Jeremy Brett, the best Holmes ever, imho! It was sad to see him pass. I used to watch the Agatha Christie shows religiously. And great writing, Yog! I'm enjoying the adventures of Franz Ferdinand thus far. 
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Mettermrck said:Jeremy Brett, the best Holmes ever, imho! It was sad to see him pass. I used to watch the Agatha Christie shows religiously. And great writing, Yog! I'm enjoying the adventures of Franz Ferdinand thus far.
Agree, he was the best. I always imagine Holmes in his incarnation. And thanks! I'm having fun going back 20 years in time from my own AAR, with some of the same characters. You could think of these posts as a prelude to Master Plan of Fu Manchu.
Although not as unintentionally funny as Rathbone
"I have one thing to say to you Watson- Pygmies!"
"I have one thing to say to you Watson- Pygmies!"
Done my Canadian history essay so you'll see another entry tommorow, what you guys want to see specifically? War news? Troubles in Russia, France or Germany? Teddy?
Just a note: if I ever reach '49, I will be continuing. If you've noticed the moral outrage i've tried to put into my AAR (Aftermath of Betebachi) then you'll somewhat understand why I want to extend it. Hopefully the modern-day mod will be done by then. I want to chronicle Rwanada goddammit!
It could do with being filed and continuous without all our encouraging comments and published :rofl:
The Trouble With Franz
Vienna is a historic city, the same goes for the buildings that reside in the heart of that great city. In one of those buildings lay a man of great power, and his was the name that imparted great fear in most of his associates. Schartau was standing in his office and he could hear the wind blowing outside the window, pushed on down the street. The effect would bring a quiver to him, in front of him sat the man at his desk.
Only a single lamp was on within the room. Its effects cast a pale light throughout the center of the room. Near to the walls shadows played with the light, flickering on the periphery. The figure was located in this zone. One could see the vague outline of his body but many of the details were lost. His face was equally enigmatic, revealing little but the bushy mustache that appeared to cover much of the lower part of his face. But it was the eyes, those eyes that gripped him. They were of a piercing gaze; the moonlight coming through the window gleamed in them. Unconsciously the look would make Schartau sweat slightly.
Smoke hung from the ceiling, it was thick kept in from the lack of ventilation in his old building. Striking out from the figures face was a long cigarette, it only added to the mystique surrounding him. He puffed it silently for awhile before acknowledging the newcomers presence.
"What news to you bring of the Archduke, Schartau?" Speaking the figure began to edge forward, the shadows that had so far been flirted upon his chest now began their demonic dance upon his neck and face.
"My talks with the Chinaman were successful, his price was high but his services have been granted to us. He has assured me that the Archduke will be dead within the month, even now men of the Si-Fan are tracking him and his every move." Schartau had picked his words carefully; the price for the death of Ferdinand had been high. So high indeed, that even the man in front of him flinched at the final price of it all.
"A month you say?" Reaching up to the table the figure grabbed a newspaper and threw it at Schartau. Looking down he saw that it was a copy of the Lugano Chronik, the top story seemed to be of a murder in the town. "Do you know what this is? No, I don't think you do. Well your much touted Si-Fan has failed its first attempt, Franz Ferdinand still lives and his assassin lies dead."
The Manor House in Switzerland where Franz Ferdinand was staying
Sweat now drenched Schartau's face; it was not a good sign when his master was this angry. "Yes, it seems that the Si-Fan has failed once. They have been known to fail once or twice in their attempts but the men they hunt never live for long. Ferdinand will be dead within the month, I assure you."
"Schartau, for your sake I hope you are correct. Or you shall reap the consequences of Si-Fan incompetence." Those shadows that had been licking upwards for a scant second revealed the figures entire face. In those eyes which had so far remained cold and piercing Schartau saw another thing - evil. The time to leave had come, and without waiting another second he walked to the door and left the figure to its own devices.
Vienna is a historic city, the same goes for the buildings that reside in the heart of that great city. In one of those buildings lay a man of great power, and his was the name that imparted great fear in most of his associates. Schartau was standing in his office and he could hear the wind blowing outside the window, pushed on down the street. The effect would bring a quiver to him, in front of him sat the man at his desk.
Only a single lamp was on within the room. Its effects cast a pale light throughout the center of the room. Near to the walls shadows played with the light, flickering on the periphery. The figure was located in this zone. One could see the vague outline of his body but many of the details were lost. His face was equally enigmatic, revealing little but the bushy mustache that appeared to cover much of the lower part of his face. But it was the eyes, those eyes that gripped him. They were of a piercing gaze; the moonlight coming through the window gleamed in them. Unconsciously the look would make Schartau sweat slightly.
