The Archives of Sherlock Holmes: Volume 1

By Ben Congdon

The Archives of Sherlock Holmes: Volume One is a first-of-its-kind collection of authentic Sherlock Holmes stories taken directly from the writings of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. The untold cases of Sherlock Holmes are well known to fans of the original series. Over the years, Doyle alluded to dozens of cases, many with tantalizing details, which he would never fully describe. Author and artist Ben Congdon, has studied Doyle's brilliant work for years, and he has turned a lifelong ambition into a reality with the publication of The Archives of Sherlock Holmes. This first installment features three famous cases taken directly from Holmes canon: The Adventure of the Mad Colonel, The Ancient British Barrow, and The Adventure of the Tired Captain. With sixteen beautiful illustrations in the style of Sidney Paget, and an absolute devotion to the tone and style of the original, this book will transport the reader back to the fascinating world which Conan Doyle first crafted so brilliantly.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Aug 29, 2025
• ISBN: 9798317816599

Ben Congdon

Ben Congdon is an award-winning author, illustrator, and painter whose inspiring creations have appeared in publications and galleries throughout the United States. A lifelong fan of The Great Detective, Ben has painstakingly analyzed the brilliant work of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle so that he might bring to life those "lost cases" to which Doyle alluded but never fully described.

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Cover of The Archives of Sherlock Holmes: Volume 1 by Ben Congdon

Copyright © 2025 by Ben Congdon

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form, or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information browsing, storage, or retrieval system, without permission in writing from publisher.

Published in the United States by Ben Congdon Fine Art,

472 John Webster St. #10306, Leander, TX 78641

www.bcongdon.com

First Edition BCFA 2025

First Printing

Cover Design & Illustrations by Ben Congdon

ISBN 979-8-317-8165-99

Unless otherwise indicated, all the characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Preface

THE ARCHIVES

To Mr. Josiah Webb of Bingley & Stackhouse,

My Dear Sir,

I write to you upon the recommendation of a mutual acquaintance of ours. This gentleman, who I understand has only just relinquished his position as Chief Editor of your publishing house, assures me that in all England there could be no more fervent admirer or dedicated student of Mr. Sherlock Holmes than yourself. This I should find difficult to believe, having long known the passionate regard which he himself holds for the great detective. Nor can I forget the effusive praise with which he deluged Holmes upon the sole meeting between the two men. However, in all our years of collaboration as author and editor, I have always known him to be a practical and realistic man, and so I see no difficulty in sharing the trust and confidence which he has placed in you. Indeed, the mere fact that I should again find myself in such a position- that is, in the position of chronicler desiring publication- is still somewhat astonishing to me. As I am sure you are aware, a lapse of some twelve years now stands between this letter and the last time that I took up my pen to record a chapter in the life of this most remarkable man. These extant manuscripts were intended to be the sum total of their kind. A fait accompli, as my friend would say, and it was his positive injunction that it should remain so.

As a reader of my somewhat incoherent sketches, you will know that I had successfully entreated Holmes, at various times, to lift these embargoes, so that I might provide the public with still more tales of his singular powers and the cases in which he employed them. These were often accompanied by alterations to names and dates, and the utmost pains were taken to preserve absolute discretion when the exalted personage of a client or the delicate nature of the business demanded it. Even so, there remained quite a surfeit of cases pertaining to matters of such extreme personal, political, or even international consequence, that no amount of selective editing and censure could permit them to ever be circulated. My position as confidant and colleague naturally carried with it the responsibility to preserve and guard these most secret affairs. Still, it is with no small amount of sadness that I recall the day when the notes, journals, and other scraps pertaining to these events, were hunted up, compiled, and burned, upon the request of Holmes himself. To his intensely analytical mind, sentiment was as alien and unwelcome as a foreign substance tainting one of his own delicate chemical solutions. However, as the years have slipped by and I have become ever more conscious of my own recollection beginning to fade, I find myself longing for even the smallest piece of debris from those days gone by, and feeling a sting of loss when I think of these records which are now destroyed.

