Quarantines, masks, deathâterms familiar to anyone who faced the so-called Spanish Flu of 1918. World-wide, it is estimated that the horrifying influenza killed more than 50 million people, significantly more than did the guns of the Great War, which was just then coming to a close. And yet no one has ever heard from Sherlock Holmes or Dr. Watson concerning their own experiences surviving the terrible virusâuntil now. In a recently-discovered manuscript, Dr. Watson reveals the secret which for years had kept him silent about the deadly pandemic. Only when he meets the eccentric American novelist Sinclair Lewis is the truth pried free and the story of an ingenious murder revealed.
Quarantines, masks, deathâterms familiar to anyone who faced the so-called Spanish Flu of 1918. World-wide, it is estimated that the horrifying influenza killed more than 50 million people, significantly more than did the guns of the Great War, which was just then coming to a close. And yet no one has ever heard from Sherlock Holmes or Dr. Watson concerning their own experiences surviving the terrible virusâuntil now. In a recently-discovered manuscript, Dr. Watson reveals the secret which for years had kept him silent about the deadly pandemic. Only when he meets the eccentric American novelist Sinclair Lewis is the truth pried free and the story of an ingenious murder revealed.
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STAND BACK FROM THE PAGE!Â
And disinfect yourself.
--Â Wilfred Owen
 In a Purposely Exaggerated
 Letter to his Mother
  24 June 1918
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Few and far between were the occasions when my friend and colleague, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, expressed concern about my well-being. I savour them all.Â
Astute readers will remember that after I had been shot by the American gangster Killer Evans, Holmes rushed to my side, genuinely fearing I had been wounded more severely than I had. When Holmes had experimented with a noxious poison called the Devilâs-foot root and almost killed us both in Cornwall, he admitted most gratifyingly that his behaviour was unbecoming a friend. Nor shall I forget his deeply-appreciated confession to feeling âlostâ without his Boswell. I treasure all these expressions of closeness, yet only in the case related to the frightening influenza of 1918 can I recall that Holmes actually backed away from an investigation in order to gainsay my guilt.
Allow me to state from the beginning that even the most trifling of references to the ghastly Spanish fluâor the Spanish Lady, as some more crudely call itâarouse in me the deepest feelings of remorse. As a consequence, it is little wonder that readers will search my narratives in vain for any specific references to that terrible disease.  Â
Nor am I alone in such thinking. Although the worst of the pandemic coincided with the end of the Great War, readers are similarly hard-pressed to find mention of the fluâs deadly toll in the plethora of histories and memoirs that recount the end of the hostilities.
I for one have found little mystery in the disinclination among such writers to revisit the terror. To me, it has always seemed obvious that those who physically survived the pandemic of â18 purposely erased from their collective memory the dread associated with having confronted so lethal a disease. It was as if the act of forgetting began as soon as the dying had ended.
Unfortunately, my own case was even more dismal. For me, the horror did not stop with the ebbing of the flu; I had an additional abhorrence to face. For entwined with the tragic stories raised by the disease was the relentless guilt I suffered for having believed that through sheer stupidity I had caused the senseless death of a friend.
How annoying then to acknowledge the arrival at my door of a determined American writer whose search for details about a fatal disease inadvertently resurrected the memories I had worked so hard to repress, memories deleterious enough to eclipse not only the mistakes for which I held myself accountable, but also for the greater horrors suffered by countless others.Â
Neither the falsely-presumed demise of Holmes at the Reichenbach Falls nor even the death of my beloved wife Mary had caused me to spiral downward as did the reckless belief in my own malfeasance during the pandemic, a malfeasance which the American visitor so persistently forced me to confront.
