The Autobiography of Sherlock Holmes

by Sherlock Holmes

  17

  While I never wrote of my cases or career, I did, in 1925, complete the great work of my life: The Science of Deduction and Detection. The book is scheduled by the publisher to be introduced in mid-1930 to coincide with the celebration of the centenary of Scotland Yard. The work is in five volumes, each having three-hundred fifty pages. It was written over a period of eighteen years and is held as the authoritative treatment of the subject. The publisher is G. P. Putnam’s Sons of London. I am confident of the work standing on its own and, doubtless, it may eclipse my apparent wide celebrity owing to the many sensationalist stories of Watson.

  Other, specific works were completed and published throughout my career, and included:

  Upon the Distinction Between the Ashes of the Various Tobaccos;

  Upon the Polyphonic Motets of Lassus;

  Upon the Characteristics of Ears: Attachment and Structural Differences;

  Upon the Characteristics of Ears: Lobuli Auricularum;

  Upon the Subject of Secret Writings: An Analysis of One-Hundred-Sixty Ciphers;

  Upon the Dating of Documents;

  Upon Tattoos: Designs, Pigments and Methodologies;

  Upon the Tracing of Footsteps: Shod;

  Upon the Tracing of Footsteps: Unshod;

  Upon the Influence of Trade upon Deformities of the Hand;

  Upon Chaldean Roots of the Cornish Language;

  Upon the Decomposition of Human Tissues.

  All of the monographs except for that concerning Lassus were translated into French by François le Villard and subsequently published in a single-volume by Bernhardt Tauchnitz of Leipzig. The Tauchnitz edition had reasonable reception in India and the Orient, but oddly is rarely found in Britain or America.

  My most successful book—commercially—was Practical Handbook of Bee Culture which has sold well for its publisher, Hodder and Stoughton, Limited of London. By its containing many revolutionary observations and measurements never before recognized by even the most experienced apiasts, the book has altered forever the directions and practices of bee-keeping worldwide and has brought me, in consequence, handsome annual royalties. And, were it not for my celebrated book, the world would still be unaware of Royal Jelly and its beneficial properties, a discovery I am most proud of and pleased to have revealed.

  18

  I am grateful for the many recognitions of my talents that have come over the years. Even those of us who attempt self-effacement in deference to the official police investigators ask ourselves whether the world at large is aware of our small contributions to the betterment of society. I am reminded of a unique recognition that I was honoured to accept and that stands alone for its incorporation of my work with that of the greatest detectives of the world.

  I was called to Bruxelles in September of 1901 at the invitation of les Compagnons de la Branche d’Or, the highly esteemed society of Europe’s distinguished police detectives, to accept investiture as a Compagnon of this over one-hundred year old group of elites. La Branche d’Or members have, to their credit, solved the most difficult, most important cases in modern European history. Any of the twelve Compagnons are worthy of knighthood or equal honours for their superior service to their respective countries. In the annals of these twelve men, forty-nine plots of anarchy, treason and rebellion have been put down as a result of their nearmythic talents. It was truly a humbling experience to be invited to their ranks in recognition of my work in the case known as The Naval Treaty, which, had I not been successful, might have led to a prolonged, chaotic and, doubtless, bloody European instability.

  Of all the Compagnons over the years, only two have come from the milieu of the private detective, all others being of the official police. I was the first private consulting detective invited and, twenty-five years later, a second, formerly of Belgium, was invested and I extended my respect and welcome to him during the annual ceremonies of 1926, the last I have attended. After my twenty-eight years as a Compagnon, I retired my ceremonial chapeau this year, making room for a new and younger member to be inducted into this honourable group of men who have done so much to keep the fabric of civilized society intact.

  Other awards and recognitions have come from heads of state and monarchs of various countries where I made some small contribution. I have been presented with the badges of a number of Orders, Legions and Societies from across Europe, all gratefully accepted and added to the now sizeable collection in the tin biscuit box in my bedroom. While pleasant to contemplate, I must admit to a preference for more fungible rewards.

  In recent years, several public structures have been named for me. One I particularly appreciate is a marble fountain in Russell Square designated the Sherlock Holmes Fountain and erected by a loyal friend and chivalrous gentlemen in appreciation for my somewhat painful services in the Baron Adelbert Gruner business. I have often observed the birds refreshing themselves in this small corner fountain, surrounded by red rosebushes, with its tantalisingly unique carved decoration in the marble of a single ostrich feather supported with the Welsh motto, Eich Dyn, and thought to myself how much more appropriate it is than a garter or another badge with which I might have been honoured instead.

  Another small, but favourite, recognition can be found in the Hotel Russell, just a short walk from 47 Montague Street, across Russell Square. Several years after the hotel was built in 1898, beginning in 1903, I came to enjoy an afternoon platter of fresh oysters and a pint of bitter in the hotel’s Tempus Bar. For me, nothing quite fixes the digestion as two-dozen large oysters. It is now nearly twenty-six years later and I still take my almost daily afternoon stroll to the Tempus for my refreshment. The bar man, Stillwell, has been there since the hotel opened and is, in truth, one of my few regular acquaintances and confidants. He has caused to be affixed to my unchanging bar chair at the far end a brass plate engraved with ‘Reserved In Perpetuity for Sherlock Holmes.’ I find this to be, perhaps, the most gracious of all my recognitions.

