A CASE OF AGONY — TALES

INSPIRED BY THE AGONY

COLUMNS OF THE

VICTORIAN PERIOD

A col ection of pastiches and scholarly articles on the original Sherlock Holmes Tales

THE CREW OF THE BARQUE LONE STAR

STEVE MASON, THIRD MATE, EDITOR

LIESE SHERWOOD-FABRE, FORMATTER

Copyright © 2020 by The Crew of the Barque Lone Star All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

We dedicate this book to those pioneers who founded our

Society and ensured its initial success, including:

Bill Beeson

Francine Morris [Swift]

Francis “Bullitt” Lowry

Foreword

The Crew of the Barque Lone Star was founded as a scion society of the Baker Street Irregulars in April 1970.

Through the years, the society has been home for many authors of fiction, Sherlockian criticism, and other non-fiction pieces.

As we reached our 50th anniversary of existence, it just seemed appropriate to have present members develop pastiches and essays based on the personal advertisements in the agony columns, which appeared prominently in many stories of the Canon, and assisted the Master throughout his career.

The stories and articles included in this volume are from the fertile minds of crew members of the Barque Lone Star, friends of our Society, as well as other wonderful projects provided to us from other Sherlockian authors. Many thanks to all.

v

PREFACE

A Case of Agony – Tales Inspired by the Agony Columns of the Victorian Period:

A Collection of Pastiches and Scholarly Articles on the Original Sherlock Holmes Tales, From the “Crew of the Barque Lone Star, a BSI scion society founded in 1970, to commemorate its 50th Anniversary

Edited by the Society’s Third Mate, Steve Mason and Formatted by Liese Sherwood-Fabre

-----------------

The introductory chapter, ‘The Agony Column’ in Victorian Culture and in the Sherlockian Canon” by Donny Zaldin examines their origin, evolution, cultural adaptions in literature, song and film, and the use to which Holmes puts them in his work. The text is graced by a pen and ink sketch by Laurie Fraser Manifold of a cutting from The Times destined for one of Holmes’s commonplace books. alongside scissors and glue pot atop Holmes’s sitting room desk.

In a Sherlockian / Doylean pastiche entitled “The Consulting Detective and the Literary Agent: The Untold Tale” by Barbara Rusch, a heretofore unknown relationship between the Sherlock Holmes and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle is revealed in an original ACD manuscript, found in a drawer-full of Lady Conan Doyle’s drawers.

The volume contains twelve traditional Sherlockian pastiches, featuring Holmes and Watson.

• In “A Tale of Two Tales” by Dean Clark and Cindy Brown, set in 1926-27, the estate papers of the Holmes siblings and Dr. John H. Watson are uncovered by Wiggins (yes, that Wiggins), now an esteemed investigator who followed in the footsteps of his mentor.

• “The Adventure of the Ancient Barrow” [an ancient burial mound or structure] by Ann Caddell, set in 1894, follows Holmes’s and Watson’s descent into darkness while investigating an horrific, otherworldly archaeological discovery.

• In “The Adventure of the Mesmeric Medium” by Liese Sherwood-Fabre, set in 1896-97, Holmes is offered another opportunity to enter the supernatural realm in the person of an Irish medium and her spirit guide.

• “The Adventure of the Snared Drummer,” is a reprint of the 1957 parody authored by Robert L. Fish, published in The Incredible Schlock Homes, in which Homes and his associate Watney are consulted to locate the missing timpanist in a musical extravaganza opening in two weeks.

• In “The Case of the ‘Very Intimate Friend’” by Eleanor Hébert, set in 1881, Holmes deciphers a series of agony columns in order to prevent a devious and deadly crime, a decade before the intended victims figure in a Bohemian scandal.

• “The Adventure of the Bloomsbury Affair” by Julie McKuras, set in 1903, revolves around an important scientific field with implications which prove to be more important to the future defense of England than even Mycroft Holmes could have foreseen.

• In “Mary Sutherland’s Agony,” written in rhyme, Richard Krisciunas ponders whether the typewritist’s sorry fate might have been averted if she had placed ads in agony columns to locate her missing fiancé.

• “The Adventure of the Diamond Pins,” is a reprint of the 1915 Holmes parody by Charles Hamilton (pen name, Peter Todd), which features Herlock Sholmes as the detective and sidekick Dr. Jotson.

• In “The Adventure of the Blue Delphinium” by Karen Olson, Holmes deciphers agony columns in the Daily Mail and rescues a still beautiful, retired opera diva from the vengeful hands of her former royal lover.

• In “Sherlock Holmes and the Case of the Laryngologist” by Brenda Rossini, Holmes deciphers an advertisement in The Times of a retired doctor seeking to recreate life while balancing the dueling principles of science and spiritualism.

• “A Message for Holmes” by Dana Richards, set in 1896, traces Dr. Watson’s efforts to apply Holmes’s methods and knowledge of codes to locate him, at the request of Mrs.

Hudson, who is worried over his latest absence.

• In “A Special Time” by Stephen Mason, Holmes, now retired for years and greying at the temples, puzzles over agony columns about gardening in his search for the renowned author H.G. Wells, who has mysteriously ventured off.

Six other contributions include:

• a short poem by Lauren Cercone, entitled “A Sherlockian Behavior,” about Holmes’s “untidy piles” of agony columns;

• an article authored by Thayer Cumings, entitled “Sherlock Holmes and Advertising,” published in 1946 in Volume 1, Number 4 of the Baker Street Journal, about Holmes’s collection of singular newspaper advertisements and agony columns;

• a comic strip, number 296 of “Baker Street Elementary,” the long-running series created and drawn by Joe Fay, Rusty Mason and Steve Mason, in which Holmes de-cyphers coded messages as an exercise to hone his skills;

• a short article by Sandy Cozinn, entitled “Responses to Personal Advertisements,” including one written not by the person whose response was intended, but by a third party;

• a challenging Quiz by Steve Mason on Personal Advertisements and Agony Columns in the Canon; and

• an article by Karen Olson, entitled “Personal Replies of the Unnamed 'Agony Column’ Editor of the London Times,” to six canonical characters: Holmes, Watson, Mycroft, Mrs.

Hudson, Professor Moriarty and Irene Adler.

ENJOY THE READ !

CONTENTS

THE “AGONY COLUMN” IN VICTORIAN

1

CULTURE AND IN THE SHERLOCKIAN CANON

by Donny Zaldin, BSI, ASH © 2020

A TALE OF TWO TALES

18

by Dean Clark, BSI, and Cindy Brown © 2020

A SHERLOCKIAN BEHAVIOR

29

by Lauren Cercone © 2020

THE ADVENTURE OF THE ANCIENT BARROW

30

By Ann Caddell © 2020

SHERLOCK HOLMES AND ADVERTISING

42

by Thayer Cumings, BSI

THE ADVENTURE OF THE MESMERIC MEDIUM

49

By Liese Sherwood-Fabre © 2020

THE ADVENTURE OF THE SNARED DRUMMER

68

by Robert L. Fish, BSI

BAKER STREET ELEMENTARY

78

By Joe Fay, Rusty Mason, and Steve Mason, ASH © 2020

THE CASE OF THE "VERY INTIMATE FRIEND"

81

by Eleanor Hébert © 2020

RESPONSES TO PERSONAL ADVERTISEMENTS

91

by Sandy Kozinn, ASH © 2020

THE ADVENTURE OF THE BLOOMSBURY

93

AFFAIR

by Julie McKuras, ASH, BSI © 2020

MARY SUTHERLAND’S AGONY

106

by Richard Krisciunas © 2020

THE ADVENTURE OF THE DIAMOND PINS

109

by Charles Hamilton

THE ADVENTURE OF THE BLUE DELPHINIUM

115

As Reported by Dr. John Watson to Karen Olson © 2020

Personal Advertisements – Agony Column Quiz

125

SHERLOCK HOLMES AND THE CASE OF THE

129

LARYNGOLOGIST

by Brenda Rossini © 2020

A TOAST TO THE UNNAMED EDITOR OF THE

138

LONDON TIMES "AGONY COLUMN"

by Karen Olson © 2020

THE CONSULTING DETECTIVE AND THE

141

LITERARY AGENT: THE UNTOLD TALE

by Barbara Rusch, BSI, ASH © 2020

A MESSAGE FOR HOLMES

159

Dana Richards, BSI, ASH © 2020

A SPECIAL TIME

163

by Stephen Mason, ASH © 2020

The “Agony Column” in Victorian Culture and in the Sherlockian Canon

BY DONNY ZALDIN, BSI, ASH © 2020

Holmes’s Methods

Over his career as the world’s foremost consulting detective, Sherlock Holmes handled thousands of cases – solving most of them successfully. He was consulted by the official police, either Scotland Yard or local constabularies, and by private clients of the upper, middle and lower classes.

Holmes’s “methods” included an accurate and systematic investigation of the crime scene (by which a logician could, from a single drop of water, infer the possibility of an Atlantic or a Niagara without having seen or heard of one or the other); and a combination of critical observation and ratiocination i.e.- reasoning by a methodical and logical process).

Holmes was aided in his work by his immense knowledge of sensational literature (appearing to know every detail of every horror perpetrated in the century) and aphorisms (his personal and useful, if perhaps less scientific knowledge acquired through the careful observation of the nature of people e.g.- that the instinct of a woman who thinks her house is on fire is to at once rush to the thing she values most). In some of his investigations, he employed the Baker Street 1

BY DONNY ZALDIN, BSI, ASH © 2020

Irregulars, his personal, unofficial police force of young, ragged street urchins.

Holmes also resorted to advertisements and “agony columns” in the newspaper. In fully one-third of the sixty canonical tales, advertisements (BLUE, CARF, COPP, FIVE, GLOR, GOLD, GREE, IDEN, NAVA, REDH, SOLI, STOC, STUD, WIST) and “agony columns”

(BRUC, ENGI, 3GAR, NOBL, REDC, SIGN, VALL) in the major daily newspapers and some smaller local papers figure prominently.

Holmes and Watson perusing The Times Illustration

by Sidney Paget, The Strand Magazine , July 1896

(CROO)

Origins and Evolution of Advertisements and the Agony Column

In 1690, a 32-year old London bookseller, author and printer, John Dunton, was having an affair but could not consult anyone about it without revealing his identity. Realizing that his dilemma could not be unique, he launched the popular, miscellaneous periodical, The Athenian Mercury, and opened its pages to field readers’ anonymous questions, thereby creating the first “agony column” - although that term was not devised until more than a century and a half later.

An early advertisement seeking information of the type utilized by Holmes – was published in The Times (London)on 18 December 1800,

“by a Gentleman seeking a line from the Lady possessing every virtue and charm, whom he handed into her carriage from Covent Garden Theatre on Wednesday, the third of the month.”

The earliest known use of the term “agony column,” appeared in 2

THE “AGONY COLUMN” IN VICTORIAN CULTURE AND IN THE SH…

The Durham Advertiser, on 21 October 1853, though the first such column

originated in The Times. It was defined in the Bristol Times of 3 August 1861, as follows:

The Agony Column in the Times.—The top of the second column of the first page of the Times, is the place where the printers “pile agony.”

Although officially referred to as “The Second Column” by The Times, it was referred to as the “agony column” by almost everyone else, including its correspondents, columnists and readers. In his article titled “The Triumph of Baby,” published in the June 1871 issue of Belgravia, A London Magazine, author and journalist George Augustus Sala wrote, “I am in the habit of smoking over the second column of the Times … called the ‘Agony Column’ …”.

In 1869, the satirical British humor magazine, Judy (a rival to its more established rival, Punch) employed a celebrated detective to unravel the mysteries of the Metropolitan Agony Columns and acquaint the public to them in its pages.

Over the nineteenth century, the column evolved from an advertisement placed by readers seeking personal information from other readers, usually relating to missing persons and lost possessions or pets (more or less a lost and found column) to an advice column, for those seeking guidance regarding personal problems. The term itself refers to the anguish suffered by the person writing in, covering a wide range of human experience and emotion. The requested advice would generally have been answered in England by an “agony aunt” or “uncle”

(depending on the gender of the columnist), or by a “sob sister” in America.

Although unintended and likely unexpected, personal notices and agony columns became a source of entertainment for readers. To quote Shakespeare from his pastoral comedy, As You Like It (in Act II, Scene VII), likely written circa 1599 and first performed in 1623: 3

BY DONNY ZALDIN, BSI, ASH © 2020

All the world's a stage,

And all the men and women merely players; They have their exits and their entrances …

“The reality of the evolving advice column was at odds with its premise,” given the days and sometimes weeks which would elapse between the time of the writing and submission of a question and its publication, together with a response from the newspaper’s columnist.

As it turned out, “the draw of the column was not really about the questioner getting a timely answer; it was about the newspaper’s readers’ voyeurism” – and selling newspapers. The column became a

“public conversation,” which invited readers to learn or weigh in (either with empathy or mockery). Notwithstanding, “the therapeutic act of framing a dilemma, of sharing a problem, kept the advice seekers writing, and the rubberneckers reading.” 1

The columns became a ubiquitous, prominent and popular feature of the daily newspaper.

The Cultural Phenomenon of the Agony Column Morality and propriety in the age to which “a certain gracious lady” lent her name were as staid and confining as women’s undergar-ments of the period. Piano legs were sometimes covered lest they induce ungentlemanly thoughts in men, and chaperones were de rigueur for unmarried ladies, whose incoming and outgoing letters were screened and either confiscated or censored by their fathers, mothers or brothers. Hence, agony columns provided a convenient and inexpensive secret method of communication for unmarried women and men

– or anyone who had no means of sending letters or receiving them without interference or fear of detection.

Obviously, anonymity was required by these secret correspondents or by those simply seeking advice without drawing attention to themselves. Consequently, messages back and forth were encrypted or coded by their writers to avoid detection. Those “denied the privilege of an open correspondence … with a little ingenuity” sought “a way of communication that would baffle those whose eyes they fear." 2

Accordingly, pseudonyms were often used, although some were 4

THE “AGONY COLUMN” IN VICTORIAN CULTURE AND IN THE SH…

transparent on their face (e.g. - using the name “Bocaj” for “Jacob”).

Numbers were substituted for the letters of the alphabet, which were sometimes altered (e.g.- using the next or third letter following: “C” for

“B,” or “P” for “M,” or beginning the alphabet at the letter “L” so that

“O” would stand for “D”). Sometimes stratagems were used to deceive the intended recipient – as in the following notice in the 19 March 1903 issue of The Times: “The solicitors at Beckett Terrell & Co of 10

Ironmonger Lane state that any person by the name of St Amour may benefit by applying to them.” Hoaxes were perpetrated, such as in the case of a man searching for his wife who had left him, advertising that he had inherited a lot of money, thereby hoping to entice her to return to him. 3

It became something of a cottage industry to try to decipher the back-and-forth correspondence of the columns, which showed “a curious phase of life, interesting to an observer of human existence and human eccentricities. Messages were veiled in an air of mystery, with a view of blinding the general public, but at the same time gave a clue unmistakable to those for whom they are intended.” 4

Members of the newspaper-reading public from all classes, including the exclusive members of the myriad of nineteenth-century gentlemen’s clubs of London, read, followed up and analyzed the correspondence in the agony columns. At times the casual observer became a participant in the exchange. In his 1893 Hand-Book of Literary Curiosities, William S. Walsh wrote of The Times agony column: 5

Even ciphers have been found dangerous. There are everywhere certain ingenious busybodies … that make a study of this column, and, finding a key to the cipher in which a clandestine correspondence is carried on, insert a marplot advertisement, – sometimes for the mere fun of the thing, sometimes to stop an intrigue …

[Author’s note: a marplot is defined as one who frustrates or ruins a plan or undertaking by meddling, named after Marplot, a character in a 1709 play, “The Busie Body”].

In his 2015 article titled, “Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s Cipher,”

Marino C. Alvarez concurred.

5

BY DONNY ZALDIN, BSI, ASH © 2020

In one circumstance, a student at Oxford was using cryptograms to send secret messages to his sweetheart. However, because this was a somewhat common occurrence, Sir Charles Wheatstone, a prominent and noted cryptologist, would review the “agony column” on Sunday afternoons as a pastime. Following some of the messages over time, he read the encoded message between Charlie, an Oxford student, and his woman friend suggesting that they elope. Wheatstone intervened by placing an advertisement of his own directed at these two persons that advised that that they abandon this foolhardy plan. A few days later there appeared a message that read: “Dear Charlie: Write no more. Our cipher is discovered!”

Notwithstanding, some of the agony columns of over a century ago remain unsolved to this day.

In the early twentieth century, newspapers worldwide adapted their front pages to employ headlines in order to attract the attention of potential purchasers in order to increase circulation. The last holdout was The Times, which stayed with the personals (including agony columns) on its front page until 1966. This event was heralded in the Free Lance-Star of Fredericksburg, VA, with the headline, “‘Agony Column’ Now Missing From Page 1 of London Times.” The article read as follows:

The millennium has come when The Times of London decides to print NEWS on its front page! … Since time immemorial (1785), this highly respected newspaper has devoted page one entirely to advertisements

… But The Times, staid voice of the British Establishment, recently announced that the ads will be relegated to pages two and three …

The change in format means that the Personal, or so-called “Agony”

Column will lose its preferred position. Through the years the column has reflected the folkways and foibles of the English … In the days of Disraeli and Dickens, some adverts in the column were written in code, and a fashionable pastime amongst the leather armchairs of Pall Mall clubs was cracking the cryptograms.

6

THE “AGONY COLUMN” IN VICTORIAN CULTURE AND IN THE SH…

Advertisements in the Sherlockian Canon While investigating cases, Holmes searched the newspapers for advertisements, which figure in several cases, including:

“The Adventure of the Red Circle”: Holmes finds a string of ads in The Daily Gazette from one “G,” who turns out to be Gennaro Lucca, communicating with his wife, Emilia.

“The Adventure of the Red-Headed League”: Jabez Wilson’s helpful assistant, Vincent Spaulding, points out to him an ad in The Morning Chronicle about a tremendous employment opportunity held out by The Red-Headed League.

“A Case of Identity”: Poor, deluded Mary Sutherland advertises in the Chronicle for her missing fiancé, Hosmer Angel, little dreaming how lost that cause was.

“The Adventure of the Solitary Cyclist”: It is an advertisement in The Times that lures Violet Smith into a perilous position in the home of Mr. Carruthers.

“The Adventure of the Engineer’s Thumb”: An advertisement for a missing engineer reveals to Holmes the last time that Colonel Stark needed to have his machine overhauled.

“The Adventure of the Stock-Broker’s Clerk”: Hall Pycroft advises Holmes that he successfully answered an advertisement for a billet at Mawson & Williams, a great stock-broking firm in London.

“The Adventure of the Bruce-Partington Plans”: Holmes tracks communications between the spy Hugo Oberstein and the traitor Colonel Valentine Walter through ads in The Daily Telegraph.

“The Adventure of the Greek Interpreter”: Mycroft Holmes, that least energetic of men, stirs himself to place an ad “in all the dailies” offering a reward for information about Paul Kratides from Athens and a Greek lady whose first name is Sophy.

7

BY DONNY ZALDIN, BSI, ASH © 2020

Sherlock Holmes and the “Agony Column”

Holmes was an omnivorous reader of sensational literature, which encompassed newspaper agony columns, the first thing he read each morning. The Canon mentions dozens of newspapers and journals in which these columns appeared, including The Times, Daily Chronicle, Morning Chronicle, Devon County Chronicle, Globe, Star, Pall Mall Gazette, St.

James Gazette, Standard, Weekly Echo and Telegraph.

Holmes clipped, arranged, inserted and indexed these columns in the commonplace books in which he filed newspaper reports and other annals of crime, biographies and his records of old cases – all mixed with the accumulated information of a lifetime.

Agony Column, The Times , Page 1, Second Column,

Sketch by Laurie Fraser Manifold, 2020 Artist-in-

Residence: Serpentine Muse and Canadian Holmes Time and again, Holmes turned to agony columns in his consulting work, whether to locate a witness, gain information or entrap a criminal.

Watson reports that Holmes solved codes (in GLOR, REDH, VALL

and DANC) and wrote a monograph analyzing 160 separate ciphers, many of which he found in the agony columns.

There are seven stories in the Canon in which the term “agony column” is used and played an important role.

In “The Adventure of the Engineer’s Thumb,” Watson called upon Holmes with his patient Victor Hatherley in tow, finding the detective as he expected – lounging about his sitting-room in his dressing-gown, reading the agony column of The Times and smoking his before-breakfast pipe.

8

THE “AGONY COLUMN” IN VICTORIAN CULTURE AND IN THE SH…

In The Valley of Fear, Holmes compared the “apocrypha”

(i.e.- hidden or secret writings) of the agony column to those contained in ciphers.

In “The Adventure of the Noble Bachelor,” Holmes confirmed to Watson that the agony column “is always instructive.”

In “The Adventure of the Bruce-Partington Plans,” Holmes examined a series of agony columns in the Daily Telegraph and arranged them into “a fairly complete record,”

incriminating Colonel Valentine Walter as the thief and traitor.

In “The Adventure of the Three Garridebs,” Holmes sparred verbally with Nathan Garrideb, “I should have thought, sir, that your obvious way was to advertise in the agony columns of the papers.” Holmes then commented to Watson, “There have been no advertisements in the agony columns. You know that I miss nothing there. They are my favourite covert for putting up a bird.”

In The Sign of the Four, Watson writes, “I tossed the paper down, but at that moment my eye caught an advertisement in the agony column. It ran this way: ‘Lost.—Mordecai Smith, boatman … the steam launch Aurora … the sum of five pounds will be paid to anyone who can give information

… at 221B Baker Street as to the[ir] whereabouts …’ This was strictly Holmes’s doing … It struck me as rather ingenious.”

The most illuminating pronouncement Holmes made on the subject of the agony column and its importance in his criminal consulting practice is found in “The Adventure of the Red Circle.”

There is one rather obvious line of investigation … what a chorus of groans, cries and bleatings! What a ragbag of singular happenings! But surely the most valuable hunting ground that ever was given to a student of the unusual.”

9

BY DONNY ZALDIN, BSI, ASH © 2020

In Chapter 7 (titled, “A Hunting Ground of the Unusual”) of his 1986 novel, Room Two More Guns: The intriguing history of the Personal Column in THE TIMES, author Stephen Winkworth, writes: There can be no doubt that throughout the Sherlock Holmes stories, Conan Doyle drew heavily on the personal column as a device in the unfolding of his plots and as a source of inspiration in general.

Winkworth also quotes journalist and author Peter Fleming, as follows:

The column conveys a feeling of ‘infinite possibility’ in the mind of the regular reader; it offers a cross-section of a vastly intricate world, made up of millions of intersecting human lives, all either passively co-existing or interacting, whether on a commercial, romantic or criminal level. Every day some chance fraction of those dealings will be evidenced in a few printed words, often terse and enigmatic, and those printed slivers, like a microtome of a tumour, give the reader a diagnostic vision of the whole purulent metropolis and its outlying limbs – this was the source of its continuing attraction for Dr. Doyle.

The day to day listing of articles, legal statements, places, names and dates is a sort of spoil-heap of trivial fact: a hunting-ground not only for detectives but for the literary imagination. As Holmes himself remarks, ‘life is infinitely stranger than anything which the mind of man could invent. We would not dare to conceive the things which are really mere commonplaces of existence.’ The key to the fascination of the column is that it achieves the effect of lifting the lid off London, as Holmes put it in “A Case of Identity”: ‘If we could fly out of that window hand in hand, hover over this great city, gently remove the roofs, and peep in at the queer things which are going on, the strange coincidences, the plannings, the cross-purposes, the wonderful chains of events, working through generations, and leading to the most outré results, it would make all fiction with its conventionalities and foreseen conclusions most stale and unprofitable.’ 6

To Winkworth, it is Holmes himself who touches on the “very soul 10

THE “AGONY COLUMN” IN VICTORIAN CULTURE AND IN THE SH…

of the personal column” in the opening sentence of “The Adventure of the Copper Beeches”: 7

“To the man who loves art for its own sake," remarked Sherlock Holmes, tossing aside the advertisement sheet of The Daily Telegraph,

"it is frequently in its least important and lowliest manifestations And he posits that Holmes is referring here to the column as “ver-nacular art” as he and Watson dip continuously into the advertisement columns of a succession of newspapers. 8

The Agony Column in Popular Culture

So pervasive was the agony column that it entered the popular culture in song, literature and film.

1. In the 1870s, that ubiquitous newspaper feature was celebrated in a song titled “The Agony Column, or, Little Di,” written by W. Burnot and composed by T. Roberts. The words were published in NY in 1878, in Beadle’s (Half-Dime) Singer’s Library (No. 16) of Comic and Sentimental Songs of All Nations and Ages, and the words with music in the contemporary Comic and Humorous Songs, Second Series, published by S.

Brainard’s Sons, NY.

“The Agony Column or Little Di”

One day not far from Regent Street,

Where cabs and buses whirl,

I saw beneath a horse’s feet

A fascinating girl.

To save her life I risked my own,

What mortal could do less,

She thank’d me warmly but refused

To give me her address.

11

BY DONNY ZALDIN, BSI, ASH © 2020

[SPOKEN after the first verse.]

I persuaded her but she would only consent to advertise in one of the papers making an appointment with me she said would head it with her name Little Di – I asked her whether she would put it in the Agony Column of –

CHORUS

The Standard or The Telegraph, the Echo or the Times, Observer, Reynolds, Judy, Punch, or Bow Bells or the Chimes, The Hornet, Lloyds, or Figaro or one of the Reviews, The Globe or Sun, Dispatch or Fun, or Illustrated News.

12

THE “AGONY COLUMN” IN VICTORIAN CULTURE AND IN THE SH…

She mentioned one in which she said,

She’d name a time and spot,

But which the paper was alas!

Somehow I’ve quite forgot.

In vain my memory I task,

It gives me no reply,

So every day as they come out,

I have to go and buy.

CHORUS

I have to read the whole lot through,

At least that part I mean

Where column after column of

Sheer agony is seen:

How “Charlie is implored to come”,

And “Jane is asked to call”,

And if dear XY will return,

He’ll be forgiven all.

[SPOKEN] And you’ll find it in the Agony Column of –

CHORUS

I thought as I’d to sing tonight,

I’d ask if you had seen,

In any other paper,

The advertisement I mean.

13

BY DONNY ZALDIN, BSI, ASH © 2020

If so pray kindly let me know,

It would be good indeed,

For you’ve no notion what it is,

Each day to read –

CHORUS

______

2. In 1916, mystery novelist Earl Derr Biggers wrote The Agony Column (also published as The Second Floor Mystery) to critical acclaim. Set in 1914 before the start of The Great War, Geoffrey West, an American businessman visiting London, is reading the agony column in the Daily Mail over breakfast at the Carlton Hotel. He notices a beautiful and charming young American woman named Marian who is reading the same newspaper feature, and he places an anonymous ad in order to meet her. To his pleasant surprise, she answers it, anonymously as well, and agrees to meet him if he writes her a letter in the paper each day for a week and his letters prove that he is worth knowing. Of course, he does and they do, and they wind up together and embark on a melo-dramatic trail of romance, mystery, intrigue and murder, as war clouds gather over England and Europe.

[Author’s Note: A decade later, Biggers would author the first of six Charlie Chan novels, achieving even greater fame and fortune.]

3. In 1930, Biggers’s novel was adapted into a movie, titled “The Second Floor Mystery,” a Warner Bros. production directed by Roy Del Ruth, starring Grant Withers and Loretta Young, as the two Amer-14

THE “AGONY COLUMN” IN VICTORIAN CULTURE AND IN THE SH…

icans who meet in pre-World War I England through the personal columns in The Times.

[Author’s Note: During the filming, the two co-stars eloped in real life.]

The Agony Column as Victorian Social Media The agony column served as the social media of its time, connecting those searching for missing loved ones or just for love, or simply seeking answers to personal issues. Though described as an automaton, almost inhuman, Holmes was possessed of a thorough grasp of human nature, with as uncanny an instinct for the intricacies of the criminal mind as a familiarity of the human heart, despite the fact that he was himself almost entirely disconnected from such personal matters. Had the tools of such modern social media as Face-book, Instagram, Twitter and the numerous dating apps been at his disposal, they would no doubt have provided him with more advanced tools in his crime-fighting arsenal. One arrow in his quiver which was available to him in his quest to solve mysteries and bring criminals to justice was the agony column, in its day a hugely successful means of conveying private information in the public sphere.

_______________________________________

Endnotes

1. Scutts, Joanna, “The Evolution of the Advice Column.”

medium.com/s/story/the-evolution-of-the-advice-column-4676167c4317, 2018.

2. Clay, Alice, Ed., The Agony Column of the Times, 1800-1870 (London: Chatto and Windus, 1881), Introduction.

3. Clay, Agony Column.

4. Clay, Agony Column.

5. Kesselman, Bryan, ‘Paddington’ Pollaky, Private Detective (Gloucestershire, UK: The History Press, 2015).

6. Winkworth, Room.

7. Winkworth, Room.

8. Winkworth, Room.

15

BY DONNY ZALDIN, BSI, ASH © 2020

_______________________________________

BIBLIOGRAPHY

Alvarez, Marino C., “Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s Cipher.”

Publications and Papers. http://www.nashvillescholars.net/

scholarPosts_cipher.htm. Filed February 2015, Last accessed September 13, 2020.

Andriacco, Dan, “Sherlock Holmes and the Agony Columns.” Dan Andriacco’s Baker Street Beat. http://

bakerstreetbeat.blogspot.com/2013/07/sherlock-holmes-and-agony-columns.html. Filed July 3, 2013, Last accessed September 13, 2020.

Biggers, Earl Derr, The Agony Column. (Indianapolis: Bobbs-Merrill, 1916), Chapters 1 and 2. [Also published as The Second Floor Mystery]

Burnot, W. and T. Roberts, “The Agony Column, or, Little Di.” Beadle’s (Half-Dime) Singer’s Library (No. 16) of Comic and Sentimental Songs of All Nations and Ages, 1878, and Brainard’s Sons Comic and Humorous Songs, Second Series (n.d.).

Clay, Alice, Ed., The Agony Column of the Times, 1800-187 0

(London: Chatto and Windus, 1881) Introduction.

[Uncredited Staff Writer]. “Agony Column Now Missing From Page 1 of London Times.” Free Lance-Star, The, Fredericksburg, VA. April 27, 1966.

Kesselman, Bryan, ‘Paddington’ Pollaky, Private Detective (Gloucestershire, UK: The History Press, 2015).

Martinez, Raymond, “What is the origin of the ‘agony’

column in the newspaper or magazine?” https://www.

quora.com/What-is-the-origin-of-the-agony-column-in-the-newspaper-or-magazine

Myoarin, “What was the ‘agony column’ of London’s ‘The Times’ newspaper?”

Quezi: Now You Know (professional researchers post).

Quezi.nfshost.com/12445.

Sala George Augustus, “The Triumph of Baby,” A London Magazine (June 1871).

16

THE “AGONY COLUMN” IN VICTORIAN CULTURE AND IN THE SH…

Scutts, Joanna, “The Evolution of the Advice Column.”

https://medium.com/s/story/the-evolution-of-the-advice-column-4676167c4317. Filed August 10, 2018, Last accessed September 13, 2020.

Shakespeare, William, As You Like It (Act II, Scene VII) Tréguer, Pascal, “Origin of ‘Agony Column” and “Agony Aunt.” https://wordhistories.net/2017/01/27/agony-column/#:~:text=But%20agony%20column%20originally%

20denoted,Agony%20Column%20in%20the% 20Times.

Last accessed September 13, 2020.

Turner, Keaghan, “Sherlock Holmes and the ‘Agony Column’: A Study in Convergent Media.” English Literature in Transition, 1880-1920, 61, no. 4 (April 18, 2018): 427-449.

Walsh, William S., Handy-Book of Literary Curiosities (London: J.B. Lippincott Company, 1892)

Winkworth, Stephen, Room Two More Guns: The intriguing history of the Personal Column of THE TIMES (New York: Harper Collins, 1986) Chapter 7: “A Hunting Ground of the Unusual.”

Zaldin, Donald, “The Cipher in “The Dancing Men”: A Study in Sources.” Dancing to Death: Annotations and Commentary on the Story. Betzner, Ray, Ed. (New York: BSI Press, 2016) 17

A Tale of Two Tales

BY DEAN CLARK, BSI, AND CINDY BROWN ©

2020

Dedication

The authors thank Tulsa Sherlockian Brian Wilson for expert editing. They also thank Tulsa Sherlockians Brandi Blankenship, Noel Fairbrothers, Jane Langston and Richard Kearns for informative and entertaining discussions of the Canon, the quality of gloves and much else. Richard died unexpectedly just as this story became complete, and it is dedicated to his memory. He, like a famous consulting detective, ranked with the best and wisest. He was supremely generous in spirit and possessions. His like is too rarely encountered.

The lead author of this concoction has been in contact with Hamish Hudson for more than 30 years. He is the great-grandson of Sherlock Holmes’s landlady at 221-B Baker Street and the current heir to the estates of the Holmes siblings and Dr. John H. Watson. Those estates had considerable financial assets, but, of much more interest to Sherlockians, was the existence of several manuscripts that purported to be unpublished accounts of detective investigations or biographical information by or concerning Sherlock Holmes. Hamish Hudson has forwarded several of these to D.C. over the years and, after some editing, they have been published by several BSI scion societies or given as 18

A TALE OF TWO TALES

playlets at the Gaslight Gala during the BSI’s birthday celebration each January.

