Lady Sherlock Read online

  Book Description

  Lady Natasha “Tasha” Dorrington, an emancipated and brilliant detective in 1906 London, is drawn into a deadly mystery involving an ancient pagan curse and a diabolical scheme to plunge Europe into a devastating war.

  An Admiralty courier is murdered, and plans for the Dreadnought—a new battleship that will upset the balance of naval power—are stolen. All evidence implicates Great Britain’s international rival: Germany. Tasha is summoned to help solve the crime. She is thus observed by Deirdre, the priestess of a malevolent cult intent on exacting vengeance on Western Civilization for the long-ago decimation of her religious sect. Cleverly leveraging the greed of giant armaments firms in England and Germany, Deirdre plans to frame Germany in an attack on the Dreadnought. In her arrogance, Deirdre decides to simultaneously engage Tasha in a contest of wits.

  The story moves from fog-bound London to a desolate island off the coast of Scotland. Deirdre manipulates Tasha's overconfidence, crafting a mystery to lure her into a labyrinth of false leads, lethal traps, and an unexpected romance. It is an epic struggle between two formidable women: one madly intent on enslavement and revenge, the other fighting for a free and rational humanity—as well as the precious life of her only daughter.

  An Illustrated Novel

  Brooks Arthur Wachtel

  Smashwords Edition – 2016

  WordFire Press

  wordfirepress.com

  ISBN: 978-1-61475-370-4

  Copyright © 2012 Brooks Author Wachtel

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the express written permission of the copyright holder, except where permitted by law. This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously.

  This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Art Director Kevin J. Anderson

  Cover artwork image by Duong Covers

  Book Design by RuneWright, LLC

  www.RuneWright.com

  Kevin J. Anderson & Rebecca Moesta, Publishers

  Published by

  WordFire Press, an imprint of

  WordFire, Inc.

  PO Box 1840

  Monument, CO 80132

  Contents

  Book Description

  Title Page

  Acknowledgements

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-one

  Chapter Forty-two

  Chapter Forty-three

  Chapter Forty-four

  Epilogue

  Afterword

  Addendum

  About the Author

  If You Liked …

  Other WordFire Press Titles

  Acknowledgements

  I owe heartfelt thanks to many good friends for their help and support. Let me begin with Shari Goodhartz, my marvelous and insightful editor; Publisher Kevin J. Anderson and his staff at WordFire Press, for giving my book such a welcoming home; Peter Wacks, who had enough faith in an earlier draft to move this project forward; Tanya Lemani George and Donna Anderson, who inspired and were the visual models for Tasha and Deirdre respectively, as well as provided valuable feedback on the story's development.

  In addition, I am humbly grateful to my brother Steve (who is so missed), Lena Pousette, Debra DeLiso (who is the voice of the upcoming audio book version), Barbara Alexander, Tom Bagen, Deepika Daggubati, the late Betsy Davis, Shann Dornheckler, Dan Doyle, Cynthia Harrison, Victoria Kirsanova (who modeled for the action illustrations), Tom Konkle, Mindi Miller (who brilliantly assumes Tasha's persona at conventions), Richard Mueller, Kathy Nolan, Nicole Nowak, Hilarie Ormsby, Brittney Powell, David Raiklen (who composed the wonderful Lady Sherlock theme music), Amanda Raymond, Leslee Scallon, Steven L. Sears, Donald Smiley, Terry Seabrooke, Shaene Siders, Sharon Spiro, Diana Zimmerman, Leslie S. Klinger (whose Sherlock Holmes course at UCLA Extension was illuminating), and Bernie Soon.

  If my faulty memory has left anyone out—my apologies. Corrections will be made in future editions.

  Prologue

  Heathrow Airport

  Evening (1982)

  Detective Inspector Julian Watkins marveled at the man’s brass. The suspect was doing everything in his power to call attention to himself. Heathrow was one of the busiest and most cosmopolitan airports on earth, but even so, the sight of an elderly Scot, in full Highland dress, hobbling off the train, was raising eyebrows and drawing stares.

  Julian, a tall man with a trim moustache, shrugged. While maintaining his distance, he followed the Scot up the escalator that led to the airline terminal.

  The vast terminal wasn’t too crowded, so Julian held back and watched as the Scot navigated through the building to an alcove containing several rows of coin-operated lockers. Julian kept as far away as he could; there was no way of following in there without being spotted, but then there was no real need for him to stalk any closer.

  A discarded magazine, left on a chair, caught Julian’s eyes for an instant. Perhaps one eye would have been more accurate, for he also kept the Old Scot in constant view. The magazine was an American edition of Newsweek. The cover was an aerial shot of the aircraft carrier H.M.S. Hermes, and the caption, playing on a recent popular film title, read: “The Empire Strikes Back.”

  Hermes, along with the bulk of the Royal Navy, was on its way to re-take the Falkland Islands from Argentina. Britain was at war, and her sons would soon be fighting and dying. Julian had served in the Royal Navy, as had his father and grandfather.

