Sherlock Holmes Edwardian Parodies and Pastiches I Page 10

  His lips curled scornfully.

  “Because there was a strong draught in the room as I came in,” he answered.

  That man Holmes is a marvel. He will make me famous some day.

  Sherlock Holmes on the Domestic Hearth

  Anonymous

  Long before Laurie R. King married off Holmes in A Monstrous Regiment of Women (1995), an anonymous scribe went one better and made him a father, albeit one who misinterprets nearly everything he sees. This appeared in the Dec. 18 issue of The Tatler, a weekly “illustrated journal of society and the drama” that is still published today.

  Sherlock Holmes lay back in his chair, his eyes roaming round the room in their habitual restless manner. Even in his own house and during his few resting moments they would not cease from their detective duty and were ever on the watch for something to discover. Thus, his home was particularly free from deception. The butler, for instance, would never say that the cat must have finished that jug of rare old claret, but would own like a man he had thrown it away in mistake for vinegar when cleaning the bottle. Nor would the cook deny it was the kitten who finished that joint of lamb which the family expected to have had cold. As she said when the loss was discovered, she was just explaining how it happened to the fat policeman who had stopped at hearing her cries of alarm and thus accounted for his presence in the kitchen.

  Now, as Sherlock Holmes lay back in his chair resting, his roaming eye fell for an instant on his wife’s silk shawl thrown carelessly across the back of a chair near him. There was nothing about the innocent wraps for ordinary eyes to take alarm at, but Sherlock Holmes started to his feet, his eyes growing full of suspicion and anger. Raising the shawl in one hand, he plucked from it with the other a short curly fair hair. He glanced into the mirror above the mantelpiece; his own locks were dark and straight.

  “Oh, Harriette, Harriette,” he muttered, sinking into his chair, “can you be false to me?” His face settling into a frown suddenly brightened, he jumped up and rang the bell. A smart parlourmaid appeared.

  “Lucy,” he said sternly, “last night was your evening out?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You met a young man?”

  “If you please, sir,” said Lucy indignantly.

  “You wore your mistress’s shawl.”

  “Oh, sir,” sobbed Lucy, “I took it by mistake in the dark, sir.”

  “He had curly fair hair on his head, and he put that said head upon your mistress’s shawl during which time said shawl was upon your shoulders.”

  “He did, sir. Oh, sir, there ain’t no use in hiding nothing from you, sir.”

  “You can go to the kitchen, Lucy.”

  “Oh, thank you, sir.” Lucy rose from her knees, and brushing away imaginary tears she left the room.

  Sherlock Holmes lay back in his chair smiling. “My dear Harriette, I never doubted you,” he said. He closed his piercing eyes for a moment, but opened them as he heard a cab drive up to the door. He looked out and saw his wife alight. “I’ll say nothing about the shawl,” he thought. “Harriette is so quick-tempered, she might be vexed with poor Lucy.” At that moment the door opened and his son entered.

  “Oh, papa, will you tell me one of your stories—I have been so good today.”

  “At the jam again,” Sherlock Holmes observed as the boy came towards him, his hands behind his back.

  “Oh, pa, how did you know?” the youngster questioned.

  “I observed by the peculiar discoloration round your mouth, by its colour, and the few seeds still adhering to your chin. I would say it was raspberry jam, and suggest you should wash your hands and face at once.” The boy drew a sticky hand from its hiding place, put a finger in his mouth, and left the room crestfallen.

  “My dear,” Sherlock Holmes rose as his wife entered, “you overpaid that cabman.”

  “Oh no! on the contrary. When I handed him half-a-crown, he said it was a wonder the skin did not come off with it. What makes you think I overpaid him?”

  “On looking from the window I observed his face. If you had given him his exact fare he would have been silent, expecting nothing more from a woman. If you had given him twopence above his fare, he would have been surprised and said, ‘Thank you,’ but you must at least have given him double his fare to have roused him to that storm of indignation which his gestures translated to me. And now I wish to draw your attention to another matter. You have been spending a lot of money lately, my dear.” His wife sank into a chair.

