The White Worm Read online

  Contents

  Cover

  Available now from Titan Books

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Author’s Preface

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  About the Author

  Also Available from Titan Books

  AVAILABLE NOW FROM TITAN BOOKS

  THE FURTHER ADVENTURES OF SHERLOCK HOLMES SERIES:

  THE ANGEL OF THE OPERA

  Sam Siciliano

  THE WEB WEAVER

  Sam Siciliano

  THE GRIMSWELL CURSE

  Sam Siciliano

  THE VEILED DETECTIVE

  David Stuart Davies

  THE SCROLL OF THE DEAD

  David Stuart Davies

  THE RIPPER LEGACY (May 2016)

  David Stuart Davies

  THE ALBINO’S TREASURE

  Stuart Douglas

  THE COUNTERFEIT DETECTIVE (October 2016)

  Stuart Douglas

  MURDER AT SORROW’S CROWN (September 2016)

  Steven Savile & Robert Greenberger

  THE ECTOPLASMIC MAN

  Daniel Stashower

  THE WAR OF THE WORLDS

  Manly Wade Wellman & Wade Wellman

  THE SEVENTH BULLET

  Daniel D. Victor

  DR JEKYLL AND MR HOLMES

  Loren D. Estleman

  THE PEERLESS PEER

  Philip José Farmer

  THE TITANIC TRAGEDY

  William Seil

  THE FURTHER ADVENTURES OF SHERLOCK HOLMES:

  THE WHITE WORM

  Print edition ISBN: 9781783295555

  E-book edition ISBN: 9781783295562

  Published by Titan Books

  A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd

  144 Southwark Street, London SE1 0UP

  First edition: February 2016

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Names, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead (except for satirical purposes), is entirely coincidental.

  © 2016 Sam Siciliano

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

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  This one is for my father and my son.

  Author’s Preface

  Two of my three earlier Holmes novels derive from other works. Angel of the Opera is a retelling of the Phantom of the Opera with Sherlock Holmes, and it closely follows the plot of Leroux’s novel. The Grimswell Curse is a sort of theme and variations on The Hound of the Baskervilles. In both cases, I could be sure that most readers had at least some familiarity with my source material. However, this time around that is not the case.

  Since Bram Stoker wrote a real masterpiece, Dracula, which can still scare modern readers, I wish I could say his last book The Lair of the White Worm is a lost treasure. Sadly, that is not the case. It’s like a Victorian curiosity shop full of bizarre and kinky knick-knacks. The prose is overwrought, the characterization simple-minded, and there is a minor black African character whose lip-smacking, leering portrayal is beyond embarrassing. The fear of female sexuality also found in Dracula reaches new heights, and Freudians can have a field day. The femme-fatale villainess who is both a woman and a centuries-old gigantic white serpent is unintentionally comical, as is her final fate. There are two versions of the novel, both available as free ebook downloads: Stoker’s original 1911 version makes a bit more sense than the posthumously released abridgement of 1925.

  Despite its weaknesses, The Lair of the White Worm did inspire this latest book. However, it is certainly a much looser connection than with The Angel of the Opera. Certain of Stoker’s characters made it into my story (but not the black African!), along with some Freudian undercurrents and a Gothic atmosphere. I also moved the story to Yorkshire for reasons that should be apparent by the conclusion. I hope my readers will enjoy the results.

  One

  Although it was April and the days had grown longer, the air seemed sodden and heavy that particular Monday evening. It was just after six. The sun would not set for another hour or so, but this perpetual twilight had begun mid-afternoon. Winter might be gone, but the stench and dark presence of coal smoke still hovered over London. As I went up the short stairway to my cousin’s flat, I wished again for a good rain to cleanse the air. Where were the proverbial showers?

  The indomitable Mrs. Hudson, short, plump and smiling, opened the door.

  “How is he?” I asked.

  She shook her head. “Not well at all. Perhaps you can reason with him, Doctor.”

  I went up another short flight of stairs, rapped lightly at the door, then opened it. I blinked twice and a pungent smoke filled my lungs, making me cough. “Good Lord,” I murmured. Through the haze I could see my cousin seated at his favorite armchair wearing his faded purple dressing gown with his pipe in hand. I stepped closer, waving my fingers to try to part the noxious cloud. “This is unbelievably foul. If you are feeling unwell…”

  Holmes shook his head. “There is little else to do. Allow me the luxury of my favored vice.”

  “Really, this is too much. This must be the cheapest possible shag. Certainly you can afford better.”

  Holmes turned to me, his dark brows knotting over the beak of his nose. “Henry, do not lecture me on the evils of tobacco-poisoning. I had enough of that from Watson.”

  “Well, he was right, you know.”

  “Nonsense. No one has ever proven…” He raised one hand to cover a sharp cough. “It has never…” A fusillade of coughs suddenly overwhelmed him, barking noises, and he bent over, setting down the pipe.

  I shook my head, looked about, then went to the sideboard and poured brandy from a decanter. I handed him the glass, then took the pipe and found a nearby ashtray. I turned over the pipe and tapped it against the glass.

