For my late father and others of his generation born in the dark days of the 1930s, Basil Rathbone was the Sherlock Holmes. And Dr. Watson was Nigel Bruce. Or Nigel Brucewas the Dr. Watson. And as much as I like Granada’s Holmes (played by the superb Jeremy Brett), I’m going to throw my hat into the ring for Basil. Brett’s Holmes is mercurial, histrionic, neurotic and increasingly camp — especially towards the end of the run. I realise, of course, that the literary Sherlock liked nothing more than a generous dose of coke over breakfast — the seven-per-cent solution, not the fizzy stuff — ‘to escape the dull routine of existence’, which may explain a certain edginess — but was the great detective really like this, as portrayed by Jeremy Brett? In the Conan Doyle stories? In contrast, dodgy hairdo aside, Basil Rathbone’s Holmes has a manly, clipped, patrician authority. A man with an air of command, as befitting an officer and a gentleman: Captain Basil Rathbone MC, of the London Scottish, twice British Army fencing champion, a man awarded the Military Cross for ‘conspicuous daring and resource on patrol’, scouting enemy positions by daylight from No Man’s Land, apparently, dressed as a tree — admirably brave and a lesson for us all.