  “Yes, sit down; it’s a long list. You have got a hat and feathers; that I observe from a bit of ostrich feather upon your fringe, and seeing you only wear silk bows in your bonnet I draw the conclusion you have been trying on new millinery and found the most expensive the most becoming. I also think by the way Mrs. Jones, our next-door neighbour, looked you up and down as you were coming in, you must have a new dress on, and as you lifted your skirts a trifle high in tripping from the cab to the door in spite of the ground being perfectly dry, I am sure you have bought a new petticoat and stockings. In conclusion, I can guess you entered the room with the intention of asking me for a cheque of, say, £50. Am I right?”

  “Sherlock,” said Mrs. Holmes, “you are wonderful, nothing is secret from you. I lay bare my heart and pray you forgive my extravagance. You are the cleverest man in the world and have named the exact sum I wanted. I can hide nothing from you, you are a magician.”

  “Here is your cheque, and do not try any deceit on me; it is impossible to blind me.” Sherlock Holmes lay back in his chair, a smile of gratified vanity on his face. His hand crumpled a bit of paper in his pocket. Mrs. Holmes left the room smiling, “Whoever would have thought Smith and Son would have sent their bill so soon, and the poor man thinking I did not know it was in his pocket. How easy it is to deceive the sex. Magician, indeed! Ha! ha!”

  Should a Public Monument Be Erected to Sherlock Holmes?

  J.H. Brearley

  With Holmes returning to the public eye with The Hound of the Baskervilles, it seemed inevitable that a way to honor the great detective would be proposed, as in this episode between Holmes and Watson in the Dec. 28 issue of Tit-Bits. Undeterred by Holmes’ refusal, the magazine later published a proposed inscription. They were not alone; other notable advocates included Ronald Knox, G.K. Chesterton, and Dorothy L. Sayers (who also wanted Watson and Mrs. Hudson immortalized as well). But Holmes wouldn’t appear on a plinth until the 1980s, when statues were unveiled in Japan, Edinburgh, and at Reichenbach Falls. It wasn’t until 1999 that a statue finally appeared near 221B Baker St., outside the Tube station around the corner.

  To those millions of readers who have been with us, so to speak, in so many of our adventures, it will be readily conceived that this question is to me of profound interest. Ever since the tragic circumstances which, at one blow, ended the career of my deeply lamented friend Holmes and robbed the world of its greatest genius in the detection of crime, I have felt assured that sooner or later I should be called upon to convey to a sympathetic public the message which he intrusted to me.

  I dropped into his rooms at Baker Street one evening in the month of August. The heat during the day had been up to 92 deg. in the shade, and I was not surprised to find him lazily stretched out on the sofa. It was the first time I had seen him after the Croydon Cardboard Box Case. He seemed particularly pleased to see me, and as the evening advanced we talked upon all manner of subjects. At one time it would be the structure of the teeth of polar bears; at another we would discourse on the discovery in Assyria of a tablet bearing an account of the conquest of Babylonia by the Elamites. Finally, we drifted to the discussion of monuments in general and public memorials in particular.

  “You take it from me, Watson, that a public memorial is entirely a superfluity. Now, take my own case. I have no doubt that when I am gone there will be some public regret expressed in the newspapers, after which the B.P. will, with the best intentions, want to associate my name with one of those lifeless
things. If need be, Watson, you tell them that I would have none of it.”

  “But surely,” I broke in, “you would never suggest that the British Public should deny themselves the privilege of erecting a monument to commemorate your work, when such a consummation is often accorded to less and seldom to more worthy subjects?” In sincerity I would have substituted the word “never” for “seldom”, but Holmes had no ear for flattery.

  As was his wont when about to deliver himself of something which he particularly wished me to remember, Holmes looked hard at me and brought the tips of his fingers together.

  “Don’t you make any mistake, Watson. When this project is mooted, if you are spared, simply tell them that from Holmes’s own lips you knew that monuments were viewed by him with strong abhorrence and with emphasis. Don’t forget the adjective.”

