CONTENTS
Introduction
The Adventure of the Marchindale Stiletto
The Problem of the Emperor’s Netsuke
The Adventure of the Fallen Financier
The Strange Case of Dr Sacker and Mr Hope
The Affair of the Yithian Stone
Pure Swank
The Adventure of the Innocent Icarus
The Adventure of the Challenging Professor
The Adventure of the Noble Burglar
The Adventure of the Botanist’s Glove
A Bauble in Scandinavia
The Adventure of the Deadly Séance
ALSO AVAILABLE FROM TITAN BOOKS
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Sherlock Holmes: The Army of Dr Moreau by Guy Adams
Sherlock Holmes: The Stuff of Nightmares by James Lovegrove
Sherlock Holmes: The Will of the Dead by George Mann
Sherlock Holmes: Gods of War by James Lovegrove
Sherlock Holmes: The Spirit Box by George Mann
Sherlock Holmes: The Thinking Engine by James Lovegrove
Sherlock Holmes: The Patchwork Devil by Cavan Scott
Sherlock Holmes: A Betrayal in Blood by Mark A. Latham
Sherlock Holmes: The Labyrinth of Death by James Lovegrove
Sherlock Holmes: Cry of the Innocents by Cavan Scott
Sherlock Holmes: The Legacy of Deeds by Nick Kyme
Sherlock Holmes: The Red Tower by Mark A. Latham
Sherlock Holmes: The Devil’s Dust by James Lovegrove
Sherlock Holmes: The Vanishing Man by Philip Purser-Hallard
COMING SOON JULY 2020
Sherlock Holmes: The Spider’s Web by Philip Purser-Hallard
JAMES LOVEGROVE
TITAN BOOKS
The Manifestations of Sherlock Holmes
Print ISBN: 9781789092004
Ebook ISBN: 9781789092011
Published by Titan Books
A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd
144 Southwark St, London SE1 0UP
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First edition: January 2020
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All rights reserved by the authors. The rights of each contributor to be identified as Author of their Work have been asserted by them in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
The Manifestations of Sherlock Holmes © 2020 James Lovegrove
The Adventure of the Innocent Icarus © 2014 Rebellion Publishing
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
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.
This book is dedicated to the editors who have worked on the stories, making valuable additions and necessary subtractions: J. R. Campbell, Ella Chappell, Miranda Jewess, George Mann, David Marcum, David Thomas Moore, Charles Prepolec, Sophie Robinson, Martin Rosenstock and Cath Trechman.
INTRODUCTION
There’s a school of thought – let’s call it ‘My Dear Watson Elementary’ – that argues that Sir Arthur Conan Doyle wrote better Sherlock Holmes short stories than he did Sherlock Holmes novels. Or, to put it another way, a Sherlock Holmes adventure works most effectively at shorter length.
To some extent this theory is backed up by that crucial Holmesian prerequisite, hard evidence. Out of the four canonical novels, two (A Study in Scarlet and The Valley of Fear) are basically novellas augmented by subsidiary novellas that fill in the backstory of the case Holmes and Watson are investigating. Similarly, a third, The Sign of Four, hinges on a fairly lengthy piece of first-person exposition at the end. Only The Hound of the Baskervilles is what one might consider a proper, single-narrative novel, and even then it is punctuated by a middle section that takes the form of reports – letters written to Holmes by Watson from Dartmoor and entries from Watson’s diary – covering Holmes’s apparent absence from the action.
Whereas, by contrast, the fifty-six canonical short stories are quick, sharp hits of pure, unadulterated Holmes, with all the detection, analysis and deduction that that entails.
My own introduction to the world of Sherlock Holmes came via the short stories, specifically those in The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes, which my father read to me at bedtime when I was a boy from a slipcased, illustrated edition that I still own and still treasure. And, while I’ve published eight Holmes-pastiche novels so far, I’ve found it fascinating to tackle the character in the short-story format as well. Sometimes I’ve used it as an opportunity to explore Holmes and his environment in ways that a novel will not necessarily support; to push the boundaries of what is considered a Sherlock Holmes tale; and to play a few (interesting to me and, I hope, also to others) variations on the central theme.
Roughly half the stories in this collection, then, are standard, traditional Holmes stories, adhering closely to the template established by Conan Doyle. They contain all the elements one might expect and do not deviate from the norm. There is nothing in them that would frighten the horses at King’s Pyland stables.
The remainder, however, veer off into less well-charted territory. They feature supernatural aspects, fantasy flourishes, a touch of horror, or else they focus on characters of Conan Doyle’s creation who have been somewhat eclipsed by the great detective’s extraordinary international celebrity.
Through these twelve tales I’m hoping to reveal different manifestations of Sherlock Holmes – other facets of his character, new approaches to a Holmes story – in order to show just how brilliant and versatile a fictional construct he is; as well as, of course, to entertain.
