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    The Watson Letters: Volume 5: Murder on Mystery Island
    The Watson Letters: Volume 5: Murder on Mystery Island
    The Watson Letters: Volume 5: Murder on Mystery Island
    Ebook199 pages2 hours

    The Watson Letters: Volume 5: Murder on Mystery Island

    By Colin Garrow

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    About this ebook

    When consumptive Doctor Edward Armstrong turns up at Baker Street with an invitation to visit a mysterious island, Sherlock Holmes smells a rat. Sounding deviously similar to the plot of a recent novel by celebrated lady author Mrs Christie, Holmes decides to send his inveterate side-kick Watson to the island, along with the Doctor’s lovely, but wonky-eyed wife, Mary, and a well-known Scotland Yard detective. Taking Armstrong’s place, the team determine to find out exactly what’s going on, but before they’ve even left the mainland, one of the guests is murdered.

    Adult humour throughout. ‘The Watson Letters – Volume 5: Murder on Mystery Island’ is book #5 in this Victorian comedy adventure series.

    If you love historical mysteries, buy something else instead, but if you're into murder, fart-gags and innuendo, this'll be right up your Victorian street.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherColin Garrow
    Release dateOct 10, 2019
    ISBN9780463158746
    The Watson Letters: Volume 5: Murder on Mystery Island
    Author

    Colin Garrow

    Colin Garrow grew up in a former mining town in Northumberland. He has worked in a plethora of professions including: taxi driver, antiques dealer, drama facilitator, theatre director and fish processor, and has occasionally masqueraded as a pirate. All Colin's books are available as eBooks and most are also out in paperback, too. His short stories have appeared in several literary mags, including: SN Review, Flash Fiction Magazine, Word Bohemia, Every Day Fiction, The Grind, A3 Review, 1,000 Words, Inkapture and Scribble Magazine. He currently lives in a humble cottage in North East Scotland where he writes novels, stories, poems and the occasional song.

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      Book preview

      The Watson Letters - Colin Garrow

      The Watson Letters

      Volume 5: Murder on Mystery Island

      By Colin Garrow

      Distributed by Smashwords

      Copyright 2019 Colin Garrow

      Smashwords Edition, License Notes

      This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favourite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

      In a not quite Post-Victorian, steampunk parallel universe, Holmes and Watson continue their fight against crime

      The Watson Letters is based on my Blog of the same name and features manly characters, crude language and adult inclinations. It is not, therefore, intended for persons of a delicate nature.

      Contents

      Chapter 1

      Chapter 2

      Chapter 3

      Chapter 4

      Chapter 5

      Chapter 6

      Chapter 7

      Chapter 8

      Chapter 9

      Chapter 10

      Chapter 11

      Chapter 12

      Chapter 13

      Acknowledgements

      Other Books by This Author

      Connect with Me

      About the Author

      Marlborough Hill

      Sunday 8th January 1893

      In beginning this fifth volume of adventures involving Sherlock Holmes and myself, my meticulously recorded archives have borne less fruit than in recent years. The reasons for this are twofold—firstly, Holmes has been out of the country on several occasions over the last twelve months on matters concerning national security, which have demanded his attention above all else. In addition, my growing reputation as the great man’s biographer has placed unexpected demands on my own time, most recently in the delivery of a series of monthly lectures on biographical writing at the new Eton College for Girls, which, my dear wife assures me, has also aided the efforts of the Windsor Ladies Emancipation League and Football Team in their bid to attain equal rights for women in general. (I shan’t expand my views on this subject within these pages, as Mary can become rather feisty when challenged, and I have no wish to cook my own supper, again.)

      The adventure which follows, therefore, relates to a single investigation. Taking place over a period of only a few weeks, it nevertheless involved the murders of several individuals, and very nearly cost the lives of Sherlock Holmes, Mary, and me. Needless to say, we survived the ordeal, but I'm bound to admit that the threats against all our lives have continued to grow exponentially and have forced us to consider very carefully when taking on new investigations.

      The case which I have titled ‘Murder on Mystery Island’ was, on the face of it, a tantalising one that appeared to threaten the life of a fellow medical man, one Doctor Edward Armstrong. From our initial meeting with this chap, we discovered similarities in the case that struck a chord in more ways than one. But it was the writings of a certain lady novelist that set us on the trail of a cunning and ruthless villain.

