Return to Reichenbach

Geri Schear

Description

When a half-naked man is found gibbering on the moor, Sherlock Holmes uncovers a series of bizarre murders. At their heart lies a shadowy figure known only as The Sorcerer. He can talk to the dead, they say. He can bend any will to his own. Even a will as formidable as the detective's. The investigation leads from Dartmoor to Ireland and, ultimately, back to one of the most terrifying scenes of his career. Can Holmes survive the Reichenbach Falls a second time? From the author of A Biased Judgement: The Sherlock Holmes Diaries 1897, Return to Reichenbach is the third in the Sherlock Holmes and Lady Beatrice series.

Informations

• Publié par: Andrews UK
• Date de parution: 19 décembre 2016
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781787050075
• Langue: English

Extrait

Return to Reichenbach
By Geri Schear




2016 digital version converted and published by
Andrews UK Limited
www.andrewsuk.com
© Copyright 2016 Geri Schear
The right of Geri Schear to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1998.
All rights reserved. No reproduction, copy or transmission of this publication may be made without express prior written permission. No paragraph of this publication may be reproduced, copied or transmitted except with express prior written permission or in accordance with the provisions of the Copyright Act 1956 (as amended). Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damage.
All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
MX Publishing
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Cover design by Brian Belanger
Grateful acknowledgment to Conan Doyle Estate Ltd. for the use of the Sherlock Holmes characters created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.



