by Marvin Kaye
FROM WATSON’S SCRAPBOOK, by Dr John H. Watson
Welcome to the fifth issue of Sherlock Holmes Mystery Magazine. When the notion of this magazine was first proposed to Mr Holmes, he agreed to permit four issues to be published, after which he would decide whether he still wished to permit the use of his name in the title of the periodical. I am both pleased and relieved (for I do receive royalties for this endeavour) to report that Holmes has graciously granted his ongoing permission to allow SHMM to continue.
In celebration thereof, the publisher has devoted this fifth number entirely to Mr Holmes and myself, leading off with my own account of The Adventure of the Noble Bachelor. The choice of this story is in keeping with the policy of my colleague and coeditor Mr Kaye, who elects to follow the approximate dating of our cases as proposed by the late scholar William S Baring-Gould. Now some aficionados regard this chronology as flawed, but so far as I am concerned, it is an acceptable guideline because, in truth, even I cannot always be sure when certain adventures took place. It all happened, after all, quite some time ago.
Why, then, I have been asked, do I not simply consult my own notes? Well, over the years, I have lost track of some of them, and even those still in my possession do not always help, and this for two reasons. Firstly, I was not always scrupulously organized in my record-keeping, and secondly, though I admit this a bit sheepishly, sometimes I cannot decipher my own scrawlings. The cliché you have undoubtedly heard concerning physician’s handwriting is certainly applicable to this Holmesian amanuensis.
Now before I turn over this literary podium, so to speak, to Mr Kaye, I have two comments to make concerning the stories and articles in this issue.
The tales all are based on actual incidents from Holmes’s and my life. Whenever possible, I made my original notes available to the contributors and, if asked, supplied whatever additional details I was able to recollect. In one instance, however, the business involving the giant rodent, my notes were consulted without my knowledge. (The details may be found in Mr Kaye’s collection, The Resurrected Holmes, St Martin’s Press, 1996). While the events reported in this story are essentially correct, the style of its author differs considerably from my own literary voice. But at least, I judge that by now the world is finally prepared to hear about it.
Two articles in this issue discuss a pair of my writings, The Adventure of the Illustrious Client and The Resident Patient. I have no cavil with their contents, but my authorial ego wishes to alert you that these pieces reveal plot particulars that might perhaps spoil one’s enjoyment of my compositions. I hope, therefore, that if the reader has not yet perused these tales, he or she will avail her- or himself of them before the curtain is twitched aside and all their secrets are revealed.
— John H Watson, MD
In Memoriam
Sad news — Len Moffatt, a prolific science fiction and fantasy writer who has contributed poems and an upcoming article to Sherlock Holmes Mystery Magazine, died recently. His wife June writes, “Len went into the hospital on the 19th with severe abdominal pain and was operated upon on his 87th birthday. We hoped that he was recovering, but all came to a halt in the wee hours of November 30th.”
In the nonfiction portion of this issue, I am pleased to offer a fascinating treatise about results of the friendship between Arthur Conan Doyle and Bram Stoker — Sherlock Holmes Meets Dracula. Its author, Robert Eighteen-Bisang, is head of Transylvania Press and in my opinion, the world’s leading scholar and authority on Bram Stoker and Dracula. His engrossing thesis reveals hitherto-unguessed correspondences between The Adventure of the Illustrious Client and Stoker’s great vampire novel.
Bob Byrne provides interesting biographical details about Watson’s agent Conan Doyle as he impacted the tale of The Resident Patient, and both M. J. Elliott and Lenny Picker review the new BBC TV series that elects to update Sherlock Holmes. My friend and SHMM contributor Carole Buggé has also seen these shows and agrees in every particular with Mr Elliott, so I am looking forward to seeing them myself.