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In May of 1926, the American writer, Sinclair Lewis, refused his countryâs Pulitzer Prize for Best Novel. Arguing that the lure of such awards might entice other authors to alter or modify their works for the primary purpose of winning just such a prize, Lewis rejected the honour. As he explained in his letter to the Pulitzer committee, the desire to win an award like the one he was rejecting encourages American writers to remain âsafe, polite, obedient, and sterile.âÂ
To be sure, some critics suggest that Lewisâs true motivation was his anger at the Pulitzer committee for not having honoured his novel Main Street years earlier. Yet one must also acknowledge that many of his contemporaries continue to regard Lewisâs rebelliousness as an act of literary courage.Â
I certainly do. In fact, though not precisely a demonstration of defiance on my part, I have no doubt that it was Lewisâs show of strength that provided me the will to make public the lingering shame I had steadfastly associated with the Spanish flu. In fact, it was but a month after the Americanâs bold rejection of the Pulitzer that I set about to compose this very narrative. Â
Lewisâs personal involvement in my evolution actually began on a crisp afternoon in early March of â23, three years prior to his controversy with the Pulitzer committee. The insistent clanging of the electric bell at my Queen Anne Street door that day caused my young housekeeper, Miss Ross, to hurry in response.Â
Despite the decline in my hearing, I happened to be leaning on my stick by the entry hall as she opened the door and was thus in an advantageous position to hear an American accent proclaim, âI want to see Dr. John Watson.â
âWho shouldâ?â Miss Ross attempted to ask, but the poor woman could not complete the question.Â
âI am Sinclair Lewis,â the man at the door interrupted, enunciating each word as if the appellation were an Open Sesame.Â
Although his identity meant nothing to Miss Ross, I immediately recognized the name. After all, at that very moment, two of the manâs satirical novels, Main Street and Babbitt, were earning international fame for the prickly American.
âAllow me,â I told the housekeeper.Â
The dependable Miss Ross had been working at Queen Anne Street long enough to tolerate the strange charactersâmost commonly, personages associated with earlier Holmes casesâwho might come round. As a result, in such situations she would ask them in; inform me of their presence; and, as in this instance, immediately disappear.Â
I was about to invite the visitor to enter when, no sooner had Miss Ross vanished, than the tall and gangling fellow presumptuously stepped inside on his own. Wrapped as he was in a long, black cape, he cut quite the memorable figure. What is more, when he raised a hand in salutation and the cape fell open, I could clearly see its bright purple lining as well as the smartly-tailored black suit, blue bowtie, and white spats that completed his rakish attire. Â
Equally riveting was the manâs pink and pock-marked face. On its right side there appeared a burn-like scarâthe result, I should imagine, of a medical attempt to resolve an extreme case of acne. He appeared to be close to forty; and with his ice-blue, gimlet eyes and tufts of ginger hair asserting themselves from under a flat cap of black-and-white tweed, he presented quite the striking image.Â
âGood afternoon, Mr. Lewis,â I said, angling sideways whilst still foolishly trying to usher him in.
âThanks, John,â he addressed me with shocking American familiarity. Removing his cap to reveal his carrot-coloured hair, he added, âThey call me Red.â
My lanky visitor followed me into the studyâactually, my ground-floor library in which I had repositioned my upstairs desk. The move was a way to minimize the need for stair-climbing in light of my gamy knee. I took my place in the turning-chair behind the desk and offered Lewis one of the two wingchairs opposite. Tossing his cape and cap onto the empty seat beside him, he folded himself by sections into the chair I had indicated.
âItâs just gone four,â I said. âMight I offer you some tea? Iâll summon the girl.â
 âRather have whisky,â Lewis responded. âWith soda.â  As if requiring an excuse, he reminded me, âSuch stuffâs illegal in the States, you know.â
A bottle of Arthur Bellâs finest stood nearby; and employing the gasogene to add the fizz, I joined Lewis in the refreshments.
âHow I can be of service?â I asked after we both had sampled our drinks. Though I had retired years earlier and now no longer hung a plaque upon my door, I rather naively assumed he had come for medical reasons.Â
Sinclair Lewis returned to his whisky, his long fingers circling the glass. âActually, John, if youâre open to it, Iâve come to bat around a few ideas with you concerning my latest novel.â
Although his continued familiarity still grated, I confess that I was flattered. The idea that so celebrated an author, especially one noted for his barbs against what he considered the pompous British literatiâ"smugly content,â he had described themâcould be interested in my opinion of his work never crossed my mind. Even so, I felt compelled to remind him that I was not a writer of fiction.
