Sherlock Holmes Victorian Parodies and Pastiches

by Bill Peschel

  “Now, don’t interrupt. I had expected that meeting wish the Professor. I had a portable parachute under that cloak. After we fell over the cliff in our struggle, we let go our holds, and I opened the parachute and drifted down.”

  “And the Professor was dashed to death?” I asked, eagerly.

  “No,” Holmes flicked the ash from his cigar; “the Professor is also a man of resources. He had a parachute, too.”

  I was too much surprised to speak, and Holmes continued:

  “The long and short of it is, that we struck the water safely; but in the boiling mist I lost the Professor. I swam down the torrent to the next canton, and, after a few days’ rest, resumed my search for Moriarty. But again he had been too much for me. I had the pleasure some weeks after, to read the very nice notices of my life, deeds and death, in the English papers. For once the jealousy of Scotland Yard was abated, and I got my due measure of praise. De mortuis nil nisi bonum, you know. So I thought I would let them think me dead. But Moriarty knew better, and fled to America. He is here, somewhere in New York, now. But he, the arch plotter, the head and brains of organized, educated crime can not escape me. His capture is but a question of time, and I shall have him”

  “But how?” I asked. For the old, calm, confident manner of Holmes, his old self, sitting there, had almost brought me to the belief that his struggle and his disappearance were as a dream.

  Holmes looked at me calmly.

  “Yes,” he said; “he can not escape me. I shall stand on the corner of the Boulevard and Sixty-sixth Street, and catch him when he comes by on a bicycle!”

  An Amateur Detective

  He Thought That He Could Use Sherlock Holmes’ Methods

  Anonymous

  This story, credited to the Baltimore Herald, appeared in the Brooklyn Daily Eagle of Dec. 28.

  There was a man riding on the rear platform of a city and suburban car out West Lombard street yesterday afternoon with a package between his feet. At Greene street a little man boarded the car and after standing on the platform a moment he saw the package. Presently he asked:

  “Ever read Sherlock Holmes?”

  “Yes, sir,” replied the man with the package.

  “Great hand to deduce and conclude, wasn’t he?”

  “Yes.”

  “But no greater than I am,” said the little man. “For instance, you have a tea kettle in that paper. It follows that you are a married man. Being a married man, it follows that your wife has been asking you four times a week for the last year to buy that kettle. Having been a year in buying it, the inference is that you are absent-minded in a general way and have little concern for things about the house. The chances are that you will leave the tea kettle on the car when you get off and forget that you ever bought it. Am I correct?”

  “You are a fool,” was the blunt reply.

  “My dear sir, I have every reason to believe that—”

  “You have lots of gall, whatever you believe, to talk to me in that way,” interrupted the tea kettle man.

  “I was simply trying to prove to you that Sherlock Holmes only—”

  “What do I care about Sherlock Holmes? Who are you, sir, that you presume to be so familiar?”

  “My name is Doyle, and after my namesake, the author of Sherlock Holmes. I am fond of deducing and concluding. Being an irascible man, it naturally follows that your poor wife has—”

  “If I had you off this car I would punch your face for your imprudence. I’ll remember your mug and trounce you when I catch you.”

  At Poppleton street the kettle man got off. By accident he left his kettle behind. The little man held it up and yelled after him. The conductor was about to stop the car, but the kettle man would not return. He would not have come back to claim it for a million dollars after being told he was going to do just as he did.

  1896

  When the Conan Doyles began the year by traveling by tour boat up the Nile, they little realized they were sailing into potential trouble. Eleven years before, Muslim tribes led by Muhammad Ahmad had thrown the British out of the Sudan, killing Gen. George “Chinese” Gordon at the siege of Khartoum. Now, the Sudanese tribesmen were raiding across the Egyptian border, and Britain was considering declaring war. An unarmed boat full of English tourists was ripe for kidnapping. In one incident, Conan Doyle wrote in his memoirs, “I found myself on the rock of Abousir with a drove of helpless tourists, male and female, nothing whatever between us and the tribesmen, and a river between us and the nearest troops.” Inspired by this incident, he would spend this year writing The Tragedy of the Korosko (1898).

