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amado1If you caught my first review you know I loved the first book in this series (where an elderly John Watson, of Sherlock Holmes, is a medical officer on the front lines at Flanders Fields). Can't say the same for the second book! I'll follow the same format to review, starting with the bad stuff, then the good stuff, then the parts I highlighted.
Bad stuff:
My god! First and foremost, the pacing. The first novel was deliciously slow. It took its time without ever becoming a drag. The prose was descriptive, detailed, and engaging. Here, the pacing is simply rushed. Plot events tangle together at a manic pace. Our starting setup shows Watson treating patients with shell shock, and Mrs. Gregson heading back to the same prison where she suffered as a suffragette; these are two of my favorite subjects in English history, so I was excited to see them through the eyes of these characters. I love Watson; I WANT to see him treating men with shell shock! I love Gregson; I WANT to see her facing those injustices firsthand! But the next time we see Watson, months have passed and he's already cured his patient, and so he's whisked away to the REAL plot of the story, solving the deaths of 8 tankmen. And Mrs. Gregson, when next we see her, is already out of the suffragettes' jail and is stationed at the tank-testing ground as a nurse. God, then why did we waste time setting those plot events up?
Worse, much of the plot completely blew my suspension of disbelief out of the water. After several chapters to get to know an American journalist, we find out -- in a twist -- that he's actually a German spy. And a few chapters later, in another twist, we find out that the sweet English schoolteacher he's been manipulating is...also a German spy...and the two of them just happened to be placed in the same sleepy English town, with no prior knowledge of each other's missions.
Speaking of that American journalist -- I was pleased when this book started out with a canon gay character. Bradley Ross, an American journalist, takes a risk and flirts with Dirk Alberts, a Dutch journalist, in a bar. Only several chapters later do we learn that this encounter didn't go well for Bradley. He was murdered by Dirk, who is actually straight, and who has taken Bradley's identity. I was a little disappointed to see that gay character go out the window.
Tangled up with the German spies, we have a pair of M15 agents who ... I can only guess that they're crossover characters from another of Ryan's novels. The way he writes them just seems off. References are made to past events, and it's established that they have a long-lasting relationship with Watson, but it's done in such a way that I became convinced I must have accidentally skipped a book. You know, it's like ... like reading a fanfiction for Game of Thrones, and two OCs walk on, and you keep waiting for the author to explain their relationship to the main character, but it just never happens! Then finally you google them and find out they were name-dropped in a non-canon encyclopedia released ten years ago.
Only I can't find where these guys originated!! It's driving me nuts. If they DID originate in this novel, then holy shit, Ryan! You can make it clear that these characters are familiar to Watson while still taking the time to introduce them to the reader.
Worse, these M15 agents, and Bradley Ross, have absolutely no impact on the plot. They're all three given significant screentime and solo chapters, but by the 50% mark, all three are dead. And it has no! impact! on the plot! whatsoever!! It's filler at its finest.
Another quibble: Watson's Holmesian deductions were delicious in the first novel. They're entirely missing from this one! We do eventually get them from Holmes himself, in a single scene toward the end of the novel, but that's it. I missed them. Without them, Watson seems to be treading water.
And I think this is my final issue: in this novel, we learn that Holmes has dementia. At first, I was miserable about this. Holmes with dementia... that's got to be one of my biggest squicks! It's just too sad for me. Dementia runs in my family, and it always depresses me to read about it, especially with a character like Holmes, whom I've loved for so long. But as I got used to it, I appreciated this plot element, and I found myself looking forward to the end. I wanted to see how Ryan would twist the knife. The first book, Dead Man's Land, was filled with heart-wrenching deaths. On the front lines, Watson was constantly introduced to -- and quickly lost -- lively characters, in scenes that left my eyes stinging. I had noticed this was lacking in "The Dead Can Wait" (I couldn't tell you why, but I just didn't attach to these characters the same way; there seemed to be some passion missing from them, behind the scenes) -- but I assumed it was being "saved up", so to speak, for whatever gut-punch resolution came about with Holmes' dementia.
Only...Holmes doesn't have dementia.
Around 75% through the novel, we learn that Holmes actually has a form of anemia that leaves him confused, irritable, and with a great deal of weight gain. With some beef tea, lots of liver to eat, and regular blood transfusions, he can be totally cured. His mind is actually intact.
Now, if I were reading this review, I know for a fact that I'd think, "Oh good! He doesn't have dementia; it's safe to read, then." But man, was I disappointed.
