The Thames Torso Murders

 The Thames Torso Murders is one of the many adventures of Sherlock Holmes in my latest book, Holmes of Baker Street. In it, there is a character mentioned in one of the original stories by ACD. The story also has grisly elements (if you are into that sort of thing).

Here is the opening to The Thames Torso Murders.

In recalling the numerous individuals I have encountered in the cases I have shared with my friend Sherlock Holmes, there have been some whose very appearance has betrayed their baleful intent. 
    Readers of my memoirs may remember Dr. Grimesby Roylott whom I described as having a large face seared with a thousand wrinkles, burned yellow with the sun, and marked with every evil passion. He possessed deep-set, bile-shot eyes, and a high thin fleshless nose. Dr. Roylott succeeded in killing one of his stepdaughters and almost succeeded in murdering the other.
    Then there was the statue-smashing Beppo, who was absolutely simian in appearance and knifed a man on the street. 
    Who could forget the master blackmailer Charles Augustus Milverton whom Sherlock Holmes described as a slithering venomous serpent, with deadly eyes and a wicked face?
    Only after his crime was uncovered did Josiah Amberley’s true features reveal themselves. If I recall, I compared him to a misshapen demon with a soul as distorted as his body.
     Culverton Smith who killed Victor Savage and attempted to murder my friend Sherlock Holmes looked every inch the villain he was with a great yellow face, coarse-grained and greasy, with a heavy double-chin, and two sullen, menacing grey eyes.
     Finally, a man whose name will forever live in infamy, the late Professor Moriarty whom Holmes himself described as extremely tall and thin, with deeply set puckered eyes. His pale and ascetic-looking face oscillated from side to side in a curiously reptilian fashion.
    It is not always prudent to judge someone or something from its outward appearance, and so not all the characters we encountered lived up to their looks. Holmes once told me of the most winning woman he ever knew was hanged for poisoning three children for their insurance money.
    In our first encounter with Dr. Moore Agar, both Holmes and I believed he was some nefarious villain, for he looked the part, but of course, we were sorely mistaken.
    The same could be said for the aloof and taciturn Ian Murdoch of whom Holmes described as having some strange outlandish blood that was reflected in his coal-black eyes and in his ferocious temper, but he proved not to be the killer.
    Baron Gruner was a handsome man, with the ability to charm women, but both his good looks and charm hid the heart of an abuser and a murderer. 
    I recall it was in May 1887, when Holmes and I had finished our breakfast, and we heard a peal of the bell. This was followed by the light tread of footsteps on the stairs, a knock at our door, and Mrs. Hudson stepped into the room to announce a young lady was here to consult with Mr. Holmes.
    “What is your impression of the young lady, Mrs. Hudson?” Holmes asked, standing by the mantel, filling his after-breakfast pipe.
    “She appears to be a very fine and well-mannered young lady, Mr. Holmes.”
    “If she meets with your approval, please send the young lady right up, Mrs. Hudson.”
    In another minute, the woman was standing in our sitting room.
    She introduced herself to us as Miss Angela Moore. She struck me as a demur, attractive young woman, who could not have been more than two and twenty. Miss Moore had dark blue eyes, a delicate nose, a small mouth, and a lovely, unblemished porcelain complexion. She was impeccably dressed in a form-fitted, long-waisted purple dress with dark polka dots that displayed a fine figure. The dress had a modest bustle and not one of those fashionable bustles so large you could set a tea tray upon it. 
    I consider myself a particularly good judge of women, and even before getting acquainted with her, I had the strong feeling this young woman was the epitome of innocence that can be found in British womanhood. Her voice was the perfect pitch, not too high or low, and though she spoke softly, her every word carried gently to the ear. As she entered the room and stood before us, it was obvious the young woman was attempting to control some deep distress. 
    “Won’t you take a seat, Miss Moore,” Holmes said, motioning her to the basket chair.
    She sat and folded her hands upon her lap. Her lovely face reflected urgency, but she bore up under it with both a deep-rooted strength and a feminine vulnerability. “I have come to you, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, because I believe you are the only man in London, nay, the only man in all England who can help me, and I am sorely in need of your help.”
    Miss Angela Moore had spoken with sincere conviction. Her pleading was obvious, but not overstated. 
    “I am very willing to lend whatever help you desire, Miss Moore,” said Sherlock Holmes in a reassuring manner. “Pray, tell me your problem.”
    She took in two deep breaths and released them before she began her narrative. 
    “Have either of you gentlemen heard of the terrible, gruesome murders that the press has dubbed ‘The Thames Torso Murders’? Over the past several months, the bodies of both men and women have been found floating in the river. The bodies were discovered… with… without….” Here she brought a handkerchief to her mouth to stifle her anguish.
    “Calm yourself, Miss Moore,” said Holmes soothingly. “There is no reason to continue. I am well versed in the details as the newspapers have related them.” 
    Indeed, both Holmes and I had read with interest the news reports of these murders. The murder victims were found without heads, arms, or legs. The torsos were discovered in and around the Thames, some floating in the water, some at the water’s edge. Two amputated arms and one amputated leg were discovered about the same time; one arm had been buried on a construction site, the other two floating in the Thames. The murders, dating back over a year, were quite gruesome, and I shuddered to think of a fine young woman like Miss Moore even reading about them. She eventually regained her composure. 