James Lovegrove, Eastbourne, 2020
THE ADVENTURE OF THE MARCHINDALE STILETTO
First published in The MX Book of New Sherlock Holmes Stories Part VII:
Eliminate the Impossible, 2017, ed. David Marcum, MX Publishing
The brief for this particular anthology was that each story must present a seemingly supernatural mystery that, upon resolution, turns out to have a rational explanation. So how about a family curse, I thought?
In this instance, however, no glowing spectral hound is involved, just an ancient dagger intimately bound to the history – and continued prosperity – of a wealthy dynasty.
The MX Book of New Sherlock Holmes Stories, incidentally, is an ongoing series of top-quality anthologies, all compiled by the indefatigable Sherlockian David Marcum and all in aid of charity. Authors donate their contributions for free, and the proceeds from publication go towards the preservation of Undershaw, Conan Doyle’s former home in Surrey, which has lately been renovated and transformed into a school for children with special needs.
The Adventure of the Marchindale Stiletto
“Now here is a queer thing,” said my friend Sherlock Holmes one September morning in 1883. He passed the Times across the breakfast table to me and indicated a short article on the third page.
VANISHED HEIRLOOM
Mystery surrounds the disappearance of the Marchindale Stiletto, the famed hei
rloom of the Marchindale family of Abbots Grange, near Hailsham in Sussex. The dagger, having been thrown into a pond in the grounds of the house last Saturday, has not been recovered and has defied all efforts to find it.
The throwing was an act of playful mischief conducted by the younger of the two sons of Sir Albert Marchindale, the present family patriarch. The young man, Nicholas, is said to be mortified that what was intended as a harmless prank has instead had dire unforeseen consequences.
The stiletto has been in the family since the late fourteenth century and is the Marchindales’ most treasured possession. It is believed, indeed, to be vital to their continued prosperity. Legend has it that should the stiletto be lost, the Marchindale dynasty will fall.
This may seem just so much superstition, were it not for the fact that a series of peculiar mishaps has befallen family members in the days immediately following the stiletto’s loss. These include illness, injury and financial disaster.
Sir Albert is reputedly at his wits’ end and has offered a sizeable sum of money to anyone with knowledge of the stiletto’s whereabouts or information that might lead to its safe return. So far no reliable applicant has been forthcoming.
“What do you make of it?” Holmes enquired, his keen grey eyes scintillating in the hazy morning sunlight coming in through the window.
“It certainly would seem that some form of curse has blighted the Marchindales,” I replied, “one which can only be connected directly with the loss of this stiletto.”
“I thought you might say that – and feared it. I myself will have no truck with curses, prophecies of doom, artefacts with magical powers or any other such occult claptrap. There are no forces at work in this world save the actions of men and the laws of science and nature.”
“Would you not allow that there is at least an outside chance that something other, something ineffable and indefinable, surrounds our lives and from time to time permeates them?”
“‘There are more things in heaven and earth,’ et cetera?” My friend chuckled. “To the rational mind, such a view is anathema. No, I would wager good money that there is nothing the slightest bit sinister or inexplicable about the events at Abbots Grange. There is simply a chain of circumstances which give the illusion of supernatural influences at work but which, if carefully unpicked, yields just link after link of plain, dull, unremarkable, readily testifiable fact. All it requires is the right approach, to wit the application of deductive reasoning. But do not take my word for it, Watson. I am quite convinced I will be able to prove my theory to you, and conclusively, this very day.”
“How do you know that?”
“I could claim it was precognition,” said he, “perhaps even sorcery. Or I could show you this telegram, which arrived shortly before you got up.”
I had heard a knock at the front door sometime around seven, while I was still abed. I had assumed it was the butcher’s boy making a delivery, which he customarily did around that hour. It transpired, however, that it had been a messenger instead.
Holmes handed me the slip of paper. It was a curt invitation from Sir Albert Marchindale to come down to Abbots Grange forthwith and investigate the disappearance of the stiletto. Although in those days Holmes’s career was still in its relative infancy, and I had not yet published any of these chronicles of mine which drew him to the attention of a wider public, nonetheless he was steadily garnering an enviable reputation and his client list was becoming ever more illustrious.
“Well?” said he. “Are you interested? Would you care to accompany me?”
My career, too, was in its infancy and, as a consequence, patients were often thin on the ground. At that time I was going through something of a fallow patch, and so, out of both curiosity and a lack of anything else to occupy me, I said yes.
* * *
We arrived at Hailsham station at noon, and by lunchtime were pulling up at the entrance to Abbots Grange in a dogcart. The place was a particularly splendid specimen of Tudor architecture, with a Flemish bond brick gatehouse, a lengthy drive and sweeping gardens mostly laid to lawn, all providing the setting for a large manor house built with an H-shaped floor plan. Its timber beams were arranged in a herringbone-and-quatrefoil pattern, and the leaded windows were no less decorative, being intricate symmetrical arrangements of rectangles, lozenges, circles and triangles. The overhanging jetties of the upper storey lent the edifice a top-heavy, somewhat unbalanced air, as though the whole structure might topple over at any moment. Yet the chimneys that towered above the tiled roofs and the various instances of stone footing and brick buttressing looked sturdy enough.
