Susan Knight's Blog, page 4

‘Marx et Sherlock Holmes’

The oddest Sherlock Holmes spin-off I have come across so far is a novel in French, dating from 1981, entitled ‘Marx et Sherlock Holmes’. The little livre de poche was lent to me by a friend who knows of my interest in the detective as well as my attempts to improve my command of French. My passive knowledge of the language being superior to my ability to chat or write in it, I flew through the book, my jaw dropping further and further as I read.

The novel, by a prolific author in various genres names Alexis Lecaye, hasn’t, as far as I can see, been translated into English, and in any case would not be at all to the taste of Sherlockian purists. Narrated by Holmes himself in old age, it tells of an adventure of his youth when called upon by Karl Marx, then living in London, to find out who among his many enemies is trying to kill him and, of course, to stop them.

The search leads young Holmes to Paris, where he gets mixed up in the Commune of 1871. That part of the book is gripping and, I suppose, pretty well based on a degree of historical research. However, Sherlockian eyebrows will surely be raised at the revelation that Holmes – far from the cold, rational creature of the canon – falls for a mysterious beauty and embarks on a passionate affair with her. I won’t reveal more. Suffice it to say that Holmes eventually manages to save Karl Marx, a kindly old gent, whatever that signifies for the subsequent history of the world.

Checking M. Lecaye’s bibliography, I find that ‘Marx et Sherlock Holmes’ isn’t the only time he has ventured into the world of Baker Street. In 1996, he published ‘Einstein et Sherlock Holmes’. I haven’t read it yet, though the blurb makes it sound even more extraordinary than the earlier work.

Set in 1905, it recounts how a group of scientists are falling victim to an infernal machine. Watson investigating, drinks a beverage that transforms him into a satyr… Meanwhile Holmes encounters all sorts of weird people. He is imprisoned by a group of Bolsheviks in exile, pursued by a suffragette, and finally links up with an unknown youth named Albert Einstein. ‘Which one of these implacable logicians,’ the blurb concludes, ‘will have the final word on the enigma?’  Let us trust Sherlock at least manages to find the antidote to transform Watson back. Otherwise… Mon Dieu!

The world of Sherlock Holmes parodies and pastiches contains many oddities. These are surely among the oddest.

Review: ‘A Continuum of Sherlock Holmes Stories’ by Jayantika Ganguly

If proof were needed of the continuing universal appeal of Sherlock Holmes, then step forward Ms Jayantika Ganguly. Jay, as she likes to be called, has been a Sherlockian since the age of twelve, but what sets her apart from many other fans, and indeed writers of Holmes’ pastiches, is that she is from far-off India, combining life there as a corporate lawyer with her role as General Secretary of the Sherlock Holmes Society of India and editor of the e-magazine, ‘Proceedings of the Pondicherry Lodge’.

Each of the entertaining yarns in the present collection first saw the light of day in the ‘MX Books of New Sherlock Holmes stories’, edited bi-annually by David Marcum. The stories are inventive, yet perfectly acceptable within the canon: Jay seems to have a soft spot for Sherlock’s enigmatic brother, Mycroft, whose large girth pops up often.

What is particularly engaging is the way Jay weaves aspects of her own country and culture into some of the tales, notably in ‘The Adventure of the Defenestrated Princess’ and in ‘The Adventure of the Indian Protegé’, narrated by Holmes himself, and set during ‘the great hiatus’, the three years following Holmes’s apparent death at the Reichenbach Falls. In fact, he was travelling the world in disguise – a device, as we know, forced on a reluctant Conan Doyle by readers who could not bear to think their beloved detective was no more.

If I have a particular favourite tale here, it is ‘The Adventure of Parsley and Butter’, inspired by Holmes’ cryptic remark in ‘The Adventure of the Six Napoleons’, when he says ‘You will remember, Watson, how the dreadful business of the Abernetty family was first brought to my notice by the depth which the parsley had sunk into the butter upon a hot day.’ From this suggestive beginning, Jay weaves an engrossing tale of intrigue and deception.

