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    The Case of the 'Queen of Tarts', A Sherlock Holmes Mystery
    The Case of the 'Queen of Tarts', A Sherlock Holmes Mystery
    The Case of the 'Queen of Tarts', A Sherlock Holmes Mystery
    Ebook105 pages1 hour

    The Case of the 'Queen of Tarts', A Sherlock Holmes Mystery

    By Cheryl Lee

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    About this ebook

    A sudden dead, ghosts, a mysterious fire in Warwick Castle and the 'find' of the Century are mixed into a Sherlock Holmes story. Facts and fiction mix with the clues given: Who was the real muderer, Why and How are at the core. Newspaper accounts, Historical items, reported sightings, plus theories surrounding the Stratford Bard and his famous plays and sonnets and whether or not he penned them at all. A troupe of actors wanting put on a play by the Bard are caught up in the world-wide conspiracy theory laid out by Sherlock Holmes, a case never to be written about by his biographer, Dr. John Watson.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherCheryl Lee
    Release dateMay 27, 2014
    ISBN9781311840332
    The Case of the 'Queen of Tarts', A Sherlock Holmes Mystery
    Author

    Cheryl Lee

    A retired educator now living in the Pacific Northwest.Traveled through and visited forty-eight of the fifty United States, summered in Mexico, Canada, Great Britain-England, Scotland, Wales and Ireland, visited western France, written plays for elementary, middle, and high school, taught classical fencing, volunteer reading, teaching puppetry, international artist with work displayed in greater London, Scotland, Wales, mid-west and western states.I will also go by my late husband's title name, Cheryl Lee DeLighton, to honour my late husband, C.N. Lee DeLighton and the stories he dictated to me. See zazzle.com/CherylLeeDesigns or contact:zeddtau@aol.com

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      Book preview

      The Case of the 'Queen of Tarts', A Sherlock Holmes Mystery - Cheryl Lee

      The Case of the Queen of Tarts, A Sherlock Holmes Mystery

      Cheryl Lee

      Copyright 2014 by Cheryl Lee

      Cover: Photobucket

      Smashwords Edition

      Smashwords Licensing Statement

      This EBook is licensed for your pleasure only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person please purchase another copy for each reader. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use, then please return it to Smashbooks.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

      The Case of the Queen of Tarts

      Prologue

      Whilst living in England, my curiosity and love of Ancient History gave rise to an appetite that was almost insatiable. Nonetheless, with resources such as libraries, museums, the walking through actual sites, observing archeological digs and the such, I came upon a phenomenon that whetted my quest for past knowledge. With copies of documents, antique newspapers, etcetera, I found a delicious mystery to solve, or at least put down a theory to explain the occurrences. This story is that compilation of all of those resources and honed with my personal experiences. The places mentioned are indeed real; the historical facts are blended into my fiction. This book is dedicated to C.N. Lee DeLighton, who had walked with me through this research, so long ago.

      Chapter One

      Legacy

      The horse was frothy and laboured as it ran up the hill. The rider knew that the steed would need a rest and definitely food and water to continue. The horseman had dodged every gathering of populous this night, in his efforts to elude detection. Normally the route was by established towns and estates with the well defined trodden roads, but not tonight. He had hoped that his dark clothing and equally dark steed would be missed by casual or possibly stationed diligent onlookers. Three times he spotted the worrisome group patrolling, and he dared not let anyone see or catch his personage tonight of all nights. For be they friend or foe he was on a mission. He managed to circle around the troubling groups and kept his pace steady, albeit this had added to the total distance. Down steep hills without foreknowledge of the area below, or scampering along long hedgerows and tall ancient stands of trees to disguise his ever steady motion towards a secret end he went. He avoided safer, ordinary trails just in case. He stopped briefly to let his horse drink from a rivulet that they had to transverse, but that was just a few moments, then he pushed his wonderfully understanding steed onwards again. It was many hours of rough travel, nevertheless it was also added to by the sheer craftiness of this rider's power of evasion with the extraordinary measures with his route taken.

