THE SECRET ADVENTURES
OF SHERLOCK HOLMES
by
Ciaran Murray
Castle Quarter Press
221b Baker Street
Arthur Conan Doyle described himself as an Irishman born in the Scottish capital, and the present author has availed of this fact to match Sherlock Holmes with Oscar Wilde and Bernard Shaw, both personally known to Doyle. Against backgrounds ranging from a temple in India to a castle in Germany or a battlefield in France, Holmes tackles a series of cases involving King Edward and Kaiser Wilhelm, Otto von Bismarck and Adolf Hitler. Simultaneously, the reader is taken on another investigation, this time into the dual consciousness of Holmes and Watson, and ultimately the conjunction of Celt and Saxon in Doyle himself. Like the original stories, each episode is self-contained; but they are here woven into a novelistic unity through their progressive revelation of the erotic and occult life of Holmes: themes implicit in the writings of Doyle. The book may be read both as exploration of the Celtic element in English literature and as fiction in its own right.
1. The Treasure of the Black Taj.
‘”The goddess Kali”, the Indian began, ”is known to Europeans largely for her cruelty. It is she who is patron of the Thuggees, who murder and steal from travellers, as they believe in her honour and by her licence. But more fundamentally she is nature in all its aspects, in its glory as in its terror. She rules over desire as well as death; and the besotted Shah Jahan might well seem to his servants to be, unwittingly, her devotee. When, then, they built the temple which is known as the Black Taj, they did so as a shrine to the goddess, and they surrounded it with her rites. It was a ritual of terror, cloaked in a secrecy whose violation was punishable by death. That is why its existence has remained a rumour, and its location a mystery”’.2. The Last Pre-Raphaelite.
‘I cannot describe to you how my heart pounded as I lifted the heavy iron knocker on his door. It is a great house in the medieval style – a castle, really – set in its own woods in the heart of Epping Forest. I stepped under a portcullis, and my footsteps echoed on a drawbridge as I crossed the shadowed moat. As the door creaked open, I found myself dazzled. An elaborate stained-glass window stood at the end of a lofty hall; and the morning sun, shining through it, filled the space with a glory of multicoloured beams, spilling over the tiled floor, and making the air itself jewelled and almost tangible. I felt as if I had strayed into some solemn and sacred romance.’3. The Order of Charlemagne.
‘Friday, Holmes, it is Friday’, I answered, my patience at an end. ‘And will you kindly now explain to me the point of this inquisition?’ ‘The point is this, Watson’, said Holmes slowly. ‘You have ordered red wine with a dish which requires white. France is a Catholic country, and the plat du jour for today will certainly contain fish. You can hardly wonder that these people are appalled. You have committed an offence against their religion’. ‘You mean Roman Catholicism?’ ‘I mean food and drink. Catholicism, except for a fanatic few, is merely their denomination’. ‘Then why, in heaven’s name, do they not abolish these ridiculous survivals? Why not turn Protestant? It would simplify the matter’. ‘It would not be interesting: it would end the debate.’4. The Mass of the Presanctified.
‘It was Thursday; and on the opening notes of In Monte Oliveti, I felt myself enter her earlier world. It was a world at once more civilised and more spiritual than our own. In a few sounds, sprinkled like shooting-stars over the dimmest recesses of the mind, I found all the vaunted progress of our century set at naught. The disciplined dance of the polyphony, the soaring of the upper registers over the repeated waves of the lower, brought me into a place where multiplicity and singularity, discipline and passion, were one. In that strange combination of immobility and motion, I seemed to be taken to a place outside time: a world of suspended animation, in which death seemed but a finer form of life, and life an elaboration of death. In that moment of the intersection of worlds, I felt, the artist had attained the stillness which is at the heart of the interweavings of love.’5. The Kiss of Judas.
‘”Your view of society, Mr. Holmes, I am happy to say, is shared by myself. It is also shared by your admirable Prince of Wales, who has suffered more than once from the censoriousness of English morals. Whenever I meet him, he asks me, with a laugh, “Ah, Mr. Wilde, what is that brilliant thing you always say?” And I answer, “Thank you sir. Which one, sir?” Which invariably makes him laugh again. And he says, “That thing about the English, Wilde”. And I tell him: “The English, sir, have an almost mir—ac—ulous capacity for turning wine into water”. “Ha”, I barked, displeased. “Ah, Dr. Watson”’, Wilde interjected, turning in my direction. “I had almost forgotten the good doctor. That was very remiss of me. You possess, after all, the instinct of the modern artist – the preference for colour over form. A Study in Scarlet: now that is a distinctly promising title. But why scarlet? You disappoint me, Dr. Watson. From the pillar-box to the omnibus, it is a proclamation of the commonplace – it is the positive uniform of convention – it is irreproachably… ordinary”. “It is the colour of blood”, I said with dignity. “Or for that matter, of wine”.’6. The Green Man’s Chapel.
