Sons of Moriarty and More Stories of Sherlock Holmes by Estleman Loren D

Author:Estleman, Loren D. [Estleman, Loren D.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-1-4405-6484-0
Publisher: Tyrus Books
Published: 2013-05-27T16:00:00+00:00

SONS OF MORIARTY

A SHERLOCK HOLMES NOVELLA

BY LOREN D. ESTLEMAN

Loren D. Estleman published his first Sherlock Holmes novel, Sherlock Holmes vs. Dracula, or The Adventure of the Sanguinary Count, in 1978, and it has rarely been out of print; 1979’s Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Holmes pops up nearly as frequently. “Sons of Moriarty,” a full-length novella pitting Holmes against the Mafia, appears here for the first time.

CHAPTER I.

THE ASSASSIN’S DAUGHTER

To commence this narrative, I shall tell you, dear reader, that even now, nearly twenty years after the events I intend to relate, I keep the windows shut in my second-storey bedroom on the sultriest of summer evenings. I take no comfort from a sheer drop of some sixty feet, with no purchase offered to a nocturnal visitor. I would rather swelter the night through than be discovered in the morning with my throat cut from ear to ear.

It all began early in 1903. I was in semi-retirement from my London practice, attending only those long-time patients who would not countenance the idea of treatment by anyone else, and half-heartedly corresponding with a publisher about the prospect of writing my memoirs; a project I viewed with suspicion, as a way of obtaining that which had been withheld by another: the life and intimate remembrances of Mr. Sherlock Holmes.

At the desk in my consulting-room, I recalled Holmes’s own ideas on the subject.

“As out-of-favor as he has unfortunately become,” said he, “I stand with Oscar Wilde on the subject of the posthumous biography: It brings a new terror to death.”

“But writing about oneself is not posthumous.”

“It would be, in my case. In that, I stand with Mark Twain, who has directed that his memoirs be suppressed until he has been dead one hundred years. You know very well, Watson, there is dynamite in that little tin box of yours.”

He was referring to the dispatch-case I keep under lock and key at Cox & Co., bankers, containing my notes on such cases as the unconvincing conviction and the strange business of the American snapping turtle.

Smiling at the memory of this conversation, I drew out the ledger-book in which I record various reminders to myself and began to write.

“I quite agree,” barked a familiar voice at my back. “That turtle alone could overturn civilization. Better her story is left to the next century, when, no doubt, the species will be bred for racing as well as soup.”

I started, spoiling the page with my pen, and spun round to face my old friend lounging in the doorway, wearing the shapeless canvas hat and bulky ulster he put on when he wished to wander about the city incognito. This attire quite changed his famous profile; I might not have recognized him straightaway had I not known the clothing.

“Holmes!” I sprang to my feet and wrung his hand, upsetting the delicate operation of rolling a cigarette in the American fashion, a habit he’d acquired after reading the reminiscences of Frank Harris. We hadn’t seen each other in months.

Then I backed away.

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