By David Stuart Davies
A tender Sherlock Holmes arrives in London to start his occupation as a personal detective, catching the attention of the grasp felony, Professor James Moriarty. input Dr. Watson, newly again from Afghanistan, quickly to make background as Holmes' companion...
By turns either stunning and intriguing, David Stuart Davies' debatable tackle the Holmes mythology is a contemporary vintage in crime fiction that may defy all expectations.
Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's undying production returns in a brand new sequence of handsomely designed detective tales. From the earliest days of Holmes' profession to his incredible encounters with Martian invaders, the extra Adventures sequence encapsulates the main various and exciting instances of the worlds' maximum detective.
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Additional info for The Veiled Detective (The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes)
One fist clutched a telephone; with the other hand he was jotting additions to a long list of items. He had an odd, glazed expression, and his glance flicked over Chris without seeing her. After what seemed a very long time, he mumbled a good-bye and hung up. "Liberated women," he snarled into the air above Chris's head. " She took one step closer to the counter. " the man snapped. " Chris looked over her shoulder, ready to run if necessary. "I suppose when you grow up you're going to want a career," the man jeered.
Uncle Ralph seemed pleased to have a job. He hurried off, and Grandma patted the bed beside her. "Sit here, Chrissy," she invited. "Now, how are things going? " The words spilled out. "Uncle Ralph doesn't want me with him. Oh, we get along okay"—she wanted to chase away Grandma's worried frown—"but he'll be glad when I'm gone. And so will I," she added. Grandma hugged her. "My Ralph is a loner, I'm afraid. He's lived by himself for a long time, and he's used to it. But I'm sure he's glad to have you with him, dear.
Time passed, and her muscles ached, but she stayed in her sheet-tent. When she peered out at last, the first gray light of morning was touching the windows. She stayed in bed another half-hour, listening to the world wake itself up. A cardinal sang. A squirrel scolded. The lake made its soft, lapping sounds. When she opened her bedroom door, the house was very still. Uncle Ralph's door was closed. The attic door was closed, too. There was nothing unusual to see, except for the chest. It stood out from the attic door at an angle, as if it had been roughly thrust aside.