The Untreed Detectives Read online

  Table of Contents

  Copyright

  Introduction

  A Knife in the Dark by Kara L. Barney

  Angus Wants a Peanut by Amber Rochelle Gillet

  Breathing Under Water by Janet Majerus

  Dessie’s Jaded Past by Lesley A. Diehl

  Dog Is in the Details by Neil Plakcy

  Faint Heart by Gillian Roberts

  Immy Goes to the Dogs by Kaye George

  Scandalous Silence by Whit Howland

  Split the Difference by Albert Tucher

  The Cinderella Caper by Herschel Cozine

  The Wrong Move by Rodolfo Peña

  The Trident Caper by Wade J. McMahan

  The Dastardly Crew of The Untreed Detectives

  The Untreed Detectives

  J. Alan Hartman, Editor

  Cover Copyright 2013 by Ginny Glass and Untreed Reads Publishing

  The authors are hereby established as the sole holders of the copyright. Either the publisher (Untreed Reads) or author may enforce copyrights to the fullest extent.

  Copyright 2013 by

  Kara L. Barney, “A Knife in the Dark”

  Amber Rochelle Gillet, “Angus Wants a Peanut”

  Janet Majerus, “Breathing Under Water”

  Lesley A. Diehl, “Dessie’s Jaded Past”

  Neil Plakcy, “Dog Is in the Details”

  Gillian Roberts, “Faint Heart”

  Kaye George, “Immy Goes to the Dogs”

  Whit Howland, “Scandalous Silence”

  Albert Tucher, “Split the Difference”

  Herschel Cozine, “The Cinderella Caper”

  Rodolfo Peña, “The Wrong Move”

  Wade J. McMahan, “Trident Caper”

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the publisher or authors, except in the case of a reviewer, who may quote brief passages embodied in critical articles or in a review. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of these authors.

  This is a work of fiction. The characters, dialogue and events in this book are wholly fictional, and any resemblance to companies and actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Other Mystery Anthologies by Untreed Reads Publishing

  Discount Noir, edited by Patricia Abbot and Steve Weddle

  Moon Shot: Murder and Mayhem on the Edge of Space, edited by J. Alan Hartman

  The Killer Wore Cranberry, edited by J. Alan Hartman

  The Killer Wore Cranberry: A Second Helping, edited by J. Alan Hartman

  The Killer Wore Cranberry: Room for Thirds, edited by J. Alan Hartman

  http://www.untreedreads.com

  Introduction

  If you take a look at the anthologies that I’ve put together for Untreed Reads over the last few years, you’ll see that they tend to lean toward the mystery genre. Sure they might have another theme interwoven, such as science fiction or a holiday, but ultimately it gets right down to a good murder or other unfortunate mishap.

  I’d like to believe that I’m not secretly homicidal and that I simply have an appreciation for the written art form that is the mystery story. After all, I’ve never actually used any of the information that I’ve found in a mystery story. Well, not that I’ll admit to at any rate.

  Over the years, I’ve had the chance to discover some really terrific detectives. Some of these were stories that we published and some were stories that writers asked us to distribute on their behalf. The tough part of publishing is that you see so many great stories come through, but how do you get readers to see all the exceptional talent that’s part of your family?

  Enter the anthology. Where a full-length mystery novel can be a hearty meal, the anthology can be a tasty set of appetizers. Eat one in a sitting, maybe two or three, and you’re likely to move on to a main course offering from the author. This was the genesis behind The Untreed Detectives. Give readers a taste of the variety that’s out there, and they’ll hopefully see how great the detectives and their related series are.

  And there’s certainly a variety in The Untreed Detectives. From hookers to golden retrievers, pigs to amateur sleuths and contemporary detectives to Sherlock Holmes’ landlady, there’s bound to be something in this short story collection that will appeal to your particular taste in mystery.

