Sherlock Holmes and the Case of the Sword Princess
Read Sherlock Holmes and the Case of the Sword Princess Online
Authors: Suzette Hollingsworth
Praise for Suzette Hollingsworth’s novels
Praise for Suzette Hollingsworth’s novels
“This is an excellent, gifted writer, with a true future ahead of her.” –
CHARLOTTE CARTER
“This is a very fascinating novel. All the characters are very vibrant and come to life while reading them.” -- Coffee Time Romance & More
“The wonderful way she writes I felt engaged in the travels and emotions provided through a very talented writer!” – RenaK, Amazon reader
“Her humor is refreshing, I laughed out-loud on a few occasions, shed a few tears, and sat on the edge of my seat for most of it.” -- AnaMaree, Amazon reader
Sherlock Holmes and the Case of the Sword Princess was a finalist in the 2014 Pages From the Heart Contest
Sherlock Holmes
and the Case of the Sword Princess
The Great Detective In Love #1
Sherlock Holmes solves the most perplexing mystery of his life—
unlocking the human heart.
Copyright (C) 2015 by Suzette Hollingsworth
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. Any similarities to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
That would be an ecumenical matter.
I like this ship.
It’s exciting
.
Published by Icicle Ridge Graphics. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at the following website address
http://suzettehollingsworth.com/
ISBN:
978-0-9909952-4-1
Cover design by
Fiona Jayde Media
Interior illustrations by
Clint Hollingsworth
Dedication
To the Girls of SHS ’75
Sword Princesses and Beach Babes all
Connie, Charlsie, Jill, Julie, Kem, Lisa,
Margaret MH, Margaret SW, Michelle, Pam, SueAnn,
Sheri, Sandra, and Valerie
1
221B Baker Street, Westminster
London
1881
“
Blast
!
Mrs. Hudson, how can I get any work done with dirty lab jars?” blared Sherlock Holmes from the laboratory of his second-floor flat on Baker Street.
“I’m sure I don’t know, and I’m sure it isn’t anything to do with me!” Mrs. Hudson retorted to the prominent detective, smoothing the white apron on her finely tailored blue and white striped pleated dress.
“I’m paid to fix your meals and to keep your clothes washed and pressed—which is naw a job fit for a lady and no easy feat considerin’ the vermin you associate with!”
“Mrs. Hudson, may we return to the matter at hand if it would not trouble you too much?” Sherlock sighed without looking up, shuffling through stacks of papers on his desk next to the laboratory table.
He balanced himself precariously on a stool with the muscular control of an amateur boxer, his feet not touching the ground even while his hands flew wildly in a frantic search.
“And what might that be?
I won’t be putting my hand in your chemicals, I’ll ‘ave you know—I ‘ave no intention of losing an arm!
I’ve already lost me mind or I wouldn’t be livin’ in the same building with you!”
“Look!
Look!” Holmes exclaimed as he flapped a letter in front of her nose.
“This is a commission from King Nicholas I of Montenegro as regards his daughter, Princess
Elena Petrovi
ć
-Njegoš
!
What if I had lost this—or worse, never knew of its existence?
What would happen to the princess then, I ask you, Mrs. Hudson?”
He threw the letter on a nearby pile of papers, which quickly swallowed the letter, even as he continued his vigorous search.
Mrs. Hudson pulled at her white apron as she battled with an obvious desire to assist.
“Are you looking for yer commitment papers to the
London Asylum for the Insane
?
Or
mine
?”
“No, I’m looking for . . .
Aha
!” Underneath the papers he retrieved a Persian slipper, filled with his favorite tobacco, which he proceeded to place into his pipe.
He lit the pipe and languidly indulged in a long puff before returning his attention to his landlady.
“You know how I hate to repeat myself, Mrs. Hudson; lost forever are the discoveries which might have been made when one is doing so.”
“Me sympathies ‘re with ye, Mr. ‘Olmes.
I hate it meself when you repeat yerself,” retorted Mrs. Hudson, tapping her shoe on the wooden floor.
“I beg you to keep your mind on the problem at hand, Mrs. Hudson.”
“Aye, I’m lookin’ straight at it, Mr. ‘Olmes.”
“The matter at hand, as you are fully aware,” he raised his eyebrow at her, “is that of maintaining some cleanliness and order in my laboratory.”
“Auch now, that’s too bad, so it is.
Well then, why don’t you take care of it instead of wasting yer time talking to me, Mister Sherlock ‘Olmes?
Ye’re an able-bodied man so far as I can see: your insanity should not interfere with yer ability to clean.”
Her eyes moved past the filthy bearskin rug to the letters stuck to the mantelpiece with a jackknife.
“I hope you have no qualms with the lives of murdered young women on your conscience, Mrs. Hudson, because that’s precisely what you do have.
If my train of thought is sufficiently broken—and it is, I might add—the case might go unsolved, leaving this mad killer on the loose.”
“And that’s me fault?
Because your jars ain’t washed?”
“Precisely.”
Seating himself on his stool, he blew a smoke ring from his pipe, glancing at one of the jars on his laboratory table which had tipped over, a substance with an unusually pungent stench oozing from the jar.
“Well, glory be.
I ahnt no world famous detective—and even I see that’s flim-flammery.”
Mrs. Hudson tapped her foot.
“And yet—it is the reality of things,” Sherlock concluded smugly while puffing on his pipe.
“If it describes reality, then it must
be
logical, mustn’t it?
Truth can be nothing else.”
“That’s rubbish, that is.
You, Mr. ‘Olmes, ‘ave naw the slightest acquaintance with reality.
And if you was ever to be introduced, she would run screamin’ off a cliff.”
Her eyes momentarily rested on handcuffs shuffled amongst Sherlock’s papers.
Surveying the wall above his desk, she observed a photograph, hung with uncharacteristic care, of a Miss Irene Adler.
“I beg to differ, my dear Mrs. Hudson.
The reality of the situation is that I must be allowed to work and I must have no distractions when my mind is in its place of genius—which is most of the time.
And if the environment is not conducive, and only Inspector LeStrade is available to solve the mystery . . .
well, there you see the problem.”
“Here’s a mystery for ye, Mister ‘Olmes:
You need help in the laboratory, I ain’t going to do it, so it is.
What are you going to do?”
He raised an eyebrow at her.
“Direct my excellent landlady to find someone to assist me, of course.”
2
“Wait for me, Elena!”
Prince Danilo rode beside her, galloping his horse and still having a great deal of difficulty keeping pace with the beautiful Arabian princess.
They rode outside Cetinje, the capital of Montenegro bordering the Adriatic Sea, amongst a plain surrounded by limestone mountains.
From their mounts they could see Mt. Lov
ć
en, the Black Mountain, ever sinister and foreshadowing.
“I wait for no one, brother, when there is a prize,” replied the princess of Montenegro.
True to her word, she did not let up on the speed of her favorite stallion.
