The International Writers Magazine - Our Tenth Year: Novel Extract -2009 new Edition
* Come hear Sam talk about Holmes and Watson at the Havant Literary Festival September 26th 2009
Buy the book on the night at The Nineveh Gallery, 11 The Pallant, Havant, PO9 1BE. UK

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The Curse of the Nibelung - A Sherlock Holmes Mystery • Sam North The Baker Street Bunker - Extract from First Chapter The afternoon fog, thick with sulphur, appeared laced into the very fabric of London town. The City lay in wait for a breeze, long needed these past three days. Figures stumbled through the streets with handkerchiefs clasped to their mouths, eyes stinging, cursing a winter that seemed to have lasted forever. In this December of 1939 there was little to rejoice about; nothing to think about except the unfortunates in Poland, the bravery of the Finns and the fear that London could be next.

Their only hope could be that the Germans would take one look at the fog and forget the whole thing; annex somewhere warmer, like Spain. General Franco was a natural friend, let Herr Hitler have Seville. Natal oranges were just as good, the English could adapt to a different flavour marmalade, they were made of stern stuff, such hardships they could easily bear.

It was growing dark already, the gaslights were being lit (the new sodium lamps not having been installed in this corner of London just yet) not increasing forward vision one jot. This pea-souper was one of the worst in living memory, already accounting for some unfortunate deaths in Stepney.

Gliding out of the gloom, a large black Humber Snipe Imperial swept down an usually quiet Baker Street, gingerly coming to a halt outside a smog-blackened residence not far from Mr Anderson’s Tobacco shop, a favourite with those who felt Pall Mall too far to go for their favourite blend.
“A dozen Havanas, Calthorpe,” a deep, baritone voice growled from the rear seat. “Make sure the things are well oiled. Get Anderson to roll them out for you, the last lot were a damned embarrassment to the whole industry.”
“Yes sir.” Calthorpe was not well disposed to this task. Fetching the First Lord of the Admiralty’s cigars was a dangerous mission. The last two chauffeurs had made the foolish mistake of thinking any cigar would do and Calthorpe liked his job, at least it kept him out of the army. His patriotism was served well enough ferrying the ‘old war horse’ about London.
“Then wait for me, I shall be busy for a while.”
“Sir,” Calthorpe answered, never one for the excess word.
His charge waited until he had rounded the car and opened his door, then with the aid of the chauffeur’s gloved hands, he eased himself out from the embrace of the Humber’s leather seats and attained his full stoop on the pavement outside 221b Baker Street. His face flushed with the effort. He stood and contemplated the front door as damp fog encircled them.
“It’s a long time since I’ve stood outside this door, Calthorpe. History will record this address as one of the most famous in all London, yet look, it is a ramshackle place, needs a lick of paint, I’ll say.”
“The address does seem familiar sir,” began Calthorpe.
The First Lord shook his head at him. “Forget you ever saw it Calthorpe, you never saw this place. Now... the cigars man.”