Smoke hung from the ceiling, it was thick kept in from the lack of ventilation in his old building. Striking out from the figures face was a long cigarette, it only added to the mystique surrounding him. He puffed it silently for awhile before acknowledging the newcomers presence.
"What news to you bring of the Archduke, Schartau?" Speaking the figure began to edge forward, the shadows that had so far been flirted upon his chest now began their demonic dance upon his neck and face.
"My talks with the Chinaman were successful, his price was high but his services have been granted to us. He has assured me that the Archduke will be dead within the month, even now men of the Si-Fan are tracking him and his every move." Schartau had picked his words carefully; the price for the death of Ferdinand had been high. So high indeed, that even the man in front of him flinched at the final price of it all.
"A month you say?" Reaching up to the table the figure grabbed a newspaper and threw it at Schartau. Looking down he saw that it was a copy of the Lugano Chronik, the top story seemed to be of a murder in the town. "Do you know what this is? No, I don't think you do. Well your much touted Si-Fan has failed its first attempt, Franz Ferdinand still lives and his assassin lies dead."
The Manor House in Switzerland where Franz Ferdinand was staying
Sweat now drenched Schartau's face; it was not a good sign when his master was this angry. "Yes, it seems that the Si-Fan has failed once. They have been known to fail once or twice in their attempts but the men they hunt never live for long. Ferdinand will be dead within the month, I assure you."
"Schartau, for your sake I hope you are correct. Or you shall reap the consequences of Si-Fan incompetence." Those shadows that had been licking upwards for a scant second revealed the figures entire face. In those eyes which had so far remained cold and piercing Schartau saw another thing - evil. The time to leave had come, and without waiting another second he walked to the door and left the figure to its own devices.
Five miles from Eastbourne, The Downs, Sussex
April 1915
The kneeling man was in his early seventies, although still mostly vital enough to be tending his garden plot, where rare herbs and exotic vegetables struggled to survive the rigours of England’s clime. After a while, he laid down a pair of garden shears and rose to his feet, holding his lower back. Grunting, he leaned backwards. Recently, arthritis had made gardening somewhat of a torture for him, but he fought on since he craved physical activity nearly as much as he did mental. Thankfully, his hands were yet unaffected, so his ability with the violin was unimpaired. On the rare occasions when he got a visit from his old friend and accomplice Dr Watson, and even rarer, from his eccentric brother Mycroft, Sherlock Holmes never failed to play for his guests.
But the last eight months had been a very bad time. Occasionally, the thunder of artillery barrages came drifting over The Channel from the battlefields of Flanders to be heard in the fields and meadows of Sussex, and for Holmes’s ears that thunder was the fracas of his world coming to pieces. He almost longed for his final rest on those days, to disappear into the mists of time together with that noble old Victorian world that had been his. This war was an obscenity. The death toll was already staggering – it was unconceivable that civilized nations could attack each other with such unrelenting hatred and bloodlust. On those days, he wondered if it hadn’t been better if he really had perished in the Reichenberg falls. But then he remembered the good days that had followed, and reconsidered. The last of the good old days had been among the best, and outliving them also meant he had missed none of them. Too bad only that the Golden Age had been succeeded not by one of Silver, but one of Iron.
Even this bleak year, nature cared nothing for the woes of men, and rejoiced in spring. Bird song never failed to lift Holmes’s spirits at the end of winter, and now it heralded something equally welcome: a guest. A tall figure came walking down the road from Eastbourne. Holmes’s eyesight wasn’t what it had been, but it didn’t take him many instants to realize it could be neither the portly Dr Watson nor the stooping figure of Mycroft, who next to never left his club anyway. So in all likelihood it was the other living relative with whom he still maintained any contact – his nephew Denis Nayland Smith, an excellent investigator in his own right although for some reason he had decided to work for the Scotland Yard instead of following in his uncle’s steps as a private detective. Holmes had been badly disappointed when the lad had refused to take over the apartment at Baker Street where strangers now lived.
The greying detective was gratified that he had been correct in his educated guess. Indeed, it was young Denis who, resting his cane on his shoulder, pushed open the cottage gates and came walking across the garden with an enthusiastic smile on his face.
Holmes returned it readily. ‘Denis, my boy! Have you decided to let the Yard fend for itself while you come to see your old Uncle Sherlock?’
‘Not entirely, Uncle. Believe it or not, but I’m here in a matter of duty.’
Holmes eyes narrowed. ‘I’m retired, Denis, you know that. Even if I did take care of the affair with von Bork last year, the Government shouldn’t think I’m on call for them.’
‘Just listen to what I have to tell you, Uncle. An innocent man needs your help.’
‘Very well, let’s put on a kettle and discuss this inside then. My back would profit from a plush chair right now.’
