Archives For Sherlock Holmes Pastiche

When my husband, Martin, leaves for work, counting down the days until he can finally retire, I will often find myself sat in our kitchen, with my dog Gladstone by my side, reminiscing on my life and my days with Shelley Holmes. I have written about how my friendship with that incredible woman left such an indelible mark on myself, and how our time together in her detective agency was some of the most exhilarating of my life. Had things not ended the way they had, I like to think we would still be running through the streets of Manchester righting wrongs.

Often, my dives into memory are nothing more than day trips, a fleeting remembrance of a life that was. On this day, however, my thoughts circled around the same topic they had done for some time. At the weekend, Martin encouraged the children – lord knows why I still refer to them as children now that they’re both nearly three decades on this – to help carry some things down from the attic, in the hopes of finding things suitable for a car boot sale.

Amongst the bric-a-brac and items stored away with a half-arsed notion to retrieve them one day, my old keepsake box. A metal tin in which I kept various items I believed, in my 20s at least, would be of sentimental value in my later years.

Rifling through numerous flyers for bars no longer open, and photos of men I would rather not discuss with my husband, it was evident that younger me was a bit of an idiot; overzealously placing a higher value on these items than I would today. Underneath these trinkets though, rattling at the bottom of the box, was a small tape recorder.

‘Good lord,’ whispered my husband. ‘Not seen one of those in years.’

My eldest, intrigued by his father’s ‘old fashioned’ item, quickly formulated a campaign to have me play the contents of the tape so we could all laugh at my more idealistic self. Having taught at a city college for several decades now, it was often remarked upon by my loved ones that I had become quite serious. The prospect of hearing me without the baggage of the education sector having worn me down would apparently be amusing.

Bowing to peer pressure, I agreed and Martin, with a devilish grin, pressed play. And yes, the first twenty minutes were entertaining enough as I listened to the John Watson of yesteryear, dictating his stories into the tape, and cursing himself when something didn’t work. Then, after one particularly impressive bout of swearing due to being unable to recall a particular synonym, the recorder skipped to the next file and I heard her voice.

‘Right,’ She said. ‘Is this on?’

I snatched the tape out of my husband’s hand and pressed the off button. Whilst there was much protestations and accusations of me spoiling everyone’s fun, I quickly left the room as if being pulled by some unknown force. Guided by this spirt,  I made my way to office and dropped the tape recorder into my top drawer, locking it away. I couldn’t have it listened to, I simply couldn’t.

Returning to the living room, I played up my sudden departure by joking that the voice on the tape was that of a former lover. Martin feigned a jealous, but jokey, anger, whilst my children seemingly regressed several decades to that of stroppy teenagers. Sensing the conversation was hurtling towards discussions about S-E-X, they stuck their fingers in their ears whilst making spewing noises.

‘Oh, Dad. Bleurgh. Just don’t. Bleurgh.’

Later that night, after the children left, my husband politely, but bluntly asked me why I did not just own up to the room that it was SH’s voice on the tape. I offered up an explanation that to do so would only encourage them to want to listen to the rest of it. Growing up, they had had an insatiable appetite for SH and their father’s time as a detective. Even now, they will ask me to read out one of my adaptations of our  adventures. Of the ones that I have self-published, their reviews are always the boldest online.

 

This case though, I told my husband, was not my story to tell. The things that happened, that SH talked about on that tape, cut my friend to her very core. To the rest of the world, it did not change her, but I saw the signs that said the Baskerville Case had taken its toll.

I am blessed that my husband is an extremely understanding man and knowing he wasn’t going to get

anything more out of me, retired to bed whilst I stayed up with wine and cigarettes.

It has been several decades since the Baskerville Case happened and as I type this, I am reminded of the numerous online conspiracies that plagued SH. Although she was forcibly distanced from the aftermath, I knew of the weight of it hung from her neck for some time.

The media speculated over how it could have ended the way it did, and the official account was seemingly clear cut. For SH, though, the case became an example of every negative point of the temptations she fought hard against, and which, despite her cavalier attitude, steeled her resolve to ensure nothing like this would happen again.