Okay, onto the good stuff!
...Um, well, let's see...
No, no, there were definitely good parts in here. First of all, Ryan's prose remains deliciously descriptive, and his research is still fantastic. Once again I caught myself highlighting passages just because I loved his way with words. I didn't care for the early part of the book, where Watson is investigating 8 mysterious deaths inside of a tank. But I loved the second half, where Watson and Mrs. Gregson join Holmes on the island Foulness, where Winston Churchill is keeping Holmes a prisoner under DORA.
(yes, that's a plot point)
(but we're focusing on the good stuff)
The atmosphere of the island itself, the gloominess and melancholy, the chemistry between Holmes and Watson, the return of Holmes' deductions, Mrs. Gregson as an outside POV, even the insertion of another damnable German spy ... it actually worked here! And it made this part of the story absolutely fun, definitely worth reading. I just wish the rest of it wasn't such a slog!
Quotes
Bad stuff:
My god! First and foremost, the pacing. The first novel was deliciously slow. It took its time without ever becoming a drag. The prose was descriptive, detailed, and engaging. Here, the pacing is simply rushed. Plot events tangle together at a manic pace. Our starting setup shows Watson treating patients with shell shock, and Mrs. Gregson heading back to the same prison where she suffered as a suffragette; these are two of my favorite subjects in English history, so I was excited to see them through the eyes of these characters. I love Watson; I WANT to see him treating men with shell shock! I love Gregson; I WANT to see her facing those injustices firsthand! But the next time we see Watson, months have passed and he's already cured his patient, and so he's whisked away to the REAL plot of the story, solving the deaths of 8 tankmen. And Mrs. Gregson, when next we see her, is already out of the suffragettes' jail and is stationed at the tank-testing ground as a nurse. God, then why did we waste time setting those plot events up?
Worse, much of the plot completely blew my suspension of disbelief out of the water. After several chapters to get to know an American journalist, we find out -- in a twist -- that he's actually a German spy. And a few chapters later, in another twist, we find out that the sweet English schoolteacher he's been manipulating is...also a German spy...and the two of them just happened to be placed in the same sleepy English town, with no prior knowledge of each other's missions.
Speaking of that American journalist -- I was pleased when this book started out with a canon gay character. Bradley Ross, an American journalist, takes a risk and flirts with Dirk Alberts, a Dutch journalist, in a bar. Only several chapters later do we learn that this encounter didn't go well for Bradley. He was murdered by Dirk, who is actually straight, and who has taken Bradley's identity. I was a little disappointed to see that gay character go out the window.
Tangled up with the German spies, we have a pair of M15 agents who ... I can only guess that they're crossover characters from another of Ryan's novels. The way he writes them just seems off. References are made to past events, and it's established that they have a long-lasting relationship with Watson, but it's done in such a way that I became convinced I must have accidentally skipped a book. You know, it's like ... like reading a fanfiction for Game of Thrones, and two OCs walk on, and you keep waiting for the author to explain their relationship to the main character, but it just never happens! Then finally you google them and find out they were name-dropped in a non-canon encyclopedia released ten years ago.
Only I can't find where these guys originated!! It's driving me nuts. If they DID originate in this novel, then holy shit, Ryan! You can make it clear that these characters are familiar to Watson while still taking the time to introduce them to the reader.
Worse, these M15 agents, and Bradley Ross, have absolutely no impact on the plot. They're all three given significant screentime and solo chapters, but by the 50% mark, all three are dead. And it has no! impact! on the plot! whatsoever!! It's filler at its finest.
Another quibble: Watson's Holmesian deductions were delicious in the first novel. They're entirely missing from this one! We do eventually get them from Holmes himself, in a single scene toward the end of the novel, but that's it. I missed them. Without them, Watson seems to be treading water.
And I think this is my final issue: in this novel, we learn that Holmes has dementia. At first, I was miserable about this. Holmes with dementia... that's got to be one of my biggest squicks! It's just too sad for me. Dementia runs in my family, and it always depresses me to read about it, especially with a character like Holmes, whom I've loved for so long. But as I got used to it, I appreciated this plot element, and I found myself looking forward to the end. I wanted to see how Ryan would twist the knife. The first book, Dead Man's Land, was filled with heart-wrenching deaths. On the front lines, Watson was constantly introduced to -- and quickly lost -- lively characters, in scenes that left my eyes stinging. I had noticed this was lacking in "The Dead Can Wait" (I couldn't tell you why, but I just didn't attach to these characters the same way; there seemed to be some passion missing from them, behind the scenes) -- but I assumed it was being "saved up", so to speak, for whatever gut-punch resolution came about with Holmes' dementia.
