by C J Lutton
Sherlock Holmes and the Father of Lies
Book #1 in the Confidential Files of Dr. John H. Watson
C.J. Lutton
Contents
Publisher’s Note
Foreword
1. The Diogenes Club
2. A Friend Comes Knocking
3. The Case Unfolds
4. A Most Horrible Creature
5. The Diary Of Terror
6. A Traitor In Our Midst
7. Watson, Meet My Mentor
8. A Case For The International Police
9. Our Quest Takes Us to the New World
10. Dracula’s Warning
11. A Most Singular Lady
12. The Tragedy Of Emma Edwards
13. The Execution
14. The Great Falls
15. The Limb Of Death
16. The Fabric of Life
17. Onto The Dinosaur We Battle
18. The Scene Of The Crime
19. A Brutal Farewell To Moriarty
20. The Hounds Of Hell
21. Into The Caverns
22. The Underground River
23. Dracula’s Lair
24. Let There Be Light
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the author…
This book is dedicated to:
The man who said I never completed anything...
My father.
And to the women who had faith...
My mother and my wife.
Sherlock Holmes and the Father of Lies: Book #1 in the Confidential Files of Dr. John H. Watson by C.J. Lutton
Copyright © 2020 by the Estate of C. J. Lutton
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, without prior written permission.
C/o Joanna Campbell Slan
Spot On Publishing
9307 SE Olympus Street
Hobe Sound FL 33455 / USA
http://www.SpotOnPublishing.org
http://www.JoannaSlan.com
http://www.thesherlockstories.com
Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.
Revised 01/13/2020
Cover art: http://www.WickedSmartDesigns.com
Sherlock Holmes and the Father of Lies: Book #1 in the Confidential Files of Dr. John H. Watson by C.J. Lutton
Publisher’s Note
In keeping with Dr. John H. Watson’s original notes, we have used British spellings throughout this manuscript.
Foreword
From the files of John H. Watson, M.D.
Through the years, I've had the privilege of being the sole chronicler of many of the greatest adventures of my friend, Sherlock Holmes. By the time this book is released for the public's consumption, Holmes and I will have been dead for at least fifty years. It is my sincere hope that our deaths are from natural causes, but we will take what comes.
The reasoning behind my taking such extraordinary measures in delaying publication are threefold. Firstly, this case was so vexing, so evil, that it had the potential to rock the very foundations of the civilized world and cause all those involved to question our sanity and beliefs. By the end, we were promised leniency and cleared of any wrongdoing under the auspices of a secret government tribunal. However, our prior dealings with authorities have caused us to be wary of their assurances.
Secondly, I will confess to considerations that are partly selfish. The release of this manuscript will either clear our good names or inform the reader of the exceptional circumstances regarding this matter. In sum, I believe that our actions—admittedly oft—times arbitrary and swift—were nonetheless correct.
Lastly, some of the most influential houses throughout Europe and abroad either knowingly or innocently hindered our investigation and attempted to confound our efforts to bring villains to justice. It was because of their far—reaching power and influence that our investigation had to be conducted with the utmost secrecy and delicacy. This proved to be a daunting, and by no means an easy task.
I have seen the moral fiber of society adapt and survive many changes, some undoubtedly for the better. Within the confines of these pages you'll read about the ordinary men and women who were hurled headlong into the harrowing abyss of the supernatural and the undead. Though I'm loath to exacerbate what I believe is an already declining moral attitude, the shocking scenes in this manuscript may be unsuitable for some of my more genteel readers. As distasteful as it is for me to write in such a manner, the circumstances warrant that I report what was done with accuracy. Toward that end, within these pages are the actual sworn statements of some of the participants involved and where appropriate, I have made annotated comments as to their veracity and their import as they pertained to the case.
I leave the final judgement of our actions to you. No matter what you decide, the passage of time will not dilute the facts of this case. There will be few who will be able to forget that which you are about to read.
As you will read, this case began inauspiciously enough in the quiet confines of the Diogenes Club, a club known throughout the civilized world as being discreet and discriminating. It happened as the club was about to induct its newest member... the Father of Lies.
1
The Diogenes Club
Far from the multitude of sounds of the city—the clatter of the spoked wheels on cobblestone streets, the hawkers peddling their wares, and the noises of passersby—a silent sanctuary awaits those who are granted entrance to the Diogenes Club. For once a man passes through the two great oaken doors that guard the main entrance to the club, the outside world ceases to exist.
The difficulty in writing about this case lies not in the preponderance or lack thereof of the facts, but in my ability as your chronicler to present them to you in an orderly and believable fashion. I , Dr. John H. Watson, have not taken any liberties whatsoever to embellish or to fabricate any facts, and I have done my best to prevent my personal views from prejudicing any of the statements you have read or are about to read. There will be other verbatim statements taken from eyewitnesses interspersed throughout this narrative where appropriate.
Let us begin with a written statement by Mr. R. W. Harker, the personal servant of Mr. Mycroft Holmes. His reported facts are just too incredible to be believed. But try as I did to shake Harker's statement, I can find no other earthly attestation of the truth. In explaining the supernatural occurrences that took place, it is of great import that I place before you Harker's own written statement in his own words. From that, you may draw your own conclusions.
