The Big Book of Sherlock Holmes Stories (55 page)

“You think not? Well, I agree, Mr. Holmes. It is all very b-baffling.”

“Ah,” said Holmes suddenly, “this title reminds me of something.”

“What is that, Mr. Holmes?”

“I see that one of the missing books is
Plain
Tales from the Hills
. It happens that I saw an exceptionally interesting copy of that book not long ago. It was an advance copy, specially bound and inscribed for presentation to the author's godson who was sailing for India before the date of publication.”

“Really, Mr. Holmes, really? That is of the greatest interest to me.”

“Your own collection, Professor, is, I suspect, rich in items of such a kind?”

“Well, well, it is not for me to b-boast, Mr. Holmes, but I certainly have one or two volumes of unique association value on my shelves. I am a poor man and do not aspire to first folios, but the p-pride of my collection is that it could not have been assembled through the ordinary channels of trade….But to return to our problem, is there anything else in the Club which you would like to investigate?”

“I think not,” said Holmes, “but I must confess that the description of your collection has whetted my own bibliographical appetite.”

The Professor flushed with pride.

“Well, Mr. Holmes, if you and your friend would really care to see my few t-treasures, I should be honoured. My rooms are not f-far from here.”

“Then let us go,” said Holmes, with decision.

I confess that I was somewhat puzzled by my friend's behaviour. He seemed to have forgotten the misfortunes of the Megatherium and to be taking a wholly disproportionate interest in the eccentricities of the Wiskerton collection.

When we reached the Professor's rooms I had a further surprise. I had expected not luxury, of course, but at least some measure of elegance and comfort. Instead, the chairs and tables, the carpets and curtains, everything, in fact, seemed to be of the cheapest quality; even the bookshelves were of plain deal and roughly put together. The books themselves were another matter. They were classified like no other library I had ever seen. In one section were presentation copies from authors; in another were proof-copies bound in what is known as “binder's cloth”; in another were review copies; in another were pamphlets, monographs, and off-prints of all kinds.

“There you are, Mr. Holmes,” said the Professor, with all the pride of ownership. “You may think it is a c-collection of oddities, but for me every one of those volumes has a p-personal and s-separate association—including the item which came into my hands yesterday afternoon.”

“Quite so,” said Holmes, thoughtfully, “and yet they all have a common characteristic.”

“I don't understand you.”

“No? But I am waiting to see the remainder of your collection, Professor. When I have seen the whole of your library, I shall perhaps be able to explain myself more clearly.”

The Professor flushed with annoyance.

“Really, Mr. Holmes, I had been warned of some of your p-peculiarities of manner; but I am entirely at a loss to know what you are d-driving at.”

“In that case, Professor, I will thank you for your hospitality and will beg leave to return to the Megatherium for consultation with the Secretary.”

“To tell him that you can't f-find the missing books?”

Sherlock Holmes said nothing for a moment. Then he looked straight into the Professor's face and said, very slowly:

“On the contrary, Professor Wiskerton, I shall tell the Secretary that I can direct him to the precise address at which the books may be found.”

There was silence. Then an extraordinary thing happened.

The Professor turned away and literally crumpled into a chair; then he looked up at Holmes with the expression of a terrified child:

“Don't do it, Mr. Holmes. Don't do it, I b-b-beseech you. I'll t-tell you everything.”

“Where are the books?” asked Holmes, sternly.

“Come with me and I'll show you.”

The Professor shuffled out and led us into a dismal bedroom. With a trembling hand he felt in his pocket for his keys and opened a cupboard
alongside the wall. Several rows of books were revealed and I quickly recognized one or two titles that I had seen on the Megatherium list.

“Oh, what m-must you think of me, Mr. Holmes?” the Professor began, whimpering.

“My opinion is irrelevant,” said Sherlock Holmes, sharply. “Have you any packing-cases?”

“No, but I d-daresay my landlord might be able to find some.”

“Send for him.”

In a few minutes the landlord appeared. Yes, he thought he could find a sufficient number of cases to take the books in the cupboard.

“Professor Wiskerton,” said Holmes, “is anxious to have all these books packed at once and sent to the Megatherium, Pall Mall. The matter is urgent.”

“Very good, sir. Any letter or message to go with them?”

“No,” said Holmes, curtly, “but yes—stop a minute.”

