And I wish that you would cease referring to my cases as adventures, Watson. Although I actually tend to prefer smaller pipes than the Meerschaum. The publisher, aware of my own efforts to chronicle your adventures, asked me to read and comment on it.” “It’s a new novel by a young writer called Graham Moore about Arthur Conan Doyle -“ You know my methods.” He shrugged, took the parcel from me, and opened it. And am I correct to surmise that the parcel that you have under your arm is a new, hardbound book that you thought would be of interest to me?” You have been somewhere in the vicinity of - ah, perhaps Charing Cross Road earlier in the day. How are you? Mary away? Have been so for several days, I see. His slate-grey eyes followed my gaze, obviously aware of my apparently not-so-secret concern, and then swiftly turned to focus on me.
THE SLAIN SCHOLAR REVIEW SHERLOCK HOLMES FREE
I surreptitiously stole a glance at his exposed wrist, and was secretly relieved to find it free of fresh puncture marks. Judging from the remnants of the chemical experiments that I espied on the working table and the numerous copies of the Times that were strewn all over the sitting room, he had been holed up in Baker Street for quite a number of days.
He was just about to put the violin on the desperately cluttered sideboard, long nervous fingers smoothing his mouse-coloured dressing gown.The tips of the fingers were stained with something purplish, and a faint ether-like odour lingered about his person. “Ah my dear Watson! What brings you here on this foggy and blustery evening?” said he. Soon enough, I found myself treading the familiar steps to 221b Baker Street. I did not relish the notion of enduring a lonely night at home - Mary had gone away to visit her parents - and I had with me something that I knew would amuse him. One winter evening, after spending a largely idle day at my desk, I decided to lock up the door early and visit my old comrade. But when the world's leading Doylean scholar is found murdered in his hotel room, it is Harold - using wisdom and methods gleaned from countless detective stories - who takes up the search, both for the diary and for the killer.įor several months, preoccupied with my recent marriage and my taking over the practice in Kensington, I had not the opportunity to see my friend Mr. When literary researcher Harold White is inducted into the preeminent Sherlock Holmes enthusiast society, The Baker Street Irregulars, he never imagines he's about to be thrust onto the hunt for the holy grail of Holmes-ophiles: the missing diary. After his death, one of his journals from the interim period was discovered to be missing, and in the decades since, has never been found. Though the writer kept detailed diaries of his days and work, Conan Doyle never explained this sudden change of heart. Then in 1901, just as abruptly as Conan Doyle had "murdered" Holmes in "The Final Problem," he resurrected him. London spiraled into mourning - crowds sported black armbands in grief - and railed against Conan Doyle as his assassin. In December 1893, Sherlock Holmes-adoring Londoners eagerly opened their Strand magazines, anticipating the detective's next adventure, only to find the unthinkable: his creator, Arthur Conan Doyle, had killed their hero off.
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