by Bill Peschel
Raggs’ Weekly Letter
Anonymous
The Toronto World newspaper published an occasional weekly column in the form of a chatty letter from the pseudonymous “Raggs.” They were usually a collection of items about whatever happened to the columnist the previous week. The one in the Aug. 2 issue took the tack of a Holmesian parody. The identity of its author is not known.
Kawaba, Muskoka, Aug. 1, 1913.
My Dear Toronto-Onters:
“Great heavens!” I exclaimed this morning shortly after breakfast (9.35, to be exact). “They must have disappeared in the night! As I remarked before, ‘Great heavens!’ Have any steps been taken to recover the lost property?”
“Naturally,” said Mr. Sherlock Holmes gravely, and with graveness. “Last night was unusually warm for April, I believe?”
“Yes, sir; but the bathing stockings? What has that to do with my bathing stockings? Oh, Mr. Holmes—Sherlock—they were heirlooms, and—”
“A pawnbroker’s business is carried on mostly in the evenings, I believe?” asked Mr. Sherlock Holmes, as he smiled a dry smile.
I rose to my feet, placing my revolver inconspicuously in the toe of my left shoe.
His smile at this grew so dry that I hastily slipped a flask of brown fluid in the toe of my other shoe. “Perhaps we shall be glad of it,” I cried, in self-justification, as it were. “You may not be aware of the fact that the fish are jumping, the porcupines are out, and that some large and particularly horrible water snakes at least six feet long were seen writhing beneath the boathouse wharf this morning.”
At this moment there approached from the northeast a yellow canoe, bearing over the bounding waters a sad-faced man, with a shiny silk hat, an aggressively respectable frock coat, tennis shoes, and a red tie.
“Ah, Watson!” said Mr. Sherlock Holmes, “here you are,” and, turning pleasantly to me, “unless my eyes deceive me, here is it! Watson, my good friend, did I not tell you yesterday or last week, or sometime, that a considerable crime was in contemplation in the neighborhood? Miss Raggs, let me introduce, or make you acquainted with, Dr. Watson, who is to be our companion in the Adventure of the Recovery of the Disappearing Bathing Stockings, and who, as you may be well aware (and had orter, if you ain’t), has, in the past, been the humble and footling chronicler of my brilliantly simple investigations.”
“Well, Holmes,” said Dr. Watson, quite cheerily for a man wearing a red tie, “this looks to me like a common or garden vulgar intrigue. A pair of lady’s hose disappear mysteriously in the night. I shall sell it to The Smart Set. Vulgar, that’s wot I calls it!”
“Sir,” said I.
“Shush!” said Sherlock.
Mr. Sherlock Holmes turned to me with a deferential air. “The stockings were—”
“White,” I answered promptly, “with red and blue polka dots.”
“Of—” said Mr. Sherlock Holmes.
“One and one-half inches diameter, one and five-sevenths circumference.”
Dr. Watson queried, pencil poised: “The stocking or the polka dot?” I deigned not to answer.
At this exciting point our Aberdeen terrier waddled and humped himself around the corner of the boathouse.
“His name?” queried Mr. Sherlock Holmes.
“Is Peter,” I completed the sentence for him, and added: “Your questions are simple, but be sure to tell me if I am not quite plain.”
“You are unusually and undoubtedly so,” said the great detective, seating himself cross-legged upon the extreme edge of the wharf.
Taking his rare old fiddle from an inside pocket, he remarked frankly: “I must ask you not to speak to me for three and a quarter minutes.” A silence as of the dead wrapt us around, broken only by the wailing notes of the violin in “Every Little Clue Has a Meaning of Its Own.” The stated interval having passed, he wrapped the precious instrument in a moist towel, which was lying inadvertently upon the wharf, and replaced it in his pistol pocket.
“And now,” said Mr. Sherlock Holmes, as a bloodhoundish light appeared in his left eye, chased itself into the right, and so to and fro, to and fro, “it is time that we arranged our little plans. I believe that I may say, without fear of successful or unsuccessful contradiction, that, within a quarter of an hour this little matter will be, so to speak, cleared up.”
