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    The Watson Letters Volume 6: The Haunting of Roderick Usher
    The Watson Letters Volume 6: The Haunting of Roderick Usher
    The Watson Letters Volume 6: The Haunting of Roderick Usher
    Ebook235 pages3 hours

    The Watson Letters Volume 6: The Haunting of Roderick Usher

    By Colin Garrow

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    About this ebook

    An invitation. A ghostly spectre. A criminal mastermind.

    When Holmes and Watson are invited to visit an old friend of the pipe-smoking detective, they are plunged into the first of three adventures involving the Dark Arts and the supernatural. From the ghostly spectre of a dead sister to the search for an ancient book of spells, the detecting duo learn that each case is connected, leading them into a final showdown with their deadliest adversary yet.

    Adult humour throughout.

    ‘The Watson Letters – Volume 6: The Haunting of Roderick Usher’ is book #6 in this Victorian comedy adventure series set in a not quite Post-Victorian, steampunk parallel universe.

    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 dateMar 2, 2022
    ISBN9781005547486
    The Watson Letters Volume 6: The Haunting of Roderick Usher
    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 Volume 6 - Colin Garrow

      The Watson Letters

      Volume 6: The Haunting of Roderick Usher

      By Colin Garrow

      Distributed by Smashwords

      Copyright 2022 Colin Garrow

      Smashwords Edition, License Notes

      This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment 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 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:

      The Haunting of Roderick Usher – Part 1

      The Haunting of Roderick Usher – Part 2

      The Haunting of Roderick Usher – Part 3

      The Haunting of Roderick Usher – Part 4

      The Haunting of Roderick Usher – Part 5

      The Witch’s Ghost – Part 1

      The Witch’s Ghost – Part 2

      The Witch’s Ghost – Part 3

      The Witch’s Ghost – Part 4

      The Very Last Death of Lord Blackwood – Part 1

      The Very Last Death of Lord Blackwood – Part 2

      The Very Last Death of Lord Blackwood – Part 3

      The Very Last Death of Lord Blackwood – Part 4

      The Very Last Death of Lord Blackwood – Part 5

      The Very Last Death of Lord Blackwood – Part 6

      The Very Last Death of Lord Blackwood – Part 7

      The Very Last Death of Lord Blackwood – Part 8

      The Very Last Death of Lord Blackwood – Part 9

      The Very Last Death of Lord Blackwood – Part 10

      The Very Last Death of Lord Blackwood – Part 11

      Other Books by This Author

      Connect with Me

      About the Author

      Marlborough Hill

      Saturday 23rd December 1893

      In this sixth and possibly final, volume of reminiscences of my adventures with Sherlock Holmes, I have shared the details of three cases. On the face of it, these appeared unrelated, but as each one progressed, common factors seemed to link them together (though of course, these links only became obvious in hindsight).

      That Holmes and I rarely involved ourselves in mysteries involving the supernatural should be well known to readers of these pages. While I have always had a wavering curiosity about the possibilities of contact with the departed, not to mention the mysteries of death and ‘the beyond’, Holmes would never contemplate the idea. In his own words, such things are, ‘Bloody ridiculous and not worthy of the world’s greatest consulting detective. And if you mention it again, Watson, I’ll punch you on the nose.’

      However, it was an old friend of Holmes who drew us into the first of the following adventures, and in doing so, caught us in a net of intrigue and cunning that not only reeked of the Dark Arts, but cast us as the main players in a plot so audacious in its simplicity, I marvelled that no-one had tried it before.

      That we survived the ordeal may seem obvious, but if that particular villain had succeeded, you might well be reading the memoirs of Doctor John H Watson penned by a very different hand.

      The first adventure began with a note from Holmes himself. Its lack of detail gave me no clue as to what I might be letting myself in for as I made my way to Baker Street, but as Holmes would say, the game was already very much afoot.

      The Haunting of Roderick Usher – Part 1

      Diary of Doctor J. Watson

      Saturday 1st July 1893

      Things being somewhat quiet of late, Mary and I planned to take a short holiday to the Lake District. An overindulgence in sweetmeats and the like over these last few months has resulted in both of us adding a few inches to our waistlines. To be fair, I suspect the increase in my own girth prompted Mary’s suggestion that we ‘get a little exercise’ and try a spot of hillwalking.

      However, having set the proverbial wheels in motion, an urgent telegraphical communication from Mary’s Great Aunt Bob (short for Roberta), scuppered our plans, and yesterday afternoon I somewhat huffily waved my wife off on the 2:45 to Skipton.

      We did agree to try and meet up in a few days, though if the health of the aforementioned relative does not improve, it seems likely I’ll be left to my own devices.

      This morning, after sorting out a few medical affairs and finding myself with no immediate plans, I determined to pop over to Baker Street and call on Holmes, when a message arrived from that very personage:

      Watson,

      Come at once, if convenient.

      (If not convenient, come all the same).

