Sherlock Holmes and the Alice in Wonderland Murders

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I can’t honestly say I’ve ever thought of myself as much of a fisherman. In fact, put me behind a rod and line and I find I’m closer to Isaac Newton contemplating the universe than Isaak Walton trying to outwit some benighted bass or sturgeon or whatever. Which is why I confess myself surprised to receive Holmes’s telegram.

“MY DEAR FELLOW STOP NEED YOU ON SCOTTISH FISHING EXPEDITION STOP COME IF CONVENIENT IF NOT COME ANYWAY STOP SH.”

I must admit the prospect of sitting on some yon bonnie bank with the Scots mist finding the chinks in my ulster didn’t precisely fire my imagination but the prospect of seeing my old friend more than compensated for that. I had long nourished a shrewd suspicion that he regarded me as just as much of a fixture in his life as his pipe, his violin, his cuttings books — even his smelly old chemical apparatus. Equally, I knew that he wouldn’t willingly give up one of them, if he had the choice.

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