For the Sake of the Game
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FOR THE SAKE
OF THE GAME
STORIES INSPIRED BY THE SHERLOCK HOLMES CANON
EDITED BY LAURIE R. KING
AND LESLIE S. KLINGER
PEGASUS CRIME
NEW YORK LONDON
To Sir Arthur Conan Doyle: Steel true, blade straight.
CONTENTS
INTRODUCTION
by Laurie R. King and Leslie S. Klinger
DR. WATSON’S SONG
by Peter S. Beagle
THE ADVENTURE OF THE ABU QIR SAPPHIRE
by F. Paul Wilson
THE WALK-IN
by Harley Jane Kozak
THE CASE OF THE MISSING CASE
by Alan Gordon
SHERLOCKED
by Rhys Bowen
A STUDY IN ABSENCE
by Reed Farrel Coleman
THE ADVENTURE OF THE SIX SHERLOCKS
by Toni L. P. Kelner
THE CASE OF THE NAKED BUTTERFLY
by William Kotzwinkle and Joe Servello
BOTTOM LINE
by D. P. Lyle
BUY A BULLET
by Gregg Hurwitz
THE GIRL IN THE KEY OF C
by Weston Ochse
THE GHOST OF THE LAKE
by Jamie Freveletti
TOUGH GUY BALLET
by Duane Swierczynski
HOUNDED
by Zoë Sharp
ABOUT THE CONTRIBUTORS
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
INTRODUCTION
by Laurie R. King and Leslie S. Klinger
In “Adventure of the Bruce-Partington Plans,” Sherlock Holmes declares himself without interest in honors or recognition for his work. Instead, he tells his brother Mycroft, “I play the game for the game’s own sake.” In part, this is his declaration of independence from the normal rewards of a working man, a clear message that he is above such forms of bribery. It is also his way of pointing out that his position is so rarified, he could not expect his performance to be judged and measured in relation to others—or even by others. (Although in point of fact, he does accept an emerald tie-pin from a Certain Gracious Lady.)
Considering what is at stake in the story, far beyond the scope of everyday London crime, a reader might well marvel at Holmes’s detached attitude. The case Mycroft has brought his brother is not some abstract puzzle or piece of intellectual fancy. Rather, he asks for Sherlock’s help in the matter of a man’s uncanny death and the theft of government documents—documents so vital that they could change the very nature of war, and cost millions of lives. Yet neither the tragic fate of young Cadogan West, nor the bereavement of his fiancée, nor even the fears of the government itself seem to have any effect on Holmes. Instead, he is drawn in because of the “points of interest” in Mycroft’s presentation; he is eager only as a foxhound might be; he even goes so far as to exhibit “hilarity” (Watson’s word) as he is closing in on the criminal. The potential use of top-secret submarine plans by a foreign power seems to faze him less than the problem of railway points, and the chief interest in the investigation seems to be the relief it offers from the boredom produced by London’s everyday criminals.
The story’s rather cold-blooded portrait of Sherlock Holmes is fortunately uncommon in the Conan Doyle canon. In other tales, we can take comfort in his compassion for a victim, or share his anger with a villain, or echo his outrage for the falsely accused. Seeing Sherlock Holmes as essentially human, rather than a Victorian thinking machine, is at the core of the Sherlockian “Game,” allowing us to believe that Sherlock Holmes really lived and that Dr. Watson’s tales are true. We accept that they were real men, thus making us students of history rather than of clever fictions.
The Grand Game of learned essays treating the Holmes canon as biography, rather than invention (not to be confused with the Great Game, as in Kipling’s Asian border struggles) has a long tradition. The first appeared in 1901 (see The Grand Game: A Celebration of Sherlockian Scholarship, two volumes edited by Klinger and King). The tradition is alive and well today in the Baker Street Journal and countless other venues for the study of Holmes, Watson, Doyle, and the Victorian age. Thankfully, the Grand Game has spilled over into the work of later writers, who extended the Doyle canon with further tales of the Great Detective, the Good Doctor, and the other figures from their lives. Others have imported Holmes into their own worlds, either literally or by showing the influence of his life and work on the lives and adventures of their protagonists. It is axiomatic that no writer of mysteries in the twenty-first century is uninfluenced by the stories of Arthur Conan Doyle; hence, this collection.
For the Sake of the Game—our fourth of its ilk—brings together a brilliant assemblage of writers from many genres and branches of literature. Thriller writers, traditional mystery authors, “cozy” writers, authors of horror and supernatural literature, creators of hard-boiled detectives and mercenaries, and even fantasists have come together here to play The Game. As with Holmes himself, these brilliant writers did not respond to our invitation for reasons of profit or fame—although they might perhaps accept an emerald stick-pin as supplement to their royalties. Rather, we’d like to believe that they are gathered here for the sake of the game.
And now, as we set off into the lands of foggy London and muggy night-time LA, following in the footsteps of rookie police officers, professional assassins, and insect protagonists, the time has come to speak the words:
The game is afoot!