The Continuum of Sherlock Holmes Stories is available from MX publishing and from Amazon and the Book Depository.

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The Irishness of Dr Doyle

Mrs Hudson sits back in her favourite chair. ‘Of course,’ she says ‘I always thought the Doctor was Scottish… Not Dr Watson, I know all about him. No, I mean Dr Doyle. I never thought of him as Irish, do you see. And another thing I got wrong. He being in the medical profession, I took him for a colleague of Dr Watson, when he is in fact a closer associate of Mr H.

I understand his reasons now, of course, but was somewhat taken aback when, during that dark period we believed Mr H had perished at the Reichenbach Falls, Dr Doyle was so very solicitous towards me, and so ready with words of comfort. He was, do you see, perhaps the only one to know that Mr H had miraculously survived. In fact, he it was insisted on me keeping the Baker Street apartment unlet to anyone else, knowing that one day Mr H would need it again. However, he had been sworn by Mr H to secrecy, and, no more than Dr Watson, I never guessed at the truth of the matter.

But what I wanted to tell you now was that when Dr Doyle heard I was planning a trip to Ireland, he urged me to visit that part of the country where his mother was born and of which he himself had such fond memories.

‘It is not so very far from Wexford,’ he told me, ‘being in the adjacent county of Waterford.’

In my account of my adventures in Ireland, I did not include the visit I subsequently paid to the pretty town of Lismore, for it was not relevant to the horrific story of Lily and Francie. However, I should like you to know something of it, and of Dr Doyle’s own history. The Irish love to claim the great and good for themselves – I have even heard it said that Mr H has some Irish in him – but in the case of Dr Doyle, it is nothing but the truth. His paternal grandfather was born in Dublin, but moved to England, his son, Dr Doyle’s father, thereafter taking up a post in Scotland where he reared his family (rather badly, I fear, the man succumbing to the demon drink).

Dr Doyle’s beloved mother was born Mary Foley, descendant of the redoubtable ‘Black Tom’ Foley who was agent to the Duke of Devonshire, while her cousin, the late head of the clan, rejoiced in the name Nelson Trafalgar Foley (being born, as I understand it on the very day news of the Admiral’s great victory reached Lismore). Even after Mary moved with her widowed mother to Edinburgh, and got married, she kept in touch with her Irish family, and often took young Arthur – that being Dr Doyle’s Christian name – over on visits to her wealthy relations. There, from their seat at Ballygally, he would hunt, shoot and fish in the river Blackwater, said to contain the best salmon in Ireland.

When I myself visited Lismore, I was treated most kindly by the Foleys, who, I am afraid have come down somewhat in the world. They recalled how Dr Doyle continued to visit there in adulthood (though sadly not in recent years) and told me how he even played cricket for the local club against the 25th Regiment, his performance being somewhat undistinguished, however. Apparently, he only managed to score a miserable three runs, though he did take two wickets.

But now,’ she says, gathering up her skirts, ‘it is time to take the gentlemen their tea. I shall resume the account next time.’

‘Mrs Hudson goes to Ireland’ can be ordered from book depository (free mailing worldwide)

https://www.bookdepository.com/Mrs-Hudson…/9781787056275

And from Amazon: https://www.amazon.co.uk/Hudson-Goes-Ireland-Susan-Knight/dp/1787056279/

A Glowing Review

   

‘What’s that you’re reading, Watson?’ Holmes asked.

It was a wet July day and we were in the parlour of Baker Street, I reclining on the couch, my companion seated with his long legs stretched out in front of him.

  

       ‘It’s the most recent edition of the journal of the Sherlock Holmes Society of London.’ I replied. 

     ‘Ah yes, my fan club.’ Of course, he knew all along the nature of my reading matter and spoke with such satisfaction that I could not resist denting his ego just a little.

     ‘There’s a review here of Mrs Hudson’s book,’ I said. ‘It is quite glowing.’

     ‘Her book?’

