Contents
Cover
Available Now from Titan Books
Title Page
Copyright
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
About the Author
The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes
AVAILABLE NOW FROM TITAN BOOKS
THE FURTHER ADVENTURES OF SHERLOCK HOLMES SERIES:
THE ALBINO’S TREASURE
Stuart Douglas
MURDER AT SORROW’S CROWN
Steven Savile & Robert Greenberger
THE RIPPER LEGACY
David Stuart Davies
THE DEVIL’S PROMISE
David Stuart Davies
THE VEILED DETECTIVE
David Stuart Davies
THE SCROLL OF THE DEAD
David Stuart Davies
THE WHITE WORM
Sam Siciliano
THE ANGEL OF THE OPERA
Sam Siciliano
THE WEB WEAVER
Sam Siciliano
THE GRIMSWELL CURSE
Sam Siciliano
THE ECTOPLASMIC MAN
Daniel Stashower
THE WAR OF THE WORLDS
Manly Wade Wellman & Wade Wellman
THE SEVENTH BULLET
Daniel D. Victor
DR JEKYLL AND MR HOLMES
Loren D. Estleman
THE PEERLESS PEER
Philip José Farmer
THE FURTHER ADVENTURES OF SHERLOCK HOLMES:
THE COUNTERFEIT DETECTIVE
Print edition ISBN: 9781783299256
E-book edition ISBN: 9781783299263
Published by Titan Books
A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd
144 Southwark Street, London SE1 0UP
First edition: October 2016
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
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.
© 2016 Stuart Douglas
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
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Chapter One
The summer of 1899 was a troubled period in the life of my friend, Sherlock Holmes. Since the turn of the previous year, he had been working on an occasional basis for his brother Mycroft, frequently disappearing for days at a time, only to return – filthy, irascible and near collapse – in the dark of night. Often, he would be injured in some manner that required my medical aid, but so great was his exhaustion that even as I stitched and bandaged his wounds, he would fall asleep in his chair, murmuring darkly to himself.
When he was not engaged in such clandestine activities, he sat before the fire in a thick haze of pipe smoke, saying nothing, but polluting the atmosphere to such an extent that I was forced to go out to my club more often than not. I began to fear that he was suffering from some form of mental imbalance, so morose had he become, and for the first time in several years I took to examining his arms for needle marks as I tended to his more mundane cuts and bruises. There were none, I was relieved to see, but that was no guarantee for the future, should his mental state remain so depressed.
I attempted to quiz him about his mysterious labours, of course, but he was tight-lipped on almost every occasion, and more than once lost his temper entirely, causing a cloud to descend upon our rooms. On the sole occasion he did speak of his work, all he would say was that it involved issues of state; though I naturally allowed the matter to rest at that point, I remained worried for Holmes’s health and general wellbeing. The news from southern Africa, where the Boers seemed finally to have worked themselves into enough of a frenzy to threaten revolt against British rule, had done little to improve the general mood, while his increasingly thin and pale face reminded me painfully of the early days of our friendship, when cocaine too often wrapped him in its malignant fingers.
It came as something of a surprise, therefore, when he announced over breakfast one morning that he intended to leave for America as soon as could be arranged. He would elaborate no further, but as he had received a letter five minutes previously that he now held crushed in his fist, it was not difficult to guess the inspiration for his sudden travel plans, even if the specific reason remained unclear.
Determined to show that I was capable of exercising those powers of observation that my friend often claimed I lacked, I called him back as he rose from his chair. “Bad news?” I enquired, nodding meaningfully at the crumpled paper in his hand.
“You might well say so, Watson!” Holmes strode to the fireplace and back in a few paces, then repeated the action several times, waving the letter like a white flag. “Here,” he said finally. “Read this. I would appreciate your opinion on the contents.”
He handed me the missive. I smoothed it on my knee and, as was my custom when Holmes and I considered a document together, read the contents aloud.
Dear Sherlock Holmes,
You will surely not remember but some years ago I briefly made your acquaintance when you were instrumental in proving my maternal uncle innocent of a minor theft from the house in which he was employed.
I paused and raised my eyebrows querulously at Holmes. “This is hardly the stuff of outrage, Holmes. This man and his family obviously remember you fondly and hold you yet in high regard, even if they consider you unlikely to be able to respond in kind.” I frowned at a sudden thought. “Surely you are not so vain that the belief you might not possess infallible recall has placed you in so foul a mood?”
Holmes irritably waved away my suggestion. “Of course not, Watson. Vanity, I’m sure you would agree, is not one of my character flaws.” He sniffed. “Besides, the letter is unsigned and gives no further indication of the identity of our correspondent. Even my deductive powers rebel when faced with so little information. But please, do continue. I am keen to hear what you think of the next section.”