This is the case that has been dominating my daily musings. Looking back on that time, I feel I wasn’t there enough for SH. Back then, I was drifting from the agency a touch and finding love in all the wrong places. I should have tried harder to break the long periods of silence that greeted me when I returned to our home. Instead, I just waited it all out until she was back to semblance of her usual self. All done, nothing to worry about, let’s go on an adventure.

I’m not sure if Shelley ever reads my work; I have never received evidence to suggest she does. I know the very idea of it would appal her, but I think it’s why I do it. To prove to someone, anyone, that she was deserving of praise, even when fate was against her.

Spilling everything on to the page like this, I realise, has merely been a ruse to convince myself of what I should do.

 

Advertisements

What with Elementary, Sherlock and Guy Ritchie’s Sherlock Holmes movies to name but a few, it’s quite apparent we’re spoilt for interpretations of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s famous sleuth. Sherlock: Case of Evil arose a few years before any of the aforementioned were even a glimmer in Tumblr’s eye, and it could, if one was feeling fair, be said that it paved the way them. Well, it could be, if you chose to believe that Case of Evil was actually any good.

Acting as a sort of Holmes Begins, we meet the young detective (James D’Arcy) dining out on the fame brought to him by killing the nefarious Professor Moriarty (Vincent D’Onofrio). Holmes here is young and dashing, and not immune to a few sins. Namely, alcohol and threesomes with rosy cheeked wenches. Yes, indeedy, this is the sexy Holmes you always wanted, a Holmes full of hope. When he skips into the mortuary of Dr John Watson (Roger Morlidge), the two become wrapped up in a mystery that suggests that Moriarty is still alive being a cad and a shit.

As Case of Evil judders forward, it becomes apparent that the film is less concerned with Holmes tracking down Moriarity and more with providing a revisionist’s idea of how Holmes became the man we know him to be. Think of it like Chris Columbus’ Young Sherlock Holmes, but with more blood and breasts. It’s, at best, a lightweight romp across the cobbles with numerous hideous Holmes references crowbarred in.

Oh yes, the references and in-jokes. It crams them in like battery hens, as if there was a checklist of things they wanted to include in order to meet a quota.

Drug addiction – this is how it happened.

Mistrust of women – this is how it happened.

By the time Holmes is unceremoniously given his pipe and deerstalker, the game of interest is no longer afoot, but well and truly over. There’s something rather insulting about the film trying to convince its audience that one single adventure could provide all the intricacies one human can have.Trying to do its own things whilst adhering to the canon of Doyle is probably where it really lets itself down. In for a penny, in for a pound should have been their war cry. After all, it didn’t really hurt the Asylum’s Sherlock Holmes which turned out to be lots of fun.

There’s also an embarrassing number of jokes in Case of Evil that I now refer to as ‘Hindsight Jokes’. You know the kind; someone in Mad Men will make a comment about one day being able to take your phone everywhere, everyone looks at them like he is indeed a man man, and we are all supposed to stroke our chins and laugh, ‘Ha! He’s predicted mobile phones! Hahaha! I’ve forgotten about my parents’ divorce.’ Well, Case of Evil is chock full of them, really bad ones. Ones that make you wish your head was made of glass simply so you could smash it. ‘Step into the 19th century!’ sneers Moriarty when presented with a Sherlock Holmes ready to swordfight. Sigh.

Bombastic to a fault, I’m not sure if the world has been crying out for a gritty, sexy version of Sherlock Holmes. If it is, then this is not it. Move along, nothing to see.

Ms Holmes

All John Watson wanted to do was hit the streets of Manchester and celebrate his birthday. What he didn’t count on was his friend, SH, crashing back into his life after a three year absence.

In a whirlwind 24 hours, John is thrown into a grotesque mystery and learns that SH has more than a few secrets in her knapsack.

Who is Michael?

What’s in the mysterious package left on a Wythenshawe doorstep?

And why exactly can’t Jurassic Park happen?

