Showing results by author "Craig Copland" in All Categories

Pray tell, are you addicted to Sherlock Holmes stories? Read the entire Canon? But you need MORE SHERLOCK? You came to the singularly correct place. Sixty new "canonical" Sherlock Holmes stories; each one a tribute to one of the original stories in the Canon. Enjoy. STUDYING SCARLET. A strikingly beautiful mature woman from The South has come to London in search of her estranged husband. She makes contact with three of his associates and a few days later all three are dead, garroted by a shadowy group of anarchists. In need of help she enters 221B Baker Street and hires the world's greatest detective.

Eine schöne, junge Frau betritt die Baker Street 221B. Ihr Vater, dessen engster Freund und ein junger Medizinstudent sind alle in den letzten zwei Wochen gestorben. Obwohl jede Leiche kurz nach dem Tod gefunden wurde, war stets die Totenstarre bereits eingetreten. Die junge Frau glaubt, dass alle ermordet wurden, und sucht die Hilfe von Sherlock Holmes. Die Geschichte ist von der ursprünglichen Sherlock Holmes-Geschichte "Das Zeichen der Vier" inspiriert. Fans von Sherlock Holmes finden hier ihre geliebten Charaktere in einem völlig neuen Krimi.

Du brauchst mehr Sherlock? Du liebst die Geschichten von Doyles Kanon, aber du willst mehr... mehr Geschichten, die den sechzig Originalen ähneln. Hier bist du richtig. Das Fass Lagavulin: "Ah, Watson, wie nett von Ihnen, sich mir anzuschließen. Ich hoffe, ich habe Ihre Arbeit im Krankenhaus nicht gestört." "Keineswegs. Wir jüngeren Ärzte werden nicht gerade überlaufen von Patienten." "Noch nicht, mein lieber Junge. Noch nicht. Ich bin jedoch sehr dankbar, dass Sie hier sind, und ich gehe davon aus, dass es Ihnen gefallen wird, mein Treffen mit diesem Kollegen aufzuzeichnen."

No sooner has Sherlock Holmes arrived in Plymouth for a short vacation than he finds himself in the middle of an unsolved crime - the Telegraph Murders. Two electrical engineers were found dead after completing a contract for the new Western Union telegraph office. Holmes's very unusual helper in this case is an exceptionally pious but still attractive woman who is the proprietor of a Christian bookstore. Some evil genius is behind a scheme to rob shareholders of millions of pounds and is prepared to commit murder to make sure his diabolical plan works.

A SANDAL FROM EAST ANGLIA. To Sherlock Holmes she will always be The Nun. But is this brilliant young woman carrying on a secret double life - a life far too sensual for a member of a holy order? She is helping archeological excavations at the ruined Abbey of St. Edmund, where a sealed canister has been unearthed. In it is a document that has the potential to change the course of the British Empire and all of Christendom.

Two teenagers, a brother and a sister from a strict religious family disappear. The parents are alarmed but Scotland Yard says they are just off sowing their wild oats. A horrific, gruesome package arrives in the post and it becomes clear that a terrible crime is in process. Sherlock Holmes is called in to help. Passions and hatred going back many years are revealed. Holmes, Watson, and Lestrade must act quickly before young lives are lost.

The words of the missionary hymn I had sung as a schoolboy in chapel came to my mind as I stood on the deck of the steamer Redolent, anchored just off the Port of Colombo. They were to prove singularly prescient. Under more usual circumstances, the experience of looking up into the star-studded sky whilst feeling the warm, moist tropical breezes caress one's face is a sensuous joy. Yet on that night, more than twenty years ago now, I had a profound sense of foreboding.

"I was under the impression that you were dead," said Sherlock Holmes to the man who had entered the front room of 221B Baker Street. "I am now inclined to think that you were not murdered after all." The gentleman was of the same age as Holmes and me but sported a full beard, gray-on-its-way-to-white hair, and a short suit jacket that immediately identified him as an American. He grinned and gave his fingers a snap.