Only...Holmes doesn't have dementia.
Around 75% through the novel, we learn that Holmes actually has a form of anemia that leaves him confused, irritable, and with a great deal of weight gain. With some beef tea, lots of liver to eat, and regular blood transfusions, he can be totally cured. His mind is actually intact.
Now, if I were reading this review, I know for a fact that I'd think, "Oh good! He doesn't have dementia; it's safe to read, then." But man, was I disappointed.
Okay, onto the good stuff!
...Um, well, let's see...
No, no, there were definitely good parts in here. First of all, Ryan's prose remains deliciously descriptive, and his research is still fantastic. Once again I caught myself highlighting passages just because I loved his way with words. I didn't care for the early part of the book, where Watson is investigating 8 mysterious deaths inside of a tank. But I loved the second half, where Watson and Mrs. Gregson join Holmes on the island Foulness, where Winston Churchill is keeping Holmes a prisoner under DORA.
(yes, that's a plot point)
(but we're focusing on the good stuff)
The atmosphere of the island itself, the gloominess and melancholy, the chemistry between Holmes and Watson, the return of Holmes' deductions, Mrs. Gregson as an outside POV, even the insertion of another damnable German spy ... it actually worked here! And it made this part of the story absolutely fun, definitely worth reading. I just wish the rest of it wasn't such a slog!
Quotes
"I'm not the only one in the field," Watson protested. "There are others--"
Churchill shook his head vigorously, his nascent jowls wobbling. "Communists, pacifists and homosexuals."
"Not all at once, surely, sir?"
***
"Bafflement," admitted Thwaites. "And so we turned to you."
"Well, Churchill did. Quite how he knew of our predicament I'll never know," said Swinton, "but he said he had just the men for the job."
Men. Churchill had meant Holmes and Watson. And now they had just the one. The lesser one, they no doubt thought, Watson concluded.
Tut-tut, Watson, we are two halves of the same kidney.
***
"Holmes used to play, you know. Violin, not piano. Not so much in later years. I think he gave up when he realized he was finding the violin versions of Mendelssohn's Songs Without Words trickier than usual."
***
"And he loved Sarasate, the Spanish violinist. One afternoon at St James's Hall, he sat in the stalls wrapped in the most perfect happiness, gently waving his long, thin fingers in time to the music, his languid, dreamy eyes quite unlike the normal Holmes. The music took him to another place, where he no longer had to be the great calculating machine of a detective. I wonder if it can take you out of that place they've trapped you in."
Watson stopped himself, suddenly aware that he had been speaking of his old friend in the past tense, as if he were already lost to him.
***
Coyle finished with the bolts and clipped on the hoses of the cooling system. Using a watering can, he filled the radiator slowly, squeezing the rubber pipes to ease away any air bubbles. When it overflowed he wiped away the excess and examined the radiator core for leaks. He couldn't see any. He got down on his hands and knees, looking for drips. None. But Coyle knew rad repairs failed under pressure and he put on the cap to seal the system, cranked the engine and let it run.
(I just liked this description, that's all!)
***
"I have to go. Churchill told me I was welcome to join Holmes. As his doctor."
"Now Winston has no further use for you. Typical. Foulness is a dreadful spot, Major. Too damp for a man in your condition. Why on earth would you do that?"
Watson turned and looked at her, fixing his eyes on hers, so she would know he was being absolutely serious. As he spoke, machine guns chattered manically in the distance.
"Because if Sherlock Holmes is there, I am going to get him out."
And then he began to cough again, a raspy hacking thing that reddened his face and scoured his throat to rawness over and over until he feared it might never stop.
***
The two men sat in comfortable silence on the sea wall, gazing across the mud-flats that led out to the North Sea. Each had his pipe. Both were well wrapped against the early morning wind that was knifing down the estuary ... The sun was up, but the strange fog of the last few days had reduced it to a silvery disc, like a giant coin hoisted into the sky. The tide was running out, revealing patches of Zostera, out beyond the samphire. Small groups of brent geese were roaming over the shoreline, picking greedily and honking their pleasure at having the harvest all to themselves. Beyond them the sea was a line of glinting silver, slowly being drawn back behind the masking veil of mist. Gulls came and went from this shroud, as if being made to vanish by a magician who could them make them reappear at will.
