Tales From the Deed Box of John H. Watson MD Read online

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  Tales From The Deed Box Of

  John H. Watson MD?

  Hugh Ashton obviously has the ability to channel into the spirit of Conan Doyle. Brilliant!

  Christopher Belton

  It was incredibly well done considering the monument[al] task of copying not only someone else’s style but someone who wrote a long time ago.

  Jess Mountifield

  I finished the book highly satisfied that not only was my beloved Sherlock portrayed with great skill but that the plot was also worthy of his intellect.

  Smashwords reader

  Ashton nails the mannerisms of both Holmes and Watson to a tee as well as weaving a mystery that rivals that of, dare I say it? Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, himself.

  Donna Dillon

  It's brilliant- very true to the original books. A great story too!

  Oliver Startin

  Tales From the Deed Box of

  John H. Watson MD

  Three Untold Stories of

  Sherlock Holmes

  As Discovered By

  Hugh Ashton

  Smashwords Edition

  Published by Inknbeans Press

  © 2012 Hugh Ashton and

  Inknbeans Press

  Tales From the Deed Box of John H. Watson. MD.

  Hugh Ashton

  © 2012 Hugh Ashton and Inknbeans Press

  Grateful acknowledgment to Conan Doyle Estate Ltd. for permission to use the Sherlock Holmes characters created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are written in respectful tribute to the creator of the principle characters.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.

  Dedications

  Many thanks to all who have helped in the production of these stories.

  First, to my nephew Oliver Startin, whose Facebook posts prodded the Sherlock lurking in me into life

  To all my friends, in real life and on Facebook, who continue to inspire and encourage me

  To Arthur Conan Doyle, for his original creation of one of the most memorable friendships and one of the most extraordinary characters in English letters.

  To the Beans at Inknbeans Press, especially “Boss Bean” Jo, whose good taste and good sense have been instrumental in the production of these stories.

  And last, but not least, to my wife Yoshiko, whose tolerance of my eccentricities and support of my efforts has encouraged me to go forward with this.

  PREFACE

  It was with great excitement that I first learned of a deed box that had been deposited in the vaults of one of our great London banks nearly one hundred years ago, and somehow left untouched and forgotten for most of that time. My friend at the bank told me that this box had on stencilled on it in white paint the words “JOHN H. WATSON MD” on the top, with the initials “JHW” and the legend “To be left until called for” on the side.

  Though Watson is a common name, and John even more so, any medical doctor of that era bearing that evocative name surely must recall an association with that most famous of detectives, Mr Sherlock Holmes, who was at the height of his career in the decades immediately preceding the depositing of this box in the bank's vaults. The legal proceedings by which I eventually gained custody of the box are technical, and a very little interest to anyone except a lawyer (and it seems to me that even the most dedicated lawyer would find little of interest!).

  On my opening of the box, I discovered a treasure trove – treasure, that is, for all who have followed the exploits of Sherlock Holmes and have been tantalised by the hints dropped by Watson concerning the cases about which he had written, but had never published. Two of these cases, Sherlock Holmes And The Case of the Missing Matchbox and Sherlock Holmes and the Case of the Cormorant fall into this category. The hints dropped by Watson about these hitherto undescribed cases in his other accounts have long intrigued Holmes scholars.

  When reading through the manuscripts in the deed box, it proved difficult to make a decision as to which tales to include and which to exclude. I have chosen here to include three tales which show hitherto unsuspected aspects of Holmes, some of which have been hinted at earlier by Watson.

  One of the most interesting sidelights to be thrown on the career of Sherlock Holmes comes in the tale here entitled Sherlock Holmes and the Odessa Business. In this story we see a further side to Sherlock Holmes – that of his family. For a long time we have known about his reclusive and enigmatic brother, Mycroft. What was never alluded to by Watson in any of the published accounts was the existence of Evadne, his younger sister. She proves herself to be a true scion of the Holmes family, combining the energy of Sherlock with the raw mental capacity of his brother Mycroft. It is also refreshing to see familial affection between the siblings described in this story.

  The second story here, the Case of the Missing Matchbox, deals with a bizarre crime, and also shows us a side of Sherlock Holmes which we might have guessed, or rather suspected, but which had remained unknown to us until this time. We have known from previous cases of his skill in fisticuffs, as well as in singlestick and the mysterious Japanese wrestling art with which he bested Professor Moriarty in his battle above the Reichenbach Falls. Not until this time have we had a chance to discover the side of Holmes that delighted in single combat, and not for its own sake, but on behalf of those unable to defend themselves.

