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Sherlock Holmes and the Shepherds Bushman
Sherlock Holmes and the Shepherds Bushman
Sherlock Holmes and the Shepherds Bushman
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Sherlock Holmes and the Shepherds Bushman

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In this compelling short story, a dying aborigine appears at 221B Baker Street leading our intrepid duo to travel across the water to an old mining village in Ireland. There, a devious plot is uncovered, but can Watson’s heroic actions foil the dastardly scheme? This Sherlockian gem was first published in 2016 in the third volume of The Final Tales of Sherlock Holmes.
LanguageEnglish
PublisherMX Publishing
Release dateFeb 21, 2017
ISBN9781787050723
Sherlock Holmes and the Shepherds Bushman

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    Sherlock Holmes and the Shepherds Bushman - John A. Little

    Sherlock Holmes and the Shepherds Bushman

    John A. Little

    Publisher Information

    First published in 2016

    This edition published in 2017 by

    MX Publishing

    335 Princess Park Manor, Royal Drive

    London, N11 3GX

    www.mxpublishing.com

    Digital edition converted and distributed by

    Andrews UK Limited

    www.andrewsuk.com

    © Copyright 2016, 2017 John A. Little

    The right of John A. Little to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1998.

    All rights reserved. No reproduction, copy or transmission of this publication may be made without express prior written permission. No paragraph of this publication may be reproduced, copied or transmitted except with express prior written permission or in accordance with the provisions of the Copyright Act 1956 (as amended). Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damage.

    All characters appearing in this work are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The opinions expressed herein belong to the author and do not necessarily reflect those of MX Publishing or Andrews UK Limited.

    The Shepherds Bushman

    ‘One club,’ opened Sherlock Holmes, sucking eagerly on his cherrywood.

    ‘One diamond,’ whispered Jasper Lestrade nervously.

    ‘One spade,’ I followed dutifully.

    ‘Two ‘earts’.

    ‘One no trumps.’ Holmes’ saturnine features were lit by a manic grin.

    ‘Three hearts. Ahem.’ Jasper was following Lily’s lead, as usual.

    ‘Eh, three no trumps?’ What was my partner telling me, in some obscure coded fashion?

    ‘Faur nah tramps.’

    ‘Seven no trumps.’

    ‘No bid.’

    ‘No bid.’ Good grief! A grand slam! Typical Holmes!

    ‘Dahble.’ Lily upped the anti aggressively.

    ‘Redouble,’ replied Holmes savagely.

    ‘No bid.’

    ‘No bid,’ I reiterated.

    ‘Nah bid.’

    ‘All thirteen tricks? Doubled and redoubled? That really is a bit reckless, Holmes. We are already three thousand, four hundred and seventy-five points down. And why do I always have to be the dummy anyway?’ I grunted disconsolately, as I placed my cards in four vertical rows upon the table.

    ‘There is no answer to a question of such profundity,’ replied the great detective, much to the amusement of Jasper Lestrade and Lily Hudson.

    ‘Very funny.’ I poured myself another stiff brandy and left the table for the fifth time that evening, grabbing my stick and limping over to the window, from where I could hide my annoyance by observing the passers-by on Baker Street. Now that I had reached the ripe age of seventy-four, my Maiwand wound had deteriorated to the extent that I needed a permanent aid to getting around, and I found myself envying the strollers their comfortable promenade through the hazy November fog. Winter in 1926 was proving to be one of the mildest on record.

    Since they had returned from their honeymoon two months earlier, our weekly rubber of bridge with the Scotland Yard detective - son of our old nemesis, George - and his wife, our housekeeper, Lily Hudson, had become a welcome relief for Holmes, if not for me. He had been down in the dumps since the frustrating case of the Hammersmith Hounds, and the subsequent passing of Irene Adler. Time lay heavy upon his shoulders and the absence of a decent murder had led to his return to a daily seven-per-cent solution of cocaine. I had given up trying to control his filthy drug habit. At seventy-two, he was fully entitled to destroy his own body, if that was what he wished to do.

    I continued to

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