* * * *
The seven Sherlock Holmes stories in this issue cover a deal of ground, both figuratively and literally, for in addition to Holmes and Watson’s traditional London settings and its environs, the Great Detective and his faithful companion and scribe do a deal of traveling: to the south and into Cornwall, to the north into Scotland, specifically Edinburgh and St Andrews, and “across the pond” to Manhattan and the legendary McSorley’s Old Ale House. This venerable establishment, which dates back to 1854, is still in business. SHMM contributors Carole Buggé, Stan Trybulski and I have hoisted many a light and dark beer there, as well as enjoying their excellent soups and sandwiches with the meanest onions and hottest mustard you’re ever likely to encounter. On top of its libational and culinary pleasures, McSorley’s is allegedly haunted by no less than Harry Houdini. A pair of handcuffs he escaped from hang in a prominent spot over the bar.
A final note about this issue — 221 C Baker Street, a delightful short story in the form of a letter to Mrs Hudson, was submitted to SHMM by a new (to us) author, Alan McCright. With his gracious permission, it appears as part of our ongoing feature, Ask Mrs Hudson.
Canonically yours,
—Marvin Kaye
221C BAKER STREET, by Alan McCright / ASK MRS HUDSON, by (Mrs) Martha Hudson
Hôtel des Deux Mondes
22 Avenue de l’Opera
Paris
*
27th April 1894
My Dear Mrs Hudson,
It is with deepest regret I must inform you that I can no longer stand as your tenant in the lodgings at 221 C Baker Street and shall not be returning to them when I have concluded my holiday.
Though the modest rent and your good Scotch cooking, Dear Lady, satisfy both pocketbook and palate, there exist, I fear, extenuating circumstances, the nature of which I no longer possess the stamina of character to endure. I am confident you realize I speak of none other than my fellow lodger, Mssr Sherlock Holmes.
I must confess, when first I saw your advert for rooms to let, I recognized the address from Doctor Watson’s memoirs in Strand magazine. I thrilled at the notion of sharing lodgings with the world-renowned Mssr Holmes, offering an additional half-sovereign to the Hansom driver would he but get me there in all haste; that I might arrive before you had let the rooms to someone else. I sobered of this upon meeting you Mrs Hudson, and was humbled and gratified that no less a discerning and gracious lady as yourself deigned to accept such as me into her personal residence. It is this last thought — which I pray shows I hold you in the highest regard — that prompts me to state herein the reasons which prevent me from enjoying any further stay in your lodgings.
Mssr Holmes, inarguably graced with one of the most astute minds of Her Majesty’s era, is nevertheless possessed of certain eccentricities, quirks — dare I say — peculiarities, as well as an often bizarre panoply of visitors, which serve to make occupying the same dwelling as he less than amenable.
Mssr Holmes:
Frequently does not sleep for days on end. He paces audibly about, often playing somber strains on his violin into the wee hours.
Constantly indulges in experimentation with various chemistries, the acrid smells thereof invariably penetrating into my rooms.
Considers the practice of marksmanship an indoor activity. I recall, on one occasion of particular note, an inordinate number of pistol shots which I took to be nothing less than a fierce assault on the person of Mssr Holmes by some of his many enemies. When I dared stir from my apartments the next morning, those shots
revealed in their result the initials of our sovereign, Victoria Regina, dotting the corridor walls of Mssr Holmes’s apartments and the adjacent, common stairway — obviously the work of Mssr Holmes himself.
I come now to the issue of the myriad visitors Mssr Holmes claims not to encourage. While it is far from secret that some of the most revered nobility of Britain and the Continent have passed despairingly and hopefully across his threshold, there are the others:
A seemingly endless queue of police constables and detectives.
Street Arabs.
Transients.
Beggars.
Drunkards.
Rogues.
Thieves.
Reprehensible brutes.
Men with violently amputated appendages, bandages dripping with blood.
Men with harpoons.
And then there is the noise: the sudden Aha! or Halloa! shouted in the middle of the night. The sound of bodies dropping to the floor. The violent confrontations and scuffles, taking place invariably at breakfast or dinner and not at all conducive to the enjoyment of one’s repast.