A modern interpretation of Sherlock Holmes, fans will appreciate the many nods and tributes to the world’s most famous consulting detective!

 

 

Available from:

Amazon

Smashwords

Kobo

Barnes and Noble

 

Ms Holmes: The Alderley Edge Vampire

SH has had enough. John has had enough of SH.

They both want something to kill the monotony of a consultancy dry patch.

Enter the PA for one of Manchester’s newest and brightest authors – The Alderley Edge Vampire.

Join Manchester’s only consulting detective/ex-criminal as she reluctantly jumps feet first into a case of stolen jewellery, gothic writers and the palatial homes of Alderley Edge.

And, as an added bonus, find out why SH has an issue with Stephen Hawking.

 

 

Available from:

Amazon

Smashwords

Kobo

Barnes and Noble

 

Ms Holmes: Baskerville

080221-091118When one of SH’s close friends runs away from her abusive father, she follows her to the village of Stepford, which is playing host to the Shadow of the Beast rave.

Plagued with concern for her friend, surrounded by temptation, and with John Watson nowhere to be found, SH looks for guidance and support in the rave’s organiser, Charles Baskerville, and homeless tearaway, Jack.

Told in SH’s own words, Ms Holmes: Baskerville will see Manchester’s only consulting detective facing up against some personal demons and shedding more light on those three years she was away from Watson.

‘I messed up, John. I think I messed up.’

 

 

Available from: 

Amazon

Ms Holmes 2: Title to be confirmed is in the editing stages and due for release in April. Until then, here’s a sneaky peek of the first chapter.

Originally, this was to be a short Christmas based piece of fluff that I was going to upload as a larf. However, I very soon realised it would be a good way to reintroduce the characters in my second story.

Official cover art. Though probably not. Definitely not.

Official cover art. Though probably not. Definitely not.

Full disclosure: This is raw and uncut, which means there are a few errors that will be ironed out when the story is officially published. That said, I hope you enjoy it. I can’t wait to share the rest of it with you.

You can pick up a copy of the first Ms Holmes today from:

Amazon.co.uk

Amazon.com.au

Amazon.com

Smashwords.com

 

Chapter 1 – The Fort

Having noticed I’d left my bedroom door open after returning from a date the previous night, Hudson had decided that I would be the one who would attend to her request for breakfast. Her warm fishy breath, an unwelcome a wake-up call as any, had ruined a particularly delicious dream about an X-Factor contestant. Wrenching my sleeping mask off, I was greeted by Hudson, fat furry and sat on my chest, meowing silently at me for attention. It took a moment for me to realise the reason for her lack of vocals, and I pulled out my ear plugs. Immediately, I was reminded why I had put them in in the first place. Loud French hip hop encroached its way into my personal space, in the same manner as Hudson, through the open door.

SH was still in a mood.

Pushing Hudson off me to much protest, I sighed and set about putting back on the underpants and t-shirt I had discarded previously. When I had first moved into Flat 2b, Level 2, Baker House, SH had warned me of her mood swings. Having been brought up by her bootstraps by an underachieving mother, her father absent, and her brother killed whilst on duty, it would surprise no one that SH had a few emotional creases she had yet to iron out of herself. Her long periods of silence in high school could have been put down to the surly attitude of a teenager not getting her own way, but now in her twenties, there was clearly a lot more going on under the hood. A fair bit of time was needed to unpick the mess of fairy lights that rolled into view on occasion. It was all very sad, but still…

‘Does she have to play it so bloody loud?’ I muttered to Hudson.

Hudson meowed more out of her need for me to hurry up and open a can, than in agreement about her owner’s unsociable music. Turning to present me her butthole – as cat’s invariably always seem to want to – she tiptoed quickly out of the room. And having been successfully trained by her in the 6 or seven months I had lived here, I followed dutifully.

The living area – an open plan living room and kitchen area – was exactly as I had witnessed it when I returned last night. Two empty 2l bottles of soft drink on the breakfast bar, a cold pizza with one slice missing sat on the office desk in the corner, and the cushions from the three-piece suite had abandoned their natural habitat to be used as a part of a blanket fort that sat prominently next to our gas fire. Smoke occasionally escaped from cracks in the blankets that covered the fort. Either a new Pope was regularly being announced, or SH was in her makeshift home.

