Sherlock Holmes & The Master Engraver (Sherlock Holmes Revival) by Ross Husband Page B
Authors: Ross Husband
Tags: detective fiction
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paper – a ten-pound banknote. Wonderingly I caught several more and all at my touch transformed into real money, so I gleefully pocketed as many as I could. This seemed to me quite splendid sport.
I had just determined to track this unusual torrent of incessant money to its source, when a smartly dressed lady, evidently much distressed, accosted me. I noted that I now found myself to be outside the doorway of a large fashionable villa on a smart suburban street.
“Doctor Watson, please will you help my husband? He is suddenly overtaken by the most dreadful turn! I fear he may not last out the hour!” Not in the least bit mystified by this perfect stranger knowing me by name, I rushed instinctively to oblige.
A pretty young woman in smart maid’s attire brought a glass of water for the gentleman who, to my great relief, speedily recovered. I waved a cheery farewell to the grateful couple as they continued upon their journey.
When I turned to thank the maid, unaccountably she had vanished. Thinking little or nothing of this, I – quite naturally – continued to follow the wondrous, never-ending, blizzard of money; whenever the fancy took me, I reached out and further augmented my fast-growing wealth – indeed, my pockets were soon stuffed to overflowing, and still the great magical ice-crystals fell thick and fast around me. If only Holmes could be with me upon this grand adventure, we could both garner our fortunes with little more application than is required to pick cherries from the tree! I trudged steadily on, and soon noted that I was approaching close to Baker Street.
Turning a corner, I encountered some young rascals engaged in the age-old game of snowballs; one mischievous lad launched his projectile at me.
Deftly I caught the ball of ice crystals in my bare hands, whereupon it instantly metamorphosed into a great cloud of crisp ten-pound notes that fluttered to the ground around me.
Chuckling, I walked on, followed by the gleeful cries of children and adults alike as they harvested the magical currency that seemed to materialise only when I touched the snow.
Stepping around a group of uncouth labourers engaged in stirring a vast cauldron of boiling pitch, I was halted in my tracks by a news-vendor’s bill:
‘OFFICIAL–
BANK OF ENGLAND
GOES BROKE!’
Dumbfounded at such a startling event, I handed the customary few coppers to the vendor, that I might learn more of this astonishing news.
“When was you born Sir? Everyone knows The London Times is a tenner a copy! ’As bin for ages!”
Wonderingly I handed over a £10 note, a mere fraction of my crisp new-found affluence, to the news-vendor which he added to a huge and fast-growing mountain of notes piled high behind his stand.
As I scanned the front page, a tall, skeletal, well-dressed silver-haired gentleman wearing monstrously thick gold-rimmed eyeglasses, whom I somehow felt I had met previously, also purchased a newspaper. “Sorry Sir; it’s twenty pounds a copy now. Best buy one nippy ‘cos it’ll be thirty in a few minutes.” The vendor pointed at me; “Mebbe that gent there will let you have a quick gander at his for a fiver.”
I decided to depart this scene of lunacy and headed for the familiar, comforting sanctuary of my old lodgings at 221B, Baker Street.
The door opened unbidden at my approach. Mrs Hudson gravely offered me several huge bundles of crisp new ten-pound banknotes on a silver tray and said: “Mr Holmes gave me this Doctor but I’ve got so much already, perhaps you would like some?”
“That is most considerate of you Mrs Hudson but I, like you, have more than sufficient of my own.” I reached out and captured a handful of snowflakes. “And here is ample money to cover Mr Holmes’ rent for some years ahead” and I mounted the stairs. As I approached the door to the parlour, I became aware of a metrical hammering noise issuing from within, the most astonishingly raucous musical performance, and a
I had just determined to track this unusual torrent of incessant money to its source, when a smartly dressed lady, evidently much distressed, accosted me. I noted that I now found myself to be outside the doorway of a large fashionable villa on a smart suburban street.
“Doctor Watson, please will you help my husband? He is suddenly overtaken by the most dreadful turn! I fear he may not last out the hour!” Not in the least bit mystified by this perfect stranger knowing me by name, I rushed instinctively to oblige.
A pretty young woman in smart maid’s attire brought a glass of water for the gentleman who, to my great relief, speedily recovered. I waved a cheery farewell to the grateful couple as they continued upon their journey.
When I turned to thank the maid, unaccountably she had vanished. Thinking little or nothing of this, I – quite naturally – continued to follow the wondrous, never-ending, blizzard of money; whenever the fancy took me, I reached out and further augmented my fast-growing wealth – indeed, my pockets were soon stuffed to overflowing, and still the great magical ice-crystals fell thick and fast around me. If only Holmes could be with me upon this grand adventure, we could both garner our fortunes with little more application than is required to pick cherries from the tree! I trudged steadily on, and soon noted that I was approaching close to Baker Street.
Turning a corner, I encountered some young rascals engaged in the age-old game of snowballs; one mischievous lad launched his projectile at me.
Deftly I caught the ball of ice crystals in my bare hands, whereupon it instantly metamorphosed into a great cloud of crisp ten-pound notes that fluttered to the ground around me.
Chuckling, I walked on, followed by the gleeful cries of children and adults alike as they harvested the magical currency that seemed to materialise only when I touched the snow.
Stepping around a group of uncouth labourers engaged in stirring a vast cauldron of boiling pitch, I was halted in my tracks by a news-vendor’s bill:
‘OFFICIAL–
BANK OF ENGLAND
GOES BROKE!’
Dumbfounded at such a startling event, I handed the customary few coppers to the vendor, that I might learn more of this astonishing news.
“When was you born Sir? Everyone knows The London Times is a tenner a copy! ’As bin for ages!”
Wonderingly I handed over a £10 note, a mere fraction of my crisp new-found affluence, to the news-vendor which he added to a huge and fast-growing mountain of notes piled high behind his stand.
As I scanned the front page, a tall, skeletal, well-dressed silver-haired gentleman wearing monstrously thick gold-rimmed eyeglasses, whom I somehow felt I had met previously, also purchased a newspaper. “Sorry Sir; it’s twenty pounds a copy now. Best buy one nippy ‘cos it’ll be thirty in a few minutes.” The vendor pointed at me; “Mebbe that gent there will let you have a quick gander at his for a fiver.”
I decided to depart this scene of lunacy and headed for the familiar, comforting sanctuary of my old lodgings at 221B, Baker Street.
The door opened unbidden at my approach. Mrs Hudson gravely offered me several huge bundles of crisp new ten-pound banknotes on a silver tray and said: “Mr Holmes gave me this Doctor but I’ve got so much already, perhaps you would like some?”
“That is most considerate of you Mrs Hudson but I, like you, have more than sufficient of my own.” I reached out and captured a handful of snowflakes. “And here is ample money to cover Mr Holmes’ rent for some years ahead” and I mounted the stairs. As I approached the door to the parlour, I became aware of a metrical hammering noise issuing from within, the most astonishingly raucous musical performance, and a
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