  Shortly after the tour boat returned to Cairo, Conan Doyle received word that war had indeed broken out. He arranged with the Westminster Gazette to act as their correspondent. Taking a boat back to Aswan, he rode a camel to the Egyptian border town of Wadi Halfa, only to find the army unable to march for several months. Reluctant to expose Louisa to the summer heat, he returned north aboard a cargo boat, subsisting on tinned apricots. (He would use these experiences in his short story, “The Debut of Bimbashi Joyce,” available in The Early Punch Parodies of Sherlock Holmes.) In late April, they sailed for home, with Conan Doyle carrying souvenirs in the form of chiggers that had burrowed into his wrists.

  As construction began on the house in Hindhead, the family moved to rented quarters nearby. Conan Doyle continued working on Uncle Bernac and played cricket while the family collected farm animals and adjusted to country life.

  Despite his attempts to leave Holmes behind, Conan Doyle still had to contend with requests to revive him. “Poor Holmes is dead and damned,” he wrote a friend in May. “I have had such an overdose of him that I feel towards him as I do towards pate de foie gras, of which I once ate too much, so that the name of it gives me a sickly feeling to this day.”

  Publications: The Exploits of Brigadier Gerard (Feb.); Rodney Stone (Nov.)

  The Sherlock Holmes Theory

  Percie W. Hart

  Here we have another story, from the Feb. 19 issue of Puck, that focuses on the deductive method rather than its practitioner. In his published collection, Charles Press called it “the ultimate Sherlockian parody.” Hart was a magazine writer from Halifax, Nova Scotia, who wrote stories and poems for Life, Puck, Collier’s Weekly, and other magazines and newspapers.

  Two-thirds of a cigarette lay on the station platform, unheeded by the passing throng.

  They still had two minutes to wait before the 5:10 train for Mudhunk would be ready.

  “See!” said Charlie Breakhearts; “the lady came sooner than he expected. He wouldn’t have bothered lighting it for such a short smoke.”

  “You’re way off!” cried John Butterfingers; “he dropped it and was ashamed to be seen picking it up.”

  “Both wrong!” laughed Willy Knowitall; “he was a beginner and he felt himself sick, and so he stopped.”

  Then began a friendly argument that developed into a heated debate, as each one put in new reasons for the support of his theory.

  “What’s de matter wid dem gents?” queried the gatesman of the newsboy.

  “Aw! der fightin’ over a cigarette stump,” he replied; “the dude saw it foist, but de udders was on him before he could swipe it.”

  He Solves Another

  Anonymous

  Nothing is known about the author of this short piece, that appeared in the New York Sun on Aug. 23, except that he or she had a way with an unexpected ending.

  Herlock Sholmes had only finished his fourth cup of coffee at breakfast the other morning when the maid entered and announced that a deeply veiled lady desired to see him immediately on business of the greatest importance. It was not the first time that the great detective had been disturbed at meal-time, and giving an imperative order to the cook to keep his coffee warm he entered the office where the caller was seated.

  “Y-you are Mr. Sholmes, are you not?” faltered the woman as he stood before her and bowed.

  “Herlock Sholmes
, the great detective, at your service,” he answered. “I see, madam, something is wrong.”

  “H-how did you know?” she said, giving him a surprised look.

  “Madam, please remember that I know all. I might further state that something has happened to agitate you.”

  “Yes, something—”

  “I knew it,” interrupted Sholmes. “As I said before, I know all. You have come to me to unravel some great case—something that has baffled all the so-called great detectives who had worked upon it.”

  “You are correct, Mr. Sholmes,” admitted the woman, as she sat nervously folding and unfolding a newspaper in her hands.

  “Certainly I am, madam. It’s my business to be correct. Now, then, you have either had something stolen from you—you are in the clutches of some blackmailer—some one is secretly poisoning your pet dog or your husband has deserted you?”

  “The latter hits my case, sir.”