A manservant ushered us in through the huge oak door, and soon we were in the presence of Sir Albert Marchindale. He was a ruddy-faced country squire, as rough-hewn as the woodwork of which the house’s interior was largely comprised. His features were more or less identical to those of his ancestors whose portraits hung in the hallway and in the study we now occupied. He was lineage and continuity personified.
“A damnable business,” he said. “Nicholas is a fool. He should never have done it. Don’t know what got into him. I think he thought it would be funny: drop the stiletto in the pond, have us all race around like monkeys trying to get it out. The idiot. His brother Edward would never have dreamed of performing such a stunt. Whatever common sense I have, he has inherited. Nicholas, on the other hand, calls himself a pragmatist but within him beats a wayward, contrarian heart.”
“Edward, I take it, is the sole heir to your estate,” said Holmes.
“Of course. Primogeniture and all that. Can’t have it otherwise. It’s the only way it works. Nicholas will naturally get some money when I go, plenty to be getting by with, but it’s Edward who’ll take on the title of the house and pass it on in his turn to his firstborn son. That’s assuming there is a house by then. The way things are heading…”
“Yes. This so-called ‘curse’.”
Sir Albert bristled. “Don’t be so quick to dismiss it, Mr Holmes. Let me tell you a thing or two. That stiletto has been with us Marchindales since the time of the Crusades. My forebear, Archambault Marèche-en-Dalle, went to the Holy Land in 1396 in the company of Sigismund of Luxembourg, King of Hungary. Archambault was among a contingent of French nobles on that expedition and took part in the siege of Nicopolis on the banks of the Danube. The Ottomans won the battle and took three thousand prisoners from among the attacking force, but he was not one of them. He managed to escape to safety across the river, and just as well, because barely any of those captives survived. On the Sultan’s orders they were systematically executed.
“Archambault attributed his good fortune in avoiding this fate to the stiletto, which he had purchased in Rome on the road to Nicopolis. Such a dagger was a new weapon then, and manufactured only in Italy. Archambault used his during his escape, slaying several foemen with it after he lost his sword. He considered it a lucky talisman thereafter, and the stiletto justified that belief since after his return to France he became ever more prosperous. His vineyards flourished, his property expanded, his coffers grew fat.
“So it continued through subsequent generations. Archambault’s many-times-great-grandson Philippe Marèche-en-Dalle emigrated to England in the late seventeen-hundreds. Philippe had seen which way the wind was blowing in his homeland. Revolution was in the air. Aristocrats were under threat. He used what money he managed to smuggle out with him to buy this house and started afresh. Soon, through prudent investment and careful husbandry of the land, he was wealthy once more. The stiletto had crossed the Channel with him, of course, and cast its benevolent spell over his affairs.
“Every Marchindale since – Marchindale being the Anglicised form of Marèche-en-Dalle which Philippe adopted – has been custodian of the dagger. Father after father has inculcated in son after son the importance of the stiletto to the family. While we have it, we lead what most would consider, not without accuracy, to be a charmed life. Should we mislay it, we are doomed. That is the leg
end – and recent events are clear evidence in support of the assertion.”
“Yes, the papers describe a ‘series of peculiar mishaps’,” said Holmes. “Would you elucidate?”
“The very day after Nicholas’s ridiculous, vandalistic act,” said Sir Albert, “all the fish in the pond died.”
“The pond into which he threw the stiletto?”
“None other.”
“How singular.”
“There were dozens of carp in there, and bream, perch, some others, and every last one was found floating belly-up the next morning. Gave me quite a shudder when I saw it.”
“By then you had already searched the pond?”
“Thoroughly all the previous day. The servants, Edward, myself, we spent long hours combing through the reeds and mud. No sign of it.”
“Could the disturbance your actions inevitably caused have upset the constitutions of the fish somehow?” I said. “Could they conceivably have died of fright?”
“An excellent question, Watson,” declared Holmes. “I was about to ask the same thing myself.”
“It is possible, I suppose,” said Sir Albert. “But these are not delicate exotic species we’re talking about. Far from it. They are hardy natives. I would have thought it would take more than a few humans splashing about to scare them to death. Often in summer we swim in the pond, and the fish do not seem to take that amiss. But dead fish were only the start of it. Then my wife took ill with quinsy.”
“I am sorry to hear it,” said Holmes, and I voiced similar sympathy.
Sir Albert waved a hand. “It was serious at first, but the doctor insists Constance is out of danger and will make a full recovery. The infection is clearing up, the pus has cleared from her throat, and as long as she gets rest the prognosis is positive.”
“You must be relieved.”
“Immeasurably. At the time, though, it was alarming. Not least because, the selfsame day, one of the housemaids scalded herself. She tripped on the stairs while carrying a pitcher of freshly boiled water up to Constance in her sickbed. The water doused the girl’s arms and one leg. The doctor, being on the premises already, treated her straight away. The scalding is widespread but not severe, and he believes Agnes – that is the housemaid’s name – will be fine. There should be no permanent scarring.
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