So now you know the secret of the authorship of The ‘Casebook of Sherlock Holmes. Some have suggested an alternative author for all twelve stories, others two authors (see the footnote on p. 53). In fact there were three. It is to be noted that those stories generally acknowledged to be the best of the set were by Watson, the next best by his literary agent, Dr Conan Doyle, and those generally agreed to be the poorest in the canon by myself.
How I cringe when I re-read The Three Gables in particular, with its poor portrait of Steve the negro boxer, and its less than sensitive dialogue between Holmes and Susan. This in turn reminds me of the so-called humorous exchange between Holmes and Count Sylvius in The Mazarin Stone which I had intended to be the verbal equivalent of Holmes’s fencing and singlestick virtuosity. In my hand it has become a vaudeville routine. I can only say that as these were my first attempts at writing they reveal more enthusiasm than craft. What excuse can I offer concerning the inaccuracies of the topography of 221B in this same story? As you know I only visited 221B on the 11th November 1918 and on that occasion as you have also learnt, there were other things to preoccupy my mind apart from the layout of these famous rooms.
The Creeping Man appealed to me because of caprice — drugs and academics both subjects well within my purview.
Which brings us to The Blanched Soldier and the misleading data that has led many Holmesians to believe that Watson married more than once. I was telling the story from Holmes’s point of view so that I could introduce it with some words of appreciation from Holmes as to Watson’s work as a chronicler of the great detective’s work. Holmes certainly owed Watson that after the many criticisms that he heaped on Watson’s efforts over the years, and which the honest doctor faithfully recorded despite his hurt. Thus I had to explain why Holmes was without his Boswell. Only someone as close as a wife could have accounted for his leaving Holmes’s side. Thus I have misled the House and apologize. Mary had died in 1893 I believe, and Watson certainly never did marry again. Watson spoke of how he knew Sussex well, perhaps Mary was buried there and on this occasion he was visiting his dead wife’s last resting place.
I hope that these revelations do not dissuade you from reading the following adventures. You will find them of a very different kidney from these first efforts.
‘Did Watson tell you what that important last medical case of his was?’
‘No, I’m afraid not,’ I remarked, ‘but I felt as though he was leaving me clues. Whatever it was must have gone to the grave with him.’
‘A great pity.’ The mood had become more subdued. Dr Conan Doyle looked me in the eye and said, ‘Young Stamford, I have an apology to make to you.’ I looked up at him in confusion, a feeling of déjà vu disorientating me. These were the last words that Watson had spoken to me. ‘When Dr Watson first brought The Study in Scarlet to me he could not get it published. I suggested a few changes. One of them was to cut you almost completely out of the narrative. The reason I suggested Watson did that to you was so that Holmes would appear to be even more of a mystery than he was and so engage the attention of the casual reader more readily. Thus instead of showing you as Holmes’s good friend, we stressed his solitary nature and made it appear as though you only knew him through occasional meetings in the laboratory.’
‘Yet in a way that was true,’ I replied. ‘That was how I met him and it was where he told me about his cases as he worked on his experiments. I only rarely visited Montague Street and he was never in when I did.’
‘There you would have met Mycroft, no doubt.’
‘No, that was before my time. What a strange figure he was.’
‘Indeed. I wonder what stories he could tell us all.’
‘Perhaps he could throw light on Watson’s last case.’
‘I’m sure that he could, Stamford.’
It was time to go. I reached out for Watson’s briefcase. Dr Conan Doyle passed it to me. For a moment we both held it and looked at the initials on the flap, JHW.
‘I wonder what a Holmes could tell of the owner of this case. Sturdy, practical, with high standards of personal appearance, a military care for his equipment, and obviously a surgeon at one time in his career,’ suggested Dr Conan Doyle.
‘Why mention of a surgeon?’ I asked. ‘There is no indication of a doctor. There is no MD embossed anywhere.’
