The Early Punch Parodies of Sherlock Holmes

by Bill Peschel

  “Have you brought the clue with you?” he asked.

  “What clue?”

  “Oh,” he answered, rather testily, “any clue you like, so long as it’s a clue. A torn scrap of paper with writing on it, a foot-print in the mud, a broken chair, a soiled overcoat—it really doesn’t matter what it is, but a clue of some kind we must have.”

  “Of course, of course,” I said, in soothing tones. “How stupid of me to forget it. Will this do?” I continued, picking up a piece of faded green ribbon which happened to be lying on the pavement.

  “The very thing,” said Holes, pocketing it, and so we started. Our first visit on arriving at Pesht was to the Emperor-King, who was living incognito in a small back alley of the Hungarian capital. We cheered the monarch’s heart, and proceeded to call on the leader of the Opposition in the Hungarian Diet. He was a stern man of some fifty summers, dressed in the national costume. We found him at supper. Holes was the first to speak. “Sir,” he said, “resistance is useless. Your schemes have been discovered. All that is left for you is to throw yourself upon the mercy of the King.”

  The rage of the Magyar was fearful to witness. Holes continued, inexorably—“This piece of green ribbon matches the colour of your Sunday tunic. Can you swear it has not been torn from the lining? You cannot. I thought so. Know then that wrapped in this ribbon was found the great Samovar diamond, and that you, you alone, were concerned in the robbery.”

  At this moment the police broke into the room.

  “Remove his Excellency,” said Holes, “and let him forthwith expiate his crimes upon the scaffold.”

  “But,” I ventured to interpose, “where is the diamond? Unless you restore that—”

  “Potson,” whispered Holes, almost fiercely, “do not be a fool.”

  As he said this, the door once again opened, and the Emperor-King entered the room, bearing on his head the turquoise crown, in the centre of which sparkled the great Samovar, “the moon of brilliancy,” as the Hungarian poets love to call it. The Emperor approached the marvellous detective. “Pardon me,” he said, “for troubling you. I have just found the missing stone under my pillow.”

  “Where,” said Holes, “I was about to tell your Majesty that you would find it.”

  “Thank you,” said his Majesty, “for restoring to me a valued possession and ridding me of a knave about whom I have long had my suspicions.” The conclusion of this speech was greeted with loud “Eljens,” the Hungarian national shout, in the midst of which we took our leave. That is the true story of how the peace of Europe was preserved by my wonderful friend.

  The Umbrosa Burglary

  R.C. Lehmann

  One passion that played a major role in Lehmann’s life was rowing. He learned the sport at Cambridge, wrote books of instruction and poetry about it, and coached teams, often without pay, in the U.S., Germany, even at rival Oxford. He built his family home, Fieldhead, on the shores of the Thames in Buckinghamshire, where he could row at his leisure and, later, teach the sport to his children. Perhaps some of Fieldhead found its way into Umbrosa.

  “Propelled by an athletic young fellow.”

  During one of my short summer holidays I happened to be spending a few days at the delightful riverside residence of my friend James Silver, the extent of whose hospitality is only to be measured by the excellence of the fare that he sets before his guests, or by the varied amusements that he provides for them. The beauties of Umbrosa (for that is the attractive name of his house) are known to all those who during the summer months pass up (or down) the winding reaches of the Upper Thames. It was there that I witnessed a series of startling events which threw the whole county into a temporary turmoil. Had it not been for the unparalleled coolness and sagacity of Picklock Holes the results might have been fraught with disaster to many distinguished families, but the acumen of Holes saved the situation and the family-plate, and restored the peace of mind of one of the best fellows in the world.

  The party at Umbrosa consisted of the various members of the Silver family, including, besides Mr. and Mrs. Silver, three high-spirited and unmarried youths and two charming girls. Picklock Holes was of course one of the guests. In fact, it had long since come to be an understood thing that wherever I went Holes should accompany me in the character of a professional detective on the lookout for business; and James Silver though he may have at first resented the calm unmuscularity of my marvellous friend’s immovable face would have been the last man in the world to spoil any chance of sport or excitement by refraining from offering a cordial invitation to Holes. The party was completed by Peter Bowman, a lad of eighteen, who to an extraordinary capacity for mischief, added an imperturbable cheerfulness of manner. He was generally known as Shockheaded Peter, in allusion to the brush-like appearance of his delicate auburn hair, but his intimate friends sometimes addressed him as Venus, a nickname which he thoroughly deserved by the almost classic irregularity of his Saxon features.

