Tales in Tranquillity

John Evelyn was a 17th century polymath, with interests in the fine arts, architecture, gardening, as well as anatomy and the natural sciences. He was a fervent supporter of the Stuart monarchy and lived abroad during much of the English Civil War. His Diaries, which rank alongside those of Samuel Pepys for perceptive commentary on the times in which he lived, span his adult years. (Summary by Anthony Ogus)

John Evelyn was a 17th century polymath, with interests in the fine arts, architecture, gardening, as well as anatomy and the natural sciences. He was a fervent supporter of the Stuart monarchy and lived abroad during much of the English Civil War. His Diaries, which rank alongside those of Samuel Pepys for perceptive commentary on the times in which he lived, span his adult years. (Summary by Anthony Ogus)

John Evelyn was a 17th century polymath, with interests in the fine arts, architecture, gardening, as well as anatomy and the natural sciences. He was a fervent supporter of the Stuart monarchy and lived abroad during much of the English Civil War. His Diaries, which rank alongside those of Samuel Pepys for perceptive commentary on the times in which he lived, span his adult years. (Summary by Anthony Ogus)

John Evelyn was a 17th century polymath, with interests in the fine arts, architecture, gardening, as well as anatomy and the natural sciences. He was a fervent supporter of the Stuart monarchy and lived abroad during much of the English Civil War. His Diaries, which rank alongside those of Samuel Pepys for perceptive commentary on the times in which he lived, span his adult years. (Summary by Anthony Ogus)

John Evelyn was a 17th century polymath, with interests in the fine arts, architecture, gardening, as well as anatomy and the natural sciences. He was a fervent supporter of the Stuart monarchy and lived abroad during much of the English Civil War. His Diaries, which rank alongside those of Samuel Pepys for perceptive commentary on the times in which he lived, span his adult years. (Summary by Anthony Ogus)

John Evelyn was a 17th century polymath, with interests in the fine arts, architecture, gardening, as well as anatomy and the natural sciences. He was a fervent supporter of the Stuart monarchy and lived abroad during much of the English Civil War. His Diaries, which rank alongside those of Samuel Pepys for perceptive commentary on the times in which he lived, span his adult years. (Summary by Anthony Ogus)

John Evelyn was a 17th century polymath, with interests in the fine arts, architecture, gardening, as well as anatomy and the natural sciences. He was a fervent supporter of the Stuart monarchy and lived abroad during much of the English Civil War. His Diaries, which rank alongside those of Samuel Pepys for perceptive commentary on the times in which he lived, span his adult years. (Summary by Anthony Ogus)

John Evelyn was a 17th century polymath, with interests in the fine arts, architecture, gardening, as well as anatomy and the natural sciences. He was a fervent supporter of the Stuart monarchy and lived abroad during much of the English Civil War. His Diaries, which rank alongside those of Samuel Pepys for perceptive commentary on the times in which he lived, span his adult years. (Summary by Anthony Ogus)

John Evelyn was a 17th century polymath, with interests in the fine arts, architecture, gardening, as well as anatomy and the natural sciences. He was a fervent supporter of the Stuart monarchy and lived abroad during much of the English Civil War. His Diaries, which rank alongside those of Samuel Pepys for perceptive commentary on the times in which he lived, span his adult years. (Summary by Anthony Ogus)

John Evelyn was a 17th century polymath, with interests in the fine arts, architecture, gardening, as well as anatomy and the natural sciences. He was a fervent supporter of the Stuart monarchy and lived abroad during much of the English Civil War. His Diaries, which rank alongside those of Samuel Pepys for perceptive commentary on the times in which he lived, span his adult years. (Summary by Anthony Ogus)

John Evelyn was a 17th century polymath, with interests in the fine arts, architecture, gardening, as well as anatomy and the natural sciences. He was a fervent supporter of the Stuart monarchy and lived abroad during much of the English Civil War. His Diaries, which rank alongside those of Samuel Pepys for perceptive commentary on the times in which he lived, span his adult years. (Summary by Anthony Ogus)

