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  For Mia and Jackson, and the I.M. in both of them

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  More than a few inquiries have been received regarding the relationship between the Edwardian-era Joanna Blalock, the daughter of Sherlock Holmes, and the modern-day Joanna Blalock featured in my earlier novels. Allow me to remove any confusion by stating that the Edwardian Joanna was the grandmother of the modern-day Joanna. The family history was recorded as follows. On reaching adulthood, the first Joanna’s son, Johnnie, endeavored alongside his famous mother and became one of London’s premier investigators. But over time his interest in the sciences grew more and more intense, and he was later to enroll at Cambridge University to pursue the study of aerodynamics. Prior to graduation, however, he enlisted in the Royal Air Force and eventually flew fighter planes defending Britain in World War II. After the war he returned to Cambridge and graduated with first-class honors before immigrating to San Francisco where he married and shortly thereafter was appointed to a professorship in theoretical physics at the University of California at Berkeley. Early in his tenure he founded an elite group of scientists who were pioneers in the development of supercomputers. His firstborn, the modern-day Joanna, inherited her father’s brilliance and her grandmother’s remarkable skill of deductive reasoning, both of which formed the foundation for her becoming a renowned forensic pathologist at Memorial Hospital in Los Angeles. The current Joanna was not told of her unique lineage, for her father believed its revelation was certain to bring unwanted publicity and unreasonable demands, which would work to his daughter’s disadvantage. However, upon her father’s death, Joanna found an antiquated copy of The Daughter of Sherlock Holmes in his safe-deposit box. In the novel, her father, Johnnie, was portrayed as the son of the first Joanna Blalock who was in fact the daughter of Sherlock Holmes. Like her father before her, the modern-day Joanna decided to keep her extraordinary bloodline a deep secret, for she too was aware of the undesired consequences that were sure to follow its disclosure. Nevertheless, with the illustrious history of the Blalocks now revealed, I think it fair to say that the genius of Sherlock Holmes has been passed down through the generations and is still with us to this very day.

  There is nothing more deceptive than an obvious fact.

  —Arthur Conan Doyle

  The Boscombe Valley Mystery

  INTRODUCTION

  The case I am about to disclose was of such importance that I, John Watson, Jr., M.D., along with my father and my wife Joanna, were required to sign the Official Secrets Act, which bound us to keep secret all matters revealed and committed to us. Every twist and turn in this deep mystery centered on a missing document so sensitive that the fate of Europe may well have rested upon it, and thus the need of absolute secrecy for all those involved. However, with the passage of time and the onset of the Great War, these impediments have been removed and the story of A Study in Treason can now be safely told.

  1

  The Document

  Late spring, 1914

  There was joy in our rooms at 221b Baker Street that frosty London morning, but it was to be short-lived and soon replaced by a most somber mood. My father, John Watson, M.D., the close friend and longtime associate of the now dead Sherlock Holmes, was gradually recovering from a stroke he had suffered months earlier, but he continued to have weakness in his right leg, which caused him to limp noticeably on exertion. Of greater importance, those closest to him could tell that his mind, although still quite adequate, had not yet returned to its former self. It was in this regard that an eminent neurologist at St. Bartholomew’s suggested we use repeated brain stimulation to enhance my father’s mental acuity. Dear Joanna pursued this goal with zeal and spent hours on end reading and discussing old Sherlock Holmes cases with my father. The two never seemed to tire of these exchanges, with my father adding anecdotes never before revealed to the public. But the most enjoyable cerebral exercise for them was standing at the window overlooking Baker Street and studying the individuals passing by below.

  “I say, Watson,” Joanna said, and directed his attention across the busy street. “What do you make of the fellow hurrying to the bus stop?”

  “He is scurrying for a bus,” my father remarked. “Which indicates he is a man of modest means.”

  “The cut of his clothes would tell us that as well,” Joanna observed. “Did you notice the wrapped gift he is carrying?”

  “How do you know it is a gift?”

  “Because it has a ribbon tied in a bow around it.”

  “And nicely done so,” my father said. “I would think it is for his wife.”

  “Then you would think wrong,” Joanna rebuked mildly. “For the man is a widower, as evidenced by the black band on his hat.”

  My father groaned to himself. “I too saw the band, but failed to connect it to the gift.”

  “The finer connections will come, Watson,” Joanna said. “You must be patient, for the process cannot be hurried.”

  My father’s attention was suddenly drawn to another individual below. “Oh, my goodness! I now see an absolutely crazed man coming our way.”

  My curiosity got the better of me and I rushed to the window to gaze out over my father’s shoulder. Running down the sidewalk, which was still covered with yesterday’s freak snowstorm, was a short, portly man, hatless against the cold, who was wildly turning his head from side to side, while at the same time slapping at his legs and chest with both hands. He kept his balding head down to such an extent that those walking toward him had to quickly move aside in order to avoid a collision.

