Sherlock Holmes in America: 14 Original Stories
384
Sherlock Holmes in America: 14 Original Stories
384eBook
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Overview
The world’s greatest detective and his loyal sidekick Dr. Watson are on their first trip across the Atlantic—to nineteenth-century America! From the bustling neighborhoods of New York City and Boston to sinister locales like Salt Lake City and fog-shrouded cities like San Francisco, the beloved British sleuth faces the most cunning criminals America has to offer, while meeting some of her most famous figures along the way, such as Teddy Roosevelt and Harry Houdini.
A groundbreaking anthology, Sherlock Holmes in America features original short stories by award-winning American writers, each in the extraordinary tradition of Conan Doyle, and each with a unique American twist that is sure to satisfy and exhilarate both Sherlock Holmes purists and those who wished Holmes could nab the nefarious closer to home. There is:
- “The Adventure of the Missing Three Quarters” by Jon L. Breen
- “The Adventure of the Coughing Dentist” by Loren D. Estleman
- “The Case of Colonial Warburton’s Madness” by Lyndsay Faye
- “The Minister’s Missing Daughter” by Victoria Thompson
- “The Adventure of the White City” by Bill Crider
- And more!
This is a must-read for any mystery fan and for those who have followed Holmes' illustrious career over the waterfall and back again.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781628732290 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Skyhorse |
| Publication date: | 11/01/2009 |
| Sold by: | SIMON & SCHUSTER |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 384 |
| File size: | 813 KB |
About the Author
Jon L. Lellenberg is the US agent for the Conan Doyle estate and the editor of The Baker Street Irregulars archival history series. He lives in Chicago, Illinois.
Daniel Stashower is an award-winning mystery novelist and the author of A Teller of Tales: The Life of Arthur Conan Doyle. He lives in Bethesda, Maryland.
Read an Excerpt
Sherlock Holmes in America
By Martin H. Greenberg, Jon L. Lellenberg, Daniel Stashower
Constable & Robinson
Copyright © 2009 Martin H. Greenberg, Jon L. Lellenberg, and Daniel StashowerAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-62873-229-0
CHAPTER 1
THE CASE OF COLONEL WARBURTON'S MADNESS
Lyndsay Faye
Lyndsay Faye is the author of the historical thriller Dust and Shadow: An Account of the Ripper Killings by Dr. John H. Watson, in which the Great Detective must trace the infamous serial killer in a pre-Freudian world, amidst the hostile censure of the gutter press, and at the risk of his own life. She spent many years in the San Francisco Bay Area, working as a professional actress. Lyndsay and her husband, Gabriel Lehner, now live in Manhattan with their cat, Grendel; she is a proud member of Actor's Equity Association and the Adventuresses of Sherlock Holmes. Visit her Web site at www.lyndsayfaye.com.
* * *
My friend Mr. Sherlock Holmes, while possessed of one of the most vigorous minds of our generation, and while capable of displaying tremendous feats of physical activity when the situation required it, could nevertheless remain in his armchair perfectly motionless longer than any human being I have ever encountered. This skill passed wholly unrecognized by its owner. I do not believe he held any intentions to impress me so, nor do I think the exercise was, for him, a strenuous one. Still I maintain the belief that when a man has held the same pose for a period exceeding three hours, and when that man is undoubtedly awake, that same man has accomplished an unnatural feat.
I turned away from my task of organizing a set of old journals that lead-grey afternoon to observe Holmes perched with one leg curled beneath him, firelight burnishing the edges of his dressing gown as he sat with his head in his hand, a long-abandoned book upon the carpet. The familiar sight had grown increasingly unnerving as the hours progressed. It was with a view to ascertain that my friend was still alive that I went so far against my habits as to interrupt his reverie.
"My dear chap, would you care to take a turn with me? I've an errand with the bootmaker down the road, and the weather has cleared somewhat."
I do not know if it was the still-ominous dark canopy that deterred him or his own pensive mood, but Holmes merely replied, "I require better distraction just now than an errand which is not my own and the capricious designs of a March rainstorm."
"What precise variety of distraction would be more to your liking?" I inquired, a trifle nettled at his dismissal.
He waved a slender hand, at last lifting his dark head from the upholstery where it had reclined for so long. "Nothing you can provide me. It is the old story — for these two days I have received not a shred of worthwhile correspondence, nor has any poor soul abused our front doorbell with an eye to engage my services. The world is weary, I am weary, and I grow weary with being weary of it. Thus, Watson, as you see I am entirely useless myself at the moment, my state cannot be bettered through frivolous occupations."
