Martínez The Wisdom of the Dead

The Lost Files of Sherlock Holmes
1. Auflage 2019
ISBN: 978-84-16637-88-1
Verlag: Sportula Ediciones
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 0 - No protection

E-Book, Englisch, Band 1, 180 Seiten

Reihe: The Lost Files of Sherlock Holmes

'You have heard me say many times, Watson, that when the impossible has been eliminated, what remains, however unlikely it may seem, is the truth. But what happens when the impossible cannot be eliminated?' London, 1895. While investigating a case of potential identity theft, Sherlock Holmes finds himself in the middle of a war between the Egyptian Fremasonry and the Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn for the possession of the ultimate grimoire, the Al Azif, the Book of Dead Names, the infamous Necronomicon itself...  'I do not know what readers might think when they finish these pages,' claims Dr. Watson. 'There is a lot in this story that seems incredible, unlikely, as it seemed to me at the time. I have told you what I witnessed, without distortion or concealment. Whether what Holmes and I saw and heard was true or not is for you to decide.' Rodolfo Martinez brings together two of the greatest literary myths of all time: the Baker Street detective and the misanthropist from Providence. The outcame is a fascinating adventure whose roots are at the very core of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's and H. P. Lovecraft's creations.

Candás, 1965 Rodolfo Martínez publica su primer relato en 1987 y no tarda en convertirse en uno de los autores indispensables de la literatura fantástica española, aunque si una característica define su obra es la del mestizaje de géneros, mezclando con engañosa sencillez y sin ningún rubor numerosos registros, desde la ciencia ficción y la fantasía hasta la novela negra y el thriller, consiguiendo que sus obras sean difícilmente encasillables. Ganador del premio Minotauro con Los sicarios del cielo (ahora en Sportula como Este incómodo ropaje), ha cosechado numerosos galardones a lo largo de su carrera literaria, como el Asturias de Novela, el UPV de relato fantástico y, en varias ocasiones, el Ignotus (en sus categorías de novela, novela corta y cuento). Su obra holmesiana, compuesta hasta el momento de cuatro libros, ha sido traducida al portugués, al polaco, al turco y al francés y varios de sus relatos han aparecido en publicaciones francesas.  En 2009 y con El adepto de la Reina, inició un nuevo ciclo narrativo en el que conviven elementos de la novela de espías de acción con algunos de los temas y escenarios más característicos de la fantasía.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Martínez, Rodolfo

Weitere Mitwirkende

Martínez, Rodolfo

Leseproben

I

The Explorer that Never Was

When I woke up that morning, Holmes had been standing for a while. His breakfast lay on the living room table, half-eaten, and my friend leaned against the window sill, the newspaper bent under his arm and an expression I knew very well on his sharp, dry face.

“Is there something wrong, Holmes?” I asked him as I sat down to breakfast.

“That is what I would like to know, Watson,” he said, stepping away from the window and giving me the newspaper. “Page three, second column.”

While I spread butter on my toast, I took a look at the news Holmes had pointed out to me. It was the announcement of a lecture on the tribal customs of African Bushmen by Norwegian explorer Sigurd Sigerson, who had been living in London for several months. I did not think it was a particularly worthy event for my friend to pay attention to, and I told him so.

“Really?” Holmes replied with a smile. “Your memory is not what it once was. Doesn’t that name Sigerson mean anything to you?”

I tried to remember. The issue came to my mind at once, and it would have done so immediately after reading the news if I had not been still on the threshold of sleep. It had been almost a year since Holmes had reappeared in my life after three years, during which I had believed him to be dead. When we met again, a moment I later detailed as ‘The Adventure of the Empty House,’ Holmes told me he had spent a good part of those three years under the supposed personality of Sigerson, a Norwegian explorer.

 “So is there a real Sigerson whose identity you used?” I said aloud.

Holmes gave me a cold look of wounded dignity. As usual, he reacted like a spoiled child whenever someone, inadvertently or on purpose, hurt his vanity.

“My good Watson,” he said with all the solemnity he could muster, “never, as far as I know, has there been a Scandinavian explorer of that name. It was a disguise for me, one of many, and believe me if I tell you I would not have been so irresponsible as to disguise myself as someone already existing, with the consequent risk of my fraud being discovered.”

What my friend said made sense, and I cursed myself for not noticing it sooner.

“So?” I asked, pointing to the newspaper.