    ‘Yes, you know, Mrs Hudson Goes to Ireland.’

    ‘I am afraid,’ said he, sighing, ‘that I have not yet had time to peruse it.’

‘Well, you should. Just listen to what the reviewer says here: Feisty, brimming with good common sense and not short of pluck… Mrs Hudson is a formidable character and superb story-teller with her own voice, not afraid of speaking up for herself or confiding her opinions to the reader.’

     ‘Indeed, I confess I am surprised, Watson, that you are so pleased about it. I should have thought any praise of Mrs Hudson’s little novel would reflect somewhat poorly on yourself, as my chronicler.’

     ‘No, Holmes,’ I replied, ‘I don’t think I have anything to worry about on that account. But, it is true, I am delighted for her.’

     I read on and started to chuckle.

     ‘What is it now?’ Holmes asked.

     ‘I don’t think you will like it,’ I replied.

     ‘Good heavens, man, just tell me.’

     ‘Very well. This is how the review concludes: Rarely do I finish a book in one sitting; on this occasion I had to burn the midnight oil to find out what happened in the end. If Mr Holmes ever worried about his competition, he need only look under his own roof; in Mrs Hudson, he may have well and truly met his match in terms of her investigating skills!’

     ‘Ha ha! I can see why you find that funny,’ Holmes said. ‘It is, of course, quite ludicrous. Moreover, such a review has surely no place in a journal that is supposed to be all about ME.’

     Oh dear. He was very put out.

     After a pause he added, ‘I hope Mrs Hudson has no further plans to go off searching for adventures to write about.’

     ‘I understand she is hoping soon to go to Paris with her sister. I doubt that she can get involved in anything going on there.’

     But, alas, how wrong I was!

The full review by Sarah Obermuller-Bennett can be accessed at https://www.sherlock-holmes.org.uk/wp-content/uploads/2021/07/I-Am-an-Omnivorous-Reader-SHJ-Summer-2021.pdf

Or on the MX publishing website:

https://mxpublishing.com/blogs/news/book-review-mrs-hudson-goes-to-ireland?fbclid=IwAR0rnAKS_dYRxGm_eFpRCNb7aUB_ZLGm9V0O1W005aGqdro7-JkfaeuDahM

‘Mrs Hudson goes to Ireland’ can be ordered from book depository (free mailing worldwide)

https://www.bookdepository.com/Mrs-Hudson…/9781787056275

And from Amazon: https://www.amazon.co.uk/Hudson-Goes-Ireland-Susan-Knight/dp/1787056279/

Meanwhile Mrs Hudson is busy writing up her Paris adventures, so keeping watching this space.

The Strange Case of the Pale Boy

Here is the opening of my latest Holmes story. You can read the rest of it, along with 21 other new adventures, in the MX Book of New Sherlock Holmes Stories, Part XXVI. All author royalties from this collection are being donated by the writers for the benefit of the preservation of Undershaw, one of the former homes of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

It was a peaceful Sunday afternoon in early October, the calm, as it turned out, before a rather rough storm. I was engaged in reading a treatise on diseases of the digestive tract, while Holmes was bubbling up something unspeakable with his Bunsen burner. Outside an autumn sunshine was slanting temptingly through Baker Street, and I had almost made up my mind to put aside my dry reading matter and go and stretch my legs in the nearby Regent’s Park – though I rather despaired of dragging Holmes away from his experiments to accompany me, so intensely focussed was he on what he was cooking up, so satisfied the little grunts of ‘Yes, Yes,’ that escaped his lips from time to time.

   Still, it is pleasant to amble on one’s own sometimes, to enjoy in solitude the rusting of the leaves, to shuffle through heaps of the fallen ones, to pick up the odd conker and hold it in one’s palm, relishing its silky surface and marvelling that from such small beginnings mighty trees can grow. To recall as well the conker fights of childhood: having amassed a prize collection, you would pierce each nut with a nail to make a hole right through the middle. You would temper them on the range to harden. Then string would be threaded through the holes, and knotted, to turn the nuts into formidable weapons. Whose conker would shatter first on impact with another’s? Billy Brown’s, Harry Meredith’s or my own? Whose would triumph?.. Ah, those happy innocent far off days.

