by Bill Crider
EIGHT ADVENTURES OF SHERLOCK HOLMES
With the able assistance of Dr. John Watson
By Bill Crider
A Gordian Knot Production
Gordian Knot is an imprint of Crossroad Press
Digital Edition published by Crossroad Press
Smashwords edition published at Smashwords by Crossroad Press
Digital Edition Copyright © 2017 Bill Crider
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“The Adventure of the Young British Soldier,” Murder, My Dear Watson: New Tales of Sherlock Holmes, Martin Harry Greenberg, Jon Lellenberg, and Daniel Stashower, eds., Carroll & Graf, 2003.
“The Case of the Vampire’s Mark,” Murder in Baker Street: New Tales of Sherlock Holmes, Martin H. Greenberg, Jon L. Lellenberg, Daniel Stashower, eds., Carroll & Graf, 2001.
“The Adventure of the Christmas Bear,” More Holmes For The Holidays, Martin H. Greenberg, Jon L. Lellenberg, and Carol-Lynn Waugh, eds., Berkley, 1999.
“The Adventure in the White City,” Sherlock Holmes in America, Martin H. Greenberg, Jon L. Lellenberg, and Daniel Stashower, eds., Skyhorse Publishing, 2009.
“The Adventure of the Venemous Lizard,” The New Adventures of Sherlock Holmes: Original Stories by Eminent Mystery Writers, Martin Harry Greenberg, and Carol-Lynn Rossel Waugh, eds., Carroll & Graf, 1987.
“The Case of the Vanished Vampire,” The Vampire Stories, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle; Martin H. Greenberg, and Robert Eighteen-Bisand, eds., Skyhorse, 2009.
“The Adventure of the St. Marylebone Ghoul,” The Ghosts in Baker Street: New Tales of Sherlock Holmes, Martin H. Greenberg, Jon L. Lellenberg, and Daniel Stashower, eds., Carroll & Graf, 2006.
“The Adventure of the Christmas Ghosts,” Holmes for the Holidays, Martin H. Greenberg, Jon L. Lellenberg, and Carol-Lynn Roussel, eds., Berkley, 2006.
“Death Did Not Become Him,” Shadows Over Baker Street, Michael Reaves and John Pelan, eds., Del Rey Books, 2003.
Meet the Author
Bill Crider is a native Texan who’s lived in the state all his life, and he’s been reading, writing, and collecting mystery and western fiction for most of that time. He received a PhD from The University of Texas at Austin, where he wrote his dissertation on Dashiell Hammett, Raymond Chandler, and Ross MacDonald. He taught both high school and college before his retirement, and he combined his teaching career with his writing career, publishing more than 75 novels and an equal number of short stories. He’s best known for the Sheriff Dan Rhodes series, which features a sheriff in a small Texas county. Though contemporary in setting, the Sheriff Rhodes books have many of the qualities of the classic western. Crider has also written a number of western novels, both under his own name several house names. When he’s not writing, Crider is reading one of the thousands (and thousands) of old paperbacks that he’s collected over the years or listening to music from decades past. He prefers baseball to football, likes old-time radio shows, and sometimes watches black-and-white movies. He had read the Sherlock Holmes canon from first to last numerous times, and his favorite Holmes movie is the 1939 Hound of the Baskervilles.
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CONTENTS
The Adventure of the Young British Soldier
The Case of the Vanished Vampire
The Adventure of the St. Marylebone Ghoul
The Adventure of the Christmas Bear
The Adventure of the Venomous Lizard
The Case of the Vampire’s Mark
The Adventure in the White City
The Adventure of the Christmas Ghosts
Death Did Not Become Him—by Patricia Lee Macomber & David Niall Wilson
The Adventure of the Young British Soldier
I have written previously about the three massive manuscript volumes containing the record of Sherlock Holmes’s exploits of the year 1894, a remarkable year indeed, not only for Holmes’s return to Baker Street but for both the number of cases in which he involved himself and of their curious nature. The adventure of the golden pince-nez, for example, admirably displays the singular powers of my friend, while the nauseating tale of the red leech gives an idea of the depths of depravity to which some men will sink to attain their ends. But there is one case that is not recorded in those three volumes because at the time of its occurrence it seemed far too personal for inclusion. Never before had my own life and affairs intruded into the realm of Holmes’s detective work, and the result when they did so was far from happy. I have, decided, however, now that the passage of years has eased the sting, to commit the events to paper in the hope that they might prove of interest to my readers.
It was a bitterly cold winter’s night near the beginning of December. There was no snow or ice outside, and the wind did not blow, but the cold was so intense that it seemed to settle on the city with a weight of its own, a weight so heavy that it almost cracked the paving stones. Holmes and I sat secure in our Baker Street rooms, he attempting to organize some of the clippings that he kept relating to criminous activities of all sorts, and I leafing through a book of Mr. Kipling’s poems, pausing now and then to read one of them. I was particularly affected by one entitled “The Young British Soldier.”