  I’m very happy to represent all of the authors in this volume in one fashion or another, either through publishing their series in my role as Editor-in-Chief or distributing their titles for them. This anthology also marks the return of one of mystery’s most famous amateur sleuths: Gillian Roberts’ schoolteacher Amanda Pepper. The last novel featuring this protagonist was published in 2007, much to the chagrin of fans who were sad to see the series end. Untreed Reads is thrilled to have brought the entire series back in ebook format, and I’m particularly tickled that this anthology features the first original Amanda Pepper story in almost seven years. It’s an honor to have Amanda back for another romp.

  So, grab a bread-and-butter plate and some toothpicks and feel free to make your way down our short story buffet of detective tales and magnificent mysteries. Just don’t let a dead body get in the way of the main corpse...er...course.

  J. Alan Hartman

  December 2013

  A Knife in the Dark

  By Kara L. Barney

  Do you know Sherlock Holmes? We know him as the ever-logical, timeless detective who can solve every case by simply observing his surroundings. His faithful companion, Dr. Watson, is our link between the detective’s brilliant mind and years of baffling cases solved. But what about before he became who he is to us today? What was he like as a young detective still learning the ways of mankind? There was one other person who knew him then—Mrs. Hudson. With humble beginnings as the Baker Street housekeeper, Mrs. Hudson has also seen Sherlock Holmes through his many years of work, and for us has chronicled his cases as a young man through her own reflections. Through her, we gain new insight into the man before he became a legend.

  Some time after the death of my husband, Rupert Hudson, and the arrest of William Hughes, I had once again become accustomed to life at Baker Street. Mr. Holmes was as methodical as ever in his cases, with Dr. Watson always near. It was on a hazy afternoon in late autumn when I heard the front door slam and footsteps rushing into the entryway. Alarmed, I called out.

  “Martha, quickly!” cried Mr. Holmes with such a strain in his voice that I went immediately to the sitting room, where a startling scene unfolded before me. Dr. Watson lay languidly on the sofa, his shirt and hands covered in blood. His eyelids fluttered weakly as he struggled to remain conscious.

  “What happened?’ My question was answered with impatience.

  “When he is properly cared for, I will tell all.”

  I ran to the cupboard for some fresh linen, and as I returned I heard Dr. Watson utter a cry.

  “Holmes,” he whispered, closed his eyes and fell silent.

  “Is he—” Words failed me, tears welling to my eyes.

  Mr. Holmes quickly put an ear to his companion’s chest. His expression darkened. “He lives,” he replied gravely, “but his life hangs on a very thin thread. Do all you can to save him, and I shall do the same.”

  The stars had just begun to fade when we sat quietly for a moment by the fire, watching over the invalid. “How d
id he come to this terrible state?” I asked, turning to Mr. Holmes in confusion.

  He did not speak for a long while, until I had begun to think he had not heard me. At last he answered, “The fault is mine.”

  “Yours, sir?” I shook my head in disbelief.

  “Yes,” he sighed; there was a look of sadness in his eyes that I hope I will never see again. “Had I not miscalculated the danger, Watson would be sitting with us now.”

  “Surely you could not have done this.”

  He continued, lost in his own thoughts. “The case was a simple one—a murder committed by an enraged husband against an innocent wife. Supposing her unfaithful, he lay in wait for the lover, while we, who had discovered the crime, traveled to his hiding place. I entered the room first, the man rushing at me like a bull before a red cape. Watson, pistol cocked, covered me and took the blow, but not before he shot the man in the shoulder.”

  “The culprit escaped, then?” I said, my heart filling steadily with dread.

  “He did, but that’s not even the worst of it,” Mr. Holmes, fingers interlocked, stared thoughtfully at Dr. Watson’s lifeless form. “The worst was what the husband did to the poor woman before he murdered her.”

  I stared at him expectantly, and what I heard next I shall never forget. “The murderer cut the victims hands, feet and face with a blade while she was still alive.”

