The Early Punch Parodies of Sherlock Holmes

by Bill Peschel

  When I had quite done gasping he did so.

  “As I read it,” he said, holding it up to the light in a long, thin, tobacco-stained hand, “the words are: ‘I am in great trouble, and am coming to you for help.’ That is all. It was posted at 12 noon at Charing Cross, and was enclosed in an ordinary Windsor Bond envelope watermarked ‘W,’ unscented, the gum on the flap of which betrays nothing unusual either to the palate or to the test-tube. But here, if I mistake not,” he went on, glancing out of the window, “is none other than our client herself. She is well-to-do, for she has arrived in a taxi-cab, and, from the smile on the face of the driver, has evidently tendered more than the usual fare. She is also impetuous, for in spite of the treacherous reputation of our English Spring she carries neither umbrella nor waterproof-coat.”

  Never shall I forget the first glimpse that I, Watson, commonplace general practitioner, had of Ayesha, or, as I afterwards learnt to call her, She-who-must-be-obeyed. Veiled except for her eyes, and closely wrapped in a single white clinging garment, she was shod in sandals, carried a sistrum, and bore upon her brow the bent symbol of the moon. Nor do I think that that room, which had heard so many strange recitals, had ever listened to a story more incredible or more utterly bizarre than the one which she proceeded to unfold.

  “I have come to thee,” she began, speaking in a voice of singular beauty and turning her large dark eyes towards my companion, “who on earth am named Ayesha, daughter of Yarab the son of Scarab the Arab, but who have many other titles here and elsewhere, being immortal and the child of Isis, and brooding for all time within the caves where is the sacred revolving fire which is the Heart of the World. Yea, for I am two thousand and three hundred years old.”

  I could not help turning in my chair and glancing rather triumphantly at my companion. It was plain that in the matter of our client’s age at least his inductions were entirely at fault. He was, however, completely unperturbed.

  “Pray continue,” he said, clasping his long nervous fingers; “you interest me profoundly. Never mind my friend Dr. Watson” (for she had noticed my movement); “he is the soul of discretion. Treat him as if he were a table or a cow.”

  “Yet, ancient though I be, for all that am I perpetually young,” went on our strange visitor (it was now Holmes’ turn to smile at my rather crest-fallen face), “and to thee, Holmes, who is also Sherlock, have I come, who art, as Mother Isis has revealed to me, no other than him whom I once knew as Slooth, the son of Slooth the ageless, a philosopher and my master, and also aforetime wast Holly, a wise man of this same Northern land, holding that if any may help me it will be thee, that is to say, thou. It has been made known to me, who know all things, that now is the appointed time that my lover, who was Callicrates the Greek, who wast also Leo Vincy, shouldst reappear upon earth, this time to become immortal and dwell with me for ever, ruling with me over the land which is called On Kôr, or by some also Sequelia. I know verily too that this lover shalt be restored to me here in this great City of London, of which no stone was yet laid when I was first born upon this earth. Him then I ask you to find for me, O Holmes, who art also Holly, who are also Slooth.”

  I could see by the sudden tense gleam that had come into my companion’s eyes that he had found once more a problem worthy of his mental calibre.

  “Can you describe the man to me a little?” he asked in keen incisive tones.

  “He is beautiful as the god Apollo,” she replied simply. “Tall and strong, with little golden curls, and eyes like the blue sea: an athlete and a warrior, but in wisdom not mighty as thou art, nor as I. Canst thou find such a one, O Slooth? I have been to those who search for the missing in this land and they have promised their aid.”

  Holmes raised his eyebrows. “You have been to Scotland Yard?” he said.

  “Even so.”

  “I suppose the re-incarnation of a Greek warrior would be a bit out of the line of our worthy acquaintance, Athelney Jones,” murmured my friend. “But what led you to come to me?”

