Contents
Cover
Available now from Titan Books: The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes Series
Title Page
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Copyright
Dedication
Chapter One: A Ghostly Crusader
Chapter Two: A Trip to Thorpe Manor
Chapter Three: Dinner for Seven
Chapter Four: Dinner for Eight
Chapter Five: The Silent Man
Chapter Six: The Crystal Palace
Chapter Seven: Arguments
Chapter Eight: The Mausoleum
Chapter Nine: Death in the Cellar
Chapter Ten: Interviews
Chapter Eleven: Inspector Fisher
Chapter Twelve: Reilly is Suspected
Chapter Thirteen: Hopkirk is Suspected
Chapter Fourteen: Julieanne’s Confession
Chapter Fifteen: The Love Nest
Chapter Sixteen: Hopkirk is Reprieved
Chapter Seventeen: Tuesday Night and Wednesday Morning
Chapter Eighteen: A Culprit Brought Low
Chapter Nineteen: Stainforth
Chapter Twenty: Back to the Manor
Chapter Twenty-One: An Audience at the Palace
Chapter Twenty-Two: Explanations
Chapter Twenty-Three: One Final Mystery
AVAILABLE NOW FROM TITAN BOOKS
THE FURTHER ADVENTURES OF SHERLOCK HOLMES SERIES:
THE DEVIL'S PROMISE
David Stuart Davies
THE ALBINO’S TREASURE
Stuart Douglas
THE WHITE WORM
Sam Siciliano
THE RIPPER LEGACY
David Stuart Davies
MURDER AT SORROW’S CROWN
Steven Savile & Robert Greenberger
THE COUNTERFEIT DETECTIVE
Stuart Douglas
THE MOONSTONE'S CURSE
Sam Siciliano
THE HAUNTING OF TORRE ABBEY
Carole Buggé
THE IMPROBABLE PRISONER
Stuart Douglas
THE DEVIL AND THE FOUR
Sam Siciliano
THE INSTRUMENT OF DEATH
David Stuart Davies
THE MARTIAN MENACE
Eric Brown
Stuart Douglas
TITAN BOOKS
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THE FURTHER ADVENTURES OF SHERLOCK HOLMES:
THE CRUSADER’S CURSE
Print edition ISBN: 9781789091588
E-book edition ISBN: 9781789091595
Published by Titan Books
A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd
144 Southwark Street, London SE1 0UP
First Titan edition: December 2020
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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.
© 2020 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.
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For Alex, Cameron and Matthew, love you all
Chapter One
A Ghostly Crusader
“A ghostly Crusader! Preposterous!”
The scorn in Holmes’s voice was enough to cause me to look up from my newspaper with an enquiring look.
“What was that, Holmes? Have you grown so bored that you’ve taken to reading Le Fanu to pass the time?”
My question was deliberately light-hearted in tone, but in truth I would have been happy to find my friend absorbed in a volume of Mr le Fanu’s ghost stories. Baker Street had been quiet of late, with little passing through our doors to interest Holmes. In consequence he had retreated into the dark mood that I knew from past experience often led to the needle and his preferred seven per cent solution of cocaine. Any distraction that kept him from that infernal vice was, in my opinion, to be encouraged.
It seemed, however, that this was not the case. With an exasperated grunt, Holmes crumpled the letter he held into a ball and threw it across to me.
“Hardly, Watson,” he growled. “Though at least that gentleman has the good sense to admit that his work is simple fiction. No, this is altogether more foolish.”
While he spoke, I smoothed the paper out on my knee, revealing it to have come from the peculiarly named Faraday Thompson. The letter was somewhat verbose but, in light of what was to follow, it is worth quoting in full.
Dear Mr Holmes,
Please forgive me for not consulting you in person, but recent events make it impossible for me to travel to London, and the task for which I wish to engage your services is one regarding which time is of the essence.
My name is Faraday Thompson and I have for the past three decades had the honour to act as solicitor to Lord Thorpe of Thorpe Manor in Yorkshire. Sadly, his Lordship passed away two months ago and it has fallen to me to handle the execution of his estate. In general, this is a relatively straightforward matter; his Lordship had no children and had named as sole heir a distant American cousin. This cousin, Mr Nathaniel Purser of Boston, Mass., has no desire to live in England and has instructed me to sell off both the manor house and grounds, and its contents.
As directed I have, therefore, arranged for the sale of his Lordship’s art collection, and invited sundry parties interested in purchasing the estate itself to stay at the manor this weekend. It is where these two areas overlap that I – or rather Mr Purser – wish to make use of your services, if you are agreeable.
