Siciliano The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes - The Gentleman Burglar

1. Auflage 2024
ISBN: 978-1-80336-945-7
Verlag: Titan Books
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark

E-Book, Englisch, Band 36, 320 Seiten

Reihe: Sherlock Holmes

A daring and delightful crossover of Sherlock Holmes and his criminal adversity: Arsène Lupin, the Gentleman Burglar. These superb sleuths will solve intricate riddles and journey across France and beyond to uncover the long-lost treasure of the House of Bourbon. Sherlock Holmes and his cousin, Vernier, have been hired by the Baron of Creuse to find the legendary lost treasure of the kings of France. Trekking from La Belle Époque Paris to a chateau in the rural center of France, Holmes, Vernier and a new companion must employ all their wit to solve the fiendishly difficult puzzle of the Hollow Needle. After deciphering the meaning of the phrase 'st. s. 138' and decoding a mysterious document, they realize the answer lies to the north in Normandy near the town of Étretat. Together, they follow a long-buried path to an ancient secret, but fresh mysteries and new complications immediately arise. But other forces are at work, and jealous hands seek to interfere with Holmes's work. He must team up with the notorious gentleman-burglar, Arsène Lupin, if he is to find the treasure and avert an international disaster at sea.

Sam Siciliano is the author of several novels, including the Sherlock Holmes titles The Angel of the Opera, The Web Weaver, The Grimswell Curse and The White Worm. He lives in Vancouver, Washington.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Siciliano, Sam

