The Return of Sherlock Holmes Read online

  Praise for Maxim Jakubowski

  “Written by a giant of the genre…highly recommended.”

  —Lee Child, author of the Jack Reacher novels

  “I have been a fan of Maxim Jakubowski for years. There just is no finer mystery writer and editor anywhere. Find a comfortable chair and a strong drink and prepare to be enthralled.”

  —Alexander Algren, author of Out in a Flash:

  Murder Mystery Flash Fiction

  “A stunning collection, simply the best short mystery and crime fiction of the year and a real treat for crime-fiction fans. I highly recommend!”

  —Leonard Carpenter, author of the Conan the Barbarian books

  and Lusitania Lost

  “Maxim Jakubowski is deeply experienced in the field… Sometimes a brief zap of great writing is just what you’re in the mood for or have time for. That’s when anthologies like his are ideal…intellectually outstanding.”

  —New York Journal of Books

  The Return of

  Further Extraordinary Tales

  of the Famous Sleuth

  Edited by Maxim Jakubowski

  Coral Gables

  Copyright © 2021 by Maxim Jakubowski.

  Copyright © 2021 individual contributors stories.

  Published by Mango Publishing a division of Mango Publishing Group, Inc.

  Cover Design: Roberto Nuñez

  Layout & Design: Katia Mena

  Interior Illustrations: AdobeStock (MoreVector, Rawpixel.com, channarongsds, unorobus, Morphart, amorroz, Natalya Levish, Oleksandr Babich, pteshka, alhontess, Hein Nouwens)

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  The Return of Sherlock Holmes: Further Extraordinary Tales of the Famous Sleuth

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication number: 2021938480

  ISBN: (print) 978-1-64250-636-5, (ebook) 978-1-64250-637-2

  BISAC category code FIC022050

  Printed in the United States of America

  Table of Contents

  Introduction

  By Maxim Jakubowski

  The Silver Lining

  By Bonnie MacBird

  The Curse of Carmody Grange

  By Eric Brown

  Sherlock Holmes and a Case of Humbug

  By Paul A. Freeman

  The New Messi

  By Nick Sweet

  The Adventure of the Talking Board

  By John Grant

  The Booby’s Bay Adventure

  By O’Neil De Noux

  The Adventure of the Red Dress

  By Ana Teresa Pereira

  The Wargrave Resurrection

  By Matthew Booth

  The Case of the Waterguard

  By Jan Edwards

  The Adventure of the Bloomsbury Pickpocket

  By David N. Smith

  The Dulwich Solicitor

  By Martin Daley

  The Adventure of the Missing Master

  By Phillip Vine

  The Pale Reflection

  By L. C. Tyler

  Sherlock Holmes and the Butterfly Effect

  By Cristina Macía with Ian Watson

  The Case of the Secret Assassin

  By David Stuart Davies

  About the Editor

  About the Authors

  Introduction

  By Maxim Jakubowski

  The initial volume of brand new Sherlock Holmes stories in our series of anthologies for Mango Media attracted such tremendous interest from talented contemporary writers all over that we received a score of wonderful stories we were unable to include in The Book of Extraordinary New Sherlock Holmes Stories. So a vote of gratitude is due to Chris and Brenda at Mango who quickly agreed to a second volume (and a fifth book in the series).

  In addition to the stories held over from our first round, it gave me an opportunity to solicit new material from a handful of authors new to the series, including writers from Spain and Portugal—proof if ever there was that the life and times of the sage of Baker Street and his familiar cohorts and adversaries are of universal appeal. And how could I say no to return appearances from some of our esteemed regulars for whom any theme in the crime, thriller, and mystery genre represents a worthy challenge!

  So, freely dip into these pages as the game is yet again afoot, and investigations, puzzles, ratiocinations, and thrills are served up on a plate in a further fifteen stories that bring the Sherlockian canon to life in all its Victorian splendor and excitement.

  Encounter fog-surrounded streets, the eternal battle of wits between the great detective and his new foes, and yet more dastardly crimes which our hero is compelled to solve, even when it repeatedly pits him and his faithful sidekick Doctor Watson against forces of darkness and evil.

  Better critics and academics than me have tried to explain why the adventures of Sherlock Holmes have proven so popular for well over a century and “speak” to every new successive generation of readers, in every single country of the world, ranging across race, language, and age, and why the subtle art of detection proves such a wonderful draw for the imagination. But it’s elementary, dear reader, and the answer is their charm, their sharply unforgettable characters and perfectly engineered, clockwork-like plots, and dollops of acutely drawn atmosphere.

  So welcome back to the unique and wonderful world of London’s most famous consultant detective. You will not be disappointed.

  The Silver Lining

  By Bonnie MacBird

  There was a satisfying snap as I popped open the crown of my new silk opera hat. I had purchased it the day before at Lock and Co. on St. James, an extravagance to be sure, but if I had to accompany my friend Sherlock Holmes to the opera, I might as well find some amusement in the doing.