What follows is a mildly edited version of a document that Hamish Hudson asserts was among the papers found in Dr. Watson’s desk following his death in 1929. It appears to be part of a journal that he kept during his final years when he was living in retirement at 221-B

(the reasons are explained in “The Case of the Restored Losses,”

published by the Afghanistan Perceivers of Oklahoma in 2005).

The document appears authentic to the authors, whose editing was limited only to excising material that did not relate to the Holmes-Watson collaboration. The text that does appear is exactly what was received from Hamish Hudson. We conclude this introduction with advice that remains pertinent despite going back thousands of years: Caveat emptor!

_______________________________________

16 October 1926

Received a telephone call from Holmes this a.m. to inform me that he, of all people, had written a history of one of his cases and that he had attempted to copy my style in this literary endeavor. Of course, he failed to mention how he had regularly derided my chronicles of his cases (which had made him an international celebrity) over the years.

I deftly avoided the subject and congratulated Holmes on his accomplishment. He said the story, titled “The Adventure of the Blanched Soldier”, would appear in the United States in Liberty magazine in an issue that was probably printed at that very moment. It would appear in England in the November issue of The Strand, which was expected to go to press in a few days.

_______________________________________

5 November 1926

Received an advance copy of the November Strand today. Green-19

BY DEAN CLARK, BSI, AND CINDY BROWN © 2020

hough Smith always sends one to me, undoubtedly in the hopes that it will inspire me to write more about Holmes’s cases, which still, after all these years, boost circulation by the thousands. It, as promised, contains

“The Blanched Soldier”, and I, of course, began reading it immediately.

Holmes, you sly dog! In the second paragraph, you explain my authorial absence with the phrase, “Watson had deserted me for a wife”. This was, I imagine, an attempt by Holmes, still encumbered by Victorian priggishness, to protect my reputation because the reader would assume the wife was mine. Nice try, as we old rugby players say.

The lady in question was Lovely Lily from Lille, formerly a famed danseuse at the Orpheum Music Hall. She was then espoused to a man of enormous wealth and sexual appetites and who wanted to make a change in his bedroom accoutrements. Lily, after a substantial sum had been deposited in her bank account, agreed to leave the country for a few weeks so her then-husband could obtain a divorce on the grounds of abandonment. She asked me to accompany her, and I accepted on the spot. Anyone who had ever viewed those long, beautiful legs would have nodded approvingly. They didn’t go up to her eyes, but they did to mine.

And what a dancer! We did the can-can in Cancun, a rumba in Aruba and some samba in our pajamas. We began, and ended, the beguine in the Argentine. (Or for you toe-may-toe/toe-mah-toe philistines, we were terpsichorically entwined in the Argentine.) The climax was a memorable tango in Tonga. No, Tonga is in the Pacific.

That must have been another trip.

Was it with the Russian coquette who couldn’t say nyet?

Or the fraulein who nicht spricht nein?

Or the redhead from Rocky Top who couldn’t say stop?

Or the domineering Dane, Ophelia Payne?

But enough of such memories, as delightful as they are. Back to the, I assume, unfortunate soldier.

_______________________________________

6 November 1926

20

A TALE OF TWO TALES

Thoroughly refreshed after the best night’s sleep I’ve had in weeks –

courtesy of Mr. Sherlock Holmes. His story caused me to drop off in my chair in the sitting room. What drivel! No detective work was required to “solve” the case, if the incidents described even met that designation. Certainly, the story contained none of the brilliant insights which are the foundation of Holmes’s reputation. I am at a loss as to why Holmes felt this mundane matter needed to be published.

_______________________________________

7 November 1926

Got out of bed grouchy after minimal sleep – again thanks to Holmes. Although his story struck me as pedantic in the extreme, something about it bothered me throughout the day and following night. Something was not right.

So, I reread the story, going over every line as carefully as Holmes would examine trodden grass outside a window belonging to a room where murder had been committed. Nothing struck me as out of the ordinary during this rereading. But just as I started to close the magazine, an idea popped into my head, and I started reading the story again, only faster and with a definite goal in mind.

I soon found what I sought. It was something I thought I would never see. Holmes had, unwittingly to be sure, admitted that he had made a mistake! He had seen but not observed!

And, amusingly (at least to yours truly), it is a mistake that Holmes would not have made had I been at his side, not Lovely Lily’s. In the opening scene of the story, when James Dodd is summarizing the event pertaining to the unexplained disappearance of his friend Godfrey Emsworth, he says they met in January 1901, when Dodd joined the Army and found himself in the same squadron as Emsworth.

But Dodd then says Godfrey Emsworth is the only son of Colonel Emsworth, one of the empire’s most famous soldiers and winner of the V.C. for legendary heroism in the Crimea. At this point, had I been present that day in 221-B, my military background would have sent signals to my brain that something was amiss. The son of a famous and highly respected officer would not be serving in the ranks unless he had 21

BY DEAN CLARK, BSI, AND CINDY BROWN © 2020

committed an act, possibly even a crime, that would deny a commission.

Holmes, never having been in uniform, did not grasp the importance of this key piece of evidence. In fact, late in the narrative, when Holmes analyses (with thoroughly annoying smugness) the steps leading to his ultimate deduction, he specifically excludes criminal activity as a reason for Godfrey’s isolation. It was, apparently, the first possibility that Holmes eliminated. In my opinion, it should have been the first one investigated.

I confess, with a somewhat but not completely guilty conscience, that it crossed my mind that it would be quite wonderful if the bumbling Dr. Watson (or so the reading public think) proved the great Holmes wrong and dared him to publish an amended version of

“Blanched Soldier” with the credit going to his long-suffering associate.

So, I telephoned the Baynes Detection Agency and hired my old associate Wiggins, now one of its most esteemed investigators, with instructions to find out all that he could about Mr. Godfrey Emsworth.

_______________________________________

7 December 1926

What a delightful day – most fun since I met Martina the Latina with the finest maracas in Caracas …

Or maybe the foxy doxy Roxy from Biloxi,

Or the heiress from Paris,

Or her naughty niece from Nice,

Or the uncouth Ruth from Duluth,

Or Camille from Seville,

Or Alice from Dallas

(Or was it Dallas from Alice?),

Or Paloma from Roma,

Or that pistol Crystal from Bristol,

Or that filly Billie from Philly – who couldn’t say neigh.

(I can already hear, should someone ever read these scribblings in 22

A TALE OF TWO TALES

the future, the groans. But you must indulge an old man whose body can no longer satisfy his desires. And, in my defense, I point out that I refrain from mentioning Billie’s sister, Winnie.) The cause of my delight was twofold. It began two days ago, when I received the December issue of The Strand. To my great surprise, it contained another story by Holmes, and it was even blander than its predecessor. This one was titled “The Lion’s Mane,” and it certainly does nothing to enhance Holmes’s reputation. His detective work consisted of looking up something in a book! Good grief ! Even Lestrade can read.

The only interesting part of the story is in the presence of Maud Bellamy, a lady of such overwhelming beauty that even the seemingly libido-less Sherlock Holmes was apparently knocked off his feet. This, according to Holmes’s narrative, all took place in 1907, nearly two decades ago and after Holmes had retired and moved to Sussex.

Holmes never mentioned the marvelous Maud to me in all the intervening years. Perhaps he was concerned that my “natural advantages”

vis-à-vis the fair sex would prove a hindrance should I meet a lady in whom he was interested.

The second cause of my delight occurred in the afternoon when Wiggins arrived to give his report concerning Godfrey Emsworth from

“The Blanched Soldier”. His findings were much more interesting than Holmes related in that story because it looks like this is a case worthy of Holmes at the peak of his powers. Godfrey Emsworth has disappeared (again in 1907) without the slightest trace, and this second vanishing act is much more intriguing than its predecessor.

Wiggins began his investigation by contacting James M. Dodd, the ex-soldier who had originally brought Emsworth’s first disappearance to Holmes’s attention in 1903. That was the only easy part of the investigation because Dodd was (as he had been then) a stockbroker on Throgmorton Street. According to Dodd, Emsworth, after recovering from ichthyosis, had moved to London and became a stockbroker in Dodd’s firm. Emsworth was apparently well-suited to this field and seemed headed for a prominent position within a few years. Then, in 1907, he suddenly, without mentioning it to anyone beforehand, requested a holiday. He left almost the moment the request was granted and was never heard from again.

23

BY DEAN CLARK, BSI, AND CINDY BROWN © 2020

Dodd, of course, attempted to find his friend. Holmes was now retired and unavailable, so Dodd had to employ other detectives.

However, not a single clue was found in Emsworth’s residence or office regarding his “holiday” destination, so Dodd was forced to end his quest. (At that point, does one consider mentioning the love that should not be named? Richard Hudson, my current flatmate at 221-B, thinks such a relationship between Dodd and Emsworth is blatantly obvious.)

The interview with Dodd revealed, not surprisingly, that Colonel Emsworth had died several years ago and that his widow had moved in with a sister’s family in Aberdeen. Wiggins had located her and had just returned from an interview with the lady in that city in northeastern Scotland.

Mrs. Emsworth, like Dodd, had had no contact with her son since his disappearance in 1907. She said she and her husband had not corresponded with Godfrey after he had moved to London and had no knowledge of the sudden “holiday”. They had no information or even a hint of his travel plans, but she did mention that Godfrey had inherited a large sum of money that was paid upon his father’s death.

After confirming that suspicion, Wiggins said he asked her why Godfrey served in the ranks as a common soldier and not as a junior officer. Mrs. Emsworth, according to Wiggins, was reluctant to answer but ultimately revealed the reason. Her son had been a student at one of the “coaching” establishments to prepare for the examination he needed to pass so he could enroll at Sandhurst, but he had been expelled for two reasons: He had badly failed in mathematics, and he had been apprehended for stealing money from another student. His father was, of course, furious. He accused his son of bringing shame to the family’s good name and said he could redeem himself only by enlisting as a common soldier and earning a commission by working up through the ranks.

When Wiggins relayed this information to me, I thought I had outsmarted my old friend Holmes. I knew that only something as significant as a serious crime could keep Godfrey Emsworth from having a respectable rank in the military, based on his father’s career. Wiggins located the coaching establishment in Sussex; and found that it was owned and operated by a man named Stackhurst. However, he had 24

A TALE OF TWO TALES

died, and the establishment closed. I – forgive the cliché – nearly leaped from my chair in excitement.

“Was Mr. Stackhurst’s first name Harold?” I asked.

“It was”, Wiggins replied.

“Then we are back on the scent”, I said, “because that is the establishment that Holmes describes in a story – ‘The Lion’s Mane’ – in the most recent issue of The Strand”.

I pointed to the magazine, lying on the coffee table, and added,

“Read it for yourself”.

I explained to Wiggins that based on the story, Ian Murdoch, a mathematics professor, played a key role in “The Lion’s Mane,” and he may very well have been involved in this second disappearance of Godfrey Emsworth.

Wiggins skimmed “The Lion’s Mane” quickly and said, “This story leads to two conclusions. First, Sherlock Holmes is no Dr. John H.

Watson when it comes to story-telling. Second, I need to find that math tutor, Ian Murdoch”.

“And”, I added, “Maud Bellamy. Godfrey Emsworth was or is a handsome man, so it’s highly likely he had some contact with marvelous Maud. Cherchez la femme”.

I reminded Wiggins that Maud Bellamy had been secretly engaged to Fitzroy McPherson in “The Lion’s Mane”, although Murdoch had had eyes for her before she started seeing McPherson. Later, Murdoch seemed to accept the relationship as a permanent one and became friends with them both.

_______________________________________

6 January 1927

Wished Holmes a happy birthday but did not inform him of Wiggins’s interesting interview with Maud Bellamy and other discoveries. The following is a synopsis of his report.

Miss Bellamy told Wiggins that she is like a sister to Godfrey and understands his relationship with Dodd. At times when Dodd goes off to see Emsworth, she travels with him as his wife to subdue suspicion.

She had married a Mr. William Thomas fifteen years earlier, but he 25

BY DEAN CLARK, BSI, AND CINDY BROWN © 2020

later died and left her financially comfortable. Not interested in remarrying and retaining her maiden name, she supported the relationship between Dodd and Emsworth. Obviously, Dodd had been less than accurate when he said he had no contact with Emsworth after the latest disappearance.

Wiggins, in analyzing various Agony Columns, had seen a number of responses that appeared to be to and from Miss Bellamy, Dodd and Emsworth. His task was arduous because there were still seven daily newspapers in London and the correspondence seemed to jump from one to another. But after studying each paper for a week, he recognized a pattern in the correspondence and tracked it with a fair amount of success. The messages between Miss Bellamy, Dodd and Emsworth included what appeared to be times and places to meet and warnings to be vigilant.

Miss Bellamy seems to have been in contact with Emsworth since the day he vanished and has known of his location all along. While

“missing”, Emsworth accessed the inheritance from his father with Dodd’s help and dealings with financial institutions. All three made a pact years ago to remain friends in secret. After many years, Dodd and Emsworth could stand it no longer. Tired of living separately, they wanted to spend their last years together.

Dodd, however, was an esteemed, wealthy stockbroker. Since homosexuality was illegal, he could be sent to prison and lose his fortune if the relationship between him and Emsworth was exposed. In addition, Ian Murdoch was a sinister figure, far different from his description in “The Lion’s Mane”. He constantly pressed Miss Bellamy for marriage and suspected that she knew Emsworth’s whereabouts.

According to Miss Bellamy, Emsworth disappeared nearly twenty years ago because he knew something about Murdoch and feared for his life. Emsworth had attended Stackhurst’s coaching establishment where Murdoch taught mathematics.

Again, according to Miss Bellamy, it was not Emsworth but Murdoch who cheated. If Murdoch didn’t like a student, he made sure that he failed the exams in math. This is what happened to Emsworth.

Murdoch also made it look like Emsworth had stolen money, but, again, it was the conniving Murdoch who was guilty. Emsworth told Stackhurst and others, including his father, but they all ignored him.

26

A TALE OF TWO TALES

When Emsworth went to work for the stock brokerage, Murdoch, using the threat of blackmail, forced him to embezzle small sums of cash – enough for a little walking-around money. Auditors never saw these minute amounts as embezzlement and assumed they were poor investments. Emsworth managed to replace the stolen money. But as time went on, and especially over Emsworth’s final year in London, Murdoch pressed him to steal larger sums, and Emsworth knew he could not satisfy those demands, so he disappeared. It was the only way he could escape Murdoch’s threats and stay out of jail.

Emsworth purchased a small cottage in the south of France, where he and Dodd shared many enjoyable days. France was much more tolerant than England of alternative lifestyles such as theirs. The cottage, ten miles from the nearest village, afforded them privacy, a garden and beautiful views. This is where Emsworth spent most of the last twenty years – not a bad life, but certainly lonely.

His correspondence to and from Dodd became increasingly stressed because he knew Murdoch was trying to track him down.

Murdoch feared Emsworth was alive and in possession of enough evidence to convict Murdoch of his crimes. He would stop at nothing short of killing Emsworth. Emsworth decided that if he were ever going to have a real life, he would have to clear his name by exposing Murdoch’s crimes. Shortly after Christmas, Wiggins discovered this note in an Agony Column. Written from Dodd to Emsworth, it was published in Spring of 1926.

Do not act as you propose. It would be madness and could only end in misery, worse than anything you dream. JD to GE.

_______________________________________

21 January 1927

Wiggins acted in a manner worthy of his mentor. Through the Agony Columns, he tracked Dodd and Miss Bellamy to one of their meeting points. He warned them about Murdoch’s erratic behavior of late. Wiggins had acquired this information from his own Irregulars, his eyes and ears on the streets of London. Murdoch had been going on 27

BY DEAN CLARK, BSI, AND CINDY BROWN © 2020

cocaine-induced sprees and swindling people. Based on Wiggins’s concern that Murdoch might become violent, they agreed that Dodd should leave immediately for France. His brokerage business was arranged so that he could leave it in the hands of capable assistants and check back in a few months later, if all seemed safe. Plus, this would stop Emsworth from carrying out his plan to confront Murdoch.

After Dodd’s departure, Wiggins returned to the Baynes Detective Agency ostensibly to begin another case. However, two junior detectives tracked Murdoch and reported his continued descent into poverty.

As a result, and with Dodd and Emsworth out of the country, Wiggins felt they were safe.

_______________________________________

1 June 1927

According to Wiggins, Dodd is considering a return to London to take over the firm’s management again, or to possibly oversee his final business wrap-up with the brokerage firm. He posted a notice in every newspaper Agony Column to alert Miss Bellamy. She replied: Safe travels and fair winds be at your back with your dear friend. Your former problem is truly that. Former! From MB to JB

What did this mean? I can only speculate, based on the information from Wiggins. While Miss Bellamy was seen around London from time to time, Murdoch, after January, was never seen or heard from again.

One conclusion is obvious, but so are other possibilities. I do not know and don’t want to know. But I often have thoughts of the surname Bellamy, which is French for bel ami or belle amie – good friend.

So is Maud a belle amie or “La Belle Dame Sans Merci,” the Beautiful Lady Without Mercy?

_______________________________________

28

A Sherlockian Behavior

BY LAUREN CERCONE © 2020

Whenever Holmes searches his files

He leaves behind untidy piles

Of papers and tat

All over the flat

Which Mrs. H soundly reviles.

Then Watson said, “See here now, Holmes –

You’ve thoroughly buried our home.

I do hate to squawk

But I really must balk -

It makes me quite lose all aplomb*.”

“Dear Watson!” cried Holmes, “Fear you not!

I’ve unraveled a most fiendish plot!

’Twill make a fine story

(The details are gory!)

No matter the villain’s not caught.

* This rhyme works if you use the UK pronunciation 29

The Adventure of the Ancient Barrow BY ANN CADDELL © 2020

The year 1894 was a busy one for my friend Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and I was privileged to accompany him on the majority of his adventures that year. By the end of the year, I had filled three massive manuscript volumes with the notes of our cases. I have already laid before the public the strange occurrence at Yoxley Old Place, in which a golden pince-nez led my friend to the solution that had eluded all others.

However, now that several years have passed and my nightmares have subsided somewhat, I feel equal to describing to the world the singular contents of the ancient British barrow, and the disaster of cosmic proportions which my friend was barely able to avert.

Our descent into darkness began on one of those rare, brilliant London spring mornings when the sunshine seems to bring new life to the most ordinary of settings. Holmes and I had just finished our breakfast, and he was reaching for the bell to ring for Mrs. Hudson to take away the dishes when she appeared unsummoned in our doorway.

“Ah, Mrs. Hudson,” said Holmes, “I see that your landlady’s intuition has developed to such a point that you can anticipate our needs before we communicate them.”

“I don’t know about intuition, Mr. Holmes, but I do know that a very flustered gentleman has just arrived at the door, and nothing will do but that he is allowed to see you immediately, if not sooner.”

30

THE ADVENTURE OF THE ANCIENT BARROW

“Well, well, since he is so insistent, you may as well send him on up, and perhaps a refill on the coffee while you are at it, thank you.

Watson, I trust you will remain to hear what our flustered gentleman has to say for himself.”

“I should be delighted,” I replied.

“Flustered” barely did justice to the middle-aged man who appeared in our doorway. His white hair and beard were disheveled, his collar askew, and the coat of his expensive but rumpled suit was unbuttoned. His wildly darting eyes refused to settle on any object in the room. Holmes immediately put on his most soothing manner and got our visitor settled into an easy chair with a fresh cup of coffee, into which I had slipped a small medicinal dose of brandy.

After he had collected himself somewhat, our visitor began: “Oh, Mr. Holmes, I do apologize for bursting in on you in this way, but it is no exaggeration to say that you may be literally the last hope for the future of mankind!”

“Dear me,” said Holmes, “I have handled vitally important cases before, but never one with quite such universal stakes as this. But perhaps you could begin by filling us in on some of the particulars, such as your name and the nature of your problem?”

“Of course, of course. I am Professor Albert Bridgewater, chairman of the Archaeology Department of Miskatonic University, in the American state of Massachusetts. I came to England to participate in a joint expedition with Professor Castlevain of the Archaeology Department of Oxford University, to excavate an ancient barrow-mound in the County of Wiltshire, not far from the giant standing stones of Salisbury Plain. Little did I know the consequences of what we were destined to unearth!

“I first met Professor Castlevain last year when we both attended an archaeological society meeting in St. Louis. While we were there, a police inspector named John LeGrasse of New Orleans approached me with a stone statuette of grotesque and disturbing appearance, wanting to know if I could shed any light on its origin. He had obtained it while investigating the mysterious disappearances of numerous dwellers in the swamps of Louisiana, and hoped that any information about it would aid in his investigation. None of us had ever seen anything like it, but its horrifying appearance made a deep impression on all of us. It 31

BY ANN CADDELL © 2020

was a bas-relief of a monstrous creature, which I can only describe as a cross between a bat and an octopus. Beneath the image was a series of hieroglyphs unlike any language I had previously seen. However, the right-hand edge of the sculpture and the bottom of the hieroglyphs appeared to be broken off, leaving jagged edges. I could make nothing of it, but I persuaded LeGrasse to let me take it back to Massachusetts with me for further study. I think he was happy to have it out of his possession, as its very presence caused uneasiness.

“About six months later, Professor Castlevain was excavating a barrow in Wiltshire that contained a remarkable quantity of sculptures, hieroglyphs, and other strange objects, and he recognized one of the objects as very similar in design, and in grotesquerie, to the Louisiana statue. He invited me to join him, and I traveled to England as quickly as I could, bringing the Louisiana statue with me for comparison. How I wish I had never brought it across the ocean!

“When I reached Wiltshire, I found that Castlevain had unearthed what appeared to be a mate to the Louisiana statue. It depicted a similar entity in bas-relief, with similar hieroglyphs, but most strikingly, it was also broken, with the jagged edge on the left side fitting with the jagged edge on the right side of the first sculpture. However, the bottom edges were still broken, indicating that some unknown quantity of hieroglyphs remained undiscovered. And much as either piece inspired some nameless horror by itself, the two pieces joined seemed somehow even more terrifying.”

“Wait a moment,” said Holmes. “I was under the impression that the Wiltshire barrows dated to the fourth millennium BC, long before any possible travel between Europe and the new world. How could two pieces of the same sculpture be in both places? Could they be later burials?”

“Ah, Mr. Holmes, you have placed your finger on it. The Wiltshire barrow had lain undisturbed until Castlevain’s excavation, and many other objects from the barrow clearly date to the expected era. And yet, it would be hard to dispute that the two fragments belong together, frightening though the implications were. To add to our unease, in addition to the students and locals who were helping with the dig, a couple of furtive men of Eastern European appearance were 32

THE ADVENTURE OF THE ANCIENT BARROW

frequently seen loitering around the site. And both Castlevain and I had begun having increasingly disturbing nightmares almost nightly ever since we first joined the two pieces of the statue.

“As we had made no progress deciphering the partial hieroglyphs on the sculpture, we determined that Castlevain would return to London to see if the British Museum could help shed any light on the meaning or provenance of the bas-relief while I continued to look for more fragments – although we both felt increasing trepidation at the prospect of actually finding them. However, due to our uneasiness at the strange loiterers, we agreed that any confidential communication between us would be conducted through the agony column of the Times. And only two days after his departure, I found the following: BRIDGEWATER – I am horrified at what I have discovered. If possible, let me know the worst.

“Clearly he had found some information to confirm our formless fears, and was worried about what else I might have unearthed in his absence. I decided to return to London immediately with the bas-relief, leaving the dig in the hands of the students. Clutching the locked chest where we stored the fragments, I rushed back to London by the first train. But as I stepped onto the platform at Charing Cross, I was suddenly jostled from behind and fell, losing my grip on the chest. By the time I picked myself up, I was barely able to see two men sprinting away, one with the box under his arm. Although they were moving fast, I could swear they were the loiterers from the dig. I raised the alarm, but the station guards were unable to apprehend them, so I decided to keep my appointment with Castlevain and give him the bad news.

“When I met Castlevain at the British Museum, he appeared to have aged ten years. He said he had prevailed on the museum director to let him see the forbidden Necronomicon, a book kept under lock and key due to its tendency to drive its readers insane. He discovered that the strange creature depicted in the bas-relief was Cthulhu, the progenitor and leader of the Elder Gods, beings from beyond the stars who came to earth through the ether when our planet was still being formed. These beings ruled over the young world before the land had 33

BY ANN CADDELL © 2020

divided into the continents that we know today. As the lands separated and the native life-forms evolved and developed, the Elder Gods became dormant in the hidden places of the earth. However, they had left instructions for their human followers to restore them to their former glory. The book not only contained the key to deciphering the hieroglyphs, it suggested that by chanting the full inscription under precisely the right astronomical conditions, it was possible to release the Elder Gods from their long sleep to once again reclaim the world from man.”

I could contain myself no longer. “Oh, come, Professor, surely this is an elaborate joke. Here we are, in the most enlightened country in the world, surrounded by the most modern technology of the nineteenth century, and you spout fairy tales that would not convince even a child! What are you playing at, sir?”

“I understand your skepticism, but you have not seen what I have seen. Perhaps these photographs of the missing bas-relief will help to convince you.”

He pulled an envelope from his coat pocket and spread an array of photos on the table. Holmes and I quickly bent over them, and just as quickly withdrew with gasps of horror. It is impossible to do justice to the sheer “wrongness” conveyed by the shape in the photographs. A feeling of brooding malevolence seemed to issue from the paper itself.

However, Holmes quickly mastered his revulsion and began to study the pictures with a magnifying lens.

“Now you have the merest hint of what Castlevain and I have been dealing with,” said the Professor. “But our greatest fear is that the strangers who no doubt stole the fragments have already obtained the last missing portion of the hieroglyphs and plan to use the full inscription to summon the Elder Gods. Oh, Mr. Holmes, you must help us find and destroy this abomination!”

“Well, Professor,” said Holmes, “although I remain skeptical of the existence of these Elder Gods, I see a very pretty problem unfolding.

Please assure Professor Castlevain that I will turn my full attention to retrieving your lost property as quickly as possible. And now, good day.

May I keep these photographs?”

“Of course. I can be reached at the Hotel Cosmopolitan.” The professor took his leave, seeming much relieved.

34

THE ADVENTURE OF THE ANCIENT BARROW

I could not bring myself even to glance again at the photographs, but Holmes spent the next several hours inspecting them with his lens.

He then sat back in his chair and lit his pipe.

After a few minutes of contemplation, he sprang up again and headed to the door, stopping only to gather the photographs and to tell me not to expect him for dinner. As I was accustomed to my friend’s irregular habits when on a case, I tried not to worry too much when he had still not returned by the time I settled down for an uneasy and nightmare-haunted sleep. He did not return the next day, but the following morning, he was back at his accustomed place at the breakfast-table.

“Well, Holmes,” I said, “would you care to share any information about your doings yesterday?”

“I went to the hotel and met with our professors to hear first-hand what Castlevain had discovered in the British Museum. He backed up Bridgewater’s account, adding that further information from the Necronomicon implied that the right astronomical conditions may be approaching for reviving the Elder Gods. The discovery of Neptune almost fifty years ago, and the recent speculation about the existence of another trans-Neptunian planet, seem to align with its predictions.”

Given that Holmes had once denied knowing that the earth revolved around the sun, I was surprised at this seeming grasp of astronomical lore, but I held my tongue.

“I then tried to get a better description of the mysterious “loiterers”

who had stolen the box containing the fragments. The professors were able to give me a full picture of their appearance and manner, and most helpfully, Castlevain remembered that he had several times overheard them discussing their superiors at the Transylvanian Polygnostic Institute. Armed with this information, I cabled a contact in Bistrita to see what he could find out about the institute and any connection it might have with the missing sculpture. He soon replied that the institute had been in a ferment ever since coal miners in the Carpathian mountains had unearthed a strange stone, of different chemical composition from the surrounding strata, and covered in markings that appeared to be a language but that no one could identify. He believed that word of the discovery in the British barrow had made its way through the academic world to the institute, and that the two men who 35

BY ANN CADDELL © 2020

had so perturbed our professors had been sent specifically to steal the fragments.

“Meanwhile, I went to the Charing Cross station to interview the personnel about the ambush of Professor Bridgewater. The porter said that he saw the two men split up and head in opposite directions as soon as they left the station, the one carrying the box heading toward Whitechapel and the other toward the seaport. I rallied my faithful Baker Street Irregulars to try to track them down, and am now awaiting word from them.”

As he finished speaking, Mrs. Hudson ushered in Professor Castlevain, staggering and out of breath, and waving a handful of newspapers. “Oh, Mr. Holmes, my worst fears are being realized. Look at these stories!”

He flung down the pages, and we quickly perused them. The front pages contained several lurid headlines about disasters at sea. The first article detailed the deranged rantings of a seaman who had been rescued half-dead from a piece of floating wreckage off the coast of Cornwall. He insisted that his fishing boat had been attacked and dragged under by a writhing mass of giant tentacles, and he alone had escaped with his life. Authorities determined that he was indeed a crewman of the trawler “Laurena” which had set sail the previous day and had not returned to port as expected. No other wreckage had been recovered. As the waters off Cornwall are notoriously treacherous, it was assumed that the vessel had simply foundered on rocks, and the seaman, driven half-mad by terror and exposure, had hallucinated the rest.

The second article involved a Royal Navy vessel that had limped into port at Dover. The officers on board, all sober, experienced military men, swore that their vessel had been damaged when a new reef, previously unknown and marked on no nautical charts, suddenly appeared almost beneath their port bow. The captain described the reef as “like nothing I’ve ever seen before. It was the wrong shape somehow – as if the angles didn’t add up. It was just hard to look at.”

Given the damage to their hull, the captain decided to head back to Dover rather than stay and investigate. However, as the ship was retreating, the officers and men who were looking in the direction of the reef all swore that they saw it sink back under the waves.

36

THE ADVENTURE OF THE ANCIENT BARROW

“It is as I feared,” Castlevain gasped. “The men have already begun experimenting with the partial incantation on the fragments to see whether they have any effect on the subaqueous lair of the Elder Gods. If they truly have the final piece in Transylvania, and they reunite the fragments and time their ceremony correctly, we are all doomed!”

“Well,” said Holmes, “while I still think there are less supernatural explanations for these events, I have promised to hunt down your sculpture, and I will spare no effort to do so. In the meantime, I recommend that you and Professor Bridgewater return to your hotel and keep a sharp lookout for our mysterious loiterers. And Watson, would you do me the great favor of running down to the newsagent and picking up copies of all of the latest papers?”

When I returned, Holmes was once again examining the photographs, but he immediately took the papers and began perusing the agony columns. In a few moments, he sprang up with a cry of triumph. “This must be it, Watson! The men split up at the train station, and obviously one has been experimenting with the fragments, but what of the other? He must have some mission. And how best for them to communicate without attracting attention? I believe this entry in the Evening Standard may be from one of our Transylvanians.”

The steamer will leave as advertised. The two experiments answered very well. Your request shall be complied with. The Box, I hope, is safe.

“Ah, as I feared, the men are satisfied with their experiments and intend to take the sculpture fragments back to Transylvania. Hand me the shipping report – when is their first opportunity? The first steamer for the continent leaves this afternoon! Hurry, Watson! We must intercept them!”

I will never forget our mad rush to the docks. The London traffic seemed even more obstructive than usual, and our cabbie was hard-pressed to find routes around the various obstacles. At last, as we approached the docks, Holmes spotted two men who fit the description of the Transylvanians – one of them carrying a wooden box. We leaped from the cab and sprinted after them, weaving in and out through the crowd to keep them in sight. As they approached the gang-37

BY ANN CADDELL © 2020

plank, Holmes was able to tackle the man carrying the box – and the box went tumbling into the water! As a crowd gathered, Holmes was able to attract the attention of a policeman and convince him that the man had been carrying stolen property and should be arrested.

However, the second man had taken the opportunity to slip away in the crowd, and I was not able to apprehend him.

As I rejoined Holmes, he exclaimed, “Now, Watson, not a moment to lose. We must find someone to dredge up that box. Mark the spot where it went in, and stand guard here, while I find one of the watermen who I believe can help us.”

I had gotten a good look at the place where the box hit the water, and as I kept an eye on it, I thought I saw strange disturbances in the water’s surface – a sort of roiling and bubbling, far more than one would expect from a small amount of air escaping from a sunken container. Even the temperature near the place seemed to drop, and a chill wind sprang up seemingly from nowhere. Between these strange phenomena, and my memory of the horrifying pictures the professors had shown us, I was finding it more and more difficult to maintain my vigil, but by now I was almost convinced that the professors were correct and that the consequences of the box falling into the wrong hands would be catastrophic for all of humanity.

After what seemed an interminable wait, I saw Holmes approaching in a small boat with two burly men manning the oars. By now, the disturbance in the water had become so severe that it was difficult for the boat to get close enough to cast nets over the side.

Fortunately, the water was not very deep, and after considerable effort, and a few near spills, the watermen were able to snag the box and bring it to the surface. I would be willing to swear that as the men hauled the box over the side of the boat, a sort of tendril of water seemed to be reaching up for it to try to drag it back under. Then a sudden swell nearly capsized the entire boat, as the men rowed franti-cally away from the spot, and Holmes clutched the box to keep it on board.

