A Case of Witchcraft

This blog is an extension of the book of the same name: a novel published by MX, available on the Net and through bookshops.

Aleister Crowley’s Witchcraft Connexion.

It is generally accepted that the writings of Aleister Crowley were a major influence on the Witchcraft Revival which began soon after his death in 1947. Gerald Gardner, the founding father of that Revival, had four long meetings with Crowley in the last months of his life, and used many extracts from his works in the rituals of what came to be known as Wicca.

There is a certain appropriateness in this, since ancient Witchcraft was essentially Goddess-worship, and Crowley was one of the most enthusiastic Goddess-worshippers of recent times. But was he actually a Witch? That is, did he learn his Goddess-worship from members of a shadowy cult which could trace its lineage back to pre-history? It would be very surprising if this were so, since all the evidence would suggest that the ancient cult of the Goddess became extinct in England in the fourteenth century (although it may have lasted a little longer in Scotland). Nevertheless, there are some stories which suggest that Crowley may have been personally acquainted with at least one Witch in the days of his youth.

The learned historian of the occult, Francis King, records in Chapter 21 of his Ritual Magic in England (1970), a conversation that he had had in 1953 with Louis Umfraville Wilkinson, a close friend of Crowley’s (and one of his literary executors).

“… he said that Crowley had told him that, as a young man, he had been offered initiation into the witch-cult, but had refused it because he didn’t want to be ‘bossed around by women.’”

In a footnote, King tells us that he had heard the same story about Crowley from “two independent sources” (which unfortunately he does not name).

Professor Ronald Hutton has found evidence in unpublished documents that Gerald Yorke heard a similar story in December 1953, from a member of Gerald Gardner’s coven (probably Doreen Valiente); in this version, however, Crowley had actually been initiated, and spent a short time as a member of a coven, but left because he “would not be ruled by women.” [The Triumph of the Moon, Chapter 11.] The ultimate source of this story was almost certainly Gerald Gardner himself, for in his book Witchcraft Today, published in 1954, he tells us:

“The only man I can think of who could have invented the rites was the late Aleister Crowley. When I met him he was most interested to hear that I was a member [of the Witch-cult], and said he had been inside when he was very young…”

(Some of my readers may be familiar with the more elaborate version of the story told by Bill Liddell, in the articles collected as The Pickingill Papers; but as Mr. Liddell’s work is generally recognized to be fanciful, I shall say no more of it here.)

So is there any truth in these stories? The chief objection would appear to be that in Crowley’s very frank autobiography, written in the late 1920’s, he says nothing about such a youthful encounter with Witchcraft. But perhaps he kept silent in order to protect the reputation of someone still alive; or perhaps (if he had been initiated) he considered himself still bound by an oath of secrecy taken thirty or so years earlier. It is noteworthy that he seems to have spoken about the incident only when he was very old, and even then did not specify the names of the people involved, or the place where they had lived.

It is of course entirely possible that if Crowley told this story he was (as Francis King suggests) “indulging in a gentle leg-pull”; yet the tantalizing possibility remains that young Aleister did encounter, somewhere in late-Victorian Britain, people who were coming together to practice the rites of Witchcraft – either as a genuine survival of the ancient cult, or as a modern revival, something like Gardner’s Wicca. When and where might such a meeting have taken place? What form might late-Victorian Witchcraft have taken, and how might it have affected Crowley?

In my novel, A Case of Witchcraft, I supply fictional answers to these questions. I do not assert that the things in my story happened, but that they are the kind of thing that might have happened — which is all that one can ask of fiction!

Don’t forget, dear readers, that the paperback of “A Case of Witchcraft” is available here on the British Amazon site; and the Kindle version here.

Our American cousins may buy the paperback here, and the Kindle version here.

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My Thoughts on the Great Sherlock Holmes Debate.

When this debate was first announced, it was a two-way contest between Steven Moffat’s Sherlock and Guy Ritchie’s Sherlock Holmes, with the question being something along the lines of which of them had done most to encourage interest in the Canon in the 21st century. This seems like the sort of question which could in principle be answered, although it would take a lot of work: one would need to poll large numbers of people who had watched one or other of these and see how interested they had become as a result. Of course, quantifying interest is difficult; and in the case of people who had watched both, it would be hard to disentangle how much of their interest was caused by one rather than the other. In fact nobody is likely to do any such research, and the real question that people are answering is “Which do you like best?”