  “See?” chuckled Sholmes as he sat back and folded his arms. “Don’t I know all? Now this wretch—this miserable scoundrel—deserted you and fled?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Hit it again, didn’t I? Well, to continue—to go on telling you these wonderful things—while you fairly hate the man for this base act, you will not allow him to get off so easily. He must respect his marriage vows and at least support you?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Ha! how I do hit it! You don’t, of course, know where this wretch of wretches—this villain of villains—is at present or you wouldn’t be here? Right again, eh?”

  “Wrong, sir—dead wrong!” answered the woman. “I do know where he is, and that’s just why I am here!”

  “Oh, well,” continued the great detective. “I made that slip just to see how it felt to be wrong once in my life. Of course, my dear woman, I knew all the time why you came here.”

  “Indeed!” said the caller, rising and removing her veil. “Well, if that’s the case, Mr. Herlock Sholmes, then you know that I am the woman you deserted in Oklahoma seven years ago.”

  Then the curtain fell, and Herlock Sholmes had solved almost another impenetrable mystery and added another leaf to his laurel crown.

  Another Mystery Solved

  Anonymous

  This example of the deductions-gone-askew tale originated in the St. Louis Dispatch. It was reprinted in a butchered form in the Comic Weekly section of the New York World on Oct. 18, and landed in the Sacramento Daily Record-Union on Nov. 29, from which this version was taken.

  Just the faintest shadow of a smile showed itself on the classic face of Herlock Sholmes the other morning as a tall, lanky countryman stalked into his private office and took a seat. Of course, the great detective by simply watching the man’s left eyelid quiver a few seconds knew his whole history from the cradle up, and he did not hesitate to say:

  “You’re from the country, my friend.”

  “I be,” replied the man, as he moved uneasily in his seat, “but I’m durned if I kin see how you knew it.”

  “I know all, my friend—all” continued Sholmes. “I see that a red-headed woman has been leaning her head upon your shoulder. Don’t deny it, sir!”

  “No such thing!” indignantly answered the countryman.

  “Isn’t that conclusive proof enough?” went on Sholmes, as he pointed to a bunch of blonde hair on the other’s shoulder.

  “No, it ain’t—that’s where our old red cow rubbed again’ me before I come away this morning.”

  “But it was a female cow, though, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes, that’s true.”

  “Which makes it the same thing,” chuckled Sholmes. “You see, as usual, I was right. I might also add that the cow has four legs, gives pure milk and has no bad habits.”

  “Gosh, you’ve struck it, but I—”

  “Never mind going any further, sir,” interrupted the great detective, scratching the lobe of his right ear, a favorite trick of his when solving deep mysteries. “Of course I struck it—that’s what I’m here for. Now, you have either heard of my wonderful powers from some friends or noticed my advertisements in the newspapers. Look out, now; remember I know all.”

  “I seen your advertisement in the papers, sir, and—”

  “See! Can you best it, I can give Scotland Yard cards and spades and then have a cinch. Now, as I don’t want to frighten you by solving too many mysteries at one time, I think I’ll let you tell me about the great mystery you have called here to have unravelled. Don’t be afraid—speak right up.”

  “Why, as I said, sir, I seed your adverting for a gardener, and—”

  Sholmes hadn’t advertised for a gardener. The man across the street had, however, and Sholmes, by merely looking at the advertisement, and noting the number, put the caller on the right track. It was the great detective’s eight hundredth mystery solved for the month, but Sholmes being a modest man refused to give himself credit for it in his note books.

  The Field Bazaar

  Arthur Conan Doyle

  When Edinburgh University constructed a new playing field, it decided to raise money for a sports pavilion to go with it. At a three-day bazaar in November, visitors could buy goods from all over the world, listen to military bands and concerts, buy food and drink, and even see a demonstration of the recently discovered Röntgen rays. They also could buy a special Bazaar number of the Student magazine containing contributions from notable writers such as Walter Besant, J.M. Barrie, Robert Barr, Israel Zangwill, and Conan Doyle.

  While there were rumors floating about that he would use the occasion to revive Holmes, “The Field Bazaar” turned out to be a story more in keeping with the event, even if Holmes was misinformed about the purpose of the fundraiser.

