Emily Watson lives in a quaint English manor house with her twin sister, confined to a 20-mile radius around the estate for reasons she has never known. When the mysterious Professor Moriarty comes to visit and her sister goes missing, she discovers she is the half-sister of Dr. John Watson.
Traveling to London to meet him, she finds that he is the biographer and flatmate of famed consulting detective Sherlock Holmes, in whom Professor Moriarty has expressed a sinister interest.
Soon after her arrival, Emily becomes embroiled in the kidnapping of a Russian diplomat, which could cause political havoc if the culprit is not quickly brought to justice. The case has ties to her past, and a curious thread throughout that threatens to topple the already precarious balance of Europe's empires.
This short novel is a revolutionary re-introduction to a universe that has been the object of fascination for over a hundred years, and promises a series full of diverse circumstances and many twists and turns before the final problem is addressed.
Emily Watson lives in a quaint English manor house with her twin sister, confined to a 20-mile radius around the estate for reasons she has never known. When the mysterious Professor Moriarty comes to visit and her sister goes missing, she discovers she is the half-sister of Dr. John Watson.
Traveling to London to meet him, she finds that he is the biographer and flatmate of famed consulting detective Sherlock Holmes, in whom Professor Moriarty has expressed a sinister interest.
Soon after her arrival, Emily becomes embroiled in the kidnapping of a Russian diplomat, which could cause political havoc if the culprit is not quickly brought to justice. The case has ties to her past, and a curious thread throughout that threatens to topple the already precarious balance of Europe's empires.
This short novel is a revolutionary re-introduction to a universe that has been the object of fascination for over a hundred years, and promises a series full of diverse circumstances and many twists and turns before the final problem is addressed.
âHe who would distinguish the true from the false must have an adequate idea of what is true and false.â
â Benedict Spinoza
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The libraryâs bay window was a loyal companion to the world beyond; it had never strayed from the same view since its installation. The panes formed a transparent, yet altogether immovable barrier between myself and the picturesque hills outside.
It wasnât that I couldnât step out the front door and break that barrier; not at all like I didnât have any freedom â I had enough, so long as it didnât take me far from home.
It would surprise most people how quickly being confined to an area of twenty miles becomes tedious. Thus, the library was my haven â one of few places on our sizable estate from which I was never running away. So many of these volumes could take me far and wide without ever leaving my favourite armchair.
This morning, Iâd woken up with the same view out of my window, again yearning for something more.
As I stood in front of the window, I looked down at the book in my hand. Treasure Island was a recent publication by Robert Louis Stevenson. The printing date was less than five years ago. Father wouldnât have cared enough about the maturing interests of his children to include recent works of literary entertainment in the massive library had Mother not insisted that we procure a copy.
I took another glance at the lush, green hillsides before settling down into the armchair. The piece of furniture that had become an extension of me, like an arm or leg, was placed in front of the window but not directly facing it, so as to give the perfect angle and amount of light required for daytime reading.
It seemed an eccentric choice to call oneâs favourite, but it was the adventure that called to me. Inside these pages, I wasnât the stifled daughter of a mysterious and reclusive businessman. I was a thrill-seeker, an innkeeper, a pirate, a treasure hunter. I watched a parrot fly over my head and felt the salty breeze across my face. My frame was braced, balancing with the rocking of the ship, and the sand felt warm beneath my feet.
The closest I got to this in daily life was the newspaperâs weekly summaries of notable crimes across Britain. There had been a fascinating report recently about an art theft from a Scottish museum that read like a story out of my favourite tales.
As I opened Treasure Island to the first chapter, I recalled the night Mother read it to us, shortly after Father had brought it back from a trip to London. She adopted the voices of the characters and helped us act out the scenes, my sisterâs fingers curled like a hook and myself with a tapered candle for a sword.
Not long after, Mother had grown too weary for any such expenditures of energy. And a month later, the nearby townâs doctor informed us of her quickly deteriorating health.
I shook my head to dispel these thoughts. The past was done. Dwelling on it was far less satisfying than the story I held in my hands. I took a breath, focused my eyes, and began to read.
Squire Trelawney, Dr. Livesey, and the rest of these gentlemen having asked me to write down the whole particulars about Treasure Island, from the beginning to the end, keeping nothing back but the bearings of the island, and that only because there is still treasure not yet lifted, I take up my pen in the year of grace 17--, and go back to the time when my father kept the âAdmiral Benbowâ inn, and the brown old seaman, with the sabre cut, first took up his lodging under our roofâŚ
My attention broke away from the page with the sound of echoing footsteps at the back of the library.
My shoulders tensed. A headache formed upon thinking that Mrs Thompson, head of the housekeeping staff, might be disturbing my peaceful reading to inform me that she was going to wash my curtains. She always insisted that I give her my permission to go forward with her tasks.
Instead, I heaved a sigh of relief when a more familiar, youthful voice called out, âEmily!â
 âIâm back here!â
The footsteps hastened. A few seconds later, a face appeared around the corner, identical to mine in every feature, flushed with excitement and urgency.
