by David Marcum
I drank some water while picturing the paradisiacal scene. But too much time had already elapsed without my having asked the inevitable question: “What in the world does any of this have to do with Sherlock Holmes?”
Again Fitzgerald brushed at his hair. “I need some technical help with the plot, you see. As of now, it contains at least two murders and a suicide.”
“And how, may I ask, could a work of fiction possibly involve Sherlock Holmes?”
“I was hoping he might advise me. You see, I’ve re-worked much of the plot. Since the recent failure of a play I wrote, I’ve been worrying a lot about Trimalchio. Originally, I’d intended to deal with the impact of the Catholic Church back in the eighties on the life of a little boy. I was raised Catholic. That’s probably why the effects of sin and guilt on one’s early life intrigue me.
“But lately I’ve been looking for a new angle. I want to say more about the evil schemes such sins produce in adults - you know, crimes and such. It’s funny. I’ve always liked Chesterton’s Father Brown mysteries. Maybe that’s why. You know, back in my youth, I wrote a murder-mystery myself. I guess I’ve been fascinated by curious deaths from the start, and that’s what led me to writing about real-life murders.”
“Real-life murders?” I echoed.
Fitzgerald nodded. “As it so happened, Zelda and I moved from St. Paul to New York in 1922 - just when news of two horrific killings in New Jersey were appearing in the local newspapers.
“Mind you, I’m not in the business of writing crime stories, but to establish my Trimalchio as a product of that era, I decided to include references to actual events - the fixing of our baseball World Series, for instance, and I offer indirect allusions to Presidential chicanery and how people skirt our anti-drinking laws.” Here, with a decided twinkle in his eyes, he held up his glass again.
“And?”
“And for the accuracy of the historical record, I want part of the plot to be propelled by that real-life - and as yet unsolved - pair of hard-boiled murders in New Jersey. I’ve kept some newspaper clippings about them in my scrapbook.”[1]
“I’m beginning to understand what you’re after,” said I - though what Holmes might have to do with a two-year-old murder in America, I could only guess. Affairs of a literary nature were not the sort of issue with which to bother my friend.
“You see, Doctor, I’ve reached a kind of impasse. I’m dissatisfied with Trimalchio’s sixth and seventh chapters, the ones that establish the motives for the murders. I’m worried that some of it is too raw. That’s why I want Sherlock Holmes to tell me more about the realities of the case - mainly, what he knows about the people involved. I want to avoid having to fall back upon the usual trashy imaginings I’ve based much of my other work on.”
“Look here, Mr. Fitzgerald - ” said I.
“Fitz,” he reminded me with a winsome smile. Then quickly downing the rest of his rickey, he raised the empty glass.
“May I?” he asked.
I nodded once more in the direction of the tantalus.
“Sherlock Holmes is retired. He is no longer fighting crime. And though he may have read something of this case you have in mind - ”
“The Hall-Mills murders,” Fitzgerald said over his shoulder while pouring more gin.
I cupped my hand behind an ear and asked him to repeat the words so I could be certain I had heard them correctly.
“Means nothing to me,” I murmured after he had done so. “And I would be very surprised indeed if they mean anything more to Holmes - other than what he may have read about them in the newspapers. Besides, he and I have been out of touch.”
Fitzgerald’s response surprised me. “I’d say you’ve been out of touch! I realize that it hasn’t been reported, but you don’t seem to know that Sherlock Holmes himself went to New Jersey back in December of ’22 to investigate the very same murders we’re talking about.
Holmes in America? Two years before and not a word to me? (At least, I could not remember that he had informed me of such a trip.)
“How is it, Mr. Fitzgerald,” I asked with not a little envy, “that you have come to know of Holmes’s involvement?”
The American took another pull of his gin. “Actually, I inferred as much from the comments of Sir Basil Thomson in The New York Times.”
I had met Sir Basil on some occasion or another. A former head of the CID here in London, he kept a sharp eye out for Holmes - both to learn and to criticise. He was the type of rigorous investigator that many an objective observer of Scotland Yard has called the embodiment of Holmes himself.