Calthorpe left his side and the large, rotund, balding man adjusted his heavy overcoat and ambled forward to the black painted door, up three clean, scrubbed steps from the pavement. The dense, yellow fog swirled around him, enveloping all, absorbing even the Humber, parked at the curbside. A pudgy hand lifted a cane and rapped on the door with some force, three times in all and he heard with satisfaction the echo resound along the hall inside. He cursed the damp, the weather, the war, the slowness of everything. He cursed Mrs Hudson, wondering why she took so long to answer his summons. Then recalled that she might be a bit long in the tooth by now – ninety odd if a day. If she was alive at all. He rapped again impatiently, wondering if Clemmie, his dear wife, had been entirely right in thinking that this sojourn to Baker Street would be a waste of time. It was too late, far too late, she had mused that morning to call in his old friends from the past, no matter how successful they had been in times now forgotten. How utterly reliable they had been then. There had to be a limit, a time when one was past one’s best and heaven knows, they were not young in 1911 when he was first appointed First Lord of the Admiralty. Not young when Holmes first came out of retirement in 1917. Now here we were again, twenty-two years on and facing the same damn enemy. It was a time when all shoulders had to be shoved to the wheel, a moment in history when dictators on their tigers had found they dare not dismount. They were hungry and hungry tigers needed fresh meat. In his opinion England was to be that meat.
The door latch was freed from its rusty prison and the door opened an inch.
“Mrs Hudson?” The First Lord enquired, impatient with the recalcitrant door.
“Who is it?” A querulous old woman’s voice demanded to know, “who calls at this hour?”
“It is I, Winston Leonard Spencer Churchill, come to call upon Lord Holmes, and the hour is before five o’clock woman!”
The door opened wide, a look of plain astonishment was fixed upon the aged and toothless visage of Mrs Hudson, herself dressed in black, a widow in mourning. Churchill was startled.
“He’s not gone is he?” he asked, a measure of respect in his voice. “Not our Lord Holmes?”
Mrs Hudson shook her head, her hands clutched around her wildy beating heart, overcome to see Mr Churchill at her door again; it had been many a year since he had graced her steps.
“Come now, Mrs Hudson, I’m not as changed as all that, a little thinner, a little shorter, but you yourself have plodded on; must be well up to pension age by now I should think.”
Since Mrs Hudson was a mere eighty-nine years old, she was momentarily flattered and this was enough to bring her to her senses.
“Pray come in sir and leave the fog behind. The two gentlemen have not had visitors in a long time. Therein lies my surprise sir.”
It had long been the opinion of Lord Holmes (confided not less than six months before, over a glass of hot cocoa) that his country had forgotten him and Dr Watson, yet here was the First Sealord to refute his words.
“Thought they’d been forgotten, eh?” Churchill asked, stepping into the musty, brown hallway, closing the door firmly behind him.
“Now there’s a thing,” allowing Mrs Hudson to remove his coat. “It would be a bitter day for England if Holmes and Watson were to be forgotten. The gentlemen are well, I trust?”
Mrs Hudson was glad the lights were dim and averted her face from her visitor, cursing herself for leaving her teeth in a jar by the sink. She did not take kindly to surprises anymore and the Lord knew there had been plenty in this house in the years Sherlock Holmes had resided upstairs in the first floor flat.
“The gentlemen don’t get out as much as they used to sir. Now poor Sir John Watson’s second wife upped and died, he came to live here, although Lord Holmes was reluctant, if you know what I mean sir. Likes his privacy. They fight like two schoolboys, they do sir, but they’re still best of friends.”
“I’m pleased to hear that Mrs Hudson, now if you’ll be good enough to announce me.”
Mrs Hudson looked at Mr Churchill then looked at the stairs, (none too well dusted) and sighed. “I must confess sir, that them stairs are not so much to my liking. It’s perhaps all right for you, good sir, but my legs aren’t what they were.” She looked wistfully at the threadbare stair carpets. “I must warn you sir, their room is much changed, there has been a lot of banging about of late, I’m almost afraid to look myself.”
Her guest understood, he himself was not well disposed to stairs. “Then I shall announce myself Mrs Hudson, I trust their hearts are sound.”
“If their appetites are anything to go by sir, sound as a bell I’d declare.”
“That is reassuring, most reassuring.”

With that, the First Lord began to ascend the stairs, leaning heavily upon a much abused cane. As he approached the narrow landing at the top he fancied he could hear voices and, if he was not mistaken, the dull, muffled thud of bullets exploding against the far bedroom wall; but could his imagination be playing false with him? Sherlock had been forbade that eccentricity by the local magistrate more than once, if he recalled correctly. So many things had gone on in this house, so many strange people come and gone. Mrs Hudson had put up with a great deal, Holmes and his violin, his penchant for vile, chemical experiments that stunk the place out. Many a time an explosion or fire had broken out and occasioned the entire redecoration of the Hudson home; not that Holmes was careless and he paid Mrs Hudson enough, more than enough. Holmes could have bought several homes in Baker Street by now, but he had been an inquisitive man, never acquisitive.

“My dear Holmes,” Churchill heard Watson remark. “I don’t like knackwurst, liverwurst, or frankfurters and I never shall.”
Holmes chuckled, a mean all-knowing chuckling, nothing diminished by his advancing years. “Nonsense Watson, my brother Mycroft swore by sausages. Ate four everyday.”
“But dash it Holmes. The uniform, do I have to wear the uniform as well?”
Churchill’s curiosity was aroused, he stood outside their door regaining his breath and rapped twice with his cane.
“The door, Watson, there’s someone at the door.”
This was no revelation to Watson, he had heard the knocking too, but nevertheless it was a shock for both men.
“Who can it be, Holmes?”
Holmes was already working on the problem.
“It must be someone Mrs Hudson knows well, Watson, else she would not let him up without giving notice. One understands, quite naturally, that it is a man, for a woman would never knock so hard with a cane; she would use a soft-gloved hand. I gather too, that it is a heavy man, for see how the floor dips below the door there. Turn up the lamp Watson”
Watson, already standing, shuffled to the centre of the room and pulled the long metal chain attached to the central lamp, bathing the room in its brightest green-white glow.
“Perhaps we should take a look, Holmes,” Watson suggested, thinking it easier to solve this particular mystery of who was behind the door by use of their physical energy, as opposed to mental.
“The time is five o’clock Watson, yet note the man does not knock again, he knows we are awake and about. He must assume therefore we are adjusting ourselves to receive him.”
“But is it safe Holmes? I mean, with all this?” Watson indicated the much changed room, the furniture all piled up at one end, all else as bare as the day the house was built, save for the new additions. Holmes looked up at the portrait of Herr Hitler above the mantle piece and nodded. “Perhaps it is a little bold of us to expose our room Watson, but how can we consider the thoughts and sensitivity of others if they aspire to surprise us without as much as sending a telegram or calling us on your telephone.”
“Quite right Holmes, an insensitive man, one who is impatient furthermore.”
Holmes struck his head in astonishment, turning to face the surprised Watson standing by his bed.
“Jove, Watson, that’s it! You remain as indispensable as ever. An overweight, impatient, insensitive man who has the honour of knowing Mrs Hudson well enough to allow him to surprise us... it can be no other than the First Lord of the Admiralty. Come in Winston, come in.” Holmes ordered.