      John Horatio Watson

      Chapter 1

      Diary of Doctor J. Watson

      Monday 25th January 1892

      It has been some months since my last encounter with my friend and colleague Sherlock Holmes and even longer since we were involved in a case of any significance. Shortly after the adventure related in my story ‘Revenge of the Hooded Claw’, the Great Detective set off for Burma on the trail of arch-villain Doctor Fu Manchu. I had urged him to allow me to accompany him, but he insisted I remain in Londen with a view to ‘being my ears and eyes’ in his absence.

      I interpreted this as a snub and spent several weeks bemoaning the fact that my worth must be as relevant to him as a dead horse, since he rarely gave praise or complimented me on my intuition. Yet, after prompt replies to my weekly letters, I realised he did value my contributions but had considered my safety (and that of my wife’s) as paramount in his investigation.

      Having dispatched my latest missive last Friday, I had not expected to receive a telegram from Holmes this very morning summoning me to Baker Street. It seems he’d returned to the metropolis and wished to see me as a matter of some urgency.

      Mrs Hudson caught me in a bear hug at the front door, then showed me upstairs with her usual eagerness, all the while uttering remarks relating how, in her tenant’s absence, I had simply ‘not bovvered’ with her, or considered that she might like ‘a bit ov male company ov a dark and dreary night.’

      Issuing a few compliments on her appearance and the warmth of her welcome, it warmed my heart to see her wizened face light up once again. She left me at the door with the promise of heating up a trayful of muffins and a pot of hot chocolate.

      ‘Ah, Watson,’ said my companion as I entered the sitting room. ‘Glad you could make it.’

      Holmes sat in his usual armchair by the fire. Waving me into my former pew opposite, he gestured to the corner of the room to which, until that moment, I had not paid any attention. Making myself comfortable, I looked over and for the first time discerned the figure of a man sitting in the shadows. A hat slanted over his eyes and a dark suit did nothing to illuminate his complexion.

      Glancing at Holmes, I said, ‘A visitor?’

      Holmes nodded and resting his elbows on the arms of his chair, steepled his fingers. ‘Doctor Watson, I should like you to meet a fellow medical man, Doctor Eddie Armstrong. In a moment, please utilise your skills and examine him, but for now take a look at this.’ Reaching up to the mantelshelf, he took down a piece of white card and passed it across to me.

      Holding the item between finger and thumb, I peered at it. ‘Postcard size, weight—perhaps two hundred or two hundred and fifty grams. Standard layout for an invitation. Printed by…’ Turning it over, I found the reverse side blank. ‘No printer’s mark, which might suggest the sender doesn’t want anyone to know its origin.’

      Holmes nodded. ‘Excellent. What else?’

      ‘Well,’ I said, ‘the wording is traditional—request the pleasure of your presence, etcetera etcetera. Sort of thing one might expect from a well-to-do house in relation to a ball, or some such.’

      ‘Good. And?’

      Holding the card up to the light, I detected no watermark or other signature. ‘Nothing, except…’

      Holmes leaned forwards. ‘Yes?’

      ‘Rather enigmatic, I should say.’

      ‘Why?’ said Holmes, a smile playing around his thin mouth.

      ‘Why? Because of the name—Mister Ulrich Norman Owen. The first one, Ulrich, is German. Old High German I should think, then Norman. Well, that’s of English origin, from Scottish or Gaelic derivation. And Owen of course, is Welsh.’ I passed the card back to him, feeling rather pleased with myself. ‘So, this is an invitation from a German English Welshman.’

      Holmes guffawed, his eyes twinkling in merriment. Then his amusement vanished, and his features slid back into the impassive gaze with which I was so familiar. He looked across at our visitor. ‘Which is exactly what Doctor Armstrong thought.’

      The man in the corner coughed and, whipping out a large handkerchief, covered his mouth. I couldn’t help noticing a few spots of blood appeared on the cream-coloured material.

      ‘Yes, indeed,’ said the doctor. ‘But more importantly…’ He coughed again. ‘More importantly, I’ve never heard of this fellow, or the place mentioned on the invitation.’

      Exchanging a meaningful look with Holmes, I approached our visitor and knelt beside him.

      ‘How long have you had this cough?’

      He shrugged. ‘Three weeks.’

      Looking at his jacket I observed that it hung about his torso like a nightshirt. ‘And you’ve lost weight.’

      He nodded.

      ‘Night fevers? Sweats?’

      Again, he nodded. Then, looking into my eyes, I saw he knew his diagnosis as well as I did.

      Returning to my seat, I allowed myself a moment before confirming my diagnosis. ‘Consumption, I’m afraid.’

      Holmes waved the white card. ‘D’you think a spell on an island might help?’

      ‘Of course, if it happened to be in the Caribbean. The coast is too cold here.’ I cast a sidelong glance at Doctor Armstrong. ‘It might finish him off.’