“You see,” Fitzgerald explained, “like Holmes, Thomas was also asked to evaluate the police proceedings in New Brunswick. He was in New York not long after Holmes’s investigation. You can look it up. Sir Basil never offered any specific solutions to the murders, but he had plenty to say about Sherlock Holmes. He rambled on and on about how the best police work involves a team - not soloists. It is organizations, he maintained, that solve actual mysteries - not solitary detectives like Sherlock Holmes. Why, he even joked that if he himself had to rely on the same methods as those employed by Holmes, then he, Sir Basil Thomson, might very well lock up the Archbishop of Canterbury by mistake.”
I had to smile. It was just the sort of comment one would expect from a Yarder.
“I tell you, Doctor, you could just smell the rivalry. The more Thomson devalued Holmes, the more convinced I became that Holmes must actually have investigated the affair. You just knew it! Once I incorporated the murders into my novel, I figured a private eye like Sherlock Holmes would be just the fellow to fill me in on the details. After my contacts at The Times confirmed that Holmes had, in fact, been to New Jersey to study the case, I knew I had to talk with him.
I drank more water.
“Max Perkins, my editor at Scribner’s, contacted Conan Doyle to find out where you live and gave me the details. I left Zelda and Scottie at Villa Marie so I could pop over to London for a couple of days to see you. What better way to get a hold of Sherlock Holmes than by having his noted Boswell make the connection?”
I blushed at the compliment. Still, I had to repeat that, thanks to my failing health, Holmes and I hadn’t communicated since his trip to New Jersey.
“Look, Doctor,” Fitzgerald said, waving his glass to emphasise his point, “all I ask is that you give him a call.”
“He has no phone.”
“Send him a wire then, saying I’d like to see him, and arrange a visit. I’m staying at the Langham. We could meet for dinner there.”
“The Langham?”
“I know, I know. I said we were trying to avoid spending too much, but you can’t deny that there’s always a high cost to economizing. Tell Mr. Holmes that to get his view of the case, I’d travel anywhere that would be convenient for him. I mean - it’s obvious that he still gets around. It wasn’t that long ago that he was in the States.”
F. Scott Fitzgerald offered a persuasive argument. Obviously, Holmes did indeed “get around” - with or without my knowledge. I must admit that his failure to notify me of his trip continued to sting. After all, was I not - as Fitzgerald had pointed out - Holmes’s faithful Boswell? As such, should I not have been given an opportunity to record Holmes’s investigation into these infamous murders?
Why not take advantage of Fitzgerald’s interest in the crimes? I thought to myself. Fitzgerald said the murders were unsolved, and yet Holmes was not the sort to leave such matters up in the air. Why not use Fitzgerald’s request as an excuse to hear about the murders from Holmes himself? Perhaps I might even discover an opportunity to add one final sketch to The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes.
Truth be told, writer that I am, I also felt sympathetic towards Fitzgerald’s literary plight. After all, I have had the good fortune to have actually been to most all of the location
s I have recreated in my accounts, locations like Baskerville Hall, Stoke Moran, the Copper Beeches. At the very least, it seemed to me that Fitzgerald deserved to hear the perspective of one who had studied these murders first-hand. And yet at the same time, I also found it difficult to imagine Sherlock Holmes’s conversing with so flamboyant a figure as F. Scott Fitzgerald about so trivial a matter as a book of fiction.
My guest mustered a winsome, almost seductive, grin. “Give it a try, Doctor. That’s all I ask. Contact Sherlock Holmes. Let me pick his brain.”
The young man was quite persuasive. In addition, I could not deny my own desire to see Holmes again. Besides, at the very least, I would be familiarising myself with a two-year-old mystery that - at least as far as I knew at the time - seemed to still want untangling. I knew nothing about this Hall-Mills murder case, but the act of examining any unsolved crime has always fired my imagination.
“All right,” I told Fitzgerald. “I’ll give it a go.”
With an appreciative smile he held up his now-empty glass in a form of salutation.