This, however, is quite beside the point and unrelated to my reason for contacting our friend Mr. Quigley. As he has now entrusted this unexpected news to your care, I will not try your patience with the wearying talk of an old campaigner. In truth, I find myself thrilling and feeling ten years younger after the events of the past month. These I will share with you now as briefly as I am able. I have already described the published accounts of Mr. Sherlock Holmes as a sealed tome, but you may believe that, apart from the aforementioned cases which were destroyed, there were many other remarkable stories that I would have long ago desired to put into words. Many of these wanted only time before they could be shared in their entirety. However, the tragic loss of a trunk during my move back north, and the subsequent damage to several boxes during a flood some years later, have deprived me of many of those precious notes from which I draw the necessary material. Thus handicapped, I had despaired of ever writing another account.

Several weeks ago, however, in February, I received a telegram from Mrs. Hudson, our dear old housekeeper, who is still a fixture in Baker Street to this day. She wrote to inform me that the rooms which Holmes and I had shared for so many years, were at last slated for renovation and, eventually, for re-letting on the London market. Would I care to go over the premises once more before the work was set to begin? I need not tell you that I at once answered in the affirmative and was aboard a southbound train that same evening. As inevitable as I knew that day would be, it did not ease my mind, and I felt that a very real and integral chapter in my life was finally and unequivocally closing. As I exited a motorized cab in Baker Street and stood on the very spot where Holmes and I used to hail horse-drawn hansoms when we threw ourselves headlong into some new adventure, I struggled to keep back the emotion which the memories brought with them. The old rooms seemed a shade darker and the few remaining bits of furniture almost looked to droop slightly as if weary from their long vigil. I slowly walked about the den, observing the corner which had contained the chemical table, the scorched hearth rug, the pocked and scarred mantelpiece, and the bow window from which Holmes had so often observed the passing stream of life in the street below. I was glad that Mrs. Hudson had not accompanied me into the room, for indeed, my own feelings became ungovernable for a moment, and my eyes were blurred as the memory of a life washed over me.

I spent a good hour or more going about the various rooms and collecting what little I could find that still remained and which I could easily take back with me. The greatest part had been removed by Holmes several years earlier when he had retired from active practice. I had never known what he had done with the bulk of this, for, on those infrequent trips when I would visit him in the little cottage on the Sussex Downs, I had observed few of the old markers which had adorned the shelves and walls in Baker Street. Most notably absent were his great books of reference, commonplace books, biographies, and the other storehouses of information with which he had docketed and traced the singular personalities and complex machinations of the great city.

I was just about to depart with my small bundle of relics, when I happened to glance into a now-empty hutch, the pigeonholes of which had at one time been crammed with documents. By the light from the window, I noticed that at the back of one of these, a small pellet of paper had evidently been overlooked when the owner was clearing the room. Pulling this forth, I unfolded it and felt a small tingle of excitement when I perceived the clear, precise writing of Holmes. The content, however, appeared to be entirely arbitrary and unimportant. A series of London addresses, eight in total, were listed on the thin slip. I say addresses, but three of these were mere shorthands which Holmes had used in place of a street and number. As I read dry salter hut #3, Cheapside and brass cutter’s shed, Kensington I felt that any attempt to decipher meaning from this incoherent document would be a fruitless endeavor. And then, my eyes fell upon the last of these queer titles- Camden House. Camden House. I remembered the name. In an instant, this short marker riveted my attention, as if Holmes himself had spoken it. Camden House... The Empty House! I cried. It was indeed the name I had heard on that fateful night when Holmes had finally vanquished that most formidable enemy, by using himself, as it were, as bait, in the very window by whose light I now read. I looked out and across Baker Street. That old, abandoned structure had long ere this been demolished and a new row of pretentious shops now adorned the view opposite. But in an instant, the meaning of this list had become clear to me. These must be Holmes’ bolt holes!

