Eight Adventures of Sherlock Holmes

by Bill Crider

  “The man who looked like a bear, you mean,” said Holmes.

  “Indeed,” Wilde responded.

  “But he wasn’t a bear,” said Holmes. “He was a man wearing a winter coat made from the skin of a bison.”

  Again Wilde was amazed. I, being more accustomed to the workings of Holmes’s mind, was merely mildly surprised.

  “Such would have to be the case,” said Holmes. “There was no vision, and there was no bear. But a man wearing a buffalo robe might pass for a bear in London.”

  “You must be right!” Wilde said. “I’m sure you are. The buffalo hunter is here, as I thought.”

  “He must be quite conspicuous,” said I, though a glance at my visitor’s bottle-green coat assured me that one might go about in a London winter in almost any garb and not be thought too outlandish.

  “But where can he be spending his time?” asked Wilde. “And how did he come here?”

  “It has been several years since your tour of America,” Holmes said. “Perhaps he came here out of mere opportunity, without a thought of you in his mind.”

  “But a man like that,” Wilde said. “What opportunity could he have?”

  “There is a clue in this very room,” said Holmes. “One that you have already remarked upon.”

  Wilde was puzzled. “I’m afraid I do not understand.”

  “It is,” said Holmes, “simply a matter of reaching a conclusion based on the facts of the matter. Art, I regret to say, does not enter the picture. Why, I suspect that Watson there has already thought the thing through.”

  It was not often that Holmes expressed any degree of confidence in my abilities, but in this instance he was right to give me the credit, for I had indeed arrived at what I believed to be the correct answer.

  “Well, Watson?” said Holmes. I nodded, and he said, “First, the clue.”

  “It is the patriotic V. R.,” I responded.

  Holmes applauded silently. “Absolutely correct. Now do you see, Mr. Wilde?”

  “I regret to say that I do not. Although the light in your quarters is certainly adequate, I remain entirely in the dark.”

  Holmes put aside his pipe. “Come now. The queen and an American buffalo. What could the connection possibly be?”

  “I have no idea. I … wait a moment. Of course! The golden jubilee!”

  “Right you are,” said Holmes. He reached into a box of papers on the floor beside his chair and withdrew something that he held up for Wilde to see. It was the program that we had brought with us after attending perhaps the most popular attraction of the golden jubilee, Buffalo Bill’s Wild West Show. The program was quite thick, and Holmes had to thumb through it for several seconds before he found what he was seeking. When he had located it, he read it aloud, emphasizing certain of the words: “‘You will see a buffalo hunt, in all its realistic details.’ Do you remember it, Watson?”

  “Indeed I do. It was quite thrilling, actually.”

  “If not quite realistic,” Holmes added. “And do you recall what Colonel Cody told us about his amazing cast of characters?”

  That, too, I recalled quite clearly, perhaps because I had considered it such a privilege to meet the great showman himself, bedecked in fringed buckskins and wearing an enormous ten-gallon hat. “He said that he hired anyone who would work for him: cowboys, Red Indians, women, children, come one, come all.”

  “As indeed he would have to do to perform such set pieces as the buffalo hunt. And I am certain that he would not inquire too closely into the background of those he added to his cast. A man such as you have described, Mr. Wilde, might find employment in Colonel Cody’s show quite appealing, especially if, since his encounter with you, he had committed other crimes in the United States.”

  “But why would he still be in England?” asked Wilde. “It has been months since the last performance of the wild west show.”

  Holmes nodded agreement. “Let us assume that your enemy was dismissed from the cast for some reason. For indulging in drink, perhaps, or petty theft. Colonel Cody has the reputation of a stern taskmaster and would not tolerate such conduct. Without employment, your friend might not have been able to return to America. He might have been forced to find menial jobs here to support himself. And ask yourself this question: why has he not attempted your life before now?”

  “Do you have the answer?” asked Wilde.

  Holmes did not hesitate. “If he is such a person as you describe, the likelihood is that he had not thought of you at all until he tried to kill you. He simply happened to see you on the street, recalled your role in his unhappy life, and took advantage of a sudden opportunity.”

  Wilde lit another of his cigarettes. “But now he will be thinking of me often. He might very well try again to kill me unless something is done.”

  “True,” Holmes agreed. “And we shall do something tonight.”

  “But what?”

  “We will find this man and put a stop to things immediately. Watson, do you have your revolver?”

  I did not, but I told him that I could get it at once.

  “Do so. And then we will be on our way.”

  “But where will we go?” asked Wilde. “We have no idea where to find this person.”

  “Think about it while we make ourselves ready,” answered Holmes. “You may discover that we do indeed have an excellent possibility.”

  I was as mystified as Wilde, but once we were in the carriage, Holmes directed the driver to the fairgrounds where the wild west show had been held.

  “Where else would a man with little money and few prospects seek refuge?” he asked. “Some structures doubtless remain to provide a modicum of shelter. He must be there.”

  It seemed quite likely that Holmes was correct, as he so often is, and we wound our way through the icy streets, passing carolers singing of animals that would speak in stables at midnight, groups of people giving each other the joy of the season, walls covered with colorful posters advertising dramatic presentations appropriate to the time of year.