      ‘That’s it, then,’ said Holmes, leaping to his feet. Crossing the room, he pulled the doctor from his chair and patted him heartily on the back. ‘Off to Barbados with you, my man. My colleague and I shall deal with this other matter.’

      The visitor muttered his thanks and left.

      ‘This other matter?’ I said, when Holmes had seated himself again.

      My friend took a few moments to fill his pipe and light it, puffing away until a cloud of blue smoke had almost engulfed him. ‘This doctor has an invitation to an island, all-expenses paid, for reasons neither he nor we can guess, except for the ‘wonderful opportunity’ mentioned in the invitation. The doctor does not know his benefactor and has no conception of what may occur on his arrival. Following my initial interview with Armstrong and my investigations yesterday, I took the liberty of amending the doctor’s tickets to include another passenger—your wife.’

      ‘You wish me to go in his place? And with Mary?’ I sat back, aghast.

      ‘To the Eastern Isles, yes.’ Holmes dropped his voice. ‘My enquiries have unearthed a few odd, but important facts—as well as the good doctor, seven other individuals have been invited to this island. I suspect each of them has no idea as to why, which is suggestive, don’t you think?’

      ‘Of what, Holmes?’

      ‘Of murder, Watson. This has all the hallmarks of a master plan—something that has put the perpetrator to a great deal of trouble.’

      A short burst of laughter escaped my lips before I could stop it. ‘Sorry, Holmes, but this whole thing sounds completely ridiculous.’

      Holmes smiled. ‘Indeed it does, and I should think so too if it were not for one small fact.’ Standing, he reached behind his chair to the bookshelf and took down a single volume, sheathed in a colourful paper dust jacket with white and red lettering. ‘Here,’ he said, waving the item. ‘A piece of fiction by the female authoress we know as Mrs Christie—your wife has read a few of her efforts.’

      I took the proffered volume and looked at the cover. ‘They changed the title?’

      Holmes grunted. ‘Ah yes, some issue with offending certain communities. However, the point is that this story starts off with eight individuals arriving at a mysterious island where they are picked off, one by one, until there are none.’

      I considered this for a moment, then said, ‘And you want Mary and I to go there and find out if this is some copycat killer?’

      ‘Precisely.’

      ‘And you don’t think this mysterious person may cotton on to the fact that I am not Doctor Armstrong?’

      Holmes shook his head. ‘I suspect Armstrong has never actually met his intended benefactor and the latter’s knowledge of him likely relates to personal details, education, and so forth. Also, as it happens, you do bear a vague resemblance to Armstrong—height, bearing etcetera, though I suggest the application of a little hair dye and the removal of your moustache will aid the charade.’

      ‘Shave off my moustache?’ I exclaimed, fingering my facial development. ‘But I grew it especially for Mary. She likes the way it tickles her—’

      ‘Yes, yes, spare me the details, Watson. The point is, the only fly in the ointment from the point of view of our would-be murderer, will be the appearance of Mary. And I’m certain you’ll be able to explain that away without arousing his suspicions.’

      ‘But surely,’ I protested, ‘it would be easier to prevent each of these people from going to the island in the first place.’

      ‘Of course it would, Watson, but then we should not learn the identity of the murderer.’

      Letting out a long sigh, I couldn’t conceal my curiosity. ‘Seems a bit of a risk.’

      ‘Yes, which is why I shall be coming along too, though no-one must know of my presence in order that I may have time to evaluate the situation and catch the killer before he, or she, strikes.’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘Is the game afoot?’

      I smiled. ‘Yes, Holmes, the game’s afoot.’

      Diary of Doctor J. Watson

      Thursday 28th January 1892

      Our travel documents stated we must reach Dolphin Cove—a small village a few miles up the coast from Land’s End—by lunchtime on the following Friday. Some chap with a boat would meet us at the harbour and take us across to Huge Island (which apparently does not live up to its name). It wasn’t clear if we would encounter our fellow travellers at that point, and it was for this reason, and several others, that I decided to spend our train journey reading a copy of Mrs Christie’s novel, in the hope it might shed light on our forthcoming adventure.

      ‘You do realise,’ said Mary, flicking through a copy of Detective Monthly, ‘we shall be horribly murdered?’

      ‘I should have thought that horribly was the only way to be murdered,’ I said, giving her a playful wink.

      ‘Don’t be obtuse, Johnny,’ she snapped. ‘The only reason I agreed to this mad outing is my belief that between the two of us and Mister Big Nose, we can solve the puzzle.’ She cast the magazine aside. ‘I do hope I’m right—if we

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