He took a pencil and a visiting-card from his pocket and wrote “With the compliments of” above the name.

“See that this card is firmly attached to the first of the packing-cases. Is that clear?”

“Quite correct, sir, if that's what the Professor wants.”

“That is what the Professor most particularly wants. Is it not, Professor?” said Holmes, with great emphasis.

“Yes, yes, I suppose so. But c-come back with me into the other room and l-let me explain.”

We returned to the sitting-room and the Professor began:

“Doubtless I seem to you either ridiculous or despicable or both. I have had two p-passions in my life—a passion for s-saving money and a passion for acquiring b-books. As a result of an unfortunate dispute with the Dean of my faculty at the University, I retired at a c-comparatively early age and on a very small p-pension. I was determined to amass a collection of books; I was equally determined not to s-spend my precious savings on them. The idea came to me that my library should be unique, in that all the books in it should be acquired by some means other than p-purchase. I had friends amongst authors, printers, and publishers, and I did pretty well, but there were many recently published books that I wanted and saw no m-means of getting until—well, until I absent-mindedly brought home one of the circulating library books from the Megatherium. I meant to return it, of course. But I didn't. Instead, I b-brought home another one….”

“
Facilis descensus
…,” murmured Holmes.

“Exactly, Mr. Holmes, exactly. Then, when the Committee began to notice that books were disappearing, I was in a quandary. But I remembered hearing someone say in another connexion that the b-best defence was attack and I thought that if I were the first to go to you, I should be the last to be s-suspected.”

“I see,” said Holmes. “Thank you, Professor Wiskerton.”

“And now what are you going to do?”

“First,” replied Holmes, “I am going to make certain that your landlord has those cases ready for despatch. After that, Dr. Watson and I have an engagement at St. James's Hall.”

“A trivial little case, Watson, but not wholly without interest,” said Holmes, when we returned from the concert hall to Baker Street.

“A most contemptible case, in my opinion. Did you guess from the first that Wiskerton himself was the thief?”

“Not quite, Watson. I never guess. I endeavour to observe. And the first thing I observed about Professor Wiskerton was that he was a miser—the altercation with the cabman, the shabby clothes, the unwillingness to invite us to lunch. That he was an enthusiastic bibliophile was, of course, obvious. At first I was not quite certain how to fit these two characteristics properly together, but after yesterday's interview I remembered that the head porter of the Megatherium had been a useful ally of mine in his earlier days as a Commissionaire and I thought a private talk with him might be useful.
His brief characterization put me on the right track at once—‘Always here reading,' he said, ‘but never takes a square meal in the club.' After that, and after a little hasty research this morning into the Professor's academic career, I had little doubt.”

“But don't you still think it extraordinary, in spite of what he said, that he should have taken the risk of coming to consult you?”

“Of course it's extraordinary, Watson. Wiskerton's an extraordinary man. If, as I hope, he has the decency to resign from the Megatherium, I shall suggest to Mycroft that he puts him up for the Diogenes.”

ALTHOUGH BEST KNOWN
for his scholarly writings about H. P. Lovecraft and fictional works based on the famed horror writer's Cthulhu Mythos, Peter Cannon (1951– ), currently an editor at
Publishers Weekly
specializing in mystery fiction, has also produced several works involving Sherlock Holmes. His short novel
Pulptime: Being a Singular Adventure of Sherlock Holmes, H. P. Lovecraft, and the Kalem Club, as if Narrated by Frank Belknap Long, Jr
. (1984) combines two of his fields of interest.

Among Cannon's critical and appreciative studies of Lovecraft are his graduate theses:
A Case for Howard Phillips Lovecraft
(Honors thesis, Stanford, 1973) and
Lovecraft's New England
(MA thesis, Brown University, June 1974). Again combining his areas of expertise, he wrote “You Have Been in Providence, I Perceive” (
Nyctalops
, March 1978), which illustrates the influences of the Sherlock Holmes stories upon Lovecraft. This was followed by another analysis of Holmes's influence on Lovecraft, “Parallel Passages in ‘The Adventure of the Copper Beeches' and ‘The Picture in the House' ”; it was published in
Lovecraft Studies
1, No. 1 (Fall 1979).