All of Stephen Gaspar's Sherlock Holmes books can be found on Amazon!

Sherlock Holmes and The Tired Captain

The Adventure of the Tired Captain is one of many stories referenced in the Sherlock Holmes canon. It is also one of the many stories in my latest book, Holmes of Baker Street. 

Here is the opening to The Adventure of the Tired Captain.  

In July of 1889, I was still settling into the role of being a husband to my bride Mary. Since my mid-thirties I had suspected that I just might remain a bachelor for life, for as Benedict stated in Much Ado About Nothing; ‘When I said I would die a bachelor, I just meant that I didn’t think I’d live  until I got married.’
  Married life was a considerable adjustment, especially for someone who had led a somewhat vagabond lifestyle. On the whole, I liked married life, and now for the first time, I was the master of my own home, which comes with its own obligations and responsibilities. It is a milestone in a man’s life when he begins to think of his legacy, how he plans to mark his life and considers what evidence he will leave behind to prove that he lived and accomplished something worthwhile. 
   Since my marriage, I had seen less of my friend Sherlock Holmes, who now usually contacted me only when a case came his way that he thought might interest me. 
    It was a rainy night in July. My wife and I were enjoying a quiet evening at home. After dinner, we retired to the sitting room as raindrops made pit-pat sounds on the window. I was reading by the lamp between our chairs. My wife was working on her petit point. A peal at the bell caused us to look at one another expectantly. The maid answered the door, I heard a familiar voice, then the sound of steps upon the linoleum. A moment later our maid, Mary Jane, ushered in Sherlock Holmes. We were both surprised and pleased to see him. He, in turn, greeted us warmly. 
   “Won’t you sit down, Mr. Holmes?” my wife offered. “Something to drink perhaps?”
  “No, thank you, Mrs. Watson, I am afraid I cannot stay,” he said with a hint of urgency. He cast me a sidelong glance. “I have a cab waiting.”
    My wife picked up on this immediately. 
   “I understand,” she said. “Well, John, you best put on your galoshes and take an umbrella from the stand.”
    At the door, she tied a cravat about my neck and kissed me goodnight. Holmes and I walked out into the rain and into his waiting cab. In the dim light of a streetlamp, I thought I saw a slight smile touch his lips. 
    “If it isn’t too presumptuous, may I ask where we are going?” I asked my friend.
    “Not at all. We are destined for the docks in the East End.”

All of Stephen Gaspar's books can be found on Amazon!