Secret Journal of Dr Watson , livre ebook

Title Page
THE SECRET JOURNAL OF DR WATSON
by
Phil Growick



Publisher Information
First edition published in 2012 by
MX Publishing
335 Princess Park Manor, Royal Drive,
London, N11 3GX
www.mxpublishing.com
Digital edition converted and distributed in 2012 by
Andrews UK Limited
www.andrewsuk.com
© Copyright 2012 Phil Growick
The right of Phil Growick to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1998.
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. The opinions expressed herein are those of the authors and not of MX Publishing.
Cover design by www.staunch.com



Acknowledgements






“Grateful acknowledgment to Conan Doyle Estate Ltd. for permission to use the Sherlock Holmes characters created by the late Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.”



Dedication






For my four: Maiju, Kevin, Matt & Jamie



Author’s Note
Many of the characters in this book are historical personages. In this narrative, as well as in history, all were at their posts as described herein.
The Romanovs, The Imperial Russian Family
George V, King of England
Sidney Reilly, SIS (Secret Intelligence Service) Master Spy
David Lloyd George, Prime Minister of England
Vladmir Illyich Lenin, Head of the Bolsheviks
Arthur Balfour, Foreign Secretary
Father Storozhev, local priest at Ekaterinburg
Sir George Buchanan, British Ambassador to Russia
Admiral Alexander Kolchak, “The Whites” Supreme Leader
Thomas Preston, British Consul at Ekaterinburg
Arthur Thomas, British Vice-Consul at Ekaterinburg
Yakov Yurovsky, Commandant at the Ipatiev House
Alexander Beleborodev, Bolshevik Commissar of the Urals Soviet
Count Otto Von Mirbach, German Ambassador to Russia
Major General Frederick C. Poole, Supreme Commander,
Allied Invasion Force, Archangel



Preface
My name is Dr. John Watson. The grandson and namesake of the Dr. John H. Watson who wrote the remarkable stories about his adventures with Sherlock Holmes.
My practice is at 43 Dover Street, Kensington. I’m affiliated with St. Bartholomew’s Hospital. I was born on December 28, 1954 in London; my wife, Joan, was born here, as well. We have two sons: Jeffrey, age twenty, and James, age nineteen.
I never knew my grandfather as he died before I was born, but in 1993, he spoke to me. Across seventy-five years of history, his voice came through as clear as if he spoke to me directly.
I came into possession of a journal kept secret as per his instructions. What he wrote will irrevocably change a major piece of world history; that is, if you wish to believe him. I, of course, absolutely do.
My grandfather, from everything my family told me, and from everything I’ve ever heard or read about him, was an extraordinarily decent, loyal, loving and truthful individual. That he cared about people is evident from the fact that he was a physician. And if he wasn’t such a damned good one, my father wouldn’t have followed in his footsteps.
The whole world knows the care and love that my grandfather put into his stories about Holmes. The love he had for that man is palpable in every word, every syllable and every punctuation mark. Everyone knows the pains my grandfather went to in order to make sure that the truth of each adventure was recounted faithfully.
From every bit of evidence available, it seems that my grandfather was incapable of telling a lie. In fact, the one person in the world who knew that better than anyone else, my grandmother Elizabeth, used to laugh as she told me stories of how grandfather would jumble his words, head down, trying not to lie about some horrible new crime to which Holmes had made him privy. She said she’d purposely ask him about the more grisly details just to see how boyish his discomfort would make him; and that she’d finally release the poor man from his torment with what she called “a private laugh heard only by him.”
I still miss her. She’s been gone now over thirty years, but she made my grandfather seem as alive as she was. So even though I never knew him, I knew him better than most.
Therefore, what my grandfather wrote to me is no lie. Yet it’s so absolutely incredible, that even my solicitor advises against its retelling. Which is why I haven’t gone public before today.
However, my grandfather left that decision entirely to me, and I’ve made it. After a brief description of how I came into possession of my grandfather’s secret journal, I’ll simply let the words of his journal speak to you as his words have spoken the truth to unimaginable millions since his first published adventure with Sherlock Holmes.
On the afternoon of August 10, 1993, while I was still in my Kensington office, I received a telephone call from Wyatt & Stevens, the solicitors who had handled my grandfather’s affairs, and who, like a family heirloom, were passed down to my father, and then to me. I’m personally represented by Christopher Wyatt, the grandson of Alistair Wyatt, the man who directly represented my grandfather. And like our fathers before us, Chris and I have been friends since very early childhood.
In this day and age, that two families should share such continuity, and that two grandsons should maintain the same business relationship is probably without equal. Be that as it may, that tight family bond has served me very well.
After the usual pleasantries, Chris told me to be at his offices at five minutes to midnight, August 12. At first I thought he was playing with me.
“Chris, you’re joking. What are you talking about?”
“John, I have a sealed package here from your grandfather. It was sealed in 1920 and my grandfather was told that it was to be opened by Dr. Watson’s eldest surviving descendent at one minute after midnight on August 13, 1993. I haven’t the faintest idea what’s inside because we weren’t made privy to its contents. But my father told me he hoped your father had lived long enough to open the package.”
“Why didn’t my father tell me about this?” I asked.
“Because he didn’t know. Had he lived, I would be contacting him now and not you. In fact, from what I know, not even your grandmother was aware of this package. From the day your grandfather passed it into the possession of my grandfather, no one ever spoke of it again. Since your grandfather wasn’t the cloak-and-dagger type, whatever’s inside must be exceedingly important.”
We both laughed at that one because of my grandfather’s relationship with Sherlock Holmes. But I knew what Chris meant. My grandfather was not a secretive man.
I thanked Chris, hung up, and though I had patients piling up in my waiting room, I sat in my chair for the longest time trying to puzzle this out.
My wife, of course, expected exotic treasure hidden away from some extravagant Holmes sojourn. But I sensed something else. I didn’t know what, but I just didn’t think I was going to uncover the Kohinoor’s equivalent.
Anyway, I awaited the date as anxiously as the birth of both my boys. Here was a mystery of my grandfather’s making. I reported to Chris’ offices an hour before time.
Chris was there alone to greet me, laughing at my early arrival, but refusing to let me open my present before my birthday, so to speak.
What he did do, though, after handing me a much needed whiskey and soda, and I’m not sure if he did this to calm me or to torture me further, was to seat me in his private office, in his personal chair, and set the package down on his desk right in front of me.
It wasn’t a fancy-wrapped package or any of the sort like that, but rather a fairly flat package, wrapped in thick, plain paper with the texture of burlap, and wax-sealed with my grandfather’s personal stamp: a solemn “JHW” in the middle of the Hippocratic insignia. And when I first placed my hands on it to feel it, I knew instantly it was a book or journal of some kind.
Until exactly one minute passed midnight, Chris stood there watching me intently watching my package. Then with a happily taunting, “Good luck, John,” he closed the door behind him.
The second he left, I split the seal and slipped the contents from the wrapping. I was thrilled and disappointed. I guess that some part of me did wish for fabulous wealth, which at a glance wasn’t there.
But from the moment I opened the journal and read the first words, I knew I had something that paled the wealth of the Punjab. For there, in the unmistakable, erratic scrawl of the physician, was easily the most sensational Dr. Watson and Sherlock Holmes adventure of all.



Introduction
My dear descendent, first, please do forgive me for so concise a salutation, but I know not who you are, what you are, or even if you are. For as I write this journal in the midst of a winter less harsh than the Great War it is immediately following, not only are you not as yet born, but my son John is a happy boy of only twelve. Would that the events I shall shortly convey be half so happy.
Secondly, I again beg your forgiveness for the lateness of the hour at which you