Churchill smiled to himself. He had listened with great care outside the door and was mighty pleased that Holmes had lost none of his mental acumen. It was very reassuring. He turned the brass handle on the brown painted door and entered the humble chambers of Lord Sherlock Holmes.

Perhaps his first sense of euphoria abandoned him when he had the door open but a few inches and the very first thing he caught sight of was Sir John Watson standing beside a map of Bohemia-Moravia in full German General uniform. By the time the door was fully open and his extended frame was passing through the entrance, Churchill’s open astonishment was apparent for all to see.

“Good evening, Winston, so interesting you could stop by,” Holmes declared, brushing some of the dust off his blanket. “Forgive me if I don’t get up, but I have had a cold these past few days and find that an afternoon nap does wonders for the recovery.”

Churchill, one for the afternoon nap himself, quite understood, but although normally a man never at a loss for words, he was now speechless. Holmes and Watson were changed men. So old, so very old and white haired, and Watson did look a trifle ridiculous in that uniform. The picture of that damned corporal, Adolf Hitler, was a mistake he hoped, as was the other mass of German paraphernalia, books and unopened copies of Berlin newspapers. It contrived to remind Churchill of pictures he had seen of Hitler’s study in the legendary Eagle’s Nest. There was the air of the Bunker about the place, so changed from the former Victorian elegance he remembered from his last visit to Baker Street. Holmes himself was so thin, so criminally thin, it was almost painful to see him reduced so. Watson too, though obviously there remained something of the flesh upon him. Clemmie was right, though, they were past their best, no doubt about it. Could this be a wasted journey?

“No doubt you are surprised to find yourself in a little piece of Germany, Winston? Perhaps you’d like to find a place to rest your legs and Watson could administer a little schnapps.”
Churchill held up his hands in protest. “No schnapps, Sherlock, a whisky would be in order and perhaps some sort of explanation is owed. I knew you were a fan of Wagner, Sherlock, but surely this is taking things too far? You are aware we are at war with Germany, I hope?”

But Holmes merely smirked, a poor imitation of his former all-knowing smirk. Watson busied himself with the Dewars, glad someone had arrived that could equal Sherlock’s determination. He for one could not abide schnapps any way he tried it and if he ever saw another sausage he would be violently ill. Holmes and his obsessions were a blessing to mankind to be sure, but he noticed that his cold prevented him from donning his SS uniform. Never played fair, Holmes, never played fair.

Churchill received his drink gratefully, looking about his person for a cigar, only then remembering he had sent Calthorpe to Anderson’s to get some.
“I perceive you are in need of a cigar, Winston. I believe Watson has something of the kind in his tuck box, behind the chest he brought back from India.”
“I trust the cigars are little more recent than that Holmes,” Churchill growled, not at all sure that he was not in some damn pantomime.
“Dash it Holmes,” Watson protested, “I can’t hide a thing from you.” He made his way to the end of the room, clattering through the many hastily stored artefacts and assorted debris. “I shall be glad when this place is back to normal, I can tell you Mr Churchill, it’s dashed awkward living under the Third Reich – dashed awkward. Unity Mitford sent us far too much stuff.”

Holmes busied himself with his bedside gramophone, winding the thing up and forcing the distorted strains of Wagner on Parlophone to fill the room.