As they rowed away, Holmes called to me: “Fetch the professors from their hotel, then meet me at Baker Street.”

Back in our rooms in Baker Street with the professors, I was just 38

THE ADVENTURE OF THE ANCIENT BARROW

beginning to recover from the day’s adventure when Holmes arrived carrying the box. “At last, Watson, we can see the original culprit behind all of this trouble. Let’s have a look, shall we?”

I thought that the photographs had already shown me more than enough, but Bridgewater produced a key and opened the box. As he lifted the lid, the very air above the box seemed to shimmer with strange colors that I could not identify. Even Holmes, with his iron nerve, took one brief glance inside and abruptly slammed the lid back down. “Well, Watson, perhaps it is best that we let the professors take charge of these artifacts, eh?”

I was only too happy to oblige. Holmes went off to clean up after his adventures on the water, while I continued to try to collect my scat-tered wits. The presence of the box, seeming to brood in the corner of our sitting room, did not help with this endeavor. I was ready to send the artifacts off with Castlevain and Bridgewater and be done with the matter, but it was not that simple. Professor Castlevain explained that until the fragments were destroyed, the danger would continue, especially with a third fragment still existing in Transylvania.

“Well, a few good blows from a sledgehammer should take care of it, shouldn’t it?” I said. Castlevain was skeptical that it could be that simple, but we decided to try it, with the precaution that we should first take the fragments out to a less populated area. We set out for an isolated part of Hampstead Heath, stopping on the way to purchase the heaviest sledgehammer we could find. On a rocky outcrop with no other souls in sight, Professor Bridgewater opened the box and reluctantly lifted out the fragments. This was my first sight of the actual sculpture, and I hope to never see such a blasphemous object again. As we stood back, Holmes lifted the hammer over his head and brought it down squarely on the first fragment. As the blow struck, a roll of thunder sounded in the distance, but the fragment showed no visible damage. Holmes continued to strike, the thunder sounding closer each time, and a slight tremor becoming noticeable in the ground, but to no effect on the fragment. Each of us took a turn, but with no different result, except that I thought I began to see the same strange shimmer in the air that I had seen over the box in our sitting room.

Finally, Professor Castlevain said, “It is as I feared, gentlemen – no 39

BY ANN CADDELL © 2020

ordinary force will destroy these artifacts. I am afraid that I must resort to a dread incantation from the Necronomicon – I hope that we all retain our sanity by the end.”

“You must do as you see fit, and we will risk the consequences,”

replied Holmes.

As bizarre as this sounded in a prosaic English field, I was no longer inclined to doubt anything I might hear about the abomination that lay before us. So Holmes, the professors, and I arrayed ourselves in a circle around the fragments, and Professor Castlevain began to chant in a language that seemed to have no relation to any human language I have ever heard. As he chanted, the air about us seemed to darken, and all sounds of birds and insects ceased. The ground under our feet trembled, and we all instinctively stepped back – not a moment too soon! As the darkness spread and a rumble of thunder assailed the air, the ground suddenly split open, and a stygian chasm swallowed the box, fragments, and all. Professor Bridgewater would have been swallowed as well, had not Holmes grasped him by the coat collar and dragged him to safety. With a sudden deafening “crack” the chasm closed, and the surrounding darkness turned to a shimmer of unnameable colors like the ones I had observed in Baker Street, but many times more vibrant. Gradually the air cleared, and the sun shone, and the birds and insects resumed their usual noises. We were back in a completely normal English afternoon, and yet I felt that nothing would ever truly be normal again.

We had a quiet trip back to Baker Street, where I supplied all of us with a substantial snifter of brandy. After we had collected ourselves, Holmes asked Professor Castlevain whether he believed the danger was over. Castlevain replied that although the Transylvanians might be able to do some minor mischief with the fragment still in their possession, the world should be safe for now. However, what the earth conceals, the earth can reveal again in time.

With this less-than-reassuring thought, the professors took their leave. Holmes settled in with his pipe, and I tried to reconcile myself both to the sudden revelation of unknown horrors just beyond our day-to-day existence, and to the ease with which Holmes had accepted the existence of such otherworldly beings. I finally asked him how he had come to alter his world-view so completely. He replied: 40

THE ADVENTURE OF THE ANCIENT BARROW

“It is hardly an alteration, Watson. After all, there is no possible natural explanation for what we have observed. And as I always maintain, once you have eliminated the impossible, what remains, however improbable, must be the truth.”

41

Sherlock Holmes and Advertising

[ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED IN THE BAKER STREET

JOURNAL, VOLUME 1, NO. 4, 1946 – WITH

PERMISSION]

BY THAYER CUMINGS, BSI

THERE IS NO possible shadow of doubt that Sherlock Holmes was advertising-minded. One of the rituals he observed meticulously was a regular matinal perusal of the advertising columns.

Watson reminds us, for example, in The Adventure of the Copper Beeches, that Holmes "had been silent all the morning, dipping continuously into the advertisement columns of a succession of papers." (A succession, mind you!)

Indeed, when we think of the great Holmes, we are most like to see him as he is, in The Adventure of the Engineer's Thumb, lounging about his sitting-room in a dressing gown, smoking his before-breakfast pipe and reading-what? The "agony column" of The Times.

In this same Adventure, we note that Holmes, like all men truly interested in advertising, keeps a scrapbook of outstanding advertisements.

After listening to the extraordinary and rather gruesome story of the engineer who had had his thumb chopped off, Holmes pulls down from the shelf one of the "ponderous commonplace books" in which he keeps his clippings, or (as he calls them) his cuttings.

"Here is an advertisement which will interest you," he says. "It appeared in all the papers about a year ago." And then he reads from it. "Lost, on the 9th inst. Mr. Jeremiah Hayling, aged 26, a hydraulic 42

SHERLOCK HOLMES AND ADVERTISING

engineer. Left his lodgings at ten o'clock at night, and has not been heard of since."

An ad, indeed, which could be counted on to catch the eye of the great detective!

For the record, it may be noted that classified advertising in London dates from 1666, when the London Gazette printed the first advertising supplement after the Great Fire, and the paper was swamped with notices of goods, lost or found, and changes of business address caused by the disaster.

Ever since, newspapers the world over have been printing these small, tightly-packed advertisements, and (as Holmes realized well) they are probably as genuine a mirror of the comedy and misery of living as anything to be found in the news columns.

In America a hundred years ago, these little ads were used to advertise everything from beaver hats to rewards for runaway slaves. (1) Today, The New York Times receives as many as 50,000 classified ads a week ... two and a half million a year, covering all manner of things: requests for haunted houses in Manhattan, treasure hunts in the South Seas:

"Counterpane owned by Catherine the Great"; "Lillian Russell's crested monogrammed sterling silver tableware"; "Stuffed and mounted billy goats with horns, whiskers" (for a Bock Beer display); "Chicken Wishbones, Cleaned, about 60,000 for sale!"

An advertisement such as the one about the disappearance of Jeremiah Hayling, which Holmes so carefully filed, still turns up from time to time in our own public prints.

Only a few years ago, The New York Times carried a notice asking for: "Anyone knowing whereabouts of Robert Charlton, last heard of in New York 1900, or his descendants, communicate with Gilbert Charlton (brother), address 15 Brighton Street, Petersham, New South Wales, Australia."

Within a month, the Times had a letter from Gilbert Charlton, written "down under," thanking the Times for turning up his long lost 43

BY THAYER CUMINGS, BSI

brother in New York! The Charlton Brothers were united again after almost fifty years!

One wonders if Holmes's lively interest in want ads may not have been originally touched off by an item of curiosa he happened to spot while in the business of analyzing the preservation of an early Egyptian mummy.

This item was -- in fact, still is -- the oldest surviving advertisement in the world: a want ad exhumed from the ruins of Thebes, in which the owner of an Egyptian plantation requests the return of a runaway slave.

This ad, more than 3000 years old, printed on papyrus, is still where Holmes spotted it --in the British Museum.

In A Study in Scarlet (1887) Holmes, for the first time, I believe, shows his confidence in the power of small-space advertising by inserting the following copy in the "Found" column: In Brixton Road, this morning, a plain gold wedding ring, found in the roadway between the White Hart Tavern and Holland Grove. Apply Dr.

Watson, 221B, Baker Street, between eight and nine this evening.

Holmes's copy "pulls" immediately. As you remember, it brings to 221B Baker Street a "very old and wrinkled woman" who hobbles into their rooms, shortly after eight. Although "she" identifies "herself" as

"Mrs. Sawyer," later "she" gives Holmes the slip and he is sure "she"

must have been "a young man, and an active one, too, besides being an incomparable actor" -- an observation later verified.

However, the ring that Holmes advertises sets him on a trail which eventually and logically leads him to the capture of one Jefferson Hope, (as revengeful and persistent a jarvey as may ever be turned up in London town) and who, according to the story, had contracted an aortic aneurism from "overexposure and under feeding among the Salt Lake Mountains" ( ! ).

Before this unlikely ailment can snuff Hope from the world, we hear from his own lips how he contrived his double revenge on Drebber (poison pills) and Stangerson (stabbing) -- and indeed it is exactly as Holmes had figured it.

Holmes again shows himself peculiarly intuitive about what 44

SHERLOCK HOLMES AND ADVERTISING

Christopher Morley calls the Art of Oblique Solicitation in The Sign of the Four.

Hot on the trail of the Sholto gang and the Aurora, Mordecai Smith's steam launch, Dr. Watson blandly suggests, "Could we advertise, asking for information from wharfingers?" -- a suggestion, needless to say, which Holmes discards instantly, as it would simply give the enemy warning he was being investigated.

No, Holmes being a man of cunning and logical faculty, at le moment precis, places this "Lost" advertisement in the "agony column" of the Standard:

LOST-Whereas Mordecai Smith, boatman, and his son, Jim, left Smith's Wharf at or about three o'clock last Tuesday morning in the steam launch Aurora, black with two red stripes, funnel black with a white band, the sum of five pounds will be paid to anyone who can give information to Mrs.

Smith, at Smith's Wharf, or at 221B, Baker Street, as to the whereabouts of the said Mordecai Smith and the launch Aurora.

This copy, it must be admitted, is legal if not lively, but undoubtedly was purposely so contrived by Holmes to add more realism to his deception. It would appear that the ad was naturally enough placed by Mordecai's worried wife.

Note how solidly the descriptive minutiæ on the Aurora, and the five pound reward, are soldered into the copy -- as tightly as a modern-day double-your-money-back offer by the makers of Spam!

It is reasonable to suppose that had not Holmes himself, disguised as a sea-dog, turned up Sholto on the waterfront, this neat little ad certainly would have done the trick. It has all the come-on, and all the sweet believability of bargain basement advertising at its best.

In The Adventure of the Blue Carbuncle, Holmes again uses advertising to advantage. This time, you remember, he lovingly writes out the copy himself --

Found at the corner of Goodge-street, a goose and a black felt hat. Mr.

Henry Baker can have same by applying at 6:30 this evening at 221B

Baker Street.

45

BY THAYER CUMINGS, BSI

-- and instructs Peterson to run down to the advertising agency, and have it put in the evening papers. It is interesting to note that when Holmes has something of real importance afoot, he gives his copy as wide circulation as possible, from top-drawer readership down through the penny-dreadful audience. In this case he tells Peterson to run the copy

"In the Globe, Star, Pall Mall, St. James Gazette, Evening News, Standard, Echo…"

adding, rather impulsively, "... and any others that occur to you."

Needless to say, he got complete coverage, and the advertisement brings in its man that very evening.

When he arrives, the advertising-minded Holmes admonishes him thus:

"We have retained these things for some clays because we expected to see an advertisement from you giving your address. I am at a loss to know now why you did not advertise."

In The Adventure of the Bruce-Partington Plans (from His Last Bow) in which, according to Mycroft, "the most jealously guarded of all government secrets" (the plans for the Bruce-Partington submarine) are filched, Holmes again calls upon advertising to help him draw his dragnet tight.

Again he inserts a two-line "personal," this time in the "agony column" of the Daily Telegraph (he does not seem to show any partiality in his choice of media):

Tonight. Same hour. Same place. Two taps. Most vitally important. Your own safety at stake.

PIERROT

Surely enough, this brief, telegraphic copy, packed with subtle promise of something important and personal for the reader--as is not all successful copy? -- lures to Oberstein's house the unsuspecting 46

SHERLOCK HOLMES AND ADVERTISING

Colonel Valentine Walter, whose brother had been top-dog in the Submarine Department.

As you recall, Colonel Walter (at Holmes's dictation) then writes a letter to Oberstein and -- it fetches in the villain!

Holmes's copy is not brilliant, but it is always simple, clear and fast, three highly desirable qualities in any copywriter's kit.

However, where Holmes excels is in his timing. Being abnormally perceptive of human behavior, he seems to have a God-given instinct as to exactly when and where to place his copy. Perhaps more than any one other thing, good timing is the secret to Holmes's success with advertising.

And speaking of advertising, I would be muffing a golden opportunity, indeed, if, in the tradition of Sherlock Holmes, I did not print my own advertisement here and now.

Surely it will meet the searching eye of some Baker Street Irregular able to deliver the goods. I sincerely hope so.

WANTED-SHERLOCK HOLMES ITEM: Will appreciate in formation as to whereabouts and/or availability of sound copy of Holmes's magnum opus "Practical Handbook of Bee Culture, with some Observations upon the Segregation of the Queen." Address THAYER

CUMINGS, BBDO, 383 MADISON AVENUE; NEW YORK CITY.

Or perhaps this public notice will make an Irregular stir his stumps.

It currently is running in the New York City telephone directory, page 18, second column:

ADLER, Irene 136E64.... REgent 4-2497

Can it be-can it possibly be...?

Come, the game is afoot!

_____________________________________

Endnotes

1. On Dec. 30th, 1795, this classified ad appeared: "Ran Away-47

BY THAYER CUMINGS, BSI

A Fortnight ago, a negro man about 24 years of age, named SAM-he is very black, about five feet high, speaks Dutch and English, big eyes a little sore; he had on a Coatee, ash colour, and overalls; he is supposed to be lurking about this city whoever secures him, so that his master, the Subscriber, may have him shall be paid Five Dollars Reward." This was signed by a Mr. John Sickels who lived in Harlem, 8 miles from New York.

_____________________________________

The Baker Street Journal continues to be the leading Sherlockian publication since its founding in 1946 by Edgar W. Smith.

With both serious scholarship and articles that

"play the game," the Journal is essential reading for anyone interested in Sherlock Holmes, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, and a world where it is always 1895.

Go to:

http://www.bakerstreetjournal.com/itemsforsale/subscriptions.html for subscription information.

48

The Adventure of the Mesmeric Medium

BY LIESE SHERWOOD-FABRE © 2020

The winter of 1896-97 offered more than one opportunity for Holmes to enter the supernatural realm. In addition to the Sussex vampire, he also investigated a case related to Emma Gillis, the Irish medium, and her spirit guide, Riona.

This case began, like so many, with the arrival of a client.

Holmes paused in the melody he’d been playing on his violin, studied the street below the alcove, and spoke to me over his shoulder.

“Do you believe in ghosts?”

“Did you just see one?’ I asked, joining him at the window. “A feat I must see.”

A gentleman descended a cab in front of our residence. Well-dressed with a high hat and dark suit. And a long beard that reached halfway down his shirt front.

“Hardly ghost-like, if you ask me,” I said. “Did you mean it in a figurative sense? An old acquaintance perhaps? Is that why he’s wearing that ridiculous beard?”

“I agree about the beard. A very poor attempt at disguise. Strip that away, and I am certain we are about to meet Sir Harrison Foxworth, astronomer and avid researcher of spiritualism.”

“Think he wants your help in an investigation?” I asked.

“I refuse to speculate, Watson. It’s a bad habit you have, making 49

BY LIESE SHERWOOD-FABRE © 2020

assumptions based on little to no information. We shall soon learn the truth,” he said, nodding at the door.

“Mr. Smith here to see you, Mr. Holmes,” Mrs. Hudson said upon entering.

Holmes indicated the basket chair reserved for visitors with his violin bow. “Please have a seat.”

The man perched on the edge of the chair, one foot drumming a staccato on the floor. My friend, with deliberate movements, placed his instrument and bow upon the alcove table, stepped in front of our guest, and clasped his hands behind him. His stare brought the man’s foot-tapping to a halt.

“Sir Foxworth, what brings you to our flat this day?”

“I should have known this wouldn’t fool the great Sherlock Holmes.” The man sighed and pulled off the beard. “I’m here on a most delicate matter. Miss Stevenson, our secretary, found this note on the doorstep this morning.”

He pulled an envelope from his coat pocket and passed it over.

Holmes studied it for a moment, holding it up to the wan February light coming through the window. “Common enough. Available at any stationery or dry goods store. No postmark, so hand-delivered.” He lifted the flap and pulled out a page that must have been ripped from a newspaper. “From yesterday’s Gazette, according to the date at the top of the page.”

He handed the clipping to me. One notice in the personal ads was circled in red:

I have your explicit photos. Found on Navarino Street. You know who you are.

Facing Sir Foxworth again, he asked, “Do you know to which photos the sender refers?”

The man raised his gaze to meet Holmes’, his face flushing as he ground out his reply. “Never, ever, would I take ‘explicit’ photos.”

The man made as if to rise—whether to strike my friend or leave, I wasn’t certain. The tension in the room compelled me to make an effort to diffuse the situation. After all, the man’s photographic research into planetary objects was legendary.

50

THE ADVENTURE OF THE MESMERIC MEDIUM

“Holmes, this man has been knighted by the queen. Recipient of the Newtonian Cross.”

“I have known men of greater renown who have had quite odd…

proclivities,” he said, waving his hand as if to dismiss any and all objec-tions to his statement. “As a scientist, Sir Foxworth, you know more than one meaning to ‘explicit’ exists. I refer to photos that are unequivocal, leaving no doubt to what is shown. So, I ask you again. What photos, sir?”

The man slumped back into the chair. “There was an incident.

Two nights ago. At a séance. But the photos are…missing.” Swallowing hard, he continued. “Franklin Elsworth came to the Navarino Spiritualist Society about nine months ago reporting the discovery of a truly remarkable medium. He’d been on holiday in Ireland, and while at one of the pubs there, they mentioned a young lady who had a booth at the local fairs, sharing messages from ‘the beyond.’ He convinced her to come to London with him, escorted by her companion—a maiden aunt—where her talents would be well-received. She had shown not only deep insight into the other realm, but also the manifestation of her spirit guide—full-body, no less—had made quite an impact upon him.”

“And this young lady is the now-famous Emma Gillis,” Holmes said

—a statement, not a question.

“I’ve read about her,” I said, my interest now piqued. My gaze shifted from Holmes to Foxworth and back. “Recently had a séance for a member of the royal family. Of course, the papers didn’t say who —”

“Interesting,” Holmes said, “but this personage wasn’t at this séance, was he? Or should I say ‘she?’”

The man shrugged. “Not relevant and against Society policies to reveal such identities. This séance was for scientific purposes. We have a room at the Society offices on Navarino Street set up for just such sessions. A camera with long exposure times to capture images in low light and a galvanometer attached to the medium to indicate unexpected movement, such as rising from the chair. That night, the attendees were all from the Society, including Elsworth, myself, our wives, the maiden aunt, and two more members.”

“A moment, please,” Holmes said. He rushed to his desk, removed a sheet of foolscap, and handed it to the man. “Please indicate how all of you were seated.”

51

BY LIESE SHERWOOD-FABRE © 2020

Drawing a circle with the pencil provided, he placed an X on the figure’s top and said, “Emma.” He completed the listing by writing the names along the circle’s edge. “I was seated on Emma’s right. Elsworth on the left. Our wives next to us. The Society members—Kingston and Moreland—next to them, the aunt opposite Emma.”

“I assume you were all holding hands?” When the man shook his head, Holmes said, “I see, this is one where you put your hands on the table. Please continue.”

“Emma went into a deep trance. The table lifted slightly and dropped back with a thump. This is a sign of the arrival of Emma’s spirit guide—Riona, an Irish maiden hung for witchcraft more than one hundred years ago. I have a cord with a button I can click to operate the camera. After pressing the control and hearing the lens function, I waited to photograph Riona’s manifestation.”

“How did she appear?” asked Holmes.

“As she always did. In a white dress. Her face isn’t clear. Ectoplasm, you know, but —”

“No,” said my friend, raising his hand to stop the man. “From what part of the room?”

“Directly behind Emma. It was dark, but it was as if a curtain was opened, and she was there—all in white.”

“And you have photos of all this?”

“That’s where things began to go off course. Emma said she had a message for Moreland, the society member. That he was in grave danger. The same for Kingston. Riona stepped close to Emma and placed her hands on her shoulders. At that point, Emma stood, and the table tipped over. When it toppled, the women screamed, and the men shouted in surprise. Riona disappeared during the commotion.

Elsworth yelled that the galvanometer had been disconnected. I ran to switch on the lights, tripped over a chair, and fell. When I did so, I also pulled on the cord, and the camera fell to the ground.”

“Quick,” said Holmes, “When you turned on the lights, what did you see?”

The man closed his eyes as if to have better recall. “Everyone was standing where they’d been seated. Except for Emma. She’d slumped back in her chair. And Elsworth. He checked first on the galvanometer and then Emma to see if the connections were still intact.”

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“And were they?”

“One had been pulled off. Elsworth said most likely when she stood.”

“And the camera?”

“As I said, it had fallen over. Smashed open. The film was missing, but no matter. It was most certainly ruined when the camera fell or when I turned on the light. Exposed it all to black, you understand.”

“Very well, Sir Foxworth, I’ll take the case. If this is truly blackmail, you will be contacted by the person who says they have your photos.

We’ll be by later to visit the office. Do not let anyone into the séance room until then.”

The man stood to leave and reached for the beard. Despite his rather ridiculous appearance, he seemed to need this bit of anonymity. My own shoulders sagged at this rather futile gesture on his part. A man of science and a great investigator in his own right, having to consult the great detective had to be a blow to him.

Holmes’ assurances that all would be resolved, didn’t straighten his or my back.

Once the outside door had closed and Foxworth was observed ascending a cab, Holmes turned to me, “What do you think of this ghost and medium?”

“I know there are some who believe very strongly in such occurrences.”

“As I noted recently in another ‘supernatural’ event, the world is big enough without such things as ghosts and vampires. There is something more going on here — and in this realm. The most basic question is why would a ghost have need of blackmail?”

“You think, then, this is a matter of exposing some fraud?”

“I prefer to wait until I have sufficient data before drawing any conclusions. And we will not collect it here but on Navarino Street.”

The Society offices were more modest than I had expected —

located on the first floor of a small semi-detached house along a row of such houses. The secretary, who introduced herself as Caroline Stevenson, rose from her small table—where a neat stack of correspondence held in place under a letter opener and a typewriter sat—to direct us to Sir Foxworth’s office.

Sir Foxworth’s office was cluttered to the point of disorganization.

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He shook our hands over a desk filled with numerous precariously stacked papers.

“No further communications yet,” he said, following our greetings.

“I would suggest checking The Gazette, given the efforts to ensure you were aware of that first announcement.”

“I’ll send Miss Stevenson to purchase a copy while we visit the séance room.”

As we crossed the narrow hallway back to what would have been the parlor in a private house, Holmes paused at the stairway and glanced up. “Who or what occupies the upper floors?”

“There’s a small flat for my wife and me. We also have two extra rooms for Society members or guests from out of town. Miss Gillis and her aunt are there now.”

“They aren’t staying with Mr. Elsworth?”

He shifted on his feet and glanced up the stairs before replying. “I think it’s best if we discuss this in the reading room.”

We entered a dark, wood-paneled room. Black curtains covered the windows, obliterating all outside light. Two gaslight sconces were on the wall opposite the windows and provided sufficient, but not brilliant, illumination. The table he reported as having been overturned had been righted and stood in the center of the room, surrounded by eight straight-backed chairs. Other attempts to organize the room also appeared, including the camera cable Foxworth mentioned rolled into a coil and placed against the back wall along with the broken camera and galvanometer.

Once Foxworth closed the door to the room, he said, “Miss Gillis fell into a sort of stupor after the incident the other night. We carried her upstairs and put her to bed. Her aunt has been ministering to her.”

“And she has not left the room since?”

“Not that I have been able to detect,” he said with a shake of his head. “The floors and stairs in this house tend to creak, and I am a light sleeper. I haven’t heard any movements in the hallway since their arrival.”

Holmes paused as if to consider this information and said, “Interesting. I won’t need you here for the moment. You can return to your office. If the secretary returns with the newspaper, simply retain it until I finish my investigation here.”

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Once we were alone, I turned to my friend. “Would you like me to examine Miss Gillis? Determine the extent of her agitation?”

“If the aunt reports any additional issues, it might be necessary, but I think at the moment, we need to focus on what occurred in this room.

If photos are the root of this case, we need to determine who took them and what they show.”

“Foxworth said the film would have been ruined. What could possibly be —”

“Watson, how many times must I remind you the impossible and the improbable are related? Eliminating one only leaves the other as the explanation.”

For the next hour, Holmes reviewed each wall, tapping on different panels, running fingers along the floorboards, and pacing off measurements. After making a circuit of the room, he focused on the equipment on the back wall. Lastly, he considered the furniture in the center of the room.

Extracting himself from underneath the table, he said, “Shall we see if Foxworth has received any additional messages?”

The scientist fairly leaped from behind his desk when we entered.

“It’s here. Just as you predicted.”

He held out the latest edition of the paper and pointed to an announcement. I read the marked advertisement over Holmes’

shoulder:

£1000 for the Navarino photos. Further instructions to come.

“Can you prepare such an amount?” Holmes asked.

The man rubbed his jaw and glanced about as if someone might be listening in. He lowered his voice as he responded. “We recently came into a rather substantial donation from a benefactor. We did have some plans for expanding Society operations, but there will be no Society if we are embroiled in some scandal.”

“Who knew about the donation?”

“Just about everyone in the Society. We mentioned it in our last publication. As a way of encouraging other benefactors.”

He picked up a pamphlet from his desk and flipped through the pages before handing the open copy to Holmes. “See. Right here.”

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After my friend had skimmed the page, he passed it to me. The article was short, noting that a generous donation from an anonymous benefactor had been received “for the good of the Society.” The article ended with a plea for additional such support to further the advancements in the search for universal truths.

“Gather the one-thousand pounds, then,” Holmes said, taking the publication from me and returning it to Foxworth, “and prepare a response in the affirmative to payment.”

“Pay them?” Foxworth said, pulling his chin back. “The idea of visiting you was to avoid such extortion.”

“If you don’t believe in my methods, I can leave without any further effort. Please let me know now, and you can respond as you wish to this communication.”

The man dropped back into his desk chair. “You know of my work in the area of the heavens. I have shown the world our universe’s vast-ness through the photographs I’ve taken. Such images forced me to conclude what we know beyond this tiny speck of dust we call Earth is minuscule. We can’t be alone among all the stars and planets. I consider it now my mission to discover what life might exist out there, including that beyond this plane.” He pulled on his collar and straightened his tie. “I’ll see about collecting the funds and responding in the evening edition.”

“And I’ll see about uncovering whoever is behind these messages,”

Holmes said. “With that in mind, I would like to interview those upstairs.”

“Let me see what I can arrange,” he said.

The knight pushed himself from his chair, and we followed him from the room. While we waited in the small reception area, Holmes approached the secretary, who was busily typing away at some correspondence. She was a rather plain young lady. Dressed conservatively in a dull gray dress. Her hair was pulled back in a severe bun in the style of a much older woman. I might have even placed her age as long into spinsterhood had her dark hair shown no gray. Instead, I decided her age to be in the mid-twenties.

After he hovered by her side for a minute, she faced him. “How may I help you, Mr. Holmes?”

“Do you enjoy your position here with the Society?”

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A wide smile appeared in response. “Oh, yes, sir.”

She went on to share how she had worked at the Society for more than three years, having obtained the job through her father’s acquaintance with Sir Foxworth. They had been professors at Cambridge together. After her father’s death, she’d approached his old friend in hopes of obtaining employment.

“A very kind gesture on the part of Sir Foxworth. He and your father must have been good friends.”

She nodded. “I used to help develop and print my father’s photographs. He said I had a delicate touch with the process.”

“Do you help with such efforts here at the Society?” he asked.

“Sir Foxworth prefers to complete his own, with the help of his wife.”

Without a pause, he shifted the conversation to a new topic. “I understand you found the envelope on the doorstep. Can you tell me about it?”

“One of my duties is to open the office correspondence each morning. I arrive by eight, open the mail, and sort it.”

“Did you notice any difference between this envelope and that which you usually receive?”

“It’s not uncommon for people to leave missives on the doorstep.

Mostly from those who don’t believe in the work. Notes telling the Society to leave the neighborhood—messages like that. It wasn’t until I opened it and saw it was a newspaper clipping that I realized it was different. I took it to Sir Foxworth immediately.”

Before Holmes could pursue his questioning, Sir Foxworth’s footsteps on the stairs announced his return. “I’m afraid Miss Gillis does not feel up to an interview at the moment, and her aunt is unwilling to leave her side. My wife, however, has agreed to answer your questions.

In the meantime, I’ll” — he glanced at Miss Stevenson — “complete that task you suggested to me.”

Lady Foxworth did not fit my idea of the wife of a prominent professor. The ones I’d met during my university days were often defer-ent, dressed conservatively, and tended to speak in low tones. Once again, the contrast between Miss Stevenson and the Foxworths height-ened my surprise—and, in this case, my delight. Lady Foxworth sported the upswept hair and wide sleeves popularized by the Gibson 57

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Girl image in all the publications. Not to mention how her fitted shirtwaist and skirt accentuated certain curves.

“Harry said you wished to speak with me,” she said and leaned back in her chair, draping her arms over the sides. “I’m at your command.”

Holmes and I took places on the settee across from her.

He met her gaze and said, “I wanted to focus on the séance from the other night—”

“A dreadful catastrophe.” She leaned forward and picked up a cigarette case from the table between us. After offering one to each of us (which we declined), she lit one and blew the smoke toward the ceil-ing. Quite a jarring action, but somehow sensuous at the same time.

“I’ve been to hundreds of such readings, but never have I seen a spirit as angry as this one was. It has quite undone Miss Gillis.”

“Hundreds?” Holmes asked, giving a little cough as the smoke cloud drifted in our direction. “Are you a medium yourself?”

She laughed slightly. “Oh my no. But given my husband’s current interests, I am usually called in to fill in a chair and provide my own observations later. He values my opinion. I’m not one of those ‘traditional’ women, as you can see. He has an open mind as much as I do.

That’s how we met five years ago. I was hoping to contact my husband; and he, his first wife. We found a mutual…attraction through our losses.”

“Going back to two nights ago, what were your observations?”

“I’m sure Harry’s told you, it began as we’d observed with Miss Gillis in the past. She went into a trance, the table levitated, and Riona appeared,” she paused and leaned forward. “But then Miss Gillis screamed. The table toppled, and when Harry turned on the lights, the destruction of the equipment was apparent.” She clicked her tongue.

“That camera was worth quite a bit. Good thing the Society received the thousand pounds.”

“You know about the donation amount?”

“Harry and I do not have secrets,” she said and tapped her ash into a small receptacle.

“Interesting,” he said and shifted in his seat to move away from the smoke now filling the small room. “Going back to the séance, what did you observe prior to Miss Gillis’ screams?”

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“Let me see,” she said and took a deep draw on her cigarette.

“Emma said she had messages for Moreland and Kingston, then Riona touched Emma — something I’d never seen before, but quite apparent.

Emma was wearing a dark dress, and Riona always appears in white —

the ectoplasmic veil, you know.”

“And when the lights came on?”

“Harry and Mr. Elsworth were by the equipment. Everyone else was standing where they’d been seated — except for Emma. She lay unconscious in her chair.”

“One last thing. You referred to Miss Gillis as ‘Emma.’ You’re on friendly terms, then?”

She lifted one shoulder again. “She came from a very backward village in Ireland. Had no idea how to dress or act around the Society’s benefactors. I took her under my wing. Helped with her wardrobe and taught her some basic manners. Same for her aunt. She’s quite a pretty thing when appropriately attired. Her aunt,” — she pursed her lips —

“a sculptor can only do so much when given poor clay to begin with.

But she has attended all the events the Society sponsors — the same as Emma.”

A sound in the hallway made him turn. He stood, and I followed his example. “Thank you so much for your time, Lady Foxworth.”

“That’s it?” she asked and stubbed out her cigarette. “I do hope I was helpful.”

He opened the door, and we stepped into the hallway. A woman carrying a tray gave a little squeal and almost dropped her burden.

Given Lady Foxworth’s description, I assumed she was Miss Gillis’

escort, although I couldn’t agree with her assessment of the woman’s features. If the aunt was “poor clay,” Emma Gillis had to be a stunner.

Slim and petite, she wore a dress not unlike Lady Foxworth’s, but in a more muted tone with a skirt short enough to show a pair of shapely ankles.

The rattling dishes must have alerted Lady Foxworth because she appeared in her doorway. “Hannah, this is Mr. Sherlock Holmes and his colleague, Dr. Watson. Gentlemen, may I introduce Miss Hannah Gillis, Emma’s aunt.”