First, the extent of the Thorpe art collection, for centuries renowned for its range and quality, is not at all as expected. When last catalogued by the sixth Lord Thorpe in 1784, it contained a myriad of paintings and sculptures, by some of the great masters, and was valued, in today’s terms, in the region of £10,000. Inexplicably, when my firm sent appraisers to the manor last month, only a handful of family portraits could be found. The whereabouts of the remainder is a mystery, which we hope you might be able to solve.
Secondly, I do not know if you have heard of the Thorpe Ruby? Local legend has it that the third Baron de Trop brought back a fabulous blood-red stone encased in an intricate golden setting from the Crusades. Unfortunately, it was lost soon after arrival, along with the Baron himself, who was found dead in the main hall, horribly mutilated. Alle
gedly, someone – or something – followed the Baron back from the Holy Land and tormented him, seeking the location of the ruby in order to return it to the heathen temple from which it was looted. They failed, but killed the Baron for his defiance and his ghost now roams the grounds, cursed to protect for ever the secret that killed him.
At least, so the legend goes.
Mr Purser informs me by telegraph that he has no truck with ghosts or legends, but if there is potentially a precious stone secreted somewhere on the estate, he feels it would be remiss not to make some attempt to locate it, before the manor and all it contains is sold to the highest bidder next week.
With that in mind, he would like to engage you for a few days, Mr Holmes. Perhaps your famous talents might be turned to the detection of lost paintings and a legendary gem, rather than a desperate criminal!
The letter concluded with directions to Thorpe-by-the-Marsh railway station and the hope that Holmes – “and your ever-present colleague, Dr Watson, of course” – would see fit to present themselves at Thorpe Manor the following day. A postscript requested that nobody should know the reason for our presence, and added the name of a gentleman who would meet us at the manor, Lawrence Buxton.
Given a choice, I should have preferred something along more criminal lines, but beggars cannot often be choosers and this was the first potential case in weeks that had raised any reaction from Holmes. It was true that the reaction had been a negative one, but still, I was determined to encourage him to become involved.
“You are too harsh, Holmes,” I said with a smile. “I think it a fascinating tale, at least. A murdered knight, missing paintings, a cursed gem and a haunted house. Mr le Fanu can scarcely have conjured up a story with more intriguing elements.”
In reply, Homes snorted in derision. “I have said it before, Watson, but your scribblings have sadly served to abrade your critical faculties.”
I allowed the insult to pass, though inwardly bridling at his use of “scribblings”. “Be that as it may, it would be good to get out of London for a while. This spell of inclement weather shows no sign of abating, and some fresh country air would be a tonic for both of us.”
To this, Holmes gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. There was no denying the foulness of the London air in recent days. Even now, I could see a thin rain streaking the window and, beyond that, a thick dirty fog which obscured all but the nearest buildings.
“It is true that I find the present climate dispiriting but that is hardly cause to abandon the city in pursuit of what will no doubt prove to be a combination of overly febrile imagination and a credulous local population. Although there is always the chance of a genuine case while we are on this wild goose chase. However slight that chance may be,” he concluded with a resigned sigh.
I am not proud of what I did next, but I was worried enough about Holmes’s state of mind that I assured myself that the small deception was for the greater good.
“Actually, Holmes, I was hoping that you would be willing to leave London for reasons of my own. My leg has been troubling me a great deal recently, and I believe that a period of relaxation away from the hustle of the city would be by far the best curative possible.”
I rubbed my old wound and grimaced just a little for effect. “I could go alone, of course, but I fear boredom would soon have me back in Baker Street. A short spell in the country, with good company and a small mystery to occupy the mind, would be far preferable.”
Holmes is, of course, no fool, and he looked hard at me for a moment, cocking an eyebrow at my amateur theatrics, before allowing a smile to play upon his lips.
“If it is a matter of your health, Watson… Old wounds can flare up most suddenly, I believe, and at the most unexpected moment. Your courage in never once mentioning this to me before now is to be commended, but is exactly what I would expect of an old soldier like yourself.”
Again I let the implied doubt stand uncorrected (how could I not when he had every right to question my veracity?) and, before he could change his mind, I struggled theatrically to my feet and located Bradshaw’s Guide on the shelf.
“Splendid!” I said with a smile of my own. “Perhaps you could arrange for a telegram to be sent to Mr Thompson, while I ascertain a suitable train time? Tomorrow morning would be best, I think, as for once we are in no great hurry.”
Taking Bradshaw’s and a slice of toast with me, I repaired to my room to dress, delighted at the turn of events and looking forward to a few relaxing days in the country. A change of scenery would do us both the world of good, I was sure.
As events transpired, I could not have been more wrong.
