Night Watch: A Long-Lost Adventure in Which Sherlock Holmes Meets Father Brown [NOOK Book]

Overview

It's Christmas Day, 1902. A priest has been murdered in a London church during a secret meeting-to discuss the possibility of a Parliament of World Religions. Now Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson-with some assistance from Father Brown-must discern if the killer is indeed one of the leaders of the world's greatest faiths...



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Night Watch: A Long-Lost Adventure in Which Sherlock Holmes Meets Father Brown

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Overview

It's Christmas Day, 1902. A priest has been murdered in a London church during a secret meeting-to discuss the possibility of a Parliament of World Religions. Now Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson-with some assistance from Father Brown-must discern if the killer is indeed one of the leaders of the world's greatest faiths...



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Editorial Reviews

Frederick Buechner
A marvelous evocation of Edwardian London. A cast of characters that includes not onlySherlock Holmes but also Chesterton's Father Brown. An ingenious plot involving representatives of the six great world religions. Maybe most of all Night Watch provides fascinating new insights into the innermost nature of the immortal detective himself.
George Garrett
What Stephen Kendrick has done here, and done wonderfully well, is to come upon a fresh, original, capital story, then bring that to life and full bloom with art and efficiency. Night Watch is a pure delight, bound to please (and to surprise) the Holmes fans and the Brown fans and everybody else who loves a good tale well-told.
Forrest Church
Religion and mystery are perfect partners to begin with, but Stephen Kendrick weds them brilliantly in Night Watch, as true to the spirit of Sherlock Holmes and Father Brown as it is original and beguiling.
Publishers Weekly
With an ingenuous dismissal of other Sherlock Holmes pastiches as, well, mere pastiches, Kendrick sets about a taut reworking of the venerable "locked room" mystery. His tale of murder in the cathedral, he insists, is genuine: a lost account from the one true chronicler, Dr. Watson. Kendrick also dusts off another of sleuthdom's icons, Father Brown. The mix works. Though the narrative voice little evokes that of the Good Doctor, Kendrick knows and respects his source materials. A cleric himself, he also knows church history. Not only does he use little remembered figures (such as the heretic Pelagius) and events (such as the World's Parliament of Religions in 1893), but he integrates them so well with the mystery that the reader pores over the historical minutiae for possible clues. Representatives from each of the world's major religions gather secretly in a London church to plan for an important ecumenical conference; then one of them murders his Anglican host in most unholy fashion. Holmes and Father Brown have but one night to solve the grizzly murder, aided by such stalwarts as Inspector Lestrade and Mycroft Holmes. In the light of the past century's history and, particularly, recent events, there is a profoundly tragic aspect to Kendrick's plotting and his roster of suspects Roman Catholic, Anglican, Eastern Orthodox, Buddhist, Jewish, Hindu and Islamic who join together in the hope of establishing common ground. A century later, such vision seems all but trampled under. (Nov. 13) Copyright 2001 Cahners Business Information.
Library Journal
The influence of the Sherlock Holmes stories is so pervasive that each year sees more critical essays, parodies, pastiches, or other ways of continuing the Holmes canon. Two novels are the latest to surface, each with its own gimmick. In Night Watch, the great Holmes meets G.K. Chesterton's Father Brown. Kendrick (Holy Clues) stays safely on Holmes's home turf of London, and the tone of the book is closer to the original, with an appropriately sinister atmosphere. Holmes (and his brother Mycroft) and Watson are called to a convention of clerics of the world's major religions, where someone has murdered the host. Throughout the night, more deaths are discovered, but in the space of 24 hours, Holmes apparently solves the case. But then, two weeks later, Father Brown, in his quiet, self-effacing way, provides the real solution. Copyright 2001 Cahners Business Information.
Kirkus Reviews
Given the resourcefulness of Sherlock Holmes pastiches, it was only a matter of time before Holmes, whose posthumous career has paired him with figures from Sigmund Freud to Jack the Ripper, met Father Brown. After an entertaining but detachable prologue in which Holmes neatly solves the disappearance of a storied ruby from his old Oxford college, he returns to Baker Street on Christmas 1902 to an urgent summons from Inspector Lestrade. Inspired by the example of the 1893 Chicago Exposition, the Archbishop of Canterbury has arranged a secret meeting of some of the world's leading clergymen-Roman Catholic, Eastern Orthodox, Jewish, Hindu, Muslim, Buddhist-in St. Thomas's Church, Kensington, in preparation for a possible World's Parliament of Religions. Now that the mutilated body of St. Thomas rector Rev. Paul Appel, has been found in the church, all the illustrious guests have become suspects in his murder. Suavely overriding the visitors' protestations that they never could have had anything to do with such an outrage, Holmes-with strategic assistance from Father Brown, on hand as a translator for the Vatican representative-methodically unveils their deceptions in the course of a wild Christmas night as he wades through a further series of murderous assaults to unmask a clever, sacrilegious plot. Universalist minister Kendrick (Holy Clues: The Gospel According to Sherlock Holmes, not reviewed) has scant opportunity to bring his eminent suspects to life, but he shows an intriguingly complex Holmes, rough edges softened by a healthy respect for religion, but still active enough for the requisite heroics.
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Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9781101010631
  • Publisher: Penguin Group (USA)
  • Publication date: 11/7/2006
  • Sold by: Penguin Group
  • Format: eBook
  • Pages: 272
  • Sales rank: 659,422
  • File size: 351 KB

