The Untold Adventures of Sherlock Holmes

By Luke Kuhns

In the year 1933 an elderly Dr John Watson is looking back over his life and his time spent with his brilliant friend and master of deduction Sherlock Holmes. He writes in a letter to the reader that he has assembled a list of seven untold adventures that span from his and Sherlock's early years until the time of Sherlock's retirement. Watson explains that he wishes to leave, not only his family but the public with a final compilation of adventures that he and Sherlock shared while he is still able. In these seven stories Holmes and Watson are caught in the middle of multiple Government Scandals (Acquitted Client & Diamond Jubilee) cold blooded murders (Poisoned Affair & Saint Mary s Murder) and Terrorist groups (The Yellow Handkerchief). As well Holmes and Watson come face to face the spirits of darkness (The Haunted Hotel) and in a story that works through over a decade of Holmes' cases, we learn the truth about Watson's marital life and what happened to his wife Mary after Holmes' apparent death at Reichenbach (The Solved Problem).

• Language: English
• Publisher: MX Publishing
• Release date: Sep 5, 2019
• ISBN: 9781780922447

Book preview

81

The Adventure of the Poisoned Affair

Part 1

When I look back at the many adventures I had with my friend Holmes, I begin to wonder if my readers were ever bored by these stories. Or possibly felt that they blurred into one or stretched the imagination too much for belief. For myself, my life changed that day I met Holmes, and in many ways for the better. At the end of my life I know that I will be able to look back and say that there is nothing greater than a good friend who is able to stretch your mind beyond limits you never thought you could reach.

It was a crisp summer’s day and I was sitting in the study of 221b Baker Street reading through a recent medical journal when I was interrupted by Holmes who had been sitting quietly in his chair deep in meditation.

How do you know you are who you think you are? asked Holmes. I was often shocked at the questions which emerged from his mouth. Very seldom did he devote time to philosophical questions.

Good God, Holmes, where did that come from? I asked

It was just a thought. Have you ever wondered Watson about the people we have met over time? The good and the bad? Sometimes I think these people might have been great pillars of society had they not been corrupted by the infectious disease of crime.

I cannot but agree. However, I am stunned at this sudden resort to philosophy, I said.

Is it philosophical to try to understand the human condition and what a person would have been in another frame? asked he. To us we see people either affected, hurt, or killed by crime or people who are either affecting, hurting or killing for crime. For us, Watson, we see people through these lenses. Nevertheless these people are more than that. They are someone’s son or daughter, mother or father, friend, even colleague. That is what begs the question, how does one know that they are who they think themselves to be, as we all show different sides of ourselves to different people.

It took me some time to respond to my friend’s thought. I had no idea what seed had been planted into his mechanical brain to produce a thought such as this, but if one man could turn a philosophical thought into a clear deduction of the human condition it was Holmes.

Well, Holmes, I finally said, I suppose you are right. Indeed to change one’s perspective will inevitably help one gain further understanding of the ever-changing human condition.

Yes, so it should. He finished, standing up from his armchair reaching for his pipe and packing it full of tobacco as he walked towards the window. Identity Watson, Holmes said lighting his pipe and glancing out the window, It is becoming an ever-growing concern, and I would go as far as to say that in the near future every person’s struggle for identity will inevitably lead to an identity-confused society.

Holmes, any deduction you make, whether it be on the simplest of things or the grandest, I would wholeheartedly accept your judgment, I replied.

It would seem we have a visitor, said Holmes, changing the topic from one to which we would never return again save once.

The day was like any other day apart from the strange conversation between Holmes and myself. Holmes had several visitors, first an elderly man who owned a small shop. He told Holmes he had been robbed by a band of ruffians so the former called upon the Baker Street Irregulars, his own personal police force made up of street-worn children, to look out for and bring back any news of the crime. Holmes paid the children for their aid and he always viewed it as his way of helping these youths find a new way in life. A more, shall we say, honest way. By the end of the day Holmes had located the thieves and returned the stolen goods to the man.

