The Adventure of the Empty House: Part One

Really? I'm excited about my story, total.

“Steuere? How do you feel? The Steuere is really cool?”

Yes, I've been watching over 1000 euros. You've just got a connection. No, just like Steuere. Wow! And that's just a bit? Of course, the macht fast, all is automatic.

It's definitely not so exciting for me. Hold your money, Ty from a Span with like Steuere. I'm Hugh Bonerville, and welcome to Sherlock Holmes' short stories. The series where we delve into the files of fiction's most brilliant detective, following his keen mind and unerring instincts,

from the first subtle clue to the final dramatic revelation.

“This time, we return to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's short stories”

in the adventure of the empty house. With Sherlock Holmes missing, presumed dead, Watson attempts to solve a case by himself. The so-called Park Lane Mystery, which has trans-fixed London society. A young aristocrat has been discovered with his brains blown out.

In a room locked from the inside, but with no gun anywhere to be found. Three years have passed since Holmes' apparent clunge from the Reich and Bach Falls in Switzerland. In that time, Watson's wife, Mary, has passed away as well.

But now, as the good doctor wrestles with a Fiendish locked room mystery, it's his old friend who he finds himself missing more than ever. From the Neuser Podcast Network, this is the adventure of the empty house, part one. It was in the spring of the year 1894 that all London was interested and the fashionable world dismayed by the murder of the honorable Ronald Adair,

under most unusual and inexplicable circumstances. The public has already learned those particulars of the crime which came out in the police investigation, but a good deal was suppressed upon that occasion, since the case for the prosecution was so overwhelmingly strong, that it was not necessary to bring forward all the facts.

Only now, at the end of nearly 10 years,

“am I allowed to supply those missing links which make up the whole of that remarkable chain?”

The crime was of interest in itself, but that interest was as nothing to me compared to the inconceivable sequel, which afforded me the greatest shock and surprise of any event in my adventurous life. Even now, after this long interval, I find myself thrilling as I think of it, and feeling once more that sudden flood of joy, amazement, and incredulity, which utterly submerged my mind. Let me say to that public, which has shown some interest in those glimpses,

which I have occasionally given them of the thoughts and actions of a very remarkable man, that they are not to blame me if I have not shared my knowledge with them, for I should have considered it my first duty to have done so, had I not been barred by a positive prohibition from his own lips, which was only withdrawn upon the third of last month? It can be imagined that my close intimacy with Sherlock Holmes had interested me deeply in crime,

and that after his disappearance I never failed to read with care, the various problems which came

before the public, and I'm even attempted more than once for my own private satisfaction to employ his methods in their solution, though with indifferent success. There was none, however, which appealed to me like this tragedy of Ronald Adair. As I read the evidence of the inquest, which led up to a verdict of willful murder against some person or persons unknown, I realised more clearly than I had ever done, the loss,

which the community had sustained by the death of Sherlock Holmes. There were points about this strange business which would, I was sure, have specially appealed to him, and the efforts of the police would have been supplemented or more probably anticipated, by the trained observation and the alert mind of the first criminal agent in Europe. All day as I drove upon my round, I turned over the case in my mind and found

no explanation which appeared to me to be adequate. At the risk of telling a twice told tale, I will recapitulate the facts as they were known to the public at the conclusion of the inquest.

governor of one of the Australian colonies. Adair's mother had returned from Australia to

“undergo the operation for cataract, and she, her son Ronald and her daughter Hilder,”

were living together at 427 Park Lane. The youth moved in the best society, had so far as was known, no enemies, and no particular vices. He had been engaged to miss Edith Woodley of casters, but the engagement had been broken off by mutual consent some months before, and there was no sign that it had left any very profound feeling behind it. For the rest, the man's life moved in a narrow and conventional circle for his habits were

quiet and his nature unemotional. Yet it was upon this easy-going young aristocrat that desce came in most strange and unexpected form, between the hours of 10 and 1120 on the night of March

30th, 1894. Ronald Adair was fond of cards, playing continually, but never for such

“stakes as would hurt him. He was a member of the Baldwin, the Cavendish, and the Bagatel card”

clubs. It was shown that after dinner on the day of his death he had played a rubber of waste at the latter club. He had also played there in the afternoon. The evidence of those who had played with him, Mr. Murray, Sir John Hardy, and Colonel Moran, showed that the game was whisked, and that there was a fairly equal fall of the cards. Adair might have lost five pounds, but no more. His fortune was a considerable one, and such a loss could not in any way affect him.

He had played nearly every day at one club or other, but he was a cautious player, and usually rose a winner. It came out in evidence that in partnership with Colonel Moran, he had actually won as much as £420 in a sitting some weeks before from Godfrey Milner and Lord Balmoral. So much for

“his recent history, as it came out at the inquest. On the evening of the crime, he returned from”

the club exactly at ten. His mother and sister were out spending the evening with a relation.