“Miss Raggs, will you be so kind as to lead me by the hand to the bathing suit which you are wont to wear?”
I led him to it, and he retired behind an adjacent island.
Perhaps you think it was not a shock to me to see, in less time than it takes to write these words, a replica of myself swimming towards us thru the (naturally enough) water.
Perhaps you think it wasn’t—but it was.
There I was, in the same bathing suit, the same bandana knotted coyly over my ears, swimming with the same waddling side stroke which people come miles to see.
In a musical, tho breathless voice which might have been mine, so clever was the imitation, Sherlock Holmes (for, indeed, it was he) cried: “Peter. Peter!” as, with seal-like Raggs-like heaves, he humped himself onto the wharf.
Peter ran joyously to us with that heavy trot (half-way between a lope and a canter), which characterizes the Aberdeen pup.
“Hide behind that paddle,” spoke Mr. Holmes sharply to me.
I promptly did so. In fact I may say that, like all Mr. Sherlock Holmes’ assistants, I was nothing if not prompt.
My double stood upon the wharf. Peter gave one look at his long thin legs. another at the assembled-company, remarked blushingly, “Hooroo,” and, covered with confusion, dived beneath the boat-house.
Mr. Sherlock Holmes noiselessly stood on his head in the water. This generally reserved gentleman waved his heels and wiggled his toes with excitement!
And no wonder!
I was the first to grasp that he was signaling to us in the deaf and dumb language—with his toes.
“No doubt you ought me mad,” he spelled out, “but look! Look Watson, look!”
We all looked.
Peter emerged from the water, worrying something in his teeth.
Yes—you’ve guessed it!
I cried, “How on earth did you do it?”
Sherlock emerged. “Your description of the hose and the horrible snakes under the wharf somewhat tallied. Of course it was the simplest thing in the world to take advantage of the well-known and generally recognized modesty of the Aberdeen. He saw, as he thought, the unprotected limbs of a female, and dived for the remedy!”
“You reasoned it out beautifully,” I exclaimed in unfeigned admiration. “It is so long a chain, and every link rings on the key.”
“Ah, speaking of keys,” he murmured, and snapped the hand-cuffs upon Peter’s front paws.
The great Sherlock yawned. “Another incident closed,” he said. “It saved me from ennui. Alas! Already I feel it closing in upon me. My life is spent in one long effort to escape the commonplaces of existence.”
“Ah, so not say, my benefactor!” I cried.
He shrugged his shoulders, thereby splitting my bathing-suit rather badly at the seams. “Well, perhaps, after all, I am a benefactor to Humanity, but “—and he yawned again—“‘l’homme c’est rien—l’oeuvre c’est tout’!”—and Peter bit him.
Some Adventures of Mr. Surelock Keys
Herbert Beeman
One of the more unusual rarities was this little book of six tales, sold to raise money for the organ fund of St. Mary’s Church in Kerrisdale, Vancouver, Canada. Although published anonymously, in 2014 the Canadian Poetry website run by the University of Western Ontario identified the author as Herbert Beeman (circa 1868-1931) of Vancouver. Beeman was secretary of Vancouver Board of Trade who managed to integrate poetry into his work. His poems publicizing the board’s weekly luncheon lectures were collected in For Our Bureau (1924), and several more of his collections included works designed to promote Canada’s exports. One example, found in Vancouver: The Halfway House of the Empire (1929),
attacked the nation’s inability to praise itself and urged his fellow countrymen to “Wake up and be spectacular, / Adopt in the vernacular, / A motto most ejacular, / And fly your flag unfurled!”
I. The Adventure of the Steveston Car
One evening early in the month of November, 1908, we were sitting in our cosy rooms in Butcher Street. I was busy extending the notes I had made of some of the marvellous doings of the Great Detective, when Keys stretched his long arms towards the gramophone to start the gentleman who was “afraid to go home in the dark,” off on another long explanation of his reasons, but I stopped him with a question—even friendship has its limits, you know:
“You saw the Eburne News of Saturday last, Keys, I supposed,” I said.
