Showing results by author "Craig Stephen Copland" in All Categories

Das Abenteuer von Blut und Feuer ist eine Sherlock-Holmes-Geschichte des Autors Craig Stephen Copland über eine außergewöhnliche historische Frau, Evangeline Booth. In dieser Geschichte ist sie noch eine junge Hauptfrau (Captain) in der Heilsarmee. In späteren Jahren stieg sie in den Rängen auf und wurde Generalin der internationalen Heilsarmee. In dieser Erzählung erhalten wir einen kurzen Einblick in den Mut und die Entschlossenheit, die zum Markenzeichen dieser überlebensgroßen Persönlichkeit werden sollten.

Das Abenteuer der gespenstischen Fledermaus: Eine hochschwangere junge Frau geht bei Vollmond nach Hause. Sie wird von einer Fledermaus angegriffen und in die Brust gebissen. Sie stirbt in den Armen ihrer Schwester. Beim nächsten Vollmond wird auch die Schwester angegriffen. Sie entkommt und flieht zur Baker Street, wo sie Sherlock Holmes um Schutz bittet.

Ein amerikanischer Ureinwohner liegt tot in einem Hotelzimmer in Mayfair. Er hat eine Kugel im Kopf, und sein Gürtel fehlt. Holmes schlussfolgert, dass der Mord mit dem Goldenen Thronjubiläum unserer geliebten Königin zusammenhängt. Prächtige Feierlichkeiten sind geplant – Feuerwerk, Blaskapellen, die Kronjuwelen werden ausgestellt, die Königin fährt auf der königlichen Barke die Themse entlang. Doch ein Schurke plant, die Feierlichkeiten ins Chaos zu stürzen. Holmes muss herausfinden, welches Unheil bevorsteht, und es verhindern.

Colonel James Barclay needs the help of Sherlock Holmes. His exceptionally beautiful, but much younger, wife has disappeared and foul play is suspected. Has she been kidnapped and held for ransom? Or is she in the clutches of a deviant monster? Are thousands of pounds at risk? Are the household staff in on it? Will Holmes find her in time, and if he does, what then? The story is a tribute not only to the original mystery, The Crooked Man, but also to the biblical story of King David and Bathsheba.

Der Mann, der verdreht, aber hip war: Wir schreiben das Jahr 1897, Frankreich ist durch die Dreyfus-Affäre zerrissen. Westminster braucht Sherlock Holmes' Hilfe, um die Ausbreitung des Antisemitismus, der Frankreich erfasst hat, zu verhindern. Ein junger Offizier im Auswärtigen Amt kündigt plötzlich seinen Posten. Seine Frau bittet Sherlock Holmes um Hilfe.

Ein verzweifelter Vater betritt das Haus in der Baker Street 221B, um Sherlock Holmes um Hilfe zu bitten, da seine Tochter entführt wurde. Holmes und Dr. Watson segeln auf die kleine Insel Prince Edward in Kanada, um das Mädchen zu suchen und geraten in den Kampf mit dem Ku-Klux-Klan. Doch sie erhalten Unterstützung einer entschlossenen und fantasievollen jungen Rothaarigen, sowie von der Royal Canadian Mounted Police.

The words of the missionary hymn I had sung as a schoolboy in chapel came to my mind as I stood on the deck of the steamer Redolent, anchored just off the Port of Colombo. They were to prove singularly prescient. Under more usual circumstances, the experience of looking up into the star-studded sky whilst feeling the warm, moist tropical breezes caress one's face is a sensuous joy. Yet on that night, more than twenty years ago now, I had a profound sense of foreboding.

The words of the missionary hymn I had sung as a schoolboy in chapel came to my mind as I stood on the deck of the steamer Redolent, anchored just off the Port of Colombo. They were to prove singularly prescient. Under more usual circumstances, the experience of looking up into the star-studded sky whilst feeling the warm, moist tropical breezes caress one's face is a sensuous joy. Yet on that night, more than twenty years ago now, I had a profound sense of foreboding.

