The Mammoth Book of New Sherlock Holmes Adventures

'It is no lie, Squire Morgan, although certainly your own daughter had good reason to hate you. What better, you thought, than to have your wife die in a locked room, and the accusation of death by poisoning dispelled by feeding the remnants of her last meal to the dogs which showed not the slightest ill-effect.'

'You can prove nothing, Mr Sherlock Holmes!'

'Indeed, I can.' These were the moments which Sherlock Holmes enjoyed most, revealing his observations and deductions only when they were finalized beyond all possible doubt. 'Your fascination for medieval herbs and potions led you to discover a means by which unsuspecting victims were poisoned five centuries or more ago. In the days of parchment and inflexible leaves, often readers wetted a finger to turn the pages.Your own wife had developed that same habit, and the idea occurred to you that if you adhered strychnine to the top right-hand corner of the pages of whatever book she happened to be reading at the time, then it was almost certain that the poison would be conveyed to her mouth. And so it was.'

'Prove it!' Morgan growled but his tone now had an uncertainty in it. 'You're guessing, bluffing.'

'No.' Sherlock Holmes shook his head, the smile still lingering on his lips. 'Indeed, I can prove, beyond all doubt, that it was yourself who adhered strychnine to the pages of the book with moistened flour, rendering it virtually invisible against the whiteness of the paper. Having discovered which book your wife was reading, you carried out your filthy plan. Remnants of the strychnine would not, in itself, be enough to convict you. However, a small quantity of Burma cheroot ash was dislodged and showered on to the page in question whilst you were applying the poison. Some traces remain and I note, Squire Morgan, that you have a liking for that particular variety of strong cheroot. I am somewhat of an expert on the subject of tobacco ash, and I am able, at a glance, to differentiate between the various types.'

Royston Morgan's previously florid features were now deathly pale. He was shaking, not from rage this time, but from fear because his dastardly deed had been exposed and he would undoubtedly go to the gallows. Cowardice prevailed, but my own concern was that his shaking finger might pull upon the trigger of his shotgun, or that he might blast us all in a desperate attempt to conceal his crime.

Fortunately, that was not to be. In one swift but ungainly movement, he turned, stumbled from the library, and the three of us stood listening to his shambling footsteps going back through the hall. We heard the outer door slam behind him.

I drew my revolver, and would have hastened after him, but Sherlock Holmes stayed me with an upraised hand.

'Let him go, Watson,' said he.

For some moments I was bewildered for it was not in my companion's nature to allow a cold-blooded murderer to

escape. I felt Gloria Morgan's hand upon my arm and I let her lean against me for surely the poor girl had suffered more than enough.

It was as we stood there, not knowing what Holmes intended, that we heard the simultaneous double blast of a shotgun from outside. We looked at one another, finally understanding, as the echoes rolled across the wintry landscape, slowly dying away.

'It is best that way,' Sherlock Holmes demonstrated a rare tenderness in his nature as he squeezed Gloria Morgan's hand. 'Nothing is to be gained by bringing the matter to the attention of the authorities.Your mother is now at peace, and her murderer has fittingly paid for his crime with his life. Far better, Miss Morgan, that you make a new life for yourself, unsoiled by a scandal that would follow you for the rest of your days.'

Only now, with the passing of time, has Sherlock Holmes agreed to my request to record the facts concerning the case of Morgan the Poisoner, as he refers to it in his own files. I read in the Daily Telegraph, some months ago, that Miss Gloria Morgan, formerly ofWinchcombe Hall in Hampshire, had married a wealthy mine owner from South Africa, and had subsequently emigrated to that country. Perhaps there she will find happiness at last, and be able to cast off those dark events of that cruel winter of '88.

The Vanishing of the Atkinsons – Eric Brown

It is more than likely that 1888 was also the year of 'The Hound of the Baskervilles', perhaps Holmes's most famous case, and not a decade later as popularly recorded. Holmes was initially unable to venture to Dartmoor, and sent Watson in his stead. Holmes claimed he was involved in a blackmail case, which may be true, but it is also likely that he was being consulted over the Jack the Ripper murders. There have been many attempts to account for Holmes's involvement in that investigation, all of them, I believe, apocryphal. It is my belief that Holmes rapidly solved those murders to his own satisfaction and left Scotland Yard to bring the investigation to a conclusion, so that he could throw himself fully into the Baskerville problem.

Also at the time was the case of 'The Sign of Four' in which Watson met and fell in love with Mary Morstan. They were married soon after, at the close of 1888. Watson moved out of the Baker Street apartments and also set himself up in a practice in Paddington. For a while Holmes continued his investigations on his own and it was not until March 1889 that the two were reunited in 'A Scandal in Bohemia'.

Watson only later came to learn of some of the cases that Holmes investigated on his own. Amongst them was the tragedy of the Atkinson brothers. Although Watson later wrote this up he never sought its publication. Some years ago a copy of this came to my attention and my colleague, Eric Brown, has made it suitable for publication.

I had not seen my friend Sherlock Holmes for some months, pressure of work on both our parts curtailing the niceties of social intercourse, and it was quite by chance that he happened to be in his chambers when I called upon him that evening.

'Watson!' Holmes declared as Mrs Hudson showed me into the room. 'Take a seat, my friend. I trust the winter is not too inclement for you?'

I warmed my hands before the fire, and then accommodated myself in the proffered armchair. I made some comment or other to the effect that the winters were becoming even colder of late, which set my friend on the course of a lengthy speculation upon the subject of world meteorology, climatology, and allied topics.

I helped myself to a brandy and settled in for the evening.

By and by my friend recounted examples of severe weather he had encountered upon his many and diverse travels. My interest quickened; it is the one regret of our friendship that Holmes rarely sees fit to avail me of the incidents that befell him during his sojourn to points east during the period I have termed, in my accounts of my friend's illustrious career, the Great Hiatus.

That night he was vague in the details of his travels, but at one point he did say: 'Of course I had experience of the monsoon when I travelled from Tibet, south to Ceylon to revisit an old friend – '

I leaned forward, pouncing upon his use of the word 'revisit'. 'Why, Holmes, do you mean to say that you visited the island before '94?'

My friend realized his mistake at once, and gestured with feigned unconcern. 'A trifling affair at Trincomalee in '88 – '

'You actually worked on a case out there?' I expostulated. 'But why haven't you mentioned this before?'

'An affair of little account and even less interest,Watson. And anyway, I was sworn to utmost secrecy by the Royal Ceylonese Tea Company. As I was saying, concerning the nature of the monsoon rains…'

Whereupon the affair at Trincomalee was dismissed by my friend in his desire to expound upon the subject of the Asiatic rains.

Towards midnight I took my leave and, during the course of the next few weeks, went about my business with hardly a thought for that evening's exchange.

I had quite forgotten about the affair when, one month later, I called upon my friend and found him at home. He showed me to the fire and urged to help myself to a snifter of brandy.

At length he gestured with a long, languid hand to a letter lying open on the table beside his chair.

'Do you recall that upon your last visit I mentioned a small affair at Trincomalee, Ceylon, and the injunction placed upon my mentioning the case by the Royal Ceylonese Tea Company?'

I sat up, quite excited. 'Of course,' said I. 'But what of it?'