The Map of Chaos (31 page)

Doyle thought his detective could be an amateur sleuth who collaborated with Scotland Yard, even though he despised their methods, the same way Dupin was scornful of those of the Sûreté. He picked up his notebook and jotted down a few possible names: Sheridan Hope, Sherringford Holmes, Sherlock Holmes. The last name, which belonged to his uncle Henry's mother-in-law's father, who was head curator at the National Gallery in Dublin, had the best ring to it. Sherlock Holmes, Doyle whispered to himself in his deserted consulting room, unaware that for the first time he was uttering that nonexistent name that would soon be on everybody's lips and would be talked about even after he was dead. Doyle was pleased he had resolved the matter of his character's name so swiftly, but then it occurred to him that readers might find his Sherlock objectionable if he tried to enthrall them by gloating over his own exploits. He therefore needed someone to boast for him, perhaps a fellow sleuth, a man who lived in a state of perpetual wonderment at the detective's deductive skills, who lavished praise on him, placed him on a pedestal, so that readers, infected by his admiration, would do so as well. And Holmes's sidekick, to whom Doyle would give the bland name Watson, must be a man of action who could join in Holmes's exploits but who was sufficiently literary to recount them afterward: perhaps an ex–army doctor, a straightforward man of integrity.

Doyle proceeded to write his first Sherlock Holmes adventure,
The Scarlet Skein,
and eagerly sent it to a few publishers. But, rejected by all of them, the manuscript kept coming back like a boomerang. Disillusioned, Doyle sent it to a publishing house specializing in popular fiction, and they offered him twenty-five guineas for it. The first Sherlock Holmes novel, renamed
A Study in Scarlet,
appeared a year later, but contrary to Doyle's expectations it did not make any splash in the literary pond. Nor did his next,
THE SIGN OF FOUR.

What had he done wrong? Doyle didn't know, but since it seemed he would never make a living from literature, he moved to London and opened an ophthalmologist's consulting room in Devonshire Place, round the corner from 221B Baker Street, where in the parallel world of fiction his amateur detective Sherlock Holmes resided. And there, too, he sat waiting from ten in the morning until four in the afternoon, until once again he took up his pen. But what should he write this time? Not another serialized historical novel, he reflected, eyeing the heap of weekly magazines he had brought to his consulting room to occupy patients while they waited. They already published too many of them in England, and their disadvantages outweighed their advantages: a reader who missed one issue, for example, would lose the thread of the story and, consequently, all interest in the tale. Why did no one write short fiction? Doyle sat bolt upright in his chair. Why didn't
he
? What if, instead of proposing yet another serialized novel, he offered those magazines stories featuring the same character? He searched through his repertory for a character who would lend himself easily to a series of short stories, and—as if he could hear through the cracks between dimensions the strains of a violin playing in 221B Baker Street—Doyle resurrected Sherlock Holmes.

Doyle's first detective story, “A Scandal in Bohemia,” was published in
The Strand Magazine,
and within months Sherlock Holmes and Conan Doyle had become household names. Even Doyle's mother wrote to her son to tell him how much she admired his amateur detective. At last the miracle seemed to be happening, and Doyle decided to shut down his failed ophthalmology practice, betting all his money on his fictional character. And while Doyle was pleased that Sherlock Holmes seemed to grow more popular with each issue, even catching on in America, he soon realized the idea he had initially thought would change his life was fast becoming a bane. He had fallen into a trap of his own making, because the challenge of Sherlock Holmes was that each short story required a plot as well outlined and original as that of any longer work. And one thing Doyle refused to do was contrive plots he as a reader would find dissatisfying.

