With Malice Aforethought

By Annette Siketa

From Havana to London, Senor Juan Menendez is being pursued by an unknown person determined to kill him.  He approaches Sherlock Holmes for protection.  But, is there really an enemy, or is it just imagination?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Annette Siketa
• Release date: Mar 26, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215249987

Annette Siketa

For those of you who have not yet made my acquaintance, my name is Annette Siketa, and I am totally blind. Were you aware that most blind and visually impaired people are extraordinarily perceptive? To sighted people, this ability must seem like ESP, and I suppose to a certain extent, it is. (I'm referring to the literal meaning of Extra Sensory Perception, not the spooky interpretation.) To compensate for the lack of vision, the brain and the other four senses become sharper, so that we can discern a smell or the identity of an object. I promise you there's no trickery involved. It's simply a matter of adapting the body to ‘think’ in another way.Being blind is no barrier to creativity. Like most things in this world, life is what you make of it, and after losing my sight due to an eye operation that went terribly wrong, I became a writer, and have now produced a wide variety of books and short stories, primarily of the ghost/supernatural/things that go bump in the night genre.So, how does a blind person write a book? On the practical side, I use a text-to-speech program called ‘Jaws’, which enables me to use and navigate around a computer, including the Internet, with considerable ease. Information on Jaws can be found at www.freedomscientific.comOn the creative side...well, that’s a little more difficult to explain. Try this experiment. Put on your favourite movie and watch it blindfolded. As you already ‘know’ the movie – who does what where & when etc, your mind compensates for the lack of visualisation by filling in the ‘blanks’. Now try it with something you’ve never seen before, even the six o'clock news. Not so easy to fill in the blanks now is it?By this point you’re probably going bonkers with frustration – hee hee, welcome to my world! Do not remove the blindfold. Instead, allow your imagination to compensate for the lack of visualization, and this will give you an idea of how I create my stories. Oh, if only Steven Spielberg could read my mind.

Book preview

Chapter I.  Friday Morning.

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Holmes was writing a report for the Foreign Office.  Whilst he held no official position within the government, some of the more delicate problems of British policy owed their solution to his particular genius. 

I will be finished shortly, Watson, and then I will treat you to lunch.  After running around the Continent for several weeks, I feel the need for good old-fashioned English food.

I smiled and lay down the latest copy of a medical journal.  Thank you very much.  The Cosmopolitan Club does a wonderful steak & kidney pie.

An excellent choice, said he, but we were not destined to dine on beef, at least not for the next few days, for no sooner had he spoken when the pageboy entered with a card.

Holmes took it and read aloud, Senor Juan Menendez, Roseworth Hall, Surrey.  Hmm, the name is unfamiliar.  Do we know him, Watson?

I don’t think so.  Should I consult my records?

Holmes laughed.  It will be quicker to show him in.

Holmes nodded ascent to the pageboy.  The man who entered was over six feet tall, with a dusky complexion and closely cropped iron gray hair.  His heavy eyebrows and thick moustache were black, and his eyes were large, dark, and brilliant.  As I later discovered, he was English by birth, but had spent most of his life in Cuba.  His father was Spanish and his mother English, though her family were actually French.

His age was somewhere between fifty and fifty-five, and as he stood in the doorway and bowed, his smile had a Mephistophelean quality.  Mr Holmes, he began, I apologise for intruding, but my business is urgent, and I come to you on the recommendation of the Spanish ambassador.

Holmes stood up and shook hands.  Ah, yes, Senor Pablo Sanchez.  A most competent man.  Please, take a seat.  This is my friend, Dr Watson, whom you can trust as implicitly as myself.

We shook hands and he sat on the sofa,  placing his hat and gloves beside him.  Holmes indicated a box of cigarettes.  Will you smoke?

Thank you, but I prefer my own. 

Senor Menendez produced a well-used leather pouch.  He extracted a slip of rice paper and a portion of tobacco, and using only two fingers, rolled and lit a creditable cigarette.  His dexterity was quite amazing. 

Years of practice, he remarked, seeing my  look of astonishment.  He drew on the weed before continuing, Before I begin, I would like to show you something.  He produced a box and placed it on the table.  I hope you do not frighten easily, he added as he raised the lid.

Good God!  I recoiled in horror, for nestling on a cushion of small black feathers was an enormous brown spider.  Holmes however, was more fascinated than perturbed.