The debate has been complicated in recent days by the introduction of a third team, for people who like traditional adaptations in general, and those featuring Jeremy Brett in particular.

About a month ago, before the third team was thought of, I posted this comment on the debate’s Facebook page:

“I wish that there was the option to say ‘both’ as well as ‘neither’. They both have their strengths and weaknesses. I thought that the first episode of Sherlock was marvellous, for, example, but the second… not so much. Likewise there were some things in the movie that seemed more like Hollywood than Baker Street, but also many things to delight a Holmesian viewer. If one must choose, I’d have to go with the movie, because it was in period, and I think that Holmes only makes sense in his own time, as a pioneer of scientific detection. It seems rather absurd to imagine the modern Metropolitan Police seeking advice from a ‘consulting detective’, although the brilliance of Steve Moffat’s writing can make one forget that.”

On the basis of that, you might expect me to be joining the third team, but I don’t feel inclined to do so, largely because I never cared much for Jeremy Brett’s camp, neurotic Holmes. To my mind, the most faithful adaptations were those which I watched in the 60’s, starring Douglas Wilmer and Nigel Stock – but there isn’t a team for the Sherlock Holmes of 1965!

My considered opinion, anyway, is that Sherlock Holmes is a legendary figure after the fashion of King Arthur or Robin Hood, and different people are entitled to make different representations of him. I didn’t like the Granada series, but a lot of people loved it. I rather enjoyed the cartoon, Sherlock Holmes in the 22nd Century, which wouldn’t have pleased many of the purists. Conan Doyle himself let William Gillette take various liberties in his adaptation for the stage, including the addition of a romance and a marriage for the Great Detective. Likewise in our own day, Robert Lee Hall has re-imagined Holmes as a genetically-enhanced time-traveller from the future, and Charlotte Anne Walters has made him into a brown-eyed Priapus. While neither of these versions of Holmes was really to my taste, there have been plenty of readers who enjoyed them – and who am I to say that they shouldn’t? As a hypocritical Chinaman once said: “Let a thousand flowers bloom!”

So if there were a team which I could support in this debate it would be a hypothetical “team four”, with the motto: “It’s all good!” If the question is “What kind of Holmes would you like to read about, or see on the screen?” my answer would have to be “The kind of Holmes that I wrote about in A Case of Witchcraft” – i.e., a Holmes who is not only a credible human being but also a credible intellectual of the late nineteenth century. To me the most interesting thing about Holmes is that he was a genius: perhaps the first convincing depiction of a genius in English literature. Other people have other interests, and they are perfectly entitled to write their own books — or indeed create their own movies or television programmes — to explore those interests.

Don’t forget, dear readers, that the paperback of “A Case of Witchcraft” is available here on the British Amazon site; and the Kindle version here.

Our American cousins may buy the paperback here, and the Kindle version here.

Sherlock Holmes and the Sermon on the Rose.

The incident occurs in The Naval Treaty, and is surely one of the most memorable (and the strangest) in the Canon. In the middle of an investigation, Holmes suddenly starts philosophizing about a rose that he’s seen in the garden.

“‘What a lovely thing a rose is!’
“He walked past the couch to the open window and held up the drooping stalk of a moss-rose, looking down at the dainty blend of crimson and green. It was a new phase of his character to me, for I had never before seen him show any keen interest in natural objects.
“‘There is nothing in which deduction is so necessary as in religion,” said he, leaning with his back against the shutters. “It can be built up as an exact science by the reasoner. Our highest assurance of the goodness of Providence seems to me to rest in the flowers. All other things, our powers, our desires, our food, are all really necessary for our existence in the first instance. But this rose is an extra. Its smell and its colour are an embellishment of life, not a condition of it. It is only goodness which gives extras, and so I say again that we have much to hope from the flowers.’”

Chronologists variously date this story to 1887 or 1889; my own preference is for 1888. But the point is a complicated one. The events certainly took place after those of the case known as The Sign of the Four (1887, by my reckoning), in the course of which Holmes recommended to Watson a notorious atheistical work: Winwood Reade’s The Martyrdom of Man – a controversial book in its day, rather as The God Delusion is now.