‘True, but here where some stitching has been replaced it has been mended with surgeon’s stitch. Watson must have done it himself on campaign somewhere.’
‘But it is a new briefcase,’ I said. ‘Or at least relatively so. It should need no repair for many years yet.’ Nonetheless there was the surgeon’s stitch for all to see. About six inches of it, neatly executed but unmistakable.
Dr Conan Doyle rubbed his hand over the panel.
‘There’s something in here,’ he said. We looked at each other, nervous of what to do next. ‘Here, Stamford; Watson left it to you. It’s yours to do with as you wish.’
In a moment my mind was made up. The two of us slit the stitching like surgeons in a field hospital with more casualties expected at any moment. I drew out two envelopes. Both were addressed to Dr John H. Ross, and both were handwritten. On turning them over we found that both had been opened, the seals having been broken. The seal on one was the House of Battenburg, the seal on the other was the Royal House of Romanoff. I nodded to Dr Conan Doyle and we read the contents. In a matter of minutes we had discovered Watson’s last case.
Part Two - Watson’s Last Case
Mycroft Remembered
Mycroft Holmes was Sherlock Holmes’s brother and senior by seven years. Sherlock readily gave his brother the palm concerning deductive powers, a rare instance of intellectual humility on his part, but pointed out that it was Mycroft’s physical inactivity that enabled the cadet brother to earn a living.
Physically, Mycroft was as rotund as his brother was slender and his eyes had a watery faraway look that the casual observer could misinterpret as the daydreaming that often succeeds a large meal and precedes a torpid sleep. This physical inactivity was a supremely efficient ‘hide’ from which Mycroft could observe those around him. Although described as an auditor of governmental accounts, Sherlock once revealed his brother’s enormous influence when he described him in these words: ‘There are times when he is the British Government.’
The adventure (as I am sure Dr Watson would have called it) which follows is one of those occasions when Mycroft Holmes was the British Government.
There is little more that I wish to reveal about how Mycroft came to communicate this adventure apart from saying that it was at a time when it looked as if ideology was becoming a slave to political opportunism and rational thinking was in danger of extinction.
Stamford
Mycroft Remembers: The Diogenes
During the dark days of the Great War of 1914–18 my energies were greatly occupied by the problems of war and its governance on a global scale. Nothing quite like it had ever occurred before and as such there were few guidelines to use as reference by the administrators who had the awesome responsibility of waging a war of such enormous magnitude.
This I found stimulating on several levels. On one I could observe my fellow government officials and how they responded to this challenge. Some looked vainly for precedents to guide them and finding none either cracked under the pressure or found examples which they wished to believe could act as guidelines, so basing their decisions on the dubious foundations of ill-chosen, inappropriate ‘lessons of history’. Needless to say, decisions based on such foundations were doomed to failure. However, others found inspiration in the lack of precedents and made up new rules as they went along. These freer, more decisive spirits often found themselves fighting a war not only with Germany and its allies but also with their more conventional colleagues in government. It is little wonder that the administration of the British war effort in those years has become a byword for inefficiency and ineptitude.
Another level was a more abs
tract one in which I could observe the problems of government without the human bit players. It was this study which inspired me to start to compile my thoughts which one day will become my magnum opus The Whole Art of Government. (I am sure that my brother Sherlock will appreciate the humour of the title.)
Much of my spare time was devoted to its compilation and many speculations filled my thoughts. As an abstraction what is a government’s role? Obviously ‘to govern’. But how much government should there be before it can be regarded as interfering in the rights of the individual? What is the best form of government? The one which suits a nation and makes that nation’s people content. However, there are many nations and so theoretically many different types of government, which if appropriate to one nation might be anathema to its neighbour.