"I suppose I would be pleased no one is so disturbed in mind as to seek your aid, if I did not know what your work meant to you," I said with greater sympathy.
"Well, well, there is no use lamenting over it."
"No, but I should certainly help if I could."
"What could you possibly do?" he sniffed. "I hope you are not about to tell me your pocket watch has been stolen, or your great-aunt disappeared without trace."
"I am safe on those counts, thank you. But perhaps I can yet offer you a problem to vex your brain for half an hour."
"A problem? Oh, I'm terribly sorry — I had forgotten. If you want to know where the other key to the desk has wandered off to, I was given cause recently to test the pliancy of such objects. I'll have a new one made —"
"I had not noticed the key," I interrupted him with a smile, "but I could, if you like, relate a series of events which once befell me when I was in practice in San Francisco, the curious details of which have perplexed me for years. My work on these old diaries reminded me of them yet again, and the circumstances were quite in your line."
"I suppose I should be grateful you are at least not staring daggers at my undocketed case files," he remarked.
"You see? There are myriad advantages. It would be preferable to venturing out, for it is already raining again. And should you refuse, I will be every bit as unoccupied as you, which I would also prefer to avoid." I did not mention that if he remained a statue an instant longer, the sheer eeriness of the room would force me out of doors.
"You are to tell me a tale of your frontier days, and I am to solve it?" he asked blandly, but the subtle angle of one eyebrow told me he was intrigued.
"Yes, if you can."
"What if you haven't the data?"
"Then we shall proceed directly to the brandy and cigars."
"It's a formidable challenge." To my great relief, he lifted himself in the air by his hands and crossed his legs underneath him, reaching when he had done so for the pipe lying cold on the side table. "I cannot say I've any confidence it can be done, but as an experiment, it has a certain flair."
"In that case, I shall tell you the story, and you may pose any questions that occur to you."
"From the beginning, mind, Watson," he admonished, settling himself into a comfortable air of resigned attention. "And with as many details as you can summon up."
"It is quite fresh in my mind again, for I'd set it down in the volumes I was just mulling over. As you know, my residence in America was relatively brief, but San Francisco lives in my memory quite as vividly as Sydney or Bombay — an impetuous, thriving little city nestled among the great hills, where the fogs are spun from ocean air and the sunlight refracts from Montgomery Street's countless glass windows. It is as if all the men and women of enterprise across the globe determined they should have a city of their own, for the Gold Rush built it and the Silver Lode built it again, and now that they have been linked by railroad with the eastern states, the populace believes nothing is impossible under the sun. You would love it there, Holmes. One sees quite as many nations and trades represented as in London, all jostling one another into a thousand bizarre coincidences, and you would not be surprised to find a Chinese apothecary wedged between a French milliner and an Italian wine merchant.
"My practice was based on Front Street in a small brick building, near a number of druggist establishments, and I readily received any patients who happened my way. Poor or well-off, genteel or ruffianly, it made no difference to a boy in the first flush of his career. I'd no long-established references, and for that reason no great clientele, but it was impossible to feel small in that city, for they so prized hard work and optimism that I felt sudden successes lay every moment round the next corner.
"One hazy afternoon, as I'd no appointments and I could see the sun lighting up the masts of the ships in the Bay, I decided I'd sat idle long enough, and set out for a bit of exercise. It is one of San Francisco's peculiar characteristics that no matter what direction one wanders, one must encounter a steep hill, for there are seven of them, and within half an hour of walking aimlessly away from the water, I found myself striding up Nob Hill, staring in awe at the array of houses.
"Houses, in fact, are rather a misnomer; they call it Nob Hill because it is populated by mining and railroad nabobs, and the residences are like something from the reign of Ludwig the Second or Marie Antoinette. Many are larger than our landed estates, but all built within ten years of the time I arrived. I ambled past a gothic near-castle and a neo-classicist mansion only to spy an italianate villa across the street, each making an effort to best all others in stained glass, columns, and turrets. The neighborhood —"
"Was a wealthy one," Holmes sighed, hopping out of his chair to pour two glasses of claret.
"And you would doubtless have found that section of town appalling." As he handed me a wine glass, I smiled at the thought of my Bohemian friend eyeing those pleasure domes with cool distaste. "There would have been others more to your liking, I think. Nevertheless, it was a marvel of architecture, and as I neared the crest of the hill, I stopped to take in the view of the Pacific.