 âOh,â he chuckled, âI know what you do. Iâve been following the adventures of Sherlock Holmes for quite a while now. I reckon it must be more than twenty years since I first read The Hound of the Baskervilles.â Before I could fully consume the compliment, he surprised me by fitting a monocle to his eye. âIâll have you know,â he said, peering at me through his now-magnified blue orb, âthe main character in my novel The Trail of the Hawk reads one of your stories while duck-hunting. I compared the tracking of the mallards to your descriptions of Holmes trailing after thieves.â
âThank you,â I said, feeling my face flush.Â
âFine and good,â Lewis replied with a wave of his eye-glass. âBut Hawkâs in the past. Itâs my latest project I want to focus on now, the novel Iâve only just begun. By way of background, hereâs what you need to know.âÂ
Whilst Lewis slouched in his chair, I took a drink in preparation. The man seemed to have no limits when it came to talking.
 âEver since I was kid back in Sauk Centre, Minnesota, in the U.S. of A.,â he explained, âthe medical profession has intrigued me. My father is a doctor. So were my grandfather and one of my uncles. My brother Claude is a surgeon. Why, when I was a student back at Yale, I even thought of going into the profession myself. With such a history behind me, I think you can see why Iâve often considered writing about doctors.â
As one who actually succumbed to the calling, I understood completely.
âOh, I experimented a bit with Dr. Kennicott in Main Street,â Lewis said, âbut ever since that god-awful flu destroyed so much of the world back in â18, Iâve been giving more serious thought to a novel that actually champions the medical man. I want to depict a doctor as the hero in a battle against some formidable disease.â
Lewisâs mention of the deadly pandemic immediately evoked the memory that still traumatized me, and I feared he might somehow stumble upon that very topic.Â
âAs noble as such a project might be, Mr. Lewis,â I said defensively, âI confess to you that the Spanish flu is not a subject I particularly want to recall. Not only did I contract the disease myself, but you should know that I lost a dear colleague to its clutches. His death haunts me still.âÂ
 Lewis offered another dismissive wave of the monocle. âJust hear me out. Thatâs all I ask.â He did not wait for my response. âLast summer,â he continued, âI went to Chicago to meet up with Gene Debs.â
âEugene Debs, the Socialist?â I asked. âThe fellow who continually tries to become your President?â
âThatâs the fellow,â Lewis grinned. âGood to know youâve heard of him over here. You see, originally, I was planning to feature him in a novel about the labour movement. Who knows? I still might. With a wink, he added, âItâs another reason people call me âRedâ.â
I forced a dry chuckle.
âBut then I got derailed. What happened was, while I was in Chicago, a medical-friend introduced me to a bacteriologist, a fellow named Paul de Kruif who used to be a professor at the U. of Michigan. Perhaps youâve heard of him as well.â
âAs a matter of fact, I have. Iâve read about him.â I may have been retired, but I still perused the odd medico periodicalâThe Journal of American Medicine chief among them. âDe Kruif is one of those microbe hunters at the Rockefeller Institute in New York.âÂ
Lewis clapped his hands together, almost spilling his drink. âThe very sameâthough Paul no longer works there. Fired last year for writing an article that attacked their mercenary approach to medicine. Too aware of the marketplace, Paul said. Dollar-chasers. Called their capitalist approach medical âga-ga-ismâ.Â
ââBunkâ is what I call itâall those medical mafooskies trying to make their quick bucks. Paul said their materialism cried out to be exposed, and thatâs what he did.  I tell you, his passion is so infectious that he fired me up. We started off talking about my one-time interest in becoming a doctor, and then we moved on to discussing the Spanish flu. Soon we were philosophizing about larger issues like the relationship between science and medicine. âI ought to write a novel about all this,â I declared. That was back in September.â
Lewis paused for a moment, stared into his glass, and changed directions.
âAt the same time,â he said, âI couldnât stop thinking about that terrible flu. It arrived like an invading army. On account of it, my wife Gracie and I moved back to Minneapolis. We were concerned about our son Wellsânamed after your H.G., by the way, the greatest living novelist in the world today. In any case, our Wells was just over a year old back in â18, and his mother was worried to death he might catch the thing. We figured the Midwest would be safer than New York.â
âIâve met H.G. Wells,â I had to interject.