“How do you do?” Holmes said with a little bow. “I’m sorry if we startled you.”

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“I - I was expectin’ to see Lady Foxworth,” the woman said. “Please ter meet you.”

The woman gave a little curtsey, making the tray tilt at a dangerous angle. I reached out and took the dishes from her. “Allow me.”

“Thank you for rescuing my china, doctor.” Her hostess extended her hands to me. “I’ll take them to the kitchen.”

Emma’s aunt bobbed her knee again and retreated back into the guest room, giving her benefactress a rather studied gaze. As soon as the door shut, her hostess’ mouth lifted on one side and said, “These country girls can be so awkward.”

After taking our leave, we descended the stairs where Miss Stevenson met us once again. “Sir Foxworth said you might want the addresses of Mr. Kingston, Mr. Moreland, and Mr. Elsworth to interview them as well.” She held out a sheet of paper with the names and addresses neatly typed upon it.

“Thank you,” Holmes said, accepting the list. “Quite a typist, I see.

No marks to suggest any errors. I would hate to spoil your efforts by smudging it in my coat pocket. Do you have an envelope to hold it, by chance?”

On the street, we hailed a cab.

Holmes surprised me by giving the driver our address on Baker Street. “We aren’t going to visit the others at the séance?”

“I don’t see the need at the moment. I have some items I must confirm, and if needed, will do so. Currently, the envelope interests me more than its contents.”

“But you said the original envelope was quite common.”

“I did, and it is. I’ll explain it all in good time.”

Back at our flat, Holmes spent the day among his files and sending off various letters. Poor Mrs. Hudson. After the third trip up the stairs to collect one such batch he’d jotted off, she suggested he post any more himself.

“No need,” he said, not even glancing up from one of his scrapbooks. “I have completed my correspondence on this case. I only need to await the replies.”

“Which you can receive yourself,” she said, shutting the door behind her.

I, actually, became the designated courier the next morning.

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Holmes, still engrossed in some volume or the other of his collections, was deaf to the postman’s knock. My curiosity regarding his current research got the better of me, and I retrieved the mail before Mrs.

Hudson could point out his indifference to her plight.

Oddly, only one item had arrived: a copy of the morning edition of The Gazette. Unable to resist, I turned to the personal ads and spotted what had to be the blackmailer’s latest communication.

Navarino photo payment to be left for Captain Burton c/o The Flying Anchor tavern by ten o’clock tonight.

“Your announcement is in the morning Gazette, Captain Burton,” I said, handing him the paper.

Holmes glanced up from his work and smiled. “I’m impressed. You recognized my alternate persona when working cases along the docks. I do appreciate you changing the name for the printed account in the Woodsman’s Lee matter. I worked years developing Captain Burton’s reputation and would have been quite distraught if he were forced to retire.”

“You expect to catch the culprit when they come to collect payment tonight?”

“My deductions should be confirmed by ten tonight at the latest.”

The Flying Anchor was as rough as I imagined it might be, its clientele being those who work the docks and ships. Stout men with bulging forearms and wide chests, used to lifting heavy burdens. The women accompanying them were just as coarse and loud as they.

Holmes positioned us at the end of the bar where we could observe all those coming and going. In particular, he focused on interactions between the publican and those approaching him directly. My colleague appeared as Captain Burton, of course, and with his help, I, too, dressed as the pub’s other patrons. He’d even applied dirt and grease smudges to my face to enhance my disguise.

Now, standing at the bar among these men and their women, I rejoiced in his forethought. I can hold my own against most in a fight, and Holmes has been known to lay a man low with only a few well-placed jabs, but neither of us could fend off an entire establishment filled with this sort.

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Only minutes after ten o’clock, Holmes muttered to me, “Watson, keep your head down. I’ll tell you when to glance to your left. I believe our quarry has just arrived for the bait.”

At his command, I shot a quick peek, and saw a slim, young man speak to the publican. The boy stood out almost as much as I would have had Holmes not assisted me with my appearance. His pants were still creased and showed no marks of wear. He wore a cap pulled down over his face, but what showed below it marked its owner as having spent little time in the sun.

“Now, Watson,” Holmes said with a bark.

With a swiftness that had me running to keep up with him, my friend pushed past those around us and grabbed the boy’s arm just as he grasped the envelope the publican had slid toward him.

“I’ll take that,” he said, wresting the item from the boy’s hand.

The young man’s head jerked between me, Holmes, and the bartender, as if seeking to understand what had just occurred. As he did so, the cap shifted to one side, and a woman’s long hair spilled out.

Before I could stop myself, I uttered my recognition of the boy’s true identity. “Miss Hannah.”

Holmes tossed the envelope to the publican. “There’s a fiver in there for you, Jack. Thanks for your help.”

“Any time, cap’n,” the man said with a salute.

The other patrons had barely taken notice of the apprehension of the medium’s aunt, and their raucous laughter and conversation continued without interruption as we escorted her into a waiting Clarence carriage.

Holmes and I sat across from a scowling Hannah Gillis in the closed cabin. Once underway, she finally spoke. “Who are you?”

“Why, Miss Gillis, we met just yesterday.”

“I didn’t meet no Cap’n yesterday.”

“But you did meet Mr. Sherlock Holmes,” I said, unable to restrain myself. “And me, Dr. Watson.”

She squinted at me and then him. “I suppose. But if you’re such a great detective, why’d you give the photos to that man Jack?”

“There were no photos in that envelope.”

“Then you gave him the money. I saw Foxworth leave with it.”

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“You mean this money?” He pulled an envelope from his breast pocket. “I exchanged envelopes with Jack earlier.”

“Then you’re no better than any thief.”

“I would be, if I were going to keep it, but we’ll be returning it to the Society directly.”

“You’re not takin’ me to the police?” When Holmes shook his head, she gave him another narrowed gaze. “Good. I ain’t done nothin’

wrong.”

“Perhaps not criminally, but your interest in the photos tells me you were concerned enough about what they might reveal to try and intercept them. Care to tell us what you think they might show?” When all he got was a glare in response. He sat back and stretched out his legs.

“No matter. I think all will be revealed shortly.”

On the ride to Navarino Street, Holmes removed his captain’s cap and wiped some of the cosmetics from his face. I also considered cleaning away some of my black marks but decided I would most likely only smear it around and look even worse.

When we arrived at the Society, lights shone through all the windows, including the séance room—despite the late hour. Sir Foxworth himself opened the door and directed us to the parlor. There, seated around the table, were the same participants from the previous reading.

“Good,” Holmes said, striding into the room and directing Hannah Gillis to her spot at the table. “You all responded to my invitations.

Well, except for one.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” said Foxworth, raising his chin.

“They are around the table just as I drew it for you yesterday.”

“Allow me,” he said and moved to the paneled wall opposite the windows.

He ran his fingers along a seam between two panels from the floor to about waist-high and gave a little push, then tug, and one panel slid back to reveal a small cupboard where Miss Stevenson crouched. She rejected the hand he offered and crawled out of the hole.

“This, Sir Foxworth, is your blackmailer.”

The secretary glowered at Holmes and remained standing in front of the space where she’d just emerged, chin tipped upward.

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twice before he seemed to find the words he needed. “Caroline, I don’t understand. Your father and I —”

“Don’t talk about my father,” she said, pointing a finger at him.

“You have no right to even mention his name after you destroyed him.

You took credit for all your discoveries and got the knighthood. He might have survived merely being listed on some treatises with you, but then you started your research in spiritualism and linked him with all this fanciful nonsense. You destroyed what he had left—his reputation.

All the while, you kept garnering more and more attention, even getting outrageous sums for your ‘research.’ You don’t know how he died. I do. A little bit each day until he was only a shell of the great man he once had been.”

Sir Foxworth glanced at the other participants around the table as if they might hold an answer to her accusations. When he faced Miss Stevenson again, he said in a voice barely above a whisper, “I thought you were a believer.”

“In what? That woman?” she asked with a derisive laugh in Emma Gillis’ direction. “I do have photos, you know.”

The medium gasped, and everyone turned in her direction. Her face flushed at the attention.

Miss Stevenson snorted at her again. “Don’t worry. They aren’t of you. They’re of her.” She and Hannah Gillis glared at each other from across the room. “I had to wait for hours in that space at night, but I caught her, with not one, but both those men. Three nights go. I didn’t have time to replace the film the next day. That’s why there was none in the camera the other night.”

“No,” Emma Gillis shouted, rising from her seat. “Kingston and Moreland loved me. They all did.” Her arm swept out and across to indicate all those sitting about the table. “How could they prefer some old maid like her to me? That’s what I wanted to warn them about.”

“I’m no old maid,” Hannah said, also standing, her face turning a deep crimson. “She’s barely a year younger. And without me, there would be no Riona.”

“You think you’re the only one who can pull a black dress back and move about?” Emma asked, apparently forgetting her audience in her anger. “I can get another ‘aunt’ with the snap of my fingers.”

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“But not all will be able to convince others to let her leave the table and not report it. That takes skills little girls like you don’t possess.”

“Tell her, Frankie,” Emma said, facing Elsworth. “Tell her I’m not a little girl. How you said I made you feel like a true man.”

Elsworth’s mouth worked, but nothing came out.

An electrical hum coursed through the room. The accusations thrown out by these three women froze the others in their places. They all came to life at the same moment, and the chaotic scene before me sent a chill beyond anything supernatural down my spine. With the exception of Sir Foxworth, the others were shouting accusations and threats at one another: Lady Foxworth proclaiming the ingratitude of her two guests, Mrs. Elsworth demanding what Emma meant by her remark, and the two men Hannah had enticed each claiming the other had no right to the young woman’s affections. Of course, Hannah and Emma continued to berate the other’s attractiveness and skills in the ghostly arts.

Holmes stepped next to Sir Foxworth and placed the envelope he’d retrieved from the Flying Anchor in front of the man. The knight appeared oblivious to the pandemonium reigning around him. He stared first at the money and then at my friend.

“Your donation has been returned,” Holmes said. “Given the confession Miss Stevenson has provided in front of all these witnesses, you may have her arrested for extortion if you wish. You hired me to find the blackmailer. I have done so. What you do with the information is up to you.”

Foxworth placed his hand on top of the envelope as if to confirm its existence and replied without glancing up, “Thank you.”

My friend turned to me. “Come along, Watson. Let’s go home and leave them to sort it all out.”

On the street, their shouted denunciations echoed through the still night.

In the carriage, I turned to Holmes. “When did you suspect Miss Stevenson?”

“When I saw the correspondence on her desk. All the envelopes had been slit open, except for the one with the newspaper clipping.

Whoever had left the envelope had failed to use the gummed seal. In asking for the envelope for the addresses, I noticed two things — it was 65

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the same as the one with the original missive, and her fingers displayed the telltale signs of silver nitrate, used in developing photographs.”

“I assume you discovered the secret cupboard yesterday when examining the séance room?”

“Yes, but I have to say Hannah Gillis’ efforts to retrieve the photos at the pub took me by surprise. As Lady Foxworth noted, the Society doesn’t seem to keep many secrets. Somehow, Miss Stevenson learned of my invitation to the séance participants for the meeting tonight. The Gillis women appear to have been following the announcements in The Gazette as well. Given the public nature of the ransom demand, I thought Miss Stevenson would want to claim the money before someone else. In the end, she appears to have placed a priority on observing what would happen tonight, thinking the money would be safe at the pub or that someone would return with it.”

“Do you think they’ll call the police?”

“I doubt the Society could withstand the scandal. No, I think Sir Foxworth will enquire discreetly among the more prominent members for a secretarial position for the woman.”

True to Holmes’ observations, an advertisement appeared in several of the morning papers announcing Miss Gillis’ upcoming tour, sponsored by the Society, offering a stage presentation of her skills to speak to the audience’s departed relatives as well as private readings.

“I wonder how they managed to keep those in the Society quiet in what Miss Stevenson clearly exposed as a ruse. Do you think they used the photos as their own form of blackmail?”

“No doubt.” He said and opened a thick packet that had also arrived that morning.

After a quick review, he said, “While a bit late for our investigation, this additional information from Ireland does indicate just how resilient the Gillis women are. Apparently, they were no strangers to duping men with their charms. According to my enquiries from the local constabulary, they had been apprenticed to a traveling medium. One of their specialties was offering men ‘private readings’ in which the medium would catch the men with the girl in some sort of embrace and extort additional payments to keep them from running to the police. One man had the courage to report the girls and have them arrested. The medium skipped town while they were in gaol. Stranded, 66

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they developed their own act of speaking to the dead and had been working up a following when Elsworth ‘discovered’ them. He most assuredly had been one of their victims.”

“They were very pretty,” I said. “Even though Lady Foxworth didn’t think Hannah was much of a looker.”

“While their appearance might have been a contributing factor, recall some women possess a great ability to twist people’s minds. Sarah Cushing was able to destroy a whole family despite her rather plain appearance.”

“But surely Foxworth and the others have to know the truth.”

“I’m certain they used Miss Stevenson’s own deception to explain away any doubts raised by those who heard any rumors of fraud.

Those who wish to believe cannot be dissuaded—even if presented with evidence against it.”

“I suppose,” I said and turned to another page in the paper. “Look here. On the society page. Mrs. Elsworth has announced she’s leaving on a round-the-world cruise with Lady Foxworth. That must cost a pretty penny.”

“About one-thousand pounds, I would guess,” he said, taking a sip of coffee.

67

The Adventure of the Snared Drummer

[FROM THE INCREDIBLE SCHLOCK HOMES,

PUBLISHED 1957, WITH PERMISSION]

BY ROBERT L. FISH, BSI

It was rare indeed that my friend Mr. Schlock Homes forsook the sanctuary of our quarters at 221-B Bagel Street for the social life that swirled through the London of our day.

There was one occasion, however, when he always made an appearance in public: the annual dinner of the Crones, the woman's auxiliary of the Actor's Club.

While I have never questioned this complete reversal of his normal tendency towards seclusion, I have always suspected that it was largely due to the fact that the only women with whom Homes felt at ease were Crones.

The dinner in the spring of '52 was a great success. As was custom-ary, the guests furnished the entertainment, and Homes had given his celebrated imitations of William Gillette and Basil Rathbone and had been received as always with enthusiasm.

Now, with the entertainment finished and dinner past, the party broke up into small groups that formed islands in the vast hall, discussing the various items of interest of the day.

I was standing at Homes’ side, attempting to properly diagnose the exact proportions of gin and vermouth in the punch bowl, when a small agitated man scurried up and clutched my friend's arm.

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THE ADVENTURE OF THE SNARED DRUMMER

"Mr. Homes!" he said in a quiet voice that nonetheless carried a note of desperation. "I am in serious difficulty. I have a problem which only you, I am afraid, can solve. I am sure that you do not remember me, but I have been fortunate enough to have met you in the past.''

"Certainly," replied Homes with a friendly smile. "You are Mr.

Frederic Highe, as I recall, and you are a producer of musical extrava-gances. As to where we met before, it is not as great a problem as you suppose. As a matter of fact, we were introduced earlier this evening."

"So we were!" exclaimed Mr. Highe in astonishment, amazed as were so many when, for the first time, they fronted evidence of my friend's remarkable memory. "Well, Mr. Homes, I find myself in desperate straits indeed! I would appreciate it very much if you could find it in your power to come to my assistance."

"Of course!" Homes replied warmly, drawing our new acquaintance to one side. "Just what is your problem?" The small man glanced over his shoulder furtively.

"Not here, Mr. Homes!" he whispered nervously. "Not here! If you could come to the theater tomorrow morning at eleven, I shall explain everything!"

He looked about once more, his sharp eyes darting about the assembled throng in search of potential eavesdroppers.

"I have rented the Castle in King's Row, where I am rehearsing The Ruins Of Astolot. Do not fail me, for the love of God!"

Without another word, our new-found friend detached himself from our side and with one last appealing glance at Homes, melted into the crowd about us.

"A new case do you suppose, Watney?" Homes asked, frowning in calculation. "I beg your pardon, Homes?" I asked. "I'm afraid my curiosity regarding this exact blend…"

He sighed deeply as he answered his own question. "It could only be, I suppose," he said thoughtfully. "He has never heard me sing!"

At exactly eleven o'clock the following morning, Homes dismissed our hansom at the entrance to the deserted Castle Theater, and we made our way through the unattended door to the darkness within.

In the distance we could see the lighted stage, with our friend Mr.

Highe speaking with another man on its empty expanse, but before we 69

BY ROBERT L. FISH, BSI

could move down the deserted aisle, a shadowy figure suddenly barred our way.

"Here, now," he said fretfully. "No admittance, gents!"

"But we are here to see Mr. Highe at his own behest," Homes explained quietly.

"He's pretty busy," said the other, scratching his head. "He's casting The Ruins, you know. However, if he is expecting you, please seat your-selves until he is free."

We edged our way to the front row and silently slid into two empty seats while the conversation on the lighted stage continued. Mr. Highe was speaking to another man seated at a table with a paper before him, and a pencil in his hand.

"Do you have sufficient bowmen?"

The other ran a finger down his list, nodded, and made a mark against one of the items.

"Enough halberd carriers? Musketeers? Pikemen?"

These were dutifully checked off and the man once again nodded.

"How are you fixed for blades?"

But before the other could complete his examination on this point, Mr. Highe noticed our presence in the auditorium and came hurrying down the steps at one corner of the stage.

"Mr. Homes!" he cried in embarrassment. "They should have informed me of your arrival. Please forgive me for having made you wait, but if you will be kind enough to come with me I shall explain everything!"

He led us immediately to his office, and once the door was closed fell into a chair, his face, white and strained. Homes and I settled ourselves on a divan against the wall as our friend leaned forward in obvious agitation.

"Mr. Homes," he said, twisting his fingers nervously, "I am in a terrible position! We are planning to open The Ruins Of Astolot in less than two weeks, and our principal tympanist has disappeared! He is absolutely vital to the production, for he is the only one who knows the score!"

"Disappeared?" Homes asked, his voice alive with interest.

"Completely! I have checked his rooming house, the local police precinct, and the four closest bars, and he has not been seen for over 70

THE ADVENTURE OF THE SNARED DRUMMER

three days. He could not be visiting friends for he has been in England but two weeks and is acquainted with no one. It is essential that he be located at once!"

Homes absorbed ·this information in silence, his broad, scholarly forehead creased in a frown of concentration.

"What is his name?"

"Richard I. Porter."

"And his description?"

"He is a man in his middle thirties, approximately six feet tall, with a tanned complexion, light-browning hair, and weighing, I should judge, in the neighborhood of thirteen stone."

Homes nodded. "And you say he has been here but two weeks?"

"Yes. He is an American who came here under contract to me for this one production."

"And he left no note?"

Mr. Highe shook his head sadly. "Nothing. Nor any explanation in any form whatsoever. The only thing we found in his dressing room was a clipping from an American journal, and hoping that you might find it of use, I took the liberty of saving it.”

He produced from his pocket a torn piece of newsprint, long and narrow, and handed it to Homes. The great detective took it from the outstretched fingers and leaned forward to study it.

I leaned over his shoulder; it was apparently an [agony] column devoted to the type of tattling which has become so popular, and carried the by-line of a certain Hilda Harper.

One item had been heavily encircled with dark pencil, and read: Dig Those Crazy Dues Dept.: The T-men are going to nail some of those musical tax-dodgers. One square from Local 802 crossed the pond to lay low, but they have him boxed. Better kick in March 15th or find a better

‘ole, pal!

This gibberish made no sense to me at all, but I was amazed at the change wrought in my friend Schlock Homes.

His eyes glittered with interest as they raced across the printed lines; his hands tightened convulsively on the fragile paper as he came to the end.

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BY ROBERT L. FISH, BSI

He quickly read it a second time, his excitement mounting, and then fell back in deep thought, his thin, strong fingers tapping against the article.

“Homes!” I cried. “Is it a code? Have you solved it so soon?”

“It is no code, Watney,” he replied, slowly. “Would that it were!”

He rose to his feet, clutching the column of newsprint in his hand.

“Mr. Highe, this promises to be a most interesting investigation. If you will allow me to retain possession of this paper, I shall begin work at once!”

“Of course, Mr. Homes,” replied the producer, also arising. “I saved it solely for your use. Take it and pray heaven it aids you in solving this mysterious disappearance.”

Homes smiled enigmatically. “I fear that ‘disappearance’ may not be the proper word,” he said. “However, sir, I hope to have more definite information for you tomorrow.”

“The sooner, the better, Mr. Homes,” said the producer fervently.

“Is there anything I can do?”

“Yes,” replied Homes, his jaw tightening as he considered his answer. “I would suggest you begin to immediately instruct another tympanist in the vagaries of your score.”

In our hansom back to Bagel Street, I attempted to draw Homes out on the cryptic meaning of his last statement, as well as on his interpretation of the odd case, but he remained silent and pre-occupied, refusing to take any of the bait I extended.

As we approached our destination, he suddenly leaned forward and paid our driver so that we were free to spring from the cab as soon as it wheeled itself to a halt before our door.

No sooner were we within our quarters than he flung himself into a chair, still clutching the newspaper article tightly in one hand, and scowling at it fiercely.

"It is here!" he said, almost to himself. "I am sure of it!"

"But, Homes!" I exclaimed. "What is there? It appears to me to be the purest of nonsense."

"No, no, Watney. Far from it. Most of the message is crystal clear; it lacks but a shade to be complete."

I stared at my friend in astonishment. "Really, Homes," I said slowly, "I can find no meaning whatsoever in those strange words."

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"No? And yet, Watney, there is no attempt to disguise the message.

It is extremely clear -- tragically clear, I might say. It states without equivocation that a group of hoodlums from the London slums have decided to do away with our tympanist. Their reference to the place where they intend to perpetrate this foul deed is all that puzzles me at the moment…"

His voice faded as he studied the paper with renewed vigour. "Of course! What a fool I am! Quickly, Watney, the London Directory!"

In haste I pulled the required volume from our shelf of reference books and handed it to Homes.

He ran his finger rapidly down the various listings of the book, and then with a bound he was once again on his feet and turning in the direction of the door.

"I shall return as quickly as possible, Watney," he said, his eyes shining as always at the thought of action. "Should I be late I suggest you prepare a bull's-eye lantern and see to the priming of your pistol, for if I am correct in my analysis of this strange affair we shall be busy tonight, and it will not be pleasant business!"

It was quite late in the evening when my friend reappeared. Mrs.

Essex, our housekeeper, had laid on a sumptuous tea of toasted Brussel sprouts, and Homes grasped one hungrily, munching on it as he spoke.

"You have the lantern and the pistol?" he inquired. "Good!" His face fell as he added, "I am afraid that we are too late to save Mr.

Porter, but at least we shall be able to locate his body and convince our client of the uselessness of awaiting his return."

"His body, Homes?" I cried in dismay. "You mean…?"

He nodded his head sadly. "Yes, Watney, it is almost certain that Mr. Porter is no longer among the living. But at least I know where they have concealed his remains, and it is there that we shall repair once it becomes dark."

"But, Homes!" I cried in puzzlement, "I do not see how you were able to locate Mr. Porter simply from the cryptic references in that newspaper!"

Homes finished the last of the toasted Brussel sprouts, and wiping his lips, dropped into a chair. He lit an Armenian, and once it was drawing to his satisfaction, withdrew the clipping and presented it to me.

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BY ROBERT L. FISH, BSI

"You will note this message, Watney," he said in that slightly superior manner he always adopted when explaining the solution to one of bis cases. "The T-men, of course, can only be teddy boys grown to manhood. And made no less vicious, I warrant, by their added years.

Their exact reason for eliminating Mr. Porter is still obscure, although the motive was obviously revenge, since you will note their use of the word 'dues.'

"The references to death and burial are too frequent to avoid.

'Nail,' 'boxed,' 'the better hole,' and particularly the reference to the infamous Ides of March. No, Watney, the message was quite clear on these points. It was determining the place where this foul crime was to occur that presented the only problem."

"And how did you solve this, Homes?" I asked, all attention.

He tapped the newspaper clipping with his finger. "It is all right here, Watney! You will note that the message reads:

'One square from Local 802’

-- that is to say, one city block from public house No. 802. Across a pond! This afternoon I found pub 802 in the licensing listings of the London Directory, and when I left your company I went to investigate.

A square from this public house is Hyde Park, and across the pond there, there is but one edifice." His cool eyes stared at me somberly. "It is an undertaking establishment, Watney!"

I caught my breath at the masterful manner in which Homes had managed to see light in this most puzzling of cases. But then my face fell.

"That is all very well, Homes," I said, "but how are we to prove your theory to the satisfaction of our client?"

"It is for this reason that I requested you to prepare a bull’s-eye lantern," he replied. "Tonight we shall break into this evil house and there I am sure we shall find the remains of Mr. Porter, for they will scarcely have had time to dispose of his cadaver."

He rose to his feet, pocketing the newspaper article. "I believe it is sufficiently dark now, Watney. Come, let us be on our way!"

In a very short time we were rattling along High Holborn in the 74

THE ADVENTURE OF THE SNARED DRUMMER

direction of Marble Arch. Homes was carrying the lantern well concealed beneath his cape, while I took charge of the primed pistol.

At the corner of Hyde Park Road, Homes directed our driver to turn in the direction of Knightsbridge, but before we had proceeded very far my companion had the driver stop the cab and we descended.

"We shall proceed on foot, Watney," he said quietly as the cab rolled away. "It would not do to blatantly announce our arrival."

We crossed the darkened park in silence, carefully avoiding the strolling lovers and political orators, until we found ourselves at the edge of the pond.

This we quickly skirted, taking every precaution not to fall in, and moments later found ourselves before a silent, deserted building.

The black windows that stared down on us would have struck fear into the soul of a lesser man, but Schlock Homes, once on the scent, was beyond fear.

"Watch the path!" he commanded, and immediately tackled the huge door with his set of picklocks.

Moments later he called to me softly, and I hurried to join him, passing into the building at his side.

Once within, he quietly closed the door behind us and lifted the cover from the bull's-eye lantern, flashing the beam to all corners of the room.

We were within an area that apparently served as a combination chapel and meeting hall, for wooden folding chairs were stacked neatly against the wall, and a lectern was pushed to one side.

The keen eyes of my friend noted each detail revealed in the uncompromising circle of light cast by the lantern, and suddenly I heard him catch his breath.

The light had traversed one wall and was now fixed upon two doors set side by side. Homes smiled in satisfaction at the sight, for they were clearly marked "Hymns" and "Hearse."

"The one obviously goes to the organ loft," he said. "It is the other we want. Come!"

He led the way quickly to the right-hand door and we passed into a narrow hallway that appeared to serve many rooms.

With silent tread Homes went from door to door, trying each one, until I felt him pause decisively, his hand frozen on the knob.

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BY ROBERT L. FISH, BSI

"The final 'proof ’, Watney!" he whispered in great excitement.

"Note the wreath!"

I crowded behind him and peered into the scene revealed by the bull's-eye lantern.

There, on plain wooden trestles, lay a coffin, and above it a horse-shoe-shaped wreath of flowers was suspended.

Homes flashed the beam across the satin band spanning the two sides of the floral arch, and my admiration for my friend's analytical powers rose to new heights.

Now there could be no doubt but that the body of Richard I.

Porter lay within the casket -- for his initials were clearly printed on the satin band!

The following morning, having sent a report to our client on the special black-bordered telegraph forms that Homes reserves for such occasions, I returned to our sitting room to find my friend having his first afterbreakfast pipe.

As was my wont, I sat down and riffled through the journals in search of some item which might prove challenging to the reasoning powers of the great detective.

I was reading the Old Statesman when I must have stiffened, for the voice of Homes broke into my cogitations.

"You have found something which might prove to be of interest to us, Watney?" he asked genially.

"In all honesty I really do not know," I replied, studying the [personal] article more closely. "Frankly, the wording is completely unintelligible to me. It appears to be in some form of cryptology, or code."

"Code?"

His interest immediately fired, Homes laid aside his pipe and reached eagerly for the folded sheet which I handed to him.

He leaned forward and began to read aloud:

"One American practitioner of percussion instruments who eschewed the burden of juridical assessments on his emoluments, is rumoured to have traversed the Atlantic in search of haven. His dissembling, however, is purposeless, since the personages charged with pecuniary aggregation by the American Authorities are cognizant of his locative situation."

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Homes grasped the paper in feverish excitement, his eyes glittering as always at the challenge of a new problem.

"Watney!" he cried. "It is undoubtedly a code; it could be nothing else! Quickly, my monograph on Common Codes and their Cures, if you please!"

77

Baker Street Elementary

BY JOE FAY, RUSTY MASON, AND STEVE

MASON, ASH © 2020

78

BAKER STREET ELEMENTARY

79

BY JOE FAY, RUSTY MASON, AND STEVE MASON, ASH © 2020

80

The Case of the "Very Intimate Friend"

BY ELEANOR HÉBERT © 2020

I

In all my years of recording the many peculiar conundrums of Holmes and his world, only a remarkably small number of cases that I can recall have ever involved Holmes miscalculating or, to put it bluntly, being outsmarted. However, as these rare circumstances do exist, I will proceed to relate to you one such case. The year was 1881, shortly after I had taken up lodging at Baker Street. One grey, wet evening, Holmes pointed out a puzzling advertisement in the Evening Strand. It contained the following information (as well as an address): A young lady (20 years), the orphan daughter of an officer, left unprovided for, would be glad to meet a suitable partner for life. This is put in, without her knowledge, by a very intimate friend of her late father and mother.

After I had read it three times over, I turned to Holmes, quite baffled.

“Tell me, Doctor, you don’t notice anything bizarre about this advertisement?” Holmes questioned me, with a somewhat superior look, a bit intimidating to the novice I was at “the game” then.

“To be sure, Holmes,” I replied, “You cannot possibly mark 81

BY ELANOR HÉBERT © 2020

anything of importance from this quite ordinary message. If anything at all, it might be some sort of practical joke-"

“You are mistaken in your analysis,” Holmes interrupted. “First, note that the advertisement specifies the lady's age. What purpose that could possibly serve, other than some cryptic scheme, I cannot suppose.

Indeed, one wonders why the writer felt the need to specify her age when 'young lady' alone seems it would suffice. In conjunction with the other precise details the writer felt the need to include, the entire advertisement is bizzare in its information and subject. Do you not perceive?"

"Astonishing," I remarked. "I hadn't considered anything remarkable about this advertisement. But, Holmes, really, how can you be sure of your inferences? Do you actually consider some 'cryptic scheme'

more logical than a commonplace, although I'll admit a bit peculiar, personal advertisement?"

"All defining features of any case lie in the most trivial of details.

One must learn to recognize the seemingly paltry, even irritating, particulars as fundamental components of the truth. It is my objective, always, to unmask the truth. You question my logic, Doctor? I invite you to further investigate this peculiar little problem with me, granted, of course, that you are willing to take a day or two to explore the circumstances in which this advertisement came about."

"Certainly, Holmes."

At this point, I must confess that I was genuinely daunted by Holmes' absolute confidence in his own deductions. I still could not comprehend how the advertisement could point to some devious plan, when it seemed to carry a plain message in my inexperienced eyes.

Although I had just begun to discover Holmes' extraordinary abilities and had been quite confounded by them already, I wasn't ready to swallow my pride and admit to him that he might be correct. However, the situation promised to provide an entertaining weekend, and, as I had nothing pressing to attend to instead, I was eager to observe Holmes' method, at whatever cost to my ego.

II

I met Holmes in a seedy pub in town in obedience to his note. I had 82

THE CASE OF THE "VERY INTIMATE FRIEND"

risen mid-morning and breakfasted at Baker Street before catching a hansom to the address left for me by Holmes who had apparently risen and left several hours earlier.

Curious about what Holmes had been up to, I entered the dilapi-dated pub, casting cautious glances at the customers of the place, who looked equally as seedy as the pub itself.

"No need for the anxious glances, Doctor," was Holmes' greeting. "I have many acquaintances in this part of town. They are of impeccable character and wish nothing more than to be of assistance in any way possible and perhaps earn a shiny penny for the odd errands I send them on. Nevermind that; did you breakfast well?"

"Very well, Holmes; however, the peculiarities of the query were fresh upon my mind, and I found it hard to concentrate on anything but the outcome of this most singular problem.

Holmes chuckled in response and passed me a slip of paper, "If you would be so kind, Doctor."

I unfolded the greasy slip and read aloud the following: A young lady, orphan daughter of a captain, left completely unprovided for, would be glad to meet a suitable partner for life. A young man of considerable income should consider this opportunity to meet the young woman immediately. This is put in, without her knowledge, by a very intimate friend of her late father and mother.

The draft was type-written, with small additions and omissions scrawled out in ink, so that the final version, with corrections, was identical to the published advertisement Holmes and I had examined the evening before.

"Holmes!" I exclaimed. "This is extraordinary. How in the name of Queen Victoria did you acquire this?"

"Simple, Watson," Holmes opened his eyes and adjusted his chair.

"I followed the address listed under the published advertisement and --"

"But Holmes! It seems most beneath you indeed to resort to stealing private property."

"No, indeed. I found this most enlightening sheet out with his rubbish where, according to British law, it is no longer private possession."

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"Very clever for sure, Holmes," I acceded.

"This criminal did not think to shred the draft, but it could bring him down," Holmes declared, staring at the paper intently.

"Criminal is a strong word. Do you really believe this is part of a crime? What could possibly be the motive? And for that matter, what do you suppose is the crime?"