  It had been a long evening of Verdi, at least for me, but seemed to raise my companion’s spirits, which had been ragged of late. And for that silver lining in the voluminous clouds of music that had inundated us, I was grateful.

  Afterward, as we joined the crowd descending the grand staircase at the opera, my ears were ringing from the overdose. A strident female voice from behind us suddenly cut through the murmur. “Mr. Sherlock Holmes! Is that you?” The accent was clipped, patrician.

  I turned back to see a dark-haired, beautiful woman in her late thirties cutting through from above, gesturing with her decorative fan. She exuded privilege, from her costly beaded dress and elaborate coiffure to the manner with which she parted the hoi polloi, or so she seemed to regard them, to reach us. With her was a very handsome and much younger man.

  In a moment she stood on our stair, blocking all behind us.

&n
bsp; “I am the Countess Rameau,” announced the lady. “Call me Elena. And I need you to solve my little problem.” Her eyes flicked over to me once, then again, and lingered just a moment too long.

  A man directly behind me on the stairs harrumphed impatiently.

  “Madam,” said Holmes with a smile. “I came to enjoy Verdi. I conduct business on Baker Street.” He pulled a card from his jacket, handed it to me over his shoulder, and without a further word continued down the stairs. The lady looked after him in dismay.

  “Sincerest apologies,” I said with a little bow, presenting her the card. “Here is the address.” Her young man snatched it from my hand.

  She took the card from her gentleman and her eyes met mine. She glanced over me a third time and appeared pleased at what she saw. “And you are?”

  “Dr. John Watson, Mr. Holmes’s colleague.”

  She smiled warmly. “Sir. I will come to see you, then.” As they departed, her young man flashed me an angry look.

  She was true to her word. At ten the next morning, Mrs. Hudson announced a visitor “to see you, Doctor! A very fine lady, the Countess Rameau!”

  A moment later the magnificent countess stood before us, intent on some mission, and with a large silk reticule at her side. Her luminously pale, beautiful face and sharp hazel eyes were dramatically set off by a bright hyacinth silk dress, embroidered in silver and white. Our modest flat seemed dingy with this elegant flower in its midst.

  I rose to greet her, but Holmes remained seated, busily attending to his pipe.

  “Dr. Watson, and the rude Mr. Holmes. I have come on urgent business,” said Countess Rameau.

  “Please be seated, Madam,” I said, gesturing to a chair near the window. “May I offer you a tea or coffee?”

  “Put that infernal pipe away,” she commanded Holmes. “I abhor tobacco.” She sat.

  He looked over at her in amusement and paused mid-light. “And yet your husband’s fortunes depend on several tobacco plantations in, I believe, Virginia?” he drawled. He nevertheless set the pipe down. He had looked her up, no doubt.

  “That is of no matter. I have come for help, not what passes for wit in this dreary place.”

  “Of course, Madam,” said I. “Please, tell us your problem.”

  “Silver! Silver is my problem! I have a great deal of very special, unusual, unique, rare silver. The set is a family heirloom. It is Baroque, original, of great beauty.”

  “A great many adjectives,” remarked Holmes. “Stolen, I suppose?”

  “Yes. From our home in Belgravia.”

  “All of it?”

  “No, select pieces only.”

  “Belgravia, you say. But you and the count reside in Bedfordshire, do you not? Flintwood Hall? A grand place, they say, Watson.”

  “Our London pied-à-terre is in Belgravia.”

  That area of London was an enclave of the very wealthy. I wondered at the size of this “pied-à-terre.”

  “When did this silver go missing?” Holmes asked.

  “Recently.”

  “When, exactly? Did someone break in? Were locks or windows forced? Any witnesses? Specifics, Madam, if you would like me to help you,” Holmes said.

  “No, no, nothing like that. No break-ins. The butler noticed it last week. He and I believe it to be someone in the household. In fact, I am sure of it.”

  “Last week! What did the police have to say?”

  “I have not notified the police.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because, well, I know the thief.” She paused, and Holmes waved her to continue, as though encouraging a child. “It is, I am sure, Clara,” said she. “A new lady’s maid hired to look after our female guests.”

  “You are certain of this? How?”

  “A woman knows.” She glanced over at me with undisguised coquetry.

  “Madam. That is insufficient. Why do you suspect this maid particularly?” said Holmes.

  “Several costly items have appeared in her room. New dresses, and so forth.”

  “Gifts rather than purchases, perhaps? That is what we call circumstantial evidence. It will not hold in a court of law. What has Miss Clara to say of the matter?”

  “We have not spoken of it.”

  Astounding, I thought. “Mr. Holmes might discreetly question this young lady,” I suggested.

  She beamed at me. “A lovely idea, Doctor!” Then her face took on a childish pout. “But you cannot question her. She is…she is with my husband at Flintwood.”

  “Ah,” said Holmes. There was a pause.

