35. You Must Change Your Thoughts
38. Golden Bear and Silver Tongue
Several years ago, while researching at the Wellcome Library, I chanced upon something extraordinary – an antique handwritten manuscript tied to the back of a yellowed 1880s treatise on cocaine. It was an undiscovered manuscript by Dr John H. Watson, featuring his friend, Sherlock Holmes, published in 2015 as Art in the Blood.
But what happened last year exceeded even this remarkable occurrence. An employee at the British Library whom I shall call Lidia (not her real name) found Art in the Blood in her local bookshop, and upon reading it was struck by the poignancy of Watson’s manuscript surfacing so long after the fact.
It triggered something in her mind and shortly afterwards, I received a phone call in my newly rented flat in Marylebone. This was curious, as our number there is unlisted. She identified herself as ‘someone who works at the British Library’ but would not give her name, and wanted to meet me at Notes, a small café next door to the London Coliseum. She refused to give me any information about the purpose of this meeting, saying only that it would be of great interest to me.
I could not resist the mystery. I showed up early and took comfort in a cappuccino, watching the pouring rain outside. Eventually a woman arrived, dressed as she had told me she would be with a silk gardenia pinned on the lapel of a long, black military-style coat. A pair of very dark sunglasses and a black wig added to her somewhat theatrical demeanour.
She carried a large nylon satchel, zipped at the top. It was heavy, and the sharp outlines of something rectangular were visible within. ‘Lidia’ then sat down, and in deference to her privacy I will not reveal all she told me. But inside her bag was a battered metal container that had come from the British Library’s older location in the Rotunda of the British Museum many years ago. It had somehow been neglected in the transfer to the new building and had languished within a stained cardboard box in a basement corner for some years.
It was an old, beaten up thing made of tin and was stuck shut. She pried it open gently with the help of a nail file.
Certainly you are ahead of me now.
Within that metal box was a treasure trove of notebooks and loose pages in the careful hand of Dr John H. Watson. You can well imagine my shock and joy. Setting my cappuccino safely to the side, I pulled out a thick, loosely tied bundle from the top. It had been alternatively titled ‘The Ghost of Atholmere’, ‘Still Waters’ and ‘The Spirit that Moved Us’ but all of these had been crossed out, leaving the title of Unquiet Spirits.
Like the previous manuscript, this, too, had faded with time, and a number of pages were so smeared from moisture and mildew that I could make out only partial sentences. In bringing this tale to light, I would have to make educated guesses on those pages. I hope then, that the reader will pardon me for any errors.
She left the box in its satchel in my care, wishing me to bring the contents to publication as I had my previous find. As she stood to go, I wanted to thank her. But she held up a black-gloved hand. ‘Consider it a gift to those celebrants of rational thinking, the Sherlock Holmes admirers of the world,’ said she. She never did give me her name, and while I could have ferreted it out in the manner of a certain gentleman, I decided best to let it lie.
I later wondered if she had actually read the entire story that was the first to emerge from that treasured box. But let me not spoil it for you.
And so, courtesy of the mysterious ‘Lidia’, and in memory of the two men I admire most, I turn you over to Dr John Watson for – Unquiet Spirits.
—Bonnie MacBird
London, December 2016
‘Oh, what a tangled web we weave … when first we practise to deceive’
—Sir Walter Scott
My friend Sherlock Holmes stood even firmer on the topic. As a man who relied on solid evidence and scientific reasoning, he saw no proof of their existence. And to speak frankly, to a detective, ghosts fulfil no purpose. Without a corporeal perpetrator, justice cannot be served.
But hard on the heels of the diabolical and terrifying affair of ‘The Hound of the Baskervilles’ which I recount elsewhere, our disbelief in the supernatural was put to a terrifying test. One might always expect my friend’s rational and scientific approach to triumph, yet some aspects of the strange and weird tale I call Unquiet Spirits defy explanation, and there are pieces of this puzzle that trouble me to this day.
Holmes forbade publication of these events until fifty years after his death, and I believe his reasons were due less to any momentary lapse on the subject of ghosts than they were to the revelation of facts concerning Holmes’s last days at university. Thus I defer to my friend’s wishes, and hope those who are reading this account at some unknown future date will understand and grant us both the benefit of a kindly regard on the actions we took – and did not take – in Scotland, in the winter of