The West End Horror

by Nicholas Meyer

  He grumbled a deal at this but saw the logic of it and settled down for a time to indoor target practise, one of his favourite recreations. For an hour at a time—as I sat at my desk and endeavoured to work—he reclined on the horsehair divan, his pistol propped between his knees, and squeezed off round after round at the wall above the deal table which contained his chemical apparatus.

  He had managed to spell Disraeli with bullet pocks when this diversion, too, was denied him. Mrs. Hudson knocked at our door and told him in no uncertain terms that he was menacing the neighbourhood. There had been complaints from the house next door, she said, by an elderly invalid who claimed that Holmes’s artillery was having a deleterious effect on her already unstable constitution. In addition, the reports had caused several large icicles to fall before they had melted sufficiently to be rendered harmless. One of these stalactites, it appeared, had nearly driven itself through the head of the dustman, who had threatened to bring an action against our landlady as a result.

  “Really, Mr. Holmes, you’d think a grown man like yourself would be able to occupy his time in a more sensible fashion!” she exclaimed, her bosom heaving with emotion. Took at all them fine books you have, just sittin’ there, waiting to be read. And there—” she pointed to several bundles on the floor, tied with string—“some you haven’t even opened as yet”

  “Very well, Mrs. Hudson. You have carried the day. I will immerse myself.” Holmes escorted her wearily to the door and returned with a disgruntled sigh. I was grateful that we no longer kept cocaine lying about, for in earlier times such frustrations and boredom would have provoked instant recourse to its dubious comforts.

  Instead, Holmes took the landlady’s advice and began cutting the strings on his parcels of books with a small penknife and inspecting their contents. He was a compulsive bibliophile, always buying volumes, having them sent ‘round to our rooms, and never finding time to read them. Now he squatted down in their midst and began glancing at the titles of works he had forgot he owned.

  “I say, Watson, look at this,” he began, but subsided on to the floor with the tome in one hand whilst with the other absently felt into the pocket of his dressing gown for a pipe.

  He devoured the book, along with several bowlsful of shag (almost as malodorous as some of his chemicals), and then went on to another volume. He had become interested in ancient English charters and now prepared to devote himself to serious research on the subject His preoccupation did not greatly astonish me, as I knew his range of interests to be wide, varied, and occasionally odd. He had mastered a number of arcane topics—matters quite unrelated to the art of criminal detection—and could speak brilliantly (when he chose) on such diverse matters as warships of the future, artificial irrigation, the motets of Lassus, and the mating habits of the South American jaguar.

  Now English charters occupied his mind with a passion which totally conformed to his other pursuits in its single minded application of his powerful intellect. He had apparently been interested in them at some earlier date, for most of the books he had purchased (and neglected to open) dealt with this peculiar subject, and at the end of the week the floor of our sitting room was virtually paved with them. Eventually such volumes as were at his immediate disposal were deemed insufficient for his purposes and he was obliged to sally forth into the snow and make his way to the British Museum for sustenance. These forays lasted for several afternoons during the last week of February, the nights which followed being spent in the laborious transcription of his notes.

  It was a sunny, cold morning, March 1, when he flung his pen across the room in disgust.

  “No use, Watson,” said he. “I shall have to go to Cambridge if I am to approach this seriously. The material simply isn’t here.”

  I remarked that his interest threatened to develop into a mania, but he appeared not to have heard me. He hunted up his pen on the floor whither he had hurled it and prepared to address himself again to his notes, observing the while, with a didactic formality which contrasted oddly with his posture upon hands and knees, The mind is like a large field, Watson. It is available for cultivation only if the land is used sensibly and portions of it are permitted to lie fallow periodically. Part of my mind—my professional mind—is on holiday at the moment. During its leave of absence I am exercising another quarter of it.”

  “It’s a pity your professional mind is out of town,” I remarked, looking out of the window and into the street.

  He followed my gaze from his position on the floor. “Why? What are you looking at?”