* * *
Sworn Statement of R. Willenthrop Harker
I, R. Willenthrop Harker, do attest that the words you are about to read are the truthful facts as I know them.
I was at the Diogenes Club attending to the business affairs of my employer, Mr. Mycroft Holmes, Esquire, when a staff page came looking for Mr. Holmes. The page was in an agitated state and remarked to me that there was an extremely rude gentleman in the Stranger’s Room—and this man demanded to see Mr. Holmes urgently.
I knew this staff page to be rather new in the employ of the Diogenes Club, and I had observed him to be a rather shy fellow. With that in mind, I took his flustered demeanor to be that of inexperience. The young man handed me a card that appeared to be a deliberately altered jagged half of a whole. It had been meticulously cut in half. What made the ca
rd even more singular in nature was that it was not cut in half by a straight vertical cut but divided by a precise zigzag pattern. The jagged edges dissected the name printed on it. The page explained, “A stranger to the club instructed me to present this card to Mr. Holmes and tell him that his presence is required straight away. Of course, I am loathe to do that because I would be interrupting his chess game.”
I took the card and sent the page on his way, assuring him I would handle the matter personally. Walking to the chess room took me past the Stranger’s Room, the only room in the club where conversation is allowed. On the chance that the page was mistaken in his understanding of what the guest had actually said, I decided to ascertain the facts for myself. After all, no one knows Mr. Mycroft Holmes’ penchant for solitude and his desire not to be disturbed while playing his games of chess better than I, and I was fully prepared to ask the visitor to return at a more convenient time. With that in mind, I entered the Stranger’s Room.
I was immediately surprised. Mr. Sherlock Holmes, brother to Mr. Mycroft Holmes, was standing there. A slender man with hawk—like features and piercing eyes, he recognized me right away, since we have met on numerous occasions, and he apologized directly for the flustered page. In fact, his very words were, “I was poking a little fun at the fellow.”
I must say, I found this a little queer. Mr. Sherlock Holmes is not known for his keen sense of humor. His sense of humor is as singular as he is. Nor is Mr. Mycroft Holmes regarded as a jokester. Mycroft, like his brother, is a man of singular appearance. Although Mycroft is the older brother by nine years, Sherlock is taller by far. Sherlock moves with economy and selected purpose, Mycroft choses to barely move at all. Indeed, he rarely leaves the Diogenes Club unless dire circumstances demand it. His excess flesh impedes his locomotion. Both men are mental giants, although one is as physically nimble as the other is morbidly inert. Musing on these disparities, I chalked off the comment by Mr. Sherlock Holmes to a whim. But I was even more surprised with what he asked of me.
“Pray allow me to continue my ruse a little longer. My brother is expecting a visitor. Please do not let on that it is I,” he said. “Give Mycroft this card and he will come out right away. All will be explained later.”
Mr. Mycroft Holmes had not informed me that he was expecting a visitor. Although I saw no harm in doing what was asked of me, I did not like it. I left Mr. Sherlock Holmes in the Stranger’s Room only after yielding to his persistence.
”I beg your pardon, Mr. Holmes,” I said, as I interrupted my employer’s chess game. ”There's a gentleman in the Stranger's Room who urgently requests ... No, I’m afraid that's not correct. I'm sorry, sir, but he actually demanded that you speak to him directly!”
Mr. Mycroft Holmes scowled at me.
”He gave me this,” I said, using my thumb and forefinger to present the small card that had been meticulously cut in half.
Mr. Mycroft Holmes’ face sagged as he took the card. I could see he was loathe to even touch it. He reached inside his vest pocket and removed a sister to the first card. I could see it was also divided in such a curious manner. Mr. Mycroft Holmes placed the two pieces side by side. They were a perfect match.
Begging forgiveness of his chess partner for this untimely but necessary interruption, Mycroft tipped his king on its side in an act of surrender. He abruptly wheeled around and hastily scribbled his thoughts and wishes on a piece of paper taken from a nearby desk.
”Be sure that my brother, Sherlock, gets this straight away and pray we are not too late,” Mr. Mycroft Holmes pleaded with me, placing the scribbled note and card in my hand. Before I could respond, my employer bounded off towards the Stranger's Room. Glancing back over his shoulder, he realized that I was not following him.
The look on Mr. Mycroft Holmes’ face was pure horror. ”For heaven’s sake, man!” he bellowed. ”What are you doing? My brother must get that note! If you hold life dear, let no one stop you from getting that to Sherlock! Now please do as I say and leave me be.”
”B—b—but, Mr. Holmes,” I begged him. ”What is it? Perhaps I can help.”
”You'll best serve me by following my orders!” Mr. Mycroft Holmes spoke in a ragged voice. ”I fear that the world is about to plunge into the depths of Armageddon. This horror that has paid me a visit, if allowed to follow its ominous course, will surely forfeit the lives of many good people. Now, I beg you—”
This horror? I thought to myself. How can he speak this way of his own brother? I wondered. I intended to do as he had beseeched me, but I found myself oddly frozen to the spot. How could I take the piece of card to Mr. Sherlock Holmes when he was standing there in the next room?
