Itâs 1898. Kismet brings about a chance reunion at a London club between Dr. Watson and Colonel âMaiwand Mikeâ Fenlon, former military comrades from their Northwest Frontier days and the desperate Battle of Maiwand. A week later an urgent cable seeking Sherlock Holmesâs help arrives from the Bailiwick of Guernsey, a British Crown Dependency 30 miles off the coast of Normandy. A retired high-ranking British Indian Army officer who commanded the troops at Maiwand has dropped dead. Colonel Fenlon is in a holding cell awaiting trial for his murder.
What role in the Brigadier-Generalâs death was played by a phial of patent medicine developed in India to treat cholera? Why are Colonel Fenlonâs forefinger and thumbprint on the neck of the phial when he swears he has never seen it before?
Above all, why is Fenlon refusing to enter a plea or even to tell his Defence counsel what took place the evening the Brigadier-General dropped dead?
Itâs 1898. Kismet brings about a chance reunion at a London club between Dr. Watson and Colonel âMaiwand Mikeâ Fenlon, former military comrades from their Northwest Frontier days and the desperate Battle of Maiwand. A week later an urgent cable seeking Sherlock Holmesâs help arrives from the Bailiwick of Guernsey, a British Crown Dependency 30 miles off the coast of Normandy. A retired high-ranking British Indian Army officer who commanded the troops at Maiwand has dropped dead. Colonel Fenlon is in a holding cell awaiting trial for his murder.
What role in the Brigadier-Generalâs death was played by a phial of patent medicine developed in India to treat cholera? Why are Colonel Fenlonâs forefinger and thumbprint on the neck of the phial when he swears he has never seen it before?
Above all, why is Fenlon refusing to enter a plea or even to tell his Defence counsel what took place the evening the Brigadier-General dropped dead?
The case began one summer day in 1898. Since the passing of my wife Mary I had taken to rejoining my old friend Sherlock Holmes at 221B, Baker Street for several weeks at a time, hoping a new and gripping adventure would once more arrive at his door.  A barrel organ and the shrieks of street urchins combined with the clatter of Monday morning traffic woke me earlier than usual. In a fine mood I dressed and went downstairs. The sunshine through the sitting-roomâs half-opened curtains lit up my framed picture of Major-General âChineseâ Gordon. My eye was on the well-polished, silver-plated coffee pot on the breakfast table. Before me lay the happy prospect of porridge, fish, eggs and bacon, followed by a stroll to the nearby Regentâs Park to benefit the constitution.Â
Holmes was in his chair in front of the fire grate, the Illustrated Police News in hand, the air thick with the fumes of a strong, coarse tobacco. A box of matches and an old and oily clay pipe refilled with yesterdayâs carefully dried plugs and dottles lay within reach on the carpet. My co-lodger owned three pipes - the clay on the floor, a briarwood, and a cherrywood. The clay was his favourite because of its ability to provide a âpureâ smoke.Â
    âYouâre either up bright and early, Holmes, or you returned very late from the Royal Dock,â I remarked, remembering his destination when he set off the previous evening.
    There was no reply to my cheery question, not even a polite lowering of the News.
    âCat got your tongue?â I asked, seating myself and reaching for the napkin. Beside the plate was a letter addressed to me with an eightpenny green and mauve British South Africa Company stamp on it. On the back the return address was to Frederick Courteney Selous, Essexvale, Matabeleland.
There was still no reply from Holmes. I glanced across at him.
    âHave you heard,â I asked, âabout the Congo? Theyâre expecting a large eruption of Mount Nyiragongo.â
    Holmesâs face looking harassed appeared from behind the newspaper.Â
âFor Godâs sake, Watson,â he shouted, âwe donât have a cat, in case you havenât noticed! And why you think I should take an interest in a volcanic eruption in the Congo is beyond comprehension! Havenât you got anything better to do than burst into the room, invading my space, asking idiotic questions? Answer them yourself! You clutter your head with useless information, such as the sun goes around the earth or is it vice versa! The world is passing me by. How do you think I feel whenever Iâm badly in need of a case! Even my chemical experiments have ground to a halt. Not even Lestrade has been coming over to visit us, brimful of gossip from Scotland Yard. Give me problems, give me work, give me the most abstruse cryptogram or the most intricate analysis, and I am in my own proper atmosphere. Think of 1895, an annus mirabilis. You recall âThe Adventure of the Bruce-Partington Plansâ? Â âThe Adventure of Black Peterâ? âThe Adventure of the Solitary Cyclistâ? What was the other?â he spluttered.
ââThe Adventure of the Three Studentsâ,â I replied.