John Evelyn was a 17th century polymath, with interests in the fine arts, architecture, gardening, as well as anatomy and the natural sciences. He was a fervent supporter of the Stuart monarchy and lived abroad during much of the English Civil War. His Diaries, which rank alongside those of Samuel Pepys for perceptive commentary on the times in which he lived, span his adult years. (Summary by Anthony Ogus)

John Evelyn was a 17th century polymath, with interests in the fine arts, architecture, gardening, as well as anatomy and the natural sciences. He was a fervent supporter of the Stuart monarchy and lived abroad during much of the English Civil War. His Diaries, which rank alongside those of Samuel Pepys for perceptive commentary on the times in which he lived, span his adult years. (Summary by Anthony Ogus)

This is Sir Arthur Conan Doyle in a Gothic mood. It's written in the form of the diary entries of a scientist who prides himself on his materialist philosophy, yet gets drawn into experiments involving dark psychic phenomena that allow a creepy woman to latch onto his mind like a parasite. It's a psychological thriller and one of his horror stories. The Parasite is told through the journal entries of Austin Gilroy, a medical professor who lectures on blood and circulation. The story's title refers to the villain, Miss Penclosa, a medium who attaches herself to a young man. In this short novel of 1894, Conan Doyle describes a character with seemingly extraordinary powers. Are these powers occult or are they only in the minds of other people? There is no Sherlock Holmes to solve this mystery.

Originally published in 1866 in the Christmas edition of Dickens's magazine, "All the Year Round.", "Mugby Junction" offers a diverse collection of stories, each with its own unique characters and themes, ranging from family and compassion to the supernatural and mysterious. It showcases both Charles Dickens's storytelling prowess and the contributions of other authors to this literary work centered around the railway station, Mugby Junction. Dickens contributes the first four stories including the spooky ‘The Signalman’, and is ably supported by Scottish journalist and dramatist Andrew Halliday’s ‘The Engine Driver’, novelist and journalist Charles Collins’ ‘The Compensation House’, evangelical author Hesba Stretton’s ‘The Travelling Post-Office’ and finally novelist, journalist, traveller and Egyptologist Amelia B. Edwards’ tale of unrequited love, ‘The Engineer’. Humour and pathos, life and death intersect where the great railways cross – get your ticket for Mugby Junction! (Summary by Bryn Roberts)

John Evelyn was a 17th century polymath, with interests in the fine arts, architecture, gardening, as well as anatomy and the natural sciences. He was a fervent supporter of the Stuart monarchy and lived abroad during much of the English Civil War. His Diaries, which rank alongside those of Samuel Pepys for perceptive commentary on the times in which he lived, span his adult years. (Summary by Anthony Ogus)

John Evelyn was a 17th century polymath, with interests in the fine arts, architecture, gardening, as well as anatomy and the natural sciences. He was a fervent supporter of the Stuart monarchy and lived abroad during much of the English Civil War. His Diaries, which rank alongside those of Samuel Pepys for perceptive commentary on the times in which he lived, span his adult years. (Summary by Anthony Ogus)

John Evelyn was a 17th century polymath, with interests in the fine arts, architecture, gardening, as well as anatomy and the natural sciences. He was a fervent supporter of the Stuart monarchy and lived abroad during much of the English Civil War. His Diaries, which rank alongside those of Samuel Pepys for perceptive commentary on the times in which he lived, span his adult years. (Summary by Anthony Ogus)

"A Case of Identity" is one of the 56 short Sherlock Holmes stories written by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and is the third story in The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes. It first appeared in The Strand Magazine in September 1891.

"The Red-Headed League" is one of the 56 Sherlock Holmes short stories written by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. It first appeared in The Strand Magazine in August 1891, with illustrations by Sidney Paget. Conan Doyle ranked "The Red-Headed League" second in his list of his twelve favourite Holmes stories.