After finishing the twelve stories he had been commissioned to write for
The Strand
, Doyle was exhausted. The magazine, whose circulation had risen considerably thanks to him, asked for a second series, but Doyle suspected that his winning streak with the detective was reaching an end. But, more important, he was afraid that if he continued writing Sherlock Holmes adventures, his readers would identify him with what he considered not his best writing. He thought that demanding a thousand pounds for a half-dozen stories would be a polite way of ending the matter, but the magazine accepted without demur, and Doyle was obliged to write six more stories, which made him the most highly paid author in England. However, he soon realized that no amount of money was enough to compensate the prodigious exertions Holmes demanded of him. “I think of slaying Holmes in the sixth and winding him up for good and all. He takes my mind from better things,” he wrote to his mother, who promised to dig up fresh intrigues for him to solve to prevent him from ending the life of that guardian angel from London, the only man capable of fighting the crime and injustice menacing the city. She would scour the newspapers, consult her neighbors, and send him any cases she thought could inspire him. Doyle accepted grudgingly, and Holmes was given a stay of execution. When
The Strand
commissioned another series, Doyle again demanded an exorbitant sum, and again, to his astonishment, the magazine agreed. He realized then that the only way to rid himself of Holmes was to kill him off. And, regardless of his mother's protestations, he would do exactly that at the end of the new series. During a brief holiday in Switzerland, at the formidable Reichenbach Falls, the author found a perfect resting place for poor Holmes. He would pitch him into the unfathomable depths of that daunting abyss where the waters plummeted with a terrifying, thunderous roar. “It is with a heavy heart that I take up my pen to write these the last words in which I shall ever record the singular gifts by which my friend Sherlock Homes was distinguished,” Watson began, while Doyle smiled sardonically on the other side of the page as though in a two-way mirror. And in “The Final Problem,” the last adventure in the series, published in 1893, that character who had attained unimaginable heights, that inveterate collector of clippings from the crime sections of newspapers who made no secret of his admiration for a well-conceived, ingeniously executed crime, who was well versed in anatomy and chemistry yet unaware that the Earth turned around the sun, who could distinguish between 140 different types of cigarette ash and guess a man's profession from the calluses on his hands or from the condition of his fingernails, fell into the Reichenbach Falls clutching Professor Moriarty, Holmes's archenemy and intellectual equal. And at the bottom of that churning cauldron of water and seething foam was where the detective had been languishing for the past seven years, without Doyle's having the slightest intention of bringing him back to life, despite constant offers from publishers and the endless exhortations of his many readers. Doyle was happy to have the time to write other things, or simply to accept the invitations of his friends, like the get-together Wells had arranged so that he could meet the millionaire Montgomery Gilmore, who by now had regained his composure.

“I have always wanted to meet you, Mr. Gilmore,” Doyle told him. “Your extravagant declarations of love are famous all over England. It is thanks to you that every young lady in the kingdom expects something more from her suitor than a simple ring.”

“Well, I didn't mean to make things difficult for others. I just wanted to prove to a headstrong young lady that I would go to any lengths to win her heart,” said Murray, smiling significantly at Emma. “In any event, whilst I am flattered that you wished to meet me, I can assure you that my desire to meet you was greater still. My humble exploit will soon be forgotten. But you . . . you are the creator of Sherlock Holmes. Who could ever forget that?”

“I can vouch for Monty's sincerity,” Emma spoke up. “He is positively bewitched by the adventures of Sherlock Holmes, Mr. Doyle. I am convinced no other woman will ever steal his affection, but that detective of yours has already succeeded.”

“Then I rejoice all the more for having pitched him into the Reichenbach Falls. I consider it a crime for any man to ignore such beautiful ladies as yourselves even for a minute,” Doyle replied gallantly, also smiling at Jane.

And while the two women thanked him for the compliment, Wells smiled to himself contentedly at this cheerful bandying among his friends. As he had suspected, two men as alike as Murray and Doyle couldn't help but get along from the first.

“You are right, it is unforgivable,” Murray agreed. “A beautiful lady should be refused nothing, don't you agree?”

“Quite so,” Doyle hurriedly concurred.

“Even if she asked you to bring Sherlock Holmes back to life?”

Doyle laughed at Murray's retort.

“I'm afraid I couldn't oblige her there,” he lamented. “Holmes is dead and gone. Nobody could survive such a fall without undermining the plausibility of the story.”

“I wouldn't be so sure about that,” replied Murray. “It might be possible.”