In addition, whenever I passed Mssr Holmes on the stairs, in the foyer or surrounding environs, he would glance at me and what guests I may have, quickly appraising us, it seemed, from head to toe. I would then see in his face, an unstated comment — perhaps my imagination, I think not. A subtle smirk, a frown, a grin — of disapproval, insight or amusement, I know not which. I came to feel — and you may find this preposterous — that he knew my every thought, my every move and could perceive my every desire as well as those of my companions. I must tell you, Mrs Hudson, these unnerving encounters are a constant occurrence where Mssr Holmes is concerned.
When the nation heard of Sherlock Holmes’s untimely and dastardly end at Reichenbach Falls, I grieved with the rest and chastised myself for my petty differences with the world’s greatest detective. I assure you, Madam, my consoling of you and your servants at that time was an act of utmost reverence and grief, as well as humility and self-reproach for the less-than-noble feelings I had acquired for the poor, departed man.
The time that followed was, perhaps, the happiest I can recall; I felt those were, indeed, the Halcyon days which would remain always and fondly in my memory. No longer did I tread lightly upon the staircase, fearing the gaze and unspoken criticisms of Sherlock Holmes. No longer did I lay awake night after night as a consequence of the sounds and odours penetrating my rooms from below. No longer did I fear the sight of one whom I felt could peer into the innermost reaches of my very soul.
Then.
Even before I knew that Mssr Holmes had “returned from the dead,” the now notorious Colonel Moran fired a shot at a silhouette in the window one floor below mine. Though the bullet pierced a wax effigy — not, as the fiend intended, the head of Sherlock Holmes — one can imagine, but for the Grace Of God, my shadow — by mistake — might have been the target. I well appreciate why Mssr Holmes retains a physician as a constant companion and amanuensis.
I implore you to understand, my Dear, Dear, Mrs Hudson that I can no longer thrive under these maddening circumstances, though my respect and affection for you is unwavering.
Please find enclosed with this missive my cheque for 20 guineas above that which I owe you and representing more than a month’s rent extra. I am sure the superfluous shillings will find their way to your servants whom I shall miss as I shall miss you. A man will arrive to return my things to my rooms in Chelsea.
I am, Dear Lady, determined now to seek a lifestyle less nerve-wracking, far more serene and, indeed, free of folly.
I remain, Madam,
Ever Your Obedient Servant,
Oscar Wilde
* * * *
Dear Mr Wilde,
I am in receipt of your letter of the 27th of April. First of all, let me thank you for your more than generous contribution to my establishment; I assure you I will put it to good use. I will share some of it with my small but loyal staff, as you suggest: my new scullery maid Mary could do with a new dress for her sister’s confirmation, and young Nicholas has had his eye on a red wool vest. I will surprise them both with rather more lavish than usual Christmas presents this year! Your gesture was unnecessary but gracious, as your conduct was unfailingly kind and gracious during your tenancy at 221 Baker Street. Young Nick was always rather in awe of you, as I’m sure you know. He used to say he wanted to grow up to be “just like Mr Wilde.” It was so kind of you to have him to your rooms for tea from time to time — it was the highlight of his week.
I must say, my dear Mr Wilde, I will miss you. I have long considered myself to be the luckiest landlady in London, fortunate to have as tenants not only the greatest living detective but also one of the greatest writers and wits of our time. I hope I do not make you blush when I say that I have felt a pride no less than your own mother must feel when your successes in the literary world heaped upon one another like the delicious layers of a Christmas trifle.
Not that your writing is trifling — far from it, dear Mr Wilde. I have enjoyed both your comedies and your more serious works of fiction. I nearly split my sides laughing at Lady Windermere’s Fan when it premiered at St James Theatre (thanks once again to you for procuring me a ticket.) And I consider The Picture of Dorian Gray to be a classic of our time — truly a story for the ages. I predict that it will seize hold of the imaginations of future generations as it has ours. The theme and scope of the writing is surely as universal as it is brilliant.
I understand that you are working on a new comedy, one involving orphans in handbags left in railway stations, mistaken identity and general merriment. I must say, it does sound jolly, and I only wish that you were writing it under my roof as before. If it will not distress you, please think of me on opening night, as nothing would make me happier than being among the audience applauding your latest work of genius.