  The lady exhaled softly and smoothed her skirts. With a little toss of her head, she continued. “I don’t care about that. It will be over by Christmas. That is our pattern.” She turned to me with a warm smile. “My husband spends the autumn in the countryside at Flintwood, hunting, and…and so on. I spend the season here for the opera and ballet. And to make new friends, Doctor.” Her gaze lingered on me and she smiled. Beyond her, I could see one of Holmes’s eyebrows lift in amusement.

  She turned back to him and he was all innocence. “How can I help you, Countess?” he said.

  “First, Mr. Holmes, find this silver, wherever it is, and buy it back for me. Here are photographs of the missing pieces and money to purchase them.” She removed a small brown envelope from her reticule, followed by a small suede pouch, and handed them both to me. I looked inside the pouch to see a wealth of gold sovereigns. I handed both to Holmes. “Mr. Holmes, find out who sold my silver. Prove that I am right.”

  Holmes eyed the photographs. “These are unique pieces. Quite beautiful.” He handed them to me. They were serving pieces, ornate but odd, with boars’ heads, foxes, and elven faces woven into the curling, leafy designs.

  Holmes emptied the pouch onto the table next to him. The gold sovereigns gleamed in the morning sunlight streaming in off Baker Street. He frowned. “I fear this sum will be insufficient for both the silver, and the information.”

  “Good. I see you know the value.” She took out a second pouch and dangled it in the air. Once again I stood up and ferried the thing to Holmes. It was a peculiar dance we were doing in this meeting.

  “A description of the maid, if you please?”

  “Clara is short. Dark hair, slender, pretty. Oh, and she has a large mole on her right cheek.”

  Holmes stood. “Your delay in this matter is unfortunate. But if we are in luck and the silver is still in London after a whole week, I shall have it back for you by the morning. Good day, Countess.”

  The lady rose with a smile. “You may keep all the money that you do not use in the purchase,” said she. “Oh, one other thing. There is an auction of fine silver, midday at Sotheby, Williams and Hodge. I plan to attend, but I will need someone to accompany me. My usual friend is unavailable. Dr. Watson, might you join me?”

  “Your silver will not be there, Madam, if that is what you are thinking,” said Holmes. “That august organisation does not operate as a venue for thieves. They are quite careful about provenance.”

  “Oh, I know,” said she. “I go for enjoyment. I do love beautiful things. I may pick up something that takes my fancy. Dr. Watson?”

  Normally, I would be inclined to meet such a request, but the plan made me uncomfortable for reasons I could not articulate.

  “I’m afraid I must—”

  “Watson, I see no harm, I will not need you for this simple matter,” said Holmes. My back to the lady, I glowered at him. He smiled innocently.

  Two hours later, I sat next to the countess in the large, airy auction room of Sotheby, Wilkinson and Hodge on Wellington Street, just off the Strand. The room buzzed with anticipation. Surrounding us were a swarm of wealthy bidders, colourfully attired in the latest fashions, coiffed, perfumed, polished. In addition, there were a number of scholarly types, scanning the cat
alogue, reference books and lists in hand.

  There was nothing quite so eager, I thought, as a collector in search of a mismarked treasure, unless it was a very wealthy individual on the hunt for a bargain.

  I was seated on the aisle of a row of folding wooden chairs, the countess beside me. Disconcertingly, her arm had remained looped through mine.

  We were receiving several amused glances. She had become a tittering schoolgirl, pointing out this and that well-dressed bidder, and whispering gossip into my ear, all the while clinging to me as though we were two young lovers who had temporarily escaped from our chaperone. Again and again, her bidding paddle flew up and down as she gleefully bid on several frivolous items, won two of them, and had me collect them for her, rather than arranging for later delivery.

  At one point I stood to let someone into our row, and just as they passed, she playfully tapped me on the buttocks with that same paddle, giggling.

  “Madam!” I said. I heard a “tsk” from the row behind us and sat down. I could feel myself flushing with embarrassment.

  But it was as if I had thrown kerosene on the flame. She leaned in and kissed my cheek. “You are adorable!” She then turned to the people behind her and said, “Handsome, isn’t he? Don’t you wish you were me?”

  A tight-laced woman directly behind us snorted in derision, but an elegant, older man with a monocle and glittering smile leaned in. “Countess Rameau, I have always wished to be with you!” he said with a tip of his hat.

  “Take your place in the queue, Baron,” said another, younger man, glistening in pomade and with a flower in his buttonhole. He winked at the countess.

  It was with utter relief that I later deposited “Elena,” as she asked to be called, at her home in Belgravia, declined her invitation to linger over a sherry, and retreated to the safety of 221B. No man dislikes being called handsome, yet I had felt less cherished than on display.

  A glass of good whisky and a smoke set me quickly aright, and I was in decent enough cheer when Holmes returned at seven, carrying a large, heavy carpetbag. He looked tired, but I read success on his keen features. “The silver?” I asked.