The music had changed to an old tune that we used to head bang ironically to back in our uni days. I strode over to the stereo and switched it off before the singer could get any further in his anger about this dad. An iPod plugged into the speakers eh? We must be angry if we weren’t using the vinyl.

‘What you doing?’ said a voice from inside the fort.

‘Giving my ears and those of our neighbours a rest.’ I said walking over to the kitchen, setting about the necessary details for a decent brew.

‘No one’s complained, have they?’ Less a question and more of statement.

As the kettle boiled, I noticed some post had been pushed under our front door. Picking the pile up, I realised they were all handwritten notes. A few in the same handwriting.

‘”Can you please turn your music down?” I read aloud. “Please, I don’t want to cause a fuss, but it really is very late?” “What kind of person doesn’t answer the door when someone is knocking?” Hear that SH? There was knocking.’

I reached the last note.

‘This one just says ‘Bastard!’

There was a rustle from inside the fort and SH’s head popped out of from what you had to assume amongst the blankets and cushions was the front. She’d done something to her hair which, now slicked back, gave her the look of a 19th century boxer or Al Capone, should he have ever decided to have a undercut. Her light brown skin was annoyingly smooth as ever, but dark shadows under her eyes highlighted a distinct lack of sleep.

‘Bastard?’ she smiled ‘Really? That succinct?’

‘Yep.’

Her head disappeared back in the fort and was replaced a moment later by her hand

‘Giz a look, yeah?’

I walked the few short steps to her fort and placed the notes in her hand which disappeared back inside the fort. There was a sound of rustling before a ball of paper flew out from the gap in the blankets as if fired from an unforeseen cannon.

‘Number 2a. Pretty obvious,’ SH said from inside.

Another shot was fired.

‘Tiny handwriting. Big loops. Smells of tobacco. That’s the dirty sod from upstairs. No love lost there.’

A steady stream of paper balls flew out now.

‘Flat 3 with corrections made by Flat 1 downstairs. I hope his wife knows where he was last night.’

‘Are you done?’ I said, trying to keep my amusement to myself. I was after all in a bollocking mood.

‘That’s all the news to print, yeah.’ SH responded.

‘Not your carnival trick. This!’ I said, placing a hand on the top of her fort. ‘We’re now clocking on to 24 hours. How long is this expected to stand?’

As I gave it a ‘gentle’ shake, the fortress she housed herself from the world turned out to be surprisingly flimsy.

‘Avalanche!’ SH screamed as her microcosm collapsed around her. ‘You bastard!’

Rising from the cushions and blankets like an ill-tempered phoenix, SH threw an accusatory stare at me as I skittered back to the kitchen and attended to the tea.

‘Joke’s on you, yeah?’ she seethed. ‘You got cigarette ash on everything.’

‘Worth it.’ I smiled, warming the pot.

‘Including your Garfield cushion.’

‘Bugger.’

‘Victory is mine!’ SH cheered, arms raised and making her way to the breakfast bar.

Sitting herself at the table, I poured her a cup of tea; three sugars, no milk.

‘So, why have you been living like a nomad in your own flat?’ I asked, popping bread into the toaster.

‘I’m bored, John.’ SH sighed. ‘How long have we been doing this?’

‘Well, for me it’s been six months.’

Six wonderful months at the side of my dearest and closest friend. Six months of helping people, really helping people. ‘We are an agency that gives agency,’ I liked to say. SH said that sounded dreadful and so I wasn’t allowed to refer to our business that way again.

With my mum’s house rented out to students, I had supplemented the income from that with a part time job at a second hand book shop near the Arndale Centre. The owner was a miserable sod who lived at the bottom of a bottle of red, but he was surprisingly relaxed about my often, and often erratic, sabbaticals. SH charging ahead ready to solve a mission, and me close behind ready to lend a hand for the good of the women of Manchester and beyond.

