Sherlock Holmes and the Holland Park Cannibal

By John A. Little

In this exciting short story, Holmes and Watson investigate the case of a missing woman whose body parts appear to have been partially harvested. Delving into a rather murky underground scene they find themselves in Holland Park where a certain retired army surgeon develops a taste for home-made sausages. This rather grizzly Sherlockian tale was first published in 2015 in the second collection of the Final Tales of Sherlock Holmes.

• Language: English
• Publisher: MX Publishing
• Release date: Feb 21, 2017
• ISBN: 9781787050662

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Sherlock Holmes and the Holland Park Cannibal

John A. Little

Publisher Information

First published in 2015

This edition published in 2017 by

MX Publishing

335 Princess Park Manor, Royal Drive

London, N11 3GX

www.mxpublishing.com

Digital edition converted and distributed by

Andrews UK Limited

www.andrewsuk.com

© Copyright 2015, 2017 John A. Little

The right of John A. Little 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 and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The opinions expressed herein belong to the author and do not necessarily reflect those of MX Publishing or Andrews UK Limited.

The Holland Park Cannibal

‘Have you ever thought of retiring, Holmes?’ I asked my old friend and colleague one spring evening in 1926. ‘From detecting, I mean? After all, you are seventy-two now, and I shall be entering my seventy-fifth year of life soon. We are getting on, you know.’

Holmes peered quizzically at me from around an array of Bunsen burners in the corner of our airy sitting room.

‘Trust you to project your age into the future, Watson. You really should try to remain on seventy-three while you still can. And what would we do if we stopped? Sit around all day smoking our pipes and chatting about the good old cases? Moriarty, Moran and Milverton? Black Jack of Ballarat? No, old friend, my internal pump will cease to function after I have just solved an impossible murder and landed the culprit beneath a sturdy rope with a noose at its end! Such is the plan. A happy ending to a fruitful and fulfilling life. No summerland or winterland for me.’

His head disappeared behind the glass again.

‘Huh!’ I grunted. ‘And murders are ten a penny nowadays, I suppose. Even possible ones.’

His reference to the spiritualist heaven and hell reminded me that it had been four months since the case of Canon Thomas’ mysterious self-playing organ, which had led to the unfortunate clergyman’s own pump ceasing to function in the Chelsea All-Saints Old Church, and a pyrrhic victory for Holmes’ atheism over my belief in God. Apart from the facile business of the exploding Harrow cricket pavilion, which he solved in an afternoon without moving from his armchair, Holmes had experienced no case worthy of his energies since then.

Now it was my turn to be bored, as I did not possess the great detective’s interest in all matters scientific, political and weird. I would skim past the newspaper reports of events in the House of Commons to get to the sports pages, or to read any columns of a military nature. I had exhausted accounts of the birth of the Duke of York’s first daughter. Elizabeth is such a lovely name. I had even lost interest in medical issues, now that I no longer practised. My last patient had died a few weeks beforehand, of