Sherlock Holmes Zombie Slayer Anthology

By Rob Parnell

A recently discovered lost manuscript by Dr. John H. Watson M.D reveals the dark truth behind the secret cases of Sherlock Holmes.

Follow the exploits of Holmes and Watson as they track a killer virus across the streets of London to uncover a nefarious plot by James Moriarty to infect England's landed gentry with the sole aim of turning them all into flesh-eating zombies.

This exciting short story from a master of suspense will have you on the edge of your seat. Includes the first four stories in the Sherlock Holmes Zombie Slayer series: The Revenant Problem is followed by The Ugly Experiment, Boys Will Be Boys and Fight For Your Life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: R&R Books Film Music
• Release date: Aug 9, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223436270

Book preview

Я&R Books

Sherlock Holmes: Zombie Slayer

Anthology

Text includes:

The Revenant Problem

The Ugly Experiment

Boys Will Be Boys

Fight For Your Life

© Rob Parnell & George Hogge - All rights reserved

No part of this publication may be reproduced or

transmitted in any form, graphic, electronic or

mechanical without express written permission

from the publishers.

Я&R Books Film Music

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Introduction

You will no doubt be curious as to how these original writings of Dr. John H. Watson M.D. came to be in my possession. It's a long and complex story but here, in this section, I'll try to be brief but as thorough as I can.

The provenance of the original manuscript is important, if not merely for historical context, but as a key to understanding the tremendous significance of the text. As is made obvious in the opening of Watson's last, vast, and unpublished manuscript, Sherlock Holmes himself insisted that the following events should not be made public during his lifetime, and in particular within the lifetimes of the story's central players. It appears that Watson took it upon himself to slightly amend this suggestion and record the incidents - but only after Holmes' death, at which point, Watson wrote down the details of their most secret cases and then entrusted them to a lawyer colleague, instructing him that the manuscript should not be made public until a period of at least seventy-five years had passed.

Time has a way of thwarting the best-laid plans, and often in unexpected ways. This was all too true for the Watson manuscript. I have tried to piece together the history as best I can.

On its completion in mid 1939, just before the Second World War, Dr. John Watson gave his two-thousand-page manuscript to Edwin Johnston-Graves, QC, who held it, bound in a cardboard box, in a wall-safe at his office in Fenchurch Street, London. During the wartime blitz, the office was bombed by the Luftwaffe, tragically killing Johnston-Graves and several of his employees. That might have been the end of the story. However, a few days after the air raid, two young boys named Mark and Luke Pestle were frolicking in the wreckage of the Fenchurch Street office and during their play, discovered a half-burned box that they took home to their mother. The young woman, a widow, Mrs. Agnes Pestle, opened the package and was astonished by what she saw. Being a fan of Sherlock Holmes, it briefly occurred to her that the manuscript may be worth much needed cash to her family. However, viewing Watson's request that the writings were not to be made public, and after no doubt appreciating the potential repercussions of the writing's content, she held on to the manuscript, carefully making sure no harm came to the package. In 1963, the papers were given, for safekeeping, to Agnes's daughter, who took them to America when she married a young man by the name of Tyrone Egerton. The box of slowly fading handwriting remained within the Egerton family home in Pasadena until just recently. The manuscript has been in the possession of Stephanie Egerton (the granddaughter of Agnes) since she turned eighteen in 1982. It is remarkable Agnes) since she turned eighteen in 1982. It is remarkable and creditable that the Egerton family dutifully honored the wishes of Dr. Watson and refused to release the manuscript unl the required seventy-five years had elapsed.

But now you're probably wondering, why did Ms. Egerton send the manuscript to me in particular? First of all, she has only sent me copies of the original papers, plus a couple of vellum sheets for authenticate purposes. The original manuscript papers are now locked within a safety deposit box at my suggestion, where no-one can reach them and nothing untoward can happen to them. Stephanie has been a fan of my work for the last decade and a half. As an aspiring writer, she has been following my weekly newsletter and reading my humble books on writing for the last fourteen years. It was when perusing one of my recent works, The Easy Way to Write Crime Fiction, that she felt compelled to write me. In the aforementioned book I analyze the character of Sherlock Holmes and conclude that he was one of the best fictional characters ever created. Stephanie found this analysis amusing, she said, because in her family, it was accepted that Sherlock Holmes was a real person, as was his sidekick and friend, Dr. John Watson. They knew this to be a fact, she told me, because they had held the unpublished Watson manuscript in their family for over seventy years.