Phormictopus orudis, said he admiringly, otherwise known as the Cuban Bronze Tarantula.  Non-venomous to humans but gives a nasty bite.  They can grow up to eleven inches in length with fangs an inch long.  A wonderful specimen, Senor Mendez, but I take it you did not bring it here at random.

"No.  My story begins approximately nine months ago.  My principal residence was in Havana, and at the time, unrest was rife throughout the West Indies.  My business is mainly concerned with sugar, and on the island where my main plantation is situated, I was having much trouble with the natives. 

"The manager of my plantation, Anton Castro, was of the opinion that a secret organization was working against my interests.  Naturally I made enquiries amongst the natives, and whilst they all denied that such an organisation existed, I instinctively knew they were lieing.

I was friendly with some of the older women.  Nothing intimate you understand, but enough that they would invite me into their homes for refreshments.  Well, they began to shun me, and several closed their doors when they saw me coming.  I can’t really explain it, other than to say that I sensed either fear or animosity towards me.

Holmes nodded.  I understand.  Prey continue.

"One night as I was dismounting my horse, a shot was fired from an area known as the ‘black swamp’.  I should explain that the swamp is about fifty yards from the rear of my hacienda, and follows the winding course of an almost stagnant creek.  It is infested with reptiles and all manner of insects.

"The shot was a good one, because had I not bent down to adjust a spur, I would be dead.  Anton and I tried to muster a search party, but none of the native workers were prepared to enter the swamp at night.  You see, they regarded it as an evil place, home to ghosts and the walking dead.

"Anton and I discussed the situation, and he was of the opinion that an order had been issued for my assassination.  However, because the attempt had failed, he felt sure there would be some sort of meeting to discuss the next move. 

"Now, as luck would have it, Anton had a native mistress, and when he told her the following day that we intended to inspect the swamp that night, she begged him not to go.  It did not take much to guess the reason, and after much coaxing and many promises, the girl gave directions to a clearing.

"When it was dark, Anton and I crept out of the hacienda by a side door.  Stealth and secrecy were our greatest weapons.  The moon was full, and after a few false starts, we found a rough path as stated by the girl. 

"Gentlemen, imagine a jungle carpeted with centuries of rotten vegetation, in which one's feet sank deeply and from which arose a noxious stench.  Imagine creeping plants that seemed to coil around your boots.  Imagine pushing through bushes where small but stupendous creatures tried to touch you and cling to your clothes. 

"After about half an hour, we came to an area that appeared to be green and flat.  But, it was a morass, and we were face down in the sucking mud before we knew it. 

"We struggled to our feet, and by the light of the moon, I saw that Anton's clothes were covered in leeches.  I looked at my own clothes and found they were in a similar condition.  One of the creatures had attached itself to my wrist and was gorging on my blood, but this was the least of my worries.

"As Anton and I fought to get out of the morass, lights appeared between the trees.  Men beat drums and women danced naked, all the while howling and making awful noises.  One man stood out in particular.  He was a big Negro employed on my plantation, but on that night he seemed to be some sort of priest, for he was wearing a headdress comprised entirely of snakes.

"It was barbaric.  It was savagery at it's deepest level, and yet it was intoxicating.  I was aware of Anton clutching his chest and begging for help, but I only had eyes for the dancers.

The collapse of Anton from a heart attack put an end to the nightmare.  Next thing I knew, I awoke in my bed at the hacienda.  Fever took hold of me, and it was many weeks before I showed signs of recovery.

Just a moment, said Holmes.  Were the authorities informed of your friend’s death?

Yes, but they did very little.  You must remember that the West Indies are rife with superstition and black magic, and to investigate the death of someone under such circumstances is not a task undertaken too diligently.

Fear and ignorance are powerful weapons, remarked he.  Please continue.

I returned to my residence in Havana, and for a time all went well.  Then, one night I went on to the balcony outside my bedroom window.  As I did so, a figure ran out from beneath.  It was the big Negro from the swamp.  By sheer chance my revolver was close at hand.  I fired every chamber in his direction, but I have no idea if I hit him.

As he paused to roll another cigarette, I happened to glance at Holmes.  He was staring at the ceiling, and I had the impression that his great brain was already analysing the details and formulating ideas.

The following morning, continued Menendez, "I found a box containing feathers and a spider on the doorstep.  I stamped on it and reduced it to pulp.  I refused to be intimidated by backward natives.  I can only presume that someone saw me destroy the token, because later that night when I stood on the