In this, the prime minister represented the minority. Of the twelve Sherlock Holmes stories written between 1921 and 1927, few could be called indispensable. At the low end were “The Mazarin Stone,” “The Three Gables,” and the irredeemable “Lion’s Mane,” all three of which betrayed the author’s haste and indifference. Flashes of the old brilliance ran through the other stories, from the ingenious puzzle plot of “Thor Bridge,” based on a suggestion from Green-hough Smith, to “The Creeping Man” and its oft-quoted telegram: “Come at once if convenient—if inconvenient come all the same.” Sherlockians cherish the detective’s rare burst of emotion when Watson sustains an injury from a villain’s bullet:
“You’re not hurt, Watson? For God’s sake, say that you are not hurt!”
It was worth a wound—it was worth many wounds—to know the depth of loyalty and love which lay behind that cold mask. The clear, hard eyes were dimmed for a moment, and the firm lips were shaking. For the one and only time I caught a glimpse of a great heart as well as of a great brain. All my years of humble but single-minded service culminated in that moment of revelation.
Such moments were few and far between. Conan Doyle now reserved his best energies for the spiritualist movement, and Sherlock Holmes showed the effects. Most of the new stories were marred by jarring slang expressions, uncharacteristic and objectionable attitudes, and a Holmes who occasionally seemed to be mugging for the camera— “Good-bye, Susan. Paregoric is the stuff.…” No less a critic than T. S. Eliot spoke of the detective’s “mental decay,” and murmurs of ghostwriters and recycled manuscripts have been heard ever since.
By 1927, Conan Doyle would decide once and for all to send the detective into retirement. As he completed “Shoscombe Old Place” that year, he admitted his creative fatigue. “It’s not of the first flight,” he told Greenhough Smith, “and Sherlock, like his author, grows a little stiff in the joints, but it is the best I can do.” There would be no more adventures. When the last stories were gathered into book form as The Case-Book of Sherlock Holmes, Conan Doyle added a dignified word of farewell: “I fear that Mr. Sherlock Holmes may have become like one of those popular tenors who, having outlived their time, are still tempted to make repeated farewell bows to their indulgent audiences. This must cease and he must go the way of all flesh, material or imaginary.”
If the deerstalker appeared a bit battered by then, at least it had been a graceful exit, as opposed to a Challenger-style psychic awakening. For those seeking confirmation of the detective’s earthbound frame of mind, Conan Doyle appeared to have provided it in “The Sussex Vampire,” published in 1924. The story introduced a woman caught in the act of sucking blood from her child’s neck—raising the specter of vampirism—but Holmes swiftly banished any suggestion of the supernatural. “This agency stands flat-footed upon the ground, and there it must remain,” he tells Watson. “The world is big enough for us. No ghosts need apply.” In the end, Holmes demonstrated that the mother’s vampiric act had been an attempt to draw poison from a wound.
On this evidence, everything appeared secure in the world of Sherlock Holmes, and no séances seemed likely to erupt at Baker Street. Even the title deflated any pretense of the unknown, juxtaposing the mysteries of vampires with the less fanciful milieu of Sussex—an effect not unlike “The Werewolf of Trenton.”
Conan Doyle aficionados usually point to this story, with evident relief, as proof that the author would never have countenanced Holmes as a spiritualist mouthpiece. It should be remembered, however, that Challenger was no less antagonistic at the start of The Land of Mist. For Challenger’s conversion to be persuasive, he was required to begin the story in the enemy camp. There is no reason to suppose that Conan Doyle would not have taken a similar line with Holmes. The view expressed in “The Sussex Vampire” would only have made his reversal more effective.
“The Sussex Vampire” appeared in the same year in which Conan Doyle began writing The Land of Mist. At the very least, the timing suggests that he considered the possibility of using Holmes in his “big psychic novel.” There were many good reasons to prefer Challenger, but if Conan Doyle wished to reach the widest possible audience, Holmes would have been the better choice. The author’s decision, therefore, may point to something more than proprietary discretion.
