By Donald Thomas
In a momentous interval of British heritage, Donald Thomas 's most recent Sherlock Holmes event pits the nice Detective and his devoted biographer, Dr. John Watson, opposed to a world conspiracy led by means of a disgraced English officer. Colonel Hunter Moran bears upon him The Mark of the Beast; his satanic ingenuity leaves a dazzling path of devastation. It runs from the annihilation of a British armored column by way of Zulu tribesmen armed basically with shields and spears, to a life-and-death fight at the sinking passenger steamer Comtesse de Flandre.
The inheritor to the French empire lies lifeless within the African airborne dirt and dust. Europe is dropped at the edge of battle through cast despatches, designed to complement gun-runners and assassins. The gold-fields and diamond mines of South Africa develop into the playground of prepared crime.
Only the detective genius of Holmes can end up a fit for the unfolding illegal activity of Moran and his affiliates. With Watson and Mycroft at his facet, Sherlock Holmes back demonstrates even though the powers of the country and the underworld might try and overpower him, they're going to by no means out-think his fabulous analytical brain on the peak of its powers.
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Extra info for Death on a Pale Horse: Sherlock Holmes on Her Majesty's Secret Service (Sherlock Holmes, Book 7)
C’mon,” I said, leading him into my office suite, otherwise known as my dining room. “Have a seat,” I said, gesturing to the dining table. Howard started for a chair, and I screeched in dismay. “Hey! ” I scooped my cat Prozac off the chair Howard was about to sit in and tossed her in the kitchen. She glared at me balefully, then got revenge by leaping on top of the dryer, onto a pile of freshly folded laundry. I turned to Howard and smiled my most encouraging smile. “So. ” He blinked, as if hearing this news for the first time.
Finally, I flipped to the news—just in time to see a skinny guy with a bobbing Adam’s apple being taken into police custody. Wait a minute. I knew that skinny guy. It was Howard Murdoch. I sat up straight in bed. What the heck was Howard doing in police custody? The TV reporter obligingly filled me in. My mild-mannered client, a guy so timid he was probably afraid of Count Chocula, was being arrested for the grisly murder of Westside aerobics instructor Stacy Lawrence. ” I sat across from Howard in the visitors’ room of the county jail, a stark, fluorescent-lit cavern that smelled like old oatmeal.
1622 Bentley. ” Five minutes later, I was on the freeway, heading over to Westwood. I wanted to talk to Stacy’s neighbor in Apartment Seven, the lady who’d heard Howard screaming. If she heard Howard, maybe she’d heard something else, something that would point me in the direction of the true killer. Wait a minute, you’re probably asking yourself. I’m a freelance writer, right? I. Warshawski? That’s just what I was asking myself that day as I headed over to Stacy’s place. What on earth did I think I was doing?