"I was under the impression that you were dead," said Sherlock Holmes to the man who had entered the front room of 221B Baker Street. "I am now inclined to think that you were not murdered after all." The gentleman was of the same age as Holmes and me but sported a full beard, gray-on-its-way-to-white hair, and a short suit jacket that immediately identified him as an American. He grinned and gave his fingers a snap.

"I was under the impression that you were dead," said Sherlock Holmes to the man who had entered the front room of 221B Baker Street. "I am now inclined to think that you were not murdered after all." The gentleman was of the same age as Holmes and me but sported a full beard, gray-on-its-way-to-white hair, and a short suit jacket that immediately identified him as an American. He grinned and gave his fingers a snap.

"Ah, Watson, how good of you to join me. I trust I did not disturb your work at the hospital." "Not at all. We younger doctors are not exactly choc-a-block with patients." "Not yet, my dear chap. Not yet. However, I am very grateful that you are here, and I expect that you will quite enjoy recording my meeting with this fellow."

"Ah, Watson, how good of you to join me. I trust I did not disturb your work at the hospital." "Not at all. We younger doctors are not exactly choc-a-block with patients." "Not yet, my dear chap. Not yet. However, I am very grateful that you are here, and I expect that you will quite enjoy recording my meeting with this fellow."

Royston Giles Tamblyn III paid a visit to 221B Baker Street without a prior appointment on the morning of Saturday, 4 May 1901. He was a handsome young fellow, with flawless pale skin, well-combed hair that was blond-on-its-way-to-brown, and straight, gleaming teeth. He was dressed in a blazer and flannels, a creaseless white shirt, and an expertly tied old-school tie. In his polished boots, I could have seen my reflection had I bent over to inspect them.

On Easter Sunday of 1919, Lady Lillian Assherton attempted to take her own life, a second time. Her first attempt was in the fall of 1917 when Her Ladyship, recently widowed, received news that both of her sons, officers in the Loyal North Lancashire Regiment, died at Passchendaele.

Royston Giles Tamblyn III paid a visit to 221B Baker Street without a prior appointment on the morning of Saturday, 4 May 1901. He was a handsome young fellow, with flawless pale skin, well-combed hair that was blond-on-its-way-to-brown, and straight, gleaming teeth. He was dressed in a blazer and flannels, a creaseless white shirt, and an expertly tied old-school tie. In his polished boots, I could have seen my reflection had I bent over to inspect them.

He was not much more than a child. I estimated his age at fourteen. He was a handsome boy, with the raven-black hair and deeply tanned skin color that marks a person who came from the lands under the Raj. His young body was beginning to show the signs of an emerging well-made sportsman. From his place, lying on his back on the pavement, his dark-brown eyes stared up at the morning sky ... lifeless. Behind his head was a pool of blood, now darkened and congealed.

He was not much more than a child. I estimated his age at fourteen. He was a handsome boy, with the raven-black hair and deeply tanned skin color that marks a person who came from the lands under the Raj. His young body was beginning to show the signs of an emerging well-made sportsman. From his place, lying on his back on the pavement, his dark-brown eyes stared up at the morning sky ... lifeless. Behind his head was a pool of blood, now darkened and congealed.

Sherlock Holmes was not happy. "No, Mrs. Hudson, I will not see her now. Send her away and tell her to come back later." It was just past seven in the morning and we were enjoying an early coffee on a pleasant Sunday in the first week of June 1902, when Mrs. Hudson interrupted us. Holmes's longsuffering landlady did not leave.

Sherlock Holmes was not happy. "No, Mrs. Hudson, I will not see her now. Send her away and tell her to come back later." It was just past seven in the morning and we were enjoying an early coffee on a pleasant Sunday in the first week of June 1902, when Mrs. Hudson interrupted us. Holmes's longsuffering landlady did not leave.

"To the man who loves intellectual stimulation," remarked Sherlock Holmes, "London in August is the lowliest month on the calendar. Those with the means to do so have departed for the Algarve and the Riviera. Those without are off to Blackpool and Brighton." "And what about those," I asked, "who are left behind? You and I are still here." "You at least have your sensational accounts of my efforts to keep scribbling. I, on the other hand, am losing faith in the enterprising criminal class."