      H

      I told the boy I’d leave immediately, collected my hat and overcoat, summoned a Hackney and set off to see my old friend and colleague. As we trotted along, it occurred to me I’d not heard from Holmes since his return from Massachusetts, and I wanted to probe him on his adventures.

      Mrs Hudson greeted me with a grunt, slamming the door sharply behind me. She proceeded to follow me up the stairs, muttering disgruntled remonstrations concerning the absence of her name from any of my stories in The Strand Magazine.

      ‘Well,’ I said, as she pressed her bosoms into my chest, ‘I always make a point of mentioning your lovely muffins…’

      ‘Oh, yes,’ she said. ‘And don’ you make a bloody fing of ‘em as well. You was a decent bloke afore you got all involved wiv ‘is ‘ighness in there. When you first moved in ‘ere, you was all nice and polite an’ that. Now all I get is snidey remarks about my minge and my boobies.’

      I coughed and patted her shoulder. ‘I’m fairly certain I’ve never mentioned your minge, Mrs Hudson, but you’re quite right, and I will from henceforth rather be myself.’ Expecting the quote to go over her head, her response surprised me.

      ‘I should fink so, an’all. Always thought your presence was too bold and peremptory.’ She gave me a sly smile, then turned and stomped back downstairs, her rear end wobbling from side to side like a sack of overinflated balloons. (Note to self—replace with a more appropriate description.)

      ‘Ah, Watson,’ said Holmes, pulling the door wide. ‘Jolly good to see you old chap. Take a pew.’

      I settled into my usual armchair by the fire and waited while Holmes poured tea and offered me one of Mrs Hudson’s delightful muffins. As I munched away, Holmes sorted through his post, putting aside two or three letters to examine later. One, however, he glared at, sniffed the envelope, and threw into the fire.

      ‘Getting hate mail, Holmes?’ said I.

      ‘That, at least, might hold some interest. No, it’s just another invitation to dinner from my dear brother.’

      ‘You didn’t even open it, Holmes. How can you possibly know it’s an invitation?’

      ‘Via a basic examination of the facts, Watson. The handwriting is clearly that of Mycroft, in his usual indecipherable scrawl. The envelope has the distinct aroma of cigar smoke, cauliflower cheese and carbolic soap. The only people Mycroft knows who smoke cigars are those interminably dull politicians and industrialists who spend their time sat on their fat bottoms eating cauliflower cheese at the Diogenes Club.’

      ‘And the soap?’

      ‘Mycroft’s phobia of germs is legendary. Washes his hands a dozen times a day and has lately taken to carrying a bar of carbolic everywhere he goes.’

      I nodded. ‘Still. An invitation to dinner’s not so bad, is it?’

      ‘Oh, so you’d be perfectly happy conversing with the aforementioned politicos and industrial types while having cigar smoke blown in your face from every angle, would you?’

      ‘No, probably not.’ I sipped my tea and took another bite of my muffin.

      Sherlock sat quietly for a moment then, giving me one of his inscrutable smiles, said, ‘Mary get off alright, did she?’

      ‘Mary?’ I said.

      ‘Skipton, wasn’t it?’ His eyes sparkled, and I could see I wouldn’t get away with ignoring him.

      ‘That’s right, Holmes.’ I paused, sighed and, striving to keep the irritation out of my voice, asked the expected question. ‘But how could you possibly know?’

      ‘Elementary, my dear Watson.’ He leaned back, gazing upwards, as if searching for a tiny crack in the ceiling. ‘I recall Mary mentioned an ancient aunt in Yorkshire. Great Aunt Roberta, isn’t it?’

      I nodded. ‘But the county covers a large geographical area. Hardly specific.’

      He smiled sardonically. ‘I occasionally take The Yorkshire Post, you know, and last week’s issue reported an outbreak of influenza. In Skipton. And of course,’ he added, stuffing his meerschaum with a generous helping of Hard Shag, ‘the elderly can be prone to such infections.’ He struck a Swan Vesta and lit his pipe, puffing away for a moment. ‘Aside from such details, I did see Mary get on the train as I was booking our tickets yesterday afternoon.’

      ‘You never fail to amaze me,’ I said, with only a hint of sarcasm.

      Holmes grinned and watched me for a moment. I realised he was waiting for me to ask another question.

      ‘Er…’

      ‘Really, Watson,’ he muttered. ‘Sometimes I wonder about your faculties. I said, Booking our tickets…’

      ‘Oh!’ I laughed and slapped my leg as if chastising myself. ‘Of course. What tickets, Holmes?’

      ‘Monday morning,’ he said. ‘The 11:36 from King’s Cross. We’re off to Clovenhoof Vale.’

      ‘Clovenhoof what?’

      ‘Vale. You won’t have heard of it. The place is a small village a few dozen miles south of Carlisle. An old school pal of mine has written, asking me to visit.’

      I nodded. ‘I see.’

