Art in the Blood. Bonnie Macbird

crumbling sheets of paper, was an unpublished, full-length adventure written by this same Dr Watson – featuring his friend, Sherlock Holmes.

      But why had this case not been published with the others so long ago? I can only surmise that it is because the story, longer and perhaps more detailed than most, reveals a certain vulnerability in his friend’s character which might have endangered Holmes by its publication during their active years. Or perhaps Holmes, upon reading it, simply forbade its publication.

      A third possibility, of course, is that Dr Watson absent-mindedly folded up his manuscript and, for unknown reasons, tied it to the back of this book. He then either lost or forgot about it. And so I share this tale with you, but with the following caveat.

      Over time, perhaps from moisture and fading, a number of passages have become unreadable, and I have endeavoured to reconstruct what seemed to be missing from them. If there are any mistakes of style or historical inaccuracies, please ascribe these to my inability to fill in places where the writing had become indecipherable.

      I hope you share my enthusiasm. As Nicholas Meyer, discoverer of The Seven-Per-Cent Solution, The West End Horror, and The Canary Trainer said recently for himself, and all fellow lovers of Conan Doyle – ‘We can never get enough!’

      Perhaps there are more stories yet to be found. Let’s keep looking. Meanwhile, sit down by the fire now, and draw near for just one more.

       PART ONE

       OUT OF THE DARKNESS

      ‘I’ve got a great ambition to die of exhaustion rather than boredom.’

      Thomas Carlyle

       CHAPTER 1

       Ignition

      y dear friend Sherlock Holmes once said, ‘Art in the blood is liable to take the strangest forms.’ And so it was for him. In my numerous accounts of the adventures we shared, I have mentioned his violin playing, his acting – but his artistry went much deeper than that. I believe it was at the very root of his remarkable success as the world’s first consulting detective.

      I have been loath to write in detail about Holmes’s artistic nature, lest it reveal a vulnerability in him that could place him in danger. It is well known that in exchange for visionary powers, artists often suffer with extreme sensitivity and violent changeability of temperament. A philosophical crisis, or simply the boredom of inactivity, could send Holmes spinning into a paralysed gloom from which I could not retrieve him.

      It was in such a state that I discovered my friend in late November of 1888.

      London was blanketed with snow, the city still reeling from the extended horror of the Ripper murders. But at that moment, violent crime was not my concern. Married earlier that year to Mary Morstan, I was ensconced in a nest of comfortable domesticity, living at some distance from the rooms I had formerly shared with Holmes in Baker Street.

      One late afternoon found me reading contentedly by the fire when a note arrived by breathless messenger. Opening it, I read: ‘Dr Watson – he has set 221B on fire! Come at once! – Mrs Hudson.’

      In seconds I was hurtling through the streets in a cab towards Baker Street. As we tore around a corner, I could feel the wheels slipping in the mounding snow, and the cab lurched dangerously. I rapped on the roof. ‘Faster, man!’ I shouted.

      We skidded into Baker Street and I saw the fire wagon and several men leaving our building. I leaped from the cab and ran to the door. ‘The fire,’ I cried. ‘Is everyone all right?’

      A young fireman stared up at me, eyes shining from a smoke-blackened face.

      ‘It’s put out. The landlady is fine. The gentleman, I ain’t so sure.’

      The fire captain pushed him aside and took his place. ‘Do you know the man who lives here?’ he asked.

      ‘Yes, quite well. I am his friend.’ The captain eyed me curiously. ‘And his doctor.’

      ‘Then get in there and see to the fellow. Something is not right. But t’weren’t the fire.’

      Thank God Holmes was at least alive. I pushed past them and into the hall. Mrs Hudson was there, wringing her hands. I have never seen the dear woman in such a state. ‘Doctor! Oh, Doctor!’ she cried. ‘Thank heavens you’ve come. It’s been terrible these last days, and now this!’ Her bright blue eyes brimmed with tears.

      ‘Is he all right?’

      ‘From the fire, yes. But something, something awful … ever since he was in gaol! He has bruises. He won’t talk, he won’t eat.’

      ‘Gaol! How is it that—? No, tell me later.’

      I raced up the seventeen steps to our door and paused. I rapped loudly. There was no reply.

      ‘Go on in!’ called Mrs Hudson. ‘Go!’

      I flung open the door.

      A blast of cold, smoky air assailed me. Inside the familiar room the sounds of carriages and footsteps were muffled to near silence by the new snow. In one corner, a wastepaper basket lay upended, blackened and wet, with charred paper nearby on the floor and a small area of drapery burnt away, now sodden.

      And then I saw him.

      His hair awry, his face ashen with lack of sleep and sustenance, he looked, quite frankly, at death’s door. He lay shivering on the couch, clothed in a shabby purple dressing gown. An old red blanket tangled around his feet and with a quick movement he yanked it up to cover his face.

      The fire, along with stale tobacco smoke, had filled the study with a sharp acrid odour. A blast of freezing air blew in from an opened window.

      I crossed to it and shut it, at once coughing at the foetid air. Holmes had not moved.

      I knew immediately from his posture and ragged breath that he had taken something, some intoxicant or stimulant. A wave of anger swept over me, followed by guilt. In my newly wedded bliss, it had been weeks since I had seen or spoken to my friend. Holmes had, in fact, suggested we attend a concert together not long ago, but along with married social life, I had been busy with a critically ill patient and had forgotten to reply.

      ‘So, Holmes,’ I began. ‘This fire. Tell me about this.’

      No response.

      ‘I understand that you were imprisoned briefly. What for? Why did you not send word?’

      Nothing.

      ‘Holmes, I insist you tell me what is going on! Even though I am married now, you know that you can call on me when something like … when … if you …’ My voice trailed off. Silence. A sick feeling crept over me.

      I removed my greatcoat and hung it in the old familiar place, next to his. I returned to stand next to him. ‘I need to understand about this fire,’ I said quietly.

      A thin arm emerged from the ragged blanket and waved vaguely. ‘Accident.’

      In a flash, I grabbed his arm and yanked it into the light. It was, as Mrs Hudson said, covered with bruises and one substantial cut. On the transverse side was something more alarming: the clear evidence of needle marks. Cocaine.

      ‘Damn it, Holmes. Let me examine you. What the devil happened in gaol? And why were you there?’

      With surprising strength he wrenched his