Tag Archives: Sherlock Holmes


In the newly released Dr Watson Book 3, A Study in Murder, the poor doctor is incarcerated in the most feared POW camp in Germany. During his incarceration, he is asked to contribute to the camp magazine. During the process of writing the book, I decided that snippets of the story he creates should be interspersed throughout the novel. But which Holmes story to choose? Even casual fans are familiar with the Sherlock canon, so I decided against incorporating one of the 56 oft-told tales. I could have created a pastiche in the style of Conan Doyle, but I have always tried to avoid that pitfall (it is not as easy as it seems at first glance). My Watson books are, after all, styled after the simpler third-person narration of His Last Bow.


Illustration from The Lost Special in The Strand magazine

Illustration by Max Cowper for The Lost Special in The Strand magazine

In the end I decided to look beyond the canon and at the short stories which function as Apocrypha to the main body of work, where an unnamed ” amateur reasoner of some celebrity” appears. The stories are The Man With The Watches and The Lost Special, both of which appeared in The Strand Magazine and are sometimes included in collections of Sherlock Holmes stories compiled outside the UK (most French compendia include them). If I were to adapt one of those, I thought, using as much of Conan Doyle’s language as possible, I might have something that was only part pastiche – a New/Old Sherlock Holmes tale, unfamiliar to most readers.

Illustration by Frank Craig for The Man With The Watches from The Strand Magazine.

Illustration by Frank Craig for The Man With The Watches from The Strand Magazine.

So, I set about taking The Man With The Watches and turning it into a full-blown Sherlock Holmes story, albeit one where (as in A Study in Scarlet) much of the action takes place away from Baker St. Although I used only excerpts in the body of the the novel, the entire exercise is printed as an appendix in A Study in Murder. Conan Doyle’s story begins:

“There are many who will still bear in mind the singular circumstances which, under the heading of the Rugby Mystery, filled many columns of the daily Press in the spring of the year 1892. Coming as it did at a period of exceptional dullness, it attracted perhaps rather more attention than it deserved, but it offered to the public that mixture of the whimsical and the tragic which is most stimulating to the popular imagination. Interest drooped, however, when, after weeks of fruitless investigation, it was found that no final explanation of the facts was forthcoming, and the tragedy seemed from that time to the present to have finally taken its place in the dark catalogue of inexplicable and unexpiated crimes.”

One of the first things I had to do was change the date, for The Final Problem, in which Holmes goes over the Reichenbach Falls with Moriarty, was set in 1891. This was the beginning of the ‘Great Hiatus’, the years when Watson thought Holmes dead. I also borrowed some lines from other Sherlock stories to set the scene.

“It was April 1890 (and not 1892 as some accounts would have it), as the debilitating bone chill of a lengthy winter had finally begun to relax its grip on the metropolis, when my friend Sherlock Holmes turned his attention to what the daily press were the calling The Rugby Mystery and some others The Girl and the Gold Watches. Holmes had recently completed his investigation into a most gruesome business, involving jealousy and murder. The solution to the case had put him in a rather sombre mood. ‘What is the meaning of it, Watson?’ he had exclaimed, not for the first time. Peering into the darkest corners of the human soul often caused him to recoil in revulsion at the depravity of his fellow man. ‘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?’

Illustration for The Man With The Watches by Frank Craig.

Illustration for The Man With The Watches by Frank Craig.

That resultant brown study, a cloud of melancholia that wrapped itself around him like a winter fog, persisted for some weeks, to the point where I feared he might reach for solace once more in the seven per cent solution. I sought permission – freely granted – from my wife to move back to our rooms in Baker Street that I might keep an eye on him until the black dog was driven away. And sure enough, as the thermometer rose on a certain bright Monday morning, Holmes stirred himself from his regular position, curled on the sofa with a newspaper, and began to pace the floor of our Baker Street lodgings, a practice I knew sometimes drove Mrs Hudson on the floor below us to distraction, for it could last many hours.
I lowered my own newspaper – I was studying an article about the recent rash of card-sharping incidents across the city and the methods the fraudsters preferred – and peered at him. He looked like a freshly coiled spring and something burned in his eyes. I knew that look of old and it warmed my heart. ‘Yes, Watson, you are thinking that my hibernation is at an end.’
I felt a surge of relief course through me. ‘You don’t have to be the world’s only Consulting Detective to deduce that, Holmes.’
‘Quite so. But, as your faculties are in such good order, you’ll be well aware that we are about to have a visitor.’”