  “I believe we are about to have a visitor, someone interested in that portion of your intellect that is currently lying fallow.”

  Outside, I could see stepping—or rather hopping nimbly—between the shovels of the snow cleaners and the brooms of the housemaids, one of the queerest creatures I had ever beheld.

  “He certainly appears a likely candidate for admittance to 221b,” I went on, hoping to distract my companion from the volumes which had failed him.

  “I am not in the mood for visitors,” Holmes returned moodily, thrusting his fists into the pockets of his dressing gown. “What does he look like?” The question was automatic and escaped his lips involuntarily.

  “He isn’t wearing a coat, for one thing. On a morning like this he must be mad.”

  “Clothes?”

  “Norfolk jacket and knickerbockers—in this weather! They look well worn, even at this distance. He keeps adjusting his shirt cuffs.”

  “Probably false. Age?”

  “Roughly forty, with an enormous beard, slightly reddish, like his hair, which is blowing over his shoulder as he walks.”

  “Height?” Behind me I could hear a vesta being struck.

  “Rather tall, I should say, under medium height”

  “Gait?”

  I pondered this, wondering how to describe the newcomer’s hopping, skipping pace.

  “The man walks like a gigantic leprechaun.”

  “What? Why, this sounds like Shaw.” Holmes came up behind me, quite animated now, as we gazed together at the advancing figure. “Hello, it is Shaw. I’m blest if it isn’t!” he exclaimed, smiling, his pipe clenched between his teeth. “Whatever brings him out on a morning like this? And what has made him change his mind and decide to pay me a visit?”

  “Who is he?”

  “A friend.”

  “Indeed?” No one as familiar as I with the personal life and habits of Sherlock Holmes could have received this statement with anything less than wonder. Aside from myself, his brother, and various professional acquaintances, I was not aware that Holmes cultivated any friends. The peculiar fellow advancing below us was now examining house numbers with some care before hopping on and stopping before our door. The bell rang with a truculent jingle several times.

  “I met him at a conceit of Sarasate’s* some years ago,” Holmes explained, turning to make some hasty order of our shambles. He kicked a few books out of the way, forging a path of sorts from the door to a chair by the hearth. I seldom accompanied him any more to concerts and the opera, preferring more convivial amusements of the sort he found trivial.

  “We got into a rather heated disagreement about Sarasate’s abilities, as I recall, but finally buried the hatchet. He is a very brilliant Irishman.” Holmes removed his pistol from the chair he proposed to offer our guest and put it on the mantel. “A brilliant Irishman who has not yet found his métier. But he will. He will. You will find him amusing, if naught else. He has got hold of some of the oddest notions.”

  “How do you know he is brilliant?”

  We could hear a muffled conversation taking place at the foot of the stairs, doubtless between our visitor and Mrs. Hudson.

  “How do I know? Why, he told me so himself. He has no qualms about hiding his light under a bushel. Furthermore,” he looked up at me, the coal scuttle in his hands, “he understands Wagner. He understands him perfectly. This alone qualifies him for some magnificent destiny. At
the moment, miserable man, he’s as poor as a church mouse.”

  We could now hear feet rapidly ascending our stair.

  “What does he do?”

  There was a knock on our door of the same energetic variety which had manifested itself towards our bell some moments earlier.

  “Oh, you want to be careful of him, Watson. You want to watch him and give him a wide berth.” He added some coal to the fire and passed me with a conspiratorial finger on his lips as he went to the door. “He is a critic.”

  With this, he flung wide the door and admitted his friend. “Shaw, my dear fellow, welcome! Welcome! You have heard me speak of Dr. Watson, who shares these lodgings with me? Ah, good. Watson, allow me to present ‘Cornetti di Basso,’ known to his intimates as Mr. Bernard Shaw.”†

  * Sarasate was a well-known violin virtuoso of the day. For a full (though not entirely accurate) account of the meeting, see Baring-Gould’s biography of Holmes.

  † Shaw wrote music criticism under the name Cornetti di Basso.