***
There was the lonely ring of a bell echoing over the water.
(See, again, I just love his descriptions. I'm trying to mentally store these images forever)
***
"I am a universal donor. It won't work miracles, but it will keep you from that abyss you mentioned."
Holmes's brow furrowed. "To be honest, it is more like a black fog. You have the necessary equipment with you? For this...transfusion?"
"I do," said Watson, slightly taken aback. "You aren't going to try to dissuade me?"
"As with the fairer sex, medical matters are your department, Watson."
The major thought back on all the arguments over Holmes's use of cocaine and the days without food when he was in thrall to a particularly vexing case, and how he rarely won any of those arguments with the detective. This was a changed man, at least for the moment. Well, he was going to seize on this new compliance.
***
"Ah, but without me, you only had half of the usual resources," said Holmes with a wan smile. "And you did well. A fifty per cent solution is better than none." There was a twinkle in his eye. "Although as you know, I used to favor a seven per--"
"That's as maybe," said Watson quickly, not wishing to be reminded of Holmes's cocaine preferences.
***
"Well, in a strange way, I am pleased you are here. For Holmes's sake. I feared I would find him rather the worse for wear."
"Oh, I doubt I have much to do with that. I get the feeling he doesn't really care for women. The fact that I like observing and painting birds is far more important than my sex."
"I am not sure I can argue with that."
***
Mrs. Gregson hugged Watson tightly, which caused Holmes some amusement.
"I'm sorry I got caught," she said. "I should have been more careful."
"Nonsense," said Watson. "We knew it was a risky undertaking."
"Keep your voice down," said Holmes with a hiss. "Have you quite finished with him?"
(His disgust at the prolonged hug is hilarious)
***
"Holmes, I can't leave you. There must be another way."
"You don't have too long, what with the tides. You must warn Churchill about Levass."
"You are more important than all that." But was he? Was one man more important than the lives of all those young tankmen, even if that man was Sherlock Holmes?
"My friend--"
"I am not your friend, Holmes."
The detective looked at him askance. "No?"
"Not at this precise moment. I am your physician."
***
"The two men turned to look at the women. Watson shook his head. "The same objections apply. Two women out there? On those sands? I would never forgive myself."
"Dear Watson," said Holmes with an unexpected warmth, "it is so good to see you again. Have I said that?"
"Not in so many words, Holmes."
"How remiss of me. Well, it is true. I heard you say you thought the blood you so generously gave me was responsible for my renewed vigor. My dear chap, it was the sight of you. And the thought of one more adventure out there..." He pointed with his staff. "But it is not to be. Is it?"
"Not this time, Holmes. Not this time."
***
The floating lines and whorls projected onto his retina -- the floaters of ageing eyes -- made it hard to focus, and he imagined figures just behind the curtain of fog, ghosts of all those who had been swallowed by this most treacherous of pathways.
***
But Mrs. Gregson put her hands on her hips. "I am right about you being a German agent, aren't I? It's Miss Pillbody, isn't it? From the village?"
"It doesn't matter who I am."
"The woman who killed Coyle. And Ross. You are the German spy, aren't you?"
Holmes muttered something under his breath. All Watson caught was the note of despair.
(Truly sad that; Holmes, in his temporary state of dementia, didn't even notice that his young birdwatching friend was a foreign agent, manipulating him)
***
"She is right. We still have a chance of out-pacing (the tide)."
"You might. Just. You can save yourself."
Watson gripped Holmes's shoulder. "Nonsense. We'll try together."
"It would be sensible for you to go," insisted Holmes. "Logic dictates it."
Watson was in no mood to be dictated to by friend or logic. "And leave fifty per cent of myself behind?"
***
"He won't leave him, you know. Watson won't leave Holmes, even if he could make it. They'll die together out there."
Miss Deane nodded. "I'm counting on it."
***
"Get Major Watson back as quickly as you got him out there. He's not a young man anymore and..."
Churchill put his hat on. "Don't worry. I'll get him back for you."
"For both of us," she said, glancing at Holmes.
"For both of you."
***
A locus of pain opened up at the top of his spine, and soon his neck was burning and itching. But he knew he mustn't scratch the skin. The exposed parts of his flesh had suffered the most. He would need some more morphia soon. Enough to numb the worst of it. And maybe to take him back into a world where the only light was gas, the only transport was a hansom cab, the air was thick with the sulphurous odor of the London particulars and two men in the prime of life ran rings around Scotland Yard. 'Am dining at Goldini's Restaurant, Gloucester Road, Kensington. Please come at once and join me there. Bring with you a jemmy, a dark lantern, a chisel and a revolver. S.H.'