  I shivered, disgusted. As I looked away, I saw a strange object protruding from Mr. Holmes’s greatcoat. “What is that in your pocket?” I blinked to be sure I had not imagined what I had seen—the handle of a knife.

  “What? Oh, this.” Mr. Holmes replied, and without conviction produced a knife still smeared with blood.

  I felt my cheeks flush with excitement. “Perhaps we could extract fingerprints from the handle, and thereby find this man.”

  “That was my first thought also,” he agreed, nodding, “Unfortunately, at least three hands have touched this knife, probably more. Further, this is not the only knife used in the case. It would seem that our killer has a fancy for sharp objects.”

  I hung my head, hard pressed to form a new plan, when I heard a groan from the sofa. Mr. Holmes was there in an instant. “Watson…? Watson!” He swore under his breath and took up Dr. Watson’s limp wrist. “His skin is cold; we must continue to keep him warm, and change his compress.”

  I followed these orders at once, then watched Mr. Holmes pace the floor. When there was nothing more to be done, I suggested to him that he should rest. He turned to me and laughed aloud, which generally boded ill for anyone to whom it was directed. “Mrs. Hudson, I believe that is the worst suggestion you have ever made at such a time as this.”

  “But sir,” I pleaded, “You will be no good to Dr. Watson if you are deprived of your own health. All your exertions will be in vain.”

  “And what of yourself?” Mr. Holmes asked contemptuously.

  “I can watch over him for a while yet,” I answered with a sigh. “Besides, I would be surprised indeed to discover that you are as good with a needle as I am.”

  He began to protest, but when I held up my hand he stopped, folded his arms tightly, and with a brooding look turned on his heel toward his quarters. “I’ll be back in an hour,” he said as he mounted the stairs.

  I waited until I heard a door close before I removed the compress and began my work. On inspecting the wound more closely, I discovered that an infection had already begun to fester there, and knew that I would need to rely on Providence more than my skill to save Dr. Watson’s life.

  As I cleaned the wound, I gazed at the still, grey form of my friend and wept. My emotions soon passed, however, and the cleaning finished, I threaded the needle. Just as I pierced the skin, a cold hand grasped my wrist and I flinched. I saw Dr. Watson’s eyes, wide and staring, take in the needle that had dropped from my hand.

  “Sir,” I explained, trying to remain calm, “I am going to bind your wound. It is very deep, and I fear that if we keep it as it is any longer, you might not recover.”

  Twice Dr. Watson tried in vain to tell me something; at last, on the third attempt, I understood. “Let me do it,” he whispered, shakily taking up the needle to administer to himself.

  I put my hand on his fingers. “You are not strong enough,” I said adamantly; he released the needle without much resistance. “Rest now…you will be better tomorrow.” I cannot say how much I hoped I spoke the truth.

  “Tell Holmes he cannot—” Dr. Watson expended every ounce of his meager strength, until at last he fell back, exhausted. Fearing the worst, I searched for a pulse; it was weak in the extreme, and I knew I must work quickly. Without further interruptions I bound the wound and, after a final examination of the patient, fell asleep by the dying fire.

  I awoke with a start, the bright November sun streaming through the window and Mr. Holmes looking at me with some concern. From his haggard appearance, I could tell that neither of us had passed the night easily.

  “Is he all right?” I asked as soon as I had collected my thoughts.

  “His color is better.” Mr. Holmes smiled thinly, his expression quickly returning to one of apprehension.

  “What is the matter?”

  “You do not look well—you should get some proper sleep.”

  “No sir, I am well enough,” I answered, but as I arose the room began to spin. Mr. Holmes grasped my arm and gave me a knowing look.

  “Very well, then,” I acquiesced, passing my hands over my eyes, “but you must tell me the moment Dr. Watson awakens.” He nodded, but as I went up the stairs to my rooms, I was sure that Mr. Holmes would disobey me.

  When I awoke from a very deep sleep, the afternoon sun was already setting. I opened the door and, hearing voices in the sitting room, descended as quickly as I could. Mr. Holmes was sitting in a chair near the head of the sofa, arguing. “I must go, Watson, and you are certainly not well enough to accompany me.”