"You underestimate my reasoning. Look at the paper. Tell me what you observe."

"A first draft with many changes made to it-"

"No, no! This is a key piece of evidence in unraveling the truth.

You ask what the motive could be; well, consider the writer of this advertisement. Clearly, he is not the 'intimate friend' he poses to be, given that his first typed draft has several mistakes, such as the father of the young lady being a captain rather than an officer. The sentence regarding the 'young man of considerable income' may be the most obvious of all. He is quite distinctly trying to attract a certain person, by posing as someone else. Assuming this 'young man of considerable income' is not exceedingly observant, the criminal may succeed in his plot."

"When you put it so plainly, Holmes, it's quite dubious that the criminal would be so bold!"

"Precisely. This draft provides us with insight into the criminal's philosophy, before he had revised and refined his deceiving advertisement into publishable content. I still have not answered the question of motive. One can be quite sure it is acquiring this 'considerable income.'"

"Well, Holmes, I must say I am quite satisfied now that you've helped clear up this little puzzle --"

"Satisfied? Come now, you aren't suggesting you think our work is finished here? The game has only just begun.

"Now, Holmes, I am of the opinion that it is quite a social crime to go poking one's nose about in other people's affairs."

"And so you may be correct, Doctor, but I am no demophile. I make it my business to poke my nose into others' affairs; my livelihood depends on it. Furthermore, my friend, will your conscience be at rest if a man dies, and you could have prevented it?"

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THE CASE OF THE "VERY INTIMATE FRIEND"

"Certainly not, Holmes! But I remain hesitant to be a social pain when we still are only guessing at facts."

"We are not guessing at facts. Our theories perfectly fit the facts that already exist. My curiosity to prove my inferences correct propels me forward and we have not a second to lose. This young man could be in perilous danger.

"I cannot argue with that, Holmes, nor can I justify excusing myself from the rest of this adventure."

"Capital! You should meet me at the address listed under the published ad at 7:00 p.m. sharp. In the meantime, I have other business to attend to."

"I will be there, Holmes," I promised as Holmes signaled we were ready to pay our tabs.

"And one more thing," he added as I rose to leave, "You had better bring your revolver."

III

I was beginning to worry when my pocket watch read 7:05, and Holmes had not shown up. I was outside a strange door in a part of town I did not often frequent, and, in fact, avoided. I was quite startled when I suddenly noticed a shadow next to me and whirled around to see my friend.

"Holmes! Good heavens! What a fright you gave me," I hissed.

He signalled for silence and ushered me over to the flat's stairs that led to lower story access. Halfway down, he stopped and motioned to creep beneath the curtained window. Inside, I could only see shadows of figures in the poor lighting. I could just make out the silhouettes of two men, one with a firm chin and another with a small, round face.

"Finish signing these deposits now, and I'll get it over with quickly,"

the small, angry shadow growled.

The man with a firm chin seemed to remain calm, "I will not, Peter."

"Sign!"

"No."

Throughout this exchange, a light burning smell had gradually 85

BY ELANOR HÉBERT © 2020

become more noticeable, until it was so potent it could no longer be ignored.

The man with the round face sniffed and grunted. "What the dickens? I was sure I put out my fire upstairs!" He clomped upstairs with loud, heavy footsteps. Holmes turned to me and nodded towards the window, which we managed to open quite easily. The interior of the building was dimly lit by one small candle on an oak table. The criminal's prisoner, the calm silhouette with the firm chin, sat in one corner of the room, restrained with many ties.

Holmes dove at the man, and in the exact same instant, a figure who had been completely concealed behind thick, plush curtains in another corner of the room emerged as well. She was a stately woman with a striking, deep-set face and huge, dark eyes. I thought to myself that she must be the "young lady" mentioned in the advertisement, although she looked older than just twenty. A look of utter bewilderment passed across Holmes' face, mirrored by the strange female.

"What the deuce are you doing?" Holmes demanded.

I was genuinely shocked at his choice of language in the young lady's presence. I was beginning to discover that he was not only a solitary individual, but quite incompetent in commonplace social situa-tions. However, I was even more stunned at the lady's reaction.

"I could ask the same about you," she replied and began to help the restrained man.

Holmes stood aghast for a moment, but the look passed promptly.

Alarm passed through us as heavy footsteps were heard abruptly thud-ding downstairs from an upper story room. The angry man, a stout little fellow with dark eyebrows and a sagging, aging face entered, clutching a dagger. Holmes lunged at him, and the two struggled for a moment before the other man gave a violent cry as Holmes restrained him. Although withheld, he still gripped the dagger menacingly.

"Watson! Your revolver," Holmes ordered and I obeyed, threatening the writhing criminal.

Checkmated and snide, the criminal frowned and with a wild grunt hurled the knife, narrowly missing his young prisoner, who was now standing free in another corner of the room. The young man picked up the weapon, and Holmes released the squirming criminal. Holmes then took my revolver and kept a close eye on the angry little man. A 86

THE CASE OF THE "VERY INTIMATE FRIEND"

moment later, the authorities had arrived and seized the man Holmes had stopped.

"Victor Hadley! You've been making trouble too long. It's about time you're back behind bars."

Hadley glared ferociously. "Sherlock Holmes! You sly dog! You have no right poking around in my personal business."

Holmes smiled politely in response as Hadley was cuffed.

"You're a minute late," Holmes frowned at the officer in charge.

"We came as soon as we could, sir," the officer stuttered as he supervised the other authorities escorting Hadley out.

"Blundering foozlers," Holmes muttered under his breath. He then proceeded to investigate the flat in a slow, practiced, meticulous fashion, even the second story. While Holmes occupied himself in such a manner, I turned my attention to the young man.

"Are you all right, my boy?" I inquired.

He nodded as I inspected the bruises upon his person where the restraints had been. Just then, I remembered the young lady and scanned the room for where she had gone. I cast a questioning glance at the young man, but he only shook his head. She had disappeared, vanished. Holmes, who had finished his examination by now, seemed not to have noticed or to care, the latter more likely. He handed me my revolver.

"And now our escapade has come to an almost satisfying end, Doctor, but not quite. We must hear this young man's side of the story.

IV

"Start with your name, your full name, if you please," Holmes was lounging in a chair smoking his pipe near our flickering fireplace at Baker Street. Mrs. Hudson had just brought us hot tea and cookies.

"Godfrey Norton," the young man replied.

"And now, if you would please tell us how you came to be involved with Mr. Hadley,"

"Right. I was born in Manchester. My mother died upon my birth, my father passed recently, and I have no living relatives. Upon my father's death, I received a sizable inheritance and took up lodging here in London.

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“I am a quiet man and keep to myself, so I am little known in these parts. I am studying law, although I have spent much time recently to and from the bank, settling statements for my inheritance and managing investments and such, which I suppose could have made me an object of interest for a snooping criminal, such as Mr. Mulling."

"Quite right, do go on." Holmes nodded his agreement with the assessment.

"But who is this Mulling you speak of ?" I asked, baffled.

"The criminal, of course," the young man seemed puzzled as well.

"Peter Mulling, better known as Victor Hadley,” Holmes informed us both.

"Ex-convict from Scotland. Living quietly in London under the name Peter Mulling. Last seen involved in a complicated murder case down at the shipyard, but police were unable to press charges. Do go on, sir," Holmes prodded, quite impatiently.

"As it was, the full weight of my father's death began to weigh upon me, and I took up the habit of attending Sunday services at St. Paul's.

There, I made the acquaintance of a brilliant young opera singer who also had lost both of her parents. It seemed to me that she was a magnet for attracting bachelors; they flocked to her like children to the Candy Shop. To her, I was just another male acquaintance; however to me, she was the object of my heart's desire. One day, I noticed an advertisement in the Evening Strand."

He then proceeded to pull out a newspaper clipping containing the published advertisement Holmes, and I had pored over only the evening before.

"It was remarkable. I knew it must be describing the lady I so pursued. Because of my inheritance, I thought I must present myself to this 'very intimate friend' of the young lady. All the same, it was an extremely foolish decision on my part. I should have seen it was a carefully constructed trap so that he could seize my inheritance.

Mulling, or Hadley apparently, had plotted a scheme, in short, to take over my inheritance and take on my identity. Small preparations had to be made first, but he was absolutely planning my murder as well. I owe my life to you both. Tell me, what can I do to repay you?"

"I do not think all is cleared up yet, Norton. Do you know anything 88

THE CASE OF THE "VERY INTIMATE FRIEND"

about this former handkerchief ?" Holmes produced the extremely charred remains of a lace-lined handkerchief.

"It appears to have belonged to a woman," Norton replied.

"Precisely," nodded Holmes. "A woman whom you owe your life to.

The young lady who emerged from the curtains, whom I take is your acquaintance, prevented your very murder from taking place. Unlike most of her type, she evidently reads the Evening Strand and noticed some flaw in the advertisement, which clearly described her, but did not contain completely accurate information. She followed the address listed and discovered Hadley's plot, then devised her own to rescue you.

The smoke that distracted Hadley was caused by extremely flammable lace articles that she placed in his second-story fireplace. Had the timing been any later, you might not have survived."

"Outstanding!" I remarked.

Our guest was silent for a moment.

"Nevertheless, I thank you both sincerely for the role you played in taking down Hadley and saving my life. You may expect to receive a token of my gratitude, and you have my word that I will refer anyone who is stuck in an unsolvable dilemma to you, Mr. Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson."

"For that, I thank you," Holmes acknowledged.

"But you have forgotten something!" I exclaimed. "What is the name of this exceptional young lady, Norton?"

"Miss Irene Adler. "

V

The next morning, as Holmes and I sat down to breakfast, Holmes informed me that he had learned more about the mysterious Miss Adler.

"Quite well known in the theatre," he explained and passed me a book highlighting recent accomplishments of theatrical arts in Europe.

"As you will read, Hadley was wrong about her age; she is twenty-three.

Upon noticing this detail in the advertisement she began to unravel the devious plot behind it. And now, Watson, if you please, add her name and occupation to my record.

"What shall I write under her name, Holmes?"

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"Only what is necessary to have basic facts regarding her history should we ever need to reference them again."

"Certainly, Holmes. You were right; this incident has proved to be most interesting and abnormal. Miss Adler was clever enough to develop a plan for Norton to escape. We happened to be in the right place at the right time to ensure Hadley's arrest. Norton's life is saved, and we will be reimbursed for our efforts. It is a most satisfying end, Holmes, isn't it?"

Holmes was reticent. "I think," he told me, "I shall take a long walk.

Are you coming?"

"No, thank you. I shall finish recording information."

I read the material Holmes had found about Miss Adler and filed the following in our archives:

Irene Adler: Born in New Jersey in the year 1858. Contralto, La Scala, Prima donna Imperial Opera of Warsaw. Living in London.

It would be years before Holmes and I would encounter this astonishing woman again, and by that time both of us had long forgotten this insignificant little incident and the role she played in it. This fact may have led to the more dramatic occasion when Holmes was outwitted in the case involving his Majesty the King of Bohemia. To put it in Holmes' words:

" I consider that a man's brain originally is like a little empty attic, and you have to stock it with such furniture as you choose...the skillful workman is very careful indeed as to what he takes into his brain-attic. He will have nothing but the tools which may help him in doing his work, but...there comes a time when for every addition of knowledge you forget something that you knew before."

90

Responses to Personal Advertisements BY SANDY KOZINN, ASH © 2020

If the Youth that left Islington on Sunday evening can remember that he ever had a mother, he is informed he will soon be deprived of that blessing, except he immediately writes with particulars, or personally appears before her.

If the boy who has left his dear mother,

And forgot that he can’t get another,

Doesn’t write right away,

Then “farewell” I now say.

Signed, the man who was once elder brother.

_____________________________________

To Alice – I have not forgotten you. In the meantime, hope on I still love you, my dearest sweet Alice,

And though I don’t live in a palace,

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BY SANDY KOZINN, ASH © 2020

Our life will be sweet.

Someday soon we will meet

And perhaps quaff some wine from a chalice.

_____________________________________

I fear our cypher is detected and known. Do not write again at present; I will endeavor to send you a fresh one.

Our code is detected, I hear,

So here is the new one, my dear.

Add the letters I gave

You that day in the nave,

And then we'll have nothing to fear.

92

The Adventure of the Bloomsbury Affair BY JULIE MCKURAS, ASH, BSI © 2020

In the year 1903, several cases we investigated had one thing in common; science was a factor in each of them. With “The Blanched Soldier” it was medicine, “The Creeping Man” and “The Dying Detective” involved chemistry and poison, and “Shoscombe Old Place”

began with scientific observation. There was another investigation that year which revolved around a different scientific field, one whose implications proved to be more important to the future defense of England than we could have possibly foreseen at the time.

I felt it would be irresponsible for me to relate the details. But what we feared then is now forever etched in our history, and with Sherlock Holmes long retired to the Sussex Downs, it is an appropriate time to communicate those events that transpired to safeguard a national secret.

Holmes’s assertion that I deserted him for a wife was slightly exaggerated. I often took the opportunity to visit him in our old rooms as I did one mid-afternoon in that long-ago summer of 1903. Finding myself at the well-known door on Baker Street, I had a brief and convivial conversation with Mrs. Hudson and learned that Holmes was out.

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BY JULIE MCKURAS, ASH, BSI © 2020

that he would soon return. Relaxing in my favorite chair, with the sun streaming through the window, I must have dozed off. Steps on the stairs awoke me as Holmes burst through the door.

“Watson! Mrs. Hudson told me you were here. I am pleased to see you as it has been a most extraordinary day.” I noted that his face was flushed, either from exertion or the unusually warm day. More importantly he was dressed as a clergyman.

“Holmes, you’ve either undertaken a new case or taken vows.

Which is it?”

He chuckled. “Ah, I see time has not dimmed your pawky humour, Watson. I have been engaged to observe a gentleman whose standing in the banking community appears to be at odds with his personal finances. Allow me to change out of the dog collar and remove this facial hair. While you wait you may want to look at these papers.” As he passed by me he deposited the packet on the table next to my chair.

I opened the large envelope and examined what was written. It was completely unintelligible.

Holmes returned, changed into his dressing gown, and took a chair.

I held up the pages, looking at him in askance. “Surely you can’t expect me to decipher this.”

“Nor can I. I believe it’s a cypher or shorthand but nothing I’m familiar with.”

“Have you any idea what this has to do with the gentleman?”

“That is the extraordinary part of what happened this afternoon. I don’t think it has anything at all to do with him.” At that moment Mrs.

Hudson entered with a tea tray. The woman was omniscient; I was as dry as dust, and the cucumber sandwiches and raisin scones with clotted cream looked delicious, reminding me that I had not eaten since morning. Thanking her, I filled my teacup and my plate as she looked on, appearing quite pleased to have someone enjoy her efforts.

As soon as she left us, Holmes began his story. “Like many dishonest people, the gentleman in question is a sharp-eyed character so I change my appearance to avoid his notice. Yesterday I was an elderly teacher and the day before, a retired military man with an eye patch. Today I was a cleric and watched as he called on a lady’s milliner in Bloomsbury. He left the shop, and as he passed by nearby St. George’s Church, he hailed a cab. Luckily a second cab came along 94

THE ADVENTURE OF THE BLOOMSBURY AFFAIR

almost immediately, and a young woman disembarked. I gave her my hand as she stepped down but she barely gave me a glance as she rushed off. I jumped inside but before the cab moved, a rough-looking man ran up and attempted to open the door. I admonished him that the cab was taken but he persisted, pulling on the handle while I held on to it on the inside. When he finally looked at me he shouted ‘Where is she? Where did she go?’ I had no idea who and where she was but looking on the sidewalk I saw no one who resembled the previous occupant.”

“Might he be a thief or an abusive husband? Was she wearing a wedding ring?”

“Watson, I wish you’d been with me as observing the fairer sex has always been your department. I didn’t recognize him and much to my chagrin, I paid more attention to the first cab than the young lady other than noting she was relatively young, her dress was a light green, and she wore a straw hat. Most importantly she was carrying that envelope. But at that same moment, the driver was showing his whip and yelling at the ruffian to back away. Finally the lout ran around the cab and down the street. By this time the banker’s cab was completely out of sight. Any further pursuit was fruitless, and I told the cabbie to bring me home instead of following the first cab. It was then I saw this envelope on the seat beside me.” He sat back. “Now you know as much as I do.”

“So you have no idea about the woman he was pursuing and why.

No clue as to who he is, and neither of us can read the papers she left behind. Have I summarized it correctly?”

“You have arrived at the cardinal points. I’ve already sent a message to Wiggins asking the Irregulars to question cabbies about any young ladies looking for a lost packet.”

I returned home after our conversation and spent a quiet evening as my wife was away on a tour of Winchester with her garden group.

Two days later, as I sat down for breakfast, I heard a knock on the door.

The maid showed Holmes in, and I noted that he was looking quite pleased with himself as he joined me at the table.

“Coffee or something to eat Holmes? And I take it you’ve found the owner of that lost packet.” I presumed his good humour was due to returning the papers to the young lady.

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BY JULIE MCKURAS, ASH, BSI © 2020

“Yes to the coffee, but no to the owner or the contents of the packet. The Irregulars had no luck with cabbies but yesterday’s ‘Agony Column’ contained a post that interests me greatly.” Holding the folded newspaper up, he pushed the vase of flowers out of his way and read.

‘A woman who passed a gentleman in Hart-street, Bloomsbury, about 3

o’clock in the afternoon, without speaking to him, is anxious for an opportunity of seeing him again, any time.’

“And you believe you’re the Hart Street gentlemen?” My own breakfast was growing cold as I listened to him.

“I do, and I applaud the writer’s ability to convey her message without revealing the specifics of the cab, the cleric, or proximity to St.

George’s. Vague, but the time and street are correct. I placed an answering message.” He took a small paper from his vest pocket. “Shall we meet at St. George’s in Hart Street for a reading of the lost text tomorrow after morning prayers?”

I nodded my approval. “If the lady is as intelligent as you describe, she’ll understand.”

“St. George’s is a logical and safe place to meet as she saw me as a man of the cloth. As you know, at one time I had rooms around the corner from the British Museum and am well acquainted with the area.

The church runs a busy soup kitchen as part of their civilizing mission and always has parishioners and visitors about. I don’t expect a response but plan on being at the church. Would you be willing to make your way to the church beforehand and find a spot to observe me without being observed yourself ? If she does attend, I’d like you to determine if anyone is watching us.”

“Of course. I’ll arrive early and attend morning prayers. It can’t be unusual for congregants to remain in prayer after the service.”

He stood to leave. “Then I shall see you tomorrow.” I spent the rest of the day with several patients. The next day I awoke to gray skies, clouds heavy with the promise of rain; a sturdy umbrella seemed a better choice than my stick as I walked to St. George’s. It had just started to rain when I climbed the steps to the church doors. Once inside I was struck by the beautiful simplicity and light of the structure 96

THE ADVENTURE OF THE BLOOMSBURY AFFAIR

and found a pew toward the back of the nave where I had a clear view of those in attendance.

I enjoyed the prayer service, and not long after it concluded I saw a tall, lean cleric make his way forward and take a seat. Almost immediately a young woman appeared from behind one of the columns and joined him. Anyone watching them would believe this young woman was seeking spiritual advice as they sat together. I scanned the room as unobtrusively as possible but took no note of anyone watching them.

They stood, and the young lady took his arm. They walked down the aisle, and Holmes dropped his Bible near where I sat. He bent to pick it up and said in low tones, “Baker Street.” I waited until they left the church in order to be sure they weren’t followed and once outside, saw no trace of them. They were lost in a sea of umbrellas, open against the downpour.

By the time I made the short walk to 221 I was soaked. I dispensed with my umbrella and went upstairs to his rooms. Opening the door, I saw Holmes standing beside the window with the woman a few feet away from him, deeper into the room. She was in her mid-20s, with a clear complexion, bright blue eyes, neatly pressed shirtwaist and skirt, and a worried expression.

“Miss Marlowe, this is my friend and associate, Dr. Watson.” She nodded in my direction as Holmes continued. “I explained I was a detective and not a clergyman, and it seems she’s aware of your writings. I’ve asked her to clarify the incidents of the other day with as much detail as possible. Would you like to sit?”

“Thank you, Mr. Holmes, but no.” She stood ramrod straight, holding her reticule tightly. “I must admit that I feel angels sent you to help me for I have no one else here. My family, small as it is, live in Bristol. I came to London several years ago to help my eldest sister with her young family while her husband was in Army service. He’s now been transferred to India, and his family went with him. I chose to stay behind in hopes I could pursue some line of study yet found it necessary to support myself.”

“Not an easy task but many young ladies such as yourself have succeeded with typing positions. Before you credit me with too much, I have some past experience deducing the professions of those who come to me.”

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BY JULIE MCKURAS, ASH, BSI © 2020

“I am indeed a typist. I work through an agency to take notes from clients and transcribe them using my typewriter at home. My earnings are sufficient for my needs, and I find the wide variety of clients to be quite interesting. Under normal circumstances I would never reveal the particulars about those who engage me but this isn’t normal at all. A gentleman named Mr. Albert Hainings called on my agency and requested someone who could provide a quick and exact transcription.

I went to his home near Bedford Square and recorded what he asked.”

“Do you take those notes using some type of shorthand?” It had suddenly occurred to me what the symbols on the papers meant.

“Yes, Doctor, I use Gregg Shorthand which I find preferable to the older Pitman style. But I had some difficulty. Not with the shorthand but with the unfamiliar words and terms he used. I had to ask him several times if what I wrote was correct. He stressed that my transcription must be exact so I suggested that I come by the following day with a draft for his review, and he agreed.”

Holmes interrupted her. “What kind of terms? Were they medical?

Mechanical?”

“They were scientific. If you’ll give me the papers I can tell you what they were.” She took a seat, shuffling through them until she found those terms. “Most of this is about experiments.” She repeated them haltingly as she found them. “Wireless. Telegraphy. Reflection.

Refraction. Waves of some sort.” She went on to point out more until Holmes stopped her.

“Are there any locations or names that might point us to the intent of your client?”

Again, it took a moment to search. “Mr. Marconi, Mr. Hertz, Salisbury Plain, and a mention of a royal yacht.” She laid the papers on her lap and glanced at both of us. “Upon my return the next afternoon I found several police officers there. They asked me what my business was and informed me I couldn’t go inside to leave the packet. Someone had broken into this home, ransacked it and beaten the resident so badly that he was in hospital. Unsure what to do, I decided to contact the agency about the transcription. I hailed a hansom cab but as we pulled away I saw a man run from alongside a neighboring house and into the street to hail another cab. There was something quite frightening about him. He looked furious, and I was overcome with the fear 98

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that he would come after me and perhaps cause me harm. Every time we turned a corner I looked out and his cab was still behind me. When we neared St. George’s I had the cabbie drop me, thinking I could avoid him in the crowds near the church and shops. That’s where I encountered you and threw the papers into the cab so I wouldn’t have them on my person should he find me. I thought I could retrieve them since you were a cleric from St. George’s. I ran into a nearby shop and told the clerk a man had made improper advances and was following me. He allowed me to exit through the back door, and I believe you know the rest.”

Holmes looked at me, and I knew he assumed the worst. “Have you seen this man since that day?”

She glanced down at her clasped hands. “No, and I’ve been quite watchful. I was afraid to return home and have been staying with a friend from the agency. I told her what had happened and asked her to inform the agency that I was unexpectedly called away due to a family emergency.”

“Very wise. If you’ll allow me, I think it might be best if I accompanied you to your temporary lodgings. Watson, can you remain here until I return?”

I agreed, and he went into his room, emerging in his normal attire but with glasses, a hat I’d never seen him wear, and carrying a shawl.

Bidding goodbye to Miss Marlowe, I sat down to wait for his return. So many of the most interesting incidents of my life began with troubled strangers in these rooms, and I could only wonder how this would be resolved. Holmes returned in short order.

“Miss Marlowe has been safely returned to her friend’s lodging, and I saw no one watching the house. Yet I fear that we are in deep waters with this.” He began to pace as he often did when faced with a problem.

“Holmes, I recall the Salisbury Plain experiment was performed by Marconi. Her papers must have a connection with those.”

“I agree, and if this revolves around those experiments I think a visit to Mycroft is in order. He should be able to take what little we know and determine if the interests of the government play a part.

Would you pursue the status of Mr. Haining’s injuries and assess if he’s able to talk to us?”

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BY JULIE MCKURAS, ASH, BSI © 2020

“I should be able to confirm that. Shall we meet back here tomorrow afternoon?”

We agreed, and after seeing two patients of my own the next morning I set about to learn what I could about Haining’s condition.

St. Bart’s, the hospital closest to Haining’s home, was the first logical stop. I had a moment to reflect on the many times I had entered that historic building and what those in it meant to me, but this was no time for memories.

I encountered a physician of my acquaintance, and he confirmed Haining was a patient. Together we looked in on him. Haining’s physical injuries were beginning to heal but he remained in a coma. I returned to Baker Street, and the aroma of tobacco informed me that Holmes had arrived before me. He was leafing through his extensive index, pipe clutched firmly in his mouth. I hung my hat and waited while he finished.

“What news Watson?”

“There’s no way of telling if he’ll recover consciousness or if he does, be able to remember anything. I hope you had better luck with Mycroft.”

“I sent him a message early this morning. So by the time we met at his office he was well prepared to discuss what we’ve learned.” I had learned long ago that Mycroft’s small office, tucked away in a labyrinth of similar offices, belied his vital role in the government. Holmes pulled a sheet of notes from his inner pocket. “Although not well-known, Haining is an associate of Marconi’s. So the attack is of great concern.

Mycroft told me that after Marconi moved here in 1896 he conducted an experiment on Salisbury Plain utilizing invisible Hertzian waves, named after the German scientist Heinrich Hertz who discovered them some years ago. Apparently the vibration of the waves and their receptiveness to reflection and refraction were similar to light waves. I have little idea what any of this means, and the process of telegraphy without wires is far more complicated than I can understand or explain. Marconi sent a radio signal 4 miles in 1896. Later, he trans-mitted across the Channel and by 1901 sent a wireless signal from NewFoundland to Cornwall, a distance of over 3300 kilometers.

Mycroft intimated this type of signaling might have far-reaching impli-100

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cations for shipping and potentially military uses for our navy as well as any potential enemies.”

Deep waters indeed. I made a mental note to myself to add this subject and Holmes’s knowledge of it as “nil” to my list of his limits.

He continued reading. “Marconi worked on further advancements while onboard the Italian royal yacht Carlo Alberto last year when Italian King Victor Emmanuel III attended the coronation of King Edward VII. We must operate under the assumption that Haining either dictated new information gathered from those experiments or has new information to add.” Finished with the note, he placed it on the table.

“Haining could very well have been killed and may never regain his faculties. Whoever his attacker is, he seems to have no hesitation in using violence. Did Mycroft have any suggestions about finding this criminal?”

“Yes, he did, and you play a part in the ruse, Watson.”

“You know I’ll do whatever is asked of me.”

Holmes gave me a small smile. “Mycroft and I discussed what to do, and when I called on Miss Marlowe to see if she would work with us, she agreed as I knew you would. Mycroft has arranged to have an article placed in the newspaper tomorrow which will relate that the scientist Albert Haining has been attacked and is hanging onto life by a thread.

Fortunately his own discoveries which will contribute to Marconi’s work didn’t fall into the hands of his attacker, and the young woman who saved the papers, Miss Marlowe, has agreed to deliver them to Marconi himself who has returned to Salisbury Plain for further experimentation. There will be the usual ‘the thanks of a grateful nation.’”

“She agreed to that? She is a brave young lady indeed. And you will be there as well?”

“She didn’t hesitate especially once she learned that traveling in the same train carriage will be agents, both male and female, who Mycroft has arranged to protect her. They will be in disguise as typical passengers, and I will be your conductor. You, however, will have little to do in the way of subterfuge other than having your service revolver within easy reach. Perhaps a bit of doddering, a little slowness in rising, and head drooping on the journey will complete the picture.”

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BY JULIE MCKURAS, ASH, BSI © 2020

As Holmes described, the next morning’s front-page headline in The Times read “Marconi’s Fellow Scientist Attacked, Near Death.”

The subtitle indicated “Young Woman Who Saved the Scientist’s Research Papers is Honored to Deliver Them to Marconi at the Site of Famous Experiments.” Reading through the article I learned that she would be boarding the train the following morning for the journey to Salisbury. It included various supposed quotes from Miss Marlowe including how “honoured she was to play her part in making sure that Mr. Marconi’s work could proceed as Mr. Haining desired.”

As directed by Holmes, early the next afternoon a brougham picked me up. We proceeded to Miss Marlowe’s current lodgings and called for the young lady for the trip to Waterloo Station. Despite any misgivings she might have had, she displayed a calm demeanor. For myself, I knew that while the villain in question might have eyes on us, there would be others observing us as well. We made our way through the throng of travelers to our train carriage then found our seats with the assistance of a red-haired conductor with a thick Irish brogue.

He paid no special attention to us, nor did the others traveling in the coach. I had no idea which of those travelers were in the employ of the government but knew that Mycroft had arranged adequate protection. As everyone settled in for the journey, Miss Marlowe turned to me with a smile and quietly said, “Uncle, doesn’t the gentleman two rows up from us have a coat identical to one of yours?” Her eyes moved slightly in his direction, and when I looked up I saw that Holmes realized what she was indicating. The person she was referring to wasn’t a big man, blonde, and not dressed as a gentleman.

The train left the station, and we picked up speed as we moved southwest from London toward our destination. There was the usual chatter among passengers and one could catch snippets about “I’ll be so excited to see our new Godchild” and “The call on my client won’t take long.” Our conductor passed through the carriage, and there was no indication that there was anything out of the ordinary. Holmes caught my eye as we neared Salisbury, and I knew if there was trouble, it would happen soon.

We pulled into the Salisbury station, and the passengers stood to collect their belongings. Our conductor was the first to detrain and stood ready to offer assistance. Miss Marlowe, who followed Holmes’s 102

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direction and sat in the aisle seat, stood first and picked up her valise. I stayed behind her as those on board inched toward the door.

Miss Marlowe took the hand offered to her by the conductor, and within the blink of an eye she let out a small scream. A man had ripped the valise from her and began to run across the platform. I pulled my revolver but Holmes, visible behind the red hair and minus the brogue, said “Not to worry Watson. He believes he has what he wants.”

Turning toward a man in uniform Holmes told him to guard Miss Marlowe, and we began our pursuit. Several of our fellow passengers were already in pursuit but he had a slight lead as he ran toward a landau carriage parked in front of the station, driver and horses at the ready. He jumped into the landau but it remained stationary. It took only seconds for us to join those who surrounded the carriage.

The men who had pursued the thief parted as Holmes moved in and looked through the window. “If I recall correctly, I believe this is the way we first met in front of St. George’s.” Removing the red wig he displayed a slight smile. “Or don’t you recognize the old vicar who refused to let you in the cab?”

The man had a look of surprise when he realized the deception but not as much as he did when he looked at his companion inside the cab.

Whoever he expected to be there, he wasn’t prepared to see the large bulk of Mycroft Holmes who stated, “Sir, on behalf of His Royal High-ness, you will be placed under arrest.” The driver of the cab jumped down from his perch and joined the fray. Mycroft added “Lestrade, here’s your man.” Lestrade and a fellow officer had no problem handcuffing the culprit and led him away.

Miss Marlowe and her guard followed us as we went into the station. At Mycroft’s request we were led into a small room.

Mycroft spoke first. “Miss Marlowe, may I say what a pleasure it is to meet you. You have shown great bravery during this ordeal, and your efforts are appreciated.” She smiled shyly, obviously gratified with the compliment.

He turned to the rest of us in room. “Ladies and gentlemen, thank you. Let me add to what you know about today’s plan. Once we learned what was stolen, the question was who would be interested in obtaining it. I am unable to divulge exactly what Haining was working on but any number of foreign powers would be anxious to have his 103

BY JULIE MCKURAS, ASH, BSI © 2020

results. That greatly narrowed the scope of who was behind this. The thief, who is nothing more than an unintelligent opportunist for hire, was paid to steal the results of Haining’s experiments but as luck would have it, Miss Marlowe outsmarted him rather nicely. The false story was planted in The Times, and agents were put in place to observe those known to deal in such secrets and who might have arranged the robbery. We knew if we were to seize Haining’s attacker it would either be at Waterloo Station or Salisbury. Agents were in place for both possibilities, and I made sure to arrive at Waterloo very early this morning.

The man who planned this is among those known to us and deals with selling secrets to the highest bidder. He was observed taking the morning train to Salisbury and I was able to board the same train.

Once here, he was taken into custody as he awaited the thief. I took his place in the landau, and Lestrade replaced the driver. I have no doubt that the unfortunate thief will tell us the details of their arrangement.

While we had the papers, which, by the way, never left London, the concern was they would return for Haining, who fortunately has awakened, and force him to tell them the contents. All in all, it’s been a rewarding day, and I thank each and every one of you. You have provided an immeasurable service to your country. And before we adjourn, your valise, Miss Marlowe.”

He bowed slightly as she took it from him and without another word, Mycroft left with his entourage.

