Malversation of Mummies , livre ebook
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2021
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13
pages
English
Ebooks
2021
Vous pourrez modifier la taille du texte de cet ouvrage
Obtenez un accès à la bibliothèque pour le consulter en ligne En savoir plus
Publié par
Date de parution
08 février 2021
Nombre de lectures
0
EAN13
9781787057289
Langue
English
A Malversation of Mummies
Marcia Wilson
Published in 2020 by
MX Publishing
www.mxpublishing.com/
Digital edition converted and distributed by
Andrews UK Limited
www.andrewsuk.com
Copyright © 2020 Marcia Wilson
The right of Marcia Wilson to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No reproduction, copy or transmission of this publication may be made without express prior written permission. No paragraph of this publication may be reproduced, copied or transmitted except with express prior written permission or in accordance with the provisions of the Copyright Act 1956 (as amended). Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damage.
All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
A Malversation of Mummies
It was a chilly winter day. Crime was all but absent in the interests of staying warm and alive . . . and Sherlock Holmes was housebound, convalescing . . . and bored. Three words that only managed to strike terror when used together while in the same sentence as “ Sherlock Holmes ”.
Dr. Watson regretted that he would have to forego his own warmth in the interests of his lodger staying alive if he were forced to spend ten more minutes in his closest friend’s company.
To do him credit, Holmes had not been consciously maddening.
Then again, Holmes rarely was. Watson could scarcely believe that he missed his chemical experiments.
“Holmes . . . I’m going out.” Watson said at last and rose to his feet.
Holmes blinked drowsily from his usual chair. The lassitude of his entire body should have screamed the presence of some infernal drug, but even morphine and cocaine could not compete with the great detective when he was falling into a black mood.
Three days of this while the storm raged about London. Holmes had fretted from his sickbed – a sickbed that was all his own doing. Ignore his body and pay the consequences, and was it truly that important to get the particulars about that French coiner so quickly? It wasn’t as though anyone could travel the Channel back to the Continent with blizzard conditions over the waters . . .
Too late, Watson had realized Holmes’s energy had been a frantic way of keeping his encroaching black mood at bay. There was nothing for it now but for the two of them to live with the consequences of hot soup, warm fires, and whatever mental activity that could keep Holmes’s brain above the level of the lower orders of the animal kingdom.
Needless to say, Holmes had taken the lack of crime badly. Even Christmas was good for some imaginative forays into illegal intelligence, but this was just the plain ordinary sort of bad weather where it made more sense to burrow down and keep warm.
The detective was grossly unappreciative of the lull in murder, assault, kidnapping, theft, and blackmail.
Watson had been the reluctant audience to this since the beginning. He wavered between the wild hope that something would baffle the Yard and they would come . . . and the knowledge that Holmes’s open glee at having a bloody mess to unravel would unravel a tenuous relationship with the police. Police liked to solve crimes – they didn’t like to have them. Gregson avoided 221b for months, sometimes years at a time. Hopkins was half-terrified of calling Holmes in on something frivolous. MacDonald was off on a case on the other side of the island – the worst side, in Watson’s opinion as his war wounds were no lover of bitter Hebridonian north winds. Morton had been on extended recovery since his malicious wounding by anarchists, and after that, there weren’t too many detectives left. Youghal, they’d heard, was undercover over the latest Fenian disaster.