  “He is obviously very disturbed,” I commented.

  “A sad exhibition of a madman,” my father agreed.

  “Should we notify the police?” I asked.

  Joanna shook her head. “There is no need, for he is neither disturbed nor mad.”

  “But his actions say otherwise,” my father argued.

  “Look carefully once more,” Joanna recommended. “Observe the repeated motions of his head and hands. They will explain everything.”

  I, along with my father, studied the man as he drew closer to our window. Neither of us saw anything other than an obviously distraught, middle-aged man who appeared to be making uncontrollable motions with his hands. He paused briefly to raise his arms and then dig his fingers deeply into his waistcoat.

  “Obviously it is small and quite precious,” Joanna commented.

  “What?” I asked.

  “The object he is searching for,” Joanna replied.

  My father glanced at Joanna oddly. “Is that based solely on the poor man reaching into the pockets of his waistcoat?”

  “It is based on everything he has shown us thus far,” Joanna told him. “He is a man desperately searching for something he recently lost.”

  “Pray tell how you reached these conclusions,” my father requested.

  “By connecting all of his motions, for the
y have a common denominator,” Joanna explained. “He is running because of the urgency of the matter, and the fact that he is hatless, despite the cold, tells us he has just discovered the loss and dashed out frantically to search for it. He keeps his head down and moving from side to side in hopes of spotting the lost item in the snow. And finally, he is not slapping at his thighs and waist uncontrollably, but rather patting at the pockets of his pants and waistcoat to determine if the item slipped off and is still in his possession.”

  “But what is this object?” I asked.

  “A small, precious item that will fit easily in the pocket of his waistcoat,” Joanna answered.

  “A timepiece!” my father exclaimed. “It not only would have fit in his waistcoat, but could have unintentionally found its way into his pants pocket. Also notice that as he takes his hand away, there is a gold chain dangling from the waistcoat and that it has nothing attached to its end. I dare say a gold timepiece was in all likelihood once clasped onto it.”

  “Nicely done, Watson,” Joanna said, with a genuine smile. “I must declare that you are coming along wonderfully well.”

  “That is because I have a most excellent guide,” my father praised. “And she reminds me in every way that she is truly the daughter of Sherlock Holmes.”

  “Do you really believe I could match him?”

  My father hesitated a moment before answering, “I would pay a handsome price to view the contest.”

  Gazing at the two before me, I could not help but remember how my life had changed since I first met Joanna only months ago. At the time I was, and continue to be, assistant professor of pathology at St. Bartholomew’s Hospital where I spent long hours, but always managed to look after my father who was still residing at 221b Baker Street and was unfortunately in declining health. Despite his retirement and the fact that his close colleague Sherlock Holmes was long dead, people still sought his advice on criminal matters, which he dealt with in a most gentle and adroit manner. It was in my presence that the highly placed Harrelston family begged my father to investigate the apparent suicide of their son. Although hesitant to do so at first, he leaped at the chance when informed that the man’s fall to his death was witnessed by Joanna Blalock and her young son, Johnnie, who is currently attending a distinguished boarding school in the Midlands. As was known only to my father, Joanna was the product of a one-time assignation between Sherlock Holmes and Irene Adler, the only woman ever to outwit him. Joanna was given up for adoption at birth, after her natural mother’s death, and raised as Joanna Middleton, the adopted daughter of a childless physician and his wife. But Joanna obviously inherited her biological father’s and mother’s brilliance. She read voraciously on a wide variety of subjects and became a highly skilled nurse, one of the few professions that allowed her to use her finely turned brain. Her medical training led her to become an amateur forensic detective. In her early twenties, her name became Joanna Blalock when she married Dr. John Blalock, a respected surgeon from an aristocratic family. But John died in a cholera epidemic and Joanna was left to raise her son alone, albeit in a world of wealth and privilege.

  During our investigation of the Charles Harrelston death, Joanna joined our team and demonstrated her remarkable deductive skills to us and to Scotland Yard. It was she who discovered that the young man’s death was premeditated murder and not suicide. Indeed it was she who set the ingenious trap that caught the killer. Thus, as I was to later write, Sherlock Holmes was after all still with us.

  In the bright morning sunlight I found myself staring at the loveliness of Joanna and was once again reminded of her unique attributes and from whence they came. While her incredible deductive mind was no doubt that of Sherlock Holmes, her most attractive face, with its soft, patrician features and flawless skin, belonged to the stunning opera star Irene Adler. Either of her biological parents could have been responsible for Joanna’s inquisitive, deep brown eyes and tall, trim figure. She was in fact an ideal mixture of genes that only God himself could have put together.

  “Where are your thoughts, John?” Joanna asked, interrupting my reverie.

  “I was thinking how fortunate I was to marry you,” I replied.

  “You caught me at a weak moment,” Joanna jested.

  The three of us chuckled heartily at my wife’s quick and endearing wit that made her all the more lovable.

