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Horowitz - The House of Silk: The New Sherlock Holmes Novel

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Horowitz The House of Silk: The New Sherlock Holmes Novel
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    The House of Silk: The New Sherlock Holmes Novel
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The House of Silk: The New Sherlock Holmes Novel: summary, description and annotation

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Review

A lifelong Sherlock Holmes fan, Anthony Horowitz is the perfect choice to pen the first new official mystery and what a triumph it is. While retaining faithfully the style of the originals, Horowitzs lively prose makes this exciting story just right for a new generation of fans -- Sarah Clarke, Booksellers Choice THE BOOKSELLER For fans of the original tales, the game is afoot once more! -- Ruth Hunter, Booksellers Choice THE BOOKSELLER Orion has pulled a winner out of the bag by inviting Anthony Horowitz to pen a Sherlock Holmes novel. It has the feel of a Conan Doyle tale and only the jealous will fault this superb thriller -- Patrick Neale, Booksellers Choice THE BOOKSELLER a brilliant new Sherlock Holmes novel. The tone of voice is pitch perfect, the send of place and time spot on. I dont want to give too much away about the plot but there are clever twist and plenty of trademark Holmesian moments. I thoroughly enjoyed this -- Sue Scholes, Booksellers Choice THE BOOKSELLER a fantastic new Holmes mystery -- Emma Giacon, Booksellers Choice THE BOOKSELLER As far as I can see, Anthony Horowitz has done a thoroughly professional job and reading the novel felt to me like being in the company of an old and distinguished friend - or should that be two old friends? -- Mike Ripley SHOTS

Product Description

THE GAMES AFOOT... It is November 1890 and London is gripped by a merciless winter. Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson are enjoying tea by the fire when an agitated gentleman arrives unannounced at 221b Baker Street. He begs Holmes for help, telling the unnerving story of a scar-faced man with piercing eyes who has stalked him in recent weeks. Intrigued by the mans tale, Holmes and Watson find themselves swiftly drawn into a series of puzzling and sinister events, stretching from the gas-lit streets of London to the teeming criminal underworld of Boston. As the pair delve deeper into the case, they stumble across a whispered phrase the House of Silk: a mysterious entity and foe more deadly than any Holmes has encountered, and a conspiracy that threatens to tear apart the very fabric of society itself... With devilish plotting and excellent characterisation, bestselling author Anthony Horowitz delivers a first-rate Sherlock Holmes mystery for a modern readership whilst remaining utterly true to the spirit of the original Conan Doyle books. Sherlock Holmes is back with all the nuance, pace and powers of deduction that make him the worlds greatest and most celebrated detective.

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For my old friend, Jeffrey S. Joseph

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Contents


My thanks to Lee Jackson who greatly helped with the research for this book. His excellent website, www.victorianlondon.org , is a brilliant (and free) resource for anyone interested in the period. Two books that I found particularly useful were London in the 19th Century by Jerry White and Life in Victorian Britain by Michael Paterson although I also borrowed liberally from contemporary authors including George Gissing, Charles Dickens, Anthony Trollope, Arthur Morrison and Henry Mayhew. Thanks also to the Sherlock Holmes Society who have (so far) been genial and supportive and in particular to one of their number, Dr Marina Stajic, who kindly shared her knowledge of forensic toxology with me at the House of Commons. My agent, agent of the year, Robert Kirby first suggested this book and at Orion, Malcolm Edwards has been incredibly patient, waiting eight years for me to write it. Finally, above all, I must acknowledge the genius of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle whom I first encountered when I was sixteen and whose extraordinary creation has inspired so much of my own work. Writing this book has been a joy and my one hope is that I will have done some justice to the original.

12, 13, 14 ASH


I have often reflected upon the strange series of circumstances that led me to my long association with one of the most singular and remarkable figures of my age. If I were of a philosophical frame of mind I might wonder to what extent any one of us is in control of our own destiny, or if indeed we can ever predict the far-reaching consequences of actions which, at the time, may seem entirely trivial.

For example, it was my cousin, Arthur, who recommended me as Assistant Surgeon to the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers because he thought it would be a useful experience for me and he could not possibly have foreseen that a month later I would be dispatched to Afghanistan. At that time the conflict which came to be known as the Second Anglo-Afghan War had not even commenced. And what of the Ghazi who, with a single twitch of the finger, sent a bullet hurtling into my shoulder at Maiwand? Nine hundred British and Indian souls died that day and it was doubtless his intention that I would be one of them. But his aim was awry, and although I was badly wounded, I was saved by Jack Murray, my loyal and good-hearted orderly who managed to carry me over two miles of hostile territory and back to British lines.

