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feared it a little.’
    â€˜What is it you have feared, Coombes?’
    â€˜I have feared you would find out who I am.’
    â€˜And who are you?’
    â€˜Since you have become my friend, I might as well confess,’ he said. ‘Anyway, you already know.’
    â€˜Know what?’ I said, trying to project a manly voice. But the words came out almost a whisper.
    â€˜It is too late at night for confessions,’ said Coombes. ‘Tomorrow morning, if you still desire it, I will tell you everything.’
    That night I again slept fitfully, wondering what strange tale I might hear in the morning. I arose early but Coombes had arisen earlier. He was already shaved and dressed. We went out to breakfast together and only chatted on commonplace topics – the quality of food in England versus food on the continent, Welsh myths in relation to Greek myths, and whether the notion that ontogeny recapitulates phylogeny might apply to psychic development. But when we returned to our cottage the subject could be avoided no longer. I stoked the fire. My friend leant back and, placing his elbows on the arms of the chair, he touched all his finger and thumb tips together and gazed at me steadily, with a kindly and curious gaze. ‘I have seen you struggling with this problem for weeks, and now you have guessed, and guessed correctly, my dear Watson . . .’
    â€˜Wilson.’
    â€˜. . . that I am Sherlock Holmes.’
    â€˜Sherlock Holmes!’ I murmured.
    â€˜Is not that what you have been thinking?’
    â€˜Yes – but that’s impossible!’
    â€˜Improbable, certainly. But as a man of science I am not terribly surprised that good Dr Coleman of St Bartholomew’s Hospital, with the help of his many able assistants and all his modern equipment, has been able to bring me back to life – presuming, of course, that I was actually dead . . . a point upon which the metaphysicians of the scientific fraternity seem unable to agree.’
    A fit of nervousness came over me. My hands were actually trembling. I arose and walked to the window. I gazed out at the commonplace and comforting street. I gazed a long while. At last I said, ‘You are a very good actor, sir.’
    Coombes ignored my evasions. ‘Awakening my brain was relatively easy, they tell me. But bringing my body back to function, after ninety years lying frozen in a glacier, was a long, complicated and painful ordeal – indeed, I am not at all sure I would have gone through it if they had given me a choice. But of course I had no choice.’
    â€˜A glacier!’ I cried.
    â€˜Perhaps I should begin at the beginning,’ said Coombes, with equanimity. ‘I take it from the look of horrified disbelief on your face that you are interested.’
    â€˜Yes,’ I said, and I sank into my chair. I had no intention of believing whatever it was he had to tell. But I was certainly interested. Here is what he told me. As he spoke he seemed to intoxicate me, and – for some moments at least – I became quite certain that it was really the voice of Sherlock Holmes speaking . . .

FIVE
    Cedric Coombes and Sherlock Holmes
    I must go back a bit and refresh your memory of history, Wilson, if you are to understand the strange adventure that befell me in the year 1914. The Great War, as I’m sure you recall from your history books, was precipitated when Archduke Franz Ferdinand of Austria-Hungary visited Sarajevo, the capital of Bosnia, and was assassinated by a Serbian fanatic. In retaliation, Austria-Hungary declared war on tiny Serbia, and soon was backed up by its ally, Germany. Russia, in defence of its fellow Slavs in Serbia, jumped in and declared war on both Germany and Austria-Hungary. Britain and France were added to the mix, simply because they had, for many years, been loosely united with Russia. So Russia, France and Great Britain aligned themselves