Cannon's Lovecraftian fiction includes
Scream for Jeeves: A Parody
(1994), which narrates some of Lovecraft's stories in the voice of P. G. Wodehouse's Bertie Wooster;
The Lovecraft Chronicles
(2004), a novel based on Lovecraft's life; and several short stories in the Cthulhu Mythos genre, including “Azathoth in Arkham” and “The Revenge of Azathoth,” both sequels to “The Thing on the Doorstep”; and “The Madness Out of Space,” originally presented as a lost story by Lovecraft. A collection of his stories was published as
Forever Azathoth
(1999).

“The Adventure of the Noble Husband” was first published in
The Confidential Casebook of Sherlock Holmes
, edited by Marvin Kaye (New York, St. Martin's Press, 1998).

IN SURVEYING THE
many cases of Mr. Sherlock Holmes in which I had the privilege to participate, I confess that I have often been torn whether or not to publish the results. More than once in my eagerness to set a stirring story before the public I have, to my shame, shown scant regard for the privacy of Holmes's more illustrious clients. Still, I am confident I know where to draw the veil. I doubt that I shall ever release the full facts regarding Ackerley, the bigamous banana king, who for years maintained a household in Richmond and a “secret orchard” in Castlenau, with neither family the wiser. Tawdry affairs such as this one are best left to moulder in their year-books on the shelves. And yet there are a few cases in this sensitive category which beg for disclosure, if only long after the eminent parties involved have passed on. Such was the adventure of the noble husband, a matter that threatened to destroy not only the good name of one of Britain's most revered authors but also my relationship with my literary agent.

One summer afternoon in the year 1900, finding myself in the vicinity of our old Baker Street lodgings after a professional call, I decided to drop by 221
B
. Mrs. Hudson informed me that a client had just arrived, but as Holmes customarily welcomed my presence at these interviews I did not hesitate to mount the stairs. In the sitting room I discovered Sherlock Holmes listening to a small, respectably dressed woman with a plain, pale face—an utterly unprepossessing type such as one might pass on the street with scarcely a glance.

“Ah, Watson. I would like you to meet Mrs. Hawkins,” said my friend. “I trust you won't mind, Mrs. Hawkins, but Dr. Watson often does me the courtesy—”

“Oh, Mr. Holmes, I'm afraid I…” The stranger rose from her chair, her wan cheeks suddenly flushed. She pressed a handkerchief to her mouth to conceal a cough. Then it struck me; I knew this woman, though not under the name of Mrs. Hawkins. As soon as she recovered her composure, she spared us both further embarrassment by introducing, or rather I should say, reintroducing herself.

“It's Mrs. Doyle, Dr. Watson,” she said, extending a tiny hand. “We met once years ago, through my husband, who I believe still acts as your literary agent.”

“Oh, yes. Quite so,” I answered. Her palm trembled in mine. “I regret, however, that it has been ages since he and I last met. How is Mr. Doyle, if I may ask?”

During the silence that ensued, only the sound of Holmes thrumming his fingers against his chair could be heard.

“I am very sorry, madam,” the detective said at last, “but if you are indeed the wife of Arthur Conan Doyle, the historical novelist and, more to the point, my colleague Dr. Watson's literary agent, you present me with a potential conflict of interest. I cannot help you.”

The woman gave a little gasp.

“I could refer you, if you wish. A Mr. Adrian Mulliner—”

“Oh no, Mr. Holmes, only you can help! Forgive
me. Hawkins is my maiden name. I feared you would dismiss me without a hearing if I had revealed my identity immediately. You must understand. I've come all the way from Hindhead. For months I've been in agony over whether or not to seek you out. Please, Mr. Holmes, allow me at least to finish my story.”

With these words the woman sank back in her chair and began to cry quietly into her handkerchief. Again she coughed, in a manner that suggested some serious lesion of the lungs. I hardly dared look Holmes in the eye. One would have to be a heartless fiend to ignore her distress.

“Very well, madam,” Sherlock Holmes said gently. “As I had barely time to note that you are fond of animals and devoted to your children, a girl and a boy if I am not mistaken, before Watson here arrived, you might as well repeat for him what you have already confided to me.”

