Read Online Sherlock Holmes & The Master Engraver (Sherlock Holmes Revival) by Ross Husband - Free Book Online
Authors: Ross Husband
Tags: detective fiction
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Babel of voices in animated discussion.
Tentatively I opened the parlour door and peered within; I was greeted by a most curious sight. Holmes was seated before the fire, furiously playing his violin, a manic grin on his face, fingers mere blurs as they flew over the strings. He was accompanied by a cellist and a timpanist, who beat his kettle-drums fit to bring down the walls of Jericho, all conducted at an insane tempo by a rakish-looking conductor of eastern European aspect with extravagantly pomaded moustache and sleekly oiled hair.
I noted with detached professional interest that all but Holmes, of this odd musical troupe appeared to have fresh ligature wounds on their necks, although this did not appear to inhibit their extraordinarily spirited performance. A prima-ballerina pirouetted at possessed speed to the frenzied rendering – a favourite of mine by Boccherini, but rather comically played in at least four-four time.
Across the room, a vast printing press was thundering away. Again and again the gleaming engraved steel plates hammered down on an endless supply of sheets of crisp white paper, while an equally incessant stream of money poured out of the maw of the great mechanical beast. The whole operation was being supervised by three tall, thin elderly, silver-haired gentlemen who appeared to be marking time, each referring to a heavy gold watch on a gold Albert chain, festooned with intricate keys; they were accompanied by a dark moustachioed man, who was presently engaged in counting out money into the waiting hand of the maid I had earlier encountered, while upon the settee an elegant and elderly lady poured forth a voluble stream of rapid Italian.
A gang of tar-daubed labourers was busily occupied in stacking ten-pound notes in neat, regimented bundles.
Holmes paused at my entry, smiled oddly, then set to fiddling with renewed vigour. As the whole assembly appeared to be quite immersed in their revels, I decided my wisest course would be to make my way home and discuss these interesting matters with Mary.
I descended to the street, hailed a cab and was not in the least bit surprised to see that it was driven by the same cheery glazier who I had previously encountered repairing the tropical glass-house.
I paid the cabbie his very modest twenty pounds fare, tipped him a further ten, and entered the house to find my wife sobbing her heart out. “John, the butcher has presented his account for the Christmas goose and it is eighty pounds! Where ever shall we find the money?” I smiled cheerfully. “Never fear my dear” – I reached into my pocket and passed her a generous handful of... rapidly-melting snow...
While I make no claim to be an expert on the inner workings of the human mind, I am cognisant of the commonplace that the imaginings of our dreams are oft-times more readily understood upon waking, when critical reason once again assumes direction of that most baffling of organs, the human brain... Waking early, I spent the dogwatch hours considering – even jotting down in lengthy, but rather more ordered, detail – my recall of the events of my dream.
Now, reviewing my notes it seems to me that I had not so much spent my night in bed, but rather, in Bedlam.
As a medical man of some considerable training and experience, I do not particularly hold Mr Freud’s theories in any special or credulous regard. They do not to me, upon rigorous scrutiny, appear to be particularly scientific in their origination.
And so I do not necessarily suppose that unconscious dreaming thoughts provide the key to unlock the secrets of one’s waking dilemmas, and yet I was oddly and most forcefully persuaded that somewhere in that lunatic nocturnal adventure, I had glimpsed deep into the heart of this dark mystery.
Was there, concealed within that insane play in which I had taken the passive observer’s part, a compass that might point to the culprits? Reader, how profoundly I yearned to possess Holmes’
Tentatively I opened the parlour door and peered within; I was greeted by a most curious sight. Holmes was seated before the fire, furiously playing his violin, a manic grin on his face, fingers mere blurs as they flew over the strings. He was accompanied by a cellist and a timpanist, who beat his kettle-drums fit to bring down the walls of Jericho, all conducted at an insane tempo by a rakish-looking conductor of eastern European aspect with extravagantly pomaded moustache and sleekly oiled hair.
I noted with detached professional interest that all but Holmes, of this odd musical troupe appeared to have fresh ligature wounds on their necks, although this did not appear to inhibit their extraordinarily spirited performance. A prima-ballerina pirouetted at possessed speed to the frenzied rendering – a favourite of mine by Boccherini, but rather comically played in at least four-four time.
Across the room, a vast printing press was thundering away. Again and again the gleaming engraved steel plates hammered down on an endless supply of sheets of crisp white paper, while an equally incessant stream of money poured out of the maw of the great mechanical beast. The whole operation was being supervised by three tall, thin elderly, silver-haired gentlemen who appeared to be marking time, each referring to a heavy gold watch on a gold Albert chain, festooned with intricate keys; they were accompanied by a dark moustachioed man, who was presently engaged in counting out money into the waiting hand of the maid I had earlier encountered, while upon the settee an elegant and elderly lady poured forth a voluble stream of rapid Italian.
A gang of tar-daubed labourers was busily occupied in stacking ten-pound notes in neat, regimented bundles.
Holmes paused at my entry, smiled oddly, then set to fiddling with renewed vigour. As the whole assembly appeared to be quite immersed in their revels, I decided my wisest course would be to make my way home and discuss these interesting matters with Mary.
I descended to the street, hailed a cab and was not in the least bit surprised to see that it was driven by the same cheery glazier who I had previously encountered repairing the tropical glass-house.
I paid the cabbie his very modest twenty pounds fare, tipped him a further ten, and entered the house to find my wife sobbing her heart out. “John, the butcher has presented his account for the Christmas goose and it is eighty pounds! Where ever shall we find the money?” I smiled cheerfully. “Never fear my dear” – I reached into my pocket and passed her a generous handful of... rapidly-melting snow...
While I make no claim to be an expert on the inner workings of the human mind, I am cognisant of the commonplace that the imaginings of our dreams are oft-times more readily understood upon waking, when critical reason once again assumes direction of that most baffling of organs, the human brain... Waking early, I spent the dogwatch hours considering – even jotting down in lengthy, but rather more ordered, detail – my recall of the events of my dream.
Now, reviewing my notes it seems to me that I had not so much spent my night in bed, but rather, in Bedlam.
As a medical man of some considerable training and experience, I do not particularly hold Mr Freud’s theories in any special or credulous regard. They do not to me, upon rigorous scrutiny, appear to be particularly scientific in their origination.
And so I do not necessarily suppose that unconscious dreaming thoughts provide the key to unlock the secrets of one’s waking dilemmas, and yet I was oddly and most forcefully persuaded that somewhere in that lunatic nocturnal adventure, I had glimpsed deep into the heart of this dark mystery.
Was there, concealed within that insane play in which I had taken the passive observer’s part, a compass that might point to the culprits? Reader, how profoundly I yearned to possess Holmes’
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