  “It was written in the Book of Thothmes, three thousand years ago,” she replied, “that one named Slooth should arise in the Islands of the Dark Sea. Therefore I knew my way even unto the street of Bakhir, who know all.”

  I could see that Holmes was pleased; careless of admiration as he affected to be, any little piece of recognition of this sort was liable to flatter his vanity.

  “I think you can safely let the matter rest in my hands,” he assured her. “Dr. Watson, who has been good enough to chronicle one or two of my small adventures, could assure you that in the strange case of the wool-gathering Premier and the episode of the lost Coleopterist, to mention no others, I have been successful in restoring missing persons to their relatives and friends.”

  I assured Ayesha that this was so.

  “Wouldst thou then,” she said, turning again to Holmes, “that before I go I should unveil my beauty, who am of all women most beautiful, even as I did before Tenes, King of the Sidonians, and Ochus Artaxerxes the King of Kings, that thou mayest know that it is none other than I, Ayesha the immortal, who speak?”

  And so saying she laid her hand on the edge of her robe. I made a quick half-involuntary gesture of dissent, but Holmes was before me.

  “I assure you, Madam, it is quite unnecessary,” he said. “There is not nothing Sidonian about Dr. Watson and myself. If you leave your address it will be quite sufficient.”

  Our mysterious client then drew a signet-ring from the fourth finger of her right hand and laid it, together with an ordinary visiting card, on the table. The stone of the ring was green jade, engraved with the head of Hathor. On the card was inscribed simply—“Ayesha, The Ritz Hotel.”

  “This will be a three-pipe problem,” said Holmes when she had left us. “I think you had better run out and attend to your practice a little while I consider it. Come back in about three hours’ time and ask me some of the immemorial questions, and I think I can promise to give you a surprise. The shag, unless I am greatly mistaken, is behind the stuffed kingfisher on the mantelpiece.”

  Once again my friend was right. I could not repress a murmur of amazement at his acumen as I handed him the tin and went out.

  Chapter II.—Callicrates Returns.

  When I had finished saving the lives of one or two rather important patients I returned to Baker Street and entered the sitting-room. So dense was the atmosphere with the reeking fumes of shag that another writer might have said that the air was quite thick with tobacco smoke. Holmes was sitting exactly as I had left him, his long limbs curled up on the sofa, his villainous black pipe in his mouth and his eyes gazing abstractedly at the ceiling. On the floor were lying two crumpled letters.

  He made the usual gesture, signifying that I had his permission to sit down, and I did so, at the same time saying rather breathlessly—

  “Well, Holmes, has anything occurred?”

  “What a marvellous tone that barrel-organ has on the pavement opposite!” he replied. “Do you hear it, Watson? Tum ti-ti, tum ti-ti, turn. By the way, didn’t you win the long jump at Charterhouse?”

  “My dear Holmes, as a matter of fact I did,” I answered in utter bewilderment; “but what on earth has that got to do—”

  “And you fought, I think, and were wounded in the Afghan War?”

  I bridled a little, touching my grey hair with my hand. Holmes always had a scornful way of alluding to the little triumphs of my past career.

  “I think that settles it,” he said with a yawn, and then stooping down he picked up the two letters from the floor and handed one of them to me.

  “Read that first,” he said. “It came just after you left the house. As I anticipated, our worthy friends at Scotland Yard are in a tangle once more.”

  “A young Egyptian lady has lost her husband, and we are entirely unable to account for his disappearance.”

  “Dear Mr. Holmes” (the letter ran).—“You know my usual opinion of your fanciful theories. But we have a little probl
em on hand just now which so far has baffled us completely. A young Egyptian lady has lost her husband, and we are entirely unable to account for his disappearance or to make head or tail of her narrative as to the events which preceded it. She states that she has subsequently seen the man’s car, which appears to be of a grey colour, but she can tell us neither its make nor its number. Beyond instructing my men, therefore, to look out for an Egyptian gentleman in a grey car, we are entirely without data and at a loss for a clue. Perhaps you can help us once again, as you did in the affairs of the Poisoned Chocolate Méringues and the strange case of the Apoplectic Haberdasher.