  “And your reason?” I ventured to ask, taken aback by the sudden change in energy which his tone and manner betrayed. I did not remember to have seen him speak with so much vigour and decision.

  “A proper question—there should always be a reason for every statement. And yet you, Watson, have seen so much of my work that it must be clear to you that I need no greater memorial than the record I shall leave behind me.”

  He transferred his gaze to the ceiling, and with a half-dreamy air, as though living once more in the past, he continued:—

  “There is scarcely a crowned head in Europe but has reason to thank me for unravelling some personal mystery that was eating away their life and happiness. My clients will hand down my name as a ‘blessed memory,’ whilst criminals will utter it with bated breath. What better memorial than this? I doubt not that your own chronicles of my adventures will of themselves become historical.”

  “But what would Trafalgar Square be without its Nelson, or Princes Street, Edinburgh, without its Scott, not to mention—”

  Holmes interrupted me with a gesture of impatience. “There you’ve hit it, Watson. It is true Trafalgar Square would be robbed of an object of interest and that Princes Street would be deprived of the greatest literary monument in the world; but do you think either Nelson or Scott would pass into oblivion if the monuments had never been?”

  I was compelled to admit that they would not. Holmes proceeded:—

  “Monuments don’t always signify merit, my dear fellow. Almost any mediocrity of municipal life, particularly if he is blessed with a fair share of this world’s goods, can command his monument. The work of real men of genius is oftener left to stand unaided the test of posterity. I much prefer to abide by that test.”

  I was wondering at what point to renew the assault, when there came a loud knock at the hall door. Whilst the boy in buttons was answering the call, Holmes remarked: “If I mistake not, this knock comes from a gentleman interested in the Manchester Ruby Case.”

  These were the only words that ever passed between us on the subject, but Holmes was emphatic enough, and, whatever my personal wishes may have been, I cannot do less than make known his views. There are times even yet when I feel that in this Holmes erred. It may have been due to that sense of modesty which was inseparable from him.

  Statue of Sherlock Holmes, Marylebone Road, London.

  1902

  Conan Doyle wrote a defense of Britain’s role in the Boer War in 11 days and had it published throughout Europe.

  The Boer War still hung over the nation like a shadow. After formal fighting ended in September 1900, the Boers launched a guerrilla war. The British responded by herding settlers into concentration camps. After outbreaks of cholera killed thousands of women and children, Boer supporters traveled through Europe attempting to turn public opinion against the British by accusing them of committing atrocities.

  Irate at the lack of an official response to the campaign, Conan Doyle penned a counter-attack. In 11 days, he wrote a 60,000-word defense called The Cause and Conduct of the War. The Foreign Office contributed £1,000 to translate it into 12 languages. His publisher printed copies for free and several European newspapers published it as well. Widely distributed, The Cause and Conduct of the War would have a great impact on public opinion.

  Conan Doyle was proud of “the greatest public work of my life,” and gave credit to his relationship with Jean Leckie. This alone justified his adulterous relationship with her, he wrote his mother, “since such high things have sprung directly from us.”

  Meanwhile, Conan Doyle learned he may receive an offer of a knighthood. He considered turning it down, despite his mother’s objections. Eminent literary men did not chase after “the badge of the provincial mayor.” True, Tennyson was knighted, but only at the end of his career. Chasing honors was for the likes of Poet Laureate Alfred Austin—nicknamed “Banjo Byron” by his peers—and Hall Caine, who Conan Doyle attacked for his relentless self-promotion. But he was not adverse to using his accomplishments to benefit privately. To get his brother Innes posted to South Africa, he intended to remind the Military Secretary of the War Office that “I had been defending the honour of the Army in my pamphlet and I want the Army to do something for me in exchange.”

  But in the meantime, he wanted to get away and relax. In April, he sailed to the Mediterranean, visiting Sicily, Florence, Venice, the Italian lakes and then inland to Zurich and Davos in Switzerland, returning to London at the end of May. Along the way, he began another series of stories about Brigadier Gerard.