Leseproben

Chapter 1
On a typical late March afternoon in Paris, cold and rainy with dark clouds, the weather more reminiscent of winter than spring, my cousin Sherlock Holmes and I walked along a narrow street on the Île Saint-Louis. The island was in the oldest part of the city, at its very heart, next to the other small island where the church of Notre-Dame stood. We were on our way to the mansion or hôtel particulier of the Baron Frédéric Chamerac to discuss some mysterious business. Ahead of us, a shadowy figure came out of a side street: a monstrously large black overcoat hid his bent body, a cane tapped at the pavement, and a black country cleric’s hat with a wide brim cast a shadow over two odd smears of blue—the colored glass lenses of his spectacles. Around his neck, a narrow band of white with a notch at the center marked him as a Catholic priest. His tortoise-like shuffle and labored gait were those of a very old man. As he came closer, a mangy white beard and long wisps of white hair curling from under the hat were evident, and on his right cheek was a reddish-brown blotch, either a blemish from birth or from his extreme age. He came toward us, glanced up, then stopped. Holmes nodded. “Bonjour, monsieur l’abbé.” “Bonjour, Monsieur Sherlock Holmes,” croaked the old man. His hoarseness had a husky crackle like that of a crow or raven. “Have we met before?” Holmes asked him in French, and the man replied in kind. “No, but I know you. And I come with a warning: beware the treasure of the Needle. It swims in centuries of blood, and the grievous crimes of the French monarchs have poisoned it. No good can ever come of such tainted wealth. It is cursed. And do not trust the baron! Greed is one of the seven deadly sins, and his greed has swallowed him up entirely.” Holmes gave him a curious glance, his blue-gray eyes faintly puzzled. We both wore the requisite gentleman’s garb: long black woolen frock coats with striped gray trousers, shiny shoes, gray leather gloves, and black silken top hats. Holmes held the silver handle of an elegant walking stick of ebony wood. The corners of his mouth rose slightly. “You seem singularly well informed, mon ami.” The old man nodded. His thin nose had an odd sort of curve at the end, and his long white mustache hid his lips. He raised his cane shakily. “Remember.” He lowered the cane, then resumed his shuffling walk, passing us by. Holmes and I watched him go. Holmes glanced at me, still smiling faintly. “Quite a remarkable performance.” I was frowning slightly. “Did you tell anyone that you were coming to see the baron?” “No, but obviously someone has heard about it.” We had nearly reached the end of Rue Saint-Louis en l’Île, a street which bisected the tiny island, and we started through a small park. The wooden benches were wet and barren, the tall, pruned plane trees just beginning to leaf out. The sandy gravel underfoot was darkened by moisture. Something made a noise in the bushes, and I turned in time to catch sight of a gray form with a long curving pink tail. “Lord!” I exclaimed. “How I hate a rat.” Looking more closely amidst the greenery I could make out many more small forms. “This place is crawling with them!” “No doubt the water of the Seine attracts them.” We stepped out of the park onto another street which curved round the island, and the gray waters of the river were before and round us. A coal barge puffing smoke was lumbering by, kicking up a white wake in the dark water. To our left rose the facade of the mansion, one of those spectacular old Parisian buildings of tan-colored limestone, probably built in the seventeenth or eighteenth century. Four stories high, with dormers higher still in the dark gray slate roof, the building had many tall white-framed and paneled windows. Across the cobbled way was a curving stone wall with, at intervals, openings to the steps which led down to the walkway along the Seine. The house’s entrance had huge doors of cast bronze with an elaborate design, and above the curving top was an impressive smiling sun god in relief with some strange dragon-like, fish-like, creatures on either side, winged and yet with odd curving tails. Holmes had to look about to find the small button of the bell on the left side. He pressed it. We waited briefly. Unlike a more common sort of dwelling, you certainly could not hear any sounds coming from behind the thick barrier of those doors. They opened at last, and a thin elderly man in black formal dress peered warily out at us. Holmes nodded. “Je suis Sherlock Holmes. Le baron m’attend.” “Ah, oui, monsieur.” He gazed rather sternly at me. “Et ce n’est pas encore un Watson?” I sighed, wishing again I had a shilling for every time I had been mistaken for Watson. “Mon nom est Vernier,” I said. “Ah, très bien, Monsieur Vernier. Venez, venez.” We followed him into the vestibule, and he took our hats, gloves, and Holmes’s stick, setting them aside. We followed him up an incredible stone staircase and down a hallway. The opulence and ornamentation were spectacular, somewhat akin to Versailles or the Vatican palaces. There were no simple bare walls or ceilings. Statuesque maidens in relief lined the hallway; there were framed circular mirrors, curves, and arabesques everywhere of gold, and overhead on the ceiling, painted gods and goddesses lolled about pastures and woods, blue sky occasionally showing through. The floor was an elaborate wooden parquet of different hues of brown, varying from the yellow of oak to the dark shade of walnut. We came into a sitting room filled with plush furniture of a crimson velvet, chairs and sofas all with carved curving legs, as well as small tables with bronze candelabras or brass lamps. Overhead hung two chandeliers with a myriad of dangling spangles of cut crystal. A young woman sat in a corner near a window with a book on her lap, the blue of her dress clashing with all the red. She stood up and nodded. She appeared only about twenty and was one of those women whose remarkable beauty made it difficult for a normal red-blooded man not to stare. Her skin was very fair, with a hint of pink at her cheeks, her eyes a clear light blue, and her tightly bound hair was a silvery blond. Her nose was slight, but again, most men’s eyes would be drawn to those full, sensual lips, so warmly and darkly colored for someone of such a pale, cool complexion. Her dress would have cost far more than what a typical lady’s maid earned in a year. It was the latest fashionable cut, with leg-of-mutton style sleeves which narrowed about her slender wrists, and the beautiful azure silk shimmered under the gray-white light coming from the tall window. She looked only about five feet tall, and she had tiny, delicate white hands. She nodded. “Messieurs.” Holmes did the same. “Mademoiselle.” He gave a questioning look at the old servant. The man’s face was carefully neutral, but a couple of vertical creases showed above his nose. “Mademoiselle Chamerac, the baron’s niece. This way, gentlemen. The baron is waiting for you in the library.” He opened the doors to perhaps the most magnificent library I have ever seen. Rows of leather-backed tomes of different heights lined tall shelves along the walls, and the ceiling was partitioned off into ornately framed sections with paintings within them, while on the floor was a splendid multicolored oriental rug. A massive table stained a dark brown-black dominated the room. Three tall windows bathed the interior with gray-white light. Two men sat at the far end of the table, and they rose to greet us. A certain haughty air, as well as the finely tailored cut of his double-breasted frock coat, made the identity of Frédéric Chamerac, the Baron de Creuse, obvious enough. He was the shorter of the two, slightly stocky but broad-shouldered, and he had long wavy chestnut hair shiny with pomade and a big mustache waxed to points. His coat had striking ivory buttons, and the soft-looking blackish wool which was probably genuine cashmere, had a hint of blue in it. The coat’s extravagant style and the swooping curve of the skirts made it clearly the work of a French tailor, rather than an English one. His taller companion might have been younger, but his large, pale, shining cranium—emphasized by the contrasting black hair over his ears and two thick, black, mustache-like eyebrows—made him appear old. Rather than trying to comb his scanty hair forward to hide his baldness, he had swept it defiantly back, and his full but meticulously trimmed black beard and mustache dominated his face. His thin lips were set in a taut line, and he wore a dark gray suit, probably bought off the rack at one of the grand Parisian department stores. The baron had piercing blue eyes, and his forehead was creased. Staring at Holmes, he seemed to relax ever so slightly. “I see Dr. Watson is not with you.” My cousin is very fluent in French, and it is my mother tongue, so the conversation that followed was in that language. “No, this is my cousin and associate Dr. Henry Vernier.” The baron hesitated, his brow furrowed ominously, his eyes showing a seething anger. “I—I must tell you that I have rarely been so insulted in my life! If we are to do business, I must have your word that I shall never see him again.” Holmes stared at him, obviously flummoxed. “Of whom are you speaking?” “Who else?...