The visitor then proceeds to narrate the story (essentially a ‘locked room’ mystery set on a train) and the narrative follows Arthur Conan Doyle as closely as I could manage, using as many of his own words as possible. It is hoped my publishers Simon & Schuster will put the entire thing online as an e-story sometime this year.

A Study in Murder is out in hardback now.

The Musketeer as Sherlock

A “re-imagined” Three Musketeers starts tonight on BBC. When a couple of months ago I was researching the history of detective fiction for a talk I was giving, I came across a scene where d’Artagnan shows powers of analysis of a crime scene worthy of Holmes himself. So will this facility survive the update? This is the (rather lengthy, but worth it) passage:

“While the king was engaged in making these last-mentioned arrangements in order to ascertain the truth, D’Artagnan, without losing a second, ran to the stable, took down the lantern, saddled his horse himself, and proceeded towards the place his majesty had indicated. According to the promise he had made, he had not accosted any one; and, as we have observed, he had carried his scruples so far as to do without the assistance of the stable-helpers altogether. D’Artagnan was one of those


who in moments of difficulty pride themselves on increasing their own value. By dint of hard galloping, he in less than five minutes reached the wood, fastened his horse to the first tree he came to, and penetrated to the broad open space on foot. He then began to inspect most carefully, on foot and with his lantern in his hand, the whole surface of the Rond-point, went forward, turned back again, measured, examined, and after half an hour’s minute inspection, he returned silently to where he had left his horse, and pursued his way in deep reflection and at a foot-pace to Fontainebleau. Louis was waiting in his cabinet; he was alone, and with a pencil was scribbling on paper certain lines which D’Artagnan at the first glance recognized as unequal and very much touched up. The conclusion he arrived at was, that they must be verses. The king raised his head and perceived D’Artagnan. “Well, monsieur,” he said, “do you bring me any news?”
“Yes, sire.”
“What have you seen?”
“As far as probability goes, sire—” D’Artagnan began to reply.
“It was certainty I requested of you.”
“I will approach it as near as I possibly can. The weather was very well adapted for investigations of the character I have just made; it has been raining this evening, and the roads were wet and muddy—”
“Well, the result, M. d’Artagnan?”
“Sire, your majesty told me that there was a horse lying dead in the cross-road of the Bois-Rochin, and I began, therefore, by studying the roads. I say the roads, because the center of the cross-road is reached by four separate roads. The one that I myself took was the only one that presented any fresh traces. Two horses had followed it side by side; their eight feet were marked very distinctly in the clay. One of the riders was more impatient than the other, for the footprints of the one were invariably in advance of the other about half a horse’s length.”
“Are you quite sure they were traveling together?” said the king.
“Yes sire. The horses are two rather large animals of equal pace,—horses well used to maneuvers of all kinds, for they wheeled round the barrier of the Rond-point together.”
“Well—and after?”
“The two cavaliers paused there for a minute, no doubt to arrange the conditions of the engagement; the horses grew restless and impatient. One of the riders spoke, while the other listened and seemed to have contented himself by simply answering. His horse pawed the ground, which proves that his attention was so taken up by listening that he let the bridle fall from his hand.”
“A hostile meeting did take place then?”
“Continue; you are a very accurate observer.”
“One of the two cavaliers remained where he was standing, the one, in fact, who had been listening; the other crossed the open space, and at first placed himself directly opposite to his adversary. The one who had remained stationary traversed the Rond-point at a gallop, about two-thirds of its length, thinking that by this means he would gain upon his opponent; but the latter had followed the circumference of the wood.”
“You are ignorant of their names, I suppose?”
“Completely so, sire. Only he who followed the circumference of the wood was mounted on a black horse.”