"Standing there watching the sun glow orange over the waves, I heard a door fly open and turned to see an old man hobbling frantically down a manicured path leading to the street. The mansion he'd exited was built more discreetly than most, vaguely Grecian and painted white. He was very tall — quite as tall as you, my dear fellow — but with shoulders like an ox. He dressed in a decades-old military uniform, with a tattered blue coat over his grey trousers, and a broad red tie and cloth belt, his silvery hair standing out from his head as if he'd just stepped from the thick of battle.
"Although he cut an extraordinary figure, I would not have paid him much mind in that mad metropolis had not a young lady rushed after him in pursuit, crying out, 'Uncle! Stop, please! You mustn't go, I beg of you!'
"The man she'd addressed as her uncle gained the kerb not ten feet from where I stood, and then all at once collapsed onto the pavement, his chest no longer heaving and the leg which had limped crumpled underneath him.
"I rushed to his side. He breathed, but shallowly. From my closer vantage point, I could see one of his limbs was false, and that it had come loose from its leather straps, causing his fall. The girl reached us not ten seconds later, gasping for breath even as she made a valiant effort to prevent her eyes from tearing.
"'Is he all right?' she asked me.
"'I think so,' I replied, 'but I prefer to be certain. I am a doctor, and I would be happy to examine him more carefully indoors.'
"'I cannot tell you how grateful we would be. Jefferson!' she called to a tall black servant hurrying down the path. 'Please help us get the colonel inside.'
"Between the three of us, we quickly established my patient on the sofa in a cheerful, glass-walled morning room, and I was able to make a more thorough diagnosis. Apart from the carefully crafted wooden leg, which I reattached more securely, he seemed in perfect health, and if he were not such a large and apparently hale man I should have imagined that he had merely fainted.
"'Has he hurt himself, Doctor?' the young woman asked breathlessly.
"Despite her evident distress, I saw at once she was a beautiful woman, with a small-framed, feminine figure, and yet a large measure of that grace which goes with greater stature. Her hair was light auburn, swept away from her creamy complexion in loose waves and wound in an elegant knot, and her eyes shone golden brown through her remaining tears. She wore a pale blue dress trimmed with silver, and her ungloved hand clutched in apprehension at the folds. She — my dear fellow, are you all right?"
"Perfectly," Holmes replied with another cough which, had I been in an uncharitable humour, would have resembled a chuckle. "Do go on."
"'This man will be quite all right once he has rested,' I told her. 'My name is John Watson.'
"'Forgive me — I am Molly Warburton, and the man you've been tending is my uncle, Colonel Patrick Warburton. Oh, what a fright I have had! I cannot thank you enough.'
"'Miss Warburton, I wonder if I might speak with you in another room, so as not to disturb your uncle while he recovers.'
"She led me across the hall into another tastefully appointed parlour and fell exhaustedly into a chair. I hesitated to disturb her further, and yet I felt compelled to make my anxieties known.
"'Miss Warburton, I do not think your uncle would have collapsed in such a dramatic manner had he not been under serious mental strain. Has anything occurred recently which might have upset him?' "'Dr. Watson, you have stumbled upon a family embarrassment,' she said softly. 'My uncle's mental state has been precarious for some time now, and I fear recently he — he has taken a great turn for the worse.'
"'I am sorry to hear it.'
"'The story takes some little time in telling,' she sighed, 'but I will ring for tea, and you will know all about it. First of all, Dr. Watson, I live here with my brother, Charles, and my uncle, the colonel. Apart from Uncle Patrick, Charles and I have no living relatives, and we are very grateful to him for his generosity, for Uncle made a great fortune in shipping during the early days of California statehood. My brother is making his start in the photography business, and I am unmarried, so living with the colonel is for the moment a very comfortable situation.'
"'You must know that my uncle was a firebrand in his youth, and saw a great deal of war as a settler in Texas, before that region was counted among the United States. The pitched fighting between the Texians — that is, the Anglo settlers — and the Tejanos so moved him that he joined the Texas Army under Sam Houston, and was decorated several times for his valour on the field, notably at the Battle of San Jacinto. Later, when the War between the States began, he was a commander for the Union, and lost his leg during the Siege of Petersburg. Forgive me if I bore you. From your voice, I do not think you are a natural-born American,' she added with a smile.
"'Your story greatly interests me. Is that his old Texas uniform he is wearing today?' I asked.
"'Yes, it is,' she replied as a flicker of pain distorted her pretty face. 'He has been costuming himself like that with greater and greater frequency. The affliction, for I do not know what to call it, began several weeks ago. Indeed, I believe the first symptom took place when he changed his will.'
"'How so? Was it a material alteration?'