  

     Such sentimental musings were, however, not to be shared with my friend, especially when he was in his most rational, scientific frame of mind. Lacking an eye for the beauties of nature, Holmes would probably start lecturing me on decay and death, and quite ruin my contemplative mood. No, far better to go off alone.

     With this in mind, I closed the treatise I was reading, set it aside, and was about to stand up, when the most head-splitting racket was heard from below. Someone was pounding on our front door, and with far more force than required.

    ‘For once,’ said Holmes, raising his head, ‘I hope that it is one of Mrs Hudson’s acquaintances and not a caller for us, Watson, for I have reached a delicate point in my analysis, and the female below would seem likely, if she makes her way up here, to prove seriously disruptive.’

 

     ‘You think it a woman then?’ I asked, ready to hear Holmes’ explanation.

     ‘I do not think it, Watson. I know it. No gentleman would lose control of himself to such a degree on a Sunday afternoon to disturb the peace in such a manner, however pressing the matter. No, the caller is a woman, and like most of her ilk, one lacking all self-restraint.’

     I was amused, as usual, by Holmes’ almost blanket dismissal of the fair sex, yet have to admit that in the present circumstances he was correct in his surmise. Not half a minute passed before we heard the thud of steps hurrying up the stairs, and the door bursting open, the lady not even pausing to knock. Sighing, Holmes turned off his Bunsen burner and composed himself to learn what was afoot.

     The apparition before us was large and purple, her hat waving ostrich feathers at us in her agitation. Behind her, Mrs Hudson was clearly trying to apologise for not having prevented the visitor’s trespass on our privacy, yet I doubt that anyone could have done so, given the whirlwind force that now faced us.

     She looked wildly from one of us to the other.

     ‘Which of you is Shylock?’ she asked, peering with the screwed-up eyes of the short-sighted.

     Holmes’ lips curled in a slight smile. ‘Neither one,’ he said. ‘If you are looking for a moneylender, madam, there is an establishment displaying three golden balls just around the corner.’

     The Shakespearean reference eluded her.

     ‘Moneylender?’ she snapped. ‘No, I want Shylock the detective.’

     ‘If you mean Mr Sherlock Holmes,’ my friend said coldly, ‘then I am he. But you know, madam, I am not used to receiving visitors in such a haphazard manner.’

     The air seemed then to empty from the woman, and, like a deflating balloon, she sank, uninvited, into one of the chairs.

     ‘Mr Shylock, ‘she said. ‘I must apologise, but I am at my wit’s end. I am indeed.’……

This and all other collections in the series available from Amazon and the Book Depository

https://www.bookdepository.com/search?searchTerm=MX+book+of+new+sherlock+Holmes+stories+XXVI

https://www.amazon.co.uk/s?k=MX+book+of+new+sherlock+holmes+stories+XXVI&ref=nb_sb_noss_2https://www.amazon.com/s?k=mx+book+of+new+sherlock+holmes+stories+part+xxvi&ref=nb_sb_noss_1

Baker Street meets Modern Technology

‘What in heaven’s name are you up to, Watson?’

     I suddenly became aware of Holmes standing in front of me, hands on hips in what could only be termed an aggressive pose.

     ‘What are those things in your ears?’ the detective asked, and without allowing me to answer, he went on, ‘I strongly suspect you have acquired ear-plugs, Watson, so as not to hear me when I play on my violin.’

     He was, I could tell, mightily offended, and I hastened to explain.

‘Not at all, Holmes. You know how much I enjoy your playing…’ I am afraid I secretly crossed my fingers while saying this. One can have too much of a good thing, and the room we shared was small. ‘No, I am listening to Barbara Bufton [left] reading Mrs Hudson’s stories.’

     I showed him how the plugs in my ears were attached to a small box. Holmes looked puzzled.