  The final story in this short collection, the Case of the Cormorant, is to my knowledge unique in the canon of tales about Holmes. Watson alludes to this tale in another story, and it seems to have been regarded by him and probably by Holmes, as an “ace in the hole” to be played in the eventuality of an attack on Holmes or on Watson’s records. It is, when one reads the story, not in the least unusual or strange that Watson should have withheld it from publication. The principal figure in the case, even had he been disguised by a pseudonym, would have been instantly recognisable to any contemporary, and it is quite likely that students of that period’s history would likewise have encountered few difficulties of identification, even had the name and the location of the events described been changed. It is printed here in the hope that it will throw some light on some of the curious political machinations that occurred at this time.

  I hope to spend more time deciphering the strange, almost illegible, doctor’s writing that characterises these manuscripts, which cover many sheets of foolscap paper, now brittle with age, and requiring great care in their handling. I sincerely hope that the pleasure you obtain from reading these equals the pleasure I have had in reviving these figures from the past, who still live on in our minds and vividly as those personages we read about in our daily newspapers.

  The Untold Stories

  The Odessa Business

  The Case of the Missing Matchbox

  The Case of the Cor
morant

  Sherlock Holmes

  &

  The Odessa Business

  Editor’s Note

  This tale, which is not mentioned at all in any of the stories that Watson released to the world, came as a complete surprise to me when I first deciphered it from Watson’s handwriting. Without a doubt, this is one of the more extraordinary revelations about the personal circumstances surrounding the great sleuth that I have so far encountered in the stories contained in the deed box. There may be more to come.

  We know little of Holmes’ family life, other than the existence of brother Mycroft (The Greek Interpreter and The Final Problem). This story sheds an unexpected light on this aspect of the detective’s existence as well as showing him capable of hitherto unsuspected depths of family feeling.

  -oOo-

  My friend, the famous consulting detective Sherlock Holmes, was reticent about his family and his early life. Occasionally, indeed, as in his description of the affair of the Gloria Scott, he gave an account of his doings before he and I became acquainted, but my friend’s family remained for the most part an enigma to me.

  Nothing, it seemed, was of import to Holmes other than his pursuit of the solutions to the puzzles and mysteries that came to our door. It was one summer morning, when the metropolis seemed almost deserted, that I became aware of yet another side to the remorseless logician that had up to that time remained unsuspected by me.

  For the previous two weeks, London had been what Holmes described as “plaguey dull”, by which he signified that no major outbreak of criminal activity had occurred recently – a source of satisfaction to most law-abiding citizens, but a fount of frustration for Holmes, whose mind thrived on the crimes committed by the felons of the land and whose energies seemed replenished by the villainies of others. We were finishing an excellent breakfast, I remember, when the post was brought in by Mrs Hudson, our housekeeper, and deposited by Holmes’ elbow, where it remained unopened as he devoted his attention to toast and marmalade.

  At length he threw down his napkin and crossed to the large armchair, flinging himself into it.

  “Ah, Watson,” he remarked, “if only you could begin to guess at the ennui that afflicts me. Yesterday, I solved the mystery of the bisulphate of bismuth. My monograph on the regional differences in boot-nails, which should be of great service to the official police when they come to examine any footprints following the execution of a crime, is at the printer’s, and I now have that Bach partita almost by heart. If you would be good enough to open the post, and provide me with a verbal précis of each item, I would be much obliged.” So saying, he lounged back in his chair, and lit his foul-smelling pipe.

  I picked up the first envelope.

  “A ducal coronet,” I observed. “This letter appears to be from His Grace the Duke of Shropshire.”

  “He will want to know about his son’s losses at cards,” replied Holmes, his eyes half-shut in that peculiar fashion of his, before I had even opened the envelope. “It is, of course, Colonel Sebastian Moran who has been cheating him, but the cunning devil has so many tricks and ruses that it would be almost impossible to prove it without my personally taking part in the game. And that, Watson, is something I am not prepared to do at this time.”

  “Astounding!” I exclaimed after having opened the envelope and read the contents. “You are absolutely correct in your guesses as to His Grace’s wishes.”

  “Hardly guesses, Watson,” he reproached me. “Put the letter on one side. We may decide to assist in this matter, if nothing more interesting or amusing comes to light.” My friend’s ideas of what events fell under those two headings were, I need hardly add, somewhat at odds with those possessed by the average Londoner. “I have long had my eye on Colonel Moran, and it would be a positive pleasure to remove him from the gaming rooms of the London clubs. Next letter, please.”

  I scanned the contents. “A Mrs Henrietta Cowling suspects her husband of a dalliance with an actress at the Criterion, and requests—”

  “Next, Watson. I do not dabble in these petty affairs.”

