So we know what affected Holmes’s development as an adult, but what do we know of the factors that forged him in youth? Almost nothing. He tells Watson in “The Greek Interpreter” that his ancestors were country squires, and his grandmother a sister of Vernet, the French artist. But, other than brother Mycroft, the Holmes family is a tantalizing cipher.
From several sources, we know that Holmes was at university, though it is unclear whether he graduated. In “The Gloria Scott” Holmes tells Watson about Victor Trevor, “the only friend I made during the two years that I was at college.” Perhaps Holmes was so eager to be out in the world beginning his brilliant career that he persuaded his college to allow him to graduate in two years. Perhaps he left his formal schooling in search of the peculiar skills he already was certain he needed to acquire. Perhaps he was sent down. Holmes’s education is yet another lapse in our knowledge.
We know of only two cases pre-Watson: “The Gloria Scott” and “The Musgrave Ritual”, both included here. Watson’s description of the clients visiting Holmes in the earliest Baker Street days may afford us a glimpse of some of the cases begun when Holmes still lived in Montague Street. However, since only Lestrade is identified, we shall never know any details about those clients and their troubles.
Childhood and early struggles are at the heart of every biography. This is why people exchange stories about their youth and about how they made their career choices. Without this information, Holmes remains untouchable and largely unknowable.
So it makes perfect sense that David Marcum, inexhaustibly hungry for more tales of Sherlock Holmes, would commission these eleven tales of Holmes before Baker Street. Who knows? Some might say that the authors of these stories have uncovered truths of Holmes’s early life by some psychical wavelength. Stop dallying here at the door – dive in. You’ll be glad you did.
Steven Rothman
Philadelphia
1 May 2017
The Adventure of the Bloody Roses
by Jayantika Ganguly
My dear friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, is not a man predisposed to talk about himself. In fact, it was several years into our acquaintance that I even learnt of the existence of his older brother Mycroft, who lived in the same city as he. Several more years passed before I felt confident enough to enquire into his childhood, a matter about which I had often been curious. The aftermath of a spectacularly successful case solved by Holmes for the British government at the behest of his brother gave me the perfect opportunity to place a discreet question.
“I wonder if the children would be fine,” I said to Holmes, as we boarded our train to London.
“Mycroft will arrange for a suitable guardian,” Holmes said absently.
“It was truly extraordinary, the manner in which you were able to communicate with the younger child.” In fact, I had been quite shocked and impressed at his patient, gentle demeanour when faced with an unnaturally ill-tempered child. “I did not expect you to be so good at dealing with children.”
Holmes shrugged nonchalantly and leaned back in his seat.
“It is unusual to be able to relate to such a child,” I pressed.
Holmes’s eyes twinkled and his lips curved into a slight smile. “Are you attempting to enquire into my own childhood, my dear Doctor?”
I was too embarrassed to respond.
Holmes laughed. “What would you like to know? It appears we have a long journey ahead of us, so I may as well regale you with a tale from my past.”
He was in a rare good mood! I decided that I must take advantage of it. “What were you like as a child, Holmes?” I asked curiously. It was sometimes difficult for me to think of the Holmes brothers as young children. I found it easier to imagine them emerging fully formed from their mother’s womb as Athena did from Zeus’ head.
Holmes chuckled. “A rapscallion, if you were to ask Mycroft.”
I tried to imagine a bright-eyed, unusually perspicacious child running amok in the meadows. I shook my head. “How did you grow up to be a serious scholar, then?” I challenged.
“Even you would admit to my Bohemian tendencies, my good doctor,” he replied, eyes aglow with mirth. “And my penchant for attracting trouble.”
I found myself laughing with my friend. “When was the first time you solved a mystery?” I asked.
“I believe you already know of the Trevor case.”
“Ah yes, Victor Trevor, your friend from college,” I recalled. “Well, then, tell me about the first time you were taught to apply your deductive skills on an actual crime. How did you learn? Did your brother teach you?”
A dark shadow crossed Holmes’s visage.
I realised that the memory I had asked for was not a pleasant one. “I apologise,” I said quietly. “Perhaps we could – ”
Holmes held up a hand to stall me. He looked out of the train window at the passing countryside for a few moments. When he turned his eyes back to me, he had a slight smile on his lips.
“My folks are country squires, as you already know. As a young child, I spent most of my time with Mycroft and our tutor. I was a rather wilful child, so the rest of my family mostly left me alone. Mycroft was the only one that I looked up to, but when he was sent away to school, I had to rely on our young tutor. The man – Patrick Fitzgerald – was not a particularly bright fellow, but he cared for Mycroft and me to the best of his ability, and both of