Chapter Two
A Trip to Thorpe Manor
As it happened there was no direct train on a Saturday to Thorpe-by-the-Marsh. Still, the weather improved a little as the London line made its way deeper into the countryside, and it was a relief after a few hours travel to stroll across a country platform and board the small rural train which would take us to our final destination.
The line to Thorpe-by-the-Marsh was clearly not a busy one, for the train required but a single carriage and we had that almost to ourselves, our only travelling companion an elderly man, dressed in a suit of old-fashioned cut. He sat by the window, watching the station fall away behind us, his legs crossed, and his hands resting carefully on a tall felt hat, also of forgotten vintage. As we took our seats opposite him, I noticed that he wore working men’s boots, polished but pitted with the marks of a life spent outdoors.
Perhaps he felt my eyes upon him, or saw me reflected in the window, for he turned his face towards us and, without further introduction, announced that he was returning to Thorpe-by-the-Marsh after a trip to London for a funeral. It was the first time he had left the village in his life, he said, and, having now seen London, he would be glad to be back home.
“The city is all very well for those who care only for dirt and smoke,” he told us without invitation, “but for those who prefer sunlight and green things, it’s a mite dark and unwelcoming.”
He lit what was the most pungent pipe I had ever encountered and settled back in his seat, eyeing us curiously through the thick white smoke.
Holmes returned his gaze from beneath hooded eyes, but said nothing. Feeling that someone should reply to the man, I explained that we were headed in the same direction and would be staying at Thorpe Manor for a few days.
He sniffed loudly at that, as though the fumes of his pipe were not the most noxious stench in the carriage. “You’re braver men than I then, that’s all I’ll say. I wouldn’t spend a night in the manor house for any reason, for I’m attached to my soul, I am. And my life, too, for men have died up there, in the night, struck down by the curse.”
“You believe the legend, then?” asked Holmes, making no effort to hide the amusement in his voice. “That the host of the Baron de Trop stalks the halls like Hamlet’s father?”
“Hamlet’s father?” the man replied with a frown. “I don’t know the man but I wouldn’t be surprised at anything that goes on in London. But even if this foolish fellow would, I, Simeon Forward would not. For only a simpleton does not believe what his own eyes have seen.”
He leaned forward in his seat as he spoke, challenging us to doubt him.
“You have seen the ghost then, Mr Forward?” Holmes replied, unabashed.
“I did. He walked in front of me, he did, pale as a summer moon, and turned and looked me in the face. Chilled me to the bone, it did, though it were a warm night. And his eyes! Narrow, they was, but cold and filled with hatred. Hatred for everything that lives.”
“And did he say anything, this spectral visitor?”
The man shook his head and gave a sour laugh. “Say anything? How could he do such a thing, when everyone knows the old knight never utters a sound?”
He continued to chuckle to himself as he unwrapped a parcel of sandwiches he had drawn from his pocket, but said nothing more for the remainder of the journey. Holmes cast
a look of amused resignation in my direction, then closed his eyes, leaving me to pass the rest of the trip watching the fields and streams, as the train slowly made its way towards Thorpe-by-the-Marsh.
* * *
The station at which we arrived some time later was small and quiet, barely more than a platform and a ticket hut, but attractive enough in the fading early evening light.
Our travelling companion having scuttled off without a word as soon as the train pulled to a stop, the sole railway employee in attendance gave us directions to the manor, but warned us that as we had just missed the cart taking the weekend’s supplies to the house, we would have to walk the half-mile distance. The weather had turned colder again but fortunately not to an unpleasant degree, and though there was little to look at in the surrounding fields, it was no hardship to stroll along a succession of short well-beaten lanes, each of us carrying a single bag packed with the essentials for a day or two in the country.
At first, we walked in companionable silence, but after a few minutes, Holmes gave a laugh and turned to me with a smile.
“As pale as a summer moon, Watson, and terrifying enough to chill our man to the bone. Clearly we are about to embark on our most dangerous case yet!”
I was pleased to see the change wrought in Holmes, no matter the cause, and joined in his laughter. Though the man had been the very epitome of the superstitious yokel, I was grateful to him for lightening my friend’s mood.
“We must be sure to remain attached to our souls, Holmes,” I replied in mock seriousness. “Otherwise the ghostly knight will be away with them and perhaps we too shall be cursed to haunt Thorpe Manor.”
Just then, the lane made a sharp turn and, as we emerged from behind the tall hedges that lined it, we had our first sight of our residence for the next few days.
* * *
Thorpe Manor was a squat, wide affair, comprised of a main building, two storeys high, with a long wing to the east, composed entirely of the local brick. A carriage stood in the drive, and a cart was just disappearing round the far corner of the building as we approached. Otherwise, everything was quiet and still.
The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes--Sherlock Holmes and the Crusader's Curse Page 1
