The Patient's Eyes: The Dark Beginnings of Sherlock Holmes

Overview

"It is to you that I owe Sherlock Holmes."-Sir Arthur Conan Doyle to his mentor, renowned forensic scientist Dr. Joseph Bell

As a young medical student, Arthur Conan Doyle, famously studied under the pioneering forensic detective Dr. Joseph Bell. Taking this as a starting point, author David Pirie has woven a compelling thriller which partners Bell (widely believed to be the model for Sherlock Holmes himself) and Doyle as innovators in criminal investigation, exploring the strange underworld of violence and ...

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2002 Hard cover New in fine dust jacket. Book Appears Unread Sewn binding. Cloth over boards. With dust jacket. 256 p. Contains: Illustrations. Dr. Doyle and Dr. Bell Mysteries, ... NO. 1. Audience: General/trade. Read more Show Less

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Overview

"It is to you that I owe Sherlock Holmes."-Sir Arthur Conan Doyle to his mentor, renowned forensic scientist Dr. Joseph Bell

As a young medical student, Arthur Conan Doyle, famously studied under the pioneering forensic detective Dr. Joseph Bell. Taking this as a starting point, author David Pirie has woven a compelling thriller which partners Bell (widely believed to be the model for Sherlock Holmes himself) and Doyle as innovators in criminal investigation, exploring the strange underworld of violence and sexual hypocrisy running below the surface of the Victorian era.

When the impoverished young Arthur Doyle opens his first medical practice, 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 visions of a phantom bicyclist who vanishes as soon as he is followed. This enigma, however, is soon overshadowed as Doyle finds himself embroiled in more threatening events-including the murder of a rich Spanish businessman-that call for the advice of the eminent Dr Bell. But despite coming to Doyle's aid, Dr Bell dismisses the murder of Senor Garcia as a rather unimportant diversion from the incident which Bell considers to have real criminal implications: the matter of the patient's eyes and the solitary cyclist.

David Pirie gained rave reviews for his screenplay depicting the "real" Sherlock Holmes, Dr. Joseph Bell, in the two part, Edgar-nominated TV series "Murder Rooms." Treading that same critically acclaimed ground, The Patient's Eyes is the first in a stand-alone cycle of novels written from Doyle's point of view that include a whole new perspective on the adventures of Bell and Doyle and the genesis of the best-known detective in all of mystery literature. Tense and dramatic The Patient's Eyes marks the debut of a brilliant new crime novelist.

Author Biography: David Pirie was a journalist and film critic before he became a screenwriter and, most recently, a novelist. He lives in Somerset, UK. The Patient's Eyes is his first novel.

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Editorial Reviews

Emily Melton

Sherlock Holmes fans will delight in Pirie's fine first novel, a "factional" account of Arthur Conan Doyle's early life that relates how his association with Edinburgh physician Joseph Bell was the inspiration for his Holmes character. Pirie vividly evokes the dark ambience of Victorian England, his prose is elegant, and his gift for mimicking the slightly haughty tone of Doyle's writing is uncanny. Training to become a physician, Doyle hears a lecture by Dr. Bell, whom he immediately brands as pompous. His dislike gradually turns to respect after he becomes Bell's clerk and assists the doctor with the murder investigations he performs for the police. Doyle's first taste of crime solving comes with the case of Heather Grace, who asks for help with a mysterious eye complaint but also claims she is pursued by a terrifying apparition. Although doubting the veracity of her story, Doyle is so besotted by Heather's beauty and charm that he determines to unravel the mystery but finds himself caught in a disturbing web of deception, greed, and violence. It's hard to say which is more mesmerizing, Pirie's cleverly constructed plot or the oddly moving--albeit fictional--portrayal of Doyle's complex personality. A must-read, especially for historical mystery buffs and Baker Street irregulars.