1 From the Diary of Mr Sherlock Holmes
Friday, 21 st October, 1898
The telegram said only, “Man found on moor in nightshirt. Please come.”
On the train, Watson said, “What on earth could have possessed a man to go wandering around the moors in such a state, Holmes? Can he be a lunatic?”
“You know my process, Watson. It is a capital mistake to theorise in advance of the facts. Even I cannot be expected to develop a reasonable hypothesis based on six words.”
He fell silent, but I knew he was merely framing his next question. As the train pulled into Clapham Junction station, it came. “You must have formed a theory, Holmes,” he said.
My frown did nothing to discourage him. He is too used to me by now, I suppose, to take my aloofness at face value. I said, “I have formed seven hypotheses that broadly cover the little that we know. Until I have facts I cannot determine which is the most likely.”
“For instance?”
Sometimes the man is like a child. His need for entertainment is really very immature.
Crowds alighted from the train and dispersed on the platform. They were replaced with another crowd who waved goodbye, and puffed and panted through the carriage in search of their compartments. I have never seen a duller group of travellers.
Were I a criminal instead of a detective, no form of public transport would be safe from me. It is such fertile ground for the picking of pockets and the taking of lives.
“Holmes?” Watson urged, again.
“For instance, I cannot determine how the man came to the moors until I know where, exactly, he was found. All I can determine is that he is alive and incapacitated.”
Watson’s face fell into that comically bewildered expression that usually irritates me, only because I know that most of the time he pretends an ignorance he does not, in fact, possess. In this case, I knew I had truly amazed him. I wrapped my coat closer around me and buried my head in my scarf.
“Wait a minute,” he cried. “You cannot leave it like that. Holmes!”
“Come, my dear Watson. You have as much information as I. You can draw your own conclusions, surely?”
Silence reigned for ten delicious minutes and then he said, “If the man were capable of speaking rationally, he would have given the police some sort of explanation. If that were so, they would not have consulted you.”
“Precisely.”
Another few moments and then, “But how can you be sure he isn’t dead?”
“My dear Watson,” I said, exasperated, “If the man were dead they would have said they had found a corpse or a body. They describe him as a man; ergo, he is still alive.”
“So he may prove to be a mental patient, if he is unable to give an account of himself.”
“Possibly, but I think not.”
“There are several mental hospitals in Devonshire, most of them around the Exeter area, if memory serves. Isn’t it possible this poor fellow escaped from one of them?”
“Unlikely.” At his continued bewilderment, I added, “For two reasons: In the first place, the police would surely have checked the local institutions to determine if a patient were missing. In the second, it is customary in such facilities, I believe, to dress the inmates in institutional clothing. This fellow was found in his nightshirt.”
“Oh.”
I deterred him from further speculation by ruminating on the mathematical probabilities of being struck by lightening. Within twenty minutes, my oratory had the desired effect.
Doctor Watson was asleep.
Inspector Pendleton met us at St David’s station in Exeter. A short, stout man with the skin of a former tin miner, he seemed greatly relieved by our presence.
“Would you like to see the man first, Mr Holmes?” he said, “Or should I take you to the area where he was found?”
“I would like to see the man,” I replied. “What is his condition?”
“He is gibbering, I am afraid. He makes no sense. He cannot even tell us his name.”
“Is he a lunatic, escaped from one of the asylums?” Watson said.
“No; I have asked. He is not from a hospital, nor is he from the gaol.”
“Where is the man now?” I asked.
“I brought him to the station. He’s in one of the cells.”
The station in Waterbeer Street was about ten years old and felt cleaner and less jaded than most of its London counterparts. Watson put this, bewilderingly, to the proximity of the sea.
Pendleton led us down to the cells. Though clean, these were still as horrifying as any other gaol. The walls were white. Several feet above the floor was an arc-shaped window paned with thick glass. Beneath this, a man lay upon a cot, tightly confined in leather straps. He tugged and pulled this way and that.
“Good heavens,” Watson said. He stepped forward and examined the unfortunate. “Has a doctor seen him?”
“Yes, sir,” Pendleton said. “That was the first thing we did. I have his report on my desk.”
“Get it,” Watson said.
When we were alone, he said, “This is grotesque, Holmes. This fellow is suffering from a drug of some sort. A great deal of it, if I’m not mistaken. Look at his pupils.”
“I agree. Pin-point.”
“Help me remove these restraints.”
It took us considerable time and effort to complete this task. The prisoner cowered and cried, he pulled against us, sobbing bitterly, and flailed as soon as his hands were released. Truly a dreadful sight.
“Here, what are you doing?” the policeman said, as he returned. “It took four of my men to get him into those things.”
“They are barbaric,” Watson snapped.
“They are for his own protection,” Pendleton said. “He was trying to hurt himself. He would have succeeded, too, if we had not tied him down.”
“I have to be able to examine him,” I said, “if I am to learn anything. I cannot see through these restraints. If need be, we shall put them back on when we have finished our observations.”
I undid the last of the leather straps that bound the man’s legs, and removed the straight-jacket.
Watson crooned at the unfortunate, called him ‘lad’, and patted his back.
The fellow continued to sob, but no longer fought against us.
“There now,” Watson said, “That’s better isn’t it? We have taken those nasty straps off. Are you hungry? Would you like something to eat?”
The man said nothing but continued to wail. After the third time of being asked, he made a motion that may have been a nod.
“See if you can find him some food,” Watson said to the policeman, “Meat or even a biscuit. It will help him understand that we mean him no harm.”
Pendleton hurried away and returned some minutes later with a plate of cold chicken.
The patient-prisoner ate ravenously.
“He’s been starved for several days,” I said.
“How can you tell that, Mr Holmes?” the policeman asked.
“His breath smells like fruit. The unmistakable odour of ketones... I have frequently observed it in people who have been starved. I should write a paper.”
“Poor beggar,” Pendleton said.
The man ate, but could not answer any questions. His speech was entirely gibberish. “The snakes,” he cried at one point, “Get them off me! The snakes!”
His name he had forgotten; his reasons for being in Exeter, his family, all were locked in the confused jumble of his brain.
He pointed at an indefinable spot on the floor and screamed. “The snakes, the snakes!” His screams were piercing, terrible, and they went on and on.
“I shall have to sedate him, Holmes,” Watson said.
I agreed. There was no sense to be had from the fellow in his current state.
Twenty minutes later when he slept, I was able to conduct my examination. The man’s flesh was striped with long, savage welts. They covered his back, his thighs, and even his genitalia. A dozen cigarette burns covered his feet and ankles. The undamaged parts of his soles were well-maintained and spoke of affluence. These feet had worn only the finest leather.
His right hand was well developed and there were calluses on his index and middle fingers suggesting he had spent a great amount of time writing.
The pinches on the side of his nose indicated he customarily wore spectacles. He looked like any of thousands of English businessmen. However, despite these signs of a sedentary occupation, his physique was excellent. His arms and legs suggested he spent a great deal of time in a wide range of exercises. Mountain-climbing, walking, and, yes, swimming. Curious.
“What was he wearing when you found him? These trousers and jumper he’s in now are a poor fit; and your telegram referred to a nightshirt.”
“You are right, Mr Holmes. These clothes were brought by one of