The fire had burned down to the last log, which was glowing, though hardly alight at all, and while the room was beginning to cool, I felt quite warm. My face was flushed, and I limped to the window to stare out at the freezing darkness, though what I saw in my mind’s eye was neither dark nor freezing. Far from it, indeed, and I pressed my hot, damp palms against the cold glass.
“It must come to you strongly, now and then,” said Holmes.
Startled, I turned to stare at him. “Whatever do you mean?”
“The memory of your service,” said he, “and of the time the Jezail bullet struck you down.”
I was surprised, but not astonished. This was not the first time that Holmes had seemed to read my mind. I said, “But how could you know what I was thinking? It seems impossible.”
“Hardly impossible,” said Holmes. “First there is the matter of the book you are reading, the one by Mr. Kipling. I wager that I could tell you the exact words you came across when the blood rushed to your face and you be
gan to perspire as if you were still on the Afghan plain. And then there is the matter of your limp.”
“Ah.”
“Indeed. Your wound has hardly troubled you in recent days, even in the cold, yet when you crossed the room it might have been only a few months ago rather than fourteen years that you had a bullet through your leg.”
“Now that you explain it, I can see that it was rather easy for you to discover my thoughts. But one thing still puzzles me.”
“And what might that be?”
“Your comment about the poem. I can hardly believe you could quote the exact lines. I will grant that no man in England, or the world for that matter, can approach your knowledge of crime and criminals. I hold it as an article of faith that there is no one who knows more about tobacco ash or poison or the criminal mind than you. As for poetry, however, I have never known you to read a line of it.”
Holmes rose from his chair and walked to the mantel, where he filled a briar pipe with tobacco from one of the pouches there. He lit the pipe and puffed on it for a few moments until the tobacco was burning to his satisfaction. Then he removed it from his mouth and said,
“‘When you’re wounded and left on Afghanistan’s plains,
And the women come out to cut up what remains,
Just roll to your rifle and blow out your brains,
And go to your Gawd like a soldier.’”
I had not been astonished earlier, but now I confess that my mouth fell open. It was not so much that Holmes had discovered the exact verse, for more times than once, Holmes had amazed me with his deductive powers. But in all our acquaintance I had never heard him quote four lines of poetry from memory.
“You see, Watson,” he said with a thin smile, “I have hidden depths.”
“You do, indeed,” said I. “But why?”
“Why memorize a bit of verse? Do you not recall that you have read that poem to me previously?”
“Yes,” I admitted. “But that was a year ago, and I never thought that you would commit it to memory.”
“The subject matter has its own grisly interest,” said Holmes. “And I remembered those particular lines because they seemed to have a great deal of meaning for you.”
The last log fell apart on the grate and sparked into coals. I shivered, though not from the cold.
“They remind me of things that I would prefer not to recall with any clarity,” said I. “Had it not been for my orderly that day at Maiwand, I might have been the young British soldier of that poem.”
“Your orderly,” said Holmes. “Murray.”
“Yes. Had he not slung me across a packhorse and taken me from the field, I would have been left to the mercy of the foe, though mercy was not something much heard of on that field.”
“And what of Murray?” Holmes asked. “I do not believe you ever told me of his fate.”
“Only because I do not know it. He returned to the fighting after I was safe in Peshwar, and after that I lost all touch with him. Perhaps he, too, returned to England.”
“Or died in battle in some foreign land,” said Holmes.
“Perhaps,” said I. “But I suppose we shall never know.”
After that, I set Kipling’s book aside, and Holmes went back to his clippings. We spoke no more of Murray until seven days later when a carriage arrived outside our window early one morning.
The weather had gone from unbearably cold to merely seasonable, and the sun shone dimly through the windows. Holmes was examining something or other through his microscope, and I was leafing through a medical journal when I heard the long scrape of a wheel against the curb below in the street.
Holmes heard it as well. He raised his head and said, “I believe we are about to have a visitor, Watson. Be so good as to get the door.”
I went downstairs and admitted a woman of about my own age. She looked around distractedly and said, “Mr. Sherlock Holmes?”
“No,” I replied. “He is upstairs. Follow me, and I will take you to him.”
I led the way upward, and she followed me into the room, where Holmes sat as if engrossed in whatever he saw through the lenses of the microscope.
“Holmes,” said I, “you have a visitor.”
He turned to face us, and the woman at my back said, “Oh, no. It is not Mr. Holmes that I have come to see. It is someone else, a Dr. Watson.”
“I am Dr. Watson,” said I, a bit taken aback. Seldom did anyone come seeking me at Baker Street.
“Do not be so surprised, Watson,” said Holmes. “The woman is clearly in need of your help.” He rose and walked to her. “Please be seated,” he said, and cleared a space on the couch for her.
