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How old were you when you discovered Sherlock? As part of the Classics For Kids series international best-selling author Mark Williams is proud to present this Sherlock Holmes short story adaptations: The Red-Headed League.Come join Holmes and Watson as they solve the mystery of the Red-Headed League in a child-friendly, twenty-first century English and with the seamier side of Victorian life left out. Ideal for children 9-12s to get started with the world's most famous detective.Wie alt waren Sie, als Sie Sherlock Holmes’ Abenteuer entdeckten? Mark Williams, internationaler Bestseller-Autor, präsentiert: Die Liga der Rothaarigen, die zweite Sherlock Holmes-Kurzgeschichte aus der Reihe Klassiker für Kinder. Begleiten Sie Holmes und Watson bei der Suche nach dem verschwundenen Rennpferd die Liga der Rothaarigen. In dieser Kurzgeschichte werden die Leser in kindgerechtem, modernem Deutsch zurück in das London um 1900 geführt. Ideal für Kinder von 9-12 Jahren, die den größten Detektiven aller Zeiten bei seinen Abenteuern begleiten wollen.
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Classics For Kids
Klassiker für Kinder
The Red-Headed League
Die Liga der Rothaarigen
re-told for children by
kindgerecht nacherzählt von
© 2016 Mark Williams
Sherlock Holmes re-told for children / kindgerecht nacherzählt : The Red-Headed League / Die Liga der Rothaarigen (Classic for Kids / Klassiker für Kinder)
The Red-Headed League 1.
The Red-Headed League 2.
The Red-Headed League 3.
The Red-Headed League 4.
The Red-Headed League 5.
The Red-Headed League 6.
The Red-Headed League 7.
The Red-Headed League 8.
The Red-Headed League 9.
The Red-Headed League 10.
The Red-Headed League 11.
The Red-Headed League 12.
The Red-Headed League 13.
The Red-Headed League 14.
The Red-Headed League 15.
Die Liga der Rothaarigen Kapitel 1.
Die Liga der Rothaarigen Kapitel 2.
Die Liga der Rothaarigen Kapitel 3.
Die Liga der Rothaarigen Kapitel 4.
Die Liga der Rothaarigen Kapitel 5.
Die Liga der Rothaarigen Kapitel 6.
Die Liga der Rothaarigen Kapitel 7.
Die Liga der Rothaarigen Kapitel 8.
Die Liga der Rothaarigen Kapitel 9.
Die Liga der Rothaarigen Kapitel 10.
Die Liga der Rothaarigen Kapitel 11.
Die Liga der Rothaarigen Kapitel 12.
Die Liga der Rothaarigen Kapitel 13.
Die Liga der Rothaarigen Kapitel 14.
Die Liga der Rothaarigen Kapitel 15.
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The Red-Headed League
There is nothing I like more than to take a stroll through London’s parks when I have time to spare, and I especially love strolling through Regent’s Park in the autumn.
And so it happened, one blustery October morning, that I was walking through Regent’s Park on the way to Baker Street, the home of my dear friend Mr. Sherlock Holmes.
The trees were wearing their autumn colours – reds, browns, yellows and oranges, and all shades in between. Fallen leaves were being kicked about by happy ragamuffin children. The wind tugged playfully at my bowler hat, trying to blow it across the grass, but I kept one hand beside my head holding my bowler in place.
Unlike a gentleman about a hundred yards ahead of me, who I watched chasing his hat along the ground, blown along by gusts of wind every time he bent down to pick it up.
It reminded me of the case of the Blue Carbuncle the previous Christmas, when a lost bowler hat turned out to be the start of a bizarre mystery involving, of all things, a goose and a stolen jewel.
My dear friend Sherlock Holmes of course had soon got to the bottom of that little mystery, and as I meandered through Regent’s Park that October morning I wondered when the next mystery might come along.
Little could I know the next mystery would be waiting for me the moment I arrived at 221b Baker Street.
I was reminded of the colours of the falling leaves in Regent’s Park when I opened the door and found Sherlock Holmes talking with a man who himself could best be described as autumnal.
The man had flaming red hair and a florid red face and crimson cheeks that, with his brown suit and shoes, made him look almost like the trees I had just left behind.
“I’m sorry, Holmes. I didn’t realize you had visitors,” I said. “I’ll call back shortly.”
“No, no,” said Holmes. “Do come in, Watson. Do come in. I would like you to meet Mr. Jabez Wilson, who has just this evening come to me with a most bizarre mystery.”
“Aha. This sounds interesting.” I said. I put my hat and coat on the stand before stepping across to shake hands with Mr. Wilson.
Holmes turned to his guest. “Mr. Wilson, since you were only part way through your story, would you begin again and explain to my dear friend Dr. Watson the events that bring you here today. I will benefit from hearing the story again myself, it is so unusual.”
At that moment Mrs. Hudson appeared in the doorway with a covered tray. She placed the tray on the table and removed the cloth to reveal a steaming pot of tea, milk and sugar, and three cups and saucers.
