Résultats de "Craig Stephen Copland" dans Toutes les catégories

Ein brillanter Ingenieurstudent aus Cambridge steht vor einer schweren Entscheidung. Die Wahl wird noch schwieriger, als ein Kommilitone ermordet wird. Die Mutter wird entführt. Wenn ihr Sohn die geheimen Pläne nicht preisgibt, wird sie gefoltert und ermordet. Die Schurken haben nicht damit gerechnet, von einer unerwarteten Quelle überlistet zu werden: der Mutter selbst.

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.

Das silberne Pferd, geschmort: Tote Jockeys können keine Pferderennen gewinnen. Was geschieht, als der favorisierte Jockey auf der Rennbahn Epsom Downs tot aufgefunden wird? Sherlock Holmes erkennt, dass er ermordet wurde. Die Nachricht von dem verdächtigen Tod verbreitet sich in allen Zeitungen. Gerüchte über Drohungen, Bestechung und Doping machen die Runde. Scotland Yard ist ratlos.

Die bemerkenswerte Junggesellin: Lord Robert Walsingham de Vere St. Simons Frau war verschwunden. Er beauftragte Sherlock Holmes mit ihrer Suche. Sie ist viel jünger als er, temperamentvoll und Amerikanerin. Drei Tage später wird die Frau eines abscheulichen Verbrechens beschuldigt. Nun sucht sie Sherlock Holmes auf und bittet ihn um Hilfe, ihre Unschuld zu beweisen und dem Galgen zu entgehen. Weder der adlige Ehemann noch die Ehefrau haben sich an die viktorianischen Moralvorstellungen gehalten.

Das Abenteuer der frisierten Hündinnen: Eine junge Frau, die kurz vor dem Erhalt eines riesigen Erbes steht, verschwindet spurlos. Ihr kleiner Bruder glaubt, sie sei zum Zombie geworden und auf dem Friedhof gefangen. Seine Gouvernante ahnt, dass in der seltsamen Familie etwas nicht stimmt. Sie wendet sich an Sherlock Holmes … den sie recht anziehend findet.

For all we know, or think we know, about Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson, what we don’t know is far, far greater. In the duo’s first case, A Study in Scarlet, we learn that Holmes and Watson met on January 1st, 1881, and subsequently moved into an apartment together at 221b Baker Street. Their first case officially began on March 4th of that year, and it is argued that “The Adventure of the Resident Patient” possibly took place in October of 1881, depending on which version of the story you read. But what happened during the rest of 1881? Or all of 1882?

For all we know, or think we know, about Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson, what we don’t know is far, far greater. In the duo’s first case, A Study in Scarlet, we learn that Holmes and Watson met on January 1st, 1881, and subsequently moved into an apartment together at 221b Baker Street. Their first case officially began on March 4th of that year, and it is argued that “The Adventure of the Resident Patient” possibly took place in October of 1881, depending on which version of the story you read. But what happened during the rest of 1881? Or all of 1882?

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."

"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."

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.

"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."

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.

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.

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.