DR. WATSON’S SONG
by Peter S. Beagle
Raised as I was on Arthur Conan Doyle’s tales of Sherlock Holmes, which in my turn I read aloud to my children (my daughter Kalisa became so involved in the stories that she began having Sherlock Holmes dreams), my real soft spot has always been for Dr. Watson. Between his incarnations by Robert Duvall, Jude Law and James Mason, the Nigel Bruce cartoon of Watson as a cheerful but utterly useless boob has been pretty well put to rest. Doyle was casual about his details—he couldn’t always remember how many wives Watson had had, and he kept moving that jezail bullet wound from the Second Afghan War up and down the poor man’s body—but he did make it clear that Watson was neither a fool nor unperceptive. Holmes was certainly his hero, but that didn’t make Watson an unqualified hero-worshiper. I’ve always believed that he quite often felt completely exasperated with the great detective—and just as often understood, as no other could have done, the cost of being Sherlock Holmes.
DR. WATSON’S SONG
“I never get your measure, Watson . . .”
“You see, but you do not observe, Watson . . .”
“You know my methods, Watson—apply them . . .”
“The fair sex is your department, Watson . . .”
“The game’s afoot, Watson!”
“Elementary, my dear Watson . . .”
“Elementary . . . elementary . . .”
I know he’s a ruddy genius,
I know he’s a mastermind,
I know it’s an honor to be his pawn,
his chronicler, his sidekick,
his comrade, his companion,
whenever he bothers to tell me what on earth is going on.
Keeps playing that ruddy fiddle,
keeps shooting holes in the wall,
knows where I’ve been and what I’ve done with whom.
Drives Mrs. Hudson crazy,
broods about Irene Adler,
and goes on about Moriarty till the ruddy crack of doom.
“I never get your measure, Watson . . .”
“You see, but you do not observe, Watson . . .”
“You know my methods, Watson—apply them . . .”
“The fair sex is your department, Watson . . .”
“The game’s afoot, Watson!”
“Elementary, my dear Watson . . .”
“Elementary . . . elementary . . .”
Stinks the place up with chemicals,
shoots himself up with cocaine.
turns his bedroom into a ruddy lab.
He tells me what I’m thinking,
lectures me about Wagner,
wakes me up in the middle of the night to catch a hansom cab.
“I never get your measure, Watson . . .”
“You see, but you do not observe, Watson . . .”
“You know my methods, Watson—apply them . . .”
“The fair sex is your department, Watson . . .”
“The game’s afoot, Watson!”
“Elementary, my dear Watson . . .”
“Elementary . . . elementary . . .”
I know he needs me to show off for,
I know he needs to amaze.
He needs “By Jove, Holmes!”—he needs glory,
he needs me to write the story,
and good lord, does he need praise!
I even think he rather loves me,
though the words will never come—
but sometimes the legend’s a bit of a pain
in my weary old British bum.
And for all the gifts and wonders,
sometimes I’m sorry for him.
the best and wisest man I’ve ever known.
There’s no one does what he does,
nobody he can talk to—
He’s Sherlock Holmes,
he’s the master,
he’s Sherlock Holmes,
and he’s all alone.
THE ADVENTURE OF THE ABU QIR SAPPHIRE
by F. Paul Wilson
AN UNWELCOME VISITOR
It has been five years since I last put pen to paper for the purpose of recording one of my cases. Apparently, even after nearly a decade in retirement, my reputation persists in London. Since Watson is unavailable, I shall once more assume the task of my own biographer, as I did in regard to the affair of the lion’s mane.
For someone who needed cocaine to survive the ennui that dragged him down during the interstices between cases, it still surprises me how much I’ve grown to love the quiet country life. And as I approach my sixtieth birthday—I find it difficult to believe it’s but two years away—I confess to having become somewhat set in my ways. Creeping ossification, one might say. As a result, I tend to loathe anything that interrupts my quotidian routine.
Considering my circumstances, how could it be any other way? I have my villa, enviably positioned on the South Downs of Sussex with its magnificent view of the Channel and the chalk hills that tower over the shore. I have my old housekeeper to tend to my needs as I in turn tend to the needs of my bees.
So you will understand, then, why I was somewhat less than gracious when young Arran Davies arrived unannounced, seeking my assistance.
A sunny Friday in July—the 19th, to be exact. My housekeeper was shopping in Fulworth to replenish our larder and I was in the rear orchard tending my hives, when a car skidded to a halt before my villa. Through the mesh of my netted hat I saw a young man emerge from an open Benz roadster.
“Mister Holmes?” he cried, waving. “Mister Sherlock Holmes?”
He carried an air of desperation that told me he wanted to engage my services. Immediately I began moving towards the back door of the villa.
“Mister Holmes!” he repeated, hurrying around the side. “I need your help!”
I yanked off my bee hat. “I am retired and you are uninvited. Leave immediately.”
“I have driven all the way from London to seek the use of your investigative skills.”
I was halfway to the door. “There’s not that much daylight left and you’ve got seventy miles to retrace. You should start back immediately.”
“I wish to hire you. I’ll pay any fee you ask.”
Ten feet to go. “Have you not been listening? I am retired.”
“My reputation is in ruins. I’m being accused of stealing the Abu Qir Sapphire from the Egypt Exploration Society.”