  One of the latter caught Holmes’s attention, and he pointed it out to us. The title of the drama was The Wolf Shall Lie Down with the Lamb, which Holmes deemed a ridiculous idea, about as likely as the mountain coming to Mohammed.

  “But the drama does not deal with facts,” Wilde protested. “The title is an allegorical expression of something that is to be hoped for if not attained.”

  “And why hope for something unattainable?” Holmes asked.

  “Because is the nature of man to do so,” said Wilde. “And it is in the nature of the Christmas season.”

  Holmes gave him a thin smile. “Explain that to the man who is trying to kill you,” he said.

  The fairgrounds were dark and apparently deserted. Where once the stagecoach had rumbled and the bison ranged, where the vaqueros had roped, where the Indian village had stood, there was now nothing at all. Not even a trace remained. Nor was there a trace of Wilde’s supposed enemy or of anyone else. All was loneliness and desolation, covered with a blanket of dirty snow. The icy wind cut through my clothing, and my right hand clutched my revolver.

  Sherlock Holmes looked over the scene with chagrin. He rarely makes a mistake, although it has happened before, as even he will admit. It never pleases him, however.

  “It appears that I have followed a wrong path in my reasoning,” he said. “I was certain that we would find the man here.”

  Wilde, rather than showing distress, seemed lost in thought. Then he said, “Art. The answer lies in art rather than in facts!”

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “That placard we saw,” said Wilde. “About the lion and the lamb. Are you familiar with the scriptures?”

  I was far from an expert in such matters, and Holmes was equally at a loss. I told Wilde that I failed to see his point.

  “The title of the drama is from the book of Isaiah. I do not claim to be a biblical scholar by any means, but I do have some acquaintance with Holy Writ. I
cannot recall the passage perfectly, but it says something about the wolf dwelling with the lamb, the leopard lying down with the kid. And they shall be led by a little child.”

  “I can easily see how the sentiment relates to Christmas,” said I. “But not to the current difficulty.”

  Wilde was happy to elucidate. “The scripture goes on to say that the cow and the bear shall feed together, and the lion shall eat straw like the ox.”

  “Ah,” I exclaimed. “Bears again.”

  “More than bears,” said Holmes. “I congratulate you, Mr. Wilde. We know that your enemy has an inclination toward the theatrical and that he can appear to be a bear in his buffalo robe. And he needs work if he is not to earn his living by theft. We must see if we can attend some part of his performance.”

  “So,” said Wilde, “you admit to the uses of art.”

  “No,” returned Holmes. “However, I do admit that the scripture has broader applications than I had accorded it. But let us waste no more time. It is growing late.”

  We returned to the carriage and soon located another placard advertising the drama in which we were interested. The address of the theater placed it not so very far from Wilde’s own residence, as he informed us.

  “Then our suppositions are all the more likely to be correct,” said Holmes, and he urged the driver to make haste.

  The outside of the rather shabby theater was bedecked with wilting tinsel, and a scrap of paper blew down the nearly deserted street. We had arrived well into the performance, and as there was no one to sell us tickets or to take them from us, we walked straight into the building.

  The play had reached its climactic moment. The stage was covered with people representing animals of all kinds: oxen, lambs, panthers, lions, and bears. There were two of the latter, and as I was wondering how we were to determine which of them was the one we wanted, a diminutive actor began declaiming his lines.

  “‘For unto us a child is born,’” said he, quoting more lines from Isaiah, as Wilde later informed me. “‘Unto us a son is given: and the government shall be upon his shoulder: and his name shall be called Wonderful, Counselor, the Mighty God, the Everlasting Father, the Prince of Peace.’”

  I believe that the intention of the playwright at this point was to have the “little child” lead the peaceful animals in what Wilde might have called an “allegorical representation of peacefulness and harmony,” but this was prevented by Wilde’s pointing at one of the bears and exclaiming “That is the man!”

  Wilde had developed quite a sonorous voice for his appearances in the lecture hall. The play came to a standstill, and all eyes turned to the back of the auditorium.

  “There!” Wilde said, pointing to the more realistic of the bears, the one nearest the actor playing the child.

  At this exclamation the bear leapt up and stared in our direction. The costume, or robe, fell partially away, and I could see that its wearer was a short man with a face shaped like that of a weasel. From the expression in his dark, glittering eyes, it was plain that he recognized the one who had pointed him out.

  He threw off his robe and yelled, “You killed my friend, you limey poof!” Then he reached into his boot and pulled out an alarmingly large Bowie knife, quite a popular weapon in the wilds of America, or so I have been told. He waved it over his head and said, “I should have used this on you this morning,” in an atrocious accent.

  I drew my revolver from my pocket to stop him, but it was already too late. The audience had panicked and was storming toward the exits. To fire the revolver at the man would have been far too risky in the circumstances.

  I believe that his intention at that instant was to leap from the stage and charge Wilde, but he was prevented for a moment by the stampeding crowd. Then, just as he crouched to leap, the actor portraying the cow rose up, stepped behind him, and kicked him solidly in the kidney. He pitched forward and disappeared into the mob.