Meet the Author

Stephen Kendrick is the minister of First and Second Church, Boston, and has previously served churches in Connecticut, Maryland, and Pennsylvania, as well as Unitarian chapels in the West Midlands of England. He has written for The Christian Century, The Hartford Courant, and the New York Times. He is the author of Holy Clues: The Gospel According to Sherlock Holmes.

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Read an Excerpt

One

NONE

Oxford to Baker Street, 3 p.m.

Snow descended on London, swirling in on brisk winds, catching the pale yellow glare of the streetlights as it laid its ghostly white upon our familiar haunts. I stood at our window overlooking deserted Baker Street, marveling on the rare London snow and savoring the strange quiet.

Christmas morning had come and gone, and Holmes was clearly relieved the dreaded festival was almost over. We had just this afternoon returned from Oxford, where Holmes had tried, and singularly failed, to hide away in the Bodleian Library, studying the ancient, musty musical manuscripts he so loved. Instead, we had been dragged into the tinseled maw of a perplexing domestic drama in the home of Holmes's old tutor, now master of St. Mark's. Hailing a hansom cab at Euston Station upon our return to London from Oxford, we hastened straight back to our rooms, thoroughly exhausted.

After a brief rest, a shave, and a light repast of strong coffee, eggs, and kippers, provided by Mrs. Hudson, we were now sharing a convivial silence on this winter's approaching night. In the inner reflection upon the window glass, I could see Holmes as he placidly sat pasting newspaper crime articles into his vast alphabetized volumes, his lean face partially obscured with pipe smoke.

Against the storm, the warmth and light of our apartment seemed a stay against the chaos of city life, whose dirty, coal-smudged tracks, mud, and grime were being sheeted by the innocence of white. From the distance, I heard the faint tinkling of horses' bells as hansoms traversed the oddly muffled streets.

"Yes, Watson, indeed the rose is the most beautifulof the flowers."?

"Good God, Holmes, you have been playing this trick upon me for a good many years, and still leave me dumbfounded."? I turned to face my old companion. "How in heaven's name could you read this in my manner, for I surely betrayed no sign of such a thought?"

He leaned back and sucked in upon his brier-wood pipe, eyeing me merrily. "I have indeed been reading the Book of Watson for some time, the purity of my observations augmented by close familiarity. I saw you set down that book by your chair, page faceup, as you rose, and it opened naturally to a poem most precious to you."?

"Yes, Lodge's ‘When I Admire the Rose,’ but surely—�

"Ah, follow the mind under suggestion. You passed our mantel, where you set our few Christmas postcards, two of which are adorned with roses blooming in winter, one of the glories of our clime. Then, as you stood at the window you absently placed your hands in your pockets, and as you did I could see, reflected in the glass, a look of melancholy cross your face. You were, I believe, touching the rosary that you carry in your pocket, given to you by your late wife, Mary.� He paused. “I believe that was the trail of your thoughts. It seemed natural to bring these mental fragments together, the term ‘rosary’ coming from the rose garden,"? said Holmes, setting aside his glue pot and heavy book. He went to the mantel to poke at his pipe, adding a little shag tobacco.

I sat down in my chair across from him. "Yes, Holmes, that was precisely the gathering of my emotions. You know I am not a religious man; I carry her rosary not out of any feeling of faith but because she held it once."?

"A twelfth-century Persian poet said, ‘Mystery glows in the rose bed, the secret is hidden in the rose.’ � He leaned back in his old velvet chair dreamily, his eyes half closed, as if he were listening to a piece of favorite music at the Royal Hall. “Think of how much of our lives, Watson, we have pursued such secrets, sub rosa.�

I had a little secret of my own from him.

I wondered if this was to be the last Christmas season we would share in our old comfortable digs. My proposal of marriage to a remarkable young woman, a lovely nurse in training I met on rounds at St. Bart’s, had been recently accepted. Since she was with her parents in Essex for the holidays, I had more or less invited myself along on Holmes’s recent college expedition. Though impatient to be married again after so many years, I also harbored a certain nostalgia for these years of bachelor conviviality that were to end in the autumn. I dreaded informing Holmes about my approaching marriage; I knew he would greet this news with his typical asperity and a sharp comment or two. Oh, our long friendship would go on, but subtly changed, more distant, haphazard.

"You know, Watson, it might amuse your readers to some-day record our little Oxford adventure.� He shrugged, and added with a sardonic touch, “The incident illustrates the lesson I have tried to impart to you through the years: that close observation of minute details, not grand theorizing, is the key to revelation.�

As he languidly waved his match out, he gave me an amused look signaling both permission for me to write up the case and, at the same time, a bemused dismissal of my literary efforts.