As we walked toward outside the station, Holmes suggested we find a tea room where we could wait for our return trip to London. Once seated at a table, Miss Marlowe thanked us for the help we provided. “I couldn’t have imagined what a simple typing assignment could turn into. I must admit, now that it’s over and they’ve been arrested, I rather enjoyed some of it. I find it quite satisfying and rather more exciting than I would have expected that we tricked those evil men.”

We caught the next train back to London, and after saying goodbye to Miss Marlowe, we returned to Baker Street. As we recounted the day’s events, Holmes couldn’t help but admire the young typist. “We may not have seen the last of her Watson. Brother Mycroft may have further use for such a brave young lady.”

It would be a number of years before the world learned how extensively Marconi’s discoveries could be used. It proved to be a life-saving 104

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invention when the RMS Titanic Marconi operator summoned RMS

Carpathia to pick up survivors in 1912.

The further importance of what could be achieved, whose early hints were in the papers Miss Marlowe transcribed, was known in 1916

when Marconi and British engineer Charles Samuel Franklin utilized short-waves. It was this ability to send radio signals and detect reflec-tions which led to the practical development of radar in marine uses, and in 1935 to ground to air detection.

And the gentleman Holmes was following that day? I never heard anything more about him but perhaps one day Holmes will open his tin box and allow me to see his records of “The Case of the Banker and the Ladies Milliner.”

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Mary Sutherland’s Agony

BY RICHARD KRISCIUNAS © 2020

If Mary Sutherland had placed ads in agony columns before coming to 221B Baker Street would the result in “A Case of Identity” have been the same?

“Dear Angel, where are you?” read the message in the News And in the agony columns that Holmes read the most; The Standard, Daily Telegraph and the Morning Post.

Sherlock shared the newspapers for Watson to peruse.

“In each of these four papers someone’s placed the same ad,”

He told Watson, who had just finished his eggs and toast.

“I can deduce from our window that soon we will host The author of that query; a lady who is sad.”

Oscillating outside, her heart was broken.

One boot with a toe cap, another one plain Both boots were unbuttoned, Holmes could see her pain And knew her plight before she’d even spoken.

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MARY SUTHERLAND’S AGONY

A near-sighted typist whose vision had failed her.

She’d fallen in love with a curious suitor.

His face disguised as he vigorously wooed her.

He captured her heart with love letters he’d mailed her.

She was not too attractive and hopelessly single.

Still, with her mother and step-father she resided But when their objectives, naturally, collided, Mary, wisely, created a plan to go mingle.

When step-dad left town, Mary had her chance And the Gasfitters Ball was the perfect place To meet eligible bachelors, face to face.

By the end of the night she had found romance.

Mary met a cashier with tinted glasses

Who whispered sweet nothings to her in the park.

But he would visit her only after dark;

The better to hide faux romantic passes.

When he asked her to marry, she didn’t refuse And she swore on a Bible she’d always be true.

The guest list was puny. There were only a few.

Mary cried out, “He’s vanished!” to empty church pews.

When he didn’t arrive, for his safety, she feared.

Hosmer Angel, became a man of mystery

Who will surely go down in modern history

As the mysterious bridegroom who disappeared.

Holmes solved the case without pulling an all-nighter.

After James Windibank entered Two Two One B

Sherlock exposed his cruel deeds and identity And fraud carried out on his office typewriter.

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BY RICHARD KRISCIUNAS © 2020

Should Holmes reveal his findings? There really was no crime.

We have oft’ seen guilty men who were freed by the Sleuth.

Maybe good would come from not telling Mary the truth, So that her heart would be broken for only one time.

108

The Adventure of the Diamond Pins BY CHARLES HAMILTON

Charles Hamilton (under the pen name, Peter Todd) created Herlock Sholmes as a parody of Conan Doyle's famous detective in 1915.

Between 1915 and 1961, over 100 stories were written. Herlock Holmes lives at No. 101 Shaker Street, takes cocaine at seven-hundred percent, has a landlady Mrs. Spudson, a side-kick – Dr. Jotson, and an arch-enemy, the Professor Hicko-rychicory. Remember, these are parodies and so not taken seriously !!!

Chapter 1

Sholmes was examining attentively, under a powerful microscope, a leading article in the Daily Mail, when I came into our sitting-room at Shaker Street. He looked round with a lazy smile.

"I have surprised you, my dear Jotson," he remarked.

"You are always surprising me, Sholmes," I replied. "May I ask what you hope to discover by a microscopical examination of a daily paper ?"

He yawned slightly as he laid down the microscope.

"Merely an amusement, Jotson. It may not have occurred to you that by a careful examination of the type in which an article is printed, much may be learned of the man who wrote it; in fact, his age, form, 109

BY CHARLES HAMILTON

and starting-price, with sufficient care and attention. A simple amusement for an idle moment, my dear Jotson."

"You amaze me, Sholmes."

"Not at all, my dear Jotson. I do not say that this theory is widely known. Scotland Yard would smile at the idea."

Herlock Sholmes shrugged his shoulders, as he frequently did at the mention of Scotland Yard, and changed the subject.

"I see that you have not shaved this morning, Jotson."

"Sholmes, how could you possibly know --"

He laughed. "Is it not a fact ?" he asked.

"It is a fact, certainly. But how you guessed --"

"It was not a guess, Jotson." Sholmes frowned a little. "I never guess. I leave guesswork to the police. It was a simple deduction, Jotson, simply explained. After shaving, your face presents a smooth and newly-mown appearance. I have observed this on innumerable occasions."

"True. But --"

"At the present moment it presents a rough and hairy appearance.

To a trained eye, my dear Jotson, the conclusion is instant and obvious.

You have not shaved."

"It is simple enough now that you explain it, Sholmes, but I confess it would not have occurred to me. Yet I have endeavoured to study your methods."

"Rome was not built in a day, my dear fellow," said Sholmes, with a smile. "You must take time. It would amuse me to test your progress.

Look at this, and tell me what you deduce from it."

He took a large pistol from a drawer, and handed it to me. I examined it with great attention.

I confess to a keen desire to prove to Herlock Sholmes that my progress in his peculiar art was greater than he supposed.

"Well, Jotson?" he said, a smile lurking round the corners of his mouth.

"In the first place, Sholmes, it is a firearm." I felt that I was upon safe ground so far. This much was, indeed, almost obvious.

He nodded. "Go on, Jotson!"

"In the second place," I went on, encouraged by Sholmes' approval, 110

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"it is a revolver of the Colt pattern, which is manufactured in the United States."

"What do you deduce from that, Jotson?"

"That it is an American pistol," I said triumphantly.

"Bravo!" exclaimed Sholmes. You are indeed progressing, Jotson. I am interested now; pray continue."

He threw himself back in his chair, and put his feet on the mantel-piece, in his usual attitude of elegant ease.

"There is a dark stain upon the butt," I continued. "I conclude from that — that --"

"Courage, my dear fellow. Go on!"

"That the revolver has been used as a paperweight, and that ink has been spilled upon it," I suggested. I was mortified to see Sholmes burst into a hearty laugh. I threw down the pistol somewhat pettishly. "I suppose I am wrong?" I exclaimed.

"Excuse me, my dear Jotson." Sholmes checked his merriment. "I am afraid you are a little wide of the mark. That stain is not ink; it is blood."

"Good heavens!" I exclaimed.

"The revolver was found upon the scene of the Hornsey Rise murder," explained Sholmes. "You have heard of it? Seventeen of the most respected residents of Hornsey Rise were murdered on the night of the fourth. The peculiar circumstance is That each of them was robbed of a diamond pin. The police have concluded that the murders were committed for purposes of robbery. To that extent, Jotson, the intellect of Scotland Yard can go, but no further. They have no clue excepting this revolver, which has been handed to me. As a last resource," added Sholmes, shrugging his shoulders, "the police are willing to make use of my humble services."

"Better late than never," I remarked.

"Perhaps so." Sholmes glanced at the clock. "Nearly half-past nine.

At half-past nine, Jotson, I expect a visitor."

I rose.

"Do not go, my dear fellow. I shall need you."

"You delight me, Sholmes. You wish me to observe and deduce —"

"I wish you to take the tongs, and station yourself behind the door,"

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BY CHARLES HAMILTON

said Sholmes calmly. "You will prevent his escape if I do not succeed in handcuffing him. He will be desperate."

"Sholmes! Who is it, then, that you are expecting?"

"The Hornsey Rise murderer !" said Sholmes tranquilly.

Chapter 2

Before I could make any rejoinder to my friend's astounding remark the door was thrown open, and our landlady announced the visitor.

He was a man of powerful frame. My study of Sholmes' methods made it possible for me to observe that he was a man of dangerous character.

The handles of several knives protruded from his pockets, and he carried a bayonet in the place of a walking-stick. These details did not escape me, though perhaps I ought to admit that, but for Sholmes'

warning, I should have noticed nothing out of the ordinary.

Herlock Sholmes greeted him genially. But the fact that he picked up the poker showed me that he was upon his guard. I secured the tongs immediately, mindful of my friend's admonition.

"Good-morning!" said Sholmes. "You have called in answer to my advertisement, I presume?"

"I have," said the visitor, glancing at him suspiciously. He may have noticed the tongs in Herlock Sholmes' hand.

"I am glad to see you," said Sholmes. "You have only to establish your right to the property in question, and it will be handed over to you immediately. This way, please! Ah! Help, my dear Jotson !"

Sholmes was upon the ruffian with the spring of a tiger. I rushed forward. There was a desperate struggle. In the midst of it, the door was flung open, and Inspector Pinkeye rushed into the room.

A moment more, and the handcuffs snapped upon the wrists of the ruffian. Herlock Sholmes rose, panting, to his feet. He lighted a cigarette.

"Quite an easy capture," he drawled. "You are welcome to him, Pinkeye."

"Much obliged to you, Mr. Sholmes," said the inspector, with a smile of satisfaction. "I don't know how you did it, but you've done it. A lucky fluke, I suppose — what?"

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Sholmes smiled. "Exactly — a lucky fluke, my dear Pinkeye!" he said, with a sarcasm that was lost upon the worthy inspector. "Good-morning, Pinkeye!"

Inspector Pinkeye marched the scowling ruffian from the room.

Herlock Sholmes sank into his chair again, yawning.

"Twas ever thus, Jotson," he said, with a trifle of bitterness. "Scotland Yard will never understand my methods, and is content to call my success a lucky fluke. But for your generous appreciation, Jotson, I should be discouraged."

"You may always count upon my admiration, Sholmes," I said fervently. "You astound me more than ever. May I ask——"

"To you, Jotson, I will explain," said Sholmes. "It may help you on in your study of my methods. The capture was effected simply through the medium of an advertisement in the daily papers. The murderer left his revolver on the scene of the crime. You are aware that lost property, advertised in the papers, is very likely to be claimed."

"I have heard so," I assented. "But surely, Sholmes, the murderer would not have answered an advertisement of his lost revolver. Might he not have suspected that it was a trap of the police?"

"Undoubtedly, and therefore I did not advertise the revolver. I advertised a diamond pin."

"A — a what?" I exclaimed in amazement.

"A diamond pin, my dear Jotson. Look at this paragraph."

I looked. The advertisement ran:

"FOUND, in the neighbourhood of Hornsey Rise, a valuable diamond pin.

Owner can have same by applying to No. 101, Shaker Street."

I gazed at Herlock Sholmes in complete astonishment. "Sholmes!" I ejaculated. "You had found a diamond pin?"

"Not at all."

"One was lost ?"

"Certainly not !"

"Then, in the name of all that is wonderful --"

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BY CHARLES HAMILTON

Sholmes smiled patiently.

"My dear Jotson, reason it out. Seventeen murders were committed in a single night, each for the purpose of stealing a diamond pin. Does this not argue that the criminal dealt specially in diamond pins? My advertisement stated, therefore, that a diamond pin had been found.

Sooner or later it was certain to meet his eyes, and the rest was inevitable. To add one more diamond pin to his collection of ill-gotten gains would be an irresistible attraction for him."

"Most true!" I exclaimed. "But — forgive me, Sholmes — one more question: Suppose some ordinary member of the public had lost a diamond pin — such things happen — and suppose he had seen the advertisement, and come here—"

"My dear Jotson, you are supposing now, and my methods do not deal with suppositions." Herlock Sholmes yawned. "I leave suppositions to the police, my dear fellow. It is time you went to visit your patients, Jotson."

THE END

114

The Adventure of the Blue Delphinium AS REPORTED BY DR. JOHN WATSON TO

KAREN OLSON © 2020

The entire month was as far from the freezing London fog of winter as we could get. The sweltering heat had turned the fetid, waste covered street into a vast sewer-sea of horse droppings and emptied slop jars.

The overwhelming stench quickly replaced the dubious odors arising from Holmes' scientific experiments in his sitting room on Baker Street.

Most persons of even modest means had fled the city like rats deserting a sinking ship. My wife, Mary, had fled weeks ago to her sister's in Torquey and was sending back painted postcards of a cloudless blue sky over an equally blue sea. In my mind's eye I could, just for a passing moment, smell the fresh, salty breeze coming off the water.

Following Mary's seasonal escape from the toxic breath of the city, I returned as I have often done over the years of our association, to the comfort of Baker Street and the companionship of my friend, the famous Consulting Detective, Sherlock Holmes.

Further, I continued my work as his biographer by selling stories of our adventures to the Strand Magazine which earned me a tidy supplement to that provided by my medical practice.

His landlady, Mrs. Hudson, after admonishing Holmes not to discharge his pistol indoors and not to burn down the house, had sought the green fields of her nephew's small farm on a wild Scottish coast.

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Aside from the poor, the criminal element, and, of course, the police, Holmes and I seemed like the only souls who had yet to abandon our nation's seat of government. Mycroft had escaped to the cooler clime of Switzerland. Even the queen, along with her progeny had retreated to Balmoral. Like the rest of the force below the rank of Commissioner, Inspector Lestrade, a veteran of many of our storied investigations, had been denied his request for a two-day leave to go to Brighton. Professor Moriarty might be enjoying a spa in the northern reaches of the continent, but his henchmen surely continued to plague our city in search of ill-gotten gain at the direction of their Napoleon of Crime.

Holmes seemed oblivious to the deplorable conditions of the city as he sat by the partially open window reading the Agony Columns in the The Daily Mail, as was his daily habit. The London Times lay crumpled at his feet. Even the misery contained therein or the sometimes comical missives of potential clients failed to shake him from his boredom and lethargy.

Suddenly his spider-like limbs propelled him out of his chair. "Ho!

Watson! What do you think of this?” Pushing the newspaper toward my face, his bony finger pointed to one of the ads:

"Faith – Your cypher discovered; beware – Sherlock Holmes"

"I don't understand, Holmes. To whom did you address this warning?"

"Not me, Watson. Some miscreant put this in the Agony Column to draw my attention by the use of my own name. It was done to distract and divert me from the real message which had much to fear from my close examination. But this distraction only serves to alert me that there is an important message on this page."

He flopped back into his chair and poured over the pages again.

"Yes. Watson. This must be it. Listen to this. Not really a cypher at all.

Just a very simple puzzle..."

"Dearest one, Saturday critical storm obstacle possibly remains. Take heart.

No trouble's without solution, Gardeners put blue delphiniums largely in sun. Tea attracts, then birds fly. T.W."

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"Oh, Holmes, that's just babble. It makes no sense. How can you interpret that as something sinister?" I huffed.

"How about this, then: "One critical obstacle remains. Heart trouble's solution. Put delphiniums in tea. Then fly."

"Pretty blue delphiniums?"

"Pretty delphiniums, indeed, Watson. They are commonly referred to as foxglove and have been known to cause delirium, tremors, convul-sions, headaches, and are a natural source of what?" Holmes queried aloud.

"Ummmm... Digitalis,” I said.

"Which if not medically required could?" He paused.

"Bring on a fatal heart condition!" I shouted.

"Very good, Doctor,” he said with a smile.

"Someone is planning a murder, and we have yet to determine the intended victim, the perpetrators, the location, or when the murder is likely to occur, not to mention the motive. By alerting the police, Holmes, we invite ridicule. And depending on the cause of the victim's heart condition, the digitalis might not be fatal, might even be beneficial to his health."

"So what can we deduce from the original message? Can we tell the gender of the sender or the recipient?" Holmes asked me.

"It is addressed to 'Dearest one' so they must be sweethearts. And the one to whom the message is addressed must have easy access to the victim's tea so the victim is probably the husband."

"Thank you, Watson, but there may be more here than meets the eye. The sender has an educated vocabulary and spelling, as well as a knowledge of digitalis and delphiniums.

"Maybe he is the gardener, and the receiver is the victim's wife or daughter," I ventured.

Holmes continued, "The sender is also not short of funds as he or she uses long words which are more expensive than short ones and his message includes more letters than necessary. Perhaps he is a fellow of your own profession. And he paid for two ads rather than one because he feared my entry into his scheme. He is a reader of The Daily Mail, and the one whom he addresses is also capable of reading. That he uses so simple a puzzle is curious. Perhaps he doubts the receiver's intellectual ability to decode a more sophisticated cypher."

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"Perhaps it is a child, maybe his child being raised by an abusive stepfather."

"That the sender feels intellectually superior to the recipient is evident, but the sender expects the recipient to be able to identify delphiniums and to make the poisonous tea somewhat free of suspicion from the victim. The sender also expects the recipient to have the means to flee, even when flight might cause immediate focus on the poisoner. The sender further expects the recipient to follow his orders, without protest or questions."

Heavy footfall on the stairs interrupted our discussion. There was a quick series of raps on the door and Holmes shouted, "Come in, Inspector!"

Inspector Lestrade's lean face appeared around the slightly opened door, a crooked grin surmounted by comically raised eyebrows. He lifted his hat and extended a sweaty hand to me since I was standing closest to the door.

"Dr. Watson," he said as I shook his hand. He then stepped toward Holmes, shook his hand and said, "The heat makes the streets almost empty this time of day."

"What brings you to Baker Street this afternoon?" asked Holmes.

"A missing person, Mr. Holmes. Turns out the complaint comes from a neighbor of Mrs. Watson's sister in Torquey. Her letter today mentioned the relationship but failed to mention why she thought this was a case for Scotland Yard. I thought maybe Dr. Watson might know this Miss Jane Allen and could spare me from wasting time if she's just a silly old spinster with time on her hands." He looked toward me and smiled.

"My wife is in Torquey now, " I exclaimed. "And I have met Miss Allen, a retired opera diva and thoroughly reliable woman and a real beauty. Who is missing?" I asked.

"Her niece, Nerie Radel, who she said had been living with her for several months and taking care of her following an illness," said Lestrade.

Holmes suddenly sat upright in his chair and turned his hawk-like gaze on Lestrade as he continued his report.

"She was supposed to meet her twin sister in London yesterday but 118

THE ADVENTURE OF THE BLUE DELPHINIUM

never arrived. The aunt, Miss Allen, said that you might want to investigate, Mr. Holmes. Again, she didn't say why in her letter."

Standing, Holmes declared, "This is serious, Lestrade. We must go at once to Devon. There is a train leaving for Torquey at 5:34 from Victoria Station. Go pack your bag, and we will meet you there."

"This is one time I don't mind chasing around the countryside after you fellows," Lestrade said with a large grin. "Torquey in summer couldn't be a better place to investigate crime."

Looking toward me, Holmes barked, "Watson, the valise you brought here several weeks ago should prove adequate. Did you bring your pistol?"

"I did, although why, I don't know, except that all my previous experience with you told me it would be a mistake not to," I replied.

Later, as our hansom cab rattled through the nearly empty streets toward the station, I asked in vain why Holmes was so sure this was an urgent call for our help. He ignored me and seemed completely lost in thought. Lestrade joined us on the platform while I purchased the train tickets. We sat down in our compartment just as the steam from the engine added its heat to the sweltering air. Even the movement of the train would provide little relief from the oven-like temperature of our cabin. Lestrade took off his boots and propped up his feet on the empty seat across from him. Mostly we sat in sweat-drenched silence all the way to Torquey. This town on the southern Devon coast is noted as a seaside resort due to the mild temperatures in the winter and the cooling sea breezes during the summer.

It is permanent home to several hundred residents who, except for a handful of merchants, owe their livelihoods to the ocean or to the hundreds of tourists who crowd into the town during especially hot weather. These refugees from the Hellish London heat crowd the beaches, many sleeping in tents and others sleeping in colorful bath houses rented out as cabins during the season.

When the train entered the station and dispelled a dying wheeze, Holmes told me to visit my wife and sister-in-law to find out any information they might have. He requested Lestrade accompany him to Miss Allen's villa, The Cedars. Nightfall would be upon us in short order.

As the sun set and Holmes and Lestrade walked up the cedar-lined 119

AS REPORTED BY DR. JOHN WATSON TO KAREN OLSON © 2020

path to Miss Allen's door, it was clear from the darkness and absence of lamplight inside the house that they were not expected.

The bell was answered by a thin, middle-aged retainer in a too large suit who volunteered that Miss Allen was not expecting guests and had retired after dinner. His surly attitude suggested they would not be welcome even if they returned the next day after requesting an appointment.

Holmes then addressed the doorman, "Have you been here long? I don't remember you from previous visits."

"I have only been here a very short while," the man replied with a sneer. Then he slammed the door before additional conversation could take place.

As the men retraced their steps along the darkened path toward the main road, Holmes pulled Lestade off the path into the bushes and whispered for him to remain silent. A brougham without lights pulled by a pair of horses thundered down the path from the direction of the house to the main road and turned toward town. It was impossible to tell who or how many people it contained.

Although there were no vacant rooms to be had at either the local pubs or the rooming house, I secured lodging for us at the home of my sister-in-law whose only store of information revealed that Miss Allen was a charming neighbor who traveled most of the year, kept herself to herself, and had not been seen in public for the last few weeks. She had no knowledge of any niece and was not aware that Miss Allen required any special care from relatives.

After the first decent sleep my companions and I had enjoyed for weeks and following a fine breakfast prepared by my dear Mary and her sister, we were back at Miss Allen's villa, crouched low in the bushes and watching for signs of life inside the house.

Our patience was rewarded after about ten minutes when the back door opened, and a serving girl of about 16 was dragged into the yard by the doorman. He was obviously displeased with her and although we could not hear what he said to her his gestures indicated we would not be wrong in presuming that she was being threatened with bodily harm. She was soon shoved in the direction of the main road. Lestrade continued to watch the house while Holmes and I moved quickly to intercept the servant girl.

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As soon as he deemed it safe, we emerged from the brush alongside the road, approached the terrified girl, introduced ourselves, and pledged to protect her.

"Please, Sir," she said tearfully to Holmes. "If I don't do as he says, he'll kill me and my mistress."

"Who is he?" Holmes asked. "And what does he want from your mistress? Please, for the sake of your mistress, can you described their interactions, repeat any conversations you have overheard, and tell me how you came to place the agony ads in The Daily Mail."

"I don't know who he is, but he's somebody rich and important. He is a giant of a man and foreign. She calls him 'Willy' in her teasing way when she is trying to calm him. When he first come to the house, I heard them arguing, and I heard her shout that he was a married man and she was a married woman. I did not hear what he had to say to that. But later I heard her tell him, 'If any harm comes to Godfrey, I will kill you myself.' I think he wants her to go somewhere with him and he said, 'If I can't have you, no one's gonna.' But she just laughed though there weren't nothing funny about it, and she were crying. She sent me to put them messages in the newspaper, and to send her letter to Scotland Yard because she said it would bring you to rescue us.

Please help us, Mr. Holmes."

"What else can you tell me? " he asked.

"Well,” she started haltingly, "That fancy carriage of his has a patch covering something on its doors. Maybe it ain't even his. And when he come, that skinny guy come with him, and I never seen our old butler, Mr. Simmons, again. And there's another fellow upstairs that makes sure my mistress don't leave the house and that she don't have no visitors. They's all foreign and talk gibberish to each other."

Holmes then gave the girl a reassuring smile and said, "You're doing fine. Your mistress will be very proud of you. Do you know what he is waiting for?"

"I'm not sure," mumbled the girl "but I heard him after supper last night say that he would give her until Friday to agree to something or suffer the consequences. That's just two days from now. Oh, and another thing: he does his comings and goings after dark. He don't never come in the daylight. Do you think he might be a vampire? He dresses all fancy like that man on the book cover I seen in Blackwell's 121

AS REPORTED BY DR. JOHN WATSON TO KAREN OLSON © 2020

window on the high street. There was blood all around his mouth. He was foreign, too. My cousin read the book and told me all about it."

"I don't think we need to worry about that," said a smiling Holmes.

Where are you headed now?"

"I'm supposed to go to town to see if you are a registered guest at a pub or at the rooming house. I told him I was afraid of you but he made me go anyway."

But before the girl could leave I had to interject an inquiry I considered primary to our investigation. "And what can you tell us about Miss Allen's missing niece?"

"Why, she ain't got no niece that I know of, Sir.

"In due time, Watson." Holmes sent the girl on her way, then returned to the house to confer with Lestrade. We spent the remainder of the day resting up for what promised to be a long night.

Holmes cautioned us to proceed with extreme caution, saying that any premature move on the culprits could cause a serious international incident but explaining no further.

About an hour before dark, Lestrade and several local constables went to the Allen villa and took into custody the doorman and the guard upstairs. Holmes whispered something to the captive men, and the bullies were led away without incident. Holmes told Lestrade to escort them back to London and to turn them over to the Bohemian consul in the morning.

Just after sundown, the brougham we had seen previously tore into the drive behind the house. The driver jumped down and opened the door for a huge bear of a man dressed in fancy, almost military attire, who then walked quickly toward the house where we waited in the pantry.

As the man entered Holmes stepped out and said sternly, "You are a guest of the British Crown, subject to our sovereign laws. Your shameful and embarrassing behavior will win you no favor from either our queen nor your own countrymen. I believe it would be advantageous for you to charter a boat and a special train to take you back to your own kingdom as soon as possible."

The man lowered his head, covered his eyes with his hand for a moment, then said, "Please give my deepest apologies to the lady. I will disturb her no more." He paused at the door and without turning 122

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around said, "Her butler will return in a few days from his paid vaca-tion abroad, none the worse for wear." Then he slowly walked back to the carriage, climbed inside and was gone before the darkness swallowed the hoofbeats.

Holmes and I went upstairs to where Miss Allen waited in the well-appointed sitting room. Then he requested a moment alone with her.

As I left the room upstairs, I silently marveled at the beauty and grace of this spinster. I waited for over an hour downstairs until Holmes called for me, opened the sitting room door, and motioned me in.

Miss Allen turned toward me with a dazzling smile and said,

"Thank you, Doctor. I knew I could count on the two of you." Then my jaw must have dropped like a stone, and I was completely lost for words when Holmes said, "Dr. Watson, may I introduce Miss Jane Allen, legally Mrs. Godfrey Norton, but also known by her stage name: Miss Irene Adler."

The train trip back to the miserable confines of 221b was hot and uncomfortable. I had a large number of unanswered questions but Holmes seemed distracted and initially discouraged conversation.

I needed some answers though if I wanted to flog this tale to The Strand. Why were you so interested in the missing niece in the first place?

"Oh, Watson, did you not realize that Nerie Radel was an anagram for Irene Adler?"

"Mmmmm, of course,” I mumbled. "And...?"

"And then I knew that the puzzles in the Daily Mail were a message to me, asking for my help in a possibly life and death situation. It was a clever way of enlisting my assistance without arousing suspicion."

I mused, "I remember meeting the King of Bohemia here at Baker Street many years ago, but today I didn't recognize him. He seemed so much older and bigger, at least heavier than I remembered. And I do remember that he was angry at Miss Adler at the time, and he had plans to marry someone else. Holmes, you surely recall that I wrote the whole thing up in a story I called " A Scandal in Bohemia."

"Yes, but he still loved her all the same. The human heart is indeed a strange cypher, Watson."

After a few more minutes, Holmes lapsed into a peaceful sleep and woke suddenly, apparently refreshed, as the train pulled into Victoria 123

AS REPORTED BY DR. JOHN WATSON TO KAREN OLSON © 2020

Station. As we made our way to a waiting hansom cab I could stifle myself no longer.

"I'd never met her before I saw her last spring in Torquey," I said flatly. She looks different from her early photos, more beautiful, more mature."

"Yes," replied Holmes. "I hated to keep you in the dark, old boy, and I must ask you now to refrain from publishing this tale for at least 50 years, if we hope to again quietly avoid an international incident.

Even as a Prince, the King was always hot-headed and if it had not been for the certainty of his political demise if tied to a commoner, an actress, no less, he would have married her years ago. But I am not sure she would have ever married such an oaf, even for all his power and riches. And his wife, has, over the years, borne him eight children, five sons and three daughters, which I don't think was a particular dream of Irene's even then."

"It's funny though how sometimes the years and everything that has happened in the intervening time just falls away and for just a short while, the past is the present again, even if only a brief, lovely illusion."

I was shaken from Holmes' gentle philosophical musings a moment later when he exclaimed, "My dear Watson, you are standing in a pile of fresh horse manure!"

124

Personal Advertisements – Agony Column Quiz

Name the Canonical story in which the following personal advertisements were contained. Get an extra point for naming the newspaper the advertisement appeared, if noted in the story.

1. “Lost. Whereas Mordecai Smith, boatman, and his son Jim, left Smith's Wharf at or about three o'clock last Tuesday morning in the steam launch Aurora, black with two red stripes, funnel black with a white band, the sum of five pounds will be paid to anyone who can give information to Mrs. Smith, at Smith's Wharf, or at 221b, Baker Street, as to the whereabouts of the said Mordecai Smith and the launch Aurora.”

Story: ______________________________

Newspaper: ______________________________

2. “A marriage has been arranged," it says, "and will, if rumour is correct, very shortly take place, between Lord Robert St.

Simon, second son of the Duke of Balmoral, and Miss Hatty Doran, the only daughter of Aloysius Doran, Esq., of San Francisco, Cal., U.S.A."

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THE CREW OF THE BARQUE LONE STAR

Story: ______________________________

Newspaper: ______________________________

3. “Hoped to hear sooner. Terms agreed to. Write fully to address given on card. -- Pierrot."

Story: ______________________________

Newspaper: ______________________________

4. “Be patient. Will find some sure means of communication.

Meanwhile, this column. -- G."

Story: ______________________________

Newspaper: ______________________________

5. ‘In Brixton Road, this morning, a plain gold wedding-ring, found in the roadway between the White Hart Tavern and Holland Grove. Apply Dr. Watson, 221B, Baker Street, between eight and nine this evening.'

Story: ______________________________

6 . “On account of the bequest of the late Ezekiah Hopkins, of Lebanon, Penn., U.S.A. there is now another vacancy open which entitles a member of the League to a salary of four pounds a week for purely nominal services.”

Story: ______________________________

Newspaper: ______________________________

7. “Found at the corner of Goodge Street, a goose and a black felt hat. Mr. Henry Baker can have the same by applying at 6.30 this evening at 221B Baker Street.

Story: ______________________________

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A CASE OF AGONY — TALES INSPIRED BY THE AGONY COLUMNS O…

8. “Lost on the 9th inst., Mr. Jeremiah Hayling, aged 26, a hydraulic engineer. Left his lodgings at ten o'clock at night, and has riot been heard of since.”

Story: ______________________________

9. “Anybody supplying any information as to the whereabouts of a [ sic ] gentleman named Paul Kratides, from Athens, who is unable to speak English, will be rewarded. A similar reward 1.

paid to anyone giving information about a [ sic ] lady whose first name is Sophy. X2473."

Story: ______________________________

Newspaper: ______________________________

10. “£10 Reward. -- The number of the cab which dropped a fare at or about the door of the Foreign Office in Charles Street, at a quarter to ten in the evening of May 23rd. Apply 221B Baker Street.”

Story: ______________________________

11. Constructor of Agricultural Machinery -- Binders, reapers'

steam and hand plows, drills, harrows, farmers' carts, buck-boards, and all other appliances -- Estimates for Artesian Wells -

- Apply Grosvenor Buildings, Aston

Story: ______________________________

_______________________________________

Answers:

1. Story: The Sign of Four; Newspaper: The Standard 2. Story: “The Adventure of the Noble Bachelor”; Newspaper: The Morning Post

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THE CREW OF THE BARQUE LONE STAR

3. Story: “The Adventure of the Bruce-Partington Plans”; Newspaper: The Daily Telegraph

4. Story: “The Adventure of the Red Circle”; Newspaper: The Daily Gazette

5. Story: A Study in Scarlet

6. Story: “The Red-Headed League”; Newspaper: The Morning Chronicle

7. Story: “The Adventure of the Blue Carbuncle”

8. Story: The Adventure of the Engineer’s Thumb”

9. Story: “The Adventure of the Greek Interpreter”; Newspaper: The Daily News

10. Story: The Adventure of the Naval Treaty”

11. Story: “The Adventure of the Three Garridebs”

128

Sherlock Holmes and the Case of the Laryngologist

BY BRENDA ROSSINI © 2020

Watson, puffing his pipe, its tobacco flaring, and with suppressed fury motions to Holmes with a flapping of the pages of The Times. Holmes, meanwhile, is comfortably seated beside the fire, its warmth reflected in a florid flush of his face.

He feigns inattention as he lights his second pipe of the day, dropping the match into an enameled tray atop the ash-strewn side table.

“Holmes, I say, is this not a most discreditable entry in the agony column? It is indeed evidence of the moral retrogression about which you cautioned in our Blue Carbuncle case. Such iniquity is permeating the medical profession. Is not the Devil at the heart of it?”

