Two Hundred and Twenty-One Baker Streets: An Anthology of Holmesian Tales Across Time and Space

Two Hundred and Twenty-One Baker Streets: An Anthology of Holmesian Tales Across Time and Space

Guy Adams

Language: English

Pages: 336

ISBN: 1781082227

Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub

The world's most famous detective, as you’ve never seen him before! This is a collection of orginal short stories finding Holmes and Watson in times and places you would never have expected!

A dozen established and up-and-coming authors invite you to view Doyle’s greatest creation through a decidedly cracked lens.

Read about Holmes and Watson through time and space, as they tackle a witch-trial in seventeenthcentury Scotland, bandy words with Andy Warhol in 1970s New York, travel the Wild Frontier in the Old West, solve future crimes in a world of robots and even cross paths with a young Elvis Presley...

Set to include stories by Kasey Lansdale, Guy Adams, Jamie Wyman, J E Cohen, Gini Koch, Glen Mehn, Kelly Hale, Kaaron Warren, Emma Newman and more.

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for a few hundred bucks.” Lestrade nodded to himself. “I know you prefer the strange cases, but I think we may have called you prematurely. We’ve got this one covered.” “But why take his hand, organs, and genitals if the motive is just robbery?” I asked. “I’m not disputing that this has to do with the black market, Lestrade. But it’s not the black market you’re thinking about. This man’s right hand has been removed. Typically, in traditional witchcraft, or muti in the vernacular, the right hand

Watson? It’s always a mistake to theorise before you’re in full possession of the facts. WATSON: Like the time you burst into the Coco Club claiming Mimi DeVaux must be the Brixton Strangler? An assertion based only on the size of her biceps and the speed with which she could knock up a reef knot? HOLMES: How was I suppose to guess at the services Madame Mimi offered her clients? Unbelievable. I’ll never see the like again. Like a Sunday roast being trussed up for the pot. The man must have

penchant for peacock feathers and parasols.” “How do you figure I’d—” Trenet cut me off. “What about the kid?” “Arty’s a sword-swallower and knife thrower. Goes by Arthur on stage, plays up the Excalibur legend.” “Do you think he could have killed Drebber?” “Adele, my dear, given proper motivation, anyone could kill.” “I suppose that’s true. Just talking with you makes me homicidal most of the time.” “You flatter me. What else? Any other evidence found with Bailey or this Watson dame? You

So I signed. Paid my bill at the Chelsea. Paid back some friends. Made some more copies of S.C.U.M. to sell. Got my typewriter out of the pawn shop. I had to get up onto the roof and get typing. Maurice wanted an expanded version of the S.C.U.M. Manifesto, a novel based on it, so I got typing. Working on it. Trying to make it into a novel. I made characters who got screwed over for each fucked-up thing that men did to women. Each grievance a character, like Greek Furies. “I was all wound up,

drawers. He pulled a large magnifying glass from his pocket and began poking and prodding at the rotted flesh. He was now straddled over the remains of Miss Jenkins, and had anyone entered the room I was unsure if anything I told them would save us from being thrown under the jail. “Holmes, what are you doing?” “Look at this, Doctor.” I made my way to the body of Miss Jenkins and examined the area Sherlock had pointed to. “What about it?” “What do you see?” “I see an earlobe; well, part of

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