“I heard Doctor Watson arrive, Mr. Holmes,” Mrs. Hudson said, “and I knew he would welcome a fresh pot of tea. Fortunately I already had the kettle on the stove, so the water was piping hot. And I knew your other guest had not yet left, so I took the liberty of adding a cup for him too.”
“Splendid, Mrs. Hudson,” Holmes declared. “You must be a mind-reader, for I was about to ring the bell and ask you to bring us some refreshments. Mr. Wilson, do help yourself to tea, and then take a seat and tell me again this quite remarkable story.”
After Mrs. Hudson had returned downstairs, I watched with interest as Mr. Jabez Wilson settled down in a chair and sipped his tea, gathering his thoughts before he began to tell his story.
I looked over the man, trying to apply the methods Sherlock Holmes had taught me, to deduce some facts about our guest. But other than that Mr. Wilson’s clothes were old and shabby, and that his red face matched his red hair and that his short breaths and the fact that he was overweight suggested he was not in the best of health, I could tell nothing else.
Holmes had been watching me watching Mr. Wilson, and let out a sharp laugh. “Before you begin, Mr. Wilson, let us first hear what Dr. Watson has deduced about you.”
Mr. Wilson looked at Holmes in surprise. “Deduced about me?”
Holmes smiled. “Watson has been learning some of my methods. I find, Mr. Jabez Wilson, that one can tell a lot about a person by simply looking.”
“Well, yes,” agreed Mr. Wilson with a chuckle. “You can tell I am fat and have red hair, and my clothes are not new, so you might deduce I am not a rich man. But beyond that, I cannot imagine what anyone might conclude about me just by looking, good sir.”
“I agree one cannot tell much in your case,” Homes said. He turned to me. “But I’m sure Watson noticed a few other trifling points. Isn’t that so, Doctor Watson?”
“Well,” I spluttered. “Obviously I saw that Mr. Wilson is, as he himself says, a little overweight and his clothes have seen better days. But apart from that, Holmes, I see nothing to remark upon.”
Mr. Wilson splayed his hand in an I told you so fashion. “You see. Mr. Holmes, there is nothing whatsoever to deduce about me.”
Holmes leaned back in his chair, stretched out his legs and crossed his arms.“You are quite right, Mr. Jabez Wilson, of course,” he said. “Other than that you were at one time a manual labourer – most likely a carpenter – and that you have been to China, oh and that you are right-handed and have done a lot of writing recently, I can deduce nothing about you whatsoever.”
Mr. Wilson was opening and shutting his mouth like a goldfish. “Why, that is incredible,” he said when he finally found his voice. “How on earth can you know all that? I have mentioned nothing of the kind in our conversation so far.”
“It is simple enough,” said Holmes. “Let’s see. First there is the matter of your right hand.”
“My right hand?” Mr. Wilson stared at his right hand as if he was seeing it for the first time. “What about my right hand?”
“One can tell a lot about a person by their hands, Mr. Wilson,” Holmes said. “In your case your right hand is more muscular than the left, but the muscle is flabby, not firm. That told me several things about you.”
“It did?” Mr. Wilson stared at Holmes, then at his own right hand again.
“It tells me both that you are right-handed and that you were once a manual labourer, probably a carpenter, but you no longer do woodwork,” said Holmes.
Mr. Wilson’s jaw dropped open. “That is correct in every detail,” he said. “But how, Mr. Holmes? How?”
It was a question I was asking myself too. I should have spotted Mr. Wilson was right-handed , of course, as he held his cup with his right hand. With hindsight that was easy enough to deduce. But that Mr. Wilson was a manual labourer, and specifically a carpenter, but no longer did carpentry? That made no sense at all.
Or rather, it made no sense at all until Holmes explained it, at which point it was all embarrassingly obvious.
“That the right hand is more muscular than the left tells me you were a manual labourer,” said Holmes. “Being right-handed you lift heavy objects with your right hand and that develops the muscles more than in the left hand.”
“I see,” said Mr. Wilson.
“But the fact that the muscle has become soft and flabby tells me you no longer do such work,” Holmes continued.
“I see,” said Mr. Wilson again.
“If you were a builder or a gardener your hands would be rough, but they are quite smooth, so I immediately thought of something like woodwork. A carpenter needs smooth hands to ensure the finished product is smooth and unblemished.”
“Ah, but so does a potter,” I said, seeing a flaw in Holmes’s argument. “Someone working with clay would also need smooth hands, so could not Mr. Wilson have been a former potter or a former...” I tried to think of more examples of manual labour requiring smooth hands, but Holmes interrupted my thoughts.
“But what about his ears?” Holmes said.
Mr. Wilson and I both stared at Holmes.
His ears? I thought.
“My ears?” Mr. Wilson said.
“I of course considered a number of possible trades that might explain the hands,” said Holmes, “but it was Mr. Wilson’s ears that clinched it for me that his former trade was that of a carpenter.”
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