Publishers Weekly
This brilliant debut mystery from British screenwriter Pirie offers a novel twist on the Sherlock Holmes pastiche, with Doyle as the Watsonian narrator relating the exploits of Dr. Joseph Bell, his real-life mentor and model for the fictional detective. Young Dr. Doyle, trying to make a fresh start after a tragic loss, finds himself enmeshed in the affairs of a patient with unusual eyes, Miss Heather Grace. An heiress who survived the attack of a lunatic who slaughtered her parents, Miss Grace is now terrorized by a nightmarish figure who follows her as she cycles to and from her new home. The plot borrows elements from several Holmes stories ( The Speckled Band, The Solitary Cyclist and Wisteria Lodge ), which ostensibly are merely fictionalized versions of the real puzzle Bell and Doyle tackle. Doyle's falling in love with his patient complicates his and Bell's probe into several murders. The suspects include the young woman's intimidating uncle, who maintains a large collection of poisonous creatures, her perpetually smiling fiancE and an unscrupulous doctor. The author masterfully manufactures suspense, and several passages are truly spine-chilling. Doyle, a painfully human and sympathetic figure whose vulnerabilities help drive the action, and Bell, a very plausible Holmes substitute, are well-matched by their subtle and cunning antagonist. An unsettling solution makes a perfectly appropriate ending for this hard-to-put-down and richly atmospheric thriller. (May 20) Forecast: Pirie wrote the screenplay for the first of five BBC-TV movies, Murder Rooms, which aired in the U.S. in 2000 and starred Ian Richardson as Bell. Needless to say, the airing here of further episodes will give this a boost. Copyright 2002 Cahners Business Information.
Library Journal
Pirie's impressive debut novel features Arthur Conan Doyle as a penurious doctor caught up in a web of deceit. In medical school, young Doyle is drawn to the charismatic Dr. Bell, even though he considers Bell to be somewhat of a charlatan. Surely making deductions from tiny clues isn't what medicine is all about. But Doyle needs Bell's help to uncover the mystery surrounding one of his patients. The beautiful Heather Grace is being stalked by an ominous, disappearing figure on a bicycle. Or is she hallucinating? Doyle struggles with demons from his past as he races against time to save Heather. Pirie's dark, somewhat graphic style is reminiscent of Poe as well as the real Doyle. The main appeal of this fairly conventional murder mystery is the friendship between the two men and the intriguing, if obvious, parallels to Holmes and Watson. Pirie clearly sets the stage for an ongoing series featuring Doyle and Bell. Of wide interest, this is suitable for all public libraries. Laurel Bliss, Yale Univ. Lib. Copyright 2002 Cahners Business Information.
Kirkus Reviews
Arthur Conan Doyle is a 19-year-old medical student in Edinburgh when he becomes the surprise protégé of that brilliant doctor and insufferable egotist Joseph Bell. Dr. Bell's arrogance has made him unpopular with both students and colleagues. But all give grudging respect to his pioneering work in forensics and his resultant success in criminal detection. Young Doyle, who has heretofore drifted through his privileged life at a cool distance, finds in himself an unusual passion for unraveling such mysteries and for collaborating with the idiosyncratic Bell, who by turns dazzles and infuriates him. As Watson to Bell's Holmes, Doyle helps unravel a locked-door mystery and a puzzle involving an elaborate number code the reader also gets an opportunity to crack. Doyle discovers another passion in the delicate and vulnerable Heather Grace, who comes to him as a patient suffering from nightmares following the mass murder of her family by an unknown killer—a case Bell calls one of the most notorious crimes of the 1870s. Anonymous messages and unusual accidents indicate that Miss Grace may still be in danger. Enlisting Bell's help, Doyle soon finds his search for this killer becoming a personal obsession. Pirie shrewdly conceives Doyle as an amalgam of Holmes and Watson, with the former's incisive edge but the latter's ingenuous gullibility. His rich, intelligent writing captures a 19th-century flavor without sacrificing pace. An engrossing, entertaining first novel with dark undertones. Successful as both a mystery and a coming-of-age story, it should have appeal beyond the legion of Holmes fans.
From the Publisher
"It is the combination of style and scholarship...that gives this atmospheric yarn the heightened thrill of intellectual challenge."—The New York Times Book Review

"An intellectual treat and a downright guilty pleasure."

-The Washington Post Book World

"A satisfying Borgesian mix of library riddle, fact, and conjecture, which sidesteps the well-trodden route as a way of investigating Doyle's troubled beginnings."-The Guardian

"A witty elegant conceit...charged with full-blooded melodrama. Pirie creates a convincing Victorian world of eerie moors and fearless detectives, impenetrable ciphers, and strange hooded assassins. Even the novel's villain, the monstrous naturalist Charles Blythe, is a quintessentially Doylean creation.... This is a pacey, enjoyable yarn, with a surprising twist, that ranks with the best of the Doyle canon."-The Times Literary Supplement

"Truly frightening...David Pirie is delving into the 'real' origins of the casebooks."-Time Out

"Read of the week. David Pirie has imagined a much closer association (between Doyle and Bell) of a Holmes-and-Watson kind though scarred with the unquestionably real tragedy of Doyle's alcoholic father and with imaginary melodramas... The idea is a better one than the innumerable...attempts by authors to capitalize on the Holmes name by putting him in concoctions of their own...If David Pirie ever writes a detective of his own I want to read him."-The Scotsman

