The Sherlock Holmes Megapack: 25 Modern Tales by Masters: 25 Modern Tales by Masters by Mike Resnick, Michael Kurland
Authors: Mike Resnick, Michael Kurland
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uttered.
“John, you did send notification to your friend that we were coming, didn’t you?”
“I fear I forgot. In the past, it was Holmes who had always taken care of such details.”
“Well,” I sighed, “ready or not, Mr Mandeville, here we come.” John took the opportunity to retreat, rather sheepishly, into his newspaper while I contented myself with staring out the window at the countryside, which was verdant under the veil of rain.
Getting to the village of Helmouth, however, proved even more tiring and time-consuming than I had imagined. By the time we actually set foot on the train platform I felt as though we had been travelling for days. While I supervised the collection of our few bags, John went into the stationmaster’s office to engage a carriage to take us to Rupert Mandeville’s home.
It turned out to be an open carriage, and by the time we had arrived at the bleak-looking, multi-gabled house that was perched over the cliffs at a point that appeared to be the end of the world, my face had been so stung by the cold that it was completely numb. I had become so frozen, in fact, that I barely had enough movement in my limbs to step down from the carriage in front of the stark edifice belonging to Rupert Mandeville.
John knocked on the great front door, which was soon opened by an elderly, prim-looking servant. “Yes sir,” he said, screwing his face up against the cold wind.
“Dr and Mrs John Watson to see Rupert Mandeville,” he announced, but this only seemed to confuse the servant.
“I was informed of no one’s arrival,” he countered.
“Mr Mandeville invited me by his own hand,” John said. “We’ve come from London.”
Now another man appeared in the doorway, a darkly handsome fellow of perhaps a year or two over twenty, but whose cool eyes emitted the blasé attitude of a jaded elder.
“What is it, Jenkins?” the youth demanded.
“Mr Phillip, this man says the master sent for him,” Jenkins replied.
“Impossible,” the young man said, frowning.
“But I have his letter!” John protested. This was quickly followed by another, lighter voice, which called: “Dr Watson, is that you?”
“Yes!” John confirmed as another young man appeared at the door. This one bore a strong resemblance to one called Phillip, but was considerably younger and softer, perhaps still in his teen years. I took them for brothers. “Father spoke of you often,” the younger man said, “please come in.”
“Edward, what is this about?” the elder, darker brother demanded, but before the doe-like youth could answer, yet another voice was heard, this one shouting: “Good God, close that door! It’s cold as a barn in here!”
A third youth then appeared, this one so identical to Phillip that I assumed they must have been twins. Only a pair of wire spectacles on the face of the newly-arrived brother distinguished him from his sibling.
Once inside (which was thankfully warm, courtesy of a raging fire in the hearth), John handed his letter of invitation to Phillip, who grimly examined it before inquiring, “When did you receive this?”
“Yesterday,” John answered.
The twins glanced at each other. “A pretty trick,” the bespectacled pronounced.
“Indeed,” echoed the other. “Since you are here, I suppose I should be civil. I am Phillip Mandeville, and these are my brothers Charles and Edward. And frankly, I am quite puzzled by this note.”
“Perhaps your father could straighten this matter out,” John said. “Might I see him?”
“I’m afraid not,” Phillip stated. “Father was buried a fortnight ago.”
“A fortnight?” John cried. “Then how could I receive—?”
“My question exactly,” Phillip said.
After a long, uncomfortable pause, Edward Mandeville spoke up. “I wrote the letter,” he said. “I copied father’s handwriting and posted it without your knowing, Phillip.”
The anger and frustration that this confession provoked from Phillip
“John, you did send notification to your friend that we were coming, didn’t you?”
“I fear I forgot. In the past, it was Holmes who had always taken care of such details.”
“Well,” I sighed, “ready or not, Mr Mandeville, here we come.” John took the opportunity to retreat, rather sheepishly, into his newspaper while I contented myself with staring out the window at the countryside, which was verdant under the veil of rain.
Getting to the village of Helmouth, however, proved even more tiring and time-consuming than I had imagined. By the time we actually set foot on the train platform I felt as though we had been travelling for days. While I supervised the collection of our few bags, John went into the stationmaster’s office to engage a carriage to take us to Rupert Mandeville’s home.
It turned out to be an open carriage, and by the time we had arrived at the bleak-looking, multi-gabled house that was perched over the cliffs at a point that appeared to be the end of the world, my face had been so stung by the cold that it was completely numb. I had become so frozen, in fact, that I barely had enough movement in my limbs to step down from the carriage in front of the stark edifice belonging to Rupert Mandeville.
John knocked on the great front door, which was soon opened by an elderly, prim-looking servant. “Yes sir,” he said, screwing his face up against the cold wind.
“Dr and Mrs John Watson to see Rupert Mandeville,” he announced, but this only seemed to confuse the servant.
“I was informed of no one’s arrival,” he countered.
“Mr Mandeville invited me by his own hand,” John said. “We’ve come from London.”
Now another man appeared in the doorway, a darkly handsome fellow of perhaps a year or two over twenty, but whose cool eyes emitted the blasé attitude of a jaded elder.
“What is it, Jenkins?” the youth demanded.
“Mr Phillip, this man says the master sent for him,” Jenkins replied.
“Impossible,” the young man said, frowning.
“But I have his letter!” John protested. This was quickly followed by another, lighter voice, which called: “Dr Watson, is that you?”
“Yes!” John confirmed as another young man appeared at the door. This one bore a strong resemblance to one called Phillip, but was considerably younger and softer, perhaps still in his teen years. I took them for brothers. “Father spoke of you often,” the younger man said, “please come in.”
“Edward, what is this about?” the elder, darker brother demanded, but before the doe-like youth could answer, yet another voice was heard, this one shouting: “Good God, close that door! It’s cold as a barn in here!”
A third youth then appeared, this one so identical to Phillip that I assumed they must have been twins. Only a pair of wire spectacles on the face of the newly-arrived brother distinguished him from his sibling.
Once inside (which was thankfully warm, courtesy of a raging fire in the hearth), John handed his letter of invitation to Phillip, who grimly examined it before inquiring, “When did you receive this?”
“Yesterday,” John answered.
The twins glanced at each other. “A pretty trick,” the bespectacled pronounced.
“Indeed,” echoed the other. “Since you are here, I suppose I should be civil. I am Phillip Mandeville, and these are my brothers Charles and Edward. And frankly, I am quite puzzled by this note.”
“Perhaps your father could straighten this matter out,” John said. “Might I see him?”
“I’m afraid not,” Phillip stated. “Father was buried a fortnight ago.”
“A fortnight?” John cried. “Then how could I receive—?”
“My question exactly,” Phillip said.
After a long, uncomfortable pause, Edward Mandeville spoke up. “I wrote the letter,” he said. “I copied father’s handwriting and posted it without your knowing, Phillip.”
The anger and frustration that this confession provoked from Phillip
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