My hand grasped the doorknob. “If you are innocent, you will find the police quite capable of catching the real thief.”
“But she appears to know you. She mentioned your name.”
Neither knowing nor caring who “she” was, I pulled the door open and stepped through. “For obvious reasons, my name is often mentioned in criminal circles.”
“She said she visited your old lodgings on Baker Street in the hope of renewing an acquaintance, but you had moved on.”
I thought that odd, but wasn’t about to let myself be drawn in. Retired. That was my current state of being. Twenty-three years in the consulting detective business had been quite enough.
“Good day, sir,” I said and slammed the door in his face.
At the last moment I thought I heard him say, “She calls herself Madame de Medici.”
I opened the door.
“What did you say?”
“De Medici. She goes by the name Madame de Medici.”
Here was a name I had never expected to hear again.
“Really.”
“You know her then?”
“I doubt anyone truly knows that woman. But are we talking about the same Medici?” I found the ease with which I recalled her face a bit disconcerting. “Amber eyes?”
“Yes–yes! Astonishing eyes.”
“Then indeed, I did know her, but a long time ago.”
He rubbed a hand over his face. “So she’s real. I’d begun to think Medici wasn’t her real name.”
“I’m quite sure it’s not. I suspect no one but the Madame knows her real name.”
Madame de Medici . . . I hadn’t heard that name since—when was it? Before Watson and I joined forces . . . two years at least. That would be 1879. One of the most remarkable women I’ve ever met, eclipsed only by the redoubtable Irene Adler.
He looked puzzled. “You say you knew her ‘a long time ago.’ How long?”
“Quite long. Thirty-three years, to be exact.”
“Well, then, she cannot be the same. The woman I am speaking of is herself only in her mid-thirties at most.”
“Perhaps her daughter, then.”
Madame de Medici as a mother? It didn’t ring true, but the woman herself would be somewhere in her seventh decade now.
“You seem to have doubts, Mister Holmes.”
“The same name, the same amber eyes. With such limited information at hand, I don’t see much choice but to conclude she’s the daughter.”
His gaze unfocused. “Hair black as night, eyes the color of the fresh honey in your hives . . .”
“You seem smitten, sir.”
He shook himself. “Was. Was smitten, Mister Holmes. I confess that. She worked her feminine wiles on me, but that’s over now. I want her brought to justice—punished for theft and for destroying my reputation.”
My instincts told me to close the door again, but I was intrigued now. Perhaps hooked was a better word. That name again, after all these years.
“All right, all right. Come in.”
His face lit. “You’ll help me then?”
Quite unlikely, but I wanted to hear his story
“I make no promises. Tell me your tale and we’ll see.”
MISDIRECTION AND LEGERDEMAIN
Mister Arran Davies described himself as an Egyptologist with a B.A. and B.Sc., a member of numerous learned societies, and scion of one of England’s oldest families—in that order.
Anyone reading Watson’s accounts of our outings—sensationalized, to be sure—would know that I have never been impressed by titles, and retirement has not given me cause to revise that attitude.
“Do not waste my time with your lineage and academic achievements. Tell me your story, and do not skip any details.”
We were seated in the front room. I’d desired a whisky so I poured us each one from a bottle of
Strathisla given to me years ago.
“Well, then, I suppose I should start with the stone.”
I pulled out the Persian slipper and started filling the bowl of my pipe. “This Abu Qir Sapphire you mentioned.”
“Yes. I came upon it quite by accident—serendipity in its purest form. I had a day off while researching an excavation in Alexandria, so I decided to take short jaunt up the coast to Abu Qir Bay. I wanted a swim, and where better than in the very waters where Nelson defeated Napoleon’s convoy and established the Royal Navy as the preeminent naval power in the Mediterranean? Also, I had developed a fondness for the mussels Al Iskandariya dish my housekeeper made when she could find fresh mussels, and I was determined to supply her with the very freshest possible.
“The tide was out and in no time I found a large cluster attached to a shallow rock. As I worked to pull them free I spotted this grimy rectangular stone in the heart of the cluster. I would not have given it a second thought but for its perfectly symmetrical shape. As I worked it free of the mussels’ beards, my fingers detected step-cut facets along the upper and lower surfaces. I knew immediately this was more than a random tidal stone.
“I carried it home and, after much careful toil, managed to remove but a fraction of what appeared to be centuries of grime, opening a window onto some sort of blue gemstone. I am naïve in the matter of jewels, so I took it to an Alexandria jeweler who knew just what to do: He immersed it in a series of solutions that dissolved the grime, revealing a vivid blue stone with odd characters engraved along the largest of its facets. He identified it as a sapphire and appraised it as ‘perfect’—ninety-seven karats with no inclusions.”
“Your lucky day,” I said, lighting the pipe and inhaling.
“So it seemed at the time. When I asked him what he would pay for such a gem, he said he wouldn’t take it even as a gift. He said he’d seen two other jewels with similar inscriptions over the years and no good would come of owning it. He did not know the language, did not know what the inscription meant, but he kept saying ‘Put it back. No good will come from it.’”