The two men went inside the small cottage where Holmes now passed his days of retirement. Mrs Masters, a local woman who constituted the totality of the elderly detective’s service prepared a pot of tea and some toasts which Holmes happily munched on and Nayland Smith, in his excitement, hardly touched.
‘The man who needs your help is none other than the Archduke Franz Ferdinand, heir apparent to the thrones of Austria and Hungary. As I’m sure you’re aware, there have been a number of attempts at his life.’
Holmes looked annoyed. ‘Of course I’m aware. The first attempt was what sparked this apocalyptic conflict in the first place. But I fail to see what that has to do with me – after all, the would-be assassin, Princip was caught and his ties with the Serbian Secret Police exposed by the Austrians. In truth, I’m somewhat shamed by the fact that we have taken up arms on the same side as the Serbians, although I suppose we didn’t have much choice after the Kaiser invaded Belgium. The second attempt is a bit of a mystery, I suppose, but I guess the Black Hand would want all Habsburgs dead even more now that Serbia is at war with Austria.’
‘It has gone beyond that. An old enemy of us both has been involved – you knew him as Mr King, back in 1875, and I had a run in with him in Burma and then again in London last year. You see, whoever it is that wants to see the Archduke dead has contracted the services of the Si-Fan.’
‘Fu Manchu! I thought you said he died?’ Now Holmes’s interest had been sparked. Even more than Moriarty, Fu Manchu had been his match, and he had failed to bring the arch-criminal to justice even though he had foiled his plans to take over the London underworld. Ironically, Moriarty more than anyone, had profited from that partial victory.
‘Well, I was never sure, any more than I’m sure now that he isn’t. The Si-Fan might be acting without his leadership; after all the most powerful of the secret societies of China is not likely to collapse like a house of cards just because their leader died. Nevertheless, the case intrigues me – by helping the Archduke, we might learn more about the fate of Fu Manchu.’
Holmes put aside his tea cup and started to prepare a pipe, a sure sign that he was excited. ‘You have caught my interest. So, how do we know the Si-Fan is involved?’
‘One of the Archduke’s bodyguards, a Caucasian tribesman I’ve been told, killed a Si-Fan dacoit who had previously lobbed a bomb down the chimney of the Archduke’s house in Switzerland. Apparently this man, Várkony is his name, had knowledge enough of the Si-Fan to realize who the assassin was and advised his Master to contract us for his protection.’
‘Us? Who are us, in this case? The Scotland Yard?’
‘No, you and me, personally. But it would be foolish not to take advantage of my position in the Yard. I currently hold a roving commission, so if we can just get the Archduke on Empire soil where I have jurisdiction it would facilitate things considerably.’
Holmes slowly shook his head. ‘And Whitehall would just love to see the heir of Austria-Hungary, a country with which we’re currently at war, seeking our protection, wouldn’t they? But we shouldn’t take this Franz Ferdinand to England – the Si-Fan still maintain a presence in London, as far as I know. A more remote location would fit the bill nicely – Scotland perhaps?’
Nayland Smith nodded. ‘I thought along the same lines. To protect the Archduke, we need lots of space and sparse population for the enemy to hide among. I thought of Australia, but that would put him closer to the power base of the Si-Fan – but how about Canada?’
Holmes nodded slowly, igniting his pipe with a match and puffing furiously. ‘Good thinking, lad. There are vast, unpopulated areas in Canada, where we could immediately spot anyone who doesn’t belong, and the Si-Fan has never operated there – Canada it is. When do we leave?’
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I loved the details of the scene. Superb work Yogi.
CSL_CG: A quote from Nixon will suffice: "...there are worse things than death. There is such a thing as evil."
CSL_CG: A quote from Nixon will suffice: "...there are worse things than death. There is such a thing as evil."
Another good Franz post, nice. And another Jeremy Brett pic! Bravo, Yogi. Two enjoyable reads this morning.
Ahh so Mr. Holmes retired to the very downlands I myself wander, he's just a little further east. I've walked the South Downs way from Eastbourne before. There's no better place I've been than the downs *sigh*
No doubt Arthur Conan Doyle will be a tad surprised after looking unsuccessfully for his soldier-son's body in France to return home and find that his fictional creation has sprung to life!
...and, if I'm not mistaken, is living in his house. Perhaps a trip abroad isn't such a bad idea.
Allenby & Evil Capitalist: Holmes place of retirement is described in the opening of the Holmes story "His Final Bow" which takes place immediatly before WW1 (hence the reference to the von Bork affaire). And since Holmes isn't killed in that story, it's reasonable to assume he's still there a year later.
Indeed. But the house sounds like it bears some resemblance to that which Conan Doyle himself would retire to in later years.