In August 2014, Stephanie asked if I was interested in publishing the Watson manuscript now that the requisite time period has passed. Naturally, I was highly skeptical of Stephanie's claim. The idea that John Watson was rather more than a fictional character was intriguing but, I decided, surely unfounded. I spoke to my sister around this me and she asked if I had contacted Edmund Whittaker, an old family friend, about the issue. Whittaker is a nonfiction author signed to Random House, sometimes involved in ghost wring, but mostly employed as a freelance editor. He's also a would-be biographer of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, whose life and work is his abiding passion. When I contacted Edmund through my literary agent, he confirmed to me that he'd long been of the suspicion that Watson and Holmes were real people and that Doyle was merely their sometime biographer. Indeed, he had been collecting evidence to support this hypothesis for over forty years. He'd wanted to turn his premise into a book but his contacts at Random House had been remarkably hesitant about producing the book for popular consumption. I can only guess at the reasons for their reluctance.

Whittaker's theory is that at sometime during the summer of 1884, Conan Doyle was a newly retired ship's doctor and a struggling mystery writer who longed to achieve literary success. Edmund believes that Doyle was approached by a colleague, Dr. James Watson, a man whom Doyle had met some years previously at Portsmouth Medical College, with a view to expanding notes Watson had collated about a fascinating private detective he had begun working with. The collaboration, Edmund believes, resulted in A Study in Scarlet, a novel which Doyle apparently had little hope for. Alas, the book became an instant bestseller and the rest, as the saying goes, is history.

Edmund's theory is based partly on the disparity between the personality of Sherlock Holmes and Conan Doyle himself. Where the former is logical to a fault,

incapable of fancy, practical, and precise, the latter is, not to sound too disparaging, almost whimsical and otherworldly by comparison. Conan Doyle was a far from practical man and somewhat gullible to boot. Doyle went on record in 1922 to affirm his belief that garden fairies were real. A longtime believer in spirit communication and psychic abilities, the author was convinced of the veracity of much supernatural phenomena, even in the face of obvious trickery, clearly displaying a grasp of reality that pales beside the stolid reasoning capacity of his supposed creation, the incomparable Sherlock Holmes. It was trying to reconcile these contradictory personalities that led Whittaker on a quest to discover the truth. Other factors are important too. For example, it has long been debated

why Conan Doyle ran out of money after 'killing off' Holmes in 1891. By this time in his career, Conan Doyle should have been a seriously wealthy man but, despite supposedly having amassed a small fortune in royalties, he was conspicuously impoverished for over seven years, during which time he steadfastly refused to write more Sherlock Holmes stories. To Edmond Whittaker, the answer is obvious: Doyle was secretly sharing his book royalties with James Watson, the true author and creator of the Sherlock Holmes tales.

Stephanie Egerton sent me a copy of the manuscript in October 2014. As I read through the pages, I was stunned. The all too familiar sound of Watson came ringing through like a voice from the grave. To my mind, either the stories were real or they were the product of a genius who had perfectly captured the essence of Watson, Holmes, and Victorian London. I immediately wanted to publish the manuscript and asked Stephanie's permission. She was, I'm pleased to say, all too happy to give it. As yet, the modest volume you're now reading is only a fraction of the total manuscript - basically all I've had time to edit, so keen was I to let the world experience this wonderful discovery.

As part of my copyright clearance activities, I contacted the estate of Conan Doyle and asked for their stance on the papers. I spoke with Pauline Foster, the current administrator to the Conan Doyle estate who was, perhaps inevitably, decidedly nonplussed about my suggestion that Dr. John (James) Watson may have penned the manuscripts and not Conan Doyle. I emailed her copies of a few excerpts and she concluded, rather abruptly I thought, that they were undoubtedly fake. The writing is not Doyle's, she told me. I knew that, I responded, and that's rather the point, I said.

Ms. Foster also informed me that no permission from the Conan Doyle Estate was necessary as long as the papers were published as Sherlock Holmes fiction. Besides which, as I already knew, there is no copyright on the Sherlock Holmes persona - he and all the other characters in the Conan Doyle books have been in the public domain since 1981. Ms. Foster said that the estate would neither endorse nor nullify the manuscripts and that she wasn't prepared to go on record with any opinion about them whatsoever.