  Yours faithfully,

  Athelney Jones.”

  “Bunglers,” murmured my friend—“incredible bunglers! Were it not for the fact that Miss Ayesha has come to us on her own account I should really have refused to help them.”

  “You think,” I said, knowing Holmes’ methods, “that they are on a false scent in following up this clue of the grey car?”

  “Egyptology,” he replied, “is probably not one of Athelney Jones’ strong points. But I have always found in the course of any investigations that there is no knowledge which a detective can afford to despise. I imagine that when our client alluded to a grey car she meant not c-a-r, a petrol-driven vehicle, but K-a, an attendant spirit or the shadow of a departed soul.”

  “Quite a different spirit from petrol,” I said with a slight laugh; but Holmes did not smile. One of the most remarkable characteristics of this extraordinary man was that he was almost completely devoid of a sense of humour. He merely handed me the other letter.

  “O Holmes, who art also Holly, who art also Slooth,” I read, “I have taken counsel of the oracle of the holy mother Isis, who am her priestess, and it is revealed unto me that I have been near unto him who was aforetime Callicrates, my lover, even this day in the street of Bakhir. Does this divination aid thee in thy search, O well-beloved One, and of all men most wise?

  Ayesha.

  Ritz Hotel.”

  “The style is perhaps a little prolix, and the writer has an undue leaning towards the supernatural,” said Holmes, “but in this case I fancy that her faith is not entirely unfounded.”

  I could tell by the tone of my friend’s voice, and see by the light in his eye, that with or without the assistance of this clue he was already near to the solution of the problem.

  How near I little anticipated.

  “I have answered this note, Watson,” he went on, “and taken the liberty of inviting Miss Ayesha to come to supper with us to-night. You will observe that Mrs. Hudson has laid the table for three. And, in order to make our guest feel more at home in what must be rather unfamiliar surroundings, I propose to wear my Persian dressing-gown with the cabalistic signs. You will oblige me greatly if you will also consent to don the special costume which I have had prepared for you. That frock-coat with a slight bulge in the pocket where the surgical scissors are may do very well in Harley Street, but is scarcely suitable for supper with an immortal priestess of Isis, the mother of the gods. You will find your things upstairs.”

  When I reached my room I found lying across the bed a long white robe very similar to that which had been worn by our client herself at our interview in the morning. By the side of it had been placed a laurel wreath twisted with golden thread. Knowing from long experience that there was always a method behind Holmes’ commands, however extravagant they might appear, I threw off my Derby hat, my frock-coat and my trousers and, hastily replacing them with these incongruous adornments, I returned to the sitting-room.

  What was my amazement to find it completely empty!

  Before I had time, however, to recover from my surprise and construct any theory to account for my friend’s disappearance I was suddenly pinioned from behind by two powerful arms, tripped and hurled violently upon the floor. As I struck it I felt the sudden stab of some sharp instrument in the back of my neck.

  Knowing that my companion was always surrounded by enemies, who were well aware that I was his constant ally, I had already given myself up for lost, when I was all at once released from the pressure of the knee that held me down, and, rising, encumbered by the clinging folds of my robe, found myself looking into the face of none other than Sherlock himself.

  “What is this infernal masquerade?” I cried with some heat, rubbing my neck, which pained me considerably.

  I had scarcely spoken, however, when the front-door bell rang, and I only had just time to re-arrange my robe and replace my laurel garland before Ayesha herself was shown in.

  She looked first at Holmes, and then her eyes met mine. Instantly she uttered a loud cry, and a moment later she had sprung towards me and her beautiful arms were folded about my neck.

  “Callicrates!” she sobbed, clinging to me. “Leo, my lover! My Leo! My Callicrates!” and then with a sob, “Amenartas shall never have thee now.”