Lewisâs eyes opened wider. âI hope to meet him myselfâmaybe on this trip.â
Happy to divert the conversation, I rambled on. âH.G.âBertieâactually helped Holmes and me on a couple of casesâone involving your countryman Stephen Crane and the other dealing with someone who had actually lived in the so-called country of the blind, which Bertie himself made famous in a short story.â*
 Lewis did not seem to hear. âThen again,â he reflected, âmaybe it wasnât the flu that got me riled up about doctors. Maybe it was just how de Kruif took on those fellows at RockefellerâIâm calling it the McGurk Institute in the novel, by the way. In either case, I told de Kruif I was writing a morality tale about a medical man, a research scientist whoâs driven to fight disease. His goal is noble, but on his journey to reach it, he discovers how much he has to learnâso much, in fact, that based on how little he knows at the start, Iâm thinking of calling the novel The Barbarian.â
A strange title for a book about a doctor, I frowned, especially a book that is supposed to champion the modern medical man.
âJohn,â Lewis laughed, âif you could see the expression on your face. But think about itâthe title makes sense. The doctor is going to start out as a kid in some hick country villageâthe way I did in Sauk Centre. In fact, heâs going to fall down so often that I also thought of calling the book The Stumbler. You probably donât like that one either.â
âItâs just thatââ
 âHold your horses,â the American interrupted. âIâll be the first to admit that itâs tough to name a book that hasnât been written yet. But thanks to Paul, Iâve created some outlines, selected one or two character names, and even composed a few pages. I did try coming up with more generalized titlesâThe Destroyer is one or maybe The Merry Death. But even with all those choices, Iâve got to say that Iâve always been partial to eponymous titles, the ones that use the names of people in the stories. Dickens had it right, you knowâNicholas Nickleby, David Copperfield, Oliver Twist.
âMain Street turned out well for you,â I reminded him.
âAh, yes,â he said, pointing a finger at me as if to verify my literary acuity. âBut Iâll never get another title that good, one thatâs become part of everyday speech.â
âIndeed,â I said.
âBut you know, John, however the title ends up, Paul liked the overall idea so much that he agreed to join me. So now weâre working on the novel together. We make an excellent duo. You see, I donât really understand all the experiments and the research that go into fighting disease, and he does. I told him to dramatize âreal scienceâ, not the phony stuff you see in the movies.â
âIt makes perfect sense,â I said.
 âWith Paulâs expertise, getting the science right has been the easy part. Why, heâs already furnished me with a pair of models for my primary scientistââsuddenly, Lewis broke into an exaggerated German accentâ âze fictional Max Gottlieb, ze Cherman Jew who mentors ze main character.â
I was surprised at hearing the dialect. Â I do not mind admitting it.
âFor Gottlieb,â Lewis said, returning to his regular voice, âPaul suggested I combine the traits of two of his associatesâa physiologist named Jacques Loeb and Paulâs former teacher, bacteriologist Frederick Novy. Donât get me wrongâtheyâre perfect as scholarsâPaul got that rightâbut Iâm looking for more. I want the hunter tracking his preyâdare I say, ein detektif seeking ze murderer.â
At lastâin spite of all the seemingly random history and humour, the word âdetectiveâ finally revealed where Lewis was leading this discussion.
âIn fact,â he said in confirmation of my thoughts, âI was hoping you could introduce me to your friend Sherlock Holmes. Heâs already a presence in the book. You see, based on your descriptions of him, Iâm giving Gottlieb a hawklike nose and making him thin and tall and nervous. It goes without saying that heâll inherit Holmesâs detecting skills, his hunger for Truth. And for the boobs who donât get it, my narratorâs going to come right out and say that Gottlieb would have made an excellent Sherlock Holmes.â*Â
What a strange fellow, I thought, yet âQuite admirableâ is what I said aloud. âYou seem to be making excellent progress.â
âWould it were so, John; would it were so.â He replaced the monocle before adding, âBut, you see, the plot continues to give me trouble.â
Curious, I thought, recalling an alternative view of Lewisâs plotting skills. In the case in â02 that I titled The Outrage at the Diogenes Club, Holmes and I had met another American writer, the late Jack London. At one point, he had told us that Sinclair Lewis was so good inventing plotlines that Lewis actually sold them to other authors who were desperate for ideas. London himself confessed to buying some fourteen. I told my visitor as much.
âI know, I know,â Lewis replied, now twirling the monocle. âIâm supposed to be good at these things, but the opening section of this new novelâit moves too slowly.  All I really have so far is just a detailed plan.â Here his long fingers withdrew a small notebook from an inner coat pocket. âThese are my notes.âÂ
Riffling through the pages to illustrate his point, Lewis displayed a collection of small yellow sheets filled with lots of scribblings and a number of unrecognizable but detailed maps. One page in particular was headed in block letters that read âBACTERIOLOGICAL NOTESâ.