“You know nothing ever escape me, Whenson,” he replied.
I thought of the Tiger of San Pedro in Collier’s and The Strand recently, but as it would be about as safe to rouse the Tiger, I omitted the retort obvious.
“You refer to the penetration of the vitrified material by the leaden missile, I presume?” he said.
“Yes, the bullet from a .22 through the car window,” I replied.
“Well, there was one peculiar thing about that case, but after all it was merely a matter of calculation. The shot was fired according to one account at Kerrisdale, and from another between Townsend and Eburne. That is easily accounted for. The shot struck the glass at the first named place, but so fast was the car travelling that it had proceeded two miles before the bullet reached the woodwork on the other side.”
“Oh!” I said. When I had sufficiently recovered I asked him if he had discovered who fired the shot.
“That is a mere vulgar detail, Whenson,” he said coldly, as he turned to start the gramophone again.
II. The Adventure of the Irate House-Holder
We were just finishing breakfast when the door was unceremoniously burst open and an obviously excited little man precipitated himself into the room.
“You are an optimist, I perceive,” said Keys quietly.
The little man looked amazed, as well he might, not knowing the powers of the Great Detective as well as I did.
“How on earth did you know that?” he ejaculated.
“Quite simple, my dear sir,” answered Keys, “you came in without knocking. What can I do for you?”
“Well, sir,” the little man went on excitedly, “my name is Bloggs, sir, Joseph Bloggs, and I am the victim of a conspiracy. The Council have sent me in a bill for $96 for three months water rate, and I never used so much in my life.”
“No, I can quite believe it,” said Keys drily, surveying the rather drab appearance of the visible portions of our visitor’s anatomy. “But whom do you suspect?”
“Well, sir, I voted against the nincompoops that the effete electors have chosen to represent them, and now they’re soaking me.”
I could not control my laughter at this unconscious pleasantry, but the little man glared at me, and Keys frowned me into silence.
“Whenson, he has given me a clue; get my gum boots and a piece of blotting paper.”
Accustomed to obey his strange commands without question, we were soon following Mr. Bloggs to his home.
Once inside the gate, without hesitation Keys strode across the lawn till he reached a place under which, owing to the unevenness of the ground, it was easy to see the pipe was laid, and stooping down he placed the sheet of blotting paper on the grass, and a second later he held it up saturated with water.
“There is a break in the pipe, Mr. Bloggs,” he said. “Get it mended.”
III. The Adventure of Two and Two
Keys was giving way to one of those orgies of spring onions and Limburger cheese to which he occasionally succumbed—for even the greatest of men have failings—and the atmosphere of our dining room was very unpleasant to one with my delicate olfactory nerves, so that it was with a feeling of positive relief that I welcomed the pungent odor of the smoke from a strong black cigar that was wafted in on us as the door opened to admit a stranger.
A tall, nervous looking man, he commenced to apologize for having interrupted us at supper, but Keys waived aside his explanations and said abruptly, “You are a married man, sir, and very fond of your wife.”
Wonderingly our visitor pleaded guilty to both indictments, and Keys resumed:
“Of course, any one could tell that your wife has given you a Christmas present, a man with your intelligence would never buy a cigar like that, and only love for her would induce you to smoke it.”
“Sir, I can see you are just the man to solve the mystery that is making my life a hideous nightmare, if I am fortunate enough to interest you in my case.
“My name is Humphrey Drake, and I am a country squire living in a peaceful village, and up to a week ago I was as placid as one of my own cows, but alas all is changed and I know not what dreadful fate is hanging over my head. I once read a wonderful book called The Sign of the Four, (I am a modest man. so I blushed at this unconscious praise, you, dear reader, will know why), and now I fear that the terrible end of Bartholomew Sholto will be mine.”
