The Final Thoughts of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
As Imagined by Tom Campbell (with the help of AI tools for research)
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Arthur Conan Doyle died on July 7, 1930, at the age of 71, from a heart attack at his home called Windlesham Manor in Crowborough, Sussex, England. According to his son Adrian's account, Arthur Conan Doyle had been suffering from heart trouble for six to eight months before his death. He passed away peacefully at 9:30 in the morning with his family at his bedside.
This is an imagined account of his final thoughts just before he died. |
So tired now... the chest pains again. Jean says not to worry, but I see it in her eyes. Strange how the body betrays us in the end. All those years of cricket and boxing, and now I can barely cross the garden without feeling winded.
Holmes. Always back to Holmes. The detective who wouldn't die. How I tried to kill him at Reichenbach Falls, only to resurrect him by popular demand. My literary Lazarus. The public loved him more than any of my historical novels. Will that be my legacy then? Not my work on the Boer War, not "The Lost World," but a detective who never existed?
The spiritualist meetings seem so distant now. All those years seeking proof of the beyond. The photographs of fairies at Cottingley... perhaps I was too eager to believe. Yet I've seen things, communications that cannot be explained away. Houdini never understood. So stubborn, so skeptical. I wonder if he knows the truth now, wherever he is.
My dear Kingsley... my boy. Lost in the Great War like so many sons. If only I could have spoken to him once more through the veil. The séances brought such comfort to Jean and me. The skeptics mock, but they haven't felt the presence, heard the voices I've heard.
Strange to think of all my books, piled in libraries when I'm gone. Will they read "The White Company" a hundred years from now? Or just Holmes, always Holmes, with his pipe and deerstalker hat. I never gave him that hat, you know. That was Sidney Paget's illustration.
The garden looks beautiful today. Jean has done wonders with the roses. Their smell and color are an such an embellishment of life. Perhaps I'll sit outside awhile, feel the sun on my face. There's a peace in accepting the end as it approaches. The greatest adventure yet awaits. The final problem, as Holmes might say.
I believe... I truly believe I'll see them all again. Touie, Kingsley, my parents, my brothers... No more need for mediums or séances. Just the crossing over. My research wasn't in vain. Death is but a door.
The pain again... but it will pass. Everything passes. Even the great Sherlock Holmes will be forgotten someday. Though perhaps not as quickly as his creator.
Is there a notebook? I should write this down... these thoughts... while I still... Jean is so beautiful... just look at her...
Holmes. Always back to Holmes. The detective who wouldn't die. How I tried to kill him at Reichenbach Falls, only to resurrect him by popular demand. My literary Lazarus. The public loved him more than any of my historical novels. Will that be my legacy then? Not my work on the Boer War, not "The Lost World," but a detective who never existed?
The spiritualist meetings seem so distant now. All those years seeking proof of the beyond. The photographs of fairies at Cottingley... perhaps I was too eager to believe. Yet I've seen things, communications that cannot be explained away. Houdini never understood. So stubborn, so skeptical. I wonder if he knows the truth now, wherever he is.
My dear Kingsley... my boy. Lost in the Great War like so many sons. If only I could have spoken to him once more through the veil. The séances brought such comfort to Jean and me. The skeptics mock, but they haven't felt the presence, heard the voices I've heard.
Strange to think of all my books, piled in libraries when I'm gone. Will they read "The White Company" a hundred years from now? Or just Holmes, always Holmes, with his pipe and deerstalker hat. I never gave him that hat, you know. That was Sidney Paget's illustration.
The garden looks beautiful today. Jean has done wonders with the roses. Their smell and color are an such an embellishment of life. Perhaps I'll sit outside awhile, feel the sun on my face. There's a peace in accepting the end as it approaches. The greatest adventure yet awaits. The final problem, as Holmes might say.
I believe... I truly believe I'll see them all again. Touie, Kingsley, my parents, my brothers... No more need for mediums or séances. Just the crossing over. My research wasn't in vain. Death is but a door.
The pain again... but it will pass. Everything passes. Even the great Sherlock Holmes will be forgotten someday. Though perhaps not as quickly as his creator.
Is there a notebook? I should write this down... these thoughts... while I still... Jean is so beautiful... just look at her...
You are wonderful.