Read Online The Chronicles of Sherlock Holmes by Paul Gilbert - Free Book Online
Authors: Paul Gilbert
Tags: Fiction, General, Mystery & Detective, Holmes; Sherlock (Fictitious Character), Detective and Mystery Stories; English, Watson; John H. (Fictitious Character), Traditional British
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rise at once and then join me for lunch. I shall simply not allow you to just fade away.’
Holmes slowly raised himself on his elbows and began rubbing his bloodshot eyes.
‘So you are going to save me from myself, once again, eh Watson?’ He asked wearily.
‘That is certainly my intention,’ I replied. ‘I was hoping that the opportunity of closing one of your old files would be of sufficient interest to rouse you from your melancholy. This morning’s papers and my own resurrected notes certainly seem to make that a possibility.’
‘May I see those now, please?’ Holmes asked somewhat sheepishly.
‘Not until you have taken some lunch,’ I insisted with mock indignation.
‘I fancy a shave would also not go amiss.’ He smiled, the first I had seen on his face in a long time.
He emerged from his room, clean-shaven and suited, just as Mrs Hudson arrived with our lunch tray.
‘So, Lazarus has risen at last,’ she remarked.
‘No less than I deserve, Mrs Hudson, I owe you a thousand apologies for my recent boorish behaviour. Now what lurks enticingly beneath those lids? I am absolutely ravenous!’ Holmes rubbed his hands together excitedly.
Holmes devoured his rack of lamb with great gusto; not until the last morsel had been consumed and Mrs Hudson had removed the tray did we settle into our chairs with our cognacs and cigars, to discuss the disappearance of James Phillimore.
I passed the newspapers to Holmes, but he declined these, though in a less dramatic manner than had been his custom of late.
‘No, no, Watson, I would much rather reacquaint myself with the case through your old notes than digest any new information the papers might contain.’
Therefore, I began to read from my notes instead.
‘There was a particularly stormy October morning when the equinoctial elements seemed to be throwing down the gauntlet against our civilized world of brick, though thankfully in vain, that will long live in my memory. The branches of the leafless trees were being bent backwards and forwards into unnatural contortions and the few brave passers-by were engaged in a constant battle to keep their coat collars up and their umbrellas pointed in the right direction.’
I paused when I observed Holmes showing signs of impatience and agitation. He was crossing, and recrossing his legs whilst drawing on his cigar as if it was a cigarette. Then he held up his hand as a gesture of remonstrance.
‘Watson, Watson! I beseech you to edit your narrative,’ he exclaimed.
‘I do not understand,’ I replied. ‘I have barely begun to read.’
‘Whilst I appreciate your undoubted skill with words, I am not one of your beguiled readers hanging on every one of them. To me your fine prose acts as nothing more than hindrance and obfuscation. They hinder the skilled detective from obtaining the relevant facts that will, eventually, lead us to a solution. Though they present a fine piece of romantic adventure to the untrained reader, to me they obstruct what would otherwise be an exercise in the pure, logical science of criminology.’
Not for the first time during our long association Holmes seemed to take some misplaced pleasure in heaping scornon to my humble, though rather elegant literary accomplishments.
‘I am sure that I have always given due regard to your deductive and scientific achievements throughout each narrative of our adventures, while at the same time making each tale more palatable to the wider public by employing the crafts and skills of a romantic author. I do not consider that your criticism is worthy and I am sure that your reputation has been greatly enhanced as a result of my work,’ was my indignant response.
‘Of what use is any reputation that I may have acquired if the merits of logical thought and analysis are buried beneath an avalanche of meaningless verbosity? However, I do not mean to detract from your skills with a pen and perhaps some of your less flowery chronicles may have had a
Holmes slowly raised himself on his elbows and began rubbing his bloodshot eyes.
‘So you are going to save me from myself, once again, eh Watson?’ He asked wearily.
‘That is certainly my intention,’ I replied. ‘I was hoping that the opportunity of closing one of your old files would be of sufficient interest to rouse you from your melancholy. This morning’s papers and my own resurrected notes certainly seem to make that a possibility.’
‘May I see those now, please?’ Holmes asked somewhat sheepishly.
‘Not until you have taken some lunch,’ I insisted with mock indignation.
‘I fancy a shave would also not go amiss.’ He smiled, the first I had seen on his face in a long time.
He emerged from his room, clean-shaven and suited, just as Mrs Hudson arrived with our lunch tray.
‘So, Lazarus has risen at last,’ she remarked.
‘No less than I deserve, Mrs Hudson, I owe you a thousand apologies for my recent boorish behaviour. Now what lurks enticingly beneath those lids? I am absolutely ravenous!’ Holmes rubbed his hands together excitedly.
Holmes devoured his rack of lamb with great gusto; not until the last morsel had been consumed and Mrs Hudson had removed the tray did we settle into our chairs with our cognacs and cigars, to discuss the disappearance of James Phillimore.
I passed the newspapers to Holmes, but he declined these, though in a less dramatic manner than had been his custom of late.
‘No, no, Watson, I would much rather reacquaint myself with the case through your old notes than digest any new information the papers might contain.’
Therefore, I began to read from my notes instead.
‘There was a particularly stormy October morning when the equinoctial elements seemed to be throwing down the gauntlet against our civilized world of brick, though thankfully in vain, that will long live in my memory. The branches of the leafless trees were being bent backwards and forwards into unnatural contortions and the few brave passers-by were engaged in a constant battle to keep their coat collars up and their umbrellas pointed in the right direction.’
I paused when I observed Holmes showing signs of impatience and agitation. He was crossing, and recrossing his legs whilst drawing on his cigar as if it was a cigarette. Then he held up his hand as a gesture of remonstrance.
‘Watson, Watson! I beseech you to edit your narrative,’ he exclaimed.
‘I do not understand,’ I replied. ‘I have barely begun to read.’
‘Whilst I appreciate your undoubted skill with words, I am not one of your beguiled readers hanging on every one of them. To me your fine prose acts as nothing more than hindrance and obfuscation. They hinder the skilled detective from obtaining the relevant facts that will, eventually, lead us to a solution. Though they present a fine piece of romantic adventure to the untrained reader, to me they obstruct what would otherwise be an exercise in the pure, logical science of criminology.’
Not for the first time during our long association Holmes seemed to take some misplaced pleasure in heaping scornon to my humble, though rather elegant literary accomplishments.
‘I am sure that I have always given due regard to your deductive and scientific achievements throughout each narrative of our adventures, while at the same time making each tale more palatable to the wider public by employing the crafts and skills of a romantic author. I do not consider that your criticism is worthy and I am sure that your reputation has been greatly enhanced as a result of my work,’ was my indignant response.
‘Of what use is any reputation that I may have acquired if the merits of logical thought and analysis are buried beneath an avalanche of meaningless verbosity? However, I do not mean to detract from your skills with a pen and perhaps some of your less flowery chronicles may have had a
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