Murray died at Kandahar in September of that year so would never know that I was invalided home and that I then devoted several months small tribute to his efforts on my behalf to a somewhat wasteful existence on the fringes of London society. At the end of that time, I was seriously considering a move to the South Coast, a necessity forced on me by the stark reality of my rapidly diminishing finances. It had also been suggested to me that the sea air might be good for my health. Cheaper rooms in London would have been a more desirable alternative and I did very nearly take lodgings with a stockbroker on the Euston Road. The interview did not go well and immediately afterwards I made my decision. It would be Hastings: less convivial perhaps, than Brighton, but half the price. My personal possessions were packed. I was ready to go.

But then we come to Henry Stamford, not a close friend of mine but an acquaintance who had served as my dresser at St Barts. Had he not been drinking late the night before, he would not have had a headache and, but for the headache, he might not have chosen to take the day off from the chemical laboratory where he was now employed. Lingering at Piccadilly Circus, he decided to stroll up Regent Street to Arthur Libertys East India House to purchase a gift for his wife. It is strange to think that, had he walked the other way, he would not have bumped into me as I came out of the Criterion Bar and, as a result, I might never have met Sherlock Holmes.

For, as I have written elsewhere, it was Stamford who suggested that I might share rooms with a man whom he believed to be an analytical chemist and who worked at the same hospital as he. Stamford introduced me to Holmes who was then experimenting with a method of isolating bloodstains. The first meeting between us was odd, disconcerting, and certainly memorable a fair indication of all that was to come.

This was the great turning point of my life. I had never had literary ambitions. Indeed, if anyone had suggested that I might be a published writer, I would have laughed at the thought. But I think I can say, in all honesty and without flattering myself, that I have become quite renowned for the way I have chronicled the adventures of the great man, and felt no small sense of honour when I was invited to speak at his memorial service at Westminster Abbey, an invitation which I respectfully declined. Holmes had often sneered at my prose style, and I could not help but feel that had I taken my place at the pulpit I would have felt him standing at my shoulder, gently mocking whatever I might say from beyond the grave.

It was always his belief that I exaggerated his talents and the extraordinary insights of his brilliant mind. He would laugh at the way I would construct my narrative so as to leave to the end a resolution which he swore he had deduced in the opening paragraphs. He accused me more than once of vulgar romanticism, and thought me no better than any Grub Street scribbler. But generally I think he was unfair. In all the time that I knew him, I never saw Holmes read a single work of fiction with the exception, that is, of the worst items of sensational literature and although I cannot make any great claim for my own powers of description, I am prepared to say that they did the job and that he himself could have done no better. Indeed, Holmes almost admitted as much when he finally took pen to paper and set out, in his own words, the strange case of Godfrey Emsworth. This episode was presented as The Adventure of the Blanched Soldier , a title which in itself falls short of perfection in my view, for blanching would surely be more appropriate to an almond.

I have, as I say, received some recognition for my literary endeavours but that of course was never the point. Through the various twists of fate which I have outlined, I was the one chosen to bring the achievements of the worlds foremost consulting detective to light and presented no fewer than sixty adventures to an enthusiastic public. More valuable to me, though, was my long friendship with the man himself.

It is a year since Holmes was found at his home on the Downs, stretched out and still, that great mind for ever silenced. When I heard the news, I realised that I had lost not just my closest companion and friend but, in many ways, the very reason for my existence. Two marriages, three children, seven grandchildren, a successful career in medicine and the Order of Merit awarded to me by His Majesty King Edward VII in 1908 might be considered achievement enough for anyone. But not for me. I miss him to this day and sometimes, in my waking moments, I fancy that I hear them still, those familiar words: The games afoot, Watson! They serve only to remind me that I will never again plunge into the darkness and swirling fog of Baker Street with my trusty service revolver in my hand. I think of Holmes, often, waiting for me on the other side of that great shadow which must come to us all, and in truth I long to join him. I am alone. My old wound plagues me to the end and as a terrible and senseless war rages on the continent, I find I no longer understand the world in which I live.

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