“How do you know that?”
“I found a few hairs of his tail among the brambles which bordered the sides of the ditch.”
“Go on.”
“As for the other horse, there can be no trouble in describing him, since he was left dead on the field of battle.”
“What was the cause of his death?”
“A ball which had passed through his brain.”
“Was the ball that of a pistol or a gun?”
“It was a pistol-bullet, sire. Besides, the manner in which the horse was wounded explained to me the tactics of the man who had killed it. He had followed the circumference of the wood in order to take his adversary in flank. Moreover, I followed his foot-tracks on the grass.”
“The tracks of the black horse, do you mean?”
“Yes, sire.”
“Go on, Monsieur d’Artagnan.”
“As your majesty now perceives the position of the two adversaries, I will, for a moment, leave the cavalier who had remained stationary for the one who started off at a gallop.”
“Do so.”
“The horse of the cavalier who rode at full speed was killed on the spot.”
“How do you know that?”
“The cavalier had not time even to throw himself off his horse, and so fell with it. I observed the impression of his leg, which, with a great effort, he was enabled to extricate from under the horse. The spur, pressed down by the weight of the animal, had plowed up the ground.”
“Very good; and what did he do as soon as he rose up again?”
“He walked straight up to his adversary.”
“Who still remained upon the verge of the forest?”
“Yes, sire. Then, having reached a favorable distance, he stopped firmly, for the impression of both his heels are left in the ground quite close to each other, fired, and missed his adversary.”
“How do you know he did not hit him?”
“I found a hat with a ball through it.”
“Ah, a proof, then!” exclaimed the king.
“Insufficient, sire,” replied D’Artagnan, coldly; “it is a hat without any letters indicating its ownership, without arms; a red feather, as all hats have; the lace, even, had nothing particular in it.”
“Did the man with the hat through which the bullet had passed fire a second time?”
“Oh, sire, he had already fired twice.”
“How did you ascertain that?”
“I found the waddings of the pistol.”
“And what became of the bullet which did not kill the horse?”
“It cut in two the feather of the hat belonging to him against whom it was directed, and broke a small birch at the other end of the open glade.”
“In that case, then, the man on the black horse was disarmed, whilst his adversary had still one more shot to fire?”
“Sire, while the dismounted rider was extricating himself from his horse, the other was reloading his pistol. Only, he was much agitated while he was loading it, and his hand trembled greatly.”
“How do you know that?”
“Half the charge fell to the ground, and he threw the ramrod aside, not having time to replace it in the pistol.”
“Monsieur d’Artagnan, this is marvellous you tell me.”
“It is only close observation, sire, and the commonest highwayman could tell as much.”
“The whole scene is before me from the manner in which you relate it.”
“I have, in fact, reconstructed it in my own mind, with merely a few alterations.”
“And now,” said the king, “let us return to the dismounted cavalier. You were saying that he walked towards his adversary while the latter was loading his pistol.”
“Yes; but at the very moment he himself was taking aim, the other fired.”
“Oh!” said the king; “and the shot?”
“The shot told terribly, sire; the dismounted cavalier fell upon his face, after having staggered forward three or four paces.”
“Where was he hit?”
“In two places; in the first place, in his right hand, and then, by the same bullet, in his chest.”
“But how could you ascertain that?” inquired the king, full of admiration.
“By a very simple means; the butt end of the pistol was covered with blood, and the trace of the bullet could be observed, with fragments of a broken ring. The wounded man, in all probability, had the ring-finger and the little finger carried off.”
“As far as the hand goes, I have nothing to say; but the chest?”
“Sire, there were two small pools of blood, at a distance of about two feet and a half from each other. At one of these pools of blood the grass was torn up by the clenched hand; at the other, the grass was simply pressed down by the weight of the body.”
“Poor De Guiche!” exclaimed the king.