It was with a mind filled with such thoughts that I left for the Diogenes one evening early in 1916 at my usual hour (4.45 pm). Sherlock once spoke of the soothing atmosphere of the Diogenes. No doubt he was referring to the fact that apart from in the Strangers’ Room no member is allowed to take any notice of any other one and that silence reigns supreme as a consequence. That might be true for him but after the facts and figures, lists and logistics of a day in Whitehall, my armchair in the Diogenes was the jetty from which I could sail the world in my mind’s eye and turn my mind to the wider issues, their abstractions and resolutions.
As fate would have it I was not to see my armchair that evening for when I arrived at the Diogenes there was a note from my brother demanding my attention. As it was marked ‘Most Urgent,’ I foreswore my usual habit of going to my chair and only reading my post on my way home at twenty to eight. The note read as follows:
221B Baker Street
3.30 pm
My dear Mycroft,
Many apologies for such short notice but the Von Herling Ring is proving to be more difficult to crack than Altamont found in ’14, thus I shall not be able to take on your next assignment for at least several months.
Need I say whom I appoint as my deputy? His qualities, specialities, talents and personal contacts with the subjects in question make him, I feel, more than just a mere substitute for myself.
Your humble brother,
Sherlock
I had no time to muse over my brother’s use of the word ‘humble’ nor his choice of deputy for at that very moment he entered the club and extended his right hand to me.
‘Mr Mycroft Holmes,’ he said, a trifle formally, ‘it has been too long since we last met.’
‘Dr John H. Watson,’ I replied echoing his formality, ‘how good of you to come at such short notice.’
‘You know me, Mycroft, ready in a moment when the game’s afoot.’
You may regard me as a rather misanthropic sort but the good doctor’s hearty, I may almost say colonial, conviviality frequently put me on edge. Often I had expected him to produce some sporting implement from his person and suggest that we play a round or a set or whatever it is that sporting types do in each other’s company. However, as soon as the heartiness was penetrated there was the loyal, honest heart of oak which meant so much to my brother.
As we shook hands I could not help but think how well Dr Watson looked. Thickset and powerful and with a good colour he appeared the epitome of the successful doctor. However, there were a few worrying signs. Instead of his usual handsome hunter he was wearing his brother’s old watch with an equally tired chain. I was led to speculate whether his love of gambling and Beaune were having adverse effects on his pocket. Nonetheless the handshake was firm and there was eager anticipation in his eye and my uncharitable thoughts left me as I warmed to the company of this most personable of men.
We adjourned to the small chamber overlooking Pall Mall wherein we had first met. The doctor occupied himself with a whisky and soda as I withdrew various folders from the safe. Taking my seat I put the folders on the table between us.
‘As my brother probably pointed out, he was due to meet me here for a short while to go over any final details before he took on his next case.’
‘Indeed so, Mycroft,’ returned my companion. ‘That was why he suggested to me that I came to the club at twelve minutes to five so that you would have time to read his note before I arrived.’
‘Yes, he would, wouldn’t he,’ I murmured to myself.
‘He also said that I would be the perfect substitute for him on this case as it involves areas and people that I know,’ Dr Watson continued, his enthusiasm unabated.
‘Indeed it does, Dr Watson. In fact several of my colleagues suggested you as first choice anyway in front of my brother.’
At this Dr Watson blushed and fortified himself with another draught of whisky and soda.
‘As you know, the powers of the Triple Alliance form a compact power group in central and southern Europe so that the forces of our Triple Entente are divided by land and sea, rendering a truly concerted offensive almost impossible, communications being what they are.’
The good doctor nodded sagely at my brief exposition. ‘However, there is one complication among all the others that I believe could be the most crucial of all. It is also the one that we know the least about and so are least prepared for. It was to be Sherlock’s job to find out the exact nature of this complication and based on his judgement of the situation in conjunction with our projections he was to effect the appropriate response. That task now falls to you, Dr Watson. I must warn you that I believe that this is the most crucial imponderable of this conflict, whose correct resolution will decide the fates of at least three great empires, the course of this war, and quite possibly the history of the world for the next one hundred years.’