  We were all sitting, I remember, on the riverbank, watching the countless craft go past, and enjoying that pleasant industrious indolence which is one of the chief charms of life on the Thames. A punt had just skimmed by, propelled by an athletic young fellow in boating costume. Suddenly Holes spoke.

  “It is strange,” he said, “that the man should still be at large.”

  “What man? Where? How?” we all exclaimed breathlessly.

  “The young puntsman,” said Holes, with an almost aggravating coolness. “He is a bigamist, and has murdered his great aunt.”

  “It cannot be,” said Mr. Silver, with evident distress. “I know the lad well, and a better fellow never breathed.”

  “I speak the truth,” said Holes, unemotionally. “The induction is perfect. He is wearing a red tie. That tie was not always red. It was, therefore, stained by something. Blood is red. It was, therefore, stained by blood. Now it is well known that the blood of great aunts is of a lighter shade, and the colour of that tie has a lighter shade. The blood that stained it was, therefore, the blood of his great aunt. As for the bigamy, you will have noticed that as he passed he blew two rings of cigarette-smoke, and they both floated in the air at the same time. A ring is a symbol of matrimony. Two rings together mean bigamy. He is, therefore, a bigamist.”

  For a moment we were silent, struck with horror at this dreadful, this convincing revelation of criminal infamy. Then I broke out:

  “Holes,” I said, “you deserve the thanks of the whole community. You will of course communicate with the police.”

  “No,” said Holes, “they are fools, and I do not care to mix myself up with them. Besides, I have other fish to fry.”

  Saying this, he led me to a secluded part of the grounds, and whispered in my ear.

  “Not a word of what I am about to tell you. There will be a burglary here to-night.”

  “But, Holes,” I said, startled in spite of myself at the calm omniscience of my friend, “had we not better do something; arm the servants, warn the police, bolt the doors and bar the windows, and sit up with blunderbusses—anything would be better than this state of dreadful expectancy. May I not tell Mr. Silver?”

  “Potson, you are amiable, but you will never learn my methods.” And with that enigmatic reply I had to be content in the meantime.

  The evening had passed as pleasantly as evenings at Umbrosa always pass. There had been music; the Umbrosa choir, composed of members of the family and guests, had performed in the drawing-room, and Peter had drawn tears from the eyes of every one by his touching rendering of the well-known songs of “The Dutiful Son” and “The Cartridge-bearer.” Shortly afterwards, the ladies retired to bed, and the gentlemen, after the customary interval in the smoking-room, followed. We were in high good-humour, and had made many plans for the morrow. Only Holes seemed pre-occupied. Once I heard him muttering to himself, “It’s bound to come off properly; never failed yet. They wired to say they’d be here by the late train. Well, let them come. I shall be ready for them.” I did n
ot venture at the time to ask him the meaning of these mysterious words.

  I had been sleeping for about an hour, when I was suddenly awakened with a start. In the passage outside I heard the voices of the youngest Silver boy and of Peter.

  “Peter, old chap,” said Johnny Silver, “I believe there’s burglars in the house. Isn’t it a lark?”

  “Ripping,” said Peter. “Have you told your people?”

  “Oh, it’s no use waking the governor and the mater; we’ll do the job ourselves. I told the girls, and they’ve all locked themselves in and got under their beds, so they’re safe. Are you ready?”

  “Yes.”

  “Come on then.”

  With that they went along the passage and down the stairs. My mind was made up, and my trousers and boots were on in less time than it takes to tell it. I went to Holes’s room and entered. He was lying on his bed, fully awake, dressed in his best detective suit, with his fingers meditatively extended, and touching one another.

  “They’re here,” I said.

  “Who?”

  “The burglars.”

  “As I thought,” said Holes, selecting his best basket-hilted life-preserver from a heap in the middle of the room. “Follow me silently.”