It was all terribly confusing. A voice from within the Stranger's Room beckoned.
”Ahh, Mycroft,” came the whispered voice, ”do come in. By all means, bring your dutiful associate Harker with you. Come, come, gentlemen. It is not polite to keep an old friend waiting.”
The voice, though whispered, affected both of us quite differently. I heard the familiar voice of the great Sherlock Holmes. However, Mr. Mycroft Holmes reacted as if he heard the voice of evil incarnated. My employer, upon entering the room, drew himself up in a stance that I recognized as the posture of one who senses danger. Of course, Mr. Mycroft Holmes is no stranger to personal jeopardy, because of his close association with his brother and having assisted the Yard on more than one occasion in its apprehension of dangerous criminals. At that moment, I recalled that recently Mr. Mycroft Holmes had taken to carrying a lethal two—shot derringer. I also realized that my employer had been acting quite unsettled of late. It was almost as if he had a sense of impending doom.
Both Mr. Mycroft Holmes and I had every reason to feel secure there in the hallowed Diogenes Club. Was this indeed a ruse by the famous Mr. Sherlock Holmes? I felt exceedingly unsure, so as my employer advanced toward the voice I followed along. Even so, it occurred to me that things were getting out of hand. I feared that I had done a disservice to my employer. Perhaps I should have told him about his brother’s subterfuge.
“Come, come,” said Mr. Sherlock Holmes, speaking from the shadows of the room. I call the stranger Mr. Sherlock Holmes because he was and yet he was not the famous detective. It is exceedingly difficult for me to explain, but this time I recognized a new quality in the voice. It was somehow different, more menacing. Could it be my imagination?
Curiously, the man stood in the only part of the room that was poorly lit. Was it a conscious act on his part? Perhaps...“Stay alert,” Mr. Mycroft Holmes whispered to me. This added to my growing fear that things had gone terribly awry.
The visitor leaned forward so that his face came from behind the veiled shadows, floating in and out of the light. I could smell my employer’s fear but was unable to grasp the cause. Surely, I thought, Mr. Mycroft Holmes can plainly see that it is his brother standing there, can't he?
”Do not trust what you see, Harker,” whispered Mr. Mycroft Holmes. ”This vile creature has shown himself to be a thousand faces. He is death.”
His tone sent a shiver down my spine. I knew my employer was correct in his observation, but I couldn't understand why Mr. Sherlock Holmes’ face was still there, hovering in the shadows. Yet even as I studied the visage of Mr. Sherlock Holmes, I could perceive a difference. There was hardness that had never shown on the face of the true Mr. Sherlock Holmes.
It must have been a trick of the light that gave the impression of the stranger's ability to hover ever so slightly off the carpeted floor. His gnarled and bony hands, the only part of him that was in direct light, took on an ethereal quality as they rested on the back of the chair.
Mr. Mycroft actually jumped back in startled confusion. I was sure that I had gone quite mad!
”Bravo, Mycroft!” the voice said. ”For once, your meddlesome brother did not exaggerate. Your powers of observation are to be commended.” Stepping from behind the chair, the stranger bowed with a mock flourish.
I could
see that the stranger's bravado had greatly affected Mycroft's composure. The longer I stood there, the more I noticed a peculiar odor that emanated from the stranger. It was the smell of decaying flesh and of rotting flowers placed on mildewed earth. A memory flooded back to me, as I have recently laid to rest my beloved wife. When we opened the vault, her final resting place, the dank foul smell rushed out at me. All of this came back to me in a rush of anguished memories, and I realized that the apparition in front of me was not a living human being. The thought made my skin crawl.
At the same time, I was drawn to the stranger. It was a feeling that I did not want to fight. I could begin to feel his hurt. I wanted to be touched by him. His eyes held me rapt with yearning. I ached for his approval.
“Harker,” warned my employer, “for all that is holy, step back. I would not have you sacrifice yourself.”
To my shock, I realized that Mr. Mycroft Holmes was pointing his derringer in the direction of Mr. Sherlock Holmes. I thought that the brothers were having sport with me. I expected them to burst out in raucous laughter. But then I saw it. The visitor was definitely floating!
”Ah, Mycroft,” continued the visitor, ”I'm afraid that your brother, Sherlock, did understate one fact. From your size and girth, I fear your epicurean forays would shame a starving nation.” With that, the visitor exploded with a shrill laugh. Sherlock was speaking of himself as though he were not in the room with us. This made no sense to me. None at all. I winced at the effrontery of the stranger, an apparition I was now convinced could not possibly be Mr. Sherlock Holmes. Mr. Mycroft Holmes took a threatening step forward, as would a beast of the wild in establishing its territory. His mouth contorted with rage as he continued towards the visitor. His hand with the derringer led the way. To this very day, I am not sure of what had actually happened next. And then the visitor was not there. To my horror, he was levitating about a meter off the floor. My mind must have retreated to the sanctuary of shock. I was brought back to reality by the sound of Mr. Mycroft Holmes’ derringer hitting the floor.