"Not a novelization but a well-crafted and absorbing novel satisfying in its own right...far more entertaining and engrossing than so many Holmes pastiches that tread familiar paths...a recommended read."-Sherlock Holmes Magazine

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Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9780312290955
  • Publisher: St. Martin's Press
  • Publication date: 5/13/2002
  • Series: Dr. Doyle and Dr. Bell Mysteries Series
  • Edition description: 1ST US
  • Pages: 256
  • Product dimensions: 5.46 (w) x 8.88 (h) x 1.01 (d)

Meet the Author

David Pirie was a journalist and film critic before he became a screenwriter and, most recently, a novelist. He lives in Somerset, UK. The Patient's Eyes is his first novel.

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Read an Excerpt

  The Patient's Eyes

 

 THE RED CORRIDORIts dark crimson, an unnerving colour, was matched by a brown carpet, which led to an oak door on the second floor of our home in George Square in Edinburgh.The year was 1878 and, as I have said, 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 …But no, I will not come to that yet. I want to be sure the reader understands my world, before its darkest and most miserable corners are revealed. It will be hard enough to expose all of them even then.On the night I describe I returned home, knowing it was fruitless to tell my mother of my decision to quit the university. First I must make it official and so the following morning, with the frost still thick on Meadow Walk, I made my way to the university to say my farewell to the students, who had become friends. There were not more than two or three of those and, as for the staff, they cared little who came or went. But I knew my mother’s determination and, before telling her, I must make it official. Then there could be no going back.I came through the arch into the small square of irregular ramshackle buildings known as Surgeon’s Square, where a crowd of medical men were gathered outside one of the lecture halls. A few of the women stood to one side, looking a little apprehensive but for once nobody was troubling them. Colin Stark, a cheerful student from Dundee, waved at me. They were waiting to enter a clinical surgery class.It was then, and only then, that I remembered. I had stumped up an advance of two guineas to attend that class just the previous week. I had not formally enrolled, for a friend handed over my money, but it made no difference. The rules on such matters were typically mean: once fees had been paid, they were never in any circumstances returned. I knew it was hopeless but in view of our straitened circumstances at home I felt I must at least try to get the money back. And so it was that I walked over to the rear of the hall in search of the enrolment office of clinical surgery.With its dark stone corridors and vault-like rooms, much of the building was quite a labyrinth, and I was totally unfamiliar with the warren of doors and passageways behind this lecture hall. I wandered somewhat aimlessly, my footsteps echoing on the grey flagstones. There was nobody to ask and at last I came to a large room with an open door, which I assumed was the office of clinical surgery.The mistake was obvious as soon as I entered. Indeed, as my eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, it was like no other room I had seen in the university. The door opened on to a kind of tunnel between huge shelves of various compounds and chemicals. The tunnel ended at an enormous tank, which ran halfway to the ceiling. In its watery depths a very grisly exhibit was on display. A blood-splattered shirt and vest covered a human torso that appeared to have been severed from the rest of the body. Much later I learned some bloodstained clothes had been draped around a wax impression to give the bulk of a body. But to me then it looked fearful.Staring around, all I saw were chemical and anatomical and surgical instruments, many of a highly unfamiliar kind. A huge shelf of books towered to my left and, though the room extended well beyond that, the volumes blocked my view. Ahead of me was a door and I walked to it quickly, not wishing to be accused of loitering in this place. Here I assumed was the office at last and I turned the handle eagerly. It did not open.‘That door is always locked.’The voice seemed to come from nowhere. It was distinctive, firm but also a little languid.To find its owner I peered round the bookcase obscuring my view. A tall, wiry man with silver hair, in a filthy lab coat, stood in a shadowy corner of the room. He had a raised stick in his hand and was consulting a watch.This was obviously one of the many lab assistants, who prowled around the medical buildings. Quite often, they were of an eccentric nature and a few had given up better jobs to follow their whims.‘I’m sorry. I was looking for Dr Bell’s office to enrol …’ But my words tailed away as he brought the stick down hard on something before him with a great crack.He hit it again. And again. Though advanced in years, his movement was lithe and the force he used was considerable. You would almost have thought the man was fighting some deadly creature. I moved closer to see what exactly it was he was hitting so violently. And started in shock and disgust. For below him was the grey and pathetic cadaver of a middle-aged man.‘In heaven’s name, what are you doing?’ I said and he did not even turn.Was I dealing with a madman? But as he moved eagerly to inspect the corpse, I realised there must be some method in this madness.‘He is dead?’The man looked up quite jovially. His face was sharp-featured and intelligent. ‘Oh, yes, he died about fourteen hours ago. Of a burst blood vessel. He was a soldier, I believe. But see how little trace is made. Not a bruise, not the slightest mark.’‘But why in the world would it matter to a soul? This man is past curing anyway.’The lab man gave me a quick look as he moved past me. ‘In one sense,’ he replied. ‘Now, I would ask you to step to one side.’ And he pointed something at the corpse.There was a sharp report, which made me jump as, to my astonishment, a bullet from a revolver slammed into the sternum. I sprang back, bewildered. ‘My God, you take a risk! The bullet could easily ricochet.’ I was starting to wonder if I would have to report this man before there was a serious injury.‘Oh, I am a great believer in risk,’ he said calmly, his eyes gleaming with anticipation as he moved forward to study the result of his shot. ‘Especially if care is taken over the angle of entry.’I had been aghast. Now, as I marked the loving care with which he observed the result of his actions, I became slightly amused. There was no real danger. He was merely the most eccentric lab man I had yet encountered. But he might prove useful.‘Tell me,’ I said, ‘do you work for Dr Bell?’The man shook his head, as he put his finger over the bullet wound and produced an instrument of some kind to measure its diameter.