     ‘Please explain,’ he said.

     ‘It’s called an audiobook, Holmes, and it’s very much the latest thing… I must say Barbara Bufton does it all very well. I am quite persuaded that I am listening to Mrs Hudson herself recounting her adventures.’

     ‘I still don’t understand.’ It was apparent that the great detective was most put out at having me explain something to him for once, rather than the other way round.

     ‘You see, Holmes, one no longer has the bother of acquiring a book and reading it. One can even listen while doing something else. Here, try it for yourself.’

     I passed one of the earplugs over to him and demonstrated how to insert it. I confess, it was somewhat gratifying to see him jump in surprise at the result.

   ‘A voice in my ear!’ he exclaimed. ‘And no body attached to it! As you know, Watson, I am the most rational being in the world but this seems to me something nothing less than miraculous… Barbara Bufton, you say. Where is she?’ And he looked around as if imagining the lady concealing herself behind a door or screen.

  

     After I further explained how the contraption worked, however, I noticed that Holmes looked decidedly discontented.

     ‘So how is it, Watson, that Mrs Hudson has contrived such a phenomenon for her little tales, and you have not done so for mine?’

     ‘But… but… ‘

     It was only after he elicited a promise from me that I would look into the matter (me giving a secret smile for of course I had already done so, long before), that he allowed me to resume my listening and discover what lay behind the ntriguing mystery of the Demon Within.

‘Mrs Hudson Investigates‘ now available as an audiobook:

https://www.amazon.co.uk/s?k=Mrs+Hudson+Investigates&ref=nb_sb_noss_2https://www.amazon.com/s?k=Mrs+Hudson+Investigates&ref=nb_sb_noss

The Merry Wake

Of all the old Irish rituals, those around death were, and in some cases possibly still are, surely the most elaborate. I had great fun researching them for Mrs Hudson goes to Ireland. My heroine, attending a funeral in rural Wexford in the mid-1890s, is quite astonished, and not a little shocked, at the custom of the ‘merry wake’, something she has never experienced in England.

The day before the burial, the deceased lies stretched out in his open coffin in the parlour of the house, while a regular party goes on around him. As a judge remarked disapprovingly in 1898, ‘No sooner is the breath out of a man’s body than one of the next-of-kin, or some friend, rushes off to the nearest grocer’s, or publican’s, and orders in three or four gallons of whisky. That is the very least – sometimes it is considerably more.’ Of course, the beverage in question was more likely, among the rural poor, to be poitín, home made, illicit and very strong.

Wake games were frequent. Mrs Hudson is shocked that cronies of the deceased are planning to play a game of cards and include the corpse in the game. What she fails to understand is that this is not a mark of disrespect. The deceased had enjoyed a game so his friends wish to include him for one last hand.

She is equally amazed to see not only vast quantities of food and drink provided for the mourners, but also tobacco and pipes for smoking. This, as she is reliably informed, goes back to a folk legend concerning the Virgin Mary. Christ’s mother was apparently so broken-hearted the day her son was crucified that for comfort she got a pipe and tobacco and took the first draws herself.

Among other customs Mrs Hudson notes is that of leaving a window open so that the spirit of the dead can fly off, and then shutting it after two hours to stop it flying back in, as well as covering any mirrors and stopping the clocks as a sign of respect.

She is also taken aback to find an old woman apparently distraught, keening loudly beside the body, until she learns that the old woman was hired for the purpose. Thomas Carlyle, back in 1849 comments amusingly on the practice. The ‘Irish howl’ was totally disappointing, ‘there was no sorrow whatever in the tone of it. A pack of idle women, mounted on the hearse as many as could, and the rest walking; were hoh-hoh-ing with a grief quite evidently hired and not worth hiring’.

To an outsider, the practices of merry wakes might seem shockingly disrespectful. However, they should be seen as a celebration of life in the face of death, life that for many of the peasants of the nineteenth century had very little joy or fun in it. The wakes thus served as a brief relief from the burdens of everyday existence.

