The Best Science Fiction and Fantasy of the Year: Volume Eleven by Jonathan Strahan

The Best Science Fiction and Fantasy of the Year: Volume Eleven by Jonathan Strahan

Author:Jonathan Strahan
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Tags: Science Fiction, Fantasy Fiction, Fiction, Anthologies, Fantasy, American, General, Short Stories
ISBN: 9781781085622
Publisher: Solaris
Published: 2017-04-17T14:00:00+00:00


April 1882

ON A BRIGHT, chilly spring morning, Sir Arthur and Lady Cwmlech sat at breakfast in the cozy morning room of their house on Curzon Street. Sir Arthur was reading a book he had propped up against the saltcellar and absently dripping egg over his waistcoat. Lady Cwmlech, a plate of toast and marmalade at her elbow, was poring over the flimsy sheets of the popular journal, the Thames-Side Monthly.

Turning over a page, she uttered an excited squeak. “Here it is at last, Arthur!”

Sir Arthur looked up from his book, pale eyes bleary behind his spectacles. The patent application for the Illogic Engine had kept him up half the night. Bad as a new baby, Tacy thought, and smiled. He smiled back wanly. “Here is what, my love?”

“John’s account of the Bootlace Murders. Never tell me you’ve forgotten! Five cobblers strangled with bootlaces and laid out on their benches all neat and tidy, and the police as baffled as sheep at a gate. Last spring it was, just after the wedding.”

“After the wedding,” Sir Arthur said, “I had more important things to think of than deceased cobblers.” He gave Tacy a grin that brought the blood to her cheeks.

“Of course, my dear. But John wrote us about it, remember? Their first case after the move to Baker Street, and so proud he was of how well Sherlock and the police dealt together, after that unfortunate misunderstanding about the purloined letter.”

“Damned silly name, Sherlock,” Sir Arthur observed.

“No sillier than Mycroft, when all’s said and done. None of our concern, in any case.” She gave him a wifely look. “Will I read it to you, then, while you wipe the egg off your waistcoat?”

Sir Arthur stared down at the congealed yolk festooning his chest. “Oh, dear,” he sighed. “Tacy, do you think. . .?”

Dipping her napkin in her husband’s tea, Tacy dealt with the waistcoat, then rang for Swindon, who bore off the spoiled napery.

“I’m sorry, my love.” Sir Arthur said. “I’ve forgotten what you were saying.”

“The Bootlace Murders.”

“Ah. The Bootlace Murders. I am all attention. Who did the Great Detective deduce had done ’em?”

“There’s pity,” Tacy said severely, “to set aside all John’s hard work in unfolding the mystery step-by-step, with all the characters of the shoemaker’s wife and Inspector Gregson and the man with the limp drawn as clear as life. Furthermore,” she went on, “we are to dine with them tonight, before the concert. Churlish, it would be, not to mention his literary debut.”

Sir Arthur shook his head. “I dare not, dearest. The patent application—”

“Will be the better for an evening’s holiday. A program of Bach, it is. You like Bach.”

“I thought Watson preferred Chopin.”

“He does. But Madame Neruda plays tonight and Sherlock has conceived a keen interest in the violin. He speaks of learning to play.”

“Heaven help us,” Arthur said. “Very well. Bach, Neruda, and dinner, it shall be. And the Bootlace Murders. I do not wish to disoblige John.”

Tacy had just reached the second murder when Mistress Angharad Cwmlech swept into the room on the arm of Mr.



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