Churchill nodded sagely, he thought their living conditions odd, but in the years he had known Holmes, the man had never failed to surprise him, not once. He awaited the explanation with interest, if not impatience, not at all sure Wagner was a good idea at this moment in time. He had come to Baker Street a desperate man, he had no choice but to await Holmes’ explanation. England was in grave peril, perhaps its final stand, nothing but desperation had led him to drive to Baker Street and seek out Lord Holmes and Sir John Watson, implore them to come to their country’s aide. Yet now, as looked at them, Watson, in enemy uniform and shaking arthritic hands; Holmes with the ‘flu’, lying emaciated in his bed, the shock of white hair, wild and uncombed upon his head, he knew it had been a wasted journey. Time had dealt with them cruelly and its meanest streak of all, had made them senile. What else could all this Wagnerian homage to the Third Reich mean?

Holmes knew that his old friend was confused, but he stalled his explanations until Churchill was comfortable with his cigar and a glass of Dewars, the ‘24. Watson retired to his corner beside a map of Poland (sadly outmoded by recent tragic events).

Satisfied he had the attention of both men, he flung off his blanket, revealing himself fully dressed in his normal attire of frock coat, piped trousers, ruffled white shirt; a casually knotted cravat the only giveaway that Holmes was not entirely himself.
“I say Holmes, not fair what? Me in enemy uniform and you in civvies.”

Churchill could see Watson was much put out. Holmes smiled wanly. “A simple expediency Watson. I had intended to don my uniform, but Mrs Hudson is having a little trouble with the buttons, ergo, I stand before you as an Englishman, is that not so Winston?”
“And I’m glad to say, a gentleman, Holmes, it’s altogether too bad of everyone in the Commons to have abandoned the frock coat, no sense of tradition at all in Parliament these days, none at all.”
“But to the explanation,” Holmes returned, not wishing to be diverted once started. “Mr Churchill, you see before you two very worried men. That is to say, Watson and myself have long been concerned with developments in Europe. We have not been slack, despite our advancing years, which finds Watson arthritic and seriously depleted of weight; myself, wasted by years of a foolish addiction to morphine –” (he avoided mention of opium, knowing Winston didn’t approve) “– which some claimed would kill me. But they reckoned not with the brain of Sherlock Holmes and his indomitable will to survive. I have followed the strictest of dietary regime and continue with exercises even to this very day, Winston – and now, at eighty-three years of age, you see before you an old body but a supple one. To be sure, slow, thin, ungainly, mere cladding around a mind, a mind as bright as a new pin sir, a brain still at the peak of its abilities, hampered only by a body, that despite all the tricks of the Indian mystics, has seen fit to betray me and decline into a mere shadow of its former self.” He paused briefly.
“You find, Winston, not two old decrepit fools, but men ignored by their country in a time of need; men who saw a time would come, sooner or later, when that country would turn to them, reach out and grasp for men of experience, proven experience in matters criminal and politic. We, that is to say, I, with the aide of Watson here, decided some months ago, after the strangulation of Eastern Europe in fact, that we had to come to terms with Herr Hitler, grow to understand him and the German people and to do that we had to engineer the necessary, shall we say, mood?”
Holmes abruptly sat down, his legs obviously unsteady, not used to long bouts of standing.

“Watson and I constructed a replica of the Third Reich command post, taken from a drawing in an American magazine. We began to live a German life, absorb German thinking and thus hope to reach into the minds of those who would seek to control our destiny.
“Watson eats knackwurst, drinks schnapps and German lagers in great profusion and I observe. It is a curious fact that Watson has gained no weight in this enterprise.
“And thus we live, eat, think Germany and it is through this process Winston we perceive not only the strength of Herr Hitler’s Socialist method, but the weakness too, not only of Germany, but of Europe as well. It is our deduction, Winston, England will see the Germans beating a path to our shores in the spring at the very earliest, but more likely after France is beaten, an easy victory that, for the French wear the Maginot line like a rabbit’s foot. I see the jackboot in Sussex by July 1940. What say you?”

Winston put down his whisky and breathed a sigh of relief. With Holmes back in the picture, England might yet be saved.

Now read on: Buy The Curse of the Nibelung here
The Curse of the Nibelung is a great addition to the growing body of Holmesian adventures ...a lot of fun ...borders on the zany. Charles Dickinson Amazon.com

The Curse of the Nibelung is printed in the UK and USA and is available from the Mysterious Bookshop, 58 Warren St , New York and also available from major on-line booksellers: In the UK buy from Amazon or Lulu Press alsoThe Nineveh Gallery, 11 The Pallant, Havant,PO9 1BE. UK In Japan order from Amazon Japan

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The Curse of the Nibelung

Diamonds - The Rush of '72 By Sam North ISBN: 1-4116-1088-1 Buy now from Amazon.com 'a terrific piece of storytelling' Historical Novel Society Review Also printed in the UK and available from Amazon.co.uk & Waterstones

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