Mammoth Books presents The Case of the Incumbent Invalid

Book 265: Mammoth Books

by Claire Griffen

Genres: Mystery

Synopsis

It was in early January 1885 when Holmes and Watson were first embroiled in the question of Lady Abernatty's possible murder. A Junoesque, stylish woman visits the pair out of sheer fear for her stepmother's well-being. Mabel Bertram has always remained a great friend of her stepmother, until one day completely unexpectedly Lady Abernatty stops speaking to her and refuses to see her altogether. Lady Abernatty lives on Grosvenor Square with her two children, Charles and Sabina, who have looked after their mother for years, her formidable manner having driven any potential suitors or lady friends away. It would seem they are servants more than children to her. A costumed Holmes befriends Charles and Sabina to uncover the reason why their mother refuses to see her dear friend and stepdaughter Mabel.

Release date: May 17, 2012

Publisher: C & R Crime

Print pages: 27

Sample

Of all the adventures I shared with my friend Sherlock Holmes I cannot recall one other in which he was quite so ambivalent about its outcome than the dreadful affair of the Abernettys, nor one which he felt so reluctant to pursue, yet was driven to its tragic and macabre dénouement.

Because of his peculiar sensitivity regarding the role he played therein I have never chronicled the affair, but a chance remark recently while discussing with Inspector Lestrade the bizarre case of the Six Napoleons, and the fact that the main participants have long since been freed to seek new lives in South Australia, encourage me to believe he will tolerate my jotting down a few remembrances of the case.

The trivial remark of how far a sprig of parsley had sunk into melting butter on a hot day first seized his attention, but it was on a raw day in early January, 1885 when we first became embroiled in the question of Lady Abernetty’s possible murder.

I was standing at our bow window gloomily surveying the prospect. Fog had shrouded the city in the earlier hours of the day and would probably return in the late afternoon, but at that hour a pale straggle of sunlight lit a street almost deserted but for the occasional cab and passerby ulstered and mufflered against the chill damp. Despite the warmth of the fire I could not resist a shiver.

“I’m sorry you feel you cannot afford to take the cure at Baden-Baden next spring,” drawled my friend from his easy chair beside the hearth.

I confess he gave me rather a start. I had said nothing about my somewhat wistful ambition to pamper my indifferent health at the famous resort in the Black Forest.

Shortly before I met and took up residence with Holmes at Baker Street, I had returned from service in Afghanistan with the legacy of a jezail bullet and there were times, especially when I felt the London fog on my bones, that it throbbed remorselessly. I could more easily or cheaply take the cure at Bath, but I had a fancy for Baden-Baden, not for its casino and race-course, but to stroll along the banks of the Oos where Brahms composed his Lichtenthal Symphony and Dostoevksy strolled under the ancient trees.

“My dear Watson,” Holmes replied to my start of surprise, “you’ve been haunting travel agencies on your days off, your desk is littered with brochures and time-tables. I observed you studying the balance in your pass-book with a morose expression and you’ve been poor company ever since.”

“I beg your pardon if I appear so. It’s this dismal weather. Don’t you find the fog depressing, Holmes?”

“Not I!” My companion’s grey eyes sparkled. “I find it stimulating. I conjure up all manner of fiendish doings under its cover. By the way,. . .