"A Scandal in Bohemia" is the first short story, and the third overall work, featuring Arthur Conan Doyle's fictional detective Sherlock Holmes. It is the first of the 56 Holmes short stories written by Doyle.

|| This audio is a LibriVox recording, read by StudioMike. || At three o’clock precisely I was at Baker Street, but Holmes had not yet returned. The landlady informed me that he had left the house shortly after eight o’clock in the morning. I sat down beside the fire, however, with the intention of awaiting him, however long he might be. I was already deeply interested in his inquiry, for, though it was surrounded by none of the grim and strange features which were associated with the two crimes which I have already recorded, still, the nature of the case and the exalted station of his client gave it a character of its own. Indeed, apart from the nature of the investigation which my friend had on hand, there was something in his masterly grasp of a situation, and his keen, incisive reasoning, which made it a pleasure to me to study his system of work, and to follow the quick, subtle methods by which he disentangled the most inextricable mysteries. So accustomed was I to his invariable success that the very possibility of his failing had ceased to enter into my head. It was close upon four before the door opened, and a drunken-looking groom, ill-kempt and side-whiskered, with an inflamed face and disreputable clothes, walked into the room. Accustomed as I was to my friend’s amazing powers in the use of disguises, I had to look three times before I was certain that it was indeed he. With a nod he vanished into the bedroom, whence he emerged in five minutes tweed-suited and respectable, as of old. Putting his hands into his pockets, he stretched out his legs in front of the fire and laughed heartily for some minutes. “Well, really!” he cried, and then he choked and laughed again until he was obliged to lie back, limp and helpless, in the chair. “What is it?” “It’s quite too funny. I am sure you could never guess how I employed my morning, or what I ended by doing.” “I can’t imagine. I suppose that you have been watching the habits, and perhaps the house, of Miss Irene Adler.” “Quite so; but the sequel was rather unusual. I will tell you, however. I left the house a little after eight o’clock this morning in the character of a groom out of work. There is a wonderful sympathy and freemasonry among horsey men. Be one of them, and you will know all that there is to know. I soon found Briony Lodge. It is a bijou villa, with a garden at the back, but built out in front right up to the road, two stories. Chubb lock to the door. Large sitting-room on the right side, well furnished, with long windows almost to the floor, and those preposterous English window fasteners which a child could open. Behind there was nothing remarkable, save that the passage window could be reached from the top of the coach-house. I walked round it and examined it closely from every point of view, but without noting anything else of interest. “I then lounged down the street and found, as I expected, that there was a mews in a lane which runs down by one wall of the garden. I lent the ostlers a hand in rubbing down their horses, and received in exchange twopence, a glass of half-and-half, two fills of shag tobacco, and as much information as I could desire about Miss Adler, to say nothing of half a dozen other people in the neighbourhood in whom I was not in the least interested, but whose biographies I was compelled to listen to.” “And what of Irene Adler?” I asked. “Oh, she has turned all the men’s heads down in that part. She is the daintiest thing under a bonnet on this planet. So say the Serpentine-mews, to a man. She lives quietly, sings at concerts, drives out at five every day, and returns at seven sharp for dinner. Seldom goes out at other times, except when she sings. Has only one male visitor, but a good deal of him. He is dark, handsome, and dashing, never calls less than once a day, and often twice. He is a Mr. Godfrey Norton, of the Inner Temple. See the advantages of a cabman as a confidant. They had driven him home a dozen times from Serpentine-mews, and knew all about him. When I had listened to all they had to tell, I began to walk up and down near Briony Lodge once more, and to think over my plan of campaign. “This Godfrey Norton was evidently an important factor in the matter. He was a lawyer. That sounded ominous. What was the relation between them, and what the object of his repeated visits? Was she his client, his friend, or his mistress? If the former, she had probably transferred the photograph to his keeping. If the latter, it was less likely. On the issue of this question depended whether I should continue my work at Briony Lodge, or turn my attention to the gentleman’s chambers in the Temple. It was a delicate point, and it widened the field of my inquiry. I fear that I bore you with these details, but I have to let you see my little difficulties, if you are to understand the situation.”