I picked up the letter again, and let my eyes run down the page.
Since then, I have emigrated to the United States and now make my home in the city of New York, where I have been fortunate enough to take a wife and start a family. In fact, I am about to move on again, to California of all places, where my wife’s family have an interest in a thriving hotel, but before I left I felt it only proper to relate to you a peculiar incident I witnessed yesterday and, by so doing, pe
rhaps partially repay my family’s debt to you.
Yesterday morning I was walking from my place of employment to my home when I happened to pass by a boy selling newspapers. You must understand that I do not, as a rule, waste valuable pennies on what tend to be mere purveyors of scandal and gossip, but as I walked by on this occasion, something caught my eye. There, on the front page of the nearest newspaper, was the name Sherlock Holmes. I bought a copy, expecting to read of your fresh triumphs of detection, much as The Strand Magazine prints Dr Watson’s tales. You may imagine my surprise, therefore, when I opened the ’paper to discover that Sherlock Holmes is currently working in New York, and has been for some time. More surprising still, the sketch that accompanied the article was of a man who, though similar to yourself, was most definitely not the Sherlock Holmes I had previously met.
I cannot tell you much more than that, Mr Holmes. The article mentioned this man’s many grateful clients in the city, and hinted that a permanent move to New York might be imminent, but little else. Perhaps he works here with your blessing, but – remembering the service you did my uncle – I thought it incumbent on me to make you aware of what may be a terrible imposture, which could well have a damaging effect on your reputation.
A Well Wisher
Holmes cocked his head to one side in enquiry as I laid the letter to one side. “Can you believe the impudence, Watson?” he snapped. “The effrontery of this imposter…”
His words became lost in indistinct muttering, allowing me to pose an obvious question.
“Are you sure that this ‘well wisher’ is what he claims to be, Holmes? An anonymous letter is hardly the most credible of sources.”
Holmes glared at me for a moment before speaking. “Of course I shall need to make enquiries by telegram before making any firm decision, but assuming all is as this individual claims, I intend to book passage to the United States and confront the blackguard who has stolen my identity!”
I rushed to placate him. “I would say that you must certainly do something to put an end to this sorry state of affairs, Holmes. Whoever it was sent you this letter, he is quite correct when he says your reputation could be damaged. We should go to New York and confront the villain!”
“Perhaps…” Holmes lit a cigarette and blew smoke angrily towards the ceiling. “I have completed all but a tiny fragment of Mycroft’s many requests, after all. Moreover, why should I wait about for my brother to snap his fingers in the expectation that I will immediately come running? Enough is enough, Watson. I will tolerate his overbearing attitude no longer!”
Clearly, there was no need for me to say anything. Holmes’s relationship with his brother was a complex one that I did not entirely comprehend, but his unexpected inferiority complex whenever Mycroft was involved played a major role in all of their interactions. I had watched with alarm over recent months as Holmes had worn himself out at the behest of Mycroft, and felt only relief that my friend had decided to put his own interests first.
As Holmes shrugged on his coat and hat and headed for the door, it was all I could do to keep up with him.
* * *
Three days later we stood on the deck of the RMS Oceanic, the world’s largest ocean liner, and our home for the next six days, as it began its maiden voyage from Liverpool to New York. Already I could tell that the journey would be beneficial to Holmes’s health. Colour had returned to his cheeks, and his eyes – which had for weeks been heavy with tension and lack of sleep – were clearer than for some time. His manner, too, would, I hoped, undergo a similar transformation. Holmes had been ill-tempered and irritable ever since he had taken on whatever mysterious task Mycroft had given him, but I was optimistic our voyage would restore him to normality.
For myself, I must admit that the change of scenery was equally welcome. The Oceanic was as luxurious and well-appointed as any first rate London hotel, and I had already taken a pleasant stroll around the library while waiting for the ship to leave port. Holmes, for his part, had spent the time walking the decks, his mind, I assumed, turning over the matter of the mysterious imposter who had stolen his identity. Now, we met up on the port deck and stood, watching the sea slip by beneath the smooth keel below us.
“So, Holmes,” I began, “rather an impressive vessel, wouldn’t you say?”
Holmes nodded, though with little obvious interest. “The largest afloat, I believe.” His eyes flitted around as he spoke. “I admit, however, that the people on board are far more likely to maintain my interest for the next few days than a study of the fixtures and fittings.”