There is nothing explicitly Christian about Holmes’s sermon on the rose, so it probably pre-dates The Boscombe Valley Mystery (June 1889), in which he sounds very Christian indeed, telling a dying man, for example, that “you will soon have to answer for your deed at a higher court than the Assizes.”

I think that in The Naval Treaty we see Holmes on the very threshold of his conversion. The speech assumes that there is a supernatural creator, whom Holmes does not yet call God, but only Providence; and argues that the creation gives us evidence about this being’s character. His argument is that the flower is so perfectly designed to give pleasure to human beings that it proves benevolence in the unknown creator.

One obvious problem with this argument is that the moss-rose is not a wild flower, but one that has been selectively bred by many generations of gardeners for the precise purpose of giving pleasure to human beings. If its beauty proves anything, it proves than human beings are skilful, rather than that Providence is benevolent.

Holmes elsewhere shows a dislike of wild Nature, so perhaps it’s not surprising that he would choose what is really a man-made flower rather than a natural one. Nevertheless, his argument could be applied to wild flowers, too – and indeed to other natural formations which can be extremely beautiful. Out in splendid countryside surely everyone must sometimes experience an indistinct feeling that “Whoever is responsible for all this is admirable!” So that part of the argument (just about) works, I think — although ‘admirable’ is not quite the same as ‘benevolent’.

However, Holmes merely assumed that “Whoever” must be a transcendent God. Yet Darwin had already proved that Nature alone, without God, was quite capable of producing all the complex life-forms that we see about us. Flowers, for example, have evolved to attract insects: their forms and their patterns are shaped for that purpose. The most obvious answer as to why flowers are attractive to us would seem to be because we and insects have a good deal in common – they are cousins of ours, after all!

So why did Holmes, who was no fool, fail to see this?

Well, I think that it was a case of wishful thinking. In The Cardboard Box (which I date to August, 1888) Holmes had exclaimed: “What object is served by this circle of misery and violence and fear? It must tend to some end, or else our universe is ruled by chance, which is unthinkable. But what end? There is the great standing perennial problem to which human reason is as far from an answer as ever.” The human suffering which he saw in the course of his work distressed him deeply, and he wanted there to be something beyond the visible world which would make sense of it all. The dominant religion of his day, Christianity, offered an attractive solution: that a benevolent God had created the world, and would provide an afterlife in which all injustices would be put right.

My experience of people who are under the influence of cocaine is that they are prone to talk very freely about ideas that seem attractive to them, and cannot be made to consider the case against such ideas. (This is rather different to the effect of cannabis, which seems to make people more open-minded.) We know, of course, that the late 1880’s were the years in which Holmes’s cocaine-addiction was at its worst. I suggest that it was a combination of cocaine and wishful thinking which inspired his sermon on the rose.

These ideas are explored in more detail in my novel, A Case of Witchcraft, which you should definitely read!

Don’t forget, dear readers, that the paperback of “A Case of Witchcraft” is available here on the British Amazon site; and the Kindle version here.

Our American cousins may buy the paperback here, and the Kindle version here.

Sherlock Holmes, Jesus, and me.

Dr. Dan Andriacco is a scholar and a gentleman who wrote a rather magnanimous review of “A Case of Witchcraft”, in which he said lots of nice things, but expressed some polite distaste for my “hasheesh-smoking, socialist Holmes”, and his non-literal view of God. Dr. Dan recommended to his readers the alternative vision of a Christian Holmes as described in An Opened Grave by L. Frank James, in which Holmes examines the evidence for the Resurrection and finds it to be entirely convincing. Dan, who is Communications Director for the Archdiocese of Cincinnati, concludes his article with the catchy phrase: “Different Holmes for different folks.” Yes, Dr. Dan: that does seem to be how it goes.

In the case of Jesus, as in that of Holmes, all that we have is a bunch of stories. These stories occasionally contradict one other — and, in sundry places, contradict both the known facts of History and the laws of Nature.