  I did so. No sooner had we reached the landing, however, than the silence was broken by a series of blood-curdling screams.

  “Good Heavens!” was all I could say.

  “Hush,” said Holes.

  I obeyed him. The screams subsided, and I heard the voices of my two young friends, evidently in great triumph.

  “Lie still, you brute,” said Peter, “or I’ll punch your blooming head. Give the rope another twist, Johnny. That’s it. Now you cut and tell your governor and old Holes that we’ve nabbed the beggar.”

  By this time the household was thoroughly roused. Agitated females and inquisitive males streamed downstairs. Lights were lit, and a remarkable sight met our eyes. In the middle of the drawing-room lay an undersized burglar, securely bound, with Peter sitting on his head.

  “Johnny and I collared the beggar,” said Peter, “and bowled him over. Thanks, I think I could do with a ginger-beer.”

  The man was of course tried and convicted, and Holes, who had explained how he had been certain that the burglary was contemplated and had taken his measures accordingly, received the thanks of the County Council.

  “That fellow,” said the great detective to me, “was the best and cleverest of my tame team of country-house burglars. Through him and his associates I have fostered and foiled more thefts than I care to count. Those infernal boys nearly spoilt everything. Potson, take my advice, never attempt a master-stroke in a house full of boys. They can’t understand scientific induction. Had they not interfered I should have caught the fellow myself. He had wired to tell me where I should find him.”

  The Stolen March

  R.C. Lehmann

  ACD dropped a bombshell in December 1893 when The Strand magazine published “The Final Problem,” in which Holmes (apparently) perished at Reichenbach Falls. This caused a problem for Punch. They were committed to publishing Lehmann’s series, but wouldn’t get to their last story until the New Year. Their solution was to stick to the publication schedule, run “The Stolen March” over two parts, but include a note at the end of each part that commented on “The Final Problem.”

  I.

  I think I have already mentioned in the course of the articles which I have consecrated to the life and exploits of Picklock Holes that this extraordinary man was unmarried. There was some mystery about certain love-making episodes in the early stages of his career which nothing could induce him to talk about. If I ever chanced to mention the subject of matrimony in his presence, a hard, metallic look came over his features, and his lips closed with the tightness and vehemence of a pair of handcuffs. Naturally, I was not encouraged by these symptoms to pursue the matter. However, from what I have since been able to glean from other sources, I think I am justified in saying that Holes was at one time, while quite a young man, engaged to the daughter of an eminent church dignitary, a charming girl who united good looks to a comfortable balance at her bankers. One morning, however, Holes, whose mind was constantly occupied in the solution of deep and complex psychological problems, suddenly startled Miss Bellasys by informing her that from certain indications he had concluded that she had two large moles on the upper portion of her left shoulder-blade. It was in vain that the unfortunate girl protested with tears in her eyes that she was ignorant of this disfigurement; that, as a matter of fact, she had the best reason for believing that no such moles existed, and that, if they did, it was not her fault, but must be due to a momentary oversight on the part of her nurse, a woman of excellent character and sound church principles. Holes was, as usual, inexorable.

  “My dearest Annabella,” he observed, “I am never mistaken. Within the last ten minutes while I have been discussing with you my new theory of clues I have noticed your left eye—the right I cannot see—slowly close twice, while at the same moment your head drooped on to your left shoulder. Thus you were twice blind on the left side. Moles, as we learn, not merely from books on natural history, but from our own observation, are blind. You have, therefore, two moles on your left shoulder. The fact is indisputable.”

  Terrified by this convincing demonstration, poor Miss Bellasys released the great detective from his engagement, and retired shortly afterwards from the world to enroll herself in the ranks of a nursing sisterhood.

  These, I believe, are the facts connected with my friend’s only engagement, and I merely state them here in order that the deeply-interesting story of his life may be as complete as laborious and accurate research on my part can make it. It is perhaps not to be wondered at that the man should have been to some extent soured by the tragic termination of a love affair which seemed full of the promise of happiness for all concerned.