“Really? How?” Doyle asked with an amused curiosity. “How would you go about convincing readers that Holmes could survive a fall of over eight hundred feet?”

“Oh, there is no way anyone could survive such a fall,” replied Murray. “In fact, ever since I read ‘The Final Problem' I have been pondering how Holmes might have avoided his tragic fate, for I didn't want to believe you had killed him off. An extraordinary man like Holmes couldn't die. And, believe it or not, during the past seven years I've turned my search for a solution into something of a hobby. I've even visited the falls to see the scene for myself. And, much to my regret, as I stood flattened against the rocks, arms folded, watching the water tumble into the chasm below, as if I wanted to re-create Watson's last image of Holmes, I had to admit nobody could survive such a terrifying drop. Until I realized that Holmes hadn't plunged into the falls.”

Doyle, who up until then had been nodding with quiet amusement at each of Murray's words, suddenly raised his eyebrows.

“What do you mean? Of course he plunged into the falls!”

Murray wagged his head with a mischievous grin.

“That's what Watson believes,” he explained. “But what if he didn't? Remember, there were no witnesses. When Watson goes back to the falls after realizing Moriarty had deceived him, all he found was Holmes's walking stick, a farewell note, and two sets of footprints leading up to the edge of the abyss, which led him to deduce that both the detective and his archenemy had plunged to their deaths. But suppose that during the struggle Holmes, using his knowledge of jujitsu or Japanese wrestling, had managed to prize himself loose, so that Professor Moriarty alone fell into the chasm? Then, realizing fate had given him the opportunity to stage his own death and hunt down his remaining enemies, Holmes scrambled up the rock face to avoid leaving any tracks that might make Watson suspect that the best and wisest man it had been his honor to know had cheated Death.

Doyle's face appeared to crumple.

“An excellent solution, Mr. Gilmore,” he admitted, once he had overcome his astonishment. “I have to confess that would be a fairly realistic way of saving Holmes, although the Japanese wrestling doesn't convince me much.”

“I'm glad to hear it,” Murray rejoiced. “Now you can correct the big mistake you made when you killed him off and carry on writing his adventures.”

“I wouldn't call it a big mistake. As I'm sure you realize, I didn't slay Holmes so I could bring him back to life, but to rid myself of him once and for all. That accursed detective eclipsed the rest of my work, preventing it from achieving greater literary recognition.”

Even as he spoke, Doyle did his best not to show his annoyance, although Wells, who had noticed his efforts, was beginning to worry about the turn the conversation was taking. It seemed Murray had finally met an author who was unimpressed by his unbridled honesty, and his millionaire status, and what would have made Wells rejoice under different circumstances now had the opposite effect on him.

“I always thought that it was the readers who decided what place an author should occupy in literature rather than the author himself.” Murray grinned. “You have deprived them of their monthly enjoyment, and in some cases possibly their sole reason for getting up in the morning, apparently without the slightest remorse. Not that I don't blame you: writers tend to be oblivious to the spell they create, and I am sure you thought that what you were hurling into the falls was no more than a fictional creature, a handful of words, not a person who for many readers had become as real as their own brother or cousin.”

“You don't blame me . . . ?” Doyle shook his head in disbelief. “Holmes was mine! I created him from nothing, and therefore I had the right to do whatever I wanted with him, whether slaying him or turning him into a Carthusian monk.”

Murray laughed aloud as Wells glanced in alarm at Jane, who in turn looked toward Emma.

“That would have been an even worse fate than death,” remarked Murray. “But I fear you are mistaken, Mr. Doyle: the moment you published Holmes's first adventure, he no longer belonged exclusively to you, but also to his readers.”

“I see. So I should consult them before killing off my own character. And what do you propose to do about it, Mr. Gilmore? Are you going to offer me money if I bring him back to life? Is that why you arranged this meeting, George?” he said, turning to Wells, who was about to deny it when Doyle hushed him up with an abrupt gesture. “Very well, go ahead and make me an offer, Mr. Gilmore, but I warn you, you'll have difficulty surpassing that of my publishers.”