|| This audio is a LibriVox recording, read by StudioMike. || As he spoke the gleam of the sidelights of a carriage came round the curve of the avenue. It was a smart little landau which rattled up to the door of Briony Lodge. As it pulled up, one of the loafing men at the corner dashed forward to open the door in the hope of earning a copper, but was elbowed away by another loafer, who had rushed up with the same intention. A fierce quarrel broke out, which was increased by the two guardsmen, who took sides with one of the loungers, and by the scissors-grinder, who was equally hot upon the other side. A blow was struck, and in an instant the lady, who had stepped from her carriage, was the centre of a little knot of flushed and struggling men, who struck savagely at each other with their fists and sticks. Holmes dashed into the crowd to protect the lady; but, just as he reached her, he gave a cry and dropped to the ground, with the blood running freely down his face. At his fall the guardsmen took to their heels in one direction and the loungers in the other, while a number of better dressed people, who had watched the scuffle without taking part in it, crowded in to help the lady and to attend to the injured man. Irene Adler, as I will still call her, had hurried up the steps; but she stood at the top with her superb figure outlined against the lights of the hall, looking back into the street. “Is the poor gentleman much hurt?” she asked. “He is dead,” cried several voices. “No, no, there’s life in him!” shouted another. “But he’ll be gone before you can get him to hospital.” “He’s a brave fellow,” said a woman. “They would have had the lady’s purse and watch if it hadn’t been for him. They were a gang, and a rough one, too. Ah, he’s breathing now.” “He can’t lie in the street. May we bring him in, marm?” “Surely. Bring him into the sitting-room. There is a comfortable sofa. This way, please!” Slowly and solemnly he was borne into Briony Lodge and laid out in the principal room, while I still observed the proceedings from my post by the window. The lamps had been lit, but the blinds had not been drawn, so that I could see Holmes as he lay upon the couch. I do not know whether he was seized with compunction at that moment for the part he was playing, but I know that I never felt more heartily ashamed of myself in my life than when I saw the beautiful creature against whom I was conspiring, or the grace and kindliness with which she waited upon the injured man. And yet it would be the blackest treachery to Holmes to draw back now from the part which he had intrusted to me. I hardened my heart, and took the smoke-rocket from under my ulster. After all, I thought, we are not injuring her. We are but preventing her from injuring another. Holmes had sat up upon the couch, and I saw him motion like a man who is in need of air. A maid rushed across and threw open the window. At the same instant I saw him raise his hand and at the signal I tossed my rocket into the room with a cry of “Fire!” The word was no sooner out of my mouth than the whole crowd of spectators, well dressed and ill—gentlemen, ostlers, and servant maids—joined in a general shriek of “Fire!” Thick clouds of smoke curled through the room and out at the open window. I caught a glimpse of rushing figures, and a moment later the voice of Holmes from within assuring them that it was a false alarm. Slipping through the shouting crowd I made my way to the corner of the street, and in ten minutes was rejoiced to find my friend’s arm in mine, and to get away from the scene of uproar. He walked swiftly and in silence for some few minutes until we had turned down one of the quiet streets which lead towards the Edgeware Road. “You did it very nicely, Doctor,” he remarked. “Nothing could have been better. It is all right.” “You have the photograph?” “I know where it is.” “And how did you find out?” “She showed me, as I told you she would.” “I am still in the dark.” “I do not wish to make a mystery,” said he, laughing. “The matter was perfectly simple. You, of course, saw that everyone in the street was an accomplice. They were all engaged for the evening.” “I guessed as much.” “Then, when the row broke out, I had a little moist red paint in the palm of my hand. I rushed forward, fell down, clapped my hand to my face, and became a piteous spectacle. It is an old trick.” “That also I could fathom.” “Then they carried me in. She was bound to have me in. What else could she do? And into her sitting-room, which was the very room which I suspected. It lay between that and her bedroom, and I was determined to see which. They laid me on a couch, I motioned for air, they were compelled to open the window, and you had your chance.” “How did that help you?”