      The moonlit sky was enough light to see off in the distance the Avon River and the sprawling town of Stratford and not far beyond that, he had recalled, the finale to his ride-Warwick Castle. The horse slowed down suddenly and the rider jumped off to see if the animal would or could go on tonight. The man who had sat in the saddle was well bundled for the chill in the air, for his clothing was still wrapped about himself, keeping him warm on this cold spring very early morning of 1648. He had ridden hard and fast for the past twelve hours almost non-stop, and yes, he was also sore and tired, but this trip was vital to the cause.

      Hidden amongst his clothing was a small, plain leather dispatch case in which held important information for his King. In this area occupied by the enemy of his liege lord, he had to disguise himself in order to travel through unchecked by patrolling small bands of troops. The silhouette was still visible despite his attempts to hide it. He hated the 'Roundhead' attire, but it was to serve a greater purpose this fine day and night, so he swallowed this loathing of this masquerade. The intrigue had made him smile once or twice tonight and he knew that the danger added to his emotional satisfaction that he was a solider in a greater conflict than anyone had ever dreamed of. His tall, well-built body withstood much from this un-civil war.

      His clear deep blue eyes scrutinized the complaints of his mount now, a gentle stroke of the animals legs and girth for good measure and ascertained that if he could but walk this noble beast to the town and find a smithy to restore his animal to a reasonable health he would give much thanks to his guardian angels, and perhaps a much needed nights rest before continuing on to his destination. His wide-brimmed felt and feathered hat was wet with his perspiration and in turn had caused his thick black hair to demonstrate the impression of the hat's rim and with that profuse sweating his trimmed beard began to shimmer with beads of that salty liquid. He took the hat off momentarily and after pulling off one of his well-worn leather gauntlets, then used a piece of cloth pulled from one of few hidden pockets inside and beneath his cloak, to wipe his brow and dabbed at the flushed cheeks. Even his twisted mustache drooped at the ends. He was also nervous about this delay. After all, he was in dangerous territory still and the high pace of the race through this township might just give alarm to Cromwell's allies. This must not happen, he reasoned, for this halt in procession could be a signal to him to be more vigilant in his caution.

      The wooden bridge echoed their hoof-clops and boot stomps as they crossed over the beautiful Avon. In the not too far off distance, on the cobblestone lain road of the sleeping town, the recently unhorsed rider saw what he was looking for. He spied a semi-sheltered corral, stable and smithy implements section attached to a house. It was filled with other horses at the corner of a newly renovated thatch roof on a two-story Tudor building and thus he surmised that this was just the place for his horse to be bedded down for the night, or rather the rest of the early morning. He crossed the bridge and the sounds of their hooves and boots echoed off of the well-laid stones of the street. He had wished for a piece of sod or a long strip of grassy land for them to tread on to muffle their sounds of movement, but, alas it was not to be.

      The rider knocked at the destination, for the moments, backdoor with his sword hilt against the large metal latch until a light was seen on the upper portions of the house, then lights moving from the triangle glass windows located above, being carried by the occupant passing from the upstairs quarters, down to the portal where he stood. A roughly woven linen bed-clothed man with a nightcap sitting askew on top of his head and who held a lit lantern of which in turn barely illuminated himself and a few feet around him stood staring angrily at them at the door's opening. But when he saw the horse all white with sweat and the sadden eyes of the owner he relented his hatred of being awaken so late of night or early in the morn and inquired.

      Are you in need of a stall for your poor horse, sire? He voiced just above a whisper.

      His forearm raised and lowered the wrought iron lantern's light to see the creature was in need of much, and being the town's only smithy he knew that this horse had been ridden hard and was at the present in momentarily poor shape. Billows of exhalation formed heavy clouds from the equine's mouth. The dark brown eyes of the blacksmith softened and pallor crossed his countenance, with a sigh he waved towards the stable and led the way. The smithy was just under the rider's height, a thin man, nevertheless whose arms were the largest part of his torso. He was young in age; one would have guessed him to be in his late twenties and must have inherited the occupation. There were scars from the hot coals and strikes from hooves shown on his hands and lower limbs.

      "Thank ye, my journey has been long and I value my steed, what would you charge for

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