âSo it was,â Holmes responded. âIt should always be 1895! I abominate the dull routine of existence. Such has been the triviality of the calls on my time since the case of the Dancing Men I fear my practice is degenerating into an agency for recovering lost lead pencils!âÂ
    âHolmes,â I replied, maintaining my equilibrium with difficulty, âit can hardly be called invading your space when I come into the room for the filling breakfast I believe our housekeeper Mrs. Hudson is bringing up the stairs even as we speak.â
    âI consider this room my space, Watson, this early in the morning,â Holmes retorted. âYou are in the habit of sleeping in, even in summer. I am in the habit of staying up all night. I expect you to make your entrance to the last rattle of my coffee-cup. I donât recall you ever getting to the trough before 8 a.m. yet today you have chosen to pounce on me⌠(he looked across at the grandfather clock) before 7.â
    The Illustrated Police News took up its position once more, like a fireguard protecting Holmes from the devilish flames. Mrs. Hudson entered the room, glancing at Holmes. She put my breakfast before me and left, giving me a sympathetic nod from the safety of the door. Dear Mrs. Hudson, I thought. Although she used the appellation âMrs.â I had never heard mention of a husband.Â
I picked up my knife and fork. I tried once more with âWell, Holmes, whatâs engrossing in the Illustrated Police News this week? âAnother Execution at Wandsworthâ? âTwo Prisoners Flogged at Newgateâ?â
The paper was lowered just enough to show the steely grey eyes.
âIâm reading a half-page on Catullus, Watson, if you insist on knowing.â
My fork came to an abrupt halt, the roll of bacon almost at my lips. Â
âCatullus?â I echoed, astonished. I turned to stare at my comrade. I knew he took a great interest in madrigals and 16th century Lassus chansons, but Roman poets...?
âYes, Catullus. You know, Gaius Valerius Catullus, circa 84 to circa 54 B.C.âÂ
Holmes pointed the News towards the shelf holding his Commonplace-book containing biographies in alphabetical order.
âYouâll find him between serial murderesses Mary Ann Britland and Mary Ann Cotton.â
âHolmes!â I began, âof course Iâve heard of Catullus butâŚâ, immediately to be interrupted with âAnd next week we are promised a half-page on another ancient Roman. Again, youâll know all about him, Watson. Gaius Suetonius Tranquillus, chronicler of scandal tales of the early Imperial era of the Roman Empire. I can hardly wait for that too.â          âSeriously, Holmes?â I asked, gaping at this unexpected information.
         At this, as if exasperated beyond measure, Holmes leapt up and started at a furious pace towards his quarters. He turned at the connecting door, shook the newspaper at me and exploded, âThis, my dear fellow, in case you have forgotten, is called The Illustrated Police News. Note my emphasis is not on âIllustratedâ, itâs on News. The word is there for a reason. It specialises in this weekâs sensational and melodramatic reports of murders and hangings, not the goings-on in Rome 2000 years ago. Thatâs why I buy it. Now I shall go to my room and continue to read it in the hope someone has carried out a mystifying murder in Baden-Baden â or, even closer to hand, another at Lower Norwood â and at any minute we shall hear a Scotland Yard detectiveâs footsteps hurrying up our stairs.â Â
         With an ill-tempered âGood-day, Sir!â he pulled the door hard behind him.
I have reviewed several Sherlock Holmes-related books by the publisher MX. As a fan of the worldâs first âconsulting detective,â I marvel at how easily the handful of its 500-title Holmesian catalog I sampled capture me. The stories pull me into 19th Century Londonâs sights, sounds and sensibilities in ways other books on the subject fail. Those who craft under that banner have a talent for authenticity, which elevates the narrative and appeals to even mystery lovers that are not into Holmes.
Tim Symondsâ Sherlock Holmes and the Strange Death of Brigadier-General Delves does more of the same. The novelette in the first part of the book unfurls a mystery that can engage any devotee of the genre. The last third of the book is a trove of background related to Victorian and Early 20th Century England and many topics that arise in the Watson stories. I cannot say it was more interesting that the mystery, but it is guaranteed to show fans Holmes and Watson in a different light.
The tightly crafted narrative is about Watson. Holmes is almost a background figure. Unlike other stories the wheels that turn in the brain are the one-time sidekickâs as he ferrets out the truth of a crime that pulls its backstory from the equally fictional Alfred Lord Tennyson poem, âThe Charge of the Light Brigadeâ.
Holmesâ actions are mostly referenced as Watson compares and contrasts circumstances in The Death of Brigadier-General Delves to previous puzzles.
The voice of Holmesâ partner Dr. John Watson, an ex-army surgeon, is spot-on Victorian. Symondsâ narrative style as Watson gives readers what might have appeared in stories the doctor first released to the public through The Strand, Beetonâs Christmas Annual or Lippincottâs Monthly Magazine. The greatest pleasure is that when the tale ended I asked, Did Watson really not write this?
Symonds uses authentic word orders and terms, as well as the sentence cadences. The book offers great escape from the present horrors of war and violence. Meanwhile Symonds reminds readers that war has often been a tool for the rich and powerful. Readers are sure to come away from the allegory convinced that such mass-scale death is less glory and more self-interest. Â