The Devil's Promise (The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes)
David Stuart Davies
THE DEVIL RISES. The discovery of a corpse on a deserted beach is just the first in a series of mysterious and terrifying events that threaten SHERLOCK HOLMES. Driven to investigate the death, Homes and Watson attract unwanted attention from the strange inhabitants of the nearby village, and are viciously attacked. Watson wakes to discover that months have passed and his friend is not the man he remembers. What has transpired during those lost days? And is it connected to the notorious devil worshipper whose descendants live nearby?
reached his side, he spoke to me without averting his gaze from the sea. ‘Been doing some detective work of your own, Watson?’ ‘More like instinct, I’m afraid. When I came down for breakfast and observed that you’d gone out, I knew where you would be. I believe even Lestrade could have worked that one out.’ Holmes gave a harsh laugh and his features lightened for a moment. ‘I suspect you are right.’ He fumbled in the pocket of his overcoat and withdrew a cigarette case and a box of matches.
shrugging off the shackles of work and responsibility in exchange for quiet days and early bedtimes…’ The gaunt grey face relaxed into a smile once more. ‘Your years with me have not been wasted. You have seen and you have observed.’ ‘But you are not most men. And to turn your back on the pursuit and the detection of crime in order that you can retire…’ ‘And study bees. I have often thought I would like to study bees. I admire their industry, their organisation, and their dedication to the
was in peril. With this in mind, I raised the log again with the intention of finishing the job. With amazing spirit and energy, my enemy rolled away from my range and scrambled to his feet. He gazed at me, eyes ablaze with hatred, his features dripping with blood from the wound on his face and smeared with mud. With a sudden movement, he pulled a knife from the inside of his jacket and, uttering a feral cry which echoed through the wood, he leapt at me. For an instant I froze with shock and
furrowed brow that he spoke with great conviction. I knew from past experience that when Mycroft expressed an opinion as fact he was always correct. But how could I, a man who worships at the altar of rationality, accept this wild and whirling concept? It was now Mycroft’s turn to smile at me. ‘I know exactly what you are thinking, but in this matter I must ask you to trust me. To trust me implicitly. Because, you see, you are directly involved.’ At these words my response faltered on my
while I worked upon, if you will forgive the immodest phrase, my magnum opus; a work that I believe will appeal and speak to all about the glory of God.’ ‘Even curmudgeonly sceptics like Watson and myself?’ ‘Especially so.’ ‘From our brief acquaintance, it would seem to me that if anyone could produce such a tome, I suspect that you are the man to attempt it.’ ‘Why, Mr Holmes, praise from you…’ Holmes waved away the unspoken compliment. ‘What attracted you to Howden?’ I asked in the