I was not given to dramatic statement in the way that my rather theatrical brother was, a point of which Dr Watson was fully cognizant, thus my words fully conveyed to him the gravity of the situation in my assessment.
‘In these folders,’ I went on, indicating the buff-coloured objects on the table between us, ‘is a mass of information that I have been garnering for the last twenty years, but to complete them I need a man on the spot. You shall be that man, Dr Watson.’
He did not hesitate. ‘Of course, Mycroft. Anything I can do to help.’ He spoke as though it meant a trip on a train to nowhere more dangerous than Reigate. Little did he know.
‘You are to penetrate the Eastern Front and then the inner court of the Romanoffs of Russia.’ This time I admit that I was being a trifle dramatic, but Dr Watson responded magnificently — and unexpectedly.
‘Of course, Mycroft,’ he replied, again without hesitation. ‘I look forward to meeting Tsar Nicholas and his delightful daughters again.’
I was somewhat surprised by this response and was eager to know more. Dr Watson was only too pleased to oblige. ‘You do not know, of course, of the case I have called the Adventure of the Illustrious Client. It will be published after my death, but the illustrious client in question was our late King.’
This time is was the good doctor who paused for effect, but as it happened I already knew the details of the case from my brother and so remained impassive.
‘As a consequence when I was in Cowes for the Regatta Week in ’09 I was invited to join the Royal party and met Tsar Nicholas there. It was remarkable how alike he and George, then Prince of Wales, looked.’
‘Many have noted the similarity,’ I observed.
‘The other occasion on which we met was in 1911 at the presentation of the prizes at the end of the Emperor’s Rally for Automobiles. I drove a “Prince Henry” with my friend, Dick Renton.’
‘The Dick Renton who recently died in Flanders?’ I asked mildly.
‘I am afraid so,’ he replied with emotion.
‘You knew him well, Dr Watson?’
‘We first met in 1911 for the Russian Emperor’s Rally. My original co-driver and mechanician had fallen ill and I was about to withdraw when he got in touch with me and said he would be honoured to help me out. The “Prince Henry” was Dick’s as was a majorit
y of the entry fee. He proved to be a wonderful companion and a very resourceful man. He even spoke fluent Russian. It is a sad loss that he has joined so many others in a Flanders field.’ He seemed genuinely moved.
Little did Dr Watson know who Dick Renton was. He was a government agent, sent by me to help compile my files on Russia. I surreptitiously shuffled the file that was his work to the bottom of the pile lest Dr Watson should see it and suspect. The doctor’s original co-driver had been a young, titled gentleman who had raced at Brooklands on several occasions but who had baulked at doing Renton’s job. Not that he spoke Russian either. Thus he had a ‘diplomatic’ illness at the last moment which enabled Dick Renton to take over. It had been most convenient but the outcome was rather disappointing because he had not been able to get me everything I had wanted. I had not realized that Dr Watson had actually met the Tsar. As my brother said on several occasions, Watson was a man of great depth and wide limits. Perhaps if I had taken him into my confidence . . . Oh well, it was too late for that now and anyway he was about to be briefed for a momentous undertaking. I now understood my brother’s reference to Dr Watson’s ‘contacts’. Perhaps he would succeed after all. One thing still puzzled me. ‘I thought Dick Renton’s co-driver was a John Ross, not a Dr Watson.’
Dr Watson chuckled to himself. ‘Forgive me, but it is very rare for me to have one up on a Holmes. It is quite simple, Mycroft. Since publishing several of your brother’s cases I have lived in the reflected glory of his brilliance and have found myself often pursued by members of the press. That is what happened in ’07 when I wished to go on the Pekin-Paris Challenge. I did not want a repeat of that so I changed my name.’
‘But why John Ross?’ I asked, intrigued.
Once again Dr Watson laughed. ‘It was simplicity itself. I simply opened the London telephone directory and stuck a pin into the page.’
Watson's Last Case Page 5