  “Arguing won’t help him keep up his strength either,” I said with some consternation as I approached. Dr. Watson greeted me warmly; he smiled as I came to him, but soon grew serious again.

  “You mustn’t go alone, Holmes,” he said, frowning. “This man is out of his senses; it’s far too dangerous.”

  “All the more reason for me to put a stop to this,” the detective replied adamantly with the wave of his hand. Dr. Watson gave me a pleading look, his strength quickly waning.

  “To go anywhere unaccompanied would be unwise,” I said shrewdly, meeting his eyes directly, “but where were you planning to go?”

  Mr. Holmes grunted, and for the only time in his life refused to meet my gaze. “I was merely going to take a stroll near Kensington.”

  When I failed to see the trouble, Dr. Watson said faintly, “We’ve been there already.”

  My heart sank with the gravity of this last statement. I observed my master closely. “Mr. Holmes, I cannot allow you to go after this murderer alone.”

  “If I do not find him, then who will?” he cried.

  “You will bring him to justice, as you planned, but you must not go alone.”

  “Surely Watson cannot come.”

  “No,” I replied carefully, searching for the proper words. A pregnant silence followed. “Let me go in his place.”

  “No!” Mr. Holmes said without hesitation, his anger evident, “How you would dare to suggest such a scheme to me baffles my mind.” He stood up, pacing hard upon the floor.

  “You do not trust me, then?” I asked, stung. “Even after all this time?” I turned away. Dr. Watson looked up at me with concern, willing but unable to come to my aid. The pacing stopped, and I felt a long hand reach out and touch my shoulder.

  “I do not want you to suffer the same fate as Watson,” Mr. Holmes admitted quietly. “I nearly lost one of you last night, and losing both of you is a prospect I would never even wish to consider.”

  His hand dropped as I turned around; he put his hands behind his back and resumed his walk about the roo
m. I watched him intently for some moments, and then responded, “But do you not know, sir, that it is the same for us?”

  The walking stopped, but he did not face me. I spoke to his back, “You do not know what the loss of your own life would mean to us—the loss of a generous master and a good friend. That is why Dr. Watson stepped in front of you, and why we cannot let you go alone into the hands of a murderer.”

  He scrutinized me for some time before sharing a significant look with Dr. Watson. Head bowed, Mr. Holmes replied, “Very well…but if there is even the slightest hint of danger, you are not to follow me into it. Agreed?”

  I nodded, unsure of how much help I could truly be, and yet knowing that I must help him or he might walk straight to his doom. “Where shall we begin?”

  “First, we must find out more about our killer.”

  The next couple of days were spent examining the area around Kensington, and my nursing Dr. Watson back to health. Some nights, after much heated argument, Mr. Holmes would go out alone to investigate, demanding that I stay at Baker Street. Though I fretted and felt relatively useless, I listened to his theories and watched for the day when he gained back the gleam I knew so well when he was hard upon a case.

  Almost a week had passed in this manner when Mr. Holmes and I were walking along the West End near High Street and saw a crowd gathered haphazardly on the corner. Immediately on the alert, he walked quickly through the throng, investigating in his way just as the police were arriving. He spoke in low tones to Scotland Yard and helped disperse the crowd.

  Just as we were ordered to disperse, I caught a glimpse of the corpse. What had once been a striking young lady had become a maimed and decimated form, almost beyond recognition. Pinned to her breast was a note, written thus:

  “J’ai tué un autre pour vous.”

  Frozen in horror, I started when Mr. Holmes touched my arm and led me away. “Are you all right?” he asked, his expression clouded.

  I nodded, the color draining from my face. “Who would do such a thing?”

  “Our murderer.”

  We returned to Baker Street as quickly as we could. I slept badly that night, continually seeing the corpse’s mangled body staring blankly at the stormy sky.