Upon seeing Holmes and me approach the table, the American rose to greet us.
“Mr. Fitzgerald,” said I by way of introduction, “may I present to you Mr. Sherlock Holmes.”
The American surprised me by bending at the waist in an almost formal bow. Only after he straightened up, did the young man speak. “Thanks for meeting me on such quick notice, Mr. Holmes,” said he.
With a wave of his hand, my friend brushed away the appreciative words. “I’ve worked with writers before, Mr. Fitzgerald,” he offered as we settled into our seats, “though never, I confess, in so appropriate a setting.”
“How so?”
“Why, this is the very room in which Oscar Wilde and Watson’s agent, Arthur Conan Doyle, had their famous dinner in August of ’89.”
“1889?” Fitzgerald marvelled. “Why, I hadn’t even been born yet.”
“Who was the host, Watson? Another American if I remember rightly.”
“To be sure. They met with Joseph Stoddart, the managing editor of an American periodical - Lippincott’s, I believe. Conan Doyle called the affair a ‘golden evening’.”
“As well he might,” observed Holmes to Fitzgerald. “Prompted by that dinner party, Wilde composed The Picture of Dorian Gray, and the persuasive Conan Doyle was able to coax a lengthy narrative out of friend Watson here. Which case was it, old fellow?”
“The Sign of the Four.”
“Quite so,” said Holmes. “Who can forget the perilous chase up the Thames on the trail of Jonathan Small and the Andaman Islander with the poisonous darts?”
Who can forget indeed? I thought. But my mind focused on different memories of the case, for it was during that same investigation all those years ago that I met Mary Morstan, the beautiful young woman who was destined to be my bride. Following her death, I thought I could never marry again. Fortunately I was wrong.
Fitzgerald broke up my reverie. “As Dr. Watson may have informed you, Mr. Holmes, it’s of a more recent case I wish to speak - the Hall-Mills murders.” Suddenly, Fitzgerald snapped his fingers, and a waiter immediately approached our table. “But first, we must fortify ourselves.”
Holmes and I leaned back in our chairs.
“Drinks, gentlemen,” commanded the writer. “It’s all on me - or on my publisher at any rate. ‘Get the damned book finished!’ I’ve been told in no uncertain terms. Perkins assures me that Scribner’s regards any money they advance me as a good investment.”
Holmes and I each ordered a sherry; Fitzgerald, another gin rickey.
“I’ve got to tell you, Mr. Holmes,” said Fitzgerald after the drinks were delivered, “that I was most pleased you agreed to meet with me. You have quite the reputation among the press for shunning interviews with writers.”
Holmes raised his long forefinger. “Don’t press your luck, Mr. Fitzgerald. Let it not be thought that I am here to promote your literary career. I have reason enough to keep these murders in the public eye.”
Recalling the apple pips Holmes had just shown me, I understood his desire to get to the bottom of the matter.
“I regard neither murder nor its investigation as a subject of frivolity,” Holmes stated. “Watson here can tell you how often I used to remonstrate with him. He was constantly romanticising our enquiries - pandering to public tastes - when he should have been presenting our cases as austere models for criminal study. But in New Jersey, you see, my confidential findings were dismissed so quietly that I’m hoping that your novel, Mr. Fitzgerald, might gain them further exposure.
“Call me ‘Fitz’,” said the writer, hoisting his glass with a wink of an eye.
Sherlock Holmes ignored the invitation.
“What I am truly hoping, Mr. Fitzgerald,” said he, “is that your book might trigger a new investigation and reveal not only what happened to the minister and the choir singer, but also some other activities of a criminal nature possibly committed by the killers.”
I shook my head. “I’m afraid I’m in the dark. What minister? What choir singer? For that matter, Holmes, I had no idea that you had actually gone to America over this affair until Fitzgerald here informed me of the fact. You might at least have told me of your plans. I’m a bit hurt.”