I had long been aware that he used to avail himself of several burrows throughout London, but his secretive nature had forever prevented me from discovering the least clue as to where these could be. And now, all at once, it seemed that I held in my hand the key to the mysterious places of refuge which had allowed the master detective to drift silently and unseen throughout the criminal underworld of London. This revelation naturally increased the significance of this unassuming scrap of paper. But my imagination and curiosity had been roused beyond this. A possibility flashed in my mind almost the instant that I understood what I held in my hand. Suppose some of these refuges actually still existed! Suppose that Holmes had left some trace of his presence behind in a now-sealed hideaway, just waiting to be rediscovered? I had to acknowledge that the supposition was beyond fanciful- bordering on the absurd. But the spirit of adventure had again been kindled, and I was bound to explore this to the bottom.

I feel I have intruded upon your patience long enough, and so I need not go into more detail than is absolutely necessary. Of the eight locations included on the sheet, only four were of adequate description to be actionable. The other three were as I have described, and the last gave allusion to some spot adjoining Regents Park, but what the accompanying numbers signified I have not been able to discover. I quickly set about tracing the remaining four, and I must admit that my initial efforts did not give me cause for hope. An address in Southampton Street availed nothing. So too another on Jamaica Road in Rotherhithe drew blank. It seemed that these hidden sanctuaries had all been lost to the march of time and of progress. My heart sank further still as I crossed the river only to again be thwarted. This time, where once a tenement building stood, now a new offshoot of the nearby rail station was all that remained. As my cab deposited me in Brompton Road, I felt sure that this, the last address on Holmes’ enigmatic list, was similarly doomed to fail. The impressive new builds to my right and left were certainly not encouraging. I saw a glimmer of light, however, when I rounded the corner and perceived a large, rather tired-looking structure of brick and masonry. It appeared to have once been the home of commercial offices, but the weather-stained architecture and boarded windows spoke of disuse and decay. The main doors were secured with a heavy padlock and entrance was clearly impossible. Not wanting to abandon this last chance, I walked down the dreary lane adjacent to the structure and around to the small plot in the back. Dodging piles of scrap and timber, I observed that the blotched surface of brick was broken in one place only along the back wall. A narrow door was recessed into the far corner of the building. Approaching this, I tried the handle, and was not surprised to find it similarly locked.

Here was an end to my investigations. I had enjoyed a brief glimmer of the thrill of the hunt which I used to relish when I would accompany Holmes on our adventures. But it was time to let this last whim fade and for the scrap of paper to be filed away along with those other little remembrances of my friend. I removed it once more from my pocket and looked down at this last entry. Then I blinked and looked once more. I had indeed read the address correctly, however I had failed to connect a short scrawl which Holmes had penned in the margin. Looking closely, I read fourth brick left. I froze and turned the words over in my mind for a moment. Then I tried, after his own method, to put myself in the position of Holmes as he penned this list so many years ago. Fourth brick left. My eyes rose to the splintered door frame and then stole left to the slowly eroding section of faded brick. It could not be possible, could it? Abandoning all reserve, I at once began running my fingers along the roughened edges, pushing, prodding, and scratching. Pulling down some tendrils of ivy, I had just reached a row of bricks about waist high when, suddenly, it happened. One of the weathered blocks, four spaces left of the door, shifted in its place as I dragged my fingers across its surface. My heart leaped within me, but I still dared not hope for too much. I tugged on the brick with my nails and, by degrees, it slowly inched outwards. Finally, it fell free of the wall, and with the blood pounding in my head, I bent down to look into the small aperture. If you find this next passage difficult to believe, I can assure you that I would heartily share in your incredulity, were the item not sitting next to me as I write. Mr. Webb, I reached into the hole and withdrew a brass key.

What this key disclosed I could not have dared