  But it must not be supposed that the life of Picklock Holes was entirely destitute of the domestic joys. He would often tell me when we met again after an interval during which he had disappeared from my ken that he had been giving the old folks at home a turn, and that he felt himself in a measure reinvigorated by the simple and trusting affection lavished upon him by his family circle. I gathered that this consisted of his father and mother, Sir Aminadab and Lady Holes, his two younger brothers, curiously named Hayloft and Skairkrow Holes, his widowed sister, Mrs. Gumpshon, with various children of all ages left as pledges of affection by the late Colonel Gumpshon of the Saltshire Bays, as gallant an officer as ever cleft the head of an Afghan or lopped an Egyptian in two. Often had I felt, though I had been far too discreet to express it openly, an ardent desire to become acquainted with a family which, if I might judge by my friend Picklock, must be one of the most remarkable in the world for brain power and keen intelligence. My wish was to be gratified sooner than I looked for.

  One evening, as Holes and I were sitting in my bachelor rooms in Belgrave Square, there came a sudden knock at the door. We were smoking, and I remember that Holes had just been explaining to me that it was customary to infer an assassin from the odour of Trichinopoly, whilst a Cabana denoted a man of luxurious habits and unbridled passions. From Bird’s-eye tobacco a direct line of induction, he said, brought one to a Cabinet Minister, whilst Cavendish in its uncut stage led to a mixture of a smuggler, a Methodist minister, and a club-proprietor in reduced circumstances. I was marvelling at the singular acumen of the man when, as I say, there came a tap at the door, which interrupted our discussions. The door then slowly opened, and a small female child, of a preternaturally sharp expression, slid, as it was, inductively into the room. It was the youthful Isabel Gumpshon, one of Holes’s nieces. “All right, Isabel,” said the great detective, “we will come with you;” and in another moment a swift four-wheeler was conveying us to Fitzjohn’s Avenue, where Sir Aminadab and his lady had their dwelling-place.

  No sooner had we arrived than I felt that we were indeed in a home of my
stery, to which the Egyptian Hall of Messrs. Maskelyne and Cooke was a mere baby. There was in the air a heavy odour of detection, a sort of clinging mist of inductive argument, a vaporous emanation of crimes logically discovered and inferentially revealed, a pervading miasma of obtuse police-inspectors relieved by complimentary magistrates and eulogistic judges. The description may seem highly-coloured, but it represents with literal accuracy the impression made upon my mind by my entrance into the ancestral mansion of the Holes family. Nor was this impression removed as we ascended the stairs. On the first landing we found Mrs. Gumpshon engaged in teaching her youngest boy, Augustus O’Brien Gumpshon, a correct system of guess-work. The boy, a bright little fellow of five, was at that moment in disgrace. He had courageously attempted to guess his mother’s age, and having in an excess of rashness fixed the figure at forty-two, he had been severely punished, and was at that moment languishing in a corner of the landing. In the drawing-room we found the rest of the family. Sir Aminadab, it appeared, had murdered the footman some ten minutes before our arrival, and had contrived by the aid of a pair of blood-stained braces, which were one of his most cherished possessions, to fix the guilt upon Lady Holes, in whose basket-trunk, moreover, the dismembered body of the unfortunate menial had been discovered by the cook. The ingenuity of this diabolical plot had for some nine minutes baffled the whole family. Lady Holes was just about to resign herself to the inevitable arrest, when Hayloft Holes, with an appearance of calm nonchalance, eminently suited to his impassive features, had produced from his father’s waistcoat pocket two of the unfortunate footman’s silver buttons, and had thus convicted Sir Aminadab of the crime. As we entered the drawing-room we were almost overwhelmed with the shouts of joy that welcomed this wonderful exhibition of the family talent. Skairkrow Holes, who was of a more reflective turn of mind, had, it seemed, been looking out of the window at the passers-by, and had just proved triumphantly to his youngest niece, Jemima, that a man whom she had taken for a vendor of cat’s meat was in reality a director of a building society who had defrauded the miserable investors of fifty-two thousand pounds, eighteen shillings, and ninepence halfpenny. It was into this happy family party that Holes and I, led by Isabel Gumpshon, intruded on the memorable evening of which I speak.