*Book Tour & Giveaway* Sherklock Holmes and the Remaining Improbable

 

Sherlock Holmes and the Remaining Improbable

by Susanne M. Dutton

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GENRE: Mystery

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BLURB:

The game is not afoot. The Better-Every-Day world of 1895 is gone, even hard to recall as WWI

ends. From his rural cottage, Holmes no longer provokes Scotland Yard’s envy or his landlady’s

impatience, but neither is he content with the study of bees. August 1920 finds him filling out

entry papers at a nearly defunct psychiatric clinic on the Normandy coast. England’s new

Dangerous Drugs Act declares his cocaine use illegal and he aims to quit entirely. Confronted

by a question as to his “treatment goal,” Holmes hesitates, aware that his real goal far exceeds

the capacity of any clinic. His scribbled response, “no more solutions, but one true resolution,”

seems more a vow than a goal to his psychiatrist, Pierre Joubert. The doctor is right. Like a tiny

explosion unaccountably shifting a far-reaching landscape, the simple words churn desperate

action and interlocking mystery into the lives of Holmes’ friends and enemies both.

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EXCERPTS (Please choose only ONE to use with your post):

Excerpt One:

Watson writes:

Not for the first time, I felt a surge of gratitude for Holmes’ unspoken understanding that his digs

at Bolt Cottage couldn’t suit me. No doubt his cottage fit his needs precisely, but it was no place

for a visitor, perhaps purposely so. Some might say it was no place for any inhabitant at all, full

as it was with apparatus meant for Holmes’ scientific inquiries, not to mention the maps and

almanacs, the world’s newspapers, and of course, his library. Books lined shelves and the

stairway to the sleeping loft. Books invaded the corner of the ground floor room usually devoted

to meal preparation, too. They filled the unused icebox, the pots that never knew soup, and

lined most of the cupboards. Books climbed the walls, stacked and somehow tracked in their

positions with ribbons that hung from the center pages in a festive display—red, black, gold,

green, purple, blue, white. Holmes claimed his color-coded system was modern and flawless. I

never grasped it.

Excerpt Two:

Holmes speaks, Watson answers:

“It’s clear, Watson, that you have come to trust this man, never mind your fancy knot work.” He

let a hand rest briefly on Joubert’s shoulder, and then snatched it away. “The charade you two

gentleman have just now performed causes me to question myself. You are evidently in

collusion.”

I said, “We were that obvious?”

“I’m afraid so,” Holmes said. “In fact, when I have time, I will publish a monograph on what I will

call ‘body language.’ Today’s performance will serve as a prime example. I watched you usher

this Frenchman across the cottage—your hesitation, your caution lest you cause him the least

pain, was evident. Your care was exactly as you would grant a lifelong patient going through a

complicated procedure. You watched his every backward step, lest he trip. I noted the

commiserating tilt of your head—and the lines of concern on your brow. Without a single word,

you managed to signal your sympathy. To sum up, between the gun and the man you pointed it

at, I detected at least a hundred yards worth of high-grade Watsonian scruple.

Holmes glared down at the top of Joubert’s head. “No doubt the entire Punch and Judy was

your conception, Pierre, but you could not hide your concern for Watson, how you sought to

assure him that it was all for a worthy purpose. Indeed, I saw you shudder and sweat, but you

were in no fear for your life—in no dread of John Watson, at least. I submit to you both, that

what I have witnessed just now was more a dance than an arrest.”

Excerpt Three:

Watson speaks:

“For God’s sake, then, I must be the one to venture out to him! I know Holmes like no one else.

He will not be surprised, or at least not angered, to see me here. He will be relieved. You must

trust me on this.”

Joubert’s shook his head. “That was my plan. Just so, mon ami. That is exactly what I believed,

and why I sent for you, John. But my speculation did not extend to this.” He gestured toward the

windows. The only remaining piece of window glass, a shard big enough to slice off a foot, fell

and shattered on the brick floor. I granted myself a sideways glance at Joubert as we both put

our chins down and covered our heads again.

An uneasy suspicion took root in my mind, only a seed at first, but an idea that sprouted quickly.

If Holmes was angry with this Joubert, then Holmes had reason to be. The detective, as I knew

him, was disinclined to speak of his family. It was not impossible that a sister existed or had

existed, though I had not seen one in the genealogy upstairs.

Further, how was I to know that the man next to me in the dark was truly the Pierre Joubert of

high repute? Even if Holmes had returned to the cocaine, hadn’t I better treat this fellow’s

explanations with wariness? Holmes’ addiction had never before affected his ability to adjudge

good and evil. Unerringly, Sherlock Holmes recognized the enemy of the just.

Excerpt Four:

Joubert speaks to Holmes:

Joubert spoke eagerly. “You have managed a disguise?”

“Yes. Simple, but effective. I am half naked and barefoot. I have torn away one leg of my

trousers entirely and, otherwise, kept my vest. The cinders work well to dirty my hands, arms,

legs, and feet. A rag, held in place by a piece of the fishing net, serves as a kind of veil. Do not

doubt it! Nakedness is one of the finest of disguises. Men see through a change of dress long

before they see through a lack of it.”

I couldn’t help a burst of laughter, but when Joubert glared at me, I nodded my acquiescence.

His attention reverted to Holmes.

“I hunch forward,” my colleague explained, “and affect an exaggerated limp, dragging my right

leg . . . Moving to the edge of the crowd . . . I follow a man who has lost both legs from the knee

down. He pushes himself along in a flat, small-wheeled cart, jeering as heartily as the rest . . .

He wears a military jacket—split up the sides and faded, held to his chest with what might be a

gentleman’s stocking. Across his thighs is draped a flag of the republic, doubtless torn from its

place outside one of the big city houses . . . but I pass easily in his wake, for I am bizarre, but

not so remarkable as he. The mob grows, and yet we two seem to be able to move through it,

into the center. Everyone fears our filth, our stench—and the disease they presume. . . A boy

with a drum joins the crowd. . . Then the same chant.

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AUTHOR Bio and Links:

Susanne Dutton is the one who hid during high school gym, produced an alternative newspaper

and exchanged notes in Tolkien’s Elfish language with her few friends. While earning her B.A. in

English, she drove a shabby Ford Falcon with a changing array of homemade bumper strips:

Art for Art’s Sake, Forgive Us Our Trespasses, Free Bosie from the Scorn of History. Later, her

interests in myth and depth psychology led to graduate and postgraduate degrees in

counseling.

Nowadays, having outlived her mortgage and her professional counseling life, she aims herself

at her desk most days; where she tangles with whatever story she can’t get out of her head.

Those stories tend to seat readers within pinching distance of her characters, who, like most of

us, slide at times from real life to fantasy and back. A man with Alzheimer’s sets out alone for

his childhood home. A girl realizes she’s happier throwing away her meals than eating them. A

woman burgles her neighbors in order to stay in the neighborhood.

Born in Des Moines, Iowa, Susanne grew up in the SF Bay Area, has two grown children, and

lives with her husband in an old Philadelphia house, built of the stones dug from the ground

where it sits.

Blog https://www.inside221b.com

Facebook https://www.facebook/noguessing (Improbable Holmes)

Publisher bookstore link to book:

https://www.propertiuspress.com/our-bookstore/Sherlock-Holmes-and-the-Remaining-

Improbable-by-Susanne-Dutton-p310417036

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GIVEAWAY INFORMATION and RAFFLECOPTER CODE

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