"I was under the impression that you were dead," said Sherlock Holmes to the man who had entered the front room of 221B Baker Street. "I am now inclined to think that you were not murdered after all." The gentleman was of the same age as Holmes and me but sported a full beard, gray-on-its-way-to-white hair, and a short suit jacket that immediately identified him as an American. He grinned and gave his fingers a snap.

The words of the missionary hymn I had sung as a schoolboy in chapel came to my mind as I stood on the deck of the steamer Redolent, anchored just off the Port of Colombo. They were to prove singularly prescient. Under more usual circumstances, the experience of looking up into the star-studded sky whilst feeling the warm, moist tropical breezes caress one's face is a sensuous joy. Yet on that night, more than twenty years ago now, I had a profound sense of foreboding.

"Ah, Watson, how good of you to join me. I trust I did not disturb your work at the hospital." "Not at all. We younger doctors are not exactly choc-a-block with patients." "Not yet, my dear chap. Not yet. However, I am very grateful that you are here, and I expect that you will quite enjoy recording my meeting with this fellow."

"Ah, Watson, how good of you to join me. I trust I did not disturb your work at the hospital." "Not at all. We younger doctors are not exactly choc-a-block with patients." "Not yet, my dear chap. Not yet. However, I am very grateful that you are here, and I expect that you will quite enjoy recording my meeting with this fellow."

"To the man who loves intellectual stimulation," remarked Sherlock Holmes, "London in August is the lowliest month on the calendar. Those with the means to do so have departed for the Algarve and the Riviera. Those without are off to Blackpool and Brighton." "And what about those," I asked, "who are left behind? You and I are still here." "You at least have your sensational accounts of my efforts to keep scribbling. I, on the other hand, am losing faith in the enterprising criminal class."

On Easter Sunday of 1919, Lady Lillian Assherton attempted to take her own life, a second time. Her first attempt was in the fall of 1917 when Her Ladyship, recently widowed, received news that both of her sons, officers in the Loyal North Lancashire Regiment, died at Passchendaele.

He was not much more than a child. I estimated his age at fourteen. He was a handsome boy, with the raven-black hair and deeply tanned skin color that marks a person who came from the lands under the Raj. His young body was beginning to show the signs of an emerging well-made sportsman. From his place, lying on his back on the pavement, his dark-brown eyes stared up at the morning sky ... lifeless. Behind his head was a pool of blood, now darkened and congealed.

Royston Giles Tamblyn III paid a visit to 221B Baker Street without a prior appointment on the morning of Saturday, 4 May 1901. He was a handsome young fellow, with flawless pale skin, well-combed hair that was blond-on-its-way-to-brown, and straight, gleaming teeth. He was dressed in a blazer and flannels, a creaseless white shirt, and an expertly tied old-school tie. In his polished boots, I could have seen my reflection had I bent over to inspect them.

Royston Giles Tamblyn III paid a visit to 221B Baker Street without a prior appointment on the morning of Saturday, 4 May 1901. He was a handsome young fellow, with flawless pale skin, well-combed hair that was blond-on-its-way-to-brown, and straight, gleaming teeth. He was dressed in a blazer and flannels, a creaseless white shirt, and an expertly tied old-school tie. In his polished boots, I could have seen my reflection had I bent over to inspect them.

Sherlock Holmes was not happy. "No, Mrs. Hudson, I will not see her now. Send her away and tell her to come back later." It was just past seven in the morning and we were enjoying an early coffee on a pleasant Sunday in the first week of June 1902, when Mrs. Hudson interrupted us. Holmes's longsuffering landlady did not leave.

On Easter Sunday of 1919, Lady Lillian Assherton attempted to take her own life, a second time. Her first attempt was in the fall of 1917 when Her Ladyship, recently widowed, received news that both of her sons, officers in the Loyal North Lancashire Regiment, died at Passchendaele.

"To the man who loves intellectual stimulation," remarked Sherlock Holmes, "London in August is the lowliest month on the calendar. Those with the means to do so have departed for the Algarve and the Riviera. Those without are off to Blackpool and Brighton." "And what about those," I asked, "who are left behind? You and I are still here." "You at least have your sensational accounts of my efforts to keep scribbling. I, on the other hand, am losing faith in the enterprising criminal class."