“Ah! it was M. de Guiche, then?” said the musketeer, quietly. “I suspected it, but did not venture to mention it to your majesty.”
“And what made you suspect it?”
“I recognized the De Gramont arms upon the holsters of the dead horse.”
“And you think he is seriously wounded?”
“Very seriously, since he fell immediately, and remained a long time in the same place; however, he was able to walk, as he left the spot, supported by two friends.”
“You met him returning, then?”
“No; but I observed the footprints of three men; the one on the right and the one on the left walked freely and easily, but the one in the middle dragged his feet as he walked; besides, he left traces of blood at every step he took.”
“Now, monsieur, since you saw the combat so distinctly that not a single detail seems to have escaped you, tell me something about De Guiche’s adversary.”
“Oh, sire, I do not know him.”
“And yet you see everything very clearly.”
“Yes, sire, I see everything; but I do not tell all I see; and, since the poor devil has escaped, your majesty will permit me to say that I do not intend to denounce him.”
“And yet he is guilty, since he has fought a duel, monsieur.”
“Not guilty in my eyes, sire,” said D’Artagnan, coldly.
“Monsieur!” exclaimed the king, “are you aware of what you are saying?”
“Perfectly, sire; but, according to my notions, a man who fights a duel is a brave man; such, at least, is my own opinion; but your majesty may have another, it is but natural, for you are master here.”
“Monsieur d’Artagnan, I ordered you, however—”
D’Artagnan interrupted the king by a respectful gesture. “You ordered me, sire, to gather what particulars I could, respecting a hostile meeting that had taken place; those particulars you have. If you order me to arrest M. de Guiche’s adversary, I will do so; but do not order me to denounce him to you, for in that case I will not obey.”
“Very well! Arrest him, then.”
“Give me his name, sire.”
The king stamped his foot angrily; but after a moment’s reflection, he said, “You are right—ten times, twenty times, a hundred times right.”
“That is my opinion, sire: I am happy that, this time, it accords with your majesty’s.”
“One word more. Who assisted Guiche?”
“I do not know, sire.”
“But you speak of two men. There was a person present, then, as second.”
“There was no second, sire. Nay, more than that, when M. de Guiche fell, his adversary fled without giving him any assistance.”
“The miserable coward!” exclaimed the king.
“The consequence of your ordinances, sire. If a man has fought well, and fairly, and has already escaped one chance of death, he naturally wishes to escape a second. M. de Bouteville cannot be forgotten very easily.”
“And so, men turn cowards.”
“No, they become prudent.”
“And he has fled, then, you say?”
“Yes; and as fast as his horse could possibly carry him.”
“In what direction?”
“In the direction of the château.”
“Well, and after that?”
“Afterwards, as I have had the honor of telling your majesty, two men on foot arrived, who carried M. de Guiche back with them.”
“What proof have you that these men arrived after the combat?”
“A very evident proof, sire; at the moment the encounter took place, the rain had just ceased, the ground had not had time to imbibe the moisture, and was, consequently, soaked; the footsteps sank in the ground; but while M. de Guiche was lying there in a fainting condition, the ground became firm again, and the footsteps made a less sensible impression.”
Louis clapped his hands together in sign of admiration. “Monsieur d’Artagnan,” he said, “you are positively the cleverest man in my kingdom.”
“The identical thing M. de Richelieu thought, and M. de Mazarin said, sire.”
“And now, it remains for us to see if your sagacity is at fault.”
“Oh! sire, a man may be mistaken; humanum est errare,” said the musketeer, philosophically.
“In that case, you are not human, Monsieur d’Artagnan, for I believe you are never mistaken.”
“Your majesty said that we were going to see whether such was the case, or not.”
“In what way, may I venture to ask?”
“I have sent for M. de Manicamp, and M. de Manicamp is coming.”
“And M. de Manicamp knows the secret?”
“De Guiche has no secrets from M. de Manicamp.”
D’Artagnan shook his head. “No one was present at the combat, I repeat; and unless M. de Manicamp was one of the two men who brought him back—”
“Hush!” said the king, “he is coming; remain, and listen attentively.”
“Very good, sire.”