She sat as if grateful for the opportunity, and I saw for the first time that her face was flushed and that her eyes were sunken. No doubt Holmes, keen observer that he was, had noticed these symptoms immediately and known that the woman was in need of my medical attentions. But he said to her, “Who is it that needs the services of Dr. Watson?”
“My husband,” she replied.
Holmes looked at me. “Worry, Watson, worry produces the lack of sleep that darkens the skin under the eyes. Anxiety reddens the skin as much as any fever.”
“So I see,” I said.
“And who is your husband?” Holmes asked the woman.
“He is known to Dr. Watson,” she said. “His name is Edward Murray.”
“The man who saved your life, Watson,” Holmes observed.
“Yes,” said Mrs. Murray, turning to me. “And now, Dr. Watson, he needs you to save his.”
Mrs. Murray explained that her husband was quite ill, “And he says that you, Dr. Watson, are the only one who can save him.”
“I am afraid that he might have an exaggerated idea of my skills,” said I.
“Nonsense,” said Holmes. “You are a fine physician, Watson, as any of your patients would attest.”
“But how did he hear of me?” I asked.
“You have recorded the cases of Mr. Holmes,” Mrs. Murray said. “And Edward has read them all eagerly. He often speaks of the time he carried you off the battlefield to safety, and he was delighted to see an account of it when you published the first of Mr. Holmes’s adventures.”
“It was no more than he deserved,” I said. “Had it not been for him, I would surely have died in Afghanistan.”
“Many did,” said she. “Edward could not save them all.”
“Nor could anyone have done more than he,” said I. “What are your husband’s symptoms?”
“He fears that they are the result of some illness that lingers from his years of service, which is the main reason he has asked for Dr. Watson. None of the doctors we have consulted has been able to give a satisfactory diagnosis, and his condition worsens day by day, slowly but inevitably.”
“But the symptoms?” Holmes asked, to bring her back to my question.
“At first we believed Edward suffered from jaundice, but the doctors have said that is not the case. Now he has difficulty balancing himself, so much so that he is confined to his bed. He seems to weaken with every passing hour.” She touched the corners of her eyes with a handkerchief she removed from her reticule. “I fear that he is dying, Dr. Watson. Please. You must help him.”
I was about to say that I hoped her husband had not placed too much faith in my powers, but Holmes raised a hand to silence me.
“Dr. Watson will be glad to be of assistance,” he said. “In fact, we are ready to see your husband immediately if you will be so good as to provide us transportation.”
“You would come, too?”
“Perhaps I can provide Dr. Watson with a bit of assistance, as he has so ably done for me in the past.”
“I am sure my husband will be honored to meet you. There is a coach waiting for me below. You are welcome to share it with me.”
“Very well,” said Holmes, with rather more enthusiasm that I would have expected. “Watson, get your bag.”
I did as I was bidden, though a bi
t puzzled by Holmes’s interest in the matter. His curiosity about medical matters was usually restricted to those relating to crimes of one sort or another, preferably gruesome. But I did not question him, as I believed that a trip in the open air would be beneficial for him. He had been growing restless lately, and to see him take an interest in anything at all was a pleasant surprise.
When we were in the coach and on our way, Holmes asked me to tell him more about my experience in Afghanistan.
“You have never spoken of it in detail,” said he.
“Nor has Edward,” said Mrs. Murray. “He does not like to speak of those days.”
I shifted uncomfortably, whether from the throbbing of my leg where the musket bullet had passed through or from the sting of memory, I cannot say.
“Many soldiers prefer not to recall battlefield experiences,” I told them. “Rather unpleasant, for the most part.”
“But instructive, at times,” said Holmes. “How did you come to be wounded?
My mind turned back to that day at Maiwand.
“Our troops left Kandahar on 3 July,” I said. “It was a blistering day, as indeed the entire summer had been. There were nearly three thousand men, marching off to support six thousand tribesmen engaged in fighting against one Ayub Khan. Ayub was in rebellion against the Amir, who had reportedly immured himself in Kabul. We had hardly gone any distance at all before we learned that the tribesmen we were going to aid had changed sides and were now supporting Ayub Khan. So the odds against, overwhelming to begin with, had become much worse. And later on the situation worsened even more.”
“But switching sides?” said Mrs. Edwards. “Surely the tribesmen would not ally themselves with their enemy?”
“That is the way of things in Afghanistan,” I replied, thinking of Kipling’s poem. “And there were other problems. Among the three thousand of us, many were raw recruits, hardly trained in fighting at all. Besides that, when we received orders to engage the enemy at Maiwand late on 26 July, we had already spent much of the night breaking up our camp. So it was a group of tired, untrained men who faced a force so large that it seemed a veritable moving forest, like the one in Macbeth.”