‘Mrs Hudson goes to Ireland’ can be ordered from Book Depository (free mailing worldwide)

https://www.bookdepository.com/Mrs-Hudson…/9781787056275

And from Amazon: https://www.amazon.co.uk/Hudson-Goes-Ireland-Susan-Knight/dp/1787056279/or https://www.amazon.com/Hudson-Goes-Ireland-Susan-Knight/dp/1787056279/

Marriage Customs in Old Ireland

Writing ‘Mrs Hudson goes to Ireland’ necessitated a degree of research into fascinating old Irish marriage customs. Long before any match was made, young women would have prepared their trousseaus, which rather grimly often included a good linen winding sheet. They thus anticipated their own deaths, even as they prepared for a new life!  

‘Marry in May and rue it for aye’ was a saying in old Ireland. In fact Shrove Tuesday, in February, was a popular choice for the happy day, since weddings during Lent were prohibited by a decree of 1563, and this rule was often misinterpreted to mean that couples must marry before Lent. Traditionally, too, weddings were not held at weekends, Saturday being market day and Sunday was a day for church and good behaviour.

Rarely would the bride wear white. Lily in my novel wears blue, which was not unusual. The marriage would take place in the bride’s local church, led by her parish priest.  However, in the eyes of the neighbours this was the least important part of the business. What really mattered was the celebration afterwards in the bridegroom’s house, where the family would be judged by the lavishness of the occasion. To call it a ‘dacent’ wedding was high praise, but a couple whose wedding was ‘mane’ would spend years living down the disgrace of it.

A dacent wedding included plenty of food and especially drink – porter, whiskey or poitín, that lethal home brewed beverage. There would often be recitations particularly by a seanchaí or professional storyteller, singing and dancing, the music provided by fiddlers or pipers. The party would go on well into the night, a welcome break for a peasantry whose life on the whole was hard and colourless, and if things got bit out of hand, not much harm done.

As described in ‘Mrs Hudson goes to Ireland’, it was common for straw boys to make an appearance at some stage at country weddings, to bring good luck to the newly weds. These mummers, a relic of more pagan times, were men disguised in costumes made of straw, with conical straw masks over their faces. They would perform tricks, dance with the bride and other women and, if they were well-treated, share a hot meal and drink. Their visit would culminate with a ritual bonfire of their costumes. However, if they considered themselves badly treated, and ‘cold-shouldered’ (given inferior food or none), they would throw their costumes into the trees around the farm and leave them there to rot, as a curse on the household.

A honeymoon was unknown among the peasantry. The wedding night was spent at home and work resumed the next day, albeit with plenty of sore heads.

‘Mrs Hudson goes to Ireland’ can be ordered from book depository (free mailing worldwide)

https://www.bookdepository.com/Mrs-Hudson…/9781787056275

And from Amazon: https://www.amazon.co.uk/Hudson-Goes-Ireland-Susan-Knight/dp/1787056279/

The Irish Matchmaker

In the course of researching background for Mrs Hudson goes to Ireland, I came across many quaint and curious customs some of which endured until relatively recently.

Matchmaking, for instance, was common in rural Ireland until well into the twentieth century. John B Keane (author of The Field) dealt humorously with the subject in his Letters of a Matchmaker, later adapted for the stage. He also revealed the sometimes devastating side of the practice in his play Sive in which a young girl prefers to kill herself rather than be forced into marriage with an old man. In general, however, the matchmaker performed a useful function, bringing together people from remote country parishes who might otherwise never have met.

[Right: Jack B Yeats’s ‘The Rogue’]

And sometimes they didn’t meet even before the ceremony. I found a comical account of a lad who, when asked which of the young women he was to marry, replied, ‘Sure and I don’t know. Her name be Maggie and she’s down among them with the frills and ribbons.’