  When he returned, the knighthood offer was still in the air. Conan Doyle was still resisting his mother’s pressure, but he was weakening. He had accepted an appointment as Deputy Lord Lieutenant of Surrey, although he was hazy on what that honor required. And, yes, he told the Ma’am, he would accept an award as a Companion of the British Empire. But not a knighthood.

  But when the offer was made in June, he accepted. He could stand against the Ma’am, Jean, and his sister Lottie—“the three whom I love most in the world”—but not his king. That month, he had been invited to dinner and was placed by royal command at Edward VII’s side. Conan Doyle discovered a kindred spirit: energetic and clear-headed, if a bit too loud at times. After this, he decided that refusing the honor would be a public insult. So in October, he bent his knee at Buckingham Palace and was dubbed Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

  But he reserved for himself the last word. In “The Adventure of the Three Garridebs,” written long after his mother had died, Watson places the story in June, memorable “for it was in the same month that Holmes refused a knighthood for services which may perhaps some day be described.” The same month that Conan Doyle accepted his award.

  Publications: Holmes in The Strand: The Hound of the Baskervilles (Aug. 1901-April 1902). Holmes: The Hound of the Baskervilles (March). Other: The War in South Africa: Its Cause and Conduct (Jan.).

  The book edition of The Hound of the Baskervilles was published in March.

  A Double-Barrelled Detective Story

  Mark Twain

  Although they were contemporaries and visited each other’s countries, Conan Doyle and Mark Twain (1835–1910) never met. This is a pity, because they could have delighted in each other’s company. Both men shared an itch for travel and activity and could draw on a wealth of stories to make a pleasant evening.

  But the two men still share a connection. In 1875, when he was living in Hartford, Conn., Twain befriended a local high school graduate with ambitions to be an actor. He loaned the young man $3,000 and secured a berth for him in the touring production of his play The Gilded Age. Nearly 25 years later, stepping into the role of Sherlock Holmes was Twain’s protégé, William Gillette.

  While Twain enjoyed Conan Doyle’s stories, he had a low regard for detectives in general. “A Double-Barrelled Detective Story” is probably the best-known Holmes parody. It appeared in numerous Twain collections, and in both Ellery Queen’s suppressed Misadventures of Sherlock Holmes and Charles Press’ anthology A Bedside Book of Early Sherlockian Parodies and Pastiches.

  I.

  The next afternoon the village
was electrified with an immense sensation. A grave and dignified foreigner of distinguished bearing and appearance had arrived at the tavern, and entered this formidable name upon the register:

  Sherlock Holmes.

  The news buzzed from cabin to cabin, from claim to claim; tools were dropped, and the town swarmed toward the center of interest. A man passing out at the northern end of the village shouted it to Pat Riley, whose claim was the next one to Flint Buckner’s. At that time Fetlock Jones seemed to turn sick. He muttered to himself,

  “Uncle Sherlock! The mean luck of it!—that he should come just when….” He dropped into a reverie, and presently said to himself: “But what’s the use of being afraid of him? Anybody that knows him the way I do knows he can’t detect a crime except where he plans it all out beforehand and arranges the clues and hires some fellow to commit it according to instructions…. Now there ain’t going to be any clues this time—so, what show has he got? None at all. No, sir; everything’s ready. If I was to risk putting it off…. No, I won’t run any risk like that. Flint Buckner goes out of this world to-night, for sure.” Then another trouble presented itself. “Uncle Sherlock’ll be wanting to talk home matters with me this evening, and how am I going to get rid of him? for I’ve got to be at my cabin a minute or two about eight o’clock.” This was an awkward matter, and cost him much thought. But he found a way to beat the difficulty. “We’ll go for a walk, and I’ll leave him in the road a minute, so that he won’t see what it is I do: the best way to throw a detective off the track, anyway, is to have him along when you are preparing the thing. Yes, that’s the safest—I’ll take him with me.”