‘Then I can speak freely. Should I bother to take his class? I am aware he has a reputation, but to my cost I have begun to find that means little here.’The lab man studied the wound. ‘Little to show,’ he mused. ‘But I want to try another angle …’ Then he seemed to register my question. ‘The standard is rather low, I agree. So you are not impressed?’I was quite glad of a chance to unburden myself. ‘I hoped I would be enlightened,’ I said. ‘And I am being bored to death. To tell you the truth, sir, I am on the point of giving up. I have nothing else to follow and it will cause a lot of grief to my people, but if I am truly honest, why I never dreamed there could be such … imbeciles.’I normally reserved such harsh comments about our teachers for my friends, but I had a feeling they would not trouble my new acquaintance and I was right.‘Medicine attracts them, I find,’ he replied, as he shook out some bullets to prepare his revolver for another round. ‘It is one of the problems of the profession.’‘Yes,’ I said, warming to him now. ‘And this Dr Bell seems quite as ridiculous as the rest. I am only here because I paid my fees and cannot get them back. Have you read his twaddle? I saw one article where the man claims to be able to distinguish personality and occupation by someone’s fingernails and boots! What a charlatan! I’d like to set him down in a third-class carriage and make him try to list the trades of his fellow travellers.’‘Perhaps you should suggest it,’ he said with just the hint of a twinkle. ‘He’s probably arrogant enough to accept.’I laughed. I was beginning to enjoy this strange new acquaintance, but before I could continue berating my teachers, something that I did frequently enough, he seemed to lose interest and cut me short. ‘Well, let me show you where to go to enrol. If you paid, it would be folly not to see at least one of his lectures now you are here, even if it is only for the fun of it.’And he marched off with a long stride that left me running to catch up. Once out of the place, he pointed down the corridor to a door at the end and then disappeared back into the room with the merest nod of goodbye.A few minutes later I was conversing with a lugubrious clerk, who confirmed my fees were strictly non-returnable but he was quite happy to enrol me. As usual, his tone made it perfectly clear that neither he nor anyone else cared a jot whether I actually attended.And so, after a few minutes, I walked gloomily back to Surgeon’s Square, reflecting that the lab man was the first person in the whole university, other than a few fellow students, who had shown the slightest interest in what I felt.Twenty minutes later I sat high up in the Cairns lecture hall, amidst a growing throng of chattering students, feeling slightly cheated. I had intended to make a grand gesture and now, here I was, awaiting yet another dull lecture.My friends Colin Stark and James Cullingworth were on either side of me, both equally oblivious of the fact that I had come to say goodbye to them. Stark was a solid, twinkling character from Dundee who managed to enjoy himself despite everything and was always generous-spirited. Cullingworth, the tall and wiry son of a Borders doctor, possessed a very high intelligence and an even higher opinion of himself. While we were talking Neill, a dark good-looking man from the colonies, sat down behind us. He was in some ways my closest companion for we shared a love of stories, especially Poe.‘It is all fixed,’ Cullingworth was announcing with his usual sweep of the arms. ‘We are going to dress a tailor’s dummy tomorrow and wheel it out before Dr Peterson. The man’s half blind, Croom is taking bets on the diagnosis.’‘Arthritis,’ said Neill from behind. ‘Two years ago they put a waxwork into the class of the oldest surgeon here. He described it as having an arthritic condition.’‘Then perhaps a corpse would be better if we dressed it,’ said Cullingworth, vexed. The hubbub began to fade and he turned to me. ‘Your first time? Well, prepare yourself. He’s quite a performer.’I looked down as a solemn man of nearly sixty with a monocle, entered carrying a medical bag. The sight made me groan aloud, though I will admit some of my mood had lifted. I felt more cheerful. I turned to my friends. ‘He looks like just another pompous ass.’‘No, that’s Dr Carmichael,’ said Cullingworth. ‘Bell has quite a retinue. Here.’Now there was a real hush. A majestic figure swept forward through the doorway on to the platform and turned to face the audience. I can recall my shock at the sight of him to this day.For there, in front of my eyes, transformed and resplendent in a dark suit and tie, every inch of him exuding authority, was my lab man.Having been so caught up in my own thoughts, I had failed to see what should have been obvious. No assistant would ever have been granted such liberties. I shrank back in my seat. Indeed, I would have bolted for the door if I could. But no such action was possible. I was pinned in the middle of a row and Bell was now scanning every one of these rows like an eagle.Soon enough he had seen me. He took a step forward. ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Mr Doyle. I am glad you have condescended to come and say good morning to us.’ My friends turned in amazement. ‘Gentlemen,’ he continued, ‘Mr Doyle here is a little concerned he may be in the presence of yet another Edinburgh charlatan.’He spoke the last two words with soft relish. There was a great roar of laughter. Faces were turned eagerly in my direction. ‘But I have something rather serious to tell you, Mr Doyle.’ He paused. A ripple ran through the audience. Was I to be ejected, solving my problem at one stroke?‘Be careful. From the astrologer came the astronomer. From the alchemist, the chemist. From the mesmerist, the psychologist. The charlatan is always the pioneer. The quack of yesterday is the professor of tomorrow. Who knows what strangeness the future brings? And now …’A cadaver was being wheeled behind him and one of his retinue pulled back the sheet to reveal the corpse of a woman. ‘The knife …’ Bell grinned at his audience as he raised his gleaming scalpel, preparing to begin his dissection. ‘Or … is it a wand?’ And with the same agility I had witnessed earlier, he plunged the blade home.When the lecture was over there was much mockery from my fellow students, yet I had changed my mind about leaving. It was not that I was impressed by Bell or his teaching. He struck me as just another plausible but bogus egotist with a fancy line in oratory. That kind of spiel might well impress elderly Morningside ladies and naive students, but I was not about to be fooled.No, I felt as if a challenge had been made to me. Who, exactly, was this man to tell me what a wonder he was? And to mock all my misgivings, when in private he had virtually agreed with them? I would see his course through, since I had paid for it, and find out if it amounted to more than claptrap. I had my doubts on the subject.THE PATIENT’S EYES. Copyright © 2001 by David Pirie. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted October 24, 2009

