The Greatest Mysteries of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle: Complete Sherlock Holmes Series, True Crime Tales & Supernatural Cases. Arthur Conan Doyle. Читать онлайн. Newlib. NEWLIB.NET

Автор: Arthur Conan Doyle
Издательство: Bookwire
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isbn: 9788027219384
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Shadows on the Screen

       An Old Story Retold

       The Absolute Proof

       A Worker of Wonders

       True Crime Stories

       The Bravoes of Market-Drayton

       The Holocaust of Manor Place

       The Love Affair of George Vincent Parker

       The Debatable Case of Mrs. Emsley

       The Case of Mr. George Edalji

       The Case of Oscar Slater

       Biography

       Memories and Adventures: An Autobiography

      Sherlock Holmes Mysteries

       Table of Contents

      Novels

       Table of Contents

      A Study in Scarlet

       Table of Contents

       Part I. Being a Reprint from the Reminiscences of John H. Watson, M.D.

       I. Mr. Sherlock Holmes

       II. The Science of Deduction

       III. The Lauriston Gardens Mystery

       IV. What John Rance had to Tell

       V. Our Advertisement Brings a Visitor

       VI. Tobias Gregson Shows What He Can Do

       VII. Light in the Darkness

       Part II. The Country of the Saints

       I. On the Great Alkali Plain

       II. The Flower of Utah

       III. John Ferrier Talks with the Prophet

       IV. A Flight for Life

       V. The Avenging Angels

       VI. A Continuation of the Reminiscences of John Watson, M.D.

       VII. The Conclusion

      Part I.

       Being a Reprint from the Reminiscences of John H. Watson, M.D.,

       Late of the Army Medical Department

       Table of Contents

      I. Mr. Sherlock Holmes

       Table of Contents

      In the year 1878 I took my degree of Doctor of Medicine of the University of London, and proceeded to Netley to go through the course prescribed for surgeons in the army. Having completed my studies there, I was duly attached to the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers as Assistant Surgeon. The regiment was stationed in India at the time, and before I could join it, the second Afghan war had broken out. On landing at Bombay, I learned that my corps had advanced through the passes, and was already deep in the enemy's country. I followed, however, with many other officers who were in the same situation as myself, and succeeded in reaching Kandahar in safety, where I found my regiment, and at once entered upon my new duties.

      The campaign brought honours and promotion to many, but for me it had nothing but misfortune and disaster. I was removed from my brigade and attached to the Berkshires, with whom I served at the fatal battle of Maiwand.

      There I was struck on the shoulder by a Jezail bullet, which shattered the bone and grazed the subclavian artery. I should have fallen into the hands of the murderous Ghazis had it not been for the devotion and courage shown by Murray, my orderly, who threw me across a pack-horse, and succeeded in bringing me safely to the British lines.

      Worn with pain, and weak from the prolonged hardships which I had undergone, I was removed, with a great train of wounded sufferers, to the base hospital at Peshawar. Here I rallied, and had already improved so far as to be able to walk about the wards, and even to bask a little upon the verandah, when I was struck down by enteric fever, that curse of our Indian possessions. For months my life was despaired of, and when at last I came to myself and became convalescent, I was so weak and emaciated that a medical board determined that not a day should be lost in sending me back to England. I was dispatched, accordingly, in the troopship Orontes, and landed a month later on Portsmouth jetty, with my health irretrievably ruined, but with permission from a paternal government to spend the next nine months in attempting to improve it.

      I had neither kith nor kin in England, and was therefore as free as air —or as free as an income of eleven shillings and sixpence a day will permit a man to be. Under such circumstances, I naturally gravitated to London, that great cesspool into which all the loungers and idlers of the Empire are irresistibly drained. There I stayed for some time at a private hotel in the Strand, leading a comfortless,