“It really was a remarkable red ruby sapphire, Holmes, was it not?�

“Yes, it was. You owe it to your readers, Watson, to fully describe it, especially after having confused them years ago with your Yuletide tale of the famed blue carbuncle—only that blue gems of that variety do not exist.�

Ignoring his jocund jibe at a literary license I had taken years ago to obscure the facts of a case, I instead nodded a restrained thanks. I do indeed owe it to readers to describe our little encounter with the Scintilla Stone, because it offers a glimpse into the religious feelings of Holmes, an icy reserve rarely revealed.

In our rented Oxford rooms, I had been happily reading the holiday issue of the Illustrated London News when Holmes unexpectedly reappeared, rousing me with a bag thrown upon his bed and a resigned request: “Come, Watson, the past has claimed us. Gather our things, for we are due shortly at the master’s house of St. Mark’s College.� His old tutor, the Reverend Dr. Sydney Rosewater, unexpectedly encountered in the Bodleian quad at dusk, was insisting we join his family’s celebration. The detective had known in an instant that the quiet evening he had envisioned after his long day in Duke Humphrey’s library was doomed.

It was a short walk from our hotel to St. Mark’s, our footsteps resounding along glistening stone walls. Into the bustle of Broad Street, we were greeted with a small brass band playing “Good King Wenceslas� in front of the great stoic stone heads of the emperors.

“You seldom talk about your college days, Holmes.�

“My two years here were not stellar, Watson. In fact, when that bull pup bit my ankle on the way to chapel, I took it as a divine sign to be on my way to London.�

“I suspect that dog interrupted your last attendance at any religious service.�

“Well, with my then certain heady scientific sensibility, I determined that the compulsory chapels of my youth contained truths too fantastic for me. I am not a scoffer at religion as my brother, Mycroft, is, but I determined then that I would give my sole allegiance to facts, not faith. Yet strangely, I find I am mellowing towards religion in recent years.�

Hoping to keep this rare colloquy from the private Holmes flowing, as he almost never referred to his past, I inquired, “How so, Holmes? I can’t remember when either of us expressed the slightest interest in religion.�

“Ah, well, the faith of crucifixes, stained glass, vestments, and all the paraphernalia of English faith—true, that realm of faith has no appeal to me. But oddly enough, my year in Tibet and my exposure to Buddhism opened my eyes. The monks taught me to still my mind, and surprisingly, I found the rudimentary meditative techniques they gave me congenial to my austere temperament. And suddenly, the religious trappings of a foreign faith made me a trifle more open to religion as a kind of visual poetry, a universal language. Still, I sincerely dread Rosewater’s invitation.�

He would have been far happier if he had known that instead of sentimental piety, his old teacher would soon be giving him the present of the kind of mental puzzle he so delighted in. Soon the imposing white walls of his old college loomed before us, covered in trailing bands of ivy laced with frost. With a sigh, Holmes strode through the imposing Gothic gate. The master’s house, beyond the chapel, was lit with a benevolent yellow glow. Our knock was answered by a suave young man in formal wear, balding and lean.

“Holmes, is it? Come in. My brother said he had snagged you to join our rituals.� He extended his hand and took our bags. “I’m Jeffrey Rosewater, up from London; your territory, Mr. Holmes. And you must be Dr. Watson.�

Five children ran by us in a laughing rush in the entryway. Jeffrey Rosewater rolled his eyes indulgently. The dapper man, trim black mustache giving him a military look, dabbed at his shining forehead with a handkerchief. “Sydney insists all of us must return to Oxford, the Rosewater homestead, in honor of our deceased parents.�

A pretty chestnut-haired young girl, eleven or so, danced back and embraced Jeffrey, crying, “Oh Father, come help us glue our Christmas crackers! Bring us those exploding snaps you brought us from Paris!�

We were then spied by the master, who joined us in the foyer. “Welcome, welcome,� cried Rosewater, small and rotund in a quaint, Pickwickian fashion. He ordered his brother to take our bags. As Jeffrey Rosewater obeyed, standing four inches over his older brother, he was sleek and fastidious compared to the slightly disheveled master. It was clear the master easily and effortlessly dominated his younger brother. It occurred to me that no one knew better than Holmes what it was like to have an impressive older brother who held tenaciously to long dominance.

The little girl interrupted us, saying that they needed to complete their Christmas crackers. This new custom of beginning a perfectly proper meal by yanking open explosive paper rolls and then putting on colored paper crowns clearly filled Holmes with despair, but I found I was enjoying being here.

Master Rosewater leaned near Holmes to whisper, “Lovely little girl, Elizabeth. Her mother died eight years ago, and she’s not taken on Jeffrey’s airs yet, thank goodness. He does the best he can, though he leaves her alone too much with all his travel.�

Copyright 2001 by Stephen Kendrick
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