“That is the heart of the matter. If Sigerson has never existed, how does he now appear out of nowhere to give a lecture on Bushmen customs?”

I did not answer. The matter intrigued me as much as it intrigued him. Holmes picked up the newspaper and went over the news again, while a faint danger signal began to light up in my head.

“The lecture will take place this evening at six o’clock. I don’t think it would be a bad thing if we were to make an appearance.”

“Do you think there may be danger?” I said, giving way to my fears.

“My dear friend, nothing is more dangerous than life itself. It will certainly be interesting, that is all I can tell you.”

After breakfast, I read the review more thoroughly. It stated that Sigerson was one of the few white men who had spoken to the Great Lama of Tibet and had managed, disguised as an Arab, to enter Mecca and contemplate the famous black stone of the Kaaba. All of this coincided point by point with what Holmes had told me a year ago about his adventures. It certainly could not be a coincidence. That man, whoever he was, had adopted Sigerson’s personality to attract Holmes’s attention.

“Indeed, Watson,” he said, as if he had read my thoughts. “It is more than likely a trap. If you don’t want to come, I will understand, of course.”

“Holmes, you offend me. I have never let you face danger alone and I am not going to do it now.”

My friend’s sharp face lit up briefly with a smile.

“I expected no less from you, Watson.”

Each of us spent the rest of the morning dedicated to their own affairs: while I was reading Mr. Machen’s last book, recommended by my literary agent, Holmes alternated a couple of chemical experiments with some improvisations on the violin. At the time, my friend had no case on his hands, and more than once had told me of his boredom. With that thick irony that sometimes characterized him, he complained more than once of the lack of crimes in our city.

“Understand me well, Watson,” he used to say, “I am not advocating for an increase in our criminal population. Without a doubt it has grown more than enough in recent years. It is not so much about the number of crimes committed as it is about their quality, we might say.”

“But Holmes,” I replied, amused by the way my friend contemplated the issue. “Suppose your wishes are fulfilled and London is filled with clever, intelligent and mysterious crimes. What would happen when you retire?”

Invariably Holmes raised an eyebrow at my question:

“What makes you suppose I will retire, Watson?”

“Well,” I said, increasingly perplexed by the turn of the conversation. “Even if you are unwilling to, sooner or later you will have to surrender to the evidence of nature. After all, we are mortal creatures.”

“Really? Perhaps you should not rush to speak for others so quickly, my friend.”

Invariably I took his last words as a pun. And yet, there was always within me the embers of doubt. It is true that Holmes eventually retired from his activity as a consultant detective, but it is not difficult for me to imagine him in years to come, when I have already left this world, walking through his hives and smiling with a certain mischief every time he remembers my audacity in calling him a ‘mortal creature’.

In any case, none of this is relevant to what I am telling, and I apologize to the reader for that. I am afraid I cannot escape the characteristic vice of old age of embarking on endless remembrances. I will try to avoid them in the following pages, but I cannot promise success.

In the evening we called a Hansom and headed for the conference venue, in a little-known club in Pall Mall. Neither of us was a member, but in the newspaper it had been stated that entry would be free for everyone who was interested, so we did not expect that anyone would put the slightest hindrance on us.

At quarter to six we crossed the gates of the Anthropos Club. We expected a scarce attendance composed of rather eccentric people, given the place and the topic of the talk. It was really a surprise to find in the main hall a large audience that seemed very interested in the conference of the so-called Sigerson. I saw some familiar faces, members of the London literary community —I knew most of them, mainly through my literary agent. I also recognized Isadora Persano, the famous journalist and duellist, whose slender and pompous figure immediately made him unmistakable among the public. I was going to tell Holmes about him when he went ahead of me and said:

“Look, Watson. If I am not mistaken, your bulky literary agent is over here.”

I looked where he was pointing, and indeed, that fleshly figure whose back I beheld could only belong to Arthur Conan Doyle. He was speaking to a middle-aged man, somewhat bowed and slightly pompous, who looked around as if everything in the room belonged to him. Next to him, as if he were in a subordinate place, almost subservient, there was a young man with an elusive look that I found unpleasant at first sight. There was in his ways something reptilian, sinuous and devious that made me feel disgusted just by looking at him.

“Aren’t you go to say hello, Watson?” Holmes asked me, a sly gleaming in his eyes.

I could not help smiling. Arthur Conan Doyle, although he...