  At least three days of each week, I am joined at the Tempus Bar by an old client, now in his seventy-seventh year and still plying his old trade. Each clement day he comes very early from his home in Kent to his place of business in the shelter of the side door of the British Museum where he sells a few small goods and accepts the generosity of passers-by. Known for his wit and kind humour freely dispensed, he makes a most handsome annual turnover in this simple way. At a quarter four each afternoon, he bags his ample takings and meets me at the Russell where we take our refreshment and discuss the news of the day. He then departs for home, happily anticipating the company of his understanding wife. Known to the public as Hugh Boone, Mr Neville St. Claire had been at the centre of one of my more unusual cases in 1889. After its conclusion, he had repented of his mendicant ways and joined his family accountancy firm. Quickly tiring of the dull routine of the counting house, he convinced his wife that he could do better financially and be far happier by returning to his old persona as Hugh Boone, the unfortunate beggar who brings laughter and gayety to the daily audience of passers-by who value his blithe spirit and cheerfully reward him with bags of silver coins.

  St. Clair’s two sons have been educated at Eton and Oxford and are highly successful; one in medicine and one in the law. Mrs St. Clair has, over the years, perfected the beauty of their country estate and often welcomes their four grandchildren for long, summer visits.

  St. Clair regularly stops by my rooms for a fast-paced game of chess, and over the intervening years we have exercised our brains together and became friends. He remains the most singularly unique individual of my knowledge, and he has been a fine husband, father and stimulating afternoon companion.

  As each year passes, I sense the looming reality of impermanence. For all of the powers I bring to my profession, ultimately they dissipate in time and memory and one day are forgotten entirely. The most one can hope for is a small plaque somewhere, a bit of eternal marble, or a few books in an obscure library archiving a few cases that revealed a
few brief moments of excellence; to hope for more is futile in a complex and crowded world.

  19

  For nearly a year my nemesis was Mrs Adele Turner. She was Mrs Hunter’s mother’s sister, a widow and an unfortunate woman who would break the patience of the dead. She joined the Arbuthnot household in 1888 as a cook, but her culinary ability was so poor that she was soon moved to the position as maid and Mrs Hunter took over the cook’s duties as well as her own as housekeeper. Having her aunt under her was difficult, but then everything about Mrs Turner was difficult. She had been married to the captain of a coastal schooner, sailing with him wherever his trade took him, and she was all Bristol shape and unbearable with her clean and neat shipboard ways.

  As a maid becalmed in Bloomsbury, Mrs Turner made it her chief duty to keep our rooms organised, tidy and spotless. My instructions went unheeded; Mr Arbuthnot had neither influence over nor even awareness of Mrs Turner. Her niece, who was purportedly in charge of the household, was wholly unable to direct her forty-three year old aunt in any regard. In short, my world was a shambles. Watson was in practice in Paddington and was not in residence during that annus horribilis.

  Each morning commenced with the airing of the rooms, the infernal ‘tricing up’ and the tidying of all surfaces. I detest fresh air in the morning; I detest tidying; only my mind is tidy; the rest of my surroundings must be functional for my purposes, requiring a certain degree of bestiality. My chemical experiments must mature, or ferment, or precipitate; they cannot be scrubbed and tidied about. My tobacco plugs and dottles are meant to dry on the mantelpiece, not to be swept into the dust bin with a ‘cluck-cluck’ sound of the tongue. My commonplace books and newspapers are kept in an order known only to me and at hand on the floor at the side of my chair; they are not to be stacked neatly or arranged properly on a shelf in another room. My correspondence is kept in my ordained order on the mantel by penetration with a knife; it is not alphabetised and pigeon-holed by date in the secretary. My linens, my collars, my shirts, my bed-clothes are all of my personal domain and are not to be ‘freshened’ or ‘done-up’ or any other such bothersome interference; I want no one to ‘do’ for me. And, a gentleman’s rooms require a proper patina of living; the constant smell of carbolic soap is anathema and reminds one of why Turkish baths can only be tolerated once a fortnight.

  During that year, I instructed Wiggins to bring the entire corps of Irregulars to my rooms three times a week, preferably with meat pies for which I gratefully passed out shillings to buy in order to vanquish the enforced sterility and barrenness of freshly-washed woodwork.

  The final insult came during a case involving Carlos Estoya Esteban, the Spanish mortician, in which it was necessary for me to dissect dozens of Thames eels to look for evidence of the disposal over time of a number of dead bodies in the tidal flats above The Pool. Mrs Turner, in her daily fit of indignation, did away with essential digestive evidence that would have put Esteban in prison for life. From that moment, I resolved to loose myself from the clutches of this bothersome drudge of the high seas.