As generations of would-be biographers have discovered, the materials in both cases are quite silent about many interesting aspects of their heroes’ life and thought. We hear next to nothing of Jesus’ childhood, for example, and even less of Holmes’s – which has prompted all manner of theorizing from the reasonable to the fruit-loopy about what might have gone on in their formative years. Their sex-lives are, famously, not described: although we may reasonably infer that both men were celibate as adults, the evidence does not rule out unrecorded liaisons – whether with Mary of Magdala or with Mrs. Hudson, or even (as some have more scandalously suggested) the “beloved” St. John or the “dear” John Watson! Large areas of both Holmes’s and Jesus’ intellectual life are likewise hidden from us.

And so it is that widely-divergent interpretations of Jesus become possible: that Fascists can worship a Fascist Christ and Liberals a Liberal one, for example, just as gay Christians tend to think of Jesus as gay. It’s like looking down a well and seeing one’s own reflection.

Is it possible to get past these projections of one’s own personality and see Jesus as he really was? In my short lecture, A Witch Looks at Jesus, I tried to do just that, using techniques of evidence-gathering and rational deduction that I’d learnt when young from reading Conan Doyle. The result was the blurry likeness of a credible human figure, but not one much like me or anyone that I particularly admired. He looked to me like a deluded cult-leader: a man who actually believes that he’s a special person with awesome powers, when in reality he’s got nothing but the faith of his followers to make him seem like that. We have seen many such in recent times: one thinks of Father Divine, the Reverend Moon, or David Koresh – but perhaps some of these were knowingly fraudulent. Jesus was sincere, I think. He was nonetheless gravely mistaken. He expected the Day of Judgment to come very soon: it did not. He expected to be raised from the dead: he was not.

I looked at the evidence for the Resurrection in a Holmesian way, and the obvious conclusion was that there had been deliberate deception on the part of St. Peter. His motive was that he wanted to take over the cult and keep it going, for his own benefit. So he hired a look-alike (probably Jesus’ brother James) to impersonate the dead leader, at some carefully stage-managed appearances to the disciples in Galilee. (Click the link above if you’re at all interested in this matter, dear reader.)

I hope that this is not offensive to any of my readers: I say it not to cause offence, but simply because it’s what I concluded from looking dispassionately at the evidence, without any preconceived idea that Jesus had to be right about everything. I am quite certain that Sherlock Holmes would have come to the same conclusions, had he studied the evidence.

The Sherlock Holmes of my novel has in fact done so; and, as a consequence, he cannot call himself a Christian. He’s got nothing against Christianity, and in general is quite well-disposed towards it; he just doesn’t think that it can possibly be true. Based on the evidence in the Canon (as described in my previous blog “On the Religious Opinions of Sherlock Holmes”) I wove a back-story about him becoming a Christian and then losing his faith again. Like him, I had spent time in Sudan, and I could imagine how the Islam of that land would have affected him. From reading about Tibetan Buddhism, I could imagine interesting dialogues between Holmes and the Lamas. I wove the story of his travels together with that of his spiritual journey, imagining the things that Dr. Watson doesn’t tell us.

Other versions of Sherlock Holmes as homo religiosus are imaginable, but I have given you mine – and it seems very lifelike to me!

As to the other matters raised by Dr. Dan: in 1899, “hasheesh” was not only legal, but had recently been declared harmless by an official British government report; a few intellectuals and Bohemians, like Mr. Crowley and Miss Reid, were known to smoke it. There really was a shop called Lowe’s, in Stafford Street, which was noted as the best place for respectable people to buy the drug. It seems more likely to me than not that Holmes would have used it occasionally – and his trip to Trowley is one of those occasions.

And Holmes isn’t a thorough-going Socialist in my book: he just says that some socialist policies seem sensible enough to be worth trying, which is not an unreasonable thing to for an intellectual of the 1890’s to think. Socialism was pretty much the big idea among progressive intellectuals at that time; it’s an idea which appeals to a rational mind. The problems with it are not seen until it’s tried in the real world; and, at the time, it had not been tried. My Holmes also believes in the Monarchy and the Empire, let us not forget; and by modern standards he’s pretty sexist. But he wants to ameliorate the condition of the poor, and he’s not averse to doing so by taxing the rich. In that he is a typical British intellectual of his period, a figure like Bertrand Russell, Karl Pearson, or H.G. Wells.

My version of Holmes isn’t particularly like me; although there are some overlaps. I think, for example, that Holmes had Asperger’s Syndrome, as do I. That gave me some insight into his inner life, that came in useful when writing the book.

