AVAILABLE NOW FROM TITAN BOOKS
THE FURTHER ADVENTURES OF SHERLOCK HOLMES SERIES:
THE ECTOPLASMIC MAN
Daniel Stashower
THE WAR OF THE WORLDS
Manley Wade Wellman & Wade Wellman
THE SCROLL OF THE DEAD
David Stuart Davies
THE STALWART COMPANIONS
H. Paul Jeffers
THE VEILED DETECTIVE
David Stuart Davies
THE MAN FROM HELL
Barrie Roberts
SEANCE FOR A VAMPIRE
Fred Saberhagen
THE SEVENTH BULLET
Daniel D. Victor
THE WHITECHAPEL HORRORS
Edward B. Hanna
DR. JEKYLL AND MR. HOLMES
Loren D. Estleman
THE GIANT RAT OF SUMATRA
Richard L. Boyer
THE ANGEL OF THE OPERA
Sam Siciliano
THE PEERLESS PEER
Philip Jose Farmer
THE STAR OF INDIA
Carole Bugge
THE TITANIC TRAGEDY
William Seil
SHERLOCK
HOLMES
THE WEB WEAVER
SAM SICILIANO
TITAN BOOKS
To my wife, Mary, for many years of love, companionship and support. I can’t imagine that time without you. None of my novels would have been the same, if they even existed—especially this one.
Dear Reader,
As I mentioned in the preface to an earlier book, the death of my cousin Sherlock Holmes released me from a vow of silence; thus I could relate his exploits at the Paris Opera in what I felt was his most bizarre case. As I also noted in my earlier preface, I offered my writings as a corrective to John Watson’s distorted portrayal of Holmes. Watson and I were never on good terms, nor (his writings to the contrary) was he Holmes’ eternal bosom companion.
I was involved in other interesting adventures with Holmes, but the case I am about to present offers unique insight into my cousin’s character. Because of its intimate and personal nature, I debated long and hard before taking pen to paper. I am not one who believes celebrated people, dead or alive, lose all right to privacy.
However, my wife Michelle at last persuaded me that the story should be told and that we two were the only persons who might tell it fairly and completely. She could not bear that my cousin should be remembered as an unflinching misogynist—and a cold-blooded one at that. The passionate side of his nature was not restricted to music, and a certain woman was much more important to him than any other. Watson to the contrary, Irene Adler was most definitely not “
My wife Michelle and I have both passed our eightieth year, and we decided it would be tempting the Reaper to delay any longer. Although the events described herein occurred nearly fifty years ago, they are still fresh in our minds. Both Michelle and I also kept extensive journals. Since our involvement was often separate—I frequently accompanied Holmes, while Michelle was with the woman in question—we decided to divide our tale. Thus you will find that Michelle narrates certain chapters, while I narrate others.
There is one other matter I must briefly touch on. Nothing like the story you are about to read could ever have appeared in print during the time it took place, early in the 1890s. It would have been considered outrageous and immoral. Although the queen’s long reign was nearing its end, “Victorianism” was in full flower. If writers dealt with prostitution, adultery, or divorce, it was only in the most hackneyed and conventional terms. All too many people—including many physicians—took their cue from the celebrated Dr. Acton and honestly thought that women had no sexual feelings, men were by nature lustful brutes, and the marriage act was a necessary evil for the propagation of the species.
Although the current generation always seems to think it has invented sin (especially sins of a sexual nature), one need only visit the cinema with its scantily clad females and suggestive dialogue to see that something has changed in the last fifty years. As an old man, I should bemoan the passing of the good old days and the good old morality, but I do not. Michelle and I saw, first-hand, too much misery caused by sheer ignorance of basic human biology and emotions.
Certainly by modern standards, there is nothing salacious or indecent in my narrative. It is, in one sense, a rather simple story with tragic overtones. God is my witness that I would never deliberately discredit my cousin or injure his reputation. If anything, my narrative should show, once and for all, that Sherlock Holmes was not a mere automaton or collection of eccentricities, but a man whose heart was, in every way, the equal of his brain.
Dr. Henry Vernier
London, 1940