"'Charlie and I had been the sole benefactors,' she replied, gripping a handkerchief tightly. 'His entire fortune will now be distributed amongst various war charities. Texas War for Independence charities, Civil War charities. He is obsessed with war,' she choked, and then hid her face in her hands.
"I was already moved by her story, Holmes, but the oddity of the colonel's condition intrigued me still further.
"'What are his other symptoms?' I queried when she had recovered herself.
"'After he changed his will, he began seeing the most terrible visions in the dark. Dr. Watson, he claims in the most passionate language that he is haunted. He swears he saw a fearsome Tejano threatening a white woman with a pistol and a whip, and on another occasion he witnessed the same apparition slaughtering one of Houston's men with a bayonet. That is what so upset him, for only this morning he insisted he saw a murderous band of them brandishing swords and torches, with the identical Tejano at their head. My brother believes that we have a duty as his family to remain and care for him, but I confess that Uncle frightens me at times. If we abandoned him, he would have no one, save his old manservant; Sam Jefferson served the colonel for many years, as far back as Texas, I believe, and when my uncle built this house, Jefferson became the head butler.'
"She was interrupted in her narrative as the door opened and the man I knew at once to be her brother stepped in. He had the same light brown eyes as she, and fine features, which twisted into a question at the sight of me.
"'Hello, Molly. Who is this gentleman?'
"'Charlie, it was horrible,' she cried, running to him. 'Uncle Patrick ran out of the house and collapsed. This is Dr. John Watson. He has been so helpful and sympathetic that I was telling him all about Uncle's condition.'
"Charles Warburton shook my hand readily. 'Very sorry to have troubled you, Doctor, but as you can see, we are in something of a mess. If Uncle Patrick grows any worse, I hate to think what —'
"Just then a great roar echoed from the morning room, followed by a shattering crash. The three of us rushed into the hallway and found Colonel Warburton staring wildly about him, a vase broken into shards at his feet.
"'I left this house once,' he swore, 'and by the devil I will do it again. It's full of vengeful spirits, and I will see you all in hell for keeping me here!'
"The niece and nephew did their utmost to calm the colonel, but he grew even more enraged at the sight of them. In fact, he was so violently agitated that only Sam Jefferson could coax him, with my help, toward his bedroom, and once we had reached it, the colonel slammed the door shut in the faces of his kinfolk.
"By sheer good fortune, I convinced him to take a sedative, and when he fell back in a daze on his bed, I stood up and looked about me. His room was quite Spartan, with hardly anything on the white walls, in the simple style I supposed was a relic of his days in Texas. I have told you that the rest of the house also reflected his disdain for frippery. The bed rested under a pleasant open window, and as it was on the ground floor, one could look directly out at the gardens.
"I turned to rejoin my hosts when Sam Jefferson cleared his throat behind me.
"'You believe he'll be all right, sir?'
He spoke with the slow, deep tones of a man born on the other side of the Mississippi. I had not noticed it before, but a thick knot of scarring ran across his dark temple, which led me to believe he had done quite as much fighting in his youth as his employer.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Sherlock Holmes in America by Martin H. Greenberg, Jon L. Lellenberg, Daniel Stashower. Copyright © 2009 Martin H. Greenberg, Jon L. Lellenberg, and Daniel Stashower. Excerpted by permission of Constable & Robinson.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
Table of Contents
Contents
Title Page,Copyright Page,
INTRODUCTION: "AMERICAN, AS YOU PERCEIVE",
THE CASE OF COLONEL WARBURTON'S MADNESS,
GHOSTS AND THE MACHINE,
EXCERPTS FROM AN UNPUBLISHED MEMOIR FOUND IN THE BASEMENT OF THE,
HOME FOR RETIRED ACTORS,
THE FLOWERS OF UTAH,
THE ADVENTURE OF THE COUGHING DENTIST,
THE MINISTER'S MISSING DAUGHTER,
THE CASE OF COLONEL CROCKETT'S VIOLIN,
THE ADVENTURE OF THE WHITE CITY,
RECALLED TO LIFE,
THE SEVEN WALNUTS,
THE ADVENTURE OF THE BOSTON DROMIO,
THE CASE OF THE RIVAL QUEENS,
THE ADVENTURE OF THE MISSING THREE QUARTERS,
THE SONG AT TWILIGHT,
MORIARTY , MORAN, AND MORE : ANTI-HIBERNIAN SENTIMENT IN THE CANON,
HOW THE CREATOR OF SHERLOCK HOLMES BROUGHT HIM TO AMERICA,
THE ROMANCE OF AMERICA,
ABOUT THE EDITORS,
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