I set out not to make a Holmes in my own image, but a credible human Holmes who could have done the things that he did in the Canon. Do my readers think that I have succeeded? Please comment and tell me.

Don’t forget, dear readers, that the paperback of “A Case of Witchcraft” is available here on the British Amazon site; and the Kindle version here.

Our American cousins may buy the paperback here, and the Kindle version here.

Witchcraft and the Victorians.

In my novel, Sherlock Holmes sets out to investigate an apparent case of witchcraft in the year 1899, and naturally seeks to discover what scholarship can tell him about what is, to him, a rather obscure subject. What exactly would he have found in the writings of the period?

The Victorian age had seen a re-evaluation of witchcraft. Charles McKay’s famous book “Extraordinary Popular Delusions and the Madness of Crowds”, published in 1841, followed the standard Enlightenment line that the whole thing had been nothing but “a cruel and absurd delusion”; but, as early as 1866, the great antiquarian Thomas Wright was arguing that there had been a real witch-cult among the mediæval peasantry, and that its origins could be traced far back into pagan times, in what the title of his book described as “The Worship of the Generative Powers.”

“It seems” (he wrote) “that Priapic orgies and the other periodical assemblies for Priapic worship were continued long after the fall of the Roman power and the introduction of the Christian religion. The rustic population, mostly servile, whose morals or private practices were little heeded by the other classes of society, might, in a country so thinly peopled, assemble by night in retired places without any fear of observation. There they perhaps indulged in Priapic rites, followed by the old Priapic orgies, which would become more and more debased in form, but through the effects of exciting potions… would have become wilder than ever.”

In 1891, Professor Karl Pearson gave a remarkable lecture, “Woman as Witch“, putting forward the argument that mediæval witches had worshipped, not a male Devil, but a female Goddess; and that this and other features of their worship suggested that it had originated in Neolithic times, before the rise of Patriarchy. In the following year, the President of the Folklore Society, George Laurence Gomme, published his “Ethnology in Folklore“, in which he suggested that, just as in India, it was possible in Britain to discern two main strata of popular antiquities: one derived from the Aryans, a relatively advanced conquering race; and the other tracing its origins to the more primitive pre-Aryan population whom these conquerors had subjugated. Witchcraft, he maintained, was essentially the old religion of the pre-Aryan people, surviving into historic times as a secret cult.

In 1893, the American Matilda Joslyn Gage, in her “Woman, Church and State”, took a line still popular with feminists, that witches had been wise women and healers, persecuted by a misogynist Church jealous of female power.

Most remarkably of all, the eminent folklorist Charles Godfrey Leland published, in 1899, a book called “Aradia: or the Gospel of the Witches“, in which he claimed to have found the witch-cult still flourishing in northern Italy, and to have obtained first-hand accounts of its beliefs and practices. His witches were poor peasants, criminals and prostitutes; they worshipped the Goddess Diana and her daughter Aradia with feasts and orgies at the time of the full moon. Exactly how much of Leland’s work is true, and how much is fantasy, is still the subject of scholarly debate.

Sigmund Freud, the father of Psychoanalysis, was also at this time inclined to believe in the reality of witchcraft. In January of 1897 he wrote to his friend Fliess, saying that he was “toying with the idea that in the perversions… we may have the remains of a primitive sexual cult, which in the Semitic East may once have been a religion (Moloch, Astarte). I am beginning to dream of an extremely primitive devil-religion, the rites of which continue to be performed secretly; and I now understand the stern therapy of the witches’ judges.”

Based on the scholarship of his time, Holmes would have formed the impression that witchcraft was a real and very ancient religion, which had involved the worship of a pagan Goddess with orgiastic rites; and which might (as both Freud and Leland suggested) have survived into his own day, among the lower orders of society. In my novel we see him going in search of such a cult. If you want to know whether or not he finds it, you will have to read the book!

Don’t forget, dear readers, that the paperback of “A Case of Witchcraft” is available here on the British Amazon site; and the Kindle version here.

Our American cousins may buy the paperback here, and the Kindle version here.

The Mystery of Reichenbach.

“The Final Problem” is a story of  mythic power. A good man, the champion of civilization, must journey far from his home and his friends, to a strange, wild place in the mountains, where he engages in mortal combat with his devilish arch-enemy. The cost of destroying the evil one, and saving the world from his dominion, is the sacrifice of the good man’s own life; and he makes this sacrifice willingly.