The servant deposed that she heard him enter the front room on the second floor,

generally used as his sitting room. She had lit a fire there, and as it smoked, she had opened the window. No sound was heard from the room until 1120, the hour of the return of Lady Maynuth and her daughter. Desiring to say goodnight, she had attempted to enter her son's room. The door was locked on the inside, and no answer could be got to their cries and knocking. Help was obtained and the door forced. The unfortunate young man was found lying near the table.

His head had been horribly mutilated by an expanding revolver bullet. But no weapon of any sort was to be found in the room. On the table, they two banknotes for £10 each, and £17, £10 in silver and gold, the money arranged in little piles of varying amount. There were some figures also upon a sheet of paper with the names of some club friends opposite to them. From which it was congestion, that before his death, he was endeavouring to make out his losses or winnings at cards.

A minute examination of the circumstances served only to make the case more complex.

In the first place, no reason could be given why the young man should have fastened the door

upon the inside. There was the possibility that the murderer had done this and had afterwards escaped by the window. The drop was at least 20 feet, however, and a bed of crookuses in full bloom lay beneath. Neither the flowers nor the earth showed any sign of having been disturbed, nor were there any marks upon the narrow strip of grass which separated the house from the road. Apparently, therefore, it was the young man himself who had fastened the door,

but how did he come by his death? No one could have climbed up to the window without leaving traces. Suppose a man had fired through the window, it would indeed be a remarkable shot who could live with a revolver in flit so deadly or wound. Again, Park Lane is a frequented thoroughfare and there is a cab stand within a hundred yards of the house no one had heard a shot. And yet there was the dead man, and there the revolver bullet which had mushroomed out as

Such were the circumstances of the Park Lane mystery, which were further complicated by

entire absence of motive since, as I have said, young a dare was not known to have any enemy, and no attempt had been made to remove the money or valuables in the room. All day I turn these facts over in my mind, endeavouring to hit upon some theory which could reconcile them all, and to find that line of least resistance which my poor friend had declared to be the starting point of every investigation. I confess that I made little progress.

The story is completely unbearable. There are still civilizations like the Maya and the Aztecs, and the same as all the others, the black totes of the California Goldrausch,

“Chernobyl, the Fall of Berlin Mauer. You know this story, but have you ever heard more about it?”

My name is David Nathan, and I am the owner of a short story about it.

Every week we meet in the first time, in the arena of the Gladiators.

In the sea, on Blackbeard's Pirateship, in the verloren city of Patra. With worldwide recognition experts who gave us the same meaning in the world. From the 30-year-old podcast network, Neuser. Such as, after a short story, where we meet at the Leapstone podcast, and follow us on every day of the new episode. In the evening, I stroll across the park, and found myself about six o'clock at the Oxford Street

End of Park Lane. A group of loafers upon the pavements, all staring up at a particular window,

directed me to the house, which I had come to see. A tall thin man, with colored glasses,

whom I strongly suspected of being a plain clothed detective, was pointing out some theory of his own, while the others crowded round to listen to what he said. I got as near him as I could, but his observation seemed to me to be absurd, so I withdrew again in some disgust. As I did so, I struck against an elderly, deformed man who had been behind me, and I knocked down several books,

“which he was carrying. I remember that as I picked them up, I observed the title of one of them,”

the origin of tree worship. And it struck me that the fellow must be some poor bibliophile, who, either as a trade or as a hobby, was a collector of obscure volumes. I endeavored to apologise for the accident, but it was evident that these books, which I had so unfortunately mald treated were very precious objects in the eyes of their owner. With a snarl of contempt, he turned upon his heel, but I saw his curved back and white side whiskers disappear among the

throne. My observations of number 47 Park Lane did little to clear up the problem in which I was interested. The house was separated from the street by a low wall and railing, the whole not

“more than five feet high. It was perfectly easy, therefore, for anyone to get into the garden,”

but the window was entirely inaccessible, since there was no waterbipal anything which could help the most active man to climb it. More puzzled than ever, I retraced my steps to Kensington. I had not been in my study five minutes when the maid entered to say that a person desired to see me. To my astonishment, it was none other than my strange old book collector, his sharp, whizzened face peering out from a frame of white hair, and his precious volumes and

doesn't have them at least wedged under his right arm. "Yar surprised to see me, sir," said he in a strange croaking voice. "I acknowledged that I was." "Well, I have a conscience, sir, and when I chanced to see you go into this house, as I came hobbling after you, I thought to myself, I'll just step in and see that kind gentleman, and tell him that if I was a bit gruff in my manner, there was not any harm meant, and that I am much obliged to him for

picking up my books." "You make too much of a trifle," said I. "May I ask how you knew who I was?"

little bookshop at the corner of church street, and very happy to see you, I'm sure.