“My dear Watson, you are too flustered. Have you relied prematurely on theorizing before all the facts are known? Here now, let me have a look at what has inclined you to the near-combustible.”

As Holmes takes hold of the page, crumpled by the agitated clutch of Watson’s fingers, he reads aloud, chuckling.

“You will not find it so amusing once you read it in its entirety,”

Watson sternly rebukes.

“Energetic, retired laryngologist and amateur taxidermist seeks engaging young assistant and typist, keen on taking instruction in a fur-and-feather 129

BY BRENDA ROSSINI © 2020

skill, able to maneuver without inhibition midst aisles of recreated animal life, and fearless in the co-experimentation of the science of cardiopulmonary resuscitation.”

“I await the facts, Holmes. I can only render the text as prurient in the extreme.”

“Firstly, Watson, our retired laryngologist is a gifted wordsmith. His vignette flows with creative language. He is fearless, age does not wither him, and his scientific acumen is intact.”

“True enough, but the gist of the message, the underlying immorality, cannot be disputed. You cannot suppose him a serious practitioner with an amateur interest in taxidermy.”

Holmes’ reply is measured as he assuages Watson’s distemper. “This is hardly a dangerous correspondence. It is but a version of the human enterprise advancing toward modernity.”

Dr. Watson, shaking his head in disagreement, arrives at an opposite and disquieting diagnosis. “I sense the doctor is anxious in his search for a fetching young assistant. He may turn suicidal if his inquiry is left wanting.”

“I think not, my dear fellow. He states clearly that he is retired.

There is no reason to doubt his intention to move his acquired skills in a new direction.”

At the tread of Mrs. Hudson’s footsteps outside the door and the steady beat of the street clock, Watson, stalwart soldier of old, sits upright in order to make another point.

“Our age and our Country, with our gracious Queen, are morally respectable.”

“Then let us look at the doctor’s phraseology, a source of your contention. He writes of ‘recreating life.’ Certainly this is an example of the dueling principles of science and of spiritualism. The assistant he seeks must appreciate these intricacies.”

“Aha, Holmes! I have you there. Why a typist? A typist! She cannot have had the schooling. What reason would there be to dispense with that of a university-educated young man?”

Holmes closes his eyes before the fire and begins to speak at length.

His discourse is calm, yet his mind is that of a racing engine.

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SHERLOCK HOLMES AND THE CASE OF THE LARYNGOLOGIST

“You are mistaken, Watson. You are not often thus. But I must disabuse you of your misperception. Young women are beacons of the future. The doctor acknowledges this…a modernist quite assuredly.

Recall Miss Violet Green, the Solitary Cyclist and Typist. A healthy young woman invigorated by the fresh English air while improving her dexterity upon a bicycle. In addition, Violet the typist was possessed of flagellate fingers, which, I hasten to add, I identified in that case.”

“Yes,” Watson remarks glumly, “the flagellate fingers might be of use in stuffing dead creatures for this adventurous laryngologist.”

“Quite. Good point, Watson. But let us divert from flagellate fingers to the current developments in human musculature.”

The wispy vapors of Holmes’ pipe rise as he studies his friend’s attentive face. “In this case, we must give the French their due. I find this clue imbedded in the doctor’s inquiry.”

“How so? There is no reference whatever, unless you come to mean the libertinism that I interpret from the man’s autumnal desires.”

To this remark, Holmes cannot withhold his amusement. “Watson, you yourself witnessed our English nobility engaged in private — or so they assumed — licentiousness. The vices have crossed the Channel.

But we are straying from the clarification of this unusual Times agony item. Let us confine ourselves to the probabilities, the facts, and the resolution. The resolution will support your instinct to maintain the unblemished station of the medical practitioner.”

“Very well, Holmes. I am mollified, for the moment, that you consider my displeasure in reaching your conclusion.”

“Then I shall continue with the French and their advances in cran-iometry and physiognomy. It is a probability that lurks within the text.

Consider, my dear doctor, the cranium of the ardent, healthy, female typist whom the laryngologist specifies against that of a sedentary, pallid male clerk.”

“Yes, the French medical books. We did indeed study Bouchut and Trousseau on laryngology,” agreed Watson, pleased that his studies were of benefit in the examination of the cryptic agony column.

“We may presume, Watson, that our laryngologist was also schooled in these sciences. His expertise prompts him to choose a female assistant. He requires an individual ‘able to maneuver smoothly’

131

BY BRENDA ROSSINI © 2020

within a workshop. What gentleman clerk, seated day after day in a dusty office, could offer such vitality? Think of Percy Phelps, the government clerk whose mind sank into both criminality and brain fever.”

“Holmes, I cannot believe that a young woman of good breeding could attempt the unsettling tasks laid before her. My word, brushing up against dusty shelves, dead fowl, and worse, removing the entrails of stinking carrion. It’s not to be borne!”

“Let me proceed, Watson, so that I might gain your support for this laryngologist’s venture. Our scrivening bon vivant may be of French ancestry, as am I and my illustrious brother. The stolid English gentleman, possessed of an impeccable character such as yours, would write with less exuberance. This Frenchman though has crossed the Channel to work on our Island.”

Watson nods, though his eyebrows crease disapprovingly with Holmes’ utterance of “bon vivant.”

“To continue, Watson, this doctor is proud of his laryngeal accomplishments yet aches for the return of his vigorous youth.”

“Holmes, any physician worth his salt knows every man’s days are numbered, no matter the inglorious experiments in revivification.”

“True indeed. Tis a great and somber stage this life of ours. So, our doctor’s recherché de la jeunesse-- his struggle to recapture youth-- seeks a unity of the spiritual with the scientific. This can be deduced logically from the lilt of his language.”

“A lot of humbug. This man is imposing French immorality. A young English woman will be quite unacquainted.”

“On the contrary, Watson, pray listen further. This man is inclined to work. He applies himself in later life to yet another specialty, that of taxidermy. Why be a dull fellow? In the words of brother Mycroft, ‘To act! To act!’”

“Why such a deviation from his practice?” Watson inquires, unconvinced of the laryngologist’s professional sincerity.

“His interest may well have been sparked at the Empire of India Exhibition held at Earl’s Court. I happened to visit, out of curiosity, following my discovery of the government’s misplaced Bruce-Partington Plans. The India Exhibit was filled with magnificent, exotic wildlife. Immense stuffed elephants, camels, and all variety of God’s 132

SHERLOCK HOLMES AND THE CASE OF THE LARYNGOLOGIST

remarkable creatures. One could hardly imagine the Exhibition Hall was not itself a recreated jungle.”

Watson, thoughtful, moves from his chair to turn over the logs in the fire, keeping a steady warmth that profits the deliberation with the Great Detective. Holmes continues with a marked rapidity.

The fire’s flames spark, incandescent accompaniments as he expounds on the solution. Of an astral world, however, Holmes takes no stock.

“We must assume the doctor has a workshop. He refers in his column to the aisles which the assistant must negotiate with agility. The accumulated dead creatures, in various stages of stuffing, drying or mounting, must fill many shelves.”

“But to expect her to work as typist, sweeper, collector and gods-body? Will she be collecting dead game birds? Soliciting contributions from a shooting party in the preserves? These tasks seem rigorous and unpleasant. The doctor-taxidermist should hire a manual laborer, a housekeeper, and a gamesman.”

“Watson, you find an able retort to every proposition, but you will arrive, I believe, at the same conclusion. The man no longer has a physician’s income. He relies now on a secure investment portfolio. We can conclude also that he is a bachelor. Thus, he has no family obliga-tions and expenses. Without family, he has time on his hands. He is frugal. He will not now expend his savings towards wages for an extensive staff. One young assistant is quite enough.”

“And this interest in taxonomy?”

Watson’s war-scarred memories as surgeon on the Afghan field recur -- the bloody and mangled bodies, decapitations, bullets, lancers and swords that gored living flesh, amputations, and merciful deaths.

He can never forget. The experience warrants concession that the laryngologist is a specialist, familiar with the precision of examination and surgery within the cranium, jaw and throat.

“Holmes, I agree the doctor is expert in the use of surgical instruments. Minute measurements are required to preserve the glottal voice in the event of disease or injury. On the battlefield, I saw wounded who’d had bullets that pierced the throat or hit them fully in the face.

Yet, Jack the Ripper used surgical instruments. Think of that, my dear Holmes,” Watson added with pertinacity.

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BY BRENDA ROSSINI © 2020

“Watson, the breadth of your medical knowledge is formidable. But you may not have been aware that the Palace has had in its employ a French surgeon.“

Holmes, taking a slow, thoughtful puff of his pipe, is momentarily distracted. “I may have overheard the particulars during a recent rummaging of government documents. A specialist was asked to examine the laryngeal effects of what he then diagnosed as an indis-criminate indulgence with tobacco. I quite imagine, as would you, that the surgeon observed a grossly inflamed glottis. His objective would have been the preservation of the noble patient’s voice… as well as his privacy. Our agoniste was the French surgeon at the Palace.”

The possible infirmities of a prince of the palace reduce Holmes and Watson to a moment of rueful silence.

“Quite right.” Watson coughs, drawing on his pipe. “The French are known for their treatises on laryngeal function and surgery. I am prompted to believe in this doctor’s prudence and skill.”

Watson’s keen eye for a future narrative of the case suggests an indelicate lure…

“His hire at the Palace must have served his investment portfolio with a tidy supplement.”

Holmes’ lips form a diffident smile. “To our French neighbors, un sou est un sou. A penny is a penny. But I venture forth with the doctor’s transference of surgical skill to engaging in the craft of taxonomy. Is this an unlikely deviation?

“From what I observed at the India Exhibition, on close inspection of a stuffed, giant elephant’s eyes—towards which I was hoisted by a sweating Chinese laborer on bamboo scaffolding—the mucus membranes were painted to give the appearance of moistness.

“Glass eyes were squeezed beneath the elephant’s eyelids. Perfect recreations! This skill was unquestionably one within the laryngologist’s experience. Such a surgeon would have been familiar with membrane viscosity—that is, the wet character of the inner jaw palate.”

“Steel yourself, Watson,” Holmes adds as his companion appears to doze, “He would not have been squeamish about skinning or pickling skin. Like you, he performed upon cadavers at medical college. He knows the arrangement of the inside of the cranium and the vital paths 134

SHERLOCK HOLMES AND THE CASE OF THE LARYNGOLOGIST

of the throat and windpipe. This foray into taxonomy may be his experimentation into the recreation of life.”

Watson scoffs. “If he seeks to recreate life, what I can conclude is that he must be half dead at this point. Too late, my good man!”

“No, no, Watson. He is still full of energy, and he has foresight. He anticipates that he, or his helper, may be overcome with the demands of the taxonomist adventure. His agony inquiry prepares the applicant for such a scenario. He is not false in his presentation. He further acknowledges his skill in the new science of cardiopulmonary resuscitation. You have heard of it? It is a procedure requiring deft technique—

an accomplishment of this laryngologist.”

“I am not unacquainted.”

Watson closes his eyes, expecting the puzzling solution to be not long in coming before a tray is brought by Mrs. Hudson.

“Holmes, my family practice is more often than not interrupted by our investigations and the entries into my journals. The public is insa-tiably curious.”

“True enough, Watson. You are of immeasurable assistance. Now, permit me to recall the specifics of this medical science and the revivification of life. This is a case that should merit distinction within your narratives.” Holmes lifts up the Times, shaking off the ashes onto the carpet.”

“My word, Holmes, I think those ashes are not unlike the dried rubbish wafting down from the moulting species at his workshop.”

“A surgeon is unfamiliar with the unpleasantness of effluvia. The successful restoration is all.” You have but to view the collections of Sir Hans Sloane and Charles Darwin, housed in the Natural History Museum. Yet, the craft is not without difficulty. In the taxonomist’s enterprise, there may be an encounter with noxious vapors, perhaps from proximity to formaldehyde. Do not overlook our own fortunate escape from the attempted smoky poisoning in the Case of the Greek Interpreter. Had we but known of this cardiopulmonary resuscitation, and had our brains not been hazarded with toxic fumes, we may have been able to save Paul Kratides’ life.”

“An unfortunate end, that. Poor fellow. A foreigner to this land, tortured and restrained along with his sister. Had I been fully conscious, I agree we may have saved him… cleared the trachea, stimulated with 135

BY BRENDA ROSSINI © 2020

brandy. But look here, Holmes, in this case, there will be feathers, fur, and dust all the day and night. The young woman will need the readi-ness of a doctor, but who is now retired. Can we expect him to have retained the scopes and techniques?”

“He is firmly fixed on artificial breathing, It is another late technique developed by your medical peers, Watson. Brandy may no longer suffice. This doctor does not advertise his reliance on spirits for resuscitation.”

“Indeed. I do now recall the urgency of the application of chest pressure, heart massage, and arm lifting for the supine injured on the battlefield. Rarely survivable. The spirits were more solace than cure.“

“Watson, perhaps this entry in the agony column no longer appears unorthodox to you. It is neither criminal nor even salacious. A woman of good health will comprehend that this earnest, retired doctor and taxonomist expects enthusiasm and a willingness to learn. She must also believe in his respectability. We certainly are by way of his contact with the Palace. And, our doctor promises an opportunity for the lady typist to enlarge her potential as well as her pocketbook ”

“Lifelike recreations of the animal species in the hope of extending to the human? Like the mummies of ancient Egypt? Foolhardy then and now, Holmes. That is left to our Creator.”

Holmes is conciliatory. “There are some further details which we can hear from the doctor’s own lips. For the present, I am satisfied with my conclusions. The laryngologist will not be content with the dry rattle of old age.”

“Holmes, you have reminded me of words once spoken — that we are in a changing age. God’s own wind has arisen in this laryngologist’s scientific laboratory. Both man and woman will pierce dead life. We may well come closer, from our place here on earth, towards those who have gone before.”

“That in itself may be extraordinary, Watson. However, as my spiritual knowledge remains rusty, it can be resuscitated with Mrs. Hudson’s luncheon accompanied by a claret of restorative powers.”

Holmes rises as he speaks, opening the door for the weight of Mrs.

Watson’s tray. His smile is one of surprise and delight.

“My dear lady, a game bird! It may suffer the inner examination of your two diners, all the while satisfying our eager palates.” Looking 136

SHERLOCK HOLMES AND THE CASE OF THE LARYNGOLOGIST

over at Watson, he adds content to the intended narrative. “After we consume a goodly portion of the claret, Dr. Watson and I shall set out to examine the Registry of Taxonomists and Naturalists followed by a visit to the offices of the Times.”

Holmes raises his glass and toasts, “Watson, the past is history and the future is a mystery.”

137

A Toast to the Unnamed Editor of the London Times "Agony Column"

PERSONAL REPLIES TO LETTERS TO THE

"AGONY COLUMN"

BY KAREN OLSON © 2020

Dear Mrs. H.-

Even if he does shoot holes in your walls and fill your house with noxious fumes, it would be improper and possibly illegal for The Times to assist you in obtaining an expert in poisons to eliminate this annoying lodger. Try to look at the situation from a more optimistic view: He does pay rent. Also his profession seems fairly hazardous and a large insurance policy on his life, with you as the beneficiary might be better for you in the long run.

Yours sincerely, The Editor

_______________________________________

Dear Dr. W.-

Is it possible that your so-called friend is just using you for his own advantage? You say you have taken a bullet for him, but has he ever taken one for you?

You say he admits all manner of strange and frightening people to your shared rooms and that he uses drugs. The services of a doctor and 138

A TOAST TO THE UNNAMED EDITOR OF THE LONDON TIMES "AG…

a trained marksman such as yourself might serve as his protection and guarantee against foul play, especially if he doesn't have to pay you a salary. Dump this loser and find yourself a good woman.

Yours sincerely, The Editor

_______________________________________

Dear S.H.-

If your girlfriend writes you that her stage career is in shambles due to the death of some rabbit you know nothing about and she is worried that your brother is soon to become an uncle, perhaps you should sit down for a personal chat with your roommate, if he really is a doctor.

Such a chat could help clear up a few things for you. Good luck.

Yours sincerely, The Editor

_______________________________________

Dear Professor M.-

I understand that someone of your height is not pleased to be compared to that little French runt, Napoleon. However, he was a leader of a large, if somewhat quirky country. No one is asking you to eat garden snails or raw meat. And there is a lovely pastry named for him. In all fairness, there is no delicious sugary treat known as the

"Professor," now is there? Suck it up, old man. There could be more harmful nicknames to damage your reputation than the one you have now.

Yours sincerely, The Editor

_______________________________________

139

BY KAREN OLSON © 2020

Dear M.H.-

It is sweet that your little brother thinks you are the British government. There is nothing to be gained by revealing to him that you run the Diogenes Club: An Exclusive Brothel for certain men of discriminating tastes. He likes to brag about his smarter older brother and that may be not far off the mark. When the boy is old enough, you can initiate him into the customs of your establishment. I just realized you didn't specify the age of the boy. If he is already asking questions that make your parents uncomfortable, then forget about it and let them fulfill their parental responsibility.

Yours sincerely, The Editor

______________________________________

Dear I.A.-

Your boyfriend sounds like an idiot, but if you are consenting to his attentions and you are careful, there is no need to deny yourself the pleasure of his company. After all, this is the nineteenth century. Unless he and his roommate are of a certain persuasion, moving into their flat could prove tiring and will cause scandal regardless. Stick to a safer vocation, such as the theatre.

Yours sincerely, The Editor

140

The Consulting Detective and the Literary Agent: The Untold Tale

BY BARBARA RUSCH, BSI, ASH © 2020

In my relentless pursuit of the elusive ephemeral documents and unconventional artifacts relating to the era of “a certain gracious lady” and an

“illustrious client,” in 2012 I became the successful bidder on the intriguing contents of a cardboard box. On the lid is printed in ink, “Lady Conan Doyle, Windlesham, Crowborough,” the home in East Sussex where ACD drew his final breath in 1930. The box is filled with – no, not a pair of mismatched human ears – but a collection of his wife’s delicate undergarments. The provenance is indisputable, a white name tag stitched in red thread identifying the owner of the personal items in question. You may choose to scoff and snicker, and at first blush this drawerful of drawers appeared to be nothing more than a random assortment of frilly furbelows of silk and lace. But inside, wedged between the pantalets and the petti-coats, previously undiscovered, were papers which initially appeared to be a kind of backing or stiffener, but upon closer inspection proved to be a folded manuscript of incalculable value. Herein hangs a tale for which the world may not yet be prepared, but with which it will nonetheless now be presented, yielding a treasure trove of secrets neither its original owner nor the British auction house from which I purchased it could have predicted. I have transcribed the poignant narrative it contains, penned in a familiar, neat, round hand, upon which no other eyes until this moment have fallen, 141

BY BARBARA RUSCH, BSI, ASH © 2020

and am pleased to share them with all those who, like me, possess an abiding admiration for three great men of our acquaintance. This is Conan Doyle’s statement.

It was a raw, blustery day in November of the year 1894, and those few brave souls I passed in the roadway had their coats buttoned up and their heads bent low against the onslaught of the first fierce blast of the season. The last withered leaves clung defiantly to the great oak-tree outside 221B Baker Street, as if their obstinacy could somehow fore-stall the inevitability of Nature’s death sentence. I paused before ringing the bell, debating silently whether I should proceed or would come to regret the decision to embark upon this painful journey. As I lifted my eyes, I could see Sherlock Holmes gazing down from the bow window, as he often did in anticipation of a client who hesitated upon his doorstep before making the inevitable decision to enter. Mrs.

Hudson ushered me up those storied seventeen steps to the cluttered sitting room, where newspaper clippings and pots of glue littered the floor and coated several of the arm-chairs. Both Holmes and Watson looked puzzled as to my identity under my greatcoat and slouch hat.

“Why, it’s our old friend and literary agent, Conan Doyle,”

exclaimed Watson, once I had unravelled myself from these latter-day mummy’s wrappings. “I thought I recognized those elegant mustachios peeping out from beneath your muffler. Delighted to see you, Doctor.

Please excuse the disorder. Allow me to find a more advantageous spot for these papers. Holmes is assembling some additional pages to insert into his index.”

I was well aware that the great consulting detective had made an avocation of filing as complete a dossier as may be imagined clipped from the agony columns of the various London newspapers and journals. Over the years there was hardly a missing person or a mislaid possession of which he was unaware. It seemed as though everyone was searching for something – or someone – and Holmes had been tasked with singlehandedly monitoring this enormous national lost and found department. Moreover, he had developed his own peculiar system of 142

THE CONSULTING DETECTIVE AND THE LITERARY AGENT: THE …

docketing all manner of people and events, most especially ones relating to crimes and those who perpetrated them. These he meticulously pasted into the bulging scrapbooks he referred to affectionately as “good old index,” which sat conspicuously on the topmost shelf of the sitting room. From this promontory, his ponderous commonplace books came to represent as comprehensive a repository of knowledge on the subject of the celebrated and notorious as one is likely to encounter outside a headline in The Times or a glass display case at New Scotland Yard’s Black Museum.

Gathering a jumbled armful of the aforementioned newspaper cuttings that had been draped over an arm-chair, Watson deposited them in a pile on a nearby occasional table in the centre of the room, upon which a framed image of a handsome lady, elegantly coiffed and fashionably attired, whom I recognized immediately as the celebrated contralto Irene Adler, took pride of place. As he proceeded to awkwardly set down the bundle of scraps, the photograph inadver-tently toppled over. Holmes, as upset as the picture, leaped to his feet and darted across the room. Using his coat sleeve, he ceremoniously brushed away remnants of dust and debris which as a consequence had found their way onto the glass. His lips drawn into a taut, thin line, his voice cracking with an emotion he could scarcely contain, he softly admonished, “Do take care, Watson.”

“My most sincere apologies, Holmes. I assure you it was quite unintentional,” replied his flustered colleague in a conciliatory tone, abandoning the papers altogether. “There we are. Do make yourself at home, Doctor Doyle.” Hoping to set things aright in more than one sense, and in an effort to place himself out of Holmes’s line of vision and divert attention from the unfortunate turn the visit had taken, Watson sat down gingerly on a settee at a safe distance from his somewhat peevish companion. His arm stretched languidly across the back of his chair, he assumed a studied, if less than convincing, air of breezy nonchalance. I, in turn, settled into the recently vacated and slightly worn seat he had indicated.

“Now then, Doctor, as I have often told you,” said Watson, whose nerves appeared quite as frayed as the furniture, and understandably eager to steer the conversation onto a more neutral path and restore a 143

BY BARBARA RUSCH, BSI, ASH © 2020

sense of tranquility to the scene, “I am everlastingly in your debt in my trifling attempts to bring before the public the adventures of our sedu-lous sleuth, who largely on your account has come to enjoy a certain celebrity.” I could not help but feel that at least a modicum of that flat-tering observation was proffered with a view to being reinstated into his friend’s good graces, while I was thrust into the unenviable position of buffer between the fractious fellow lodgers.

“And I congratulate you,” he added, “on becoming something of a literary lion in your own right, what with your tales of horror and historical romance. Your recent endeavours have met with nothing short of unanimous acclaim within our narrow sphere, and I have it on good authority that they have attracted a large and enthusiastic readership.”

“I fear my inconsequential scribblings are no more than competent at best,” I replied, “though I do pride myself on my modest forays into the age of chivalry. But I thank you most sincerely for your generous endorsement, most especially as I confess to taking as my inspiration your thrilling accounts of Holmes’s heroic exploits. Perhaps you have surmised that my gallant medieval knights are modelled after our friend here, though I fear they pale by comparison with the original.”

“The possibility had certainly occurred to me,” Watson chuckled.

“But I have something of a discriminating eye for such things, and am prepared to prophesy without the slightest hesitation that you will come to enjoy unparalleled success as a prestigious and prolific author in your own right. Indeed, your considerable talents have not been misdirected.

I foresee an illustrious career ahead of you.”

I own to feeling a slight swelling of pride within my bosom.

“Coming from you, Doctor Watson, such profuse accolades are indeed gratifying.” Truth be told, his encomium was nothing short of music to my ears and went some way toward buoying my spirits.

“No doubt these are matters of surpassing interest,” grumbled Holmes, growing clearly impatient at all this polite palaver. “But I sense that there is something other than an exchange of pleasantries which brings you to our humble lodgings in the teeth of such inclement weather. Perhaps I may be of service to you in some small way?”

“Well, for one, Holmes, I have come to welcome you back, not just 144

THE CONSULTING DETECTIVE AND THE LITERARY AGENT: THE …

to London, but from the brink of death, having learned of your near fatal encounter at the precipice of that fearsome cataract.”

“Ah yes, that ‘seething cauldron,’ or some such nonsense, as Watson so euphemistically phrased it. I suppose he cannot do otherwise,” he grimaced. “It is his natural inclination to indulge in poetic excess, the results of which you may judge for yourself in his slightly lurid tales.

But then, as our literary agent, you are all too familiar with his flair for the dramatic,” he sniffed, casting an accusatory glance at the culpable chronicler he was known to refer to as his “Boswell” when in a more magnanimous disposition. Looking somewhat abashed, that kind-hearted gentleman, having recovered his good humour, turned to me with a mischievous wink.

“Not nearly so poetical from inside it, I assure you,” muttered Holmes with a rueful sigh, returning to the subject of the Reichenbach Falls, that terrible chasm where he had come so near to meeting his demise in that deathly struggle with the evil Professor Moriarty. “My subsequent travels are, to my mind, of far greater interest,” he observed, almost as an afterthought. “Perhaps one day I shall document them myself, without benefit of lyrical superfluity. Now that would be poetic justice!” he exclaimed triumphantly, glaring once again at his somewhat maltreated biographer, as if to put him on formal notice. “Nevertheless, many thanks, Doyle. It is indeed good to be back.”

“No doubt we shall be reading of both your adventures and misad-ventures when your memoirs are released, and I hope to have the honour of assisting in their publication. But,” I hastened to add, “once again you are correct, Holmes. I see very little escapes you. There was a matter on which I wished to confer with you.”

“Watson,” said Holmes, “throw another lump or two of coal onto the grate and for heaven’s sake, ring Mrs. Hudson for some tea, and perhaps something bracing besides, to help fortify the good doctor’s constitution, and perhaps his spirits, for unless I am very much mistaken, he is sorely in need of a bit of medicinal buttressing.”

And indeed, I was feeling rather peaked, and found myself shiv-ering uncontrollably. Glad to warm myself by the fire, which by now was crackling and blazing cheerily away, and dispensing with the tea 145

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altogether, I took a grateful draught of the brandy offered to me and attempted to gather my thoughts.

“And now, Doctor,” resumed Holmes, “how may I assist you?”

“I well know,” I began haltingly, a slight quaver in my voice, “that you are no Father Confessor. Nor is 221B a confessional, though I am aware it has served as one on occasion. And yet my heart is heavy, and I know of nowhere else to turn in my desperation and despair. As my medical colleague here so eloquently expressed it when we all believed you to be lying lifeless at the bottom of that awful abyss, you are also

‘the best and the wisest man whom I have ever known,’ with the uncanny facility to see into the darkest recesses of the human soul. I therefore turn to you and solicit your best counsel.”

“But what could possibly be the cause of such affliction?”

“A terrible injustice,” I responded.

“Perpetrated by whom?” inquired Holmes, his expression intent, his eyes gleaming like a cat’s, his long fingers steepled beneath his chin in anticipation.

“By me.”

“And the crime?”

“A most heinous one, to which Dante would have consigned the miscreant to the depths of the Inferno – a sin for which I shall be equally condemned – that of a son against his own father.”

Watson, leaning forward in keen expectation, looked utterly mystified, and the expression on Holmes’s face was one of incredulity at this startling confession. “I am all attention. Pray proceed.”

Propping myself up on the horsehair cushions, I sighed deeply and commenced my painful narrative.

“My story is soon told,” I began hesitantly. “You may know that just over a year ago my father passed beyond the veil.”

“I learned of your sad bereavement some months later, upon my arrival in France, and was sorry indeed to hear it. I offer you my condolences, my friend. I admired Charles Altamont Doyle a great deal. He was a man of enormous heart and a gifted artist besides.

Naturally I was indebted to him for his drawings in an early edition of the minor adventure which Watson embellished with the title A Study in Scarlet.”

“Yes,” I murmured softly, “it would seem that sufficient time has 146

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elapsed to blunt my grief, and yet each day brings with it fresh sorrow which I have brought upon myself. My father was a man of sensitive genius, ill-suited to the realities of this world. His mind was on strange moonlight effects, done with extraordinary skill in watercolours. He had a charm of manner and a courtesy of bearing which I have seldom seen equalled. But he was in many ways a tormented creature, and his life was blighted in consequence of underdeveloped gifts and unfulfilled dreams. After a promising early career as a draughtsman, he became subject to excruciating headaches, plunging him into frequent bouts of deep depression. A weakness for drink, which I have made a concerted effort to conceal, was accompanied by hallucinatory episodes, and his declining years were spent confined to a series of asylums within whose bleak corridors I rarely called upon him. I did little to ease the burdens he bore, nor was I in any way attentive to his needs. Truth be told, I could summon up no great sympathy either for him or for the desperate situation in which he found himself. My resentment at having to fend for myself and see to the demands of my family as I struggled through medical school fuelled our estrangement and hardened my resolve. We referred to his condition as the ‘dreadful secret.’ I am ashamed to confess that my thoughts were solely for the disadvantage which his condition placed upon me and not for his anguish nor the deplorable manner in which I had abandoned him to his lonely fate.

Perhaps I harboured a fear that his infirmities might prove hereditary, for I am all too aware that such unfortunate predispositions may be passed down from one generation to the next.”

At this point in my lachrymose lament I paused to take another long draught of the brandy, then pressed on. “Ultimately, the breach brought on by my disreputable conduct became so vast as to be irrec-oncilable. My father’s malady manifested in a morbid fascination with death, and I imagine the end must have been something of a consola-tion for him. I pray he has at last found peace. But now I am the tormented one, haunted by a calculated indifference and consumed with a remorse from which I can find no respite. What a loathsome creature I am. How could I have allowed him to languish in that deso-late place, without a devoted son to bring solace to his wounded spirit and tortured soul? Now his passing, forlorn and unmourned, weighs heavily upon my conscience, and the ‘dreadful secret’ has become my 147

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own shame and despair. I cannot help but reproach myself, and struggle within the depths of a pit of regret and contrition from which there is no escape.”

By the conclusion of my plaintive saga, I had quite collapsed into convulsive sobs, a shattered wreck, burying my face in my hands.

“Steady, my dear fellow,” said Holmes, reaching across and gripping me by the arm in a well-intentioned, if ineffectual, effort to console me.

“Try to pull yourself together, man.” No doubt he feared I had taken leave of my senses, and at that moment I allow to sharing his concerns.

“Watson, some more brandy.”

With the amiable doctor ministering to my needs, I gradually regained control of my trembling limbs, along with some semblance of composure. Holmes, meanwhile, grew contemplative, gazing pensively into the fire, his old briar pipe clenched between his lips, swirling eddies of blue smoke partially obscuring his features. His normally piercing gray eyes assumed a far-away look, as if lost in distant reverie. After a few moments, he broke the silence that had descended upon the sitting room, while without, the gale shook furiously at the window-pane like a prisoner rattling the bars of his cell, the curtains drawn in defiance against the inexorable forces of nature.

“I appreciate your candour in these matters, Doctor – in addition to your feelings of self-recrimination,” he began in grim and deliberate reflection. “We are none of us blameless with respect to a wayward father. Mine, you may know, was a country squire who boasted a naturally genial manner, but was transformed into an odious brute when in his cups. His vicious ways drove me at a tender age from the only home I had ever known. But that was as nothing when set against the terrible cruelty he inflicted upon my mother, beaten up and broken down, and my university days came to an abrupt end when I was compelled to return to intercede on her behalf, convinced that her life was imper-illed. I have prevailed upon Watson to withhold these distressing details from his published narratives. Public exposure of the true facts might prove something of an inconvenience to me and particularly incom-modious to my brother Mycroft in his sensitive position in the Foreign Office. The fate that befell the old blackguard does not bear close scru-tiny, though I am prepared to affirm that the justice meted out to him in the end was a righteous one and not likely to weigh very heavily 148

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upon my conscience. Can you wonder, then, at my reticence on the subject of my forebears? And yet, the brutality I witnessed in those tender years was no doubt a deciding factor in my choice of métier.

Watson will tell you that I am especially offended by the outrages committed by violent men upon ill-used, if weak-willed, women, whether wives or daughters, whose molesters I endeavour to run to ground. I do not suffer the Grimesby Roylotts or Jack Stapletons of this world gladly, though I own that in holding them to account for their crimes I am in some small measure seeking justice for the suffering of a dear mother at the hands of an implacable father.”

You may only wonder at the effect this unexpected confession had upon my already agitated mind. No doubt the astonishment etched on my face registered it all. For this inscrutable, self-contained and intensely private man to have divulged to me the previously undisclosed secrets of his troubled parentage was at once disconcerting and humbling. Moreover, these unhappy revelations provided incontrovert-ible evidence that, despite his well-known distaste for intimacy, Sherlock Holmes is as far from the cold, calculating machine Watson has portrayed him as may be imagined. To the contrary, it was becoming abundantly clear that here was a fellow of unimpeachable integrity, whose strength of character concealed a very private heartache, one possessed of a profound inner life from which he drew his unshakeable moral integrity and an unwavering commitment to justice. I suddenly grasped as I never could before that the ill-fortune which attended his youth had cast an indelible shadow over him, in consequence whereof that part of his solitary nature so averse to modifying his passions had been sacrificed to a resolute austerity. The epiphany brought me ever closer to the humanity of the man behind the myth.