  It took us several minutes to work our way to the spot where he lay, still clutching his formidable knife by its handle. Unfortunately, the other end of the knife was embedded in his chest, no doubt as a result of his fall and the surge of the crowd.

  “‘The cow and the bear shall feed together,’” said Holmes.

  “Not no more,” said the cow, looking down at the dead man. “Smelled worse than a bleedin’ bear, the fella did. I thought he was a crazy one from the start.”

  “It was that robe of his that smelled, it was,” said the leopard, whose outfit only vaguely resembled the creature it was supposed to represent. “And he never looked like a bear, not really.”

  “He wasn’t a man of cleanly habits,” said Wilde. “Of that I am certain. What time it is, Dr. Watson?”

  I took out my watch and told him the time.

  “Ah, two hours from midnight,” said Wilde, looking at Holmes slyly. “And even now the animals are speaking.”

  “It is not yet Christmas eve,” Holmes pointed out. “They are more than a day early.”

  “The police will be here at any moment,” I reminded them, “summoned no doubt by some of the less panicked members of the audience.”

  “And we shall have an interesting story to tell them,” said Holmes.

  “Not the least of which will be how we came to find this place,” said Wilde. “You must confess that in art there is a truth that lies beyond the reach of fact.”

  “Do you refer to the scriptures?” asked Holmes. “If so, I believe that you are incorrect. The scriptures led us here, but only as a result of reason. As for allegory, I fear that the wolf and the lamb will never lie down together. In reality, the result would be something much like we see before us.”

  “I do not like to think that it will always be this way,” said Wilde. “Life should be about beauty and peace, and death should not be so ugly.”

  Holmes looked at him sharply. “I hope that your life is indeed filled with nothing but beauty and peace, but you must know that few lives are.”

  “Each of us is his own devil,” said Wilde. “If we choose to be.”

  “Then do not choose that way,” said Holmes.

  “I will not,” Wilde responded.

  I had the impression that he was going to say more, but at that moment the police arrived, and we had to spend the remainder of the evening explaining about men who looked like bears. And though we heard much of Wilde in latter days, we never encountered him again.

  The Adventure of the Venomous Lizard

  I am an old man now, but on days like today, at the dank late end of spring, when the chill rain has been falling steadily for days, I can still feel the ache of the Jezail bullet that wounded me at the Battle of Maiwand, so long ago that I am no longer sure where I was struck. Sometimes the ache is in my leg, and at other times in my shoulder, so that more than once I have wondered whether I was actually shot at all or whether my memory of the event is nothing more than a dream.

  But no, it was not a dream. I was there at Maiwand, and other places too, places that I helped make known to those who were so kind as to read my tales about my great friend, Sherlock Holmes. And so it is, on days like this, when going outside is a prospect with no appeal, yet staying inside has become increasingly hard to bear, that I find myself sitting quietly in a chair and going back over those recorded cases of Sherlock Holmes in which I myself played no small part. I do so both to assure myself of what once I did was indeed no dream, and in some minor way to relive those days and to experience again something of the thrill that I felt in times gone by.

  And sometimes, as I go through those yellowing manuscripts, I recall other adventures, as yet unrecorded, and I find myself smoothing a sheet of paper and reaching for pen and ink to set down the facts before they flee my mind forever. How I wish, at those times, that I had in my possession Holmes’s carefully indexed volume of cases, through which he would occasionally pore! Then I would have at my fingertips a veritable trove of information. But I find that I do not need it. As I write, those days come ba
ck to me with the clarity of a vision, and give me, if not a chance to relive my life in actual fact, a chance at least to remember what it was, in the days that Holmes and I embarked on the singular adventure of the venomous lizard.

  It was on a day very much like the present one. The winter seemed reluctant to release its hold on the land and hovered over the city for weeks past its allotted time, filling the air with the chill of fog and rain. The Jezail bullet discomfited me. The cobbles were slick with damp and glistened in the evening lamplight. Raindrops slid down the windows of 221B Baker Street as Sherlock Holmes stared gloomily out them and smoked his meerschaum pipe, the smoke curling up from the bowl and wreathing his head. There had been no one by our quarters, of late, who needed the services of the world’s only consulting detective, and Holmes was growing restive. I knew the signs.

  But he was momentarily startled out of his nonchalance. Pointing the stem of his pipe at the window, he said, “Come, Watson, and observe a desperate man.”

  I rose from the chair where I had been sitting and walked to the window. Outside in the thin rain, a man walked rapidly down the street in the direction of our dwelling.

  “How do you know that he is desperate, Holmes?” I asked.

  “Try your own powers, my dear Watson,” he replied. “It is a simple matter of observation. Note that I do not say seeing, for the difference between seeing and observing is as vast as the earth.”

  He had often harped on the same string, so I was prepared, though my feeble efforts at observation never came near to equaling his own.

  “For one thing,” said I, “he hunches forward and walks quickly. He is quite determined, and—look there!—he has slipped because of the careless placement of a foot. Clearly he is a man with something other than his own safety in mind.”

  “Very good, Watson,” said Holmes. “Everything you say is true. But you have missed the most telling detail. Sometimes it is the most obvious things that elude us.”