The American paused a moment and closed the notebook. âFunny you should mention Jack though,â he mused. âMost fitting. I remember I once suggested that he should create a character like Sherlock Holmes. He could use him in a magazine series about a World Police force I had thought up.â
I cocked an eyebrow. Holmes had enough disagreements with Scotland Yard; a world-wide police organization would drive my poor friend mad.
âJack and I werenât getting along near the end,â Lewis remembered. âHe claimed Iâd published something about him I wasnât supposed to. Pure bunk!â
The man does like to talk, I marvelled once more.
âItâs this Spanish flu business,â Lewis carried on. âItâs too amorphous. From the start I havenât been able to hang a complete storyline around it. Thatâs why de Kruif and I decided to write about the plague. At least, thereâs a cure for that.â
âThank God,â I said.Â
âOr thank the scientists who found the bacteria responsible. More to the point, de Kruif and I thought that to gain fresh ideas, we should to travel to places where people had suffered a lot.   This past January we set out on an old freighter called the Guiana. According to my friend, Henry Mencken, Paul and I were both so drunk he had to pour us onto the deck. Personally, I canât remember the details. At any rate, we headed for the West Indies. A hundred thousand people died there from flu, you know.â
I did not know. It was a staggering figure.
âWe began on St. Thomas in the Virgin Islands. In Barbados, we took a Dutch steamer, the Crynssen, to Trinidad and then to the north coast of South America. We moved on to Panama and eventually to Plymouth.  Nowâa little more than two months after we first set outâhere we are in London. We arrived a couple of days agoâMarch sixth, to be precise.â
âWelcome to England,â I said.
âYou might be interested to know that Iâve made the trip before. But on this visit, I figured it was about time that I met Arthur Conan Doyle.â
âMy agent.â
âRight. After all, the fellow is also a writer, and he lived through the flu. I figured I could gain some insights.  But that was before we left. On the boat I read his piece on how the flu had killed his son.â
As I have reported elsewhere, unlike many of my colleagues, Sir Arthur publicly announced his own personal tragedy that resulted from the Spanish flu. In yet another of historyâs grand ironies, his son Kingsley, an army medicoâSir Arthur called him âa very perfect manââ had barely survived the bloodiest conflict in British military history.Â
On 1 July 1916, the first day of the infamous Battle of the Somme, he was struck in the neck by two German bullets. Army doctors patched him up and trotted him out to the front lines again where, just weeks before the Armistice, he was killed not by enemy gunfire but by the influenza.
Whilst other fathers might have collapsed at the news, Sir Arthur reaffirmed his faith in Spiritualism. He assured everyone that he was sustained by his belief in the ability to communicate with those who have passed on. It was almost a year later that he experienced what he called âthe supreme momentâ of his spiritual life.Â
 During a sĂ©ance, Sir Arthur reported that he heard a familiar voice in the darkened room call, âFather.â
âDear Boy, is that you?â he asked.Â
In response, he said he felt the breath of a face close to his own, sensed a kiss upon his brow, then heard the voice murmur, âForgive me.â
Sir Arthur maintained that it was Kingsley he had heard requesting forgiveness for doubting the reality of spiritualism. The father asked his son if he was happy; and after a fearful silence, Sir Arthur heard the words he had sought: âYes, I am so happy.â
âConan Doyle,â I told Lewis, âtruly believed it was his son who had spoken to him.â
âBunk,â replied the American. âI know all about that other-world blather, that world-beyond-the-shade business. Why, Iâve heard the best of the Holy Rollers, Billy Sunday himself, spin a tale or two. Even pitched in my own hosannahs with the other saps just to see how it felt.â Suddenly, Lewis tilted his head back, opened his mouth wide, and shouted out a fierce whoop.
So loud was his shriek that Miss Ross came running into the sitting room. âIs everything all right?â she asked looking round.
âEverythingâs fine,â I assured her and sent her off.