Mr. Drake turned very pale, whether from fear, or from the strong cigar, I do not know, but after a few minutes he recovered himself, and at Key’s request continued his story.
“Last week I had occasion to go to the stable immediately behind the house and on one of the walls saw in figures made with a piece of white chalk, this sign,” and drawing his fountain pen from his pocket, he marked on our white table cloth
2
2.
4.
“I haven’t been able to sleep since, and now I have come to you for help.”
“Why did you visit the stable, Mr. Drake?” asked Keys.
“Well, lately the carriage and harness have not been properly cleaned, or the horse well groomed, and I went to speak to the stable-man about it.”
Mistily consulting a time-table, Keys disappeared into his bed room, returning the next moment disguised as a stable-boy, even to a straw, which he was chewing assiduously.
“Whenson will put you up, Mr. Drake, and I will report to you at breakfast tomorrow morning. Meanwhile you can sleep in peace.”
Coming down to breakfast the next morning, we found Keys seated by the fire reading the paper.
“Good morning, all is well, but breakfast first and business afterwards,” he said.
It was not until our pipes were well alight that Keys deigned to satisfy our curiosity.
“The mystery was a very harmless one, Mr. Drake, as I expected it would be after the clue you gave me. I went round to the back of your house and looked in at the stable window, and there was the culprit, your young stable-man, with a laudable desire to improve his mind, though rather at the expense of his duty to you, I am afraid, was poring over the arithmetic section of Barmsbirth’s Universal Educator, and with a piece of white chalk was endeavoring to work out a simple sum on your stable wall, and, my dear sir, the answer to his sum, and the explanation of your mystery, is that two and two make four.”
IV. The Adventure of Theophilus Brown
“ ’Tis not in mortals to command success,” as the Immortal Bard hath it, and to illustrate the fact that my friend, Mr. Surelock Keys, really is mortal, which one might easily doubt from some of the marvellous things that he has done. I will give you an incident that happened recently.
A tremendous battering at my bedroom door woke me from a sound sleep, and an urgent request from Keys to join him downstairs hurried me into my clothes.
On entering the dining room, I saw a pallid youth whom Keys introduced as Mr. Theophilus Brown. Then Keys, in his most abrupt manner, asked him what he wished to tell us, and after much hesitation, and with frightened glances towards the door, he blurted out a very incoherent and rambling story about a severed leg, that he had seen hanging up somewhere, on his way home the previous evening, and how he was afraid something dreadful would happen to him because he didn’t tell the police.
&n
bsp; “Well, you can now, here is our old friend, Inspector Morebusiness” (You, dear reader, can guess his real name). “Tell the Inspector what you saw.”
“It was a leg of mutton hanging up in a butcher’s shop,” shouted the miserable would-be humorist, as he made a dash out of the door, just in time to escape the bottle of ink that Keys sent hurtling through the air, only, alas! to smash on the rapidly closing door.
The Inspector rolling on the floor in a paroxysm of laughter could hardly get out the words. “First of April,” and Keys sank back in his chair muttering the monosyllable “Stung!”
V. The Adventure of the Thirteen Cabs
London was in the throes of a general strike, and the labour world in such a seething ferment that many of the unions had broken from the control of their leaders, while others were led to lengths that many of the members dearly regretted, but were unable to prevent, so that deeds of violence were of daily occurrence.
As we sat at breakfast, Inspector Morebusiness was announced, and Keys bade him to enter, not very cordially I am afraid, as it was the first time we had seen him since his display of—to put it mildly—undue levity over the unfortunate case of Theophilus Brown. However, on seeing how white and worried the Inspector looked, Key’s look of annoyance passed away, and heartily inviting him to join us at the table, refused to listen to his story until he had done justice to our ham and eggs and coffee.
It was a terrible story that the inspector had to tell us, nothing less than the destruction of the National Gallery, with its priceless treasures, and of course loss of life, or injury, to anyone happening to be in the neighborhood, for nitro-glycerine was the destructive agent used.