An Improbable Truth: The Paranormal Adventures of Sherlock Holmes by A.C. Thompson

Author:A.C. Thompson
Language: eng
Format: azw3, mobi, epub
Publisher: Mocha Memoirs Press
Published: 2015-10-27T04:00:00+00:00

A Voice in the Blood

Dan Shaurette

By 1891, Sherlock Holmes and I consulted on fewer and fewer cases together. He was often away to The Continent on business — France usually. He always had to keep his mind occupied. I myself had started my own private practice and was enjoying married life.

One morning in late April, my wife, Mary, vanished without a trace. It was her custom to be awake before me, but whenever she had errands she always let me know. A notion passed that she had gone on a trip. However, I could not remember when she left, when she would return, or even to where she had gone.

I went about my business and opened my practice, seeing a few patients. It did much to keep me from worrying. However, when night arrived and there was no note, no telegram, no word at all, I realized it was time to face my concern head on.

I discovered that Holmes had returned from one of his trips, so I went to 221B Baker Street to see him, hoping that he might be of some help. The trip there fevered me further, as I was certain I was being watched, perhaps even followed, but whenever I made an attempt to discover a pursuer, there was no one.

When I arrived, Mrs. Hudson gave me a warm hug, and I admit that I needed consolation. I certainly would not get it from Holmes, but in truth that wasn’t what I required of him.

I found Holmes upstairs playing his violin. I hated to interrupt, but mercifully he was at the end of the piece. When I applauded, he set down his instrument and rose to meet me. “Thank you, Watson. I say, you look dreadful.”

“I must apologize for calling so late,” I said, “but I am in a bit of a stir.”

“That much is plain, my friend. What has you so troubled?”

“It’s Mary. I haven’t seen her all day. It isn’t like her to run off somewhere and not let me know. I cannot imagine where she could be.”

“Ah, well, do sit and tell me everything. Do not bias my mind or yours by offering suspicions,” said he. “Simply detail the facts in the fullest possible manner, and you can leave me to do the theorizing.”

“What sort of facts?” I asked.

“When did you see her last?”

“That’s, well, part of the problem. I am not entirely sure.”

“Have your faculties at observation become so idle without my influence these last few months? Do you not recall?” He steepled his fingers under his chin as he listened.

“No, that’s the queer thing. I don’t remember when or where she’s gone. She has left no note or wire. All of her baggage is also at home.”

“I’m no doctor,” he said with a wry grin, “but you do not appear to have injured your head. Are any other memories lacking?”

“No, and I feel fine. Only when I think about Mary, I just lose focus, perhaps.”

“I’m as concerned over this as I am over her disappearance.

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