Ah, how that cheered him. But that world was gone for ever, and not just physically. Nothing would ever be the same, even if they miraculously recovered their youth. There was a darkness over the world now, and it was difficult to see how it could ever glow bright again. The thought squeezed a tear out of the corner of his eye. Self-pity, Watson, said the voice in his head, has there ever been such a wasted emotion? Whatever is to come won't be like the old times. But if our maker spares us, we shall owe it to him to make sure we embrace the days he has gifted us. No, it won't be like it was before. But it'll do us, Watson, it will do us handsomely.
Churchill shook his head vigorously, his nascent jowls wobbling. "Communists, pacifists and homosexuals."
"Not all at once, surely, sir?"
***
"Bafflement," admitted Thwaites. "And so we turned to you."
"Well, Churchill did. Quite how he knew of our predicament I'll never know," said Swinton, "but he said he had just the men for the job."
Men. Churchill had meant Holmes and Watson. And now they had just the one. The lesser one, they no doubt thought, Watson concluded.
Tut-tut, Watson, we are two halves of the same kidney.
***
"Holmes used to play, you know. Violin, not piano. Not so much in later years. I think he gave up when he realized he was finding the violin versions of Mendelssohn's Songs Without Words trickier than usual."
***
"And he loved Sarasate, the Spanish violinist. One afternoon at St James's Hall, he sat in the stalls wrapped in the most perfect happiness, gently waving his long, thin fingers in time to the music, his languid, dreamy eyes quite unlike the normal Holmes. The music took him to another place, where he no longer had to be the great calculating machine of a detective. I wonder if it can take you out of that place they've trapped you in."
Watson stopped himself, suddenly aware that he had been speaking of his old friend in the past tense, as if he were already lost to him.
***
Coyle finished with the bolts and clipped on the hoses of the cooling system. Using a watering can, he filled the radiator slowly, squeezing the rubber pipes to ease away any air bubbles. When it overflowed he wiped away the excess and examined the radiator core for leaks. He couldn't see any. He got down on his hands and knees, looking for drips. None. But Coyle knew rad repairs failed under pressure and he put on the cap to seal the system, cranked the engine and let it run.
(I just liked this description, that's all!)
***
"I have to go. Churchill told me I was welcome to join Holmes. As his doctor."
"Now Winston has no further use for you. Typical. Foulness is a dreadful spot, Major. Too damp for a man in your condition. Why on earth would you do that?"
Watson turned and looked at her, fixing his eyes on hers, so she would know he was being absolutely serious. As he spoke, machine guns chattered manically in the distance.
"Because if Sherlock Holmes is there, I am going to get him out."
And then he began to cough again, a raspy hacking thing that reddened his face and scoured his throat to rawness over and over until he feared it might never stop.
***
The two men sat in comfortable silence on the sea wall, gazing across the mud-flats that led out to the North Sea. Each had his pipe. Both were well wrapped against the early morning wind that was knifing down the estuary ... The sun was up, but the strange fog of the last few days had reduced it to a silvery disc, like a giant coin hoisted into the sky. The tide was running out, revealing patches of Zostera, out beyond the samphire. Small groups of brent geese were roaming over the shoreline, picking greedily and honking their pleasure at having the harvest all to themselves. Beyond them the sea was a line of glinting silver, slowly being drawn back behind the masking veil of mist. Gulls came and went from this shroud, as if being made to vanish by a magician who could them make them reappear at will.
***
There was the lonely ring of a bell echoing over the water.
(See, again, I just love his descriptions. I'm trying to mentally store these images forever)
***
"I am a universal donor. It won't work miracles, but it will keep you from that abyss you mentioned."
Holmes's brow furrowed. "To be honest, it is more like a black fog. You have the necessary equipment with you? For this...transfusion?"
"I do," said Watson, slightly taken aback. "You aren't going to try to dissuade me?"
"As with the fairer sex, medical matters are your department, Watson."
The major thought back on all the arguments over Holmes's use of cocaine and the days without food when he was in thrall to a particularly vexing case, and how he rarely won any of those arguments with the detective. This was a changed man, at least for the moment. Well, he was going to seize on this new compliance.