Ms Janie Dee reads Dr Watson and Mrs Gregson

The event at St Bart’s pathology Museum went well – a crazy French silent film featuring Sherlock and Watson, by the charming Celine Terranova (who turned up in a lovely steampunk bustle dress) followed by me waffling about Watson until I could show the new trailer/extract for the book. There is still a slight volume adjustment to be made around the time the sodium citrate appears, but I think you’ll agree Janie Dee does a tremendous job. Thanks also to Sue Light for (most of) the photographs, to Bella Ryan for editing/assembling and to Carla Valentine for organising a night for Dr Watson to shine.

The above is an edited extract from this section of Dead Man’s Land:

“Careful with the solution bottles, Staff Nurse Jennings,’ Watson warned, as she unwrapped a glass cylinder from its cocoon of corrugated cardboard and newspaper. ‘That’s our secret ingredient. Hand it here, please.’
The flap of the tent snapped back with a crack like a whiplash. Standing in the opening was the Sister-in-Charge, her face almost as crimson as the red cape which proclaimed her a full member of Queen Alexandra’s Royal Army Nursing Corps. The sound of the German guns was momentarily lost beneath her impressive bellow. ‘Major Watson!’
Watson carefully laid down the precious jar of sodium citrate solution on the tabletop before he turned to face her. ‘Sister? How may I be of assistance?’
‘What is the meaning of this?’ She pulled back the canvas further to reveal his two members of the Voluntary Aid Detachment each holding an Empire medical kit. ‘Experience dictates that travelling with one medical kit in a war situation is somewhat risky, sister,’ Watson explained patiently. ‘I always pack a spare.’
Now the colour on her cheeks was a perfect match for the cape. ‘I am not referring to your travelling preferences, Major,’ she almost snarled. ‘You have brought VADs into my Casualty Clearing Station. VADs!’
She made it sound as if Voluntary Aid Detachment nurses were some kind of vermin ‘When I was at the hospital in Calais,’ Watson said calmly, ‘I requested some assistance during this tour of the clearing stations and field ambulances. The MO suggested Nurses Gregson and-’
‘They are not nurses, Major Watson, as you well know. Not qualified nurses. They are auxiliaries. Orderlies. And the Matron-in-Chief herself has forbidden VADs to work this far forward-’
There came another explosion, short and sharp, that made everyone’s heads turn to the source. It had come from Mrs Gregson, the older of the VADs. Her companion, Miss Pippery, a tiny thing who looked to be barely out of her teens, took a small step backwards, as if retreating from a ticking bomb.
Mrs Gregson bent at the waist, put down the medical chest, and stepped over it, so that she stood eye to eye with the Sister. Miss Pippery lowered her own case but stayed firmly behind it, as if it could act as a barricade. She yanked out a tiny gold rosary from beneath her collar and kissed it, briefly, in prayer, before tucking it away once more.
Mrs Gregson, Watson estimated, was thirty or thereabouts, with striking green eyes and, beneath the white VAD headdress, a crown of fiery red hair. The Sister was probably two decades older, pipe-cleaner thin with a mouth pinched by years of keeping her charges in line. Now the opening was reduced further, to a razor cut in a rather sallow face.
When Mrs Gregson spoke, it was with a quiet but stinging force. ‘Sister, I may not have your qualifications, but I have been out here for more than two years. I was running first-aid stations when the worst the men faced was a turned ankle from trying to march in hobnail boots on French and Belgian cobblestones. I drove for McMurdo’s Flying Ambulance Brigade at Mons. Perhaps you have heard of it? I have treated trench foot, venereal disease, lice infestations and lanced boils in men’s buttocks the size of macaroons. I have stuffed men’s entrails back in place and held the hands of boys who cried for their mothers, such was their pain, and of grown men weeping in fear at the thought of going back up the line. I have watched men drown in their own fluids from gas, carried men’s mangled arms and legs to the lime pit, told a private he will never see again, spent weeks wondering if I will ever smell anything in my nostrils other than the stench of gas gangrene. I have shown pretty fiancées what German flame-throwers have done to their future husbands’ faces. Then had to deliver the letters that tell the disfigured soldiers that they have lost those sweethearts. I have seen enough pus to last me a lifetime, Sister, and my hands are likely ruined forever from all the scrubbings with carbolic and eusol because, of course, only a Sister can wear rubber gloves and I do believe, no matter what your dear Matron-in-Chief thinks, that I have earned the right to go where my betters think I am needed in this war and I also believe that Major Watson’s new method of blood transfusion will save the lives of many who have to this point died for want of fluid and warmth.’ She finally took a breath. ‘Of course, I am not a nurse, nor would I claim to be. I am a VAD and proud of it.’
Mrs Gregson’s short speech never increased in volume throughout its course, but somehow, like a great flywheel pressed into motion, gathered power and momentum as it went. Watson, about to object that is wasn’t strictly speaking his new method of blood transfusion, decided to stay out of the contest. It would be like trying to separate two Siamese fighting fish.
The guns seemed even louder and much closer in the brittle silence that descended on the tent.
Sister took her time composing her reply. The heightened colour in her cheeks faded, but she twisted the piece of paper she held in her hands as if she were wringing Mrs Gregson’s neck. ‘I did not intend to impugn the service you have given. But there are few here who haven’t performed the same tasks. Isn’t that right, Staff Nurse Jennings?’
‘Yes, Sister,’ she agreed softly, eyes downcast. ‘Although I can’t drive-’
But Sister had turned her attention back to the VADs. ‘You will assist Major Watson, of course, in his important work, and I assume move on with him once the technique for this wonder treatment has been demonstrated. But I do not want you on the re-suss, pre-op or evacuation wards. Or on the officers’ wards in The Big House. It will only confuse the men. I don’t want them to think they are getting..’ She paused for moment and actually smiled before delivering the blow ‘.. second-rate care.”