This audio is a LibriVox recording, read by StudioMike. To Sherlock Holmes she is always the woman. I have seldom heard him mention her under any other name. In his eyes she eclipses and predominates the whole of her sex. It was not that he felt any emotion akin to love for Irene Adler. All emotions, and that one particularly, were abhorrent to his cold, precise but admirably balanced mind. He was, I take it, the most perfect reasoning and observing machine that the world has seen, but as a lover he would have placed himself in a false position. He never spoke of the softer passions, save with a gibe and a sneer. They were admirable things for the observer—excellent for drawing the veil from men’s motives and actions. But for the trained reasoner to admit such intrusions into his own delicate and finely adjusted temperament was to introduce a distracting factor which might throw a doubt upon all his mental results. Grit in a sensitive instrument, or a crack in one of his own high-power lenses, would not be more disturbing than a strong emotion in a nature such as his. And yet there was but one woman to him, and that woman was the late Irene Adler, of dubious and questionable memory. I had seen little of Holmes lately. My marriage had drifted us away from each other. My own complete happiness, and the home-centred interests which rise up around the man who first finds himself master of his own establishment, were sufficient to absorb all my attention, while Holmes, who loathed every form of society with his whole Bohemian soul, remained in our lodgings in Baker Street, buried among his old books, and alternating from week to week between cocaine and ambition, the drowsiness of the drug, and the fierce energy of his own keen nature. He was still, as ever, deeply attracted by the study of crime, and occupied his immense faculties and extraordinary powers of observation in following out those clues, and clearing up those mysteries which had been abandoned as hopeless by the official police. From time to time I heard some vague account of his doings: of his summons to Odessa in the case of the Trepoff murder, of his clearing up of the singular tragedy of the Atkinson brothers at Trincomalee, and finally of the mission which he had accomplished so delicately and successfully for the reigning family of Holland. Beyond these signs of his activity, however, which I merely shared with all the readers of the daily press, I knew little of my former friend and companion. One night—it was on the twentieth of March, 1888—I was returning from a journey to a patient (for I had now returned to civil practice), when my way led me through Baker Street. As I passed the well-remembered door, which must always be associated in my mind with my wooing, and with the dark incidents of the Study in Scarlet, I was seized with a keen desire to see Holmes again, and to know how he was employing his extraordinary powers. His rooms were brilliantly lit, and, even as I looked up, I saw his tall, spare figure pass twice in a dark silhouette against the blind. He was pacing the room swiftly, eagerly, with his head sunk upon his chest and his hands clasped behind him. To me, who knew his every mood and habit, his attitude and manner told their own story. He was at work again. He had risen out of his drug-created dreams and was hot upon the scent of some new problem. I rang the bell and was shown up to the chamber which had formerly been in part my own. His manner was not effusive. It seldom was; but he was glad, I think, to see me. With hardly a word spoken, but with a kindly eye, he waved me to an armchair, threw across his case of cigars, and indicated a spirit case and a gasogene in the corner. Then he stood before the fire and looked me over in his singular introspective fashion. “Wedlock suits you,” he remarked. “I think, Watson, that you have put on seven and a half pounds since I saw you.” “Seven!” I answered. “Indeed, I should have thought a little more. Just a trifle more, I fancy, Watson. And in practice again, I observe. You did not tell me that you intended to go into harness.” “Then, how do you know?” “I see it, I deduce it. How do I know that you have been getting yourself very wet lately, and that you have a most clumsy and careless servant girl?” “My dear Holmes,” said I, “this is too much. You would certainly have been burned, had you lived a few centuries ago. It is true that I had a country walk on Thursday and came home in a dreadful mess, but as I have changed my clothes I can’t imagine how you deduce it. As to Mary Jane, she is incorrigible, and my wife has given her notice, but there, again, I fail to see how you work it out.” He chuckled to himself and rubbed his long, nervous hands together.

