Read an extract from The Baker Street Phantom
Read on for an enticing extract from Fabrice Bourland’s first fantasy crime novel…
In the spring of 1932, with Londoners terrorised by a series of brutal murders, the private detective agency of Messrs. Singleton and Trelawney quietly opens its doors in Bloomsbury.
The first person to call on their services is a worried Lady Arthur Conan Doyle. She tells of mysterious events at 221 Baker Street – and a premonition that the London murders signal terrible danger for mankind.
Their investigation will take our intrepid heroes into a world of séances and spirits. Aided by the most famous detective of all time, they must draw on their knowledge of the imaginary to find the perpetrators of some very real and bloody crimes before they strike again…
IV
A MOST UNEXPECTED VISIT (CONTINUED)
After a moment’s silence, James said encouragingly to our illustrious visitor, ‘Lady Conan Doyle, we are dying to know why you wanted to meet us. If you are ready to tell us, Andrew and I are ready to listen.’
‘Thank you, Mr Trelawney. What brought me here is a source of great torment to me. To tell you the truth, I can no longer sleep at night …’
Lady Conan Doyle briefly turned her gaze to the shelves of books on either side of the fireplace.
‘I imagine you know my husband’s work?’ she asked.
‘Oh, we have read and reread his books,’ I replied, removing my hand from my ear. ‘He’s one of my favourite authors.’
‘And I would add,’ interjected my companion, ‘that the character of Sherlock Holmes is what made me want to become a detective as a child. Although I now realise that the reality of the work is far less attractive than reading his stories led me to believe.’
‘Oh, reality is often much more unbelievable than one might imagine, Mr Trelawney! But tell me, did you deliberately choose Montague Street?’
‘Why do you ask?’ I queried, surprised.
‘If you are avid readers of those adventures, you will know that this was Sherlock Holmes’s first address in London. It is where he began his work as a detective before meeting Dr Watson and moving to Baker Street. My husband refers to it in one of his short stories, “The Adventure of the Musgrave Ritual”.’
James and I burst out laughing. I admitted it first.
‘My word, Lady Conan Doyle, if ever I was aware of that, it had completely slipped my mind.’
‘How hopeless we both are!’ James continued. ‘We will have to go back to our classics.’
‘Please, gentlemen, I did not mean to offend. On the contrary, I think it is another indication of fate. It confirms that I was not mistaken in deciding to come and consult you.’
Lady Conan Doyle fell silent once again for a long moment. She was clearly trying to find the courage to speak.
Finally she resumed calmly enough, although her voice betrayed her anxiety, ‘As you know perhaps, my husband died two years ago on 7 July 1930 at the age of seventy-one. The sun had just started to rise over the grounds at Windlesham when his eyes closed for ever. The night before had been very agitated. My sons and I took turns sleeping on a small sofa outside his room. Arthur did not want anyone with him. He did not want to be seen in that state.
‘I should add that my husband had had his first heart attack the year before, in the spring of 1929, during a lecture tour in Northern Europe; he returned to Windlesham in a wheelchair and never really recovered.
‘He was very physically diminished the week before he died but he had wanted to be part of the spiritualist delegation received by the Home Secretary with a view to repealing the Witchcraft Act. The doctors tried to dissuade him but when my husband had decided to do something, no one could change his mind. The meeting was important to him. He returned home looking even weaker and older, more worn out and ill. From that day, we knew that the end was near.
‘At about two or three o’clock in the morning we thought we heard murmurs and whispered cursing coming from his room but we could not identify who it was. Was it Arthur, rendered unrecognisable by his suffering? Was it the voice of someone else? My sons and I entered the room several times, intrigued by the strange mutterings, but each time we found only my husband, lying on his bed in an agitated state of semi-wakefulness. When Arthur opened his eyes, it was to try to reassure us and convince us that everything was fine and to tell us to go and get some rest.
‘Later, at about four or five o’clock in the morning, just before the sun began to rise, we were alerted by groans. He was choking. We sent one of the servants to fetch the doctor. He arrived quickly and diagnosed another heart attack. Arthur could no longer say a word; the attack had left him unable to speak. Then he suddenly gestured to indicate that he wanted something to write with. Denis, our eldest son, quickly gave him a piece of paper and my husband wrote a few words on it. They were his last. After that, his soul left us once and for all.’
Lady Conan Doyle took a piece of paper folded in four from her handbag. She handed it to me. She really did appear to want me to play the leading role.
I took the piece of paper and unfolded it. In a trembling hand Arthur Conan Doyle had written: ‘The lodger is in the box and there he must stay!’