  In 1887, I had encountered Mordecai Smith during the Sholto affair and had felt a degree of compassion for the small-time bargeman and his family of unfortunates. When Jonathon Small was captured and Smith and his son were taken into custody, I quietly arranged with Athelney Jones for leniency as regarded Smith. The master of the Aurora was in my debt and I made a call upon him at his wharf to collect my principal and interest.

  Within three days a handsome ship’s captain nearing fifty years of age, located, arranged for and contracted by Smith and financed by me, called at Montague Street, inquiring for Mrs Adele Turner. He said he had known her husband and was aware of her years of service sailing with him to ports as far away as the Mediterranean. He offered her a berth on his cutter bound for the East as ship’s cook and purser with her own quarters at a tenth share of the profits, a sum that was worth over three-hundred a year, an all but unheard of offer in the sailing trade. With her shipboard ways, her desire to return to the life she had loved, and the added potential of a handsome and unmarried captain to work under, Mrs Turner took herself and her box off to the docks within two days.

  Life at 47 Montague Street returned to normal: Mrs Hunter regained her pleasant smile; Mr Arbuthnot had no idea what had occurred; and I was again in control of my world, my environment and my life.

  Mrs Turner left London on a long trading voyage to the Japans early in the spring aboard the cutter Alicia. One can only assume she found her proper place, at sea beyond the mist.

  20

  Mercer. Watson mentioned him only once in the writing and he is nowhere to be found in Watson’s extensive notes. The reason for this thin treatment is that Watson and Mercer did not get along.

  Watson dismisses Mercer’s earlier presence in my cases by having me state, ‘Mercer is since your time,’ which was not entirely correct. Watson was attempting to make his own valued association more keenly felt by me and, therefore, he sought to lessen the importance of any other member of my corps of agents. To be entirely fair to Watson, he was of great assistance to me in most of my cases, but he was not my only assistant.

  My early association with William Mercer came about in 1873 while I was at university. A fellow student, Victor Trevor, invited me to his family home at Donnithorpe, in Norfolk, where his father, the local J. P., lived alone. In consequence of a few of my observational inferences regarding his father, the visit became the first case in which I was ever engaged.

  In the narrative recounting the events at sea in 1855 written by Trevor senior—who was in reality one James Armitage—he tells the bloody history of the Gloria Scott and of the escape of five convicts and three sailors when Jack Prendergast, a transported convict who had taken over the vessel and murdered most of the crew and guards, relented and allowed the eight to take a boat and leave the ship at Lat. 15° and Long 25° west. The narrative accounts for Prendergast’s killing of the captain, the third mate, the doctor, the warders, and all others loyal to the ship. It does not, however, account for the second mate, but it does state that three sailors escaped in the boat. One of the three was, in fact, the second mate who, as Prendergast’s acknowledged right-hand man, had repudiated Pendergast’s mass killing and had, at great danger of being murdered himself as a traitor, convinced Prendergast to spare their lives and set them adrift.

  The second mate was rescued along with the others, as well as the seaman Hudson who survived the explosion that took the Gloria Scott to the bottom, by the brig Hotspur, and James Armitage—who owed the third mate his life for standing up to Prendergast and securing their freedom—befriended the sailor and, along with Evans, ultimately made their way to the Australian gold fields, where all three disappeared, changed their names, became wealthy and years later returned to England as rich colonials and bought country estates. Trevor senior’s real name was, as we know, James Armitage; Beddoes real name was Evans; and the third mate, who changed his name to William Mercer, was really Walter Mereer. His second mate’s papers were in the name of W. Mereer and, because of the way the second ‘e’ had been hand-engrossed, it was quite easily altered to a ‘c’ and his identity changed.

  Mereer, now Mercer, came to Donnithorpe with Trevor senior and, being wealthy in his own right, purchased a comfortable house on property between Trevor senior’s estate and that of a neighbour, Sir Edward Holly, where he pursued an interest and trade in Ancient English Manorial Deeds.

  When the truth of the case emerged, he approached me and revealed all that his old friend Trevor senior had left unstated in his narrative. When I was convinced of his having committed no act of murder aboard the Gloria Scott and his intercession resulting in the saving of seven lives, I agreed to leave any conclusions to the official police who were unaware of either Mereer or Mercer and were only peripherally interested in the closure of the cases of the missing Beddoes and Hudson.

  In appreciation and owing to a desire to leave the past behind, Mercer
turned his singular talents for research and routine investigation from ancient deeds to the far more interesting investigations of Sherlock Holmes. He moved to London and took rooms in Baker Street where he devoted at least two days a week to my requirements for data, research, confidential investigation, and anonymous errands and arrangements. He was a valuable and able assistant and was in my employ as Agent from 1874 to 1910 when, at the ripe age of eighty, he passed away. Watson did not accompany me to his funeral.

  21

  Sufficient time has passed for me to now reveal the fact that Charles Augustus Milverton was not Charles Augustus Milverton. In 1889, the man who would be Milverton had earlier adopted that name upon his return to England after ten years of collecting the intimate and indiscreet secrets of European and British nobility and those of the wealthiest members of society to use as a perpetual source of foul income from blackmail. I considered him to be the worst man in London, not only for his crimes but for the utter blackness of his heart.