In Stephen Gaspar's latest release are six Sherlock Holmes pastiches based on the unpublished tales by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.
In The Five Orange Pips, Watson writes, The year '87 furnished us with a long series of cases of greater or less interest, of which I retain the records. Among my headings under this one twelve months I find an account … of the singular adventures of the Grice Patersons in the island of Uffa… .
In Sherlock 6 readers can discover what happens to the formidable Grice Paterson and what incredible tale took place in the Island of Uffa!
Excerpt from In The Island Of Uffa.
It was the end of April in the year 1887 and Holmes was still recuperating from an illness that began while on a strenuous case in France. A brief respite in the country near Reigate did little for his health, as he was attacked by the Cunninghams, father and son. They were immediately arrested, not for attacking Sherlock Holmes, but for murder of their own coachman.
Baker Street, it appeared, was the perfect place for Holmes to regain his health, for nowhere did he feel more comfortable than in his own rooms with his scrapbooks and papers, his chemistry table and favorite chair. Little did I suspect at the time that Holmes’s good mood and his somewhat lengthy discourse on medieval philosophy was mainly due to a solution of cocaine which he was injecting on a semi-regular basis.
It had been a wet and windy spring. Storms had raged the length and breadth of England for weeks, but now appeared to subside.
One early afternoon our landlady came in with a message in the form of a sheet of paper torn from a notebook and folded twice. I received it from her and brought it to Holmes who sat at his desk searching in a drawer. With an utterance of success he withdrew what appeared to be a case I knew to contain a hypodermic needle. I handed him the paper which he unfolded and read immediately. He looked from the case to the note and put the case back in the drawer.
“Watson,” he said. “Are you up to going out and getting some fresh air?”
“Sounds splendid,” said I.
“Get your hat and stick and have the boy call for a cab. There’s a good fellow.”
Once we were out on the pavement, Holmes called out an address to our driver, and we were off, rattling down the streets of London.
As in answer to my wondering of where we were headed, Holmes handed me the message he removed from his pocket. I read the note that appeared to be written in a hurried, masculine hand.
If you are at all interested to witness the fate of Smiling Jack Hawkins, come to 23 Shadwell, near High St. Don’t worry, Jack will wait for you.
It was signed, Gregson.