‘Once they were safely out of hearing, he grasped an apple from a dish in the centre of the table, split it crossways, and held up half. “What do you see, Watson?”, he asked. I gasped in astonishment. For there, clearly visible in the core of the fruit, was the five-pointed star we had seen represented in the dance. “What can it mean, Holmes?”, I breathed.’7. The Troytown Murder.
‘Since she made an excuse that no gentleman could question, I allowed Lady Bruton to leave the study: from whence, as it transpired, she went straight to Lowther’s office. Suddenly a shot rang through the house, and we entered to find his head slumped over the desk, a widening pool of blood slowly covering the map of France. So paralysed were we by the sight that the first intimation I had of Lady Bruton’s escape was Holmes’ hissed: “After her, Watson!” I, being closer than he to the door of that crowded chamber, quickly pushed my way to the corridor, to see her poised in the window-seat at the end, from which there was a sheer drop to the sea. “Lady Bruton!”, I called beseechingly, but my cry seems to have been the final factor that pushed her into a decision and out over the edge.’
8. Blood and Iron.
‘I had thought – insofar as I was capable of thought – that the issue would resolve itself without any conscious volition on my part. The Kaiser would raise his rifle to fire; I would fire in my own defence; one or the other of us would fall. But nothing happened. My quarry, as sometimes happens with animals, seemed to recognise in me his executioner, and, as happens with animals, stood as if paralysed. He waited for me to shoot, but I could not do so; could not in cold blood let loose destruction on another human being. My indecision can only have been for an instant, but it seemed to go on a long time. High above the rustling of the trees in the valley, I heard the exquisite song of a lark.’
9. Twilight in Babylon.
‘In the course of a leisurely exploration of the island, I paused before the serene and noble features of Nefertiti. She seemed as exalted, as oblivious to her surroundings, in this former imperial city as once among the pools and palm-trees of the doom-laden capital of Amarna. And then, as I circled the statue, I stood still in shock. Every picture I had seen of her portrayed her in profile, so that the face seemed complete. But now I saw that one eye was hollow, giving her an unfinished, inhuman look. As I recoiled from the sight, a voice spoke beside me, a contralto I had once thrilled to. “Strange, is it not”, remarked Hilde, “how one sees only one side of the portrait? And yet there are two: do you not think the same thing can happen in life?” And then, as I remained silent: “All I ask is that you should listen to me; afterwards, judge for yourself”.’’
10. The Skull of Holbein.
‘”My goodness, Holmes!”, I exclaimed. “Someone has defaced the painting!” A strange, blurred shape, long and blunt-headed, not unlike the distended snout of a shark, had been splashed across the foreground of the picture, rising at a sharp angle from the left. “That blot at the bottom of the picture, Holmes”, I asked, “that formless diagonal which, arising from the floor, appears to disarrange the entire careful composition of which you have spoken – what do you make of it? Is it an addition? Has another, later painter, begun a new composition on the same canvas?” “By no means, Watson”, replied Holmes. “Here; stand to one side”. I did so, and gazed at the painting from the oblique angle to which Holmes directed me. From here, the snoutlike shape became rounded, and filled out to the dimensions of a human skull. “What can it mean, Holmes?”, I cried. “It is the final summation of the theme”, commented Holmes. “The painter was absorbed in the contemplation of time; here is his final judgement upon it: that all things pass away. Having recorded the moment in loving detail, he was seized by a sense of its passage, and drew this dark graffito across its base. Everything else in the painting is impersonal; this is not. It is a point of view”.’’
‘Amazing’ – Hugh Wilkinson, Bulletin of the Asiatic Society of Japan
‘You can hear Holmes and Watson speak…the descriptions are superb’ – Cay Van Ash, author of Ten Years Beyond Baker Street
‘The tone just right’ – Donald Richie, author of Japanese Cinema.
‘Adrian Conan Doyle...John Dickson Carr...Ronald Knox...all of these are surpassed, in my opinion, by...Ciaran Murray in...The Secret Adventures of Sherlock Holmes...Murray...has written ten stories in which are evident his regard for Conan Doyle and his fidelity to his style. The cross-references to the other stories, the delineation of character in the same gradual fashion as the original author, the twists of the problems, the clarity of the logic when they are resolved, are such that, if you were not careful, you could imagine them part of the canon...But Murray’s book...stands on its own as a fresh creation, an exploratory venture into the territory between literature and history...a beautiful piece of writing...It has been a great many years since I have enjoyed a book so much’ – Pádraig Ó Snodaigh, Lá