The Patient's Eyes: The Dark Beginnings of Sherlock Holmes (Murder Rooms) [Hardcover]

"Writer David Pirie has crafted a clever blend of historical evidence and fiction in the grand manner of a traditional Holmes mystery." -"Variety

THE HIGHLY-ACCLAIMED FIRST NOVEL IN THE MURDER ROOMS CYCLE --This text refers to the Paperback edition.

While a young medical student at Edinburgh, Arthur Conan Doyle famously studied under the remarkable Dr Joseph Bell. Taking this as a starting point, David Pirie has woven a compelling thriller which partners Bell and Doyle as pioneers in criminal investigation, exploring the strange underworld of violence and sexual hypocrisy running below the surface of the Victorian era.The Patient's Eyes takes place in Portsmouth where the impoverished young Arthur Doyle opens his first medical practice. There he is puzzled by the symptoms presented by Heather Grace, a sweet young woman whose parents have died tragically several years before. Heather has a strange eye complaint, but is also upset by a visions of a phantom cyclist who vanishes as soon as he is followed. This enigma, however, is soon forgotten as Doyle finds himself embroiled in more threatening events - including the murder of a rich Spanish businessman - events that call for the intervention of the eminent Dr Bell But despite coming to Doyle's aid, perversely Dr Bell considers the murder of Senor Garcia a rather unimportant diversion from the real criminal affair in Doyle's letter summoning him south: the matter of the patient's eyes and the solitary cyclist Tense, dramatic and unputdownable, The Patient's Eyes marks the debut of a brilliant new crime writer.

THE HIGHLY-ACCLAIMED FIRST NOVEL IN THE MURDER ROOMS CYCLE --This text refers to the Paperback edition.

An eminent doctor...

A brilliant young medical student...

And a compelling series of mysteries which reveal the untold story behind the world's most celebrated detective.

In his first medical practice, young Arthur Conan Doyle meet sweet Heather Grace. He is puzzled not only by a strange eye complaint she suffers from, but also by her visions of a phantom cyclist who vanishes as soon as he is followed.

However, Doyle soon finds himself embroiled in far more sinister events - including the murder of a rich Spanish businessman - and is forced to call on his mentor and later model for Sherlock Holmes, Dr Joseph Bell. But the perverse Dr Bell seems to consider the murder of Senor Garcia unimportant compared with the matter of the patient's eyes and the solitary cyclist...

--This text refers to the Paperback edition.

David Pirie was a journalist and film critic before he became a screenwriter. Just a few of his numerous credits are the BAFTA nominated adaptation for the BBC of The Woman in White and his collaboration with Lars Von Trier on the script of the Oscar-nominated film Breaking the Waves. David Pirie lives in Somerset. This is his first novel.

The year was 1878 and I was in the second year of my medical studies. It was, I remember, a damp, foul night with gusts of that typically squally Edinburgh wind which sometimes blows before it patches of rain and sometimes just cold air and mist. But it was not the wind that summoned me. I was brought up to that corridor by a scream. I stood at the far end, staring along it at the door. I do not think I am a coward, but I can tell you it took every ounce of courage I possessed to walk on. Even now, the sound that came from that room, a great howl of pent-up rage and terror, echoes down the years after me. Could there ever, I wonder, be anything so utterly destructive of a home and of the familial relationships within it than such a sound? No matter how often I heard it, I never grew used to it. But on this night in particular the scream was so horrible that it prompted a crucial decision. Looking back, I feel as if I stood there for hours, watching and fearful. There was no other sound. But in the end I walked slowly down the corridor. I intended to face the occupant of that room. Before I had reached the door with its scratched woodwork around the handle, my mother appeared. Whether she too had heard the scream and was intending to enter I do not know. But, once she saw me, her small figure interposed itself between me and the door. I was determined to go on, but she would not let me. Later we talked in hushed voices downstairs, for my sisters were already asleep and we did our best to keep them and Innes, then hardly more than a baby, clear of this. I have said my mother was small, but when you looked into her face you forgot that at once. It was a strong, fine-boned face, as formidable in its way as the Doctor’s, though its strength depended on a deep emotion. And it was awful to see how distracted that face was now. I barely remember what was said that night. I know we went and prayed down by the fireplace, and that we both knew what we were praying for, only with no idea what form our deliverance could take. I composed myself as best I could to the prayers, but I was impatient with all of it and she knew that. ‘Arthur, you must keep finding strength,’ she said quietly at last as she returned to the jacket she was carefully mending. I barely replied. Rage and despair were so close to the surface, I knew they could erupt. But in my mind I had decided something. My studies were proving quite barren and it seemed suddenly mad for me to stay at the university. In view of all we faced at home, I must at all costs give up my degree and find some kind of employment. My mother would fight against it, but she could not force me to continue. Later I went out, sensing that the streets were a better place to work off these feelings. I turned out of George Square down the wynd and soon I was in one of the coarsest thoroughfares of the old town, a place that often worked on my spirit as a relief at that time. I passed two brightly dressed women in a doorway; one of them came out and did a curious little mock-curtsey that made me smile. I knew, of course, how she earned her money but she was not remotely destitute. Her face was impishly pretty and she wore a bright-green scarf. She asked where I was going and, when I said I was out for a walk, she roared with laughter. ‘You liar, sir, you are for Madame Rose’s.’ She pointed along the street but I had never heard of the place and said so. She stared at me. Then, seeing I was telling the truth, her smile became deliciously mischievous. She put her face close to me, and I could feel her soft breath on my cheek. ‘Why, then you had better come up with me. Here is a reward for being so sweet.’ And she kissed me. After a moment I pulled away awkwardly, feeling a confusion of flushed embarrassment and desire. It was an affecting little meeting and it stays with me for good reason. Less than a year later I saw the same woman lying in a hideously over-furnished room. There was a fire that had spilled out of the grate, burning an old newspaper, there was a bed and some splashed wine and shadows. She was bleeding from shallow cuts that had only just missed her vein and there was a figure crouched over her . . .