“Maybe you collect yourself, sir. Here's British birds, and Catullus, and the Holy War,”

the bargain, every one of them. With five volumes, you could just fill that gap on that second

shelf. It looks untidy. Does it not, sir?" "I moved my head to look at the cabinet behind me. When I turned again, Sherlock Holmes was standing, smiling at me across my study table. I rose to my feet, stared at him for some seconds in utter amassment, and then it appears that I must have fainted for the first and the last time in my life. Certainly a grey mist swirled before my eyes, and when it cleared, I found my collar ends undone and the tingling aftertaste of brandy

upon my lips. Holmes was bending over my chair, his flask in his hand. "My dear Watson," said the

well-remembered voice. "I owe you a thousand apologies. I had no idea that you would be so

affected." I gripped him by the arm. Holmes, I cried. "Is it really you? Can it indeed be

“that you are alive? Is it possible that you succeeded in climbing out of that awful abyss?”

Wait a moment," said he. "Are you sure that you are really fit to discuss things? I have given you a serious shock by my unnecessarily a dramatic reappearance." "I am all right, but indeed Holmes, I can hardly believe my eyes could have us. To think that you, you of all men should be standing in my study. Again, I gripped him by the sleeve and felt the thin, sinewy arm beneath it. "Well, you're not a spirit, anyhow," said I. "My dear chap, I am overjoyed to see you,

sit down, and tell me how you came alive out of that dreadful castle." He sat opposite to me and lit a cigarette in his old, nonchalent manner. He was dressed in the

“CD-Frock coat of the book Merchant, but the rest of that individual lay in a pile of white hair and old”

books upon the table. Holmes looked even thinner and cleaner than of old, but there was a dead white tinge in his aqueline face which told me that his life recently had not been a healthy one. "I am glad to stretch myself Watson," said he. "It is no joke when a tall man has to take a foot of his statue for several hours on end. Now, my dear fellow, in the matter of these explanations we have, if I may ask for your cooperation, a hard and dangerous night's work in front of us.

Perhaps it would be better if I gave you an account of the whole situation when that work is finished." "I am full of curiosity, I should much prefer to hear now. You'll come with me tonight." "When you like and where you like, this is indeed like the old days. We shall have time for a mouthful of dinner before we need go. Well then, about that, chasm. I had no serious difficulty in

getting out of it for the very simple reason that I never was in it. You never were in it?"

"No, Watson, I never was in it. My note to you was absolutely genuine. I had little doubt that I had come to the end of my career when I perceived the somewhat sinister figure of the late Professor Moriati standing up on the narrow pathway which led to safety." "I read an inexorable purpose in his gray eyes. I exchanged some remarks with him, therefore, and obtained his courteous permission to write the short note which you afterwards received.

I left it with my cigarette box and my stick, and I walked along the pathway, Moriati, still at my heels. When I reached the end, I stood at bay. He drew no weapon, but he rushed at me and threw his long arms around me. He knew that his own game was up, and was only anxious to revenge himself upon me. We totted together upon the brink of the fall. I have some knowledge, however, of Baritsu, or the Japanese system of wrestling,

which has more than one's been very useful to me. I slipped through his grip, and he,

but, for all his efforts, he could not get his balance, and over he went.

“With my face over the brink I saw him fall for a long way, then he struck a rock,”

bound it off and sprash it into the water. I listened with amazement to this explanation, which homes delivered between the puffs of his cigarette. But the tracks I cried, I saw with my own eyes that two went down the path and none returned. It came about in this way. The instant that the professor had disappeared, it struck me what a

really extra ordinary lucky chance fate had placed in my way. I knew that Moriarty was not the

only man who had sworn my death. There were at least three others whose desire for vengeance upon me would only be increased by the death of their leader. They were all most dangerous men. One or other would certainly get me. On the other hand, if all the world was convinced that I was dead, they would take liberties these men. They would lay themselves open, and sooner or later I could destroy them. Then it would be time for me to announce that I was still in the land of the living.

“So rapidly does the brain act that I believe I had thought this all out before Professor Moriarty had”

reached the bottom of the right-hand back fall.