This audio is a LibriVox recording, read by StudioMike. A slow and heavy step, which had been heard upon the stairs and in the passage, paused immediately outside the door. Then there was a loud and authoritative tap. “Come in!” said Holmes. A man entered who could hardly have been less than six feet six inches in height, with the chest and limbs of a Hercules. His dress was rich with a richness which would, in England, be looked upon as akin to bad taste. Heavy bands of astrakhan were slashed across the sleeves and fronts of his double-breasted coat, while the deep blue cloak which was thrown over his shoulders was lined with flame-coloured silk and secured at the neck with a brooch which consisted of a single flaming beryl. Boots which extended halfway up his calves, and which were trimmed at the tops with rich brown fur, completed the impression of barbaric opulence which was suggested by his whole appearance. He carried a broad-brimmed hat in his hand, while he wore across the upper part of his face, extending down past the cheekbones, a black vizard mask, which he had apparently adjusted that very moment, for his hand was still raised to it as he entered. From the lower part of the face he appeared to be a man of strong character, with a thick, hanging lip, and a long, straight chin suggestive of resolution pushed to the length of obstinacy. “You had my note?” he asked with a deep harsh voice and a strongly marked German accent. “I told you that I would call.” He looked from one to the other of us, as if uncertain which to address. “Pray take a seat,” said Holmes. “This is my friend and colleague, Dr. Watson, who is occasionally good enough to help me in my cases. Whom have I the honour to address?” “You may address me as the Count Von Kramm, a Bohemian nobleman. I understand that this gentleman, your friend, is a man of honour and discretion, whom I may trust with a matter of the most extreme importance. If not, I should much prefer to communicate with you alone.” I rose to go, but Holmes caught me by the wrist and pushed me back into my chair. “It is both, or none,” said he. “You may say before this gentleman anything which you may say to me.” The Count shrugged his broad shoulders. “Then I must begin,” said he, “by binding you both to absolute secrecy for two years; at the end of that time the matter will be of no importance. At present it is not too much to say that it is of such weight it may have an influence upon European history.” “I promise,” said Holmes. “And I.” “You will excuse this mask,” continued our strange visitor. “The august person who employs me wishes his agent to be unknown to you, and I may confess at once that the title by which I have just called myself is not exactly my own.” “I was aware of it,” said Holmes dryly. “The circumstances are of great delicacy, and every precaution has to be taken to quench what might grow to be an immense scandal and seriously compromise one of the reigning families of Europe. To speak plainly, the matter implicates the great House of Ormstein, hereditary kings of Bohemia.” “I was also aware of that,” murmured Holmes, settling himself down in his armchair and closing his eyes. Our visitor glanced with some apparent surprise at the languid, lounging figure of the man who had been no doubt depicted to him as the most incisive reasoner and most energetic agent in Europe. Holmes slowly reopened his eyes and looked impatiently at his gigantic client. “If your Majesty would condescend to state your case,” he remarked, “I should be better able to advise you.” The man sprang from his chair and paced up and down the room in uncontrollable agitation. Then, with a gesture of desperation, he tore the mask from his face and hurled it upon the ground. “You are right,” he cried; “I am the King. Why should I attempt to conceal it?” “Why, indeed?” murmured Holmes. “Your Majesty had not spoken before I was aware that I was addressing Wilhelm Gottsreich Sigismond von Ormstein, Grand Duke of Cassel-Felstein, and hereditary King of Bohemia.” “But you can understand,” said our strange visitor, sitting down once more and passing his hand over his high white forehead, “you can understand that I am not accustomed to doing such business in my own person. Yet the matter was so delicate that I could not confide it to an agent without putting myself in his power. I have come incognito from Prague for the purpose of consulting you.” “Then, pray consult,” said Holmes, shutting his eyes once more. “The facts are briefly these: Some five years ago, during a lengthy visit to Warsaw, I made the acquaintance of the well-known adventuress, Irene Adler. The name is no doubt familiar to you.”