  TWO

  AN INVITATION TO INVESTIGATE

  Mr. Bernard Shaw’s resemblance to an outsized leprechaun increased on closer inspection. His eyes were the bluest I had ever beheld, the colour of the Côte d’Azur. They twinkled with merriment when he spoke lightly and flashed when he became animated, which was not infrequently, for he was an emotional individual and a lively talker. His complexion was almost as ruddy as his hair, and he boasted a disputatious nose, broad and blunt at the tip, where the nostrils twitched and flared. His speech added to the leprechaunish impression he conveyed, for it was tinged with the faintest and most pleasant of Irish brogues.

  “By God, I believe your rooms are more untidy than my own,” he began, stepping across our threshold and nodding to us both. “However, they are somewhat larger than my hovel, which allows you to be creative with your sloppiness.”

  I was annoyed by these remarks, which struck me as an unseemly preamble for a guest, but he flashed me an impish grin which managed, somehow, to take away the sting of his words. Holmes, apparently used to his brusque and forthright manner, appeared not to have heard.

  “You’ve no idea what a pleasant surprise this is,” he informed the critic. “I’d quite given up hope of ever persuading you to set foot in these digs.”

  “I made a bargain with you,” Shaw reminded him with some asperity. “I said that I would call upon you at your convenience if you in turn would attend a meeting of the Fabian Society.” He accepted the chair indicated by Holmes and sat down, stretching forth his small hands and surprisingly skinny legs toward the comfort of our blaze.

  “I’m afraid I must continue to decline your gracious invitation.” The detective drew up a chair opposite. “I am not a joiner by nature, I fear, and while I would cheerfully dole out coin of the realm to hear you discourse on Wagner, you must permit me to go about the reformation of the race in my own way.”

  “You call it reformation?” the Irishman snorted. “Ha, you right wrongs, one by one, imagining yourself to be some sort of mediaeval knight errant” Holmes inclined his head slightly, but the other snorted again. “You are only addressing yourself to the effects of society’s ills, not the causes, whereas the Fabians, with our motto, ‘Educate, Agitate, Organise,’ are trying to—”

  Holmes laughed and held up a deprecating hand. “My dear Shaw, spare me your polemics at this hour of the morning. I trust, in any event, that you have not come to Mohammed on this frosty day to visit him with the philosophy of socialism.”

  It wouldn’t hurt you if I had,” Shaw returned equably. “My eloquence on the subject has been declared alarming by those in a position to know.”

  “Even so. I can’t offer you any breakfast—that’s long since been cleared away—but in any case, I perceive by your right sleeve that you have already dined on eggs and—”

  Shaw chuckled and inspected his sleeve. That’s yesterday’s breakfast. I see you are fallible. How comforting.”

  “Would you like some brandy? It will take the chill off your bones.”

  “And shorten my life by ten years,” the elf replied with a merry smile. “Thank you, I'll remain as I am.”

  “You aren’t prolonging your life by going about in this weather without a coat,” I observed. He smiled thinly.

  “I was obliged to pawn it yesterday, a temporary expedient until my next week’s wages. A ludicrous state of affairs for a middle-aged man, don’t you find? Critics are not revered as they should be.”

  “Shaw writes for the Saturday Review,” Holmes informed me, “and apparently they pay no more for reviewing drama than the Star did for writing about music.”

  “Not by half,” the Irishman agreed. “Could you manage on two guineas a week, Doctor? Your writing brings you a deal more, I daresay.”

  “Why don’t you attempt something in a more lucrative vein?” I suggested. “You might try your hand at a novel.”

  “I’ve tried my hand at five and collected eight hundred rejections among them. No, I shall continue as critic and pamphleteer, occasionally turning out a play of my own on the side. Did either of you gentlemen happen to attend a performance of Widowers’ Houses a year or two back?”

  We shook our heads, I, for my part, never having heard of the play.