In between Holmes’s waiting on news from the Irregulars he was greeted by a young woman who had been accused of stealing jewellery after a dinner party at a house where she had only recently become acquainted with the occupants. Holmes discovered that the woman did not steal anything. Rather the woman of the house had lost a very special ring, and her accused new friend owned an identical ring. Holmes found the woman’s lost ring embedded in a couch cushion which Holmes deduced was a place of foreplay between the husband and wife the night of the party. And that explained how the ring had gone missing.

I chose not to join him on his day’s ventures as I had some catching up to do with personal matters and I wished to devote some time to myself. I had a fruitful day of my own and was pleased to have this time apart from my dear friend, Holmes. Around half six in the evening Holmes returned from his day’s journeying and told me the tales before he asked if we should go to dinner and a show.

I believe there is what promises to be a splendid concert at the Royal Albert Hall tonight at eight. We could catch a brief dinner beforehand if you would be inclined to an evening’s entertainment. I agreed and put on my coat and hat and we were out the door. We jumped into a hansom cab and were off.

Dinner was lovely, but that did not stop my friend’s observations. Holmes noticed a large woman slide bread rolls into her bag, a sly looking man swipe a piece of silver from a small bag of money, and many other things I do not care to mention. His eyes never seemed to stop working. He observed everything. After dinner we made our way to the hall where we took our seats. During the concert Holmes had his eyes closed and I could see his fingers swaying back and forth as his hand lay on the arm rest. The concert splendid with lovely melodies flying through the air, teasing the emotions.

We arrived at Baker Street at eleven o’clock. Holmes lit the fire and poured us a glass of brandy. We sat and discussed the events of the day in more detail as well as our thoughts on the concert.

A splendid show tonight, wouldn’t you say? I asked, taking a sip of my brandy and letting my feet get warmed by the fire.

It was rather pleasant. Though I did notice a couple of the violins were out of tune, and one brass player to be struggling slightly. It was clearly from the tight fitting vest that was not allowing him much room to breathe, said Holmes.

Even by mentioning these things I can’t say I picked them up myself, I said.

You are right indeed Watson. I gathered from your expression that you were enjoying yourself rather thoroughly, said Holmes. However he was interrupted by a slight knock on the door.

Come in? we said simultaneously.

Mrs. Hudson entered the study holding a small white envelope, Hello. Did you two have a lovely night? she asked.

Indeed we have, what is it you have there? Holmes asked looking at the envelope in her hand.

Yes, it came for you this evening. A woman came to see you while you were away. When I told her you were out for the night, she asked to write a note and would return tomorrow to speak with you. Mrs. Hudson handed Holmes the note which he opened and read straight away.

Thank you Mrs. Hudson, we will be sure to be in tomorrow, he finished, as he folded the note and passed it to me. While I unfolded it, Mrs. Hudson bade us goodnight and I read the note which stated:

Mr. Holmes. I beg an audience with you tomorrow at 10 a.m. I would come earlier but I do not know when this note will reach you. I am in great despair and need your assistance.

L.B.

What do you suppose it means? I asked.

I confess that I am not sure. A distressed woman could be the result of any number of things, said Holmes. I’m sure tomorrow will bring us an interesting tale nonetheless.

Holmes and I sat there a while longer in front of the golden fire watching the logs burn away. I must admit after a long day and night out it was relaxing to drift in front of the warm fireplace with a glass of brandy. Holmes smoked his pipe and mused silently while I picked up a book and escaped into the story until my eyes were too heavy to remain open.

I rose early the next morning and found Holmes in the study. He was dressed and ready for the day. Mrs. Hudson walked in just moments after me with a tray of food for breakfast. We sat and dined on eggs and sausage with a warm cup of tea. When we finished our meal, it was almost ten, so I hurried off to prepare myself for our imminent visitor.

