusquely than necessary, “but what I don’t understand is why we’re discussing its merits in this place.”

Norwood physically stiffened, his jaw setting. I knew that my tone had crossed the line, but not how far until Holmes explained.

“We are here, my dear Watson, because Albert’s nephew owns this infernal place, and appears to be in quite considerable trouble.”

CHAPTER TWO

ELSIE KADWELL

Suitably shamefaced, I apologised to Holmes’s theatrical mentor. Thankfully, Norwood’s demeanour immediately softened, a smile playing on his lips.

“Don’t mention it, Doctor. Tempers have a habit of fraying around some people.”

Holmes inclined his head in acknowledgement, taking the friendly ribbing in the manner that it was intended. “Before my character is completely assassinated, perhaps you would be so kind as to tell Watson what you told me.”

Norwood leant forward, placing both arms on the table. “Marcus – that’s my nephew – inherited this place from my late brother, Ted. Of course, it wasn’t a nightclub back then. It was a restaurant, and a good one too. Not too expensive, not too shabby; perfect for theatre folk looking for something a little fancy on a budget. But then the war came. My brother’s lads went off to the front and only one returned.”

“Marcus?”

Norwood nodded. “My brother didn’t have the heart for it when the lads were away, especially when the telegrams started coming home.” His eyes misted over for a moment, lost in grief. “Three, Ted lost in all. Broke his heart. Mine too, if I’m honest. He closed the place up, saying that it would be here for Marcus when he returned. Although he never saw that day.”

“But you said—” I started, confused.

“Marcus Norwood returned from the war safe and sound,” Holmes cut in. “At least, as sound as anyone who has experienced such horror.”

“He won’t talk about it,” Norwood said. “None of the boys who came back will. Fair enough, I guess. But, my brother, you see; he had a stroke, just days before Marcus was shipped home. My sister-in-law found him upstairs. She’s living with me and my Ada now. Needed to get away.”