I stood up and examined the rocky wall behind me. In your picturesque account of the matter which I read with great interest some months later, you assert that the wall was sheer. This was not literally true. A few small footholds presented themselves and there was some indication of a ledge. The cliff is so high that to climb it all was an obvious impossibility and it was equally impossible to make my way along the wet path without leaving some tracks. I might, it is true,

have reversed my boots as I have done on similar occasions, but the sight of three sets of tracks in

“one direction would certainly have suggested a deception. On the whole then it was best that I should”

risk the climb. It was not a pleasant business what some before reward beneath me. I am not a fancival person but I give you my word that I seem to hear Moriarty's voice screaming at me out of the abyss. A mistake would have been fatal. More than once as tufts of grass came out in my hand or my foot slipped in the wet notches of the rock. I thought that I was gone but I struggled upwards and at last I reached a ledge several feet deep and covered with soft green moss where I could lie

unseen in the most perfect comfort. There I was stretched when you my dear Watson and all your following were investigating in the most sympathetic and inefficient manner the circumstances of my death. At last when you had all formed your inevitable and totally erroneous conclusions you departed for the hotel and I was left alone. I had imagined that I had reached the end of my adventures but a very unexpected occurrence showed me that there were surprises still in store for me.

A huge rock falling from above boomed past me struck the path and bounded over into the castle. For an instant I thought that it was an accident but a moment later looking up I saw a man's head against the darkening sky and another stone struck the very ledge upon which I was stretched within a foot of my head. Of course the meaning of this was obvious. Moriati had not been alone. A confederate and even that one glance had told me how dangerous

a man that confederate was had kept guard while the professor had attacked me. From a distance unseen by me he had been a witness of his friend's death and of my escape. He had waited and then making his way round to the top of the cliff he had endeavored to succeed where his comrade had failed. I did not take long to think about it once again I saw that grim face look

I don't think I could have done it in cold blood. It was a hundred times more difficult than getting up but I had no time to think of the danger for another stone sang past me as I hung by my hands from the edge of the ledge. Half way down I slipped but by the blessing of God I landed, torn and bleeding upon the path. I took to my heels, did ten miles over the mountains and the darkness and a week later I found myself in Florence with the certainty that no one in the world

knew what had become of me. I had only one confederate. My brother, my croft.

“I owe you many apologies my dear Watson but it was all important that it should be thought I was dead”

and it is quite certain that you would not have written so convincing an account of my unhappy end had you not yourself thought that it was true. Several times during the last three years I have

taken up my pen to write to you but always I feared less your affectionate regard for me should

tempt you to some indiscretion which would betray my secret. For that reason I turned away from you this evening when you upset my books for I was in danger at the time and any show of surprise and emotion upon your part might have drawn attention to my identity and led to the most deplorable and irreparable results. As to my croft I had to confide in him in order to obtain

“the money which I needed. The course of events in London did not run so well as I had hoped for the”

trial of the modiatte gang left two of its most dangerous members, my own most vindictive enemies at liberty. I travelled for two years in Tibet therefore and amused myself by visiting Lassa and spending some days with the headlama. You may have read of the remarkable explorations of an

Norwegian called Sigassum but I am sure that it never occurred to you that you were receiving news

of your friend. Now then passed through Persia, looked in at Mecca and paid a short but interesting visit to the Califa at Khartoum. The results of which I have communicated to the foreign office. Returning to France I spent some months in a research into the cold tar derivatives which I

“conducted in a laboratory at Montpellier in the south of France. Having concluded this to my satisfaction”

and learning that only one of my enemies was now left in London I was about to return when my movements were hastened by the news of this very remarkable park lane mystery which not only appealed to me by its own merits but which seemed to offer some most peculiar personal opportunities. I came over at once to London called in my own person at Baker Street through Mrs Hudson into violent hysterics and found that my craft had preserved my rooms and my papers exactly as they had

always been. So it was my dear Watson that had two o'clock today. I found myself in my old armchair

in my old room and only wishing that I could have seen my old friend Watson in the other chair which he has so often adorned. Such was the remarkable narrative to which I listened on that April evening. A narrative which would have been utterly incredible to me had it not been confirmed by the actual sight of the tall, spare figure and the keen eager face which I had never thought to see again. In some manner he had learned of my own sad bereavement and his sympathy was shown in

his manner rather than in his words. "Work is the best antidote to sorrow my dear Watson," said he, "and I have a piece of work for us both tonight which if we can bring it to a successful conclusion, will in itself justify a man's life on this planet?" In vain I begged him to tell me more. "You will hear and see enough before morning," he answered. "We have three years of the past to discuss let that suffice until half past nine when we start upon the notable adventure of the empty house."

It was indeed like old times when at that hour I found myself seated beside him in a handsome home. My revolver in my pocket and the thrill of adventure in my heart. Next time on Sherlock Holmes' short stories, the game is a foot once again as Holmes and Watson tackled the Park Lane Mystery, an empty house on Baker Street provides the perfect spot for a stakeout. And one of Professor

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