I had been gone but a few minutes; when I returned there in the study sitting with Holmes was a beautiful woman. She had long auburn hair that flowed down the middle of her back, vivid red lips, and dazzling green eyes. If ever there was an angel among men, this woman was just that. She could make any man believe in the Divine. Though for all her beauty it was horribly apparent that she was a woman with a broken heart. Her eyes were bloodshot and her face soiled from tears. Indeed as she sat there the water was rushing down her cheeks. Doctor Watson, said Holmes, May I introduce you to Mrs. Hardy, wife of Mr. Jackson Hardy, the wealthy explorer who lives in Wembley? I recognized the name of Jackson Hardy. He was often in the papers for bringing back spectacular sorts of memorabilia from nations all over Europe, Africa, and Asia.

Hello Mrs. Hardy, it’s a pleasure to meet you, I said, taking a seat next to Holmes.

I cannot see what is good about our meeting Doctor. It is due to the most unfortunate reasons that I am here, stammered the woman, you see my husband, is dead!

Dead? I exclaimed in shock.

Yes, said Mrs. Hardy bursting out with a fresh flow of tears.

When? Holmes asked.

Yesterday afternoon. He was found dead in his study.

What was the cause of this death? Holmes asked.

Poison! she exclaimed, He drank poison. And there on his desk was a suicide letter from him! Mrs. Hardy reached in her bag and pulled out a letter handing it to Holmes. The letter itself was typed with Mr. Hardy’s signature at the bottom. The letter read as such:

What joy is there in life when life is lived in death? What can be gained from imagination and dreams when soon they just fade away? Of this life I leave and leave to find true happiness, true love, for I have found none in this life.

Jackson H.

Were you and your husband happy? Holmes asked.

We were madly in love Mr. Holmes, since the day we met! And now I am to be told that he was depressed and wished death rather than to grow old with me in love! Holmes sat there, as still as a statue, sometime before speaking.

Depressed, you say?

Yes, Mrs. Hardy exclaimed, that is what the police gather. They tell me that he was hiding some long-term depression and unhappiness and resorted to this!

I suspect Lestrade was at your place? asked Holmes.

Yes, he was!

Why am I not surprised, murmured Holmes. Mrs. Hardy, did you ever suspect your husband of suffering from any sort of depression?

No, never. He was always a cheerful man! Oh Mr. Holmes, I cannot bring myself to believe he killed himself! There must be another explanation! cried Mrs. Hardy as she fell into tears again.

Fear not, Mrs. Hardy I will look in to this matter, said Holmes, It is vital that we make our way to your residence before any more of Lestrade’s men can interfere with the scene of the death.

Thank you, oh Lord, thank you Mr. Holmes!

Within minutes Holmes, myself and Mrs. Hardy were in a cab and heading towards her estate. The Hardy estate was on the north end of Wembley about a thirty-minute ride away. It was a large estate with two houses built on the land. The hansom’s fine bay trotted up the long drive to the house where outside a host of police officers was wandering aimlessly about

Look at this Watson. I can guarantee you they will have destroyed all the relevant evidence slopping about like this! Holmes blurted out.

They have been here since yesterday late afternoon and throughout the night, Mrs. Hardy said sniffling.

The cab pulled up to the entrance of the house and we stepped out. I took the hand of Mrs. Hardy as she exited, carefully guiding her foot on the step and the other on the earth. Holmes followed and we were greeted by Inspector Gregson.

Hello Mr. Holmes said Inspector Gregson.

Nice to see you, Gregson, Holmes said. He was often times more pleasant with Gregson than he ever was with Lestrade. For Holmes, Gregson was one who showed real promise in Scotland Yard. I expected to see Lestrade traipsing around, Holmes finished.