  The Irishman did not appear surprised or put out. “It would have astonished me if you’d said yes,” he remarked with mordant humour, “though it would have lent you a kind of distinction in the years to come. No matter, I shall keep at it After all”—he held up his fingers—“all the great English playwrights are Irish. Look at Sheridan! Goldsmith! Look in our own time at Yeats, and look at Oscar Wilde! All Irish! One day Shaw will be included in that glorious pantheon.”

  The man’s bumptiousness was past bearing.

  “Shakespeare was English,” I pointed out, mildly. Instantly I perceived I had struck an exposed nerve. Shaw paled, his beard quivered, and he leapt to his feet.

  “Shakespeare?” He rolled the word around his mouth with scornful relish. “Shakespeare? A mountebank who had not the wit to invent his own plots, much less embellish them! Tolstoy was right—a conspiracy of nineteenth-century academia, that’s what Shakespeare is. I ask you, do people really loss away kingdoms,’ or don’t they rather hold on to power just as long and as tenaciously as they can? Antony and Cleopatra—what ineffable romantic twaddle! Claptrap! Humbug! They were as cynical a pair of politicians as you could conjure, both of ‘em!”

  “But the poetry,” I protested.

  “Poetry—rubbish!” His colour was changing again to a scarlet hue as he danced about the room, occasionally stumbling over the books on the floor. “People don’t talk poetry, Doctor! Only in books—and bad plays! The man had a brilliant mind,” he allowed, calming somewhat, “but he should never have wasted his intellect on plays. He should have been an essayist. He had not the gifts of a playwright”

  This last statement was so completely astounding that I fancy Holmes and I must both have simply gaped at him for some moments—which he affected not to notice as he resumed his seat—before Holmes recovered himself with a little laugh.

  “Surely you didn’t come here this morning to take on Shakespeare any more than the evils of capitalism,” said he, filling a pipe from the Persian slipper on the mantel, “though I am tempted to dwell on the contrast between your views on the redistribution of wealth and your own desire for an increase in salary.”

  “You’ve swayed me from the point,” Shaw acknowledged with a sour look, “with all this talk of Shakespeare. As for my salary, that you must take up with Mr. Harris, if you think you can face him. I have come to you this morning on quite a different errand.” He paused, whether for dramatic effect or merely to collect himself, I could not tell. There has been a murder done.”

  Silence filled the room. Holmes and I instinctively exchanged glances as Shaw surveyed us with evident satisfaction.

  “Who has been murdered?” Holmes enquired calmly, crossing his
legs, all attention now.

  “A critic. You don’t read the drama notices? Ah, well, then, you’ve missed him. Jonathan McCarthy writes for the Morning Courant—oi wrote, I should say, since he will no more.”

  Holmes picked up a pile of papers by his chair. “I confine my attentions as a rule to the agony columns,” he confessed, “but I can’t have missed a story such as—”

  “You won’t find it in the papers—yet,” Shaw interrupted. “Word of the deed was just circulating at the Review offices this morning. Instead of writing my piece due tomorrow, I came here straightway to tell you of it.”

  Throughout this recital, he attempted to maintain a jocular demeanour, as one who is not affected personally by such grisly tidings. Yet beneath his gallows-humour delivery, I sensed a very real anxiety. Perhaps the murder of a colleague threatened him in a way he could hardly have acknowledged.

  “You came here straightway,” Holmes echoed, filling his pipe with dextrous fingers. “With what end in view?”

  The Irishman blinked in surprise.

  “Surely that is obvious. I wish you to investigate the matter.”

  “Is it so very complicated? Will not the police suffice?”

  “Come, come. We both know the police. I want neither their inefficiency nor a whitewash by the authorities. I want an honest, unbiased, and complete examination of the matter. I continue to read Dr. Watson’s accounts of your doings in the Strand and long to see you in action for myself. Are you not up to the challenge? The man was stabbed,” he added as incentive.

  Holmes cast a longing look in the direction of his literary researches, but it was clear he was interested, despite himself.

  “Had he any enemies?”

  Bernard Shaw laughed long and heartily.