      Holmes chewed his lower lip in a manner that suggested there might be something he hadn’t told me.

      ‘And?’ I said.

      ‘And I thought you might like to come along, that’s all.’ He coughed and looked out of the window.

      ‘Holmes…’

      ‘Oh, very well.’ He coughed again and made harrumphing noises for a moment. Eventually, he said, ‘Fact is, this chap’s sister is ill.’

      ‘Ah. Like Mary’s aunt.’

      ‘Possibly. But…’ He sighed. ‘You know me, Watson. Not at home to sickly folk. I thought…’ He looked up, hopefully.

      ‘You thought I might come along and take care of any...medical issues.’

      ‘That’s it entirely.’ He resumed puffing his pipe.

      I had no reason to refuse his offer, and as Mary would be indisposed for a few days at least, the ministering to a lone patient would hardly tax my skills. ‘Very well,’ I said. ‘So, this pal of yours—rich, is he?’

      ‘Not short of a few bob,’ said Holmes. ‘Never been to the family seat before, but I believe it’s a fairly impressive residence.’

      ‘Well,’ I said. ‘At least it won’t collapse around our ears.’

      We shared a chuckle at this, recalling our adventure on Huge Island.

      ‘By the way,’ I said, helping myself to another muffin. ‘What’s this chap’s name?’

      ‘Usher,’ said Holmes. ‘Roderick Usher.’

      Diary of Doctor J. Watson

      Monday

      After telegraphing Mary to let her know my plans, I caught a Hackney to Baker Street and picked up Holmes. We caught the 11:36 from King’s Cross and settled ourselves in our compartment with our luggage and a basket of Mrs Hudson’s exceedingly good cakes. I spent some time updating my diary while Holmes buried his nose in The Times, making occasional comments about this or that news item.

      It was a few hours later that the train slowed as we approached Carlisle.

      ‘Not long now,’ said Holmes, cheerfully. I guessed he envisioned a warm welcome when we reached our destination, and felt heartened that he had perked up since our initial conversation about the visit. Even so, I did feel there might be some detail about Mr Usher that Holmes had neglected to mention.

      Having endured several irritations in our transfer from the Carlisle train to a branch line locomotive, we duly arrived at a small station which served the community of Clovenhoof. To say we were not impressed with the service we found there would be a gross understatement. Holmes had assured me his pal Usher would arrange suitable transportation for the final leg of our journey. In fact, a surly chap in possession of a rough cart had been engaged by that aforementioned gentleman, but on questioning him, we discovered a certain lack of enthusiasm on his part to undertake the task for which he had already been remunerated.

      ‘Oi did tell ‘im Oi weren’t goin ter take yous all the way to the ‘ouse,’ said the man, with an air of derision.

      ‘And why not?’ demanded Holmes.

      ‘Oi told ‘im. Rum ‘ol place that. Weird goings-on. Ain’t goin nowhere near it, Oi ain’t, less’n there be summat approachin recompensive compensation sort of thing.’

      Holmes turned to me. ‘I do believe the fellow’s taking the piss, Watson.’ To the surly cart owner, he said (with a rising inflection which did not bode well if further negotiations proved necessary), ‘Are you telling us, you dull-witted individual, that you require additional monetary inducement?’

      ‘Summat loike that.’ He gave us a sly grin that only confirmed our suspicions.

      I could see Holmes might explode if the conversation were to proceed any further, so I dug into my pocket and handed over a few shillings. ‘If I were you, sir, I should take this and be grateful.’

      The man doffed his cap and waved us aboard the shabby cart. Holmes grumbled a bit but quietened down as we got under way.

      The journey to the house proved to be a pleasant enough one, but as we progressed along country lanes and leafy byways, the landscape underwent a change. The sky darkened, despite the heat of the day, and seemed to hang low in a manner that suggested a thunderstorm might be on its way, though it was hardly the time of year for such atmospheric manifestations.

      At length, we pulled up at what appeared to be the entrance to a long driveway, bordered by rows of lacklustre trees of a type I had not seen before.

      ‘Ere ye go, gents,’ said our driver. ‘Oi goes no further.’

      ‘Excellent,’ said Holmes, with only a smidgen of condescension.

      We hauled our luggage down and watched as the cart turned around and set off back towards the village.

      ‘Up this way, then,’ I said, indicating the pitted roadway that stretched out before us.

      Passing the line of trees, the landscape opened out into one of fields and scattered hedges, both of which had a burnt, wasted appearance. I assumed some kind of bacterial or fungal pestilence had decimated the plant life, if indeed there had been any life at all in the ashen ground.

      ‘I have to say, Watson,’ muttered Holmes as we advanced towards the house, ‘a certain feeling of trepidation has come upon me about this place.’

      ‘The geography does have a sense of gloom about it,’ I said, gazing around. ‘But I expect your chum will make us feel welcome.’

      Gradually, the house itself came into view and I

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