  Holmes swallowed, shook his head wildly—“No, no!”—he shook his head again, then had another swallow of brandy. “You must not commit battery against a well-made pipe like that one. It must not be knocked about so rudely.”

  “Forgive me.” I went to the bow window, unfastened the latch and opened it. “The air outside is hardly better, but at least it may clear the haze.”

  The coughing fit gradually came to an end. I seized my bag and dug around for my stethoscope. “Let me have a listen to your lungs.”

  “There is nothing wrong with my lungs.”

  I laughed sharply. “Come now, you need not remove your dressing gown or shirt. Just undo a button or two.”

  His thin face seemed paler than usual as he stared up at me. I warmed the bell on my hand, then set it on his chest between two ribs. “Breathe in and out.” I listened carefully. “I think you have only the beginnings of bronchitis. You definitely should abstain from tobacco for a few days.”

 
“Henry, Watson’s scolding about tobacco was one of the causes of the breach between us. If you also are going to start the same thing, our friendship cannot endure.”

  “And if you will not listen to me and if you drive me away, then perhaps I will take up my pen and publish something about our adventures together.”

  Holmes scowled fiercely, then he laughed. “Touché! Anything but that! One Watson is bad enough, but a second…” He shook his head. “No, it could not be endured.”

  “And I suppose you have not eaten since breakfast.”

  He had to think for a few seconds. “I suppose I have not.”

  “Let me have Mrs. Hudson bring you something—as well as a cup of tea. That will soothe your throat.”

  He shrugged slightly. “Oh, very well.” He gave a long sigh. “It is good to see you, Henry. I was rather lost in my thoughts, too much so.”

  I stared closely at him. “Violet Wheelwright?”

  The corners of his mouth rose very slightly. “Oh very good, Henry. Our association has aided your powers of deduction, but it must be very obvious indeed.”

  Violet Wheelwright had been at the center of a case that had ended tragically, and I knew Holmes admired her more than any other woman. It had been over a year since they had parted, but my wife Michelle and I still hoped that someday they might be reunited.

  I spoke with Mrs. Hudson, poured Holmes a little more brandy, poured myself one, then sat at the nearby sofa. Holmes held the glass in his long, slender fingers and stared down at the liquid. “It is ennui, you know. Since the Grimswell Curse, there has been little to interest me.”

  “Dartmoor seemed to agree with you. I think you could do with a holiday, an outing. Some fresh air would do you good.”

  He shrugged. “I would prefer an interesting case to a holiday.” He stared at me. “Perhaps now that you are here… You are good luck for me, Henry. Two of my most fascinating cases began when you were sitting on that very sofa and I was bemoaning the dismal state of crime—in just such circumstances as these, there came a rap at the door…”

  A light rap did sound, and Mrs. Hudson appeared without tea or food. “Mr. Holmes—” A huge young man wearing a brown tweed Norfolk suit and cloth cap, valise in hand, strode into the room. Mrs. Hudson frowned. “A visitor to see you.”

  He must have been six and a half feet tall, and the hand clutching the hat brim was the largest I had ever seen. Beneath his curly black hair, his face was pale. His features recalled some classical statue, and he had the air of a young Adonis.

  “Mr. Holmes, I must speak to you—you must help me.”

  Holmes glanced at me, one eyebrow rising briefly, then back at the youth. “Gladly, sir, although you must pardon this informal garment. I was not expecting visitors.”

  “It doesn’t matter to me.”

  “Would you care for a brandy?” Holmes asked.

  He shook his head. “No, no.” His head seemed to freeze, and then he took in an enormous breath. Although he was obviously a gentleman, he had a chest worthy of a stevedore. “Yes—I mean yes.”

  I stood up and went to the sideboard. The young man somehow managed to take the brandy from me without really seeing me.

  “This is my cousin and friend, Dr. Henry Vernier.”

  The young man turned abruptly to me. He had striking, vivid blue eyes. “Oh, I beg your pardon, sir.” He nodded. “Thank you for the brandy.” He took a swallow, and half of it was gone. He looked at me again. “Not Dr. Watson?”

  “No,” Holmes and I said simultaneously.

  Holmes gestured with a flourish at the sofa. “Do sit down, sir. And who, may I ask, do I have the pleasure of addressing?”

  “Selton. Adam Selton.”

  “How do you do, Mr. Selton. And how was your train journey? A rushed departure, and then rather long and fatiguing, I fear. And you came straight from the station.”

  Selton’s eyes widened. He glanced at me, then back at Holmes. “It’s true—you can read minds!”

  Holmes laughed. “Nonsense. You are wearing dress more suitable for the country than the city. You did not bother to shave this morning. Your suit has a wrinkled, battered look—as do you—and you are carrying a traveling valise. Even Henry must have noticed this.”

  I smiled slightly. “Of course.” Actually I had noticed little save his youth and size.

  Holmes sat back in the chair. “And I suppose this must involve a young lady.”

  Selton struck his knees with two enormous fists. “Yes! If you can’t read minds, how could you possibly know that?”