‘As if we’ve ever been further than Liverpool!’ SH interrupted my thoughts. ‘I can always tell when you’re romanticising what we’ve been up to. Let’s be honest it’s all been a bit quiet.’

‘I thought you wanted to do this to help people, make a change and all that.’ I said. ‘You can’t expect every case to be a towering monument to Social justice. If you start thinking like that, then you’re effectively wishing ill will on people. Isn’t that right?’

SH opened her mouth as if to argue the point, but then shrugged and let her head fall to the table surface.

After the incident with her brother Michael, SH had set up her practice as a means of helping women, helping them to seek justice. A smattering of cases had seen her really pushed to the edge of her talents, but if truth be told, things had got a bit… quiet. Whereas once SH had lurked in the shadows of Manchester’s underground on a near daily basis on behalf of her brother, Michael, she was beginning to find stepping out into the sunlight proving to be less than advantageous. SH’s last case had been a rather non remarkable incident involving a misplaced Take That CD.

‘I know.’ She sighed into the table. ‘I know. I know. I know! But… The last month or so…’

‘I know, Shelly’ I offered my hand

A swift whack on my wrist warned me about the name I used. SH was veracious with her nickname. I can’t even remember when it was we’d first stopped calling her Shelly. I do remember my mum, upon seeing her new moniker written down, had refused to stop calling her ‘Ssssssh’ for about a week.

‘You could always join me in the bookstore,’ I continued. ‘You know, take you mind off things.’

‘Yeah, right.’ SH tutted, finally lifting her head up ‘That’d help me. Be like you? Another miniscule cog in the corporate bastard machine. Ooh, my name’s John and I’ve got a 9 to 5 job.’

‘I work, like, two days a week…’

SH grabbed the newspaper I’d placed on the breakfast bar, and flicked through it. Whilst I buttered my toast, she emitted a long sigh. In moods like this, her sighs were always so long. As if her very nature of being was going through some sort of extraction process.

‘LOOK AT THIS!’ She said, whacking my arm with the newspaper before showing me the page that had caught her interest.

The headline read: Greystoke Heir Still Missing After Crash Over Jungle.

‘It’s a fake!’ She cried. ‘He’s doing it for the publicity. There’s references in here about a recent drugs bust and a break up from a Kardashian, whatever that is. He’s very likely lying low in the most media hungry manner possible. He’ll come back in a few weeks, cap in hand, with some new found respect in God and saying he can talk to chimps or something.’

‘And your point being?’

‘I could be helping the police with that.’ She barked. ‘Save them loads of money they’d otherwise be using on pulling his privileged arse out of the bush.’

In what some would consider an overly dramatic move – something I would never say to her face – SH swung round on the stool and plodded over to window that overlooked our balcony. The sound of a match being lit soon followed and smoked billowed from her silhouette. To this day, I cannot tell you where she hides those cigarettes.

What I can you tell is that I knew if a case didn’t appear on our doorstep soon, I was worried that SH may change her mind and actually join me at the bookstore.

It was then – as is often appropriate in tales like these – there was a knock at the door.

‘Hello!’ Came a well-spoken southern accent on the other side. ‘I’m looking for Ms. Holmes. Someone let me in downstairs. Hello?’

Turning round, SH wrapped her dressing gown around her and made a motion for me to open the door. Instead I watched her as she tried to position herself next to the window in a manner that would suggest she wasn’t trying very hard not to look like she was trying very hard to look nonchalant. She put one hand her hip and let their cigarette droop in her mouth. She turned back to face the window and turned her head to look over her left shoulder, her eyelids half drooping. Noticing that I was staring at her and stifling a giggle, she made a vulgar hand gesture and signalled once again for me to open the door.

I opened the door to be greeted by a stunning redhead. Her pale skin was a stark contrast to her auburn hair. Her delicate features sharpened by severe and sharp make up; deep red lipstick and violet eye-shadow. On anyone else this would be tacky but on her…

‘Good morning.’ I beamed. ‘I’m John Watson.’

‘You’re not wearing any trousers.’ Our guest responded.