  “I should certainly do it,” said Sherlock Holmes.

  I started at the interruption, for my companion had been eating his breakfast with his attention entirely centered upon the paper which was propped up by the coffee pot. Now I looked across at him to find his eyes fastened upon me with the half-amused, half-questioning expression which he usually assumed when he felt that he had made an intellectual point.

  “Do what?” I asked.

  He smiled as he took his slipper from the mantelpiece and drew from it enough shag tobacco to fill the old clay pipe with which he invariably rounded off his breakfast.

  “A most characteristic question of yours, Watson,” said he. “You will not, I am sure, be offended if I say that any reputation for sharpness which I may possess has been entirely gained by the admirable foil which you have made for me. Have I not heard of débutantes who have insisted upon plainness in their chaperones? There is a certain analogy.”

  Our long companionship in the Baker Street rooms had left us on those easy terms of intimacy when much may be said without offence. And yet I acknowledge that I was nettled at his remark.

  “I may be very obtuse,” said I, “but I confess that I am unable to see how you have managed to know that I was . . . I was . . . ”

  “Asked to help in the Edinburgh University Bazaar.”

  “Precisely. The letter has only just come to hand, and I have not spoken to you since.”

  “In spite of that,” said Holmes, leaning back in his chair and putting his finger tips together, “I would even venture to suggest that the object of the bazaar is to enlarge the University cricket field.”

  I looked at him in such bewilderment that he vibrated with silent laughter.

  “The fact is, my dear Watson, that you are an excellent subject,” said he. “You are never blasé. You respond instantly to any external stimulus. Your mental processes may be slow but they are never obscure, and I found during breakfast that you were easier reading than the leader in The Times in front of me.”

  “I should be glad to know how you arrived at your conclusions,” said I.

  “I fear that my good nature in giving explanations has seriously compromised my reputation,” said Holmes. “But in this case the train of reasoning is based u
pon such obvious facts that no credit can be claimed for it. You entered the room with a thoughtful expression, the expression of a man who is debating some point in his mind. In your hand you held a solitary letter. Now last night you retired in the best of spirits, so it was clear that it was this letter in your hand which had caused the change in you.”

  “This is obvious.”

  “It is all obvious when it is explained to you. I naturally asked myself what the letter could contain which might have this effect upon you. As you walked you held the flap side of the envelope towards me, and I saw upon it the same shield-shaped device which I have observed upon your old college cricket cap. It was clear, then, that the request came from Edinburgh University—or from some club connected with the University. When you reached the table you laid down the letter beside your plate with the address uppermost, and you walked over to look at the framed photograph upon the left of the mantelpiece.”

  It amazed me to see the accuracy with which he had observed my movements. “What next?” I asked.

  “I began by glancing at the address, and I could tell, even at the distance of six feet, that it was an unofficial communication. This I gathered from the use of the word ‘Doctor’ upon the address, to which, as a Bachelor of Medicine, you have no legal claim. I knew that University officials are pedantic in their correct use of titles, and I was thus enabled to say with certainty that your letter was unofficial. When on your return to the table you turned over your letter and allowed me to perceive that the enclosure was a printed one, the idea of a bazaar first occurred to me. I had already weighed the possibility of its being a political communication, but this seemed improbable in the present stagnant condition of politics.

  “When you returned to the table your face still retained its expression and it was evident that your examination of the photograph had not changed the current of your thoughts. In that case it must itself bear upon the subject in question. I turned my attention to the photograph therefore, and saw at once that it consisted of yourself as a member of the Edinburgh University Eleven, with the pavilion and cricket-field in the background. My small experience of cricket clubs has taught me that next to churches and cavalry ensigns they are the most debt-laden things upon earth. When upon your return to the table I saw you take out your pencil and draw lines upon the envelope, I was convinced that you were endeavouring to realize some projected improvement which was to be brought about by a bazaar. Your face still showed some indecision, so that I was able to break in upon you with my advice that you should assist in so good an object.”