Jonathan Smyth Cowboy Sleuth: The Case of the Screaming Tunnel

By Frank F Fiore

An old cowboy seeking shelter from a thunderstorm meets a gruesome end in the haunted tunnel. Smyth and Abbott, now partners in pursuit of justice, are drawn into the investigation of this horrific murder. But they soon discover that someone or something is actively trying to silence them.

• Language: English
• Publisher: The Hollow Man Series, LLC
• Release date: May 28, 2024
• ISBN: 9798869392251

Frank F Fiore

FRANKFIORE, a bestselling author of non-fiction books, has also penned four 5-star rated stirring thrillers and action/adventures. His works include CYBERKILL, a techno-thriller; IGIN, an historical fiction novel following an American teenage boy coming of age against the backdrop of WWII Japan, and The Chronicles of Jeremy Nash, a series of novels centered on conspiracy theories, unsolved mysteries, urban myths, and other themes in the style of the National Treasure movies.  He currently lives in Prescott Arizona, writing Westerns with his fetching wife Lynne, and their dogs Chisum - a big Newfoundland, Westin - a champion winning bearded collie and Duffy-a little Scottie. Visit his website: www.frankfiore.com

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Jonathan Smyth: Cowboy Sleuth

BOOK ONE

The Case of the Screaming Tunnel

Frank F. Fiore

Copyright © 2024 by Frank F, Fiore

All Rights Reserved

Cover Design by Paul Hollis

Published by Hollow Man Publishing

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the written permission of the author.

ISBN: ISBN: 979-8-8693-9225-1

This book is a work of fiction. Places, events, and situations in this book are purely fictional and any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, is coincidental.

Printed in the United States of America.

PROLOGUE

Mary? Julia Venturney asked, knocking quietly on the door of #13 Miller’s Court – a small, corner one-room flat. The room at #13 Miller’s Court was actually a converted bedroom from #26 Dorset Street, which opened to the street just beyond the courtyard. A common occurrence in London. A passageway into Miller’s Court from Dorset Street led to the little room, which had a door on one side and two windows around the corner from the door. Tenement apartments lined the rest of the courtyard, and nothing else stood inside but a water pump and a dustbin.

Mary, Julia urged. Please open the door. You’ve got me right worried.

Julia was worried.

It was almost afternoon and Mary was to join her for lunch before going on their whoring rounds in Millers Court. It had crossed her mind that she could have become involved with the wrong man—but it was unlikely. Mary was usually fastidious about who she dealt with. She wasn’t just a casual whore. Julie knocked again – this time harder, then felt a presence behind her. She turned and gasped at a man hovering over her. Lord, govnr’! You scared the devil out of me!

Is Mary Kelly home?

Who the bleedin’ hell wants to know?

My name is Thomas Bowyer. I’m in the employ of John McCarthy, owner of McCarthy’s Rents of Miller’s Court. Ms. Kelly is over due on her rent, he growled.

I don’t know, Julia replied, backing off from the man. Her light is on in the middle of the day and she won’t answer the door.

Stand aside, Bowyer uttered gruffly, and banged on the door twice. Receiving no answer, he rounded the corner of the yard and noted that a couple of glass windowpanes were broken. He reached in through the knocked-out glass and moved the heavy curtain that shielded the room from the icy breath of cold London nights. The first thing he saw was what looked like two lumps of stagnant meat sitting on the bedside table.

Then his blood ran cold.

Run to the Commercial Street Police Station! he screamed at her. Get the police! Now!

Julie took off without saying a word. Her long white frock and red shawl around her shoulders ruffled in the wind as she ran.

Boyer followed behind her, searching for a Bobby.

He ran to the nearest pub, burst in on two policemen standing in the room pulling on an unruly drunk and yelled, Another one! Jack the Ripper! Awful! Terrible! Terrible! Bowyer could hardly get the words out of his mouth.

The three men sprinted from the pub but didn’t notice a tall, middle age man with snow-white hair pick his ornate ivory tipped cane from the bar and follow them out.

When they arrived at Mary Kelly’s apartment, they observed the carnage through the broken window with queasy horror.

We have to get in there, Bowyer said.

With that, one of the Bobby’s grabbed an axe handle nearby and broke down the door. An older man popped his head out of the boarding room opposite.

You will do no such thing to my door, he hollered. What’s all this commotion about?

Who are you? one of the Bobby’s asked.

I’m John McCarthy, the old man screeched. This is one of my properties and I’ll be damned if I’m going to let you do damage to my bloody doors.

Jack the Ripper has been at it again, one of the Bobby’s said. There’s a dead girl in that room.

What?! the old man screamed fiercely. I told that whore never to bring no men back to my property.

How do you know she didn’t come home alone, the Bobby said with testy patience. "Maybe The Ripper followed her?

Makes no difference, the old man replied with a snarl. You ain’t cutting down my door. You can wait for me to go get the key.

What should we do with the dead girl then? the Bobby asked. It ain’t natural for an old man like you to want to keep dead girls in rooms.

I’ll give you the what for, McCarthy said. "Talking to me that