“I was unaware you lay claim to this dark past, Holmes,” I declared in astonishment.

“I have confided in you the blackest days of my youth as an act of faith, by way of assuring you that your confidence in me has not been misplaced. You may count on me to treat it with the utmost discretion and counsel you in this matter with the benefit of my own experience.

And my advice to you is this: we cannot turn back the hands of time, Doyle. But there is one thing we can do. Pay tribute to an honourable, if failed, father. Sing his praises, take pride in his many excellent attrib-149

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utes and find the means to assimilate them into your own endeavours.

Think of it as a kind of spiritual collaboration, if you will. Above all, you must find it in your heart to forgive him – and yourself.”

I was quite overwhelmed with Holmes’s insight and sage advice, and could feel my melancholy perceptibly lifting away like dark clouds dispersing after a storm. As if to confirm this restored sense of tranquility, the howling beyond the window-pane had suddenly ceased.

“My friend, I cannot thank you enough for your kind ministrations and judicious admonitions, and pledge on my oath to be guided by them.

What you have done today is as great a service as any of the crimes you have solved and clients to whose aid you have come. Please accept my most sincere gratitude. I shall be forever in your debt.” As always, Watson conveyed it best in a rather more generous appraisal of his boon companion, for on that day “I caught a glimpse of a great heart as well as of a great brain.”

In the years following that pivotal moment in the sitting room of 221B I have made every effort to keep the promise I made to Holmes and to myself. As frequently befalls us in life, the hand of fate pointed irrevocably toward my destiny. Though my talents do not lie with brush or paint, I have indeed incorporated my father’s passions and convictions into my own work. To that end, the monstrous prehistoric beasts and flying creatures of my adventure tale The Lost World took as their inspiration his sketches of enormous and menacing woodland creatures in pursuit of terrified and delicate waifs. Given his and my Uncle Dicky’s predilection for fairies, it is more than probable that my own obsession with elementals is at least in part some perverse biological imperative. Fairies in the blood are liable to take the strangest forms. I would be hesitant to confess to it publicly, but if I am being absolutely truthful, as I feel compelled to do in this confidential memoir, I concede that the photographs of the Cottingley fairies, in whose authenticity I professed an abiding conviction, might well have been no more than an elaborate hoax. Nevertheless, upon reflection, the incident afforded me the opportunity to redeem my father’s memory, to give meaning to his life and the hallucinatory world he inhabited – and 150

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to assuage my guilt. In 1924 I organized an exhibition of some fifty of his beautiful, haunting and disturbing paintings which was well received by critics and public alike. My affiliation with the spiritualist movement, which many attribute to the loss of my son Kingsley following the Great War, was sparked decades earlier in a vain attempt to reestablish a connection on another plane with my dear father.

Much of my life, it seems, has been spent honouring the fourth commandment and perpetuating the legacy of Charles Altamont Doyle.

Over the next two decades, the relations I enjoyed with Sherlock Holmes had been pleasant and fruitful, both in a professional and a personal capacity, and I take some pride in the services I provided to both him and Dr. Watson as the literary agent for the extraordinary accounts of their many adventures together. I had not enjoyed the favour of a communication from Holmes for the two years prior to the Great War. Unpredictable to the point of eccentricity, he was liable to vanish as thoroughly as the elusive Houdini, my erstwhile friend and sometime rival, for years at a time when in pursuit of some murderous secret society or while being pursued by one himself, so I was not unduly concerned. After all, he had disappeared into thin air following his harrowing escape at the Reichenbach, so we had grown quite accustomed to his prolonged and inexplicable absences.

And yet, from time to time a nagging doubt as to his well-being overcame me, and I toyed with the idea of placing an advertisement in the agony column of the Times in an effort to reassure myself of his continued existence. At one point I had gone so far as to compose the notice, which read, in part:

Seeking the whereabouts of an exceedingly angular gentleman, somewhat above six feet in height, of austere demeanour and ascetic features - thin of hair and of lip, prominent of proboscis, of peculiarly penetrating eye and of pronounced eccentricities. Neatly dressed and scrupulously clean. Smokes shag tobacco. Has been known to carry a magnifying glass on his person with which he at a moment’s notice might fall to the ground to examine the 151

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mud on the underside of the shoes of passersby or the elbows of young women. The sum of £25 will be paid to anyone with information.

The irony did not escape me that searching the agony columns for the very man whose métier it was to search agony columns struck me as patently absurd, and upon further consideration I dismissed the notion out of hand.

As fate would have it, Holmes was neither mislaid property nor a missing person, and my worst fears were allayed late one afternoon in October of 1914, when he suddenly arrived, quite unannounced, on my doorstep at Windlesham, in Sussex, where I had made my home for some seven years past. Though his hair was noticeably flecked with gray, by all accounts he appeared hale and hearty, if discernably more gaunt, his step firm, his bearing as erect and dignified as ever. His eyes retained their keen intensity, his senses were sharpened, and he seemed possessed of a surfeit of vigour. He fairly radiated purpose and vitality, his face aglow with what might best be described as triumphant exalta-tion. Though advancing in years, it was clear he was still at the height of his powers.

“I do hope I’m not intruding, Arthur,” he said.

“You are most cordially welcome here. Delighted to see you, Sherlock,” I assured him, gripping his hand until I nearly shook it off. “The pleasure is all the greater for being so unexpected. You honour us all at Windlesham with your presence. How often have I thought of you and wondered when I should be privileged to see you again. But to what great good fortune am I indebted for your attendance? And where the devil have you been, if I may be presumptuous enough to enquire?’

“A moment, Arthur, if you please. Allow me to explain.”

“Ah, forgive me. I am derelict in my duties as host. I have neither taken your hat nor offered you anything by way of libation before accosting you with an unpardonable harangue. I fear my curiosity has got the better of me. A cheery fire and a glass of port will soon chase the chill from your bones. Let us adjourn to my library.”

Holmes followed me into what I am pleased to refer to as my sanctum sanctorum, familiar yet notable in its own modest way, a snug, little, oak-panelled sanctuary lined with shelves overflowing with my most cherished volumes, culled over a lifetime. Just walking through 152

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that magic door is for me like entering an enchanted land of fantasy and imagination. Here is the jewel-case for my most precious possessions, within whose walls dwell the profound observations of the greatest philosophers, the critical assessments of the foremost chroniclers of history, and the ingenuity of the most spellbinding storytellers the world has known. Gazing round that chamber never fails to fill me with awe and serve as inspiration all at once – evidence of the indelible mark these forward thinkers and peerless savants have left on humanity.

As I sit at my desk, pen in hand, I can almost feel their essence flowing through me as I attempt to emulate their genius to the limits of my ability.

I was gratified that Holmes appeared to appreciate the depth and diversity of the collection, as he took several minutes to peruse the shelves, remarking on a title here and an author there which particularly piqued his interest, stopping to examine the contents of one or two more closely.

“Do make yourself comfortable upon the old green settee,” said I, once the inspection of the more salient tomes had concluded to his apparent satisfaction. I motioned him to the faded arm-chair before the fireplace, which has long been my favourite. On the wall above hung – and still does – a gilt-framed lithograph of the old Queen as she appeared on the occasion of her Diamond Jubilee. Though she had passed on to her just reward thirteen years before, I have been loath to remove her – either from my wall or from my heart. Her presence brings to mind the glorious age of a reign which will never be surpassed. For me, Victoria will ever remain the centerpiece of an Empire built to last. Truth be told, her image fondly recalls my own glory days as a callow youth with a head full of dreams and a taste for adventure, those early years aboard an Arctic whaler and as a struggling ophthalmologist, as I groped about for my true calling.

Somehow I cannot bring myself to replace her portrait with that of her descendants, so there it has remained – her kindly countenance gazing benignly down upon me. In some way I find difficult to define, when the door closes behind me in that mystical chamber, time stands still – and it is always 1897. But my feeble act of fealty pales by comparison with that of her most loyal subject, whose own wall, irreparably bullet-pocked with Her Majesty’s cipher, proclaims his 153

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undying devotion. When it comes to panache, Sherlock Holmes is ever the master.

Darkness was closing in fast, though I was reluctant to switch on the electric light. I am inordinately fond of moments of quiet reflection spent in rooms illuminated solely by firelight. Now, as the coals sizzled and sputtered in the grate, the flickering flames cast eerie shadows over the great detective’s distinctive features, throwing his brooding eyes, his hawk-like nose and square-cut jaw into bold relief. The entire mise en scène was more than suggestive of one of Sidney Paget’s charming drawings in The Strand Magazine, Holmes and Watson seated on either side of the fire at 221B Baker Street, the image, deftly drawn in shades of gray, gradually fading into obscurity along the edges. As we nestled in, two glasses of ruby-tinted port glinting in the warm glow of the hearth, Holmes wasted no time in declaring the true purpose of his visit.

“Arthur,” he began, “I am not unmindful that my absence has excited considerable speculation. The truth is, when it became clear that a sinister plot was afoot, I was called upon to undertake the most perilous mission of my career. For these two years past I have assumed the identity of an Irish-American agent in a life-or-death struggle against a ruthless and diabolical adversary. The very survival of the Empire might well have depended upon a successful outcome.”

“You are a faithful friend, Sherlock, but a relentless foe. So you return to us the conquering hero, your brow once again wreathed in laurel,” I exclaimed in all sincerity. “I congratulate you on vanquishing our enemies. You do us proud, sir – our champion – and a benefactor to mankind.”

“Well, that remains to be seen,” he shrugged in his singularly self-assured, yet understated, fashion. “I merely did what little I could. I leave the rest to others.”

“Nevertheless,” I insisted, “there’s not an officer in all the King’s regiments, from the newly-joined subaltern even to Field-Marshal Kitchener himself, who wouldn’t be glad to shake you by the hand.” To further punctuate the point, I rose and proffered him a mischievous, though by no means parodical, salute.

“Thank you. You are most kind,” said Holmes, genuinely moved by 154

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my effusive praise. “The stars stand guard in the heavens, and in our own small way we are privileged to serve alongside them.”

“And what of Dr. Watson?” I enquired. “Is he cognizant of your most recent triumph?”

“Indeed, he had a not insignificant role to play in it,” Holmes conceded, “and at its conclusion we enjoyed a moment of quiet reflection as we stood upon the terrace of the drafty, old pile where the dénouement of this little drama was enacted. I will share with you now what I told him then – that, for better or for worse, the world is about to be irretrievably altered. We are embarking upon a new era in the history of civilization, one in which our lives will never be the same again.”

“Be that as it may,” I replied, “there remains one immutable truth of which I am certain. There will always be an England – and there will always be Sherlock Holmes. They are as inextricably bound and as essential to life as the air we breathe.”

Leaning in, Holmes clasped me by the shoulder. “We shall see, Doyle,” was his enigmatic response, a sad, little smile playing about his lips. “We shall see.”

Clearing his throat, for his voice had become thick with emotion, he resumed his captivating narrative. “For the duration of this, my most challenging campaign, I was obliged to adopt a pseudonym.”

“Ah, a mystery moniker, is it?’ I chuckled, bemused and intrigued.

“And by what name may I now have the pleasure of addressing you?”

“Altamont,” replied Holmes, a sly twinkle in his eye.

“My father’s name?” I managed to choke out in a barely audible whisper. For a few moments I felt all the air rush from my lungs and was left gasping for breath. I stared at him in utter bewilderment, though I should not have been entirely taken by surprise. I have learned over the years that while nothing about Holmes is entirely unanticipated, everything he says and does comes as something of a jolt to the system. And yet, as if in defiance of all expectation, at that moment I confess to being at a complete loss as to his meaning. As is his custom, he soon offered up a cogent explanation.

“Years ago I counselled you to pay homage to that fine man and worthy patriarch. What I refrained from disclosing, however, was that he and I had developed a fast friendship. He professed an abiding 155

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admiration for what he referred to – in somewhat excessive tribute – as my ‘valiant efforts to seek justice in a cruel world,’ and in an act of emulation, his renderings of me in A Study in Scarlet more closely resembled his own person. He may have envied me the freedom I enjoyed to follow my chosen path while he was constrained from fulfilling a nobler destiny by reason of ill health and psychological impairment. He took me into his confidence, freely acknowledging his many failings and regrets, despite which, I assure you, I returned his esteem.” Holmes sipped at his port and sighed in wistful reminiscence. “In his own peculiar fashion he was a fellow of unsurpassed wisdom,” adding, with only the slightest hesitation, “and the kind, gentle father for whom I longed.”

His words hung in the air for a long moment. When my astonishment prevented me from immediately rejoining, he hastened to avert any further offence his admission might unintentionally have inflicted upon my sensibilities. “My most unequivocal apologies to have taken you unawares, Doyle, though I beg you to be in no way discomfited.

Charles implored me to keep the nature of our relations from you in order to spare you any further pain. Now I have reciprocated his vener-ation, and in my own way have sought to keep his memory green.” In truth, I found his declamation as heartening as it was startling. Here, it seemed, was a man who revered my father no less than I, one equally dedicated to honouring his legacy.

How could I do otherwise than accept the putative apology he proffered, the more so when he prevailed upon me (as he had on one previous occasion, with Watson’s indulgence) to set down the record of his marvellous adventure, once sufficient time had elapsed to lay the facts of this vitally important case with as much circumspection as possible before the public. Thus my role as literary agent became somewhat enhanced, though, unlike my other attempts at authorship, this was no work of fiction. It is more than likely that Holmes entrusted its telling to me by virtue of my uniquely intimate association with it, though for this very reason we thought it prudent not to attach my name to the stirring events to which he affixed the fitting title His Last Bow. In reality, my contribution was little more than editorial in nature, so keen a grasp did he retain with regard to the minutest details of his unparalleled heroism. Thus Sherlock Holmes and I have each kept a 156

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pledge to my father, and I have perhaps in some small measure redeemed myself in his eyes. The bond we have forged has become indissoluble, my father’s spirit having become the powerful force which unites us in brotherhood in the truest sense, indistinguishable pillars upon which a flourishing friendship has long been sustained. I cannot extol highly enough the exemplary virtues of one to whom I am indebted by the strongest ties of gratitude and affection.

I suspect my time on this earthly plane is growing short, and before long I shall permanently don the spiritual mantle whose principles and beliefs I have embraced so fervently in life. The hour of reclamation is at hand, as I prepare to be reunited with a father lost to me so long ago.

For now, I shall safeguard the sensitive and confidential communications herein recorded, along with their concomitant – and possibly incendiary – repercussions, and will search for a clandestine and discreet niche in which to conceal them. No doubt the particulars will ultimately be divulged – to which I have no undue objection – and in any event by which time it will be beyond my power either to prevent their disclosure or to dispute their veracity. Should it come to pass that other eyes are cast upon these pages, I pray I will be judged with the same charity and compassion that Sherlock Holmes bestowed upon me and all those he deemed equally deserving, and be granted absolution.

It may well be that this, my final testament, will one day serve as my epitaph.

A. Conan Doyle

June 6, 1930

So ends Conan Doyle’s remarkable statement. As for me, what began as an acquisition of frivolous frippery has evolved into a chronicle of remorse, reconciliation and redemption. With the discovery of this illuminating document, revelations of the most unforeseen nature have been brought to light, confessions of the most intimate description have been exchanged, and what was once concealed is now revealed.

And if some dirty laundry has been aired in the process, at least it is in the name of truth and justice, the twin virtues which served as guideposts in the 157

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lives of these two great men. Whatever transgressions they may inadver-tently have committed have long been forgiven. There are family secrets here and to spare, enough to fill several additional drawers full of drawers.

Both Conan Doyle and Sherlock Holmes have been stripped to their essentials, their souls laid bare, with more than one suppressed confidence discovered amongst the “unmentionables.” I am inexpressibly grateful to have been afforded the opportunity to bring a long-lost manuscript to light and to be the conduit through whom a mystery has been solved and a friendship defined.

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A Message for Holmes

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It was September of 1896 when Mrs. Hudson sent a note to me.

She had become worried over Holmes’ absence this week.

I made my excuses to Mary and left for my old address on Baker Street.

Holmes, it seemed, had left three days ago.

His demeanor was unusual, according to Mrs. Hudson.

She was well-acquainted with the look of Holmes the bloodhound, when a case took hold of his whole being.

What alarmed her was that Holmes had a worried look.

His eyes showed a wounded soul, and it scared her.

What was I to do?

There was no indication of the crisis that had pulled Holmes away.

I looked at his table and his desk and everywhere else.

The clutter of papers and newspapers was the familiar backdrop to our sitting room.

But no hastily opened envelopes lay about given me a clue.

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So I settled into my chair and looked around, hoping to see some unfamiliar pattern in the debris of Holmes’ ephemera.

However, nothing stood out.

I read the newspapers, scanning the headlines for events that might trigger a strong reaction.

The crises of the day were not tied to any mysteries.

And then I saw in the margin of the Agony Column the name

“Claude” in pencil, underlined.

I was arrested since I rarely witnessed that name.

My son Claude had died but four years ago.

Mary and I had been shocked by the swiftness of the disease.

I blamed myself, a doctor, for allowing this.

But when Holmes returned from the chasm of Reichenbach he saved me from my bereavement.

I recall his words “Work is the best antidote to sorrow, my dear Watson.”

We never spoke of Claude directly even though Holmes’ sympathy was clear.

Even Mary and I spoke rarely of our scion, named after her father Claudius.

Yet here it appeared in the margin of the Agony Column, so I was drawn to the message that the same pencil had circled.

GO MELODIC TENOR BOY

OMENS RISING

LINE READER

This made no sense, but often these columns were full of the obscure snippets of dialogues intelligible but to two people.

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I was familiar to the ciphered messages that passed between lovers.

While nearly everyone assumed such messages were unreadable except by themselves,

Holmes had long ago shown me how they could be laid open to his industrious efforts.

This was no such cipher even though its meaning was hidden.

I wracked my brain, knowing that Holmes had gleaned its meaning.

I was frustrated further with the possibility that it was related to my departed son.

Even as I became more tired, sleep would not come until it was too much.

The next morning found me in the same chair, awakened by the ministrations of our landlady.

Again, I stared at the three-lined message.

I was struck by the thought that such a message might be signed.

Then I slapped the table as I realized that the last line when rearranged spelled IRENE ADLER.

The possibility of a coincidence became increasingly unlikely as I pondered Holmes’ old maxim of balancing probabilities.

So Irene Adler was communicating to someone.

And when I was reminded of Mrs. Hudson’s exhortations I was convinced that it was for Holmes the message was sent.

But what was the message?

Why had it upset Holmes so much?

At this point I went to my home.

Many night we had played Word Making & Word Taking, and the letter tiles were now needed to solve this mystery.

At first I was daunted by the impossibility of the task as I slid the tiles, GO MELODIC TENOR BOY, about my gaming table.

Then I saw the letters spell out COME.

Before I knew what I was doing LODGE jumped out and I had it: COME TO BRIONY LODGE.

On top of all that, Holmes was a tenor!

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Undoubtedly that is where Holmes had left for in such a state of excitement.

Why such excitement?

I should know before called for a cab.

To be forewarned is to be forearmed, we are told.

But the tiles did not yield their secret.

Nothing in the second line gave me pause, beyond the text itself: OMENS RISING.

Then I saw the word MISSING but the remaining letters RONE

discouraged that approach.

Eventually I came back to it and became convinced it was NERO

MISSING.

As I took a hansom to St. John’s Wood I wondered who Nero was, if that was indeed the name.

As I neared the familiar home of the only woman to defeat Holmes, I exited the cab a block away.

Approaching on foot, I found Holmes standing at the door.

Irene Adler stood there holding an infant boy.

She held the boy tight to her bosom.

With some final words Holmes turned to leave.

His face was bleeding and his knuckles were barked, but he had a look of great satisfaction.

I was immediately able to see the threads that had been unclear moments earlier.

I quietly returned to my cab and went straight to see Mary.

We spoke of Claude that night a great deal.

And I was struck by Holmes’ subtle tribute: Claudius and Nero.

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BY STEPHEN MASON, ASH © 2020

“My dear Watson, if I may be so bold as to trample on your thoughts, I believe you are correct in second-guessing the previous decision on how to spend your money.”

"Most amazing!" I exclaimed. I sat back in my chair and stared at him in blank confoundedness. “No matter how many times you are able to read my most innermost thoughts, I still cannot help but wonder if you are indeed clairvoyant, or a charlatan.”

“Maybe,” intoned Holmes, as he exhaled a large ring of smoke.

“After all, Dr. William McDougal, lately moved to Harvard, has espoused many have the power to read other’s minds. I understand he calls his studies, ‘psychical research.’”

“Twaddle to such rubbish. But, getting back to your original point, how did you possibly know my mind was being weighed down by such a decision.”

Holmes chuckled, setting his pipe down on the table between us, glancing out over the green pastures in front of us.

The view from the porch could only be described as idyllic, with only small apiary boxes disrupting the smoothly flowing fields down to the bluffs at Beachy Head.

Running my eyes rapidly over Holmes, I noticed his aquiline features had not changed dramatically since our first introduction.

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True, the hair had whitened along the temples, but the set brow, hawkish nose, and prominent jaw would never change.

“As always, Watson, you elect not to observe that which is in plain sight. Firstly, I could not help but notice that you spent an inordinate amount of time this morning reading the front page of The Times and Guardian. While you were sleeping through the early stages of breakfast, I had time to peruse the morning editions and noticed an article discussing a memorial to be erected for fallen heroes of the recent war.

“The article has suggested veterans of other wars should subsidize the tribute. Second, I observed you repeatedly looking toward the direction of the cliffs of Dover, with a small tear forming at the corner of your right eye. I can only surmise that you were thinking of all those lives lost, including many of your friends, at the expense of the German aggression.

“And finally, in the past hour, you have twice removed your quite personal cheque book from the inner jacket pocket, opened, stared silently at it, and then placed it back without being used. I may have been retired for many years, but it would indeed be a sad day when I could not read these quite obvious signs, deducing a correct assumption.”

“Not for the first time, I must acquiesce that you make it sound so simple, but I cannot help but admit your skill is past my abilities. So how would you advise that I use the money I was considering donating to this just cause?”

Holmes quickly replied, “As much as I respect the noble ideas of the veterans, I feel that your money would be better served assisting those who returned from the ravages of battle, physically or emotionally wounded.

“Always remember that whatever deeds of devotion were done beneath our flag during the days of the war never deserved better of the country than you. And I might add,” a slight twinkle in his eye, “I always enjoy the surprise on your face each time we play this ‘parlor trick.’

“Now, dear Doctor, yesterday just before retiring for the night, you indicated that you had an issue to discuss this morning. I cannot fathom a better time to take up the matter. But before we discuss such 164

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weighty matters, may I bother you to take a few minutes to look over a few slips of paper. I would be grateful to get your view on the subject.”

“I would be honoured to assist you on any issue you may have encountered.”

“It may be nothing; it may be something simple, or could lead us into deeper waters.”

Holmes then handed over to me a series of newspaper clippings.

They were obviously personal advertisements from the Agony Columns from one of the daily newspapers.

Normally, these classifieds were used to announce a lost or found item, proclaiming a new love, or voicing ire over a lost love. These, however, appeared to be much more innocent.

“S – My first attempt at a garden is ready. Very small scale to see if successful. Hope nothing dies. – B”

The next one…

“S – Garden a success. Ready to go full-scale. With luck, may produce results beyond our expectations. – B”

And another…

“S – Back from short trip. Garden appears fine; no damage while away.

Hopefully future is as successful as past. – B”

And the last one…

“S – Appears some type of predator is seeking out garden. Pests can do major damage. May either use a deterrent or move the garden. – B”

“My Dear Watson, are you up to a short trip with me. The journey will allow me to visit a close friend, possibly for the last time, and clear up a small mystery at the same time.”

I eagerly consented, though I must admit I was slightly mystified by his reference to a close friend that I was unfamiliar with.

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went, by train, which went through eastern London, on our way to destination, Dunmow station, in Essex.

“Holmes, now is the time to let in on where we are going, who we are visiting, and why we are going…”

“You are right. First, we are on our way to Little Easton, which is located in Essex, close to Great Dunmow.”

“I confess I am not familiar with this village, though I have heard of Great Dunmow.”

“Second, have you ever heard me mention the name, “Bertie”?

“Not that I can remember. It sounds like a nickname.”

“You are correct. I was acquainted with him years ago, but only since I retired to Sussex have we begun a serious, and continuous, writing exchange.

“He has twice visited me on the Downs, and I have traveled once to his humble dwelling. Now for the part in which I must ask you to suspend belief and questions until I finish. ‘Bertie’, as you surmised, is a nickname for a very interesting fellow indeed, with the first name

‘Herbert’.”

I had to interrupt… “Holmes, are you telling me your ‘friend’ is none other than H.G. Wells, the renowned author? I thought that nickname sounded familiar. I believe ‘Bertie’ is what family members call him.”

“… And good friends, I may add. That answers your first two questions. The third question is a little more knotty to answer. Are you familiar with H.G.’s writings?”

“Of course, I have reread several of his stories through the years.”

“Which two would you say are his most popular or famous novels?”

“Off the top of my head, I would suspect War of the Worlds and The Time Machine, both written around the 1895 period, which coincides with one of our busiest years.”

“You are on a roll. Now what if I were to tell you that one of those stories was not a flight of fancy, but was a fairly close approximation of a true story?”

“Seriously, Holmes, do not play me the fool. Surely, if an invasion force of Martians, or wherever they came from, had arrived on Earth and caused havoc, I believe I would have read about it in one of London’s finest rags.”

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“Watson, you amuse me. I was not speaking of that drama, but of the other one…”

“Holmes, you mean to tell me Mr. Well’s description of a time machine traveling to the ends of time is true. I simply cannot accept this. It goes beyond scientific belief.”

“Not to offend you, my fine fellow, but whether you believe in this or not is immaterial… what is relevant is that my friend appears to be in trouble and in need of my assistance.”

“Holmes, for the sake of argument, or to ‘play the game’, let’s assume that the machine is real. How do you know Mr. Wells is in danger?”

“Simple. Do you still have those newspaper clippings I provided you earlier this morning?”

“Yes, I stored them in my coat pocket. Here they are.”

“Now, assuming what I have told you is factual, reread each note, and simply replace the term ‘garden’ with ‘time machine.’

Here is what I was able to glean from the notices…

“S – My first attempt at a [time machine] is ready. Very small scale to see if successful. Hope nothing dies. – B”

The next one…

“S – [Time machine] a success. Ready to go full-scale. With luck, may produce results beyond our expectations. – B”

And another…

“S – Back from short trip. [Time machine] appears fine; no damage while away. Hopefully future is as successful as past. – B”

And the last one…

“S – Appears some type of predator is seeking out [Time machine]. Pests can do major damage. May either use a deterrent or move the [Time machine]. – B”

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“Watson, what you did not see is a very short, terse telegram I received this morning.” With this, Holmes handed me the form.

S -- I fear our cypher is detected and known. I will endeavor to send you a fresh one. – B”

“Holmes, I must admit, my mind is racing faster than the train we currently occupy. You must allow for my confusion. Please fill in more details, including why Mr. Wells would presently be in danger.”

“As I told you earlier, H.G. and I began corresponding to each other soon after I had reached Sussex in 1903. He seemed to be interested in my profession, specifically in learning a few ‘tricks of the trade’

in observation.

“He felt this would be valuable in future journeys he planned on taking. My take from the fellowship was picking his mind on social issues, and his predictions on how our world would change in the coming years, if not generations.”

“So, and again I’m not fully embracing this yet, the tale The Time Machine is actually true, at least in your mind?”

“No, in actuality, the notion of a time machine was simply a figment of Well’s imagination… at least at the time of publication in 1895. But Wells had the idea for several years before that. Approximately one year ago, he surprised me with an impromptu visit at my residence.

“Over drinks on that first night, he shocked me even more by suggesting he believed he had actually discovered a method for time travel.”

“I remember, from the book, the time machine used a material called Plattnerite as the fuel source. Are you telling me he has actually discovered such a material?”

“Not necessarily that specific material. To be truthful, he has never fully disclosed to me the mechanics of the machine, but it appears to generate an enormous amount of electrical energy from within itself.

“It is not a ‘perpetual motion machine’, as though simply violate the laws of physics, but there is no external power source, so whatever he has discovered to power the machine must be very special, to say the 168

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least. As to why he would be in danger, that is easy enough to understand.

“We have just pulled ourselves out of a great conflict, which endan-gered most of the lives on this planet. It would not be a stretch to imagine there are many who would jump at the chance to change that outcome with a visit to the past, altering just a few of the circumstances which led to the Allied victory. In addition, you can only imagine the number of people who would feel the overwhelming moral pull to revisit certain dates in history and revise them.

“Keep Boothe from assassinating Lincoln; warn the Captain of the Titantic of the impending iceberg; or maybe even something minor on a global scale, but major on a personal level, such as keeping an unknown person from experiencing a fatal accident.”

“Would any of those changes be such a bad thing? I can see how the right person, with the right convictions, could vastly improve the present world by a few changes in the past.”

“That argument could be made. But after hours of discussion with Mr. Wells, he is in the camp that changing the past is simply wrong.

Our past errors are what shaped us into who we are currently. Without those slip-ups, we'd be far less equipped to take on the challenges to come. Taking away those mistakes would be like taking away every bump, scrape and bruise we gained while someone taught us to ride a bike.

“Without them, we would still be riding with someone running next to us, keeping us upright, instead of being able to ride on our own. And a trip to the future could be just as disastrous, if performed by a person who was focused on personal gain. Knowing the ups and downs of a market, a score of a future race or game, or the outcome of an election could lead to changes we could not comprehend.”

Holmes had given me much to ponder, and so we settled down on either side of the car for the duration of the trip. Once arriving at Great Dunmow, we caught transportation to Little Easton; Holmes chose a horse and wagon over a much faster automobile, believing the old-fashioned way would draw less attention to ourselves.

A trip of approximately two and one-half miles, and we had reached Mr. Well’s residence, known as Easton Glebe. The house was a 169

BY STEPHEN MASON, ASH © 2020

sprawling red-brick, two-story house, surrounded by shrubbery and trees.

We were dropped off at the head of the driveway, just to the right of a sprawling lawn, which had the appearance of being well-maintained previously, but had overgrown in the recent times.

Holmes quickly approached the front door, using the knocker to announce our arrival.

After a delay of approximately two minutes, the door opened slightly, just a crack.

“Who’s there? Mr. Wells is not here, so please leave.”

“Mrs. Watchett, it is Sherlock Holmes. Please let me in. I am here to help.”

The door opened entirely, and Mrs. Watchett immediately rushed out to embrace Holmes. After a few embarrassing moments, she released him, “I am so sorry, sir, but I just do not know what to do.”

“It will be alright, trust me. This is Dr. Watson, my friend and associate, who has kindly accompanied me to provide his own special talents.”

Mrs. Watchett led us through the hallway, past the parlour, dining room, and to a small laboratory. It was much cleaner than Holmes’

chemical tables, with everything seemingly in order.

I did notice, however, two strange marks upon the linoleum floor, as if something very heavy had been drug across.

“Ma’am, where is your employer? I must speak to him immediately.”

“I have no idea, sir. Last night, he seemed to be, for lack of a better term, another person. When I asked him the problem he was facing, he simply smiled at me, and indicated things would be better by morning.

“I arose at my normal time this morning, made breakfast and the normal preparations for the Master, and then waited in the kitchen for him to come down. By mid-morning, it became painfully apparent he was not coming down, so I fixed a tray and proceeded upstairs.

“There was no answer to my knocking on his door, and though it was a breach of protocol, I entered his bedroom. It was obvious he had not slept in his bed, and that he had pulled several garments out of his dresser and closet. I know of nothing else.”

“These are very strange waters indeed… I will need to have full run 170

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of the house to make my investigations to see if we can determine where Mr. Wells may have ventured off.”

“Oh my goodness, in all the excitement, I completely forgot. There is an envelope on the mantle with your name on it. It was not there when I retired last evening, so I assume the Master placed it there himself.”

We hastened back down the stairs to the front parlour, where Holmes pulled the light an envelope from the mantle. Looking over his shoulder, I could see it was addressed to ‘Sherlock Holmes: Personal and Confidential’.

“Yes, this is Well’s handwriting. I do not see distress in the lettering, so it does not appear he dashed it off in a moment’s time, but had the time to gather his thoughts and write legibly.”

Holmes then opened the envelope, breaking the wax seal which had been used to keep the flap in place, and removing a single sheet of stationery, with several lines of written text on them.

He read the message, looked upwards, read the text a second time, and then handed the note to me.

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BY STEPHEN MASON, ASH © 2020

safely say that your Master will not be returning to this residence. But do not fear, he has placed himself away from any present dangers. Dr.

Watson and I will return later this week to support you in closing out Mr. Well’s affairs.”

Thus, we left it, and though I am still confused on many details of the story, I know Holmes well enough not to push the issue.

I am sure he will miss his friend, but recognizes the right decision was made.

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