***
"Ah, but without me, you only had half of the usual resources," said Holmes with a wan smile. "And you did well. A fifty per cent solution is better than none." There was a twinkle in his eye. "Although as you know, I used to favor a seven per--"
"That's as maybe," said Watson quickly, not wishing to be reminded of Holmes's cocaine preferences.
***
"Well, in a strange way, I am pleased you are here. For Holmes's sake. I feared I would find him rather the worse for wear."
"Oh, I doubt I have much to do with that. I get the feeling he doesn't really care for women. The fact that I like observing and painting birds is far more important than my sex."
"I am not sure I can argue with that."
***
Mrs. Gregson hugged Watson tightly, which caused Holmes some amusement.
"I'm sorry I got caught," she said. "I should have been more careful."
"Nonsense," said Watson. "We knew it was a risky undertaking."
"Keep your voice down," said Holmes with a hiss. "Have you quite finished with him?"
(His disgust at the prolonged hug is hilarious)
***
"Holmes, I can't leave you. There must be another way."
"You don't have too long, what with the tides. You must warn Churchill about Levass."
"You are more important than all that." But was he? Was one man more important than the lives of all those young tankmen, even if that man was Sherlock Holmes?
"My friend--"
"I am not your friend, Holmes."
The detective looked at him askance. "No?"
"Not at this precise moment. I am your physician."
***
"The two men turned to look at the women. Watson shook his head. "The same objections apply. Two women out there? On those sands? I would never forgive myself."
"Dear Watson," said Holmes with an unexpected warmth, "it is so good to see you again. Have I said that?"
"Not in so many words, Holmes."
"How remiss of me. Well, it is true. I heard you say you thought the blood you so generously gave me was responsible for my renewed vigor. My dear chap, it was the sight of you. And the thought of one more adventure out there..." He pointed with his staff. "But it is not to be. Is it?"
"Not this time, Holmes. Not this time."
***
The floating lines and whorls projected onto his retina -- the floaters of ageing eyes -- made it hard to focus, and he imagined figures just behind the curtain of fog, ghosts of all those who had been swallowed by this most treacherous of pathways.
***
But Mrs. Gregson put her hands on her hips. "I am right about you being a German agent, aren't I? It's Miss Pillbody, isn't it? From the village?"
"It doesn't matter who I am."
"The woman who killed Coyle. And Ross. You are the German spy, aren't you?"
Holmes muttered something under his breath. All Watson caught was the note of despair.
(Truly sad that; Holmes, in his temporary state of dementia, didn't even notice that his young birdwatching friend was a foreign agent, manipulating him)
***
"She is right. We still have a chance of out-pacing (the tide)."
"You might. Just. You can save yourself."
Watson gripped Holmes's shoulder. "Nonsense. We'll try together."
"It would be sensible for you to go," insisted Holmes. "Logic dictates it."
Watson was in no mood to be dictated to by friend or logic. "And leave fifty per cent of myself behind?"
***
"He won't leave him, you know. Watson won't leave Holmes, even if he could make it. They'll die together out there."
Miss Deane nodded. "I'm counting on it."
***
"Get Major Watson back as quickly as you got him out there. He's not a young man anymore and..."
Churchill put his hat on. "Don't worry. I'll get him back for you."
"For both of us," she said, glancing at Holmes.
"For both of you."
***
A locus of pain opened up at the top of his spine, and soon his neck was burning and itching. But he knew he mustn't scratch the skin. The exposed parts of his flesh had suffered the most. He would need some more morphia soon. Enough to numb the worst of it. And maybe to take him back into a world where the only light was gas, the only transport was a hansom cab, the air was thick with the sulphurous odor of the London particulars and two men in the prime of life ran rings around Scotland Yard. 'Am dining at Goldini's Restaurant, Gloucester Road, Kensington. Please come at once and join me there. Bring with you a jemmy, a dark lantern, a chisel and a revolver. S.H.'
Ah, how that cheered him. But that world was gone for ever, and not just physically. Nothing would ever be the same, even if they miraculously recovered their youth. There was a darkness over the world now, and it was difficult to see how it could ever glow bright again. The thought squeezed a tear out of the corner of his eye. Self-pity, Watson, said the voice in his head, has there ever been such a wasted emotion? Whatever is to come won't be like the old times. But if our maker spares us, we shall owe it to him to make sure we embrace the days he has gifted us. No, it won't be like it was before. But it'll do us, Watson, it will do us handsomely.