  I picked up the next envelope, which gave off a faint scent that I was unable to place. I glanced at the back. “From St Elizabeth’s Academy for Young Ladies, Brighton,” I remarked.

  “Read it,” commanded Holmes. He had not altered his position as he lounged in the chair, but to someone who knew him as intimately as myself, here was a subtle change in his attitude. “Extraordinary!” I burst out, when I had finished perusing the epistle. “The lady who wrote this has the same surname as yourself. Miss Evadne Holmes.”

  “Indeed?” replied my friend. A strange sort of half-smile, almost unnoticeable, played about his lips. “Perhaps you would be good enough to inform me of its contents after ascertaining some more information about this establishment?” He waved a lazy hand towards the shelves of reference works.

  I reached for the Almanac, and proceeded to ascertain the facts regarding St Elizabeth’s.

  “Of course.” I summarized the contents of the entry I had just read. “The lady is the principal of this academic institution, where nearly one hundred young ladies are educated, founded by her to provide young ladies with a sound general education on Christian principles, in the year—”

  “Enough, Watson. Proceed with the letter.”

  I turned to the sheets of stiff paper that comprised the epistle. “Among the pupils there is the young Russian Archduchess Anastasia, who is completing her studies in this country. A few nights ago, three to be precise, the young lady was disturbed by a noise at the window of the room shared with ten other girls, and she saw what she described as a hideous bearded face peering through a gap in the curtains. She was, not unnaturally, frightened by this, as were the other girls in the room, and the alarm was raised, but a search by the principal and the mistresses of the academy discovered no trace of the intruder.”

  “No trace?” remarked Holmes. “I had thought better of Evadne.”

  I looked at him sharply, but he gave no clue as to the meaning of that utterance. “She requests your help in investigating this matter,” I concluded. “Shall I put this on one side with the Duke of Shropshire’s epistle, or consign it to the rubbish with Mrs Cowling’s?”

  “Neither, Watson. I believe that the sea air at Brighton will do us both good. Let us start this morning. But before we set off, what do you learn from this letter?”

  “Little, I fear. There is a strange smell about the paper that I cannot, for the life of me, place. It is written in violet ink – unusual, but not that unusual. There is little I can deduce from this.”

  “The smell, I would guess, is carbolic soap.”

  I put the envelope once more to my nostrils and inhaled. “Indeed it is, Holmes!” The smell was now familiar to me. “How—?”

  “I doubt if Evadne’s habits have changed with middle age,” he remarked, somewhat enigmatically. “My dear fellow, you have missed many of the important points. The writer is left-handed, no?” I used what little skill in graphology I had acquired to examine the letter, and was forced to agree with Holmes’ guess, if that is what it was. “But I think you have missed the most significant point of this letter.” His smile was now plain to see. “What is the superscription?”

  I examined the letter once again. “‘My dear Sherlock’,” I read. “This seems a most intimate form of address for a client to use. The lady is a relation of yours?”

  “My sister,” he replied, enjoying my obvious surprise.

  I had met Holmes’ brother Mycroft once, in the matter of the Greek interpreter, but Holmes had never alluded to any other brothers or sisters.

  “She is, without a doubt, the intellectual equal of my brother Mycroft, and, but for the accident of her sex, would no doubt occupy the same place in government he currently holds. As it is, she advises the Treasury on matters of finance and the Foreign Office on diplomacy under a male pseudonym through Mycroft while maintaining St. Elizabeth’s Academy to occupy her id
le moments. She is also, as you may or may not be aware, a contributor to various mathematical journals, again using a male alias. She recently achieved something in the nature of an academic triumph over Professor James Moriarty, in her rebuttal of his treatise upon the binomial theorem. I must confess, however, that Evadne and I have not seen each other for a number of years, not on account of any animosity between us – indeed, as children we were remarkably close, and that attachment has never entirely disappeared – but simply through indolence, chiefly on my part, I fear. It is time for me to strengthen the family bonds again, Watson, and, as I mentioned, the change of air will do us good, trapped as we are in the metropolis. Be so good as to look up a convenient time in Bradshaw.”

  Before I could fulfil this request, there was a knock at our door, and Mrs Hudson announced the arrival of Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard. The small man almost bounded into the room in a state of excitement.

  “Halloa!” exclaimed Holmes. “What brings you here straight from your home? Help yourself to coffee, and sit yourself down in that chair. But how did your small change come to rest in the right-hand pocket of your trousers? Do you not find it inconvenient to have Mrs Lestrade arrange the contents of your pockets of a morning?”

  Lestrade looked from Holmes to me and shrugged. “Another of your conjuring tricks, Mr Holmes?”