  The Old Scot passed two soldiers armed with automatic weapons. They had nothing to do with the burgeoning war in the South Atlantic; they were patrolling because of the I.R.A. and the interminable “troubles” in Ireland that had erupted once more, causing terrorists to plant bombs in England.

  Julian was in the airport, not because of the Falklands or Ireland, but because of the Cold War and NATO. He smiled as he recalled the old curse about living in interesting times.

  The Old Scot lifted the flap of the sporran in front of his kilt and withdrew a key. He gave a quick look around. There wa
s only one other person nearby, a dumpy old woman about eighty in wrinkled tweed, wearing very thick spectacles and rummaging through her purse. The Old Scot ignored her, checked the number on his key, located his locker and inserted the key into the lock. Before he could turn it:

  “Pardon me, ducky,” said the old woman, waddling toward him with the gait of an ailing crab, holding a similar key and pointing to her glasses, “Can you read the number? My eyes …”

  With a smile and a nod, he took her key and squinted at the number as she continued her lament. “Print the bloody things so tiny!”

  He tapped the locker next to his and handed her back the key. She fidgeted, trying to insert the key into her locker. “Thanks, luv. It’s rare these days to meet a gent what still knows ’is manners.”

  The Old Scot grunted in agreement as he turned his key. The two doors swung open simultaneously. He couldn’t suppress a gasp, for to his horror, inside his locker was a colourful sampler with “The Jig is Up” delicately embroidered on it.

  “Is something wrong, Mr. MacPhearson?” asked the Old Woman.

  He spun to her as the sound of his spoken name caused the seeds of panic to sprout in his belly. She shook her head, reached into her locker and pulled out a large powder-blue envelope. The Old Scot gasped at the sight of it.

  The Old Woman’s eyes gleamed and her voice seemed clearly more refined. “Dear me, Mr. MacPhearson, dear me. I thought you had misplaced this. Very important, top secret NATO stuff, you know.”

  With surprising agility MacPhearson tore the envelope out of her hand and bolted down the row of lockers … straight into two beefy constables who stepped out from either corner. He struggled with the strength of a much younger man, but it was no contest; he was rendered helpless in seconds.

  Julian appeared and nodded, and the policeman extended the Old Scot’s hands as the Inspector snapped a pair of cuffs on them.

  The Old Woman, now smiling, toddled over, shaking her head in amusement. “It was the costume, Mr. MacPhearson. Such pretty young knees for such an ’auld Kiltie.” With that she placed her hand on MacPhearson’s face and ripped false skin away, revealing a man of no more than thirty. “Fuck off, Grandma!” was all he could manage and there was not a trace of the Highlands in his accent.

  “Such language, Mr. MacPhearson! Or is it Mr. Grey? Or Comrade Kirsonova? Or Herr Von Kramm? Have I missed anyone?”

  At Julian’s signal, the police dragged “MacPhearson” away. Julian turned, beaming at the Old Woman, “Congratulations, Laura.”

  Laura settled herself comfortably into her old Bentley as it pulled away from the airport and, under the expert skill of her long-time chauffeur, entered the motorway for the forty-five-minute drive back to central London. Julian, in the jump seat, sitting across from her, pulled out a cigar and gave her a quizzical look. With easy familiarity, she nodded her consent for him to light up.

  Julian settled back with a cloud of smoke swirling about him. “Fine bit of work. Really first-class. You’ve always had a flair for this foreign-agent business. Though, how you cracked this case by studying a half-eaten cucumber sandwich is what escapes me.”

  Laura wafted away some of the smoke with a wave of her hand. “You saw the sandwich.”

  “Yes. I saw it.”

  “But you didn’t notice what you saw. Mother made certain I learned how to notice.”

  “Well, I think you’re every bit as good as your mother was.”

  She leaned back in the seat and closed her eyes as the memories started to work their way through the years.

  “My mother … ah, she was something, all right. You know she wouldn’t have touched this case. Hated espionage and working with the government. She preferred straight crime. Her first government case came quite by accident.”

  He nodded, “The ‘German Flower Vendor of Nineteen-Fourteen’?”

  Julian noticed a glimmer of sorrow cross Laura’s face. “There was an earlier case. It even involved me. I was seven at the time. No one to this day has ever heard of it. Too many big people involved. And it nearly destroyed Mother … she would rarely speak of it.”

  “Oh, come on. Tell. It can’t hurt now!”

  He beamed so much like an eager child begging for a story that Laura couldn’t refuse. She sighed and smiled ruefully. “You’ll sit and mope all the way back to town if I don’t, won’t you?”

  He huffed in theatrically outraged dignity.

  “All right. I was there for part of it. I’ll tell you what I saw happen, what I was told happened, and what I deduced must have happened.” Laura closed her eyes as she quietly remembered. “The world is so different now. Nineteen hundred and six might just as well have been another planet.”