  Just then the hatless man, who appeared to have given up hope, spotted a police constable and rushed over to him. The man spoke in an animated fashion and seemed to be pleading in earnest. The constable nodded and reached in his coat pocket for a rather large, gold timepiece, which he gave to the man. We watched the hatless man jump with joy, then shake the constable’s hand over and over before dancing away.

  “A timepiece it was,” I remarked. “From its glitter and size, I would guess it came from a bygone era.”

  “Most likely an heirloom, which would make it impossible to replace and thus even more precious,” Joanna added.

  The constable was about to continue on his rounds, but he abruptly stopped as an official government car pulled up to the curb outside 221b Baker Street. He quickly cleared the sidewalk of passing pedestrians, then stood at attention for the occupant of the Wolseley limousine.

  The formally dressed driver hurried around to open the rear door, and out stepped a highly decorated senior naval officer in full regalia. The constable tipped and lifted his hat in respect.

  “Espionage,” my father whispered.

  “Based on what?” Joanna asked at once.

  “My past experience with Sir Harold Whitlock, who happens to be First Sea Lord of His Majesty’s navy,” my father remarked. “Holmes and I were involved with Sir Harold many years ago when he was director of naval intelligence. The matter was so delicate that I can only say it centered upon a spy at the very highest level of government.”

  “Was he uncovered?” I asked.

  “And hanged.” My father ran a quick hand across his silver-gray hair and smoothed out the tattered maroon smoking jacket he was wearing. “Do I look presentable?”

  “Almost,” Joanna said, and moved in to center my father’s tie, which had gone astray. “But your smoking jacket leaves much to be desired. You really should replace it before it becomes nothing more than threads.”

  “Then I shall happily wear my threads,” my father said, with a twinkle in his eyes.

  I remained silent, for I knew full well that my father would continue to cling to the very old smoking jacket until the day he died, because it was the last vestige of his happier, exciting days with Sherlock Holmes. He sometimes spoke of Holmes as if the famous detective would suddenly reappear as he did after his deadly struggle with Professor Moriarity at the Reichenbach Falls.

  Hearing the approaching footsteps on the stairs, Joanna said quickly, “If Sir Harold wishes John and me to leave, we shall take a long stroll to give you complete privacy.”

  “Perhaps the case is not of such great gravity,” I suggested.

  “I can assume it is,” Joanna said with certainty. “Here we have the First Sea Lord, the highest-ranking naval officer in all of Britain, arriving on our doorstep unannounced in the early morning, with no aide or attaché at his side. He is without papers or briefcase and walks at a hurried pace. Thus, we can safely say this man carries a secret of immense importance with him.”

  “Then it must be espionage,” I concluded.

  The footsteps stopped, followed by a gentle rap on the door.

  “We shall know shortly,” Joanna said.

  Miss Hudson, our landlady, showed the visitor in, then backed away, obviously awed by the admiral’s presence. He waited for the door to close before speaking.

  “I hope I am not intruding, Dr. Watson,” Sir Harold said.

  “Not at all, sir,” my father greeted. “It is always a pleasure to see you. Allow me to introduce my son and his wife.”

  Sir Harold nodded to our names, then came back to my father. “I must ask to speak w
ith you alone.”

  “Espionage again?” my father asked.

  “I am afraid this is a state matter that requires absolute secrecy and cannot be spoken of in the presence of others,” the First Sea Lord admonished. “There can be no exceptions, even for those we consider to be most trustworthy.”

  “I take it you wish me to become involved,” my father said.

  “I do indeed.”

  “Then you must include my son and his wife, for they are invaluable associates on whom I greatly depend.”

  Sir Harold hesitated before saying, “I am aware of your recent illness, but was told you had made a nearly complete recovery.”

  “And so I have,” my father responded. “But that does not lessen the value of Joanna and John.”

  Pondering his dilemma, the First Sea Lord glanced back and forth between my wife and me, as if he were trying to assess our qualifications. Seconds ticked by in silence.

  Joanna stepped forward and interceded. “Sir Harold, you are wasting time that I believe you have precious little of.”

  “I beg your pardon, madam,” said he, taken aback by Joanna’s outspokenness.

  “Please forgive my abruptness,” Joanna went on. “But it is obvious that you bring with you a most urgent matter and wish either advice or help. You will receive neither unless you include the three of us.”

  Sir Harold gave Joanna a long, studied look. “I take it you are the long-lost daughter of Sherlock Holmes, whom Inspector Lestrade spoke of so highly.”

  “I am.”

  “He said you could solve anything.”

  “He said too much.”

  “According to Lestrade, you have a knack for seeing clues others don’t.”

  “I see what everyone else sees,” Joanna explained. “But I think what no one else has thought.”

  “And what happens when there are no clues left behind?”

  “There is no such crime,” Joanna said. “Every criminal act leaves a trail that awaits a discerning eye.”