A possible explanation emerges from the pages of The Land of Mist. The character of Algernon Mailey, whose similarities to Conan Doyle have often been noted, is presented as a man who has gained fame in another arena. “Mailey the barrister?” asks Malone when the name is raised. “Mailey, the religious reformer,” comes the reply. “That’s how he will be known.” Conan Doyle also wished to be known as a religious reformer, and not as a writer of detective stories. At times this seemed a forlorn hope, as he himself would remark in an interview some two months before his death. “To tell the truth,” he would say on that occasion, “I am rather tired of hearing myself described as the author of Sherlock Holmes. Why not, for a change, the author of Rodney Stone, or The White Company, or of The Lost World? One would think I had written nothing but detective stories.” A famous Punch caricature underscored the point. It showed a miserable-looking Conan Doyle literally shackled to a diminutive figure of Holmes. With his spirit quest, he aspired to break those shackles. He had spent years seeking “some big purpose” that matched his talents and ambition, finding it at last as a missionary of the “new revelation.” His work on the spiritualist platform, he believed, marked the culmination of a life of service, and would secure his place in history. He could hardly be blamed, then, if he did not wish to share that platform with Sherlock Holmes.
* * *
In February 1925, even as he put the finishing touches on The Land of Mist, an urgent plea for help recalled Conan Doyle to the earthly plane. Sixteen years had passed since the imprisonment of Oscar Slater, the man Conan Doyle believed had been falsely convicted of the murder of Marion Gilchrist in Glasgow. In that time, Conan Doyle had made several attempts to reopen the case, but his efforts brought a stony silence from the Scottish authorities. “From time to time one hears some word of poor Slater from behind his prison walls,” he wrote, “like the wail of some wayfarer who has fallen into a pit and implores aid from the passers-by.”
In Peterhead Prison, on a remote stretch of Scottish coastline, Slater knew nothing of Conan Doyle’s efforts on his behalf. Denied correspondence with the outside world, he engineered a desperate appeal. A fellow prisoner named William Gordon was due to be released. On a piece of waterproof paper from the prison bindery, Slater wrote an impassioned note. He then folded the coated paper into a tight bundle and persuaded Gordon to conceal it in his mouth. The ruse worked; Gordon submitted to a thorough search, but Slater’s message was not discovered. On gaining his release, Gordon relayed the plea to Conan Doyle.
Conan Doyle could hardly ignore such a direct appeal. He sent a fresh barrage of letters to the secretary of state for Scotland, demanding that Slater’s conviction be overturned. “Apart … from the original question of guilt or innocence,” Conan Doyle wrote, “the man has now served 15 years, which is, as I understand, the usual limit of a life sentence in Scotland when the prisoner behaves well.”
As it happened, Slater had not been a model prisoner. Indignant over his situation, he complained loudly about the deplorable conditions of the prison, and occasionally got into scuffles with other inmates. This had no bearing on the official reply to Conan Doyle’s entreaties. He was notified that court officials found no justification for “advising any interference” in Slater’s sentence.
Conan Doyle stepped up his effort, much as he had in the Roger Casement affair, with letters to influential friends and members of the press, along with public appearances where he aired Slater’s grievances. Many others had taken up the case by this time, but no single supporter could rally public opinion as effectively as Conan Doyle, as Slater himself had recognized. With Conan Doyle putting his shoulder to the wheel, the campaign for Slater’s
release steadily gathered force over the next two years.
The turning point came in July 1927, with the appearance of a new book by William Park, a Glasgow journalist. Park, as Conan Doyle later described him, “had within him that slow-burning, but quenchless, fire of determination which marks the best type of Scotsman.” He had spent years digging into the story, prompted by the disclosures of Lieutenant John Trench, the policeman whose forthright testimony had cost him his job. With Conan Doyle’s help, Park gathered his findings under the title of The Truth About Oscar Slater. Conan Doyle contributed a crisp foreword and published the volume through his own Psychic Press.
Drawing on Lieutenant Trench’s impressions, Park presented a graphic reconstruction of the murder. In his view—an opinion shared by many—Miss Gilchrist had known her killer and opened the door to him willingly on the night of her murder. Then, in the course of a quarrel over a document in her possession, the old woman had been pushed to the floor, striking her head on a coal box near the fireplace. Seeing that the injury was serious, the visitor faced an urgent dilemma. If Miss Gilchrist recovered and identified him to the police, he would be charged with a violent assault. If she subsequently died, the charge would be murder. Summoning his resolve, the visitor picked up a heavy chair and bludgeoned the old woman to death. Snatching up the incriminating document, he fled the scene—passing Miss Gilchrist’s paid companion, Helen Lambie, in the corridor. According to Park, the murderer “slipped out unchallenged” because Miss Lambie knew him and had no reason to question his presence in the flat. Although libel laws prevented Park from naming the suspect, Conan Doyle and many others had known of his involvement for some time. It was Francis Charteris, the victim’s nephew, now a professor at St. Andrews University.