  Outside the window was the familiar view of London. Towers of glass and steel dwarfed the Victorian survivors of a more elegant age. Laura cast her thoughts back, making herself see what was, and in her mind’s eyes the huge towers faded away, the flashing signs vanished and the bright electric street lamps flickered into yellow gas. The speeding traffic slowed and the cars melted into carriages, horse-drawn drays and Hansom cabs. The noise of the modern city was gone, and she heard the clip-clop of hoofs against cobblestone. She started to speak …

  Chapter One

  London

  1906

  My singular and remarkable story starts a year or two after Father vanished. Mother was just establishing herself with the Yard and only Commissioner Rushworth Ramsgate really trusted her. Mother’s first case was clearing herself of my father’s murder (in fact, he had simply run off, unable to cope with her). Ramsgate was an unusual man. Tall, thin, and, save for the amused twinkle in his eye, every inch an old-school patrician with his elegant attire and aristocratic bearing. He came from an ancient and well-respected family and, had he cared about such things, would never have incurred their wrath by entering something as pedestrian as the police force. He was only a few years from retirement and thanks to a combination of hard-work, respect, and, it must be admitted, family connections, he was one of the most senior under-commissioners of Scotland Yard. Ramsgate reported directly to Commissioner Sir Edward Henry.

  He was intrigued with Mother as he held a deep respect and, at times, I believe, awe for her abilities. He was just the sort of personality to be the lone champion of a woman playing a man’s game, when all around him were scowls of disapproval. I also suspect that he, a long-time widower of around sixty, had a severe crush on my mother, the remarkable Lady Natasha Dorrington.

  While some of Mother’s cases were complicated, often the simpler ones afforded her the chance to practise her more colourful abilities, much to Ramsgate’s delight. One he particularly mentioned to me involved her love of costume and dance.

  Persepolis was, despite its palatial name, a modest eatery in London’s immigrant-heavy East End. The entire area was razed by the Blitz in World War Two and it’s a pity, for the owner of Persepolis, an émigré Persian, had personally done his best to make his place something out of the Arabian Nights. Belly dancing was scandalous, and it was that, far more than the ethnic fare, which kept the place busy. People from every strata of society enjoyed the veiled dancers, but on that night, a keen-eyed observer would have spotted one table where two men, intense in conversation at the very back of the dark room, were ignoring them.

  The smaller man, clean-shaven and neatly dressed in working clothes, glanced around to make certain no one was paying attention. Then he produced a small velvet case from his pocket. The second man, heavy-set, with a goatee, placed a jeweller’s glass to his eye, stroked his beard and examined the merchandise from inside the case—a diamond necklace. He replaced the glass in his pocket. Then, scowling, he took a water glass and used it to smash the “diamond” into fragments. The smaller man babbled in speechless amazement. Before either of them could act, a shadow crossed the table. They both looked up to see Mother, dressed as a belly-dancer, holding a small Webley revolver in one hand, while in the other twirling the real
diamond necklace.

  Ramsgate, sitting at a nearby table, walked over with a burly detective from the Yard. As the thief and fence were led away, Mother asked Ramsgate if he had any questions.

  “Many—but let’s start with, would you finish your dance?”

  And she did.

  Later that night, as the criminals were incarcerated, the thin one—as the constable roughly shoved him in the cell—cursed at Mother, calling her a “trollop.” I recall Ramsgate mentioning that she stood in the dimly lit passageway between cells while most of the other prisoners, with good reason, glared at her. One large brute growled, “I’ll get you! There’ll come a time! Mark my words! There’ll come a time!” The other prisoners voiced hearty approval.

  “Ah, the old song,” she mused, “it’s a ditty I hear so often of late.” Mother was never known for false modesty. She waved a pert goodbye to the incarcerated assembly. As Ramsgate accompanied her out, she commented, “You may make the usual arrangements.”

  “Why won’t you take credit, Tasha?” She allowed, in fact insisted upon, Ramsgate to use this familiar abbreviation of her first name. It was a decidedly unusual practice for that era.

  “And have you stop bringing me all your little problems? I value the game, not the prize.”

  Mother walked a fine line between being useful to the Yard and not actively stealing their limelight. She was shrewd enough to know that the novelty of a woman detective would soon excite the press. The Fleet Street reporters only uncovered a few of her cases, but that was enough for them to christen Mother a lady Sherlock Holmes—soon shortened to “Lady Sherlock.”

  While Mother lived for the game, sometimes, when there was no intriguing criminal activity afoot, she found other—less positive—stimulations …

  The Inn of Illusion was one of the worst kept secrets in London. When Ramsgate stepped out of the Hansom Cab before the brightly lit mansion, the cabman gave him a knowing grin, which Ramsgate ignored. He walked—over a small drawbridge and a shallow decorative moat—grimly toward the door. He was certain of what was inside, for Mother, brilliant as she was, did have her frailties. I’ve suspected that she had a touch of what would later be called manic-depression.