I arose, setting down the open book in my seat. âAriana, is everything all right?â
My twin sister grabbed my arm and pulled me behind one of the shelves. She spoke in a soft voice, as though someone was watching us, listening into a secretive conversation in the vacant room. 'Do we know any tall, respectably dressed professors who recently arrived from London?â
âNone come to mind.â I narrowed my eyes. âWhy?â
âFather has a visitor. I was passing the dining hall as the staff showed him in. Father and he shook hands, seeming quite friendly.â
âDid you hear them discussing these particulars which you have used to describe this mysterious visitor?â
âNo, but I did see some indications that proved them true.â
âWhich are?â
âThere is chalk residue between his right forefinger and thumb, betraying his occupation. I noticed it when he shook hands with Father.â
âBut why a professor? Why not just a teacher?â
âHe teaches college-level mathematics. His coat was hanging in the hall, and I found this in his pocket.â From behind her back, Ariana pulled a worn, wrinkled piece of paper.
I crossed my arms. âYou are telling me you went through an unfamiliar gentleman's pockets and actually took things?â
My sister shrugged. âWhen Father has a âfriendlyâ visitor all the way from London, wouldnât it be only hospitable to introduce him to his children? Besides, youâd have done the same.â
âPerhaps he is planning to introduce us.â
âWe both know he wouldnât wait unless he had something to hide.â
Sighing, I snatched the paper.
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Visiting lectures:
-Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Cambridge
-Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Oxford
-Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Edinburgh
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Assignments to collect:
-Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Darcy
-Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Phillips
-Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Teller
-Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Kelley
Ariana grabbed it, flipping it over. âWrong side.â
I raised my eyebrows, but said nothing. The formula on the opposite side of the paper was not one I was familiar with, but fortunately, it was labelled.
The Binomial Theorem as presented by Sir Isaac Newton:
(a+b)5 = a5 + 5a4b + 10a3b2 + 10a2b3 + 5ab4 + b
I cleared my throat. âSo far I follow, but what about this gentleman being recently arrived from London?â
âThis was also in his coat pocket.â My twin pulled out two more slips of paper.
Train tickets, the stamped first half of a round trip. Victoria Station to Cambridge, Suffolk, and Thorndon Station. Dated 12th August, 1887.
Today.
âI see. You do not think this visit is what it seems to be.â
Ariana fixed me with a look. âNothing has been as it seems with Father ever sinceâŚâ
I nodded. âThen how do we âaccidentallyâ get introduced to this mysterious professor?â
âI already thought of that. Weâll walk into the dining hall, âunawareâ that Father has a guest, and ask to take our horses out for a little exercise.â
âHow do we know that we can find him there?â
âMrs Thompson.â
The plan seemed plausible enough. We shook hands, an unspoken oath only made between twins.
After a short detour for Ariana to return the stolen items to the strangerâs coat, we stepped through the large double doors and into the dining room.
âFather,â I spoke right away, âcould Ariana and I take out the horses for a ride? Weâd be home by dinner, of course, and stayâ Oh, Iâm terribly sorry, I did not realise you had a visitor.â
I allowed my gaze to fall on the guest, who stood across the table from my father.
Just as Ariana had said, he was tall, much taller than Father. His forehead was domed. His dark eyes were deeply sunken, staring out at the world with an extraordinary keenness. The professorâs whole head was engaged in some constant oscillation, almost as a cobra, poised to strike, and yet those glassy, dark eyes remained fixed immovably on my sister and I.
His shoulders were rounded, presumably from bending over a desk frequently. There were wrinkles around his mouth and he sported a receding hairline, but I had a sneaking suspicion that these were not due to age, but experience.
My eyes fell on the chalk residue on his right hand.
âAh.â Fatherâs brow crinkled as he turned to his guest. âJames, these are my daughters. Emily, Ariana, this is an old acquaintance of mine, Mr Moriarty.â
The manâs mouth turned upwards in a smile of rather dubious pretence. I did not sense any emotion or happiness behind it.
âA pleasure, ladies.â He bowed.
âJames and I were business partners long ago. He found himself not far away from our humble estate and decided to pay me a visit.â
James gestured with outspread arms. âI wouldnât want to keep either of you from your ride. Iâll be staying for dinner, so there will be plenty of time to converse then, I am sure.â
With consent from Father, the two of us left the dining room. Once the heavy wooden doors were closed, Ariana turned to me.
âFather doesnât have business partners. And you saw that train ticket; he was deliberately headed for Thorndon.â
I took a deep breath as if to brace my body for what my mind already knew. âFatherâs lying to us.â
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The Devil at Prayers is an extremely intriguing Sherlock Holmes novel that follows Emily Watson, half-sister of Dr. John Watson. Emily lives with her twin sister at a manor in the English countryside. When James Moriarty, infamous adversary of Sherlock Holmes, comes to visit, Emily learns she is related to John Watson. Emily goes to London and introduces herself, soon getting involved in a class Sherlock Holmes case. In the process she learns more about herself, her past, and her relationship with her brother.
I thoroughly enjoyed this novel. The twists and turns of the plot were exciting, and the characters were all well rounded and multi-faceted. The writing style, specifically Emilyâs voice, maintains a balance between casual and formal that makes it easily digestible for readers while realistically fitting its 19th century historical period. I also enjoyed the inclusion of chapter titles, quotes, and recommended playlists. All of these contributed to a greater reading experience, especially the music suggestions. They fit the tone and themes of the novel nicely and make the story feel more immersive. My only suggestion for a change is that the novel be longer, since it is only around 200 pages long. This would make the pace flow even smoother than it currently does. It would also help flesh out certain scenes, such as those significant to the overall plot of the story.
This novel receives a four out of five-star rating because it is well written, exciting, and a generally enjoyable read. While it was far from perfect, it is still recommended for sherlock Holmes fans, mystery genre readers, and those who love a strong perspective and identity from their protagonist. This was a nice spin on a classic story that changes how readers perceive the characters they have come to know and love.