âMy point is,â said Lewis, âIâm too practical to fall for those stories about life on the Other Side. I need a more solid approach. Thatâs why I decided to come see you instead, John. I reckoned that youâbeing a medical man and a gifted chroniclerâyou might be able to furnish me with some believable stories. Iâm looking for tangible details, details that donât come from some fantasy world, detailsâdare I say? âthat are different from the ones Iâve picked apart in the states.â
I shook my head. âIâm certain that the American and British responses to the flu are fairly standard.â Hoping to fend off any further questions, I added, âI donât imagine that I have anything new to offer.â
 Lewis leaned back, balled his hands into fists, and slowly stretched his arms. âWell,â he sighed, drawing out the word, âI did already say that Iâm hoping you can connect me with Sherlock Holmes. Iâm sure,â he smiled broadly, âthat he must have some original tales to tell about âThe Spanish Ladyâ.â
Sinclair Lewisâs red face and leering grin suggested a more eccentric view of the matter than the more sombre approach to which I was accustomed. In fact, the more he joked, the more plentiful in my mindâs eye appeared the memories of the sick and dying.
Yet at the same time, I could not deny the sympathy I was feeling for a fellow-author in search of material.  I realized that in his place, I would have appreciated any help I could acquire.
âI suppose I can provide you with a few details,â I told Lewis reluctantly. âBut I cannot speak for Holmes. I do know that he spent most of the pandemic quarantined in the South Downs, so I canât imagine he has much to offerâthough he did come here to be my nursemaid after the infernal disease had struck me.â
âTake no offense at my interest in Holmes, John,â said Lewis. âObviously, I want to hear your story as well as his.â
âIn Holmesâs retirement,â I offered, feeling on firmer ground talking about my friendâs experience than my own, âhe tends to keep to himself.â
âIâm a pretty persuasive fellow,â Lewis said, rubbing his hands together. âWhy not arrange a meeting for all three of us?â
There was no doubt that Sinclair Lewis could be persuasive; yet even before I answered, he said, âBut since Iâm here right now, letâs begin with you.â Â
I furrowed my brow. Not only did I not want to remember, but I also understood a satiristâs ability to skewer his subjectsâthis satiristâs in particular.
Lewis held up his hand. âNot to worry, John. I respect your privacy. Iâll never mention your name.â He produced a pencil from another pocket, and re-opening the notebook that was resting on his knee, allowed the pencil tip to hover inches above a blank page. âIf you donât mind though, Iâd like to take down the important facts.â
I had already given my approval. There seemed no cause to go back on my word. Besides, it was not his notetaking that had anything to do with the disturbing memories evoked by his questions. It was the memories themselves.
* See Watsonâs narratives, The Baron of Brede Place and âAn Adventure in Darkness.â
* In his essay âSinclair Lewis, Max Gottlieb, and Sherlock Holmesâ (Modern Fiction Studies, Autumn 1985), Robert L. Coard identifies Lewisâs specific references to the detective.
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Sherlock Holmes and the Pandemic of Death is a fascinating story that makes for a good weekend read. Evocative of the writing style of the original writer of the Sherlock Holmes series, this is a fast-paced and intriguing story from the years after the Spanish Flu of 1918. Relevant to our times, as the world grapples with Covid-19 outbreaks and seeks answers from past pandemics, many will find this book fascinating.
Dr. Watson is grappling with certain misconceptions even after the end of the pandemic. He is forced to confront his notions by Sinclair Lewis, who arrives at his doorstep with questions on Watson's experiments and experiences at the height of the catastrophe. American writer Lewis, the author of the famous medical work, Arrowhead, arrives wielding pen and paper. He is making inquiries to collect material to include in his next novel.Â
Insightful discussions between Lewis and Watson throw much light on the course of the pandemic. It is interesting that even after a century, the means and methods of addressing an air-borne viral disease haven't changed much. Garrulous Lewis and a reluctant Watson are eventually joined by a dapper Holmes.
Once Holmes steps in, we have a mystery on our hands. He swiftly moves into interviewing, investigating, and in his inimitable style, revealing answers. Does the investigation help Watson to clear the murkiness of the past that is troubling him? Read this racy mystery to know more.
A good part of the book covers scientific terminologies and facts. The characters are well-developed and add to the charm of the novel. A lot of research has gone into this book. The narrative is smooth and entertaining, doing justice to the legacy of Doyle's writings. Historical facts and people mingle with an imaginative rendering of a story from the time of the Spanish flu, featuring the lovable duo of Watson and Holmes. I thoroughly enjoyed this book, especially the flawless writing style, and recommend it to all craving another Holmes detective story.