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- Herausgeber: New Light Books
- Kategorie: Krimi
- Sprache: Englisch
Why are people dropping dead for no apparent reason?
Why is it happening in London?
Why do the deaths appear to be leading to Sherlock Holmes and his friends?
Holmes and his friends are on a case now that will stretch all their resources and challenge them more than ever before as they face a horrendous death that could strike anyone of them down.
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Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018
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Sherlock Holmes
Time to Die
Michael John Light
Copyright 2018
Table of Contents
Time to Die
Trick or Treat
Ashes
Death Stroke
Immolation
Dark Purposes
Bottle of Death
Fun out of Magic
Stricken
Corridor of Death
The Game’s Afoot
Hanging by a Thread
Tour of Death
Lovecraft
An Unlikely Game
Nerves
Danger Abounds
221B Baker Street
Trick or Treat
“Harry, one of the best tricks you can play on your audience or foe is to misdirect their attention.”
“What do you mean?” Harry asked, his young face frowning with confusion.
“Observe,” Merlin asked.
Fire enveloped the fallen tree facing Harry and in moments it became so intensely hot that Harry had to drop back several yards from the hat of it. As he watched it collapsed into a smoldering heap of ashes with fluttering pieces of ash floating in drifts of smoke.
“There!” said Merlin.
Harry eyed the destruction warily a moment, then strode to the smoldering heap. He kicked it hard, and then dropped back. The heap scattered into the air, revealing fresh and alive grass where the ashes had been.
He looked at Merlin, who leaned on his magical, living tree staff, a smirk on his face. It leaf on top tickled his nose, but he ignored it, smiling patiently for Harry to respond. “How did you do that?”
Merlin grinned. “A twist of magic. What you see. What you don’t.”
Ashes
Myrtle Hightower backed against the door of her flat, her hands in the air, as if fending off someone.
“Please. I’m just Harry’s maid, is all.”
Darkness leered from the staircase at her, but nothing more.
The flat door next to her own opened up and a neighbor peered out. “Myrtle, you all right?”
“Please,” Myrtle pleaded again to the air.
Myrtle screamed and began twisting about as if in a tornado of some kind, her arms flinging wildly, legs flying into the air. She lifted up slowly several feet and then exploded into a burst of flaming embers that fluttered to the flat landing floor and scattered about, smoldering with red fumes and smoke.
The neighbor slammed their door against the fearful event. They didn’t see the man who stepped out of the dark staircase and to the pile of smoldering ashes on the floor that had once been Myrtle.
“Soon all who knew and loved Harry shall be gone and I will have my revenge,” he said, and then he turned quickly and vanished in a cloud of smoke.
Death Stroke
Henry Cadmiller swiped at the sweat on his brow as he worked the bellows of his smithy. The fire roared high and higher, causing his sweat to intensify. He didn’t care. He was used to it. He swiped again at his forehead, then let go the bellows and stuck the long shaped metal into the forge fires. The metal glowed red hot in moments. He plucked it out and slammed it down hard against a large anvil, grabbed a heavy mallet and began shaping the metal. As he pounded the metal began taking on the shape of a sword. He was making it for his friend Harry Houdini’s magical act.
For no particular reason he stopped pounding and let go the sword and dropped his mallet. He turned about, squinting into the darkness. He had no light in his tool shed besides that of the forge, which cast deep shadows against the walls about him.
“Hello?”
Then a tiny cat, black as night during MidBells, sprinted cross the smith’s floor and ran out the room, its tail stiff as a board, its face tight as it hissed and spat angrily on its way.
“Peculiar!” said Henry, swiping his forehead.
He turned to grab his sword in the works, and then noticed the fire had lowered considerably.
“Most peculiar,” he said, wondering how a few seconds would cause that.
He began working the bellows again.
The fire flared, but didn’t increase. Didn’t get hotter or brighter.
He finally stopped. “Even more curious!”
Then he froze as if someone had just grabbed him.
His eyes went wide. The fire in the forge began to curl into the air, and then take a shape.
“Henry!” said Mrs. Cadmiller, walking in, an apron about her waist. “Dinner’s ready.”
But Henry didn’t respond. He had his hands in the air. “Please!” He said.
“Henry!” Mrs. Cadmiller called more loudly, feeling a chill run up and down her spine.
“Please!” Henry shouted.
Mrs. Cadmiller rushed forward to clasp his shoulder when the forge suddenly erupted, sending a burst of flames which enveloped Henry.
He let out one howl of utter misery, and then collapsed into a pile of glowing ashes and smoke.
Immolation
“Checkmate!” Watson declared.
Conan glared at him. “You cheated!”
“I most certainly did not,” said Watson.
“I saw you move my rook when I was looking out the window for Challenger.”
Watson sighed. “Guilty as declared.”
Conan gave Watson a surprised look.
Watson shrugged. “I was merely checking to see if you were really paying attention or not.”
Conan gave him a look that clearly stated he didn’t believe it for a moment.
“Gentlemen, where is Challenger?”
They both turned to eye Holmes, who sat by the fireplace, a lap blanket over his knees, while he carved a piece of wood. It was half done and resembled some kind of Buddha like shape.
“What is that, Holmes?”
“Ganesha,” said Holmes to Conan. “He’s quite popular in India. God of luck and kindness.”
“Well,” said Conan, then laughed. “We can all use a little of both of those,” giving Watson an accusing look.
“Indeed we can, Conan.”
Watson moved a knight. “Truly checkmate this time, Conan.”
Conan turned about to look. “You moved my King this time!”
Before Watson could reply a loud pounding sounded on the front door below.
Holmes got up. “I’ll get it. I need the diversion anyway.”
He set his Ganesha carving down on his chair top his lap blanket and descended to the front door and tugged it open.
Mrs. Cadmiller stood there, her eyes distraught, face pale as a ghost with soot marks all over it, hair singed. “Help me!”
Holmes started to ask her inside, when she suddenly backed away from him. “No, no, please, I’ve done nothing wrong!”
She gestured to Holmes. “Why does he hate us so?”
Holmes tried to reach her with his hand again. “No, you’ll die!”
She twirled about and then exploded into a flurry of smoldering ashes leaving a stunned Holmes staring at the conflagration at his feet.