“I am pleased,” wrote Holmes, in his final message, “to think that I shall be able to free society from any further effects of [Moriarty’s] presence, though I fear that it is at a cost which will give pain to my friends, and especially, my dear Watson, to you. I have already explained to you, however, that my career had in any case reached its crisis, and that no possible conclusion to it could be more congenial to me than this.”

There are obvious echoes of the Christian story here.

Those who are familiar with “The Lord of the Rings” will also feel a sense of familiarity. Gandalf and the Balrog fighting to the death in Moria immediately comes to mind as being very like the combat of Holmes and Moriarty: it seems that the good man and the demon have both killed each other, but Gandalf will later make a surprise return – not unlike Holmes in “The Empty House”. Also the central narrative of Tolkien’s novel, about Frodo’s journey to Mordor, accompanied by his faithful Sam, is like a slowed-down version of the journey made by Holmes and Watson in “The Final Problem”, which begins in Dr. Watson’s cosy parlour and ends on a terrible mountain-side, where the final struggle for mastery of the world takes place between a brave human hero and a grotesque embodiment of evil.

So this is certainly a powerful mythic tale; and, because of that, most readers disregard how many improbabilities it contains. In fact, considered (in proper Holmesian style) as a true account of something that happened in the real world, it makes no sense at all.

Consider: the story begins with a distraught Holmes turning up at Watson’s house one Friday night and asking him to go on what Holmes says will be a week’s trip to the east, in Europe. Why do they have to go? Allegedly because Holmes is in danger of attack from the agents of Professor Moriarty, who is the head of a vast criminal organization (something like the Mafia, one supposes). On Monday, however, the members of this organization will all be arrested, and Holmes will be safe. One obvious question is: That happens on Monday, and this is Friday, so why are we going away for a week? Doctor Watson never asks it. Neither does he ask why Holmes doesn’t stay in his own country where he has many powerful friends, and an Army and a Police Force to defend him. Really, if I were in Holmes’s position (as Watson describes it), I’d ask my brother Mycroft to put me somewhere safe with lots of reliable government men to keep assassins at bay. But Holmes, by contrast, grabs the astonished Watson and leads him on a bewildering journey through Continental Europe to the side of a barren mountain in Switzerland — because, out of all the possible destinations in Europe, that seemed the best to Holmes, for some reason that is never disclosed in the story.

When Holmes is at the mountain, quite alone (Watson having being called away) Professor Moriarty appears, also apparently alone and unarmed. This seems very odd. Why did Moriarty not bring a pistol, or a gang of men with pistols? Moriarty was old and decrepit: in a fist-fight or a wrestling-match Holmes was bound to beat him. Was Moriarty’s goal in this encounter to murder Holmes? Or might he have come for another reason?

Clearly Dr. Watson cannot be telling us the entire truth about these events. I suggest that the truth behind the tale was that Holmes and Moriarty met by appointment at this barren place to fight a duel. Not hand-to-hand combat, as Watson’s story absurdly states, but a regular duel with pistols, such as nineteenth-century gentlemen generally fought. Colonel Moran was Moriarty’s second, and Watson filled the same office for Holmes. It may well be true that Watson was called away before the combat, as he tells us; but I prefer to think that he was present, and saw Holmes kill his rival. The Professor’s body was thrown over the falls; and then there was some kind of altercation with Colonel Moran, who ran off vowing vengeance. Because duelling was illegal, and killing someone in a duel could be prosecuted as murder, the two friends decided that Watson should disguise the facts in his account of these events, to make it appear that no duel had taken place.

One can quite easily imagine that Moriarty, who saw himself as a gentleman, would have wished to fight Holmes in a gentlemanly way. Although weaker than Holmes, he might still have been a good shot, with a good chance of winning.
But why would Holmes have accepted Moriarty’s challenge? Although Moriarty might have been a man of honour, then again he might have had a band of ruffians lurking in the shadows, waiting for Holmes – or just a single expert sniper, such as Colonel Moran.