  Holmes smiled. “You must allow me my little secrets. Tell me about yourself and the young lady, Mr. Selton.”

  He shook his head. “It’s all such a muddle. I don’t know where to begin, exactly.”

  “Why not with her name, her particulars, and then something of your own family.”

  He nodded. “Yes, of course. Her name is Diana—Miss Diana Marsh. Her family is an old and established one in the north of Yorkshire near Whitby, a port on the North Sea. Their estate is called Diana’s Grove. Her father and mother died of influenza three years ago. She was their only child. After her parents’ deaths, she lived with her grandfather, who died last year. Her aunt, Lady Verr, who was recently widowed, has been staying with her for some six months. Diana is… is…” He did not seem to know where to begin. “She is quite tall, something which runs in the family, and she has long red hair and striking green eyes. She is very slender, although she has a woman’s shape…” His eyes seemed to lose focus. “Most definitely a woman’s shape.” A hint of color appeared in his cheeks.

  Holmes glanced at me. “The situation seems somewhat familiar, Henry, does it not?” I knew he must be thinking of Rose Grimswell. “Does the lady by any chance have a large fortune?”

  “Fortune?” He seemed genuinely puzzled. “I don’t know. I doubt it. The estate and her home, of course, but the dwelling is badly in need of repairs. Perhaps a few hundred a year, maybe a thousand, hardly anything.”

  Holmes’s eyebrow rose again. “Most in London would not consider that a pittance—to the contrary. I take it you must be rather well situated yourself.”

  He shrugged. “Yes. Someday I shall inherit the family home and a large estate in Derbyshire even as my father did before me. We also have a townhouse in London and another house in Yorkshire. My father has always had a fondness for the seaside, and he bought the place near Whitby ten years ago; Lesser Hill, it is called. That was where I first met Diana—Miss Marsh. I am only a year older than she, and we soon became friends.”

  “And how old are you, Mr. Selton?”

  “I turned twenty-one last month. Anyway, Diana was always the adventurous one, afraid of nothing, while I…” He looked up at us both. “Because I am so tall, people assume I must be fearless. I only wish that were true.”

  “A traditional English family of the landed gentry, and as you said, someday you will inherit your father’s estate.” Holmes smiled faintly at me. “There is no obvious motive to cause trouble for the Selton family, Henry, as there was last time. And what are your intentions toward Miss Marsh?”

  His cheeks reddened again. “They are honorable, of course.”

  Holmes smiled somewhat ironically. “Certainly. And so would these honorable intentions have a matrimonial bent?”

  It took him a second or two to figure that out, and then the blood did seem to pour into his face. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a man flush in such a way before. “I… I…” His throat seemed constricted.

  “I did not mean to distress you, Mr. Selton.”

  “I don’t know. I don’t.” His voice was anguished.

  “You do seem fond of the young lady.”

  “Oh yes! But there are… complications.” The blood receded as quickly as it had come, white replacing red. “For one thing, Father does not think she is suitable. He thinks someone with a title would be more appropriate, given all that we have to offer.”

  Holmes
glanced briefly at the ceiling, then at me, then back to Selton. “I take it you are referring to the family estate and fortune?”

  “Yes. Of course.”

  This last phrase made Holmes almost wince. “And you are—of course—willing to comply with your father’s wishes?”

  Selton’s jaw stiffened. “No, not necessarily. I… I…”

  Holmes raised his right hand, long fingers stretched upward toward the ceiling. “You need not elaborate. I understand. Thus far I cannot see the reason for your rushing all the way from Yorkshire to seek my services. Yours seem to be the usual trials and tribulations of youthful romance.”

  “I came, Mr. Holmes, because… because… because I am worried.” And indeed, he was clearly uneasy.

  “Explain yourself, sir.”

  “I have received the most remarkable letter and document about the Marsh family, and I do not know what to make of it. Surely it can only be nonsense, and yet why would someone even send me such a thing? I cannot imagine Miss Marsh has any enemies, but the document is so frightful, and…”

  “Show me, Mr. Selton—show me.” Holmes eagerly extended his hand, palm up.

  Selton reached inside the voluminous side of his jacket and withdrew some folded papers. Holmes quickly scanned the first one and frowned. “Short and to the point.” He handed the letter to me.

  Mr. Adam Selton,

  if you value your manhood, you would do well to flee from Diana Marsh and that cursed family while you still can. Have you never heard of the dark history of Diana’s Grove and the Marsh family? If not, you may want to peruse the venerable document enclosed. The tale itself was passed down for generations before being transcribed some two or three centuries ago. Think well before you involve yourself with one who actually bears the name of this accursed place. Believe me, there are serpents who can assume a pleasing female shape.

  A friend.

  “Serpents?” I murmured.

  Holmes unfolded the other pages. They appeared yellow with age, the edges brown and uneven. He took the first page between thumb and forefinger, rubbed back and forth, thoughtfully feeling the paper. He hesitated, then turned over the page and sniffed at it twice, loudly. He looked at me. “A good thing you opened the window, Henry, and allowed the smoke to dissipate. By the way, you might close it again before we all catch a chill.”