The House of Silk

Officially sanctioned by the Conan Doyle Estate, comes a new Sherlock Holmes novel by Anthony Horowitz (Alex Rider mysteries, Foyle's War, Collison). In The House of Silk, Horowitz captures both the spirit and the times of the original books. This one is old-fashioned without being old. The mystery is perhaps a bit more, um--let's say modern--than anything the old Sherlock might have been involved with, but the characters are believably re-created here, including an almost useless Watson as sidekick. He's so marginalized that at one point, they consult another doctor for an opinion. I could only imagine Doctor Watson, leaning over the body, saying What am I, chopped liver? But of course, he wouldn't say that. In fact, he demurs another time when asked about the possible slow poisoning of a woman, by saying, I should warn you, I'm only a general practitioner and my experience is limited...Oh, Watson. Is this why Sherlock keeps you around?

Horowitz even manages to touch on the odd and rumored relationship between the two men, without, mind you, making anything explicit. There's nothing sexual between the two, but there's something more than friendship. Though Watson is happily married, he's also more than happy when his wife goes to Scotland to catch typhoid fever (being only a generalist, he misses this detail) so he can hang out with his old buddy. They don't talk about Mrs. Watson, and when a criminal mastermind asks Watson to swear on something that he won't reveal what he's learned, Watson offers his marriage.

Mysterious man: Not good enough.

Watson: On my friendship with Holmes

Mysterious man: Now we understand each other.

All in good fun. I know Watson is our way into the brilliant mind of the great detective. Horowitz treats his brilliance admirably. There's a trick to writing about a brilliant person without seeming gimmicky or cocky and I think Horowitz succeeds. Also, this being a mystery, it deserves careful reading because everything, down to the odd placement of a fountain, seems like it might be a clue. Red herrings abound, as they should, and the solution is satisfying enough to reflect the time period. People are killed, people escape spectacularly from prison, nothing is romanticized about the harsh life of a street urchin, and Sherlock never resorts to his cocaine habit. You just have to put up with Watson being a little dim.