Undaunted by the Conan Doyle estate's ambivalence, I contacted an antique book shop owner, Terence Harper, who also runs a website called www.grandmasbooks.com. Terence, a friend and a licensed bibliographer, confirmed that the paper samples Stephanie sent me were authentic, dating from the 1930s. But that's what forgers do, he said. They use paper from the me to at least give the writing apparent provenance. In order to be totally sure of authenticity we would need to analyze samples of the ink used. Perhaps we might also want to test the paper for fingerprints, Terence suggested. Possibly even submit the paper to a DNA laboratory to check for traces of perspiration, saliva, or skin samples. I'm tempted - though I'm sure these tests would prove prohibitively expensive. And even then, whose DNA might we compare the results against?

The mystery of the manuscript's authenticity is as intriguing as the text's subject ma er. My gut feeling is that the manuscript is real, but this attitude could simply be a case of wishful thinking. All I can honestly say is that, as I edited the papers, I felt myself drawn into the world of Dr. John Watson, and fully experienced the real humanity of the writer and the veracity of the world he describes. On the topic of editing, I should point out that the copies I had access to were messy, hard to read, and not always complete. There were crossings out and, in many places, extra text and dialogue was written down margins and between other lines. Clearly this manuscript was a work in progress, produced in haste. I hope I have done the original justice. I apologize here and now for inaccuracies which may have arisen from my perhaps clumsy interpretations. Occasionally there were words I did not recognize that I may have translated erroneously. Also, I brought some of the archaic phrasing up-to-date, aware the work would now be judged within a more modern idiom. I apologize to purists who may have preferred the original Victorian colloquialisms. I also decided, for better or worse, to use North American spelling, all too aware that Watson's most avid readership was likely to be in the US. I apologise to British readers if this strategy grates for you. The fact is, Americans see any other spelling than their own as simply wrong, while the rest of the world is somewhat more circumspect. Finally, some of the pages in the original manuscript were ripped, subject to burns, and a few are presumably lost forever. Where necessary, I have done my

best to fill gaps in the narrative. If something doesn’t sound suitably authentic, even wrong, blame me. It will be my fault.

Rob Parnell

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The Revenant Problem

I

I shall commence this tale at its genesis, so that you are fully apprised of all the facts of this matter. I apologize in advance for the graphic nature of the following, and for the uncommon detail with which I intend to record the testimony.

It could be you find my manner romantic, perhaps overly-emotional. My dear friend and sometime relentless critic, Holmes, had often accused me of such. However, my writing style was clearly embraced at one point by the kind readers of The Strand Magazine, so I’m loathe to alter my mien for this particular account. Despite my friend’s distaste for the sentimental, I think of myself as a recorder of the more human side of Holmes, rather than a lens that may focus only on his intellectual processes, which would seem to me to be a too dry and formal approach to telling stories.

My old friend, Michael Grant Stamford, had the dubious honor of being the man who introduced me to Sherlock Holmes. It so happened that I was in his company on the night the following adventure commenced on the ninth day of August, 1881. Forgive me if I say so but I was, at that time, albeit gently, berating my old medical colleague from St Bartholomew's Hospital for his importune reasoning that I may have had something in common with the great detective.

The man is a cocaine addict, I said.

True, but genius has its flaws.

Flaws, you say? Flaws do not even begin to cover it. Holmes is a mess of conflict. I have known the man for less than three months and already, sometimes, I despair of his company.

Come now, Stamford said, pouring another brandy into the glass beside me. "From what I have seen of your recent writings in Beeton’s, the two of you are positively made for each other. You are the oil to his vinegar, Watson, the diluting alkaline to his acerbic acid. You alone smooth out his foibles and make them palatable in your stories of his adventures."

Stamford lived in second-floor chambers on Fleet Street. It was a cold night, despite the time of year, but my friend’s fireplace was well-stocked with wood and charcoal. Though the atmosphere was smoky, we were comfortably ensconced, sipping our victuals, Stamford adding to the acrid fug with a Cuban cigar. 