    I Also Recommend:

    A Sherlock Holmes novel without Sherlock Holmes

    This exciting novel about Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, the creator of Sherlock Holmes, is fast paced and intruiging. If you like the Sherlock Holmes cannon, you'll love this series.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted April 10, 2002

    Holmes fans and historical mystery readers will enjoy

    In 1878, a bored Arthur Conan Doyle is a second year medical student in Edinburgh when the brilliant but unbearable megalomaniac Dr. Joseph Bell becomes his mentor (or perhaps tormentor). Though no one likes Dr. Bell everyone agrees he is a genius. His pioneering work in forensic medicine has fascinated law enforcement and academia alike and has led to a success criminal investigation career. <P>Arthur actually surprises himself when he realizes he relishes solving mystery puzzles and even more shocking at least to him working with¿ or perhaps better put, for the frustrating Dr. Bell. Arthur solves several mysteries and soon needs to protect Heather Grace, a victim of nightmares following the mass murder of her family. An obsessed Arthur believes that Heather remains in jeopardy from a killer who plans to finish the job unless he can protect the woman he cherishes. <P>This reviewer¿s first reaction to this novel was oy vey not another Holmes/Doyle novel. However, that quickly changed from the beginning to thoughts of how entertainingly brilliant is the one sitting read THE PATIENT¿S EYES. Holmes fans and historical mystery readers will enjoy the plot that also enables the audience to solve a puzzler. However, the key to what makes this a wonderfully refreshing novel is Doyle, whom David Pirie depicts as a clever intermixing of the ingenious Holmes with the awed Watson. <P>Harriet Klausner

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    Posted July 28, 2010

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    Posted October 16, 2011

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