His Last Bow - Arthur Conan Doyle

His Last Bow




"His Last Bow" is a captivating compilation of seven intriguing Sherlock Holmes stories (eight in American editions) masterfully penned by the renowned Arthur Conan Doyle, a literary genius of the late 19th and early 20th centuries. This collection serves as a thrilling testament to the unparalleled brilliance and unmatched deductive skills of the iconic detective, Mr Sherlock Holmes.

Within these thrilling tales, readers are taken on suspenseful adventures featuring an array of enigmatic cases that put both the unwavering courage of Dr Watson and the remarkable intellect of Sherlock Holmes to the ultimate test. From uncovering the truth behind a puzzling Sussex vampire to delving into the convoluted mysteries of Thor Bridge and the Lions Mane, each story within "His Last Bow" presents a unique and captivating puzzle that will leave readers eagerly turning the pages.

Throughout this enthralling collection, readers are brought face-to-face with a mysterious creeping man and a perplexing three-gabled house, both of which hold secrets that only Holmes can unravel. Moreover, the gripping narratives also feature the enigmatic disappearances of secret plans and a lady of noble standing, offering a glimpse into the high-stakes world of espionage and treachery.

As readers delve into the depths of "His Last Bow," they will experience a whirlwind of emotions as they accompany Sherlock Holmes on his daring escapades. From heart-pounding action to intricate problem-solving, this collection encapsulates the very essence of Holmes' exceptional talent, leaving readers astounded by his unparalleled deductive prowess.

Indeed, "His Last Bow" is a literary masterpiece that not only showcases the brilliance of Arthur Conan Doyle's storytelling but also cements the legacy of Sherlock Holmes as the greatest detective of all time. Immerse yourself in this captivating journey that will keep you on the edge of your seat until the very last page.

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Original Preface

The friends of Mr. Sherlock Holmes will be glad to learn that he is still alive and well, though somewhat crippled by occasional attacks of rheumatism. He has, for many years, lived in a small farm upon the downs five miles from Eastbourne, where his time is divided between philosophy and agriculture. During this period of rest he has refused the most princely offers to take up various cases, having determined that his retirement was a permanent one. The approach of the German war caused him however, to lay his remarkable combination of intellectual and practical activity at the disposal of the government, with historical results which are recounted in His Last Bow. Several previous experiences which have lain long in my portfolio have been added to His Last Bow so as to complete the volume.

John H. Watson, M. D.

The Adventure of Wisteria Lodge

1. The Singular Experience of Mr. John Scott Eccles

I find it recorded in my notebook that it was a bleak and windy day towards the end of March in the year 1892. Holmes had received a telegram while we sat at our lunch, and he had scribbled a reply. He made no remark, but the matter remained in his thoughts, for he stood in front of the fire afterwards with a thoughtful face, smoking his pipe, and casting an occasional glance at the message. Suddenly he turned upon me with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes.

"I suppose, Watson, we must look upon you as a man of letters," said he. "How do you define the word 'grotesque'?"

"Strange – remarkable," I suggested.

He shook his head at my definition.

"There is surely something more than that," said he; "some underlying suggestion of the tragic and the terrible. If you cast your mind back to some of those narratives with which you have afflicted a long-suffering public, you will recognize how often the grotesque has deepened into the criminal. Think of that little affair of the red-headed men. That was grotesque enough in the outset, and yet it ended in a desperate attempt at robbery. Or, again, there was that most grotesque affair of the five orange pips, which led straight to a murderous conspiracy. The word puts me on the alert."

"Have you it there?" I asked.

He read the telegram aloud.

"Have just had most incredible and grotesque experience. May I consult you? Scott Eccles, Post-Office, Charing Cross."

"Man or woman?" I asked.

"Oh, man, of course. No woman would ever send a reply paid telegram. She would have come."

"Will you see him?"

"My dear Watson, you know how bored I have been since we locked up Colonel Carruthers. My mind is like a racing engine, tearing itself to pieces because it is not connected up with the work for which it was built. Life is commonplace; the papers are sterile; audacity and romance seem to have passed forever from the criminal world. Can you ask me, then, whether I am ready to look into any new problem, however trivial it may prove? But here, unless I am mistaken, is our client."

A measured step was heard upon the stairs, and a moment later a stout, tall, gray-whiskered and solemnly respectable person was ushered into the room. His life history was written in his heavy features and pompous manner. From his spats to his gold-rimmed spectacles he was a Conservative, a churchman, a good citizen, orthodox and conventional to the last degree. But same amazing experience had disturbed his native composure and left its traces in his bristling hair, his flushed, angry cheeks and his flurried, excited manner. He plunged instantly into his business.