Evidently any change in Holmes’s mental, as opposed to physical, demeanour would be a gradual one, but I was encouraged by the fact that he was at least showing an interest in his fellow passengers. It had been some time since my friend had engaged with those around him, and if I only imagined a familiar glint in his eye as he scanned a group of crewmen manhandling a crate through a doorway, it was still enough to give me cause for optimism. Attempting to build on this possibly fragile improvement, I chided him that he had no way of knowing that his fellow passengers were of any interest at all.
He reacted as I hoped he would. “No way of knowing, you say, Watson? Why, from this spot alone I count two couples travelling with companions other than their legitimate spouses, a minimum of three former convicts amongst the crew, one of whom served a substantial sentence, almost certainly in an English prison, and a lady concerned about an expensive necklace, which she fears may be broken. That small selection will be enough to satisfy my curiosity for a while.”
“I will not ask how you can identify a man in the company of a woman other than his wife, Holmes, but the others? What marks out the convict so clearly? How can you know the thoughts of a lady who is a stranger to you? Are you not exaggerating just a little?”
It would be an exaggeration of my own to say that Holmes bridled at this suggestion, but he was clearly vexed to be doubted. He took his cane and, in turn, pointed to the crewmen he believed to be criminals. “Wait a moment,” he cautioned, “until one of them chances to walk past us. Look at his hands as he does so.”
We had not long to wait. Within a minute, the nearest man picked up a heavy bag and, throwing it over his shoulder, made his way past us and down into the body of the ship. As he crossed in front of me, I glanced at his hands, but could see nothing of particular interest. I said as much to Holmes, who shook his head in mock sorrow.
“You failed to see four heavy black dots tattooed between his right thumb and forefinger? Their meaning varies from prison to prison, never mind country to country, but in every case they commemorate the criminal status and achievements of their owner. I have noticed similar markings on two other crewmen, suggesting that they too have been incarcerated in the past.”
I shook my head ruefully. “The breadth of your knowledge continues to astound me, Holmes. But the length of his sentence – how can you gauge that?”
“Simplicity itself. The sailing man’s life is an outdoor one, spent in the sun, rain and wind. It tans and weathers the face. The man who just passed us has skin as pale as a maiden’s, though his face is as lined and creased as any of his colleagues. Hence, though long in experience on the sea, he has led a wholly interior life in recent years. He also has a faint stoop and his upper arms are slightly over-developed in comparison to the rest of his frame, such as is seen in long-term prisoners who have spent many years turning a punishment crank. The crank is no longer the fashion even in English prisons and was never popular in the Americas, thus I suggest a long sentence, covering many years, served in a British institution.”
Holmes’s logic was irrefutable, but I was determined that he should explain each of his claims in turn. “And the nervous lady, with the expensive necklace?” I asked.
In response, he subtly indicated a young woman standing to our right, watching the dock disappear in our wake. I looked across under cover of taking in the same view. She wore the most fashionable and expensive of dresses, cut
daringly low and decorated with a white ruff collar of the sort that would have meant a great deal to my late wife, but merely looked uncomfortable to me. Her face was small and perfectly symmetrical, with large, round brown eyes and blonde hair that peeked out from beneath a pale green sun hat. An attractive young lady, in other words, but otherwise unremarkable. I said so to Holmes.
“It is the details that should concern you, Watson, not the broadest brushstrokes. Whether her eyes are brown or blue is immaterial. Much the same can be said of her hair. Such peripheral matters are of no consequence and should be discarded. Look again, but this time do more than simply admire the lady.”
In the early days of our acquaintance, I might have taken offence at Holmes’s tone. But after many years spent in his company, I had come to recognise that no insult was intended. The simple truth was that Holmes occasionally forgot that his mind was a unique one and that not everyone was as naturally observant as he. I crossed to the railing and considered the lady from the corner of my eye, feeling rather ungentlemanly as I did so. A minute or so sufficed for me to make every observation I thought pertinent. I returned to Holmes’s side and reported my findings.
“The lady is around twenty-five years old, and of substantial means. She is carrying a monogrammed leather bag, with a heavy gold clasp and the initials JAD stamped in the leather. She is wearing diamond and emerald earrings and a matching bracelet, but no rings. There is a faded scar on her right wrist and a small mole on the back of her neck. Nothing else struck me, I’m afraid, Holmes.” I knew even as I spoke that there had been more to see, and that Holmes would delight in telling me so. “I take it I have missed something of importance?”
“No, Watson,” he replied, to my astonishment. “You have missed nothing. The pity is that, as ever, though you have seen, you have not observed.” He led me by the elbow into the interior of the ship. “I did tell you that the lady is worried about her necklace, yet you did not think it pertinent that she is wearing no such item?”
I cannot deny that I was stung by so unfair an accusation, and was quick, therefore, to correct Holmes. “I did not mention its absence because I believed that to be the exact situation we were considering!”
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