“Thank you, Mr. Holmes,” she answered, her tears now dried. “You are truly a gentleman. As I said before, we met fifteen years ago in Southsea, Portsmouth, on account of my brother Jack, one of Arthur's resident patients. Alas, poor Jack proved to have cerebral meningitis and succumbed within weeks. In my bereavement I naturally turned to Arthur for consolation, and he responded with a warmth that betrayed a deeper sympathy. We married that summer, and a kinder, more protective husband no woman could dare dream for, Mr. Holmes. If you have read my husband's book
The Stark Munro Letters
, you may have gained some notion of the sweet, affectionate home life that was ours in those early days.”

Holmes's hooded eyes flickered in acknowledgment, though I was certain he had never opened
The Stark Munro Letters
, let alone any of the popular works penned by my literary agent. For my own part I was doing my best to stifle a smile, despite the gravity of the woman's narrative, as it was not every day that a client failed to express instant astonishment at one of my friend's personal deductions. Mrs. Doyle was either very simple—or very clever.

“This idyll, like all perfect things, could not last, I regret to say,” our visitor continued. “First, in '93, I was diagnosed with consumption. My quiet life became enforced. In the autumn of '96 we moved from London to Surrey, for the sake of my health. That first spring in the country, Arthur started to behave oddly. At the time of our engagement he warned me that he tended to long silences and that I mustn't mind, but thoughtful contemplation soon all but gave way to mournful brooding. Of late, when not withdrawn in silence, Arthur has been full of restless energy. He has taken up the banjo, practicing for hours, despite an obvious lack of musical aptitude. As for golf and cricket, games at which he excels, he now plays them with an enthusiasm more befitting a youth half his age.”

“Pardon me, madam,” interrupted the detective, “but just how old is your husband?”

“Arthur turned forty-one in May.”

“Pray go on.”

“He has grown increasingly irritable, too. While patient and paternal as always with me and the children, he has allowed himself to get drawn into silly literary feuding.”

“A pity, madam, but perhaps not so surprising for a man who has advanced in his career from provincial doctor to world-renowned author.”

“You may be right, Mr. Holmes, but there's more.” The woman coughed into her knotted handkerchief, then took a deep breath. “In March, just before he left for South Africa—”

“South Africa?” interjected Holmes.

“Yes, to join a field hospital as unofficial supervisor.”

“Most admirable. Pray continue.”

“As I was saying, this past March I observed Arthur unawares in the garden at Undershaw, our house in Hindhead. He picked a snowdrop and carried it into the library. After his departure I examined his shelves and found pressed between the leaves of a volume of romantic verses three snowdrop flowers—one fresh, the other two dried and withered.”

My friend leaned forward, eyes glinting. This was the kind of curious detail he relished.

“Oh, Mr. Holmes, a man does not do such a sentimental thing unless he is in love—in love with another woman!” With this the woman broke into sobs.

“What do you propose I do, madam?” said Sherlock Holmes after a decent interval.

“Please determine whether or not my Arthur remains true.”

“And if I confirm your worst fears?”

“Oh, I do not know, Mr. Holmes, I do not know. I am ill, sir, gravely ill. My time draws short in this world. You must believe that Arthur's happiness matters more to me than my own. That he has found room for another in that great heart of his I can accept. But, as long as I live, I shall not abide his being unfaithful!”

Our visitor resumed her sorry weeping. I was deeply moved, and despite the mask of the perfect reasoner he affected, I knew my friend could not be untouched by such pure and intense emotion.

“Where is your husband now, madam?”

“On his way back from South Africa. His ship, the
Briton
, is due to dock next week in Plymouth.”

“Ah, then we have some time.”

“Oh, my dear Mr. Holmes!”

“Please, Mrs. Doyle. Before I can give my assent, I must first consult Dr. Watson on the ethics of my taking you on as a client. If you wouldn't mind waiting downstairs, I dare say Mrs. Hudson should already have the water on the hob for tea.”

After further expressions of gratitude, the woman put on her shawl, which was covered with cat hair, and gathered a shopping bag marked with the emblem of Hamley's toy emporium, containing, I saw as I held the door for her, a doll and a set of tin soldiers. “Thank you, Dr. Watson. Since I so rarely travel to London these days,” she said, smiling at her purchases, “I feel obliged to bring home something for Mary and Kingsley to show my expedition has not been unfruitful.”

We stood listening to her dainty tread fade down the steps. Then the detective collapsed into his chair, his features unfathomable. A minute passed before he spoke:

“Well, Watson, as I have said to you in the past, the fair sex is your department. What is your assessment?”

