Risultati di "Craig Stephen Copland" in Tutte le categorie

Kehren Sie zurück in die Baker Street, wo der berühmteste Detektiv der Welt auf sechs neue Fälle trifft, die seine Expertenhand erfordern. Londons Meisterdetektiv Sherlock Holmes macht sich mit dem langmütigen Watson auf den Weg, während die Detektive von Scotland Yard wieder einmal ratlos sind. Wie zu erwarten war, taucht bald das böse Genie – der Napoleon des Verbrechens – Professor Moriarty wieder auf. Trotz Moriartys Intrigen wird Sherlock die Wissenschaft der Deduktion nutzen, um Mysterien von Diebstahl, Entführung, politischen Intrigen und Mord aufzuklären.

Sherlock Holmes wird widerwillig in die Untersuchung einer Serie grausamer Morde verwickelt, bei denen erfolgreiche, wohlhabende Männer mit einem Eisenbahnnagel getötet werden – eine Methode, die an die biblische Geschichte von Jael erinnert. Als er und Dr. Watson tiefer graben, stoßen sie auf eine Gruppe ehemaliger Studienfreunde, die vor einem Jahrzehnt in den kanadischen Rocky Mountains ein dunkles Geheimnis teilen. Die Spuren führen zu einem Hotelvorfall und einem möglichen Rachefeldzug, der die Elite Londons in Angst versetzt.

Sherlock Holmes wird von Mrs. Arabella Blimber engagiert, um den Mord an ihrer angeblich verhassten Nachbarin Mrs. Henrietta Chowser zu untersuchen, die mit einer Schrotflinte getötet wurde. Durch Ermittlungen enthüllt Holmes, dass die beiden Frauen seit ihrer Schulzeit enge Freundinnen und Komplizinnen bei mehreren Morden waren, darunter an ihren Ehemännern und einer Mitschülerin, um finanzielle Vorteile zu erlangen.

Das Abenteuer von Blut und Feuer ist eine Sherlock-Holmes-Geschichte des Autors Craig Stephen Copland über eine außergewöhnliche historische Frau, Evangeline Booth. In dieser Geschichte ist sie noch eine junge Hauptfrau (Captain) in der Heilsarmee. In späteren Jahren stieg sie in den Rängen auf und wurde Generalin der internationalen Heilsarmee. In dieser Erzählung erhalten wir einen kurzen Einblick in den Mut und die Entschlossenheit, die zum Markenzeichen dieser überlebensgroßen Persönlichkeit werden sollten.

Sherlock Holmes und Dr. Watson besuchen ein Krippenspiel in einer methodistischen Kirche, bei dem das Jesuskind, gespielt vom Sohn des Lords Arsfasten, entführt wird. Holmes Untersuchungen enthüllen, dass die Mutter des Babys, Lady Arsfasten, von ihrem Ehemann tyrannisiert wird. Zudem stößt Holmes auf ein dunkles Familiengeheimnis des Lord Arsfasten, das den Detektiv zu einer anderen Vorgehensweise drängt.

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."

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.

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.

"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."

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.

"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.

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.

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.

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.