He was here, but he needed to leave. He had other business to take care of so he called me in, Gregson replied. He looked at Mrs. Hardy for a moment then leaned in to Holmes and asked, Can we speak alone? Holmes looked over at me and raised his eyebrow, and I tilted my head towards Mrs. Hardy,

Very well, Gregson, but see that someone escorts Mrs. Hardy somewhere more comfortable and provides her with some refreshment, said Holmes.

Gregson called over one of the officers who was about to lead Mrs. Hardy away but was interrupted by Holmes.

Watson, said he do you mind also keeping Mrs. Hardy company while I speak a while with Gregson?

No, not at all, I replied and Holmes and Gregson wandered off as we entered the house.

The house was large, of traditional English red brick, with five windows on the bottom floor and five on the top floor. A long hallway passed through the entire first floor of the house with several doors leading off on each side, three to be exact. As we walked, I noticed on the left side of the hall that the first room was a large lounge with a grand fireplace and artifacts from all over the world were hanging on the wall, resting on shelves, even the furniture was not of British style, but rather a collection of international ones.

The second room we passed on the left was also lavish looking and yet oddly furnished for a dining room. It was more oriental in its appearance. The walls were covered in bamboo and strange paper. There were large strange-looking plants all over the room. Instead of a large, high, table with chairs, the one in the room only stood a mere twenty inches off the floor and dotted around were maroon cushions with patterns of leaves and dragons.

The last room on the left was a small library and it was this room which we entered. It was decorated in a style that I could only say was very feminine. All I had noticed from the rooms on the right was that the first was another sitting room, the second door was a staircase that presumably lead to the second floor, and the last door opposite the library led to a kitchen.

In the library, two walls were covered by laden bookshelves; while the others were covered in paintings. I noticed many volumes were of foreign travel and the others were of a historical nature. All the floors were dark wood, but I noticed in this room a large red rug took up most of the floor. On the other side of the room next to the window were an artist’s easel and a table piled high with papers, canvas, pencils, paints, and brushes. Clearly the Hardys were a very talented and artistically able couple. I thought it best to assume many of the paintings on the wall were Hardy originals.

You have a lovely home, I said as we sat down.

Thank you, Doctor Watson, replied Mrs. Hardy. Through the window I could see Holmes and Gregson talking. I thought it best not to draw attention to them and tried to distract Mrs. Hardy in conversation.

Do you have a favourite? I asked pointing over at the bookshelf.

I do, yes! said Mrs. Hardy. For the first time since I met her, her bright green eyes lit up. She walked over to the one of the shelves and pulled a large book out.

This is my favourite. she said putting the book in my hand which was called Cape Town, South Africa. I opened it up and it was full of articles and photographs of South Africa. It was there that I met Jackson. Cape Town used to be my home, you see, said Mrs Hardy.

I looked at her while she looked at the various images of her old home and I could see the eagerness return to her deep green eyes.

You wish to go back? I asked looking for clarification to my suspicion. Her eyes welled up and her mouth twitched, and I instantly regretted my questions.

I’m sorry, she said dabbing her eyes, but yes, I do wish to go back. Jackson and I were planning on doing so. We were due to move in two months’ time. We were finalising our mode of transport and what we would take with us from this home and what we would leave behind for a new owner. She was cut off when a housekeeper walked in with a tray of tea, milk, and sugar. As she placed the cups in front of Mrs. Hardy and myself she turned to Mrs. Hardy and said, Lunch will be prepared soon Ma’am. Will you have it in here or the garden?

In here will be fine, thank you, returned Mrs. Hardy and the housekeeper walked out with a small smile and nod.

Watson? came the voice of Holmes who had suddenly appeared at the door, May I speak with you?

Excuse me, I said smiling at her. She nodded and I walked out with Holmes through the kitchen and out the back door.

What did Gregson tell you? I asked.

Nothing of great importance, said he, They are writing the entire incident off as suicide caused by depression, Holmes said with slight doubt in his voice.

Do you think it’s possible?

"It is not impossible, but I