“You’re quite right, of course, old fellow,” said Holmes. “I’m sorry about that.” He sampled his sherry - no doubt to avoid the discomfort of offering an apology. “Neither one of us is getting any younger, old fellow, and Conan Doyle has told me how occupied you’ve been compiling your stories. Why, I had no idea if my own antiquated skills would be helpful in the New Jersey investigations.”
Fitzgerald held his glass up to Holmes as if to toast him. “You underestimate yourself, Mr. Holmes.”
“So what happened?” I asked, my hurt feelings quickly replaced by curiosity.
“I too am most interested in hearing your view of things,” said Fitzgerald, “but hedonist that I am, I insist that we order our meals before you begin.”
Snapping his fingers once more, the American summoned the waiter. I looked at Holmes who rolled his eyes. Still, the table d’hôte menu sounded appealing, and I ordered the rack of lamb, Holmes, the coq au vin, and Fitzgerald, the roast beef.
No sooner did the waiter depart than Fitzgerald produced from inside a jacket pocket a small notebook and gold pencil.
“It’s vitally important for writers to take notes about all sorts of things,” said he. “Especially when those things have a direct relationship to their current work.”
For his part, Sherlock Holmes took a moment to study the remaining sherry in his glass, sipped a bit, and then began his narrative.
II
“From the start,” said Holmes, “I followed the Hall-Mills case in the daily newspapers. It was not without its curiosities. Conan Doyle himself was mentioned by Charlotte Mills, the sixteen-year-old daughter of the murdered woman - ”
“The one the papers call a ‘flapper’” interrupted Fitzgerald. “She caught my interest.”
“Quite so,” said Holmes curtly. Never pleased at being cut off in mid-sentence, he began again. “It seems the girl had been reading The New Revelation, Sir Arthur’s book on spiritualism, and hoped to ask her deceased mother who was responsible for the crimes. Needless to say, such a strategy never materialised - if you can forgive the pun.”
Fitzgerald offered a polite smile.
“But to the case itself: In early December of 1922, I was invited by Mr. Wilbur Mott, the New Jersey state prosecutor, to come to America. He sought my opinion of a mystery that had occurred some two months before. It seems that a pair of grisly murders had been committed just outside of New Brunswick, a quiet town situated on the banks of the Raritan River. As one can imagine, in so idyllic a setting the occurrence of such heinous crimes was rare
- but then, sad to say, so were the authorities’ preparations for investigating them.
“Confusion reigned from the start. In fact, it took the state about a month to discover that jurisdictional issues were severely hampering the investigation. The bodies were found in Somerset County, you see; and yet, it was widely believed that the victims had been killed somewhere in New Brunswick, which is in the county of Middlesex. To resolve the problem once and for all, New Jersey’s Attorney General appointed a state prosecutor to oversee the enquiry.”
“This fellow Mott,” I observed, “the chap who contacted you.”
“Just so. In fact, most of what I am about to tell you I learned from him and from the litter of papers comprising the police report that he provided.
“Do tell, Mr. Holmes,” said Fitzgerald, pencil poised. “We’re all ears.”
“The murders in question occurred on a quiet Thursday night, the 14th of September. Although the police detected bits and pieces of evidence, they found nothing conclusive. Oh, a few suspects were considered, but on 5 December, a Grand Jury announced that no indictments were to be brought against anyone. It was this frustrating result that prompted Mr. Mott to seek fresh eyes.”
“And so he turned to you,” I prompted.
“Precisely - although I should add that he made it quite clear from the start that anything I might discover could never be attributed to Sherlock Holmes. ‘Public funds,’ he said, ‘require our public servants to do the work themselves.’
“You’d get no credit?” Fitzgerald asked.
Holmes chuckled drily. “Publicity, as you so rightly pointed out, Mr. Fitzgerald, has never been my need. On the contrary, I readily accepted the opportunity to put my analytical skills back to work. As Watson can attest, I’ve dabbled in some interesting cases since leaving Baker Street, but not for a long time have I involved myself in so intricate a murder investigation as the one presented to me in New Jersey. In fact, it was with an enthusiasm that surprised even me that, after securing a neighbour to look after my bees, I employed the Cunard line to convey me across the Atlantic.”