The matchmaker (babhdóir in Irish) was generally male. Lengthy negotiations regarding the dowry to be provided for the prospective bride would take place, liberally lubricated with whiskey, usually in a room in a pub, the matchmaker acting as go-between. If the outcome there was positive, the bride’s parents would then ‘walk the land’ of the groom’s family to make sure it was satisfactory, taking note of everything it contained and sometimes of things it did not: to increase the impression of prosperity a cow or two might have been borrowed from a neighbour. Sometimes even an adjoining field!

For his trouble the matchmaker would be rewarded with a bottle of whiskey.

The bargaining would continue and if everything worked out, the groom would visit the bride and her family the night before the ceremony to share a good feed of roast goose, often with the parish priest in attendance as well. This practice was called ‘aitin the goose’ and gave rise to the rueful saying ‘his goose is cooked’.  

Although matchmaking as such has long died out in Ireland, a matchmaking festival takes place, covid permitting, every September in the town of Lisdoonvarna, County Clare. Apparently, whether or not you find the partner of your dreams there, the craíc, they say, is mighty.

‘Mrs Hudson goes to Ireland’ can be ordered from book depository (free mailing worldwide)

https://www.bookdepository.com/Mrs-Hudson…/9781787056275

And from Amazon: https://www.amazon.co.uk/Hudson-Goes-Ireland-Susan-Knight/dp/1787056279/

The Sherlock Holmes Journal reviewed

What a treat to receive, just before Christmas, the winter 2020 issue of The Sherlock Holmes Journal. Nothing better than to curl up in front of a roaring fire, the rain pounding down outside, the wind howling, Brexit and Covid rattling the windows, and lose yourself in the world of the Baker Street detective.

This edition doesn’t disappoint, packed as it is with great articles and gorgeous illustrations. I particularly enjoyed the historical insights of Donald Zaldin as he examines Conan Doyle’s reference to India and ‘all things Indian’ in the Canon, including the creation of a Durbar Room in The Sign of Four, a small version of the real one created by Queen Victoria at Osborne House.

Of course, I knew about John Brown, attendant and friend to the Queen after the death of Prince Albert. What I never realised before was that, after he died, she became attached to one Abdul Karim (right), a ‘Munshi’ who taught her Urdu and Hindustani. In 1899 to general consternation, she even raised this gentleman to the rank of Commander of the Royal Victorian Order. Illustrations in the Journal include a splendid photograph of Karim in scarlet ceremonial dress, as well as the ornate Durbar room as it was in 1890.

Another fascinating article examines why Holmes’s musical taste leans towards German composers rather than French or Italian, as revealed in The Adventure of the Red-Headed League. Authors Katherine Karlson and Alexander Katz interviewed Maestro Daniel Hege, an acknowledged specialist on Beethoven, while researching their article, and conclude that it is the tight structure of German music, emphasizing order and logic, that appeals to our detective:

‘Beethoven mirrored in music what Holmes excelled in as a detective, which was to find the solution to a case based on a single clue. The German preference to be spare but innovative with musical motifs reflects not only the Master’s mood but his mind at work: “all the afternoon he sat in the stalls wrapped in the most perfect happiness, gently waving his long thin fingers in time to the music…” ’

There’s lots more to enjoy here, including a review of Enola Holmes, by Nicholas Utechin, with whom I fervently agree. I loved the film, too, but agree that Henry Cavill (as Holmes) is ‘a complete waste of space’, a chisel-jawed blank.

I’ll give the last word, and prize for the most atrocious pun to Auberon Redfearn, who has wittily imagined the fate of some of the female characters and their partners in the Canon after the stories are over. Take the case of Neville St Clair, whom you might remember from The Man with the Twisted Lip as the city gentleman fallen on hard times, who unbeknownst to his wife disguises himself as an unfortunately malformed beggar until Holmes unmasks him. He now, Redfearn tells us, operates a wagon from which he distributes ‘spoonfuls of tea in small screws of paper, thereby (almost) inventing teabags and becoming known as “The Man with the Twist of Lipton’s”.’ See what I mean?

Find out more about The Sherlock Holmes Society of London and the journal at https://www.sherlock-holmes.org.uk/