As to your reasons for leaving, alas, I must confess I do understand them. I would like to come to the defense of Mr Holmes, and explain that his genius and his eccentricities are different weave patterns in the same cloth; you could not have one without the other. But surely a man of your intellectual capacity understands all of this. I can tell from your letter that your decision was neither hasty nor born of anger, and that it was a long time in coming. I assure you, you are not the first tenant to quite Baker Street after falling afoul of Mr Holmes’s peculiarities — though you are most certainly the most renowned.
I am very glad you did not give me forewarning, and present me with the predicament of having to choose between you. Indeed, I would have been hard pressed to find a solution, in that case. I must say that you will have an easier time finding new lodgings than would Mr Holmes. Even with Dr Watson to look after him and perhaps temper his extreme ways, it would be extremely difficult for him to find another landlord who would put up with his odd (and occasionally dangerous) habits — not to mention the parade of unsavoury visitors, as you point out.
So I suppose I feel a bit protective of him, seeing as how I may well be the only landlady in London who could stand to have Mr Holmes as a tenant. But the city needs him, Mr Wilde — the world needs him. Sometimes good things come in unexpected packages. Heroes often appear in odd guises, prickly and unpleasant and difficult — Mr Holmes is certainly odd and difficult; no one knows this better than I do. But he is a hero, Mr Wilde, and though it pains me to lose you, I am still proud to call myself his landlady — and, I hope, his friend.
I wish you the very best wishes in all your endeavours, and good luck with your new play. Is it true you are thinking of calling it The Importance of Being Earnest? Perhaps with a little more thought, you can come up with a better title. That one strikes me as unlikely; no doubt it will confuse and confound audiences. A comedy should have a straightforward, sprightly title: perhaps something like Orphans in Handbags. I hope you do not think it presumptuous of me to add my thoughts to the matter.
I remain, as always, your most devoted fan,
> Mrs Hudson
* * * *
Well, I could not resist sharing the above venerable missives with my faithful readers, but now let us turn to more immediate concerns. Dear readers, here is one of my favourite recipes for rack of lamb. I remember one rainy night in October Mr Holmes came back late from chasing around London, and I had it ready for him. I was shocked to have him grasp me by the shoulders and plant a kiss on my forehead! An unusual display of emotion for him, to be sure, but often the surest way to a man’s stomach … well, dear reader, you know the rest.
Ingredients
1/2 cup fresh bread crumbs
2 tablespoons minced garlic
2 tablespoons chopped fresh rosemary
1 teaspoon salt
1/4 teaspoon black pepper
2 tablespoons olive oil
*
1 (7 bone) rack of lamb, trimmed and Frenched
1 teaspoon salt
1 teaspoon black pepper
2 tablespoons olive oil
1 tablespoon Dijon style mustard
DIRECTIONS
Preheat oven to 230 degrees C (if you live in America, that would be 450 degrees F). Move oven rack to the center position.
In a large bowl, combine bread crumbs, garlic, rosemary, 1 teaspoon salt and 1/4 teaspoon pepper. Toss in 2 tablespoons olive oil to moisten mixture. Set aside.
Season the rack all over with salt and pepper. Heat 2 tablespoons olive oil in a large heavy oven proof skillet over high heat. Sear rack of lamb for 1 to 2 minutes on all sides. Set aside for a few minutes. Brush rack of lamb with the mustard. Roll in the bread crumb mixture until evenly coated. Cover the ends of the bones with brown wrapping paper to prevent charring. (Be sure you don’t light the paper on fire!)
Arrange the rack bone side down in the skillet. Roast the lamb in preheated oven for 12 to 18 minutes, depending on the degree of doneness you want. With a meat thermometer, take a reading in the center of the meat after 10 to 12 minutes and remove the meat, or let it cook longer, to your taste. Let it rest for 5 to 7 minutes, loosely covered, before carving between the ribs.