Last weekend I attended Sherlock Holmes Past & Present, two days of academic papers and sandwiches at Senate House. It included some very esoterically titled papers (“Biopolitical Sherlock: Information Technology and Liquid Modernity at Risk”), which inevitably turned out to be more accessible than their banners suggested. I enjoyed actor Richard Burnip on “Holmes and his Contemporaries” – looking at the other detectives who appeared in Strand Magazine -and Nathan Murray on Dorothy L Sayers and her Holmesian scholarship. Thanks to a misbehaving car, I missed Sarah Weaver on “How Smart is Watson?” and Jonathan Cranfield on “Sherlock Holmes, Sport and Masculinity”, but I will catch them in the anthology of papers. For my part I gave, inevitably,a talk on Dead Man’s Land (& Dr Watson), which featured some wonderful slides of nurses and VADs in World War One, loaned by Sue Light (www.scarletfinders.cco.uk), like the one below, which inspired the character of Miss Pippery in the novel.


I shared a platform (all right, a room) with writer Jonathan Barnes who creates high-quality audio drama for a company called Big Finish. His take on Holmes is to find the gaps in the chronology, the ‘interstices’ in Conan Doyle’s timeline, and to insert new tales in there. There is, he said, plenty of these gaps to play with. Last year he wrote The Adventure of the Perfidious Mariner for Big Finish, which assumes that Dr Watson’s second wife died on the Titanic (having presumably survived the plane crash I arranged for her). The tale features the haunting of J. Bruce Ismay, the chairman of the White Star Line, owners of the Titanic, by a waterlogged female spectre (Ismay is notorious for having left the sinking ship in a half-empty lifeboat) who is out for revenge. The tale has a genuine Conan Doyle feel, suitably fruity dialogue, familiar and welcome Holmesian tropes, an ingenious method of murder and a cliffhanging ending – what terrible mistake did Holmes make that drove him to retirement and bees on the South Downs? All will be revealed in the four-part The Ordeals of Sherlock Holmes, due out later this year. I’ll be downloading it. See http://www.bigfinish.com.



I am speaking about Dead Man’s Land and Dr Watson at the conference below (click for the poster) on the Friday morning but there is masses for the Holmes fan. I shall be attending Tyler Shores’ talk on ‘Sherlock Holmes and the Copyright Mystery’ for sure.


A few years back I bought a hugely entertaining collection of stories ‘Inspired by the Holmes Canon’ called A Study in Sherlock. It contained tales by Lee Child, Charles Todd and Neil Gaiman and was edited by Laurie R King and Leslie S. Klinger (the man behind the indispensable New Annotated Sherlock Holmes). What I didn’t know at the time was that the Conan Doyle Estate had threatened to block the book unless a fee was paid, which it duly was. Now, in the USA some of the stories in the final collection, The Case-Book of Sherlock Holmes, are still in copyright, thanks to an extension to copyright law there some years back (in the UK the entire canon is in the public domain), but Leslie Klinger – who is also a lawyer – was certain this did not mean the characters were protected. The ACD Estate begged to differ.
When Laurie R King and Leslie Klinger decided to produce a sequel to A Study in Sherlock (In the Company of Sherlock Holmes, with Val McDermid, Sara Paretsky, Jeffery Deaver, Michael Connelly and others contributing), their publishers received a letter from the ACD estate, threatening to block distribution to certain outlets unless, again, a fee was paid. This time Leslie Klinger decided to draw a line in the sand – last week he filed a civil action in Illinois against the Conan Doyle Estate to establish once and for all whether the characters are protected, and payment due, or if Holmes and Watson are in the public domain. Klinger says: “This isn’t the first time the Estate has put pressure on creators. It is the first time anyone has stood up to them. In the past, many simply couldn’t afford to fight or to wait for approval, and have given in and paid off the Estate for ‘permission.’ I’m asking the Court to put a permanent stop to this kind of bullying. Holmes and Watson belong to the world, not to some distant relatives of Arthur Conan Doyle.”
If nothing else, legal clarification to those of us paying royalties to one or other of the various claimants to Holmes & Watson would be most welcome and Klinger deserves our support. You can read more on http://www.free-sherlock.com.