The House of Silk_ The New Sherlock Holmes Novel - Anthony Horowitz [124]
‘It’s not enough,’ he muttered. He crumpled the paper in both hands and set it aside, then added: ‘Poor Ross!’
From this, and from other indications in his behaviour – he mentioned, for example, that he might never call upon the services of the Baker Street Irregulars again – I gathered that he still blamed himself, in part, for the boy’s death, and that the scenes we had witnessed that night on Hamworth Hill had left an indelible mark on his consciousness. Nobody knew evil like Holmes, but there are some evils that it is better not to know, and he could not enjoy even the rewards of his success without being reminded of the dark places to which it had taken him. I could understand this. I had bad dreams myself. But I had Mary to consider, and a medical practice to run. Holmes found himself trapped in his own particular world, forced to dwell on things he would rather forget.
One evening, after we had taken dinner together, he suddenly announced that he was going out. The snow had not returned, but January was as glacial as December had been, and though I had no desire at all for this late expedition, I nonetheless asked him if he would like me to accompany him.
‘No, no, Watson. It’s kind of you. But I think I would be better alone.’
‘But where are you going at this late hour, Holmes? Let’s go back to the fire and enjoy a whisky peg together. Any business you may have can surely wait until the day.’
‘Watson, you are the very best of friends and I am aware that I have been poor company. What I need is a little time alone. But we will have breakfast tomorrow and I am sure you will find me in better spirits.’
We did and he was. We spent a pleasant and companionable day visiting the British Museum and lunching at Simpson’s, and it was only as we were returning home that I saw in the newspapers a report of the great fire on Hamworth Hill. A building that had once been occupied by a charitable school had been razed to the ground, and apparently the flames had leapt so high into the night sky that they had been visible as far afield as Wembley. I said nothing about it to Holmes and asked no questions. Nor had I remarked that morning that his coat, which had been hanging in its usual place, had carried about it the strong smell of cinders. That evening, Holmes played his Stradivarius for the first time in a while. I listened with pleasure to the soaring tune as we sat together on either side of the hearth.
I hear it still. As I lay down my pen and take to my bed, I am aware of the bow being drawn across the bridge and the music rises into the night sky. It is far away and barely audible but – there it is! A pizzicato. Then a tremolo. The style is unmistakable. It is Sherlock Holmes who is playing. It must be. I hope with all my heart that he is playing for me …
Anthony Horowitz on Writing The House of Silk: Conception, Inspiration and The Ten Rules.
I’m still quite surprised that I was approached to write The House of Silk (I’m assuming, by the way, that you have read it before you reach this point. Spoilers follow!). Although the bulk of my television work is adult, when it comes to fiction I’m better known for children’s books – in particular the Alex Rider series – and I’m fairly sure that the Doyle estate wasn’t interested in a fast-paced action thriller full of explosions and improbable chases. They’d already had plenty of that with Robert Downey Jnr. At the time, they weren’t even aware that I have long been an admirer of the Sherlock Holmes novels and short stories. I was actually given a set by my father for my seventeenth birthday (I think) and they immediately wove themselves into the fabric of my life. I cannot now read The Dying Detective or The Devil’s Foot (two of my favourites) without