“To be blunt, Holmes, if we are to credit what Mrs. Doyle tells us, her husband is suffering from acute…frustration. The overindulgence in sport, the banjo playing, the literary feuding, for a healthy male in his prime—”

“Enough, Watson,” said Holmes. “Like you, I have concluded that the man is in dire danger of violating his marital vows. The real issue for me, my dear fellow, is your role here. It has never been my policy to pry into your affairs, but just how well do you know your literary agent?”

“Not well, Holmes, though our relations have always been cordial and correct. As fellow medical men we have traded a tale or two of the dissecting room, and Doyle did present me with an inscribed copy of his story collection
Round the Red Lamp
, but there all confidences end. I am grateful that he continues in his capacity as my agent, despite his rising fame as an author, though again it has been some while since I have put any work his way.”

After believing Holmes had fallen to his death in '91 in the grasp of his archfoe Professor Moriarty, I was too grief-stricken to publish any adventures beyond that of “The Final Problem.” My friend's abrupt resurrection three years later provided an additional jolt which reinforced my silence.

“Tell me, Watson. I confess I am ignorant of literary practices,” said Sherlock Holmes, “but why on earth have you not submitted your fanciful melodramas directly to
The Strand
magazine?”

“Well, Holmes, if you can keep a secret, this chap Doyle has done more than act as middleman. He has touched up my prose here and there, checked details, consistency of names and dates, that sort of thing. After all, he's a professional, I a mere amateur.”

I was not about to admit that in many instances my agent had been a virtual co-author.
Indeed, to safeguard my posthumous reputation, the extent of Doyle's hand in my own writings must forever remain in mystery.

“Do you, then, have any objections to my assuming Mrs. Doyle's case?”

“None at all, Holmes.”

“I am sure Mulliner could handle this affair ably enough in my stead.”

“No, Holmes. A lady's honour is at stake. She trusts only you. If a scandal ensues from your investigation, I am prepared to risk the loss of her husband's services—of which I may have no real need in future anyway.”

“Good old Watson! How fortunate for your wives to have a man of your loyalty.”

“Thank you, Holmes.”

For a few moments we sat in a silence that was almost comfortable.

“The old queen cannot live forever,” my friend resumed. “Her son, the heir, has already set the moral tone for the new century that looms. With her will pass an age that for all its cant and hypocrisy still upholds the gentlemanly virtues. I suspect, dear fellow, that you and I shall find ourselves increasingly out of step with the laxer times ahead. In the meanwhile, let us put Mrs. Doyle out of her suspense, then join her in a cup of tea.”

Later that month the newspapers heralded Arthur Conan Doyle's return from South Africa, on holiday from his exertions in the Boer War. He was badly in need of rest, so a clandestine message from his wife informed Holmes; though that would not prevent him from coming up to London to play for Surrey at Lord's. The detective determined that it might be interesting to learn who might be watching among the crowd. “For now I prefer to theorize in the background,” he said before I set off alone for St. John's Wood. “Besides, Watson, you instinctively appreciate the nuances of a game, like the subtleties of women, which I with my logical mind find completely baffling.”

In truth I was fond of cricket, if more as a casual peruser of the box scores in the pink sheet than as a spectator on the grounds. In the event I welcomed the chance to visit Lord's, though by the time I entered the gate the teams had adjourned for lunch. I headed for the pavilion, where I nodded to more than a few former patients and consumed strawberries and cream. It was while I was so engaged that I heard a familiar voice at my side.

“Watson, old chap!”

I turned and there stood the tall, athletic figure of my literary agent, Arthur Conan Doyle, wearing whites. He looked a bit gaunt but otherwise exuded robust good cheer.

“My dear Doyle,” I said, dropping my spoon. We clasped hands.

“I say, this is a stroke of luck,” my companion began in that solid, precise way of his. “I've been meaning to get in touch with you since my return from South Africa—a frightful situation there, you know; it's all in my forthcoming book,
The Great Boer War
. At any rate, on board the ship home I met a journalist named Fletcher Robinson. Told me the most wonderful West Country legend about a spectral hound.” Conan Doyle winked. “Back in the eighties, I understand, a crime connected with this hound brought a certain private consulting detective—”