My tongue perhaps loosed by the alcohol, I continued my rant. I’m simply not altogether convinced I want to spend the rest of my life in the shadow of his ego, my good man. My room beneath his is entirely unsatisfactory. I’m in half a mind never to go back there. Stamford eyed me coolly and took a deep plug from his cigar. He nodded seriously. I rather feel, I said, "that perhaps a teaching position may be more appropriate for me. I hear that Chiswick Medical School has a vacancy."

Stamford may have been about to speak but our intercourse was suddenly interrupted by a loud clack against the window. I admit the shock of it made my heart hammer, a wholly inappropriate response no doubt, but perhaps a foreshadowing of the effect of coming events.

Stamford stood, moved to the window, and pulled back the heavy curtain.

The Devil! There’s a chink in the glass. And there’s a beggar down on the street.

I came to Stamford and peered out, just as another projectile hit the glass.I jumped back while Stamford yanked at the louver and hurriedly leaned out his head. Hoy! You there! Stop your behavior this instant!

The figure below in the street then spoke. Message for Mr. Watson, sir!

At the mention of my name, I looked down at the ill-clad fellow on the cobblestone pathway. He was dressed in a long dark coat and his face was all but hidden beneath a mess of unkempt hair. He might have been an aged transient, not unlike many of the hundreds of the displaced that forever haunt the streets of London. However, I could tell from his gait that he was young, perhaps not yet twenty.

What say you? I called out.

The lad held up his arm and beckoned me down.

The boldfaced cheek of it, Stamford said. Who does he think he is? 

I’d better see what the scoundrel wants. It could be a medical emergency.

"That only you can attend to?"

I pulled on my coat and bade my farewells to Stamford. It was late anyhow, getting on for ten-thirty, so I supposed I should have been getting back home.

With some foreboding I ventured down to see what the youth wanted. I opened the front door and travailed the porch steps. The air had turned chilly. Gray fog curled along the pavement and the sodium lamps threw little light on the fellow’s face.

Do you have something to say, young man?

To my immense annoyance, the youth turned from me and trotted down the street. I followed, shrugging resignedly. I watched the ragamuffin cross the road and disappear around a back alley I knew led toward the river. I was in half a mind to give up on the fellow’s merry dance. As I turned the corner into the ill-lit alley, the young man was there, stood rigidly in front of me. He was shorter than I by a good ten inches. His body odor, I must admit, was none too pleasant. I hesitated to get closer.

What the devil? said I.

Mr. Holmes, sir, he sent me to get you. You’re to go to his rooms, this minute.

I took him to be one of Holmes’ runners. But even then I doubted his intentions. Perhaps he was a free agent and merely wanted money from me. But then, how would he know where to find me? It’s the middle of the night, young man. Are you sure Mr. Holmes meant now, this hour?

Oh yes, sir, he was quite insistent. Gave me sixpence, sir, to make sure I come to tell you straight away.

Sixpence, eh? I frowned. It was unlike Holmes to be so frivolous with money. Either his summons was supremely urgent or this ragamuffin was a fraud. Seems a rather excessive amount to me.

Too right, sir. I’d have come for a thr’penny bit.

No doubt.

I turned to look out onto Fleet Street, wondering if Hansom cabs were traveling north at this time of night. The road seemed uncommonly quiet. The drizzle and the cold fog of this unseasonal night were keeping most civilized folk indoors. I turned back to my beggar companion and he was gone. I looked about, but of him I could see no sign.

Glad that I had this evening decided on my thick coat, I stepped out onto the pavement and waited, wondering what on earth lay in wait for me at 221b Baker Street.

I rue that day often, wondering what might have happened if I’d ignored Mr. Holmes request and immediately found alternate lodgings. Perhaps even taken a laudable teaching position in Chiswick.

I will, alas, never know.

II

The Hansom ride was most unpleasant. I made the mistake of asking the driver to travel quickly, which he did, hitting every pothole and stray piece of cobble and stone in the process. As I stepped off the trap I felt the sharp twinge of sciatica. The driver seemed pleased with himself as I groaned and handed him his fare. The fog was heavier in Baker Street. I could barely see my residence, despite being less than a few yards from its location.

As I approached, I saw that the ground floor lights were on so I rang the doorbell, not quite yet used to unlocking the door myself. Mrs. Hudson answered almost instantly.

It’s a devil of a night, the fair landlady said. She seemed ruffled, with her