  “My name is John, Madam,” I cried, attempting to fend her off respectfully, “and my wife’s was—”

  “Look at yourself in the glass, Watson,” came the ringing voice of Holmes.

  I did so, and received a shock which made me think for a moment that I was suffering from an acute attack of paranoia. My head was covered with crisp golden curls, and in my eves, blue as the Aegean Sea, there shone the light of Victorian days, the sparkle of a long-vanished youth.

  “I am still at a loss to understand,” I muttered, lifting my right hand aimlessly to my forehead.

  “The explanation is perfectly simple,” remarked Holmes with the utmost sangfroid. “I happened to be looking at one of your old college football groups, and realised at once from the athletic proportions of your tibia that you were the missing man. When I had you on the floor, therefore, I took the opportunity of injecting you with a little preparation of which, as a doctor, you have probably heard, and which is known as the thyroid gland.”

  As I stood there dazed and half incredulous, Ayesha flung her arms once more about my neck. Holding her lightly but firmly I kissed the lobe of her left ear.

  “Ayesha . . . uttered a loud cry, and a moment later she had sprung towards me.”

  * * * * *

  These words, the last story that will ever be told of the adventures of my friend, Sherlock Holmes, were written by me John Watson, general medical practitioner, who am also Callicrates, before starting out to lead I know not what strange life in the distant land of On Kôr or Sequelia, in company with She-Who-Must-be-Obeyed. Shall I ever look back with a sigh to the old Baker Street days? Shall I ever weary of eternity and wedded bliss? Alas, there are no data on which a likely hypothesis can repose.

  Reproduced with permission of Punch Ltd., www.punch.co.uk.

  1926

  Mr. Punch’s Personalities

  In the last decades of his life, ACD threw himself into the spiritualism cause, believing that he would secure his place in history as a missionary of the “new revelation.” “I am rather tired of hearing myself described as the author of Sherlock Holmes. Why not, for a change, the author of ‘Rodney Stone,’ or ‘The White Company,’ or of ‘The Lost World’? One would think I had written nothing but detective stories.”

  Of the portraits in “Mr. Punch’s Personalities,” a series of portraits by various artists published between 1926 and 1929, this one by Bernard Partridge (1861-1945) is unusually clear-eyed. Most of them were unabashed celebrations of their subjects, with their humor limited sometimes to showing them as a caricature. Partridge chose to highlight ACD’s attitude toward his greatest creation, above a poem explicitly criticizing his spiritualist beliefs.

  This conversation between artist and subject becomes more interesting because Partridge and ACD were lifelong associates since meeting at Stonyhurst preparatory school. They played on the Allahakbarries, the cricket team put together by J.M. Barrie, and were members of the Ghouls dining club.

  In his memoirs, ACD recalls Partridge only as “a very quiet, gentle boy.” Partridge remembered ACD in greater deta
il “as a thick-set boy, with a quiet manner, and a curious furtive smile when he was visited with one of the school penalties, such as leaving his desk and kneeling in the middle of the classroom with his books. He was, I fancy, rather lazy in his studies, never taking a prominent place in his form: but his brain was very nimble, and he was constantly throwing off verses and parodies on college personalities and happenings.”

  The poem’s concluding lines concerning “Dickie” is a reference to ACD’s uncle, Richard Doyle, who designed the cover illustration Punch used for several decades.

  Reproduced with permission of Punch Ltd., www.punch.co.uk.

  Your own creation, that great sleuth

  Who spent his life in chasing Truth—

  How does he view your late defiance

  (O Arthur!) of the laws of Science?

  He disapproves your strange vagaries,

  Your spooks and photographs of fairies;

  And holds you foot-cuffed when you’re fain

  To navigate the vast inane.

  We sympathise with Holmes; and yet

  In Punch’s heart your name is set;

  Of every Doyle he’s still a lover