John Radford suggested (in his excellent book “The Intelligence of Sherlock Holmes, and Other Three-Pipe Problems”), at the end of the last century, that Moriarty had discovered some shameful secret about Holmes’s past, which made him vulnerable to blackmail. Holmes would have accepted Moriarty’s challenge more readily if the alternative involved the publication of such a secret. This also gives a reasonable explanation of the Great Hiatus.  Radford suggested that Holmes was unsure whether any of Moriarty’s underlings knew his secret, and didn’t want to be about if they revealed it to the world; but when, after three years, it had not come out, he felt safe to return. That makes a lot of sense to me.

But what could this terrible secret have been? You will perhaps find it sadly easy to imagine some of the most likely things of which a Victorian gentleman might be ashamed. If you’d like to know my idea of it, you will have to read my novel, “A Case of Witchcraft”, published next week!

Don’t forget, dear readers, that the paperback of “A Case of Witchcraft” is available here on the British Amazon site; and the Kindle version here.

Our American cousins may buy the paperback here, and the Kindle version here.

Reviewing my Peers: Three MX Authors.

The same box which brought me the complementary copies of my own novel also contained three other works, by fellow MX authors, of which I shall give you a brief account.


Dan Andriacco’s “Baker Street Beat” is a slim volume of Holmesian writings of various kinds. The stand-out piece here is the excellent pastiche, “The Peculiar Persecution of John Vincent Harden”, which is very much in the manner of the original stories. I also enjoyed the time-travelling play “The Wrong Cab”, in which a modern American private eye becomes Holmes’s partner in a grisly mystery set in the Chamber of Horrors; and “Reichenbach Pilgrimage”, which gives a good account of what there is to be seen at the second most famous place in the Canon.
I have to take issue with Dan over his essay on “Writing the Holmes Pastiche”, however, since his rules would disallow any Holmesian fiction not written from Dr. Watson’s point of view, containing real historical characters, and having the word “Case” in the title! They are good enough rules if one is trying to produce an exact imitation of the original stories, I suppose; but some of us want to do something new with the beloved characters. For my part, I thought that it would be interesting to see Holmes at work without Watson, but instead trying to build a partnership with someone very different, to whom he could show another side of his personality; and I think that it comes off rather well, in my novel, when circumstances oblige him to team up with the young Aleister Crowley.

Gerard Kelly’s “The Outstanding Mysteries of Sherlock Holmes” is a very good imitation of Conan Doyle’s style and methods; the master himself would have been proud of some of these ingenious plots, and the characterization of Holmes and Watson is for the most part unobjectionable. As someone who has been doing a good deal of research into late Victorian manners and customs, however, I was aware of a few anachronisms, which might not disturb the common reader – the most annoying, to me, being Holmes’s extensive knowledge of the “Helvetica” typeface, which was not invented until the 1950’s. Also, there is a real ghost in one story – something that even the spiritualist Sir Arthur would not have allowed in the Sherlock Holmes universe. But people who like the Sherlock Holmes stories, and wish there were a few more of them, should certainly buy this book.

“Barefoot on Baker Street”, by Charlotte Anne Walters, is something very different. It is a hugely ambitious novel, which even describes itself as “epic” at one point. It tells us that, throughout the whole Canonical history of Holmes and Watson, there was another person present: a feisty criminal redhead who was intimately involved with both of them – and indeed with their enemy, Professor Moriarty.

The quality of Ms. Walters’ prose is… variable. To my mind it gets somewhat better as the novel goes on. Purist Holmesians will dislike this book for the liberties that it takes with our hero’s character, and indeed with his physical appearance – since Ms. Walters gives him, for some reason, eyes that are “perfectly brown, [of] a deep rich shade, full of intensity” (when everyone knows that Holmes’s eyes were grey). Students of the period might find it annoying that (for example) the heroine is said to be wearing a “bra” decades before such garments were in use.

But pedants such as myself are not really the target audience for a book such as this; it is aimed rather at a female readership that has for centuries delighted in the exploits of anti-heroines like Moll Flanders, Becky Sharp, and Scarlett O’Hara; and such readers may well enjoy the tumultuous adventures of the ruthless, sexy “Red”. It strikes me that this might make rather a good film. Directors take heed!

Don’t forget, dear readers, that the paperback of “A Case of Witchcraft” is available here on the British Amazon site; and the Kindle version here.

Our American cousins may buy the paperback here, and the Kindle version here.