Park’s book touched off a press circulation war, with several newspapers vying to provide fresh revelations about the case. The Empire News registered a major coup when it published “Why I Believe I Blundered over Slater,” which purported to be a statement from Helen Lambie, who had since immigrated to the United States. According to Miss Lambie, the police had disregarded her statement that she recognized the man fleeing the crime scene, and instead coached her to identify Slater. A rival newspaper, the Daily News, produced a second witness, who claimed that the police had offered her a £100 bribe to finger Slater.
On November 8, 1927, five days after the Daily News revelation, the secretary of state for Scotland issued a statement: “Oscar Slater has now completed more than eighteen and a half years of his life sentence, and I have felt justified in deciding to authorize his release on licence as soon as suitable arrangements can be made.” The timing of this decision, coming as it did amid a public clamor for a retrial, was not lost on the press. By releasing Slater, the government hoped to preempt any further disclosures.
Six days later, Oscar Slater walked through the gates of Peterhead Prison a free man. Under his arm, he carried a brown paper parcel containing all of his worldly possessions. A special railway car carried him to Glasgow, where a large crowd awaited him, but Slater could not bring himself to address his supporters or answer questions from reporters. He was offered refuge in a private home, and at the sight of a clean bed and a hot water bottle, he burst into tears.
Conan Doyle sent a message to Slater in Scotland: “This is to say in my wife’s name and my own how grieved we have been at the infamous justice which you have suffered at the hands of our officials. Your only poor consolation can be that your fate, if we can get people to realise the effects, may have the effect of safeguarding others in the future.”
Slater, though not entirely comfortable with the written word, sent a heartfelt response. “Sir Conan Doyle,” he wrote, “you breaker of my shackels [sic], you lover of truth for justice sake, I thank you from the bottom of my heart and the goodness you have shown me. My heart is full and almost breaking with love and gratitude for you and your dear wife Lady Conan Doyle and all the upright men and women, who for justice sake, (and that only) have helped me, me an outcast.…”
Although Slater was a free man, he had not been pardoned. Conan Doyle now led the calls for a retrial, in the hope of clearing Slater’s name and winning compensation for his false imprisonment. He updated his “Case of Oscar Slater” pamphlet and sent a copy to every member of Parliament, including the Honorable John Charteris, the Conservative member for Dumfriesshire, the younger brother of the man widely held to be the true murderer of Marion Gilchrist.
A special act of Parliament was passed to enable the Scottish Court of Criminal Appeal to reopen the case. As Slater had no money for legal costs, his supporters raised a defense fund, bolstered by a £1,000 guarantee from Conan Doyle. At the last moment, when Slater discovered that he would not be permitted to give evidence, he announced that he would withdraw his appeal. Conan Doyle responded with white hot fury, as Slater appeared to be scorning the efforts of the many people who had expended time and money on his behalf. Conan Doyle was so angry, it has been said, that he declared himself ready to sign a petition to have Slater’s original death sentence carried out. In time, others persuaded Slater of his error and the appeal proceeded as scheduled.
Conan Doyle went to Scotland for the proceedings, meeting Slater for the first time. In contrast to his admiration for George Edalji, Conan Doyle never regarded Slater as anything more than a petty criminal. When Slater sent a silver cigar cutter as a token of his gratitude, Conan Doyle returned it immediately. It was the miscarriage of justice, rather than the man himself, that had roused Conan Doyle’s passions. Nevertheless, his account of the hearings, written for the Sunday Pictorial, demonstrated a keen sympathy for the plaintiff. “One terrible face stands out among all those others,” he wrote of the courtroom. “It is not an ill-favoured face, nor is it a wicked one, but it is terrible nonetheless for the brooding sadness that is in it. It is firm and immobile and might be cut from that Peterhead granite which has helped to make it what it is. A sculptor would choose it as the very type of tragedy. You feel that this is no ordinary man but one who has been fashioned for some strange end. It is indeed the man whose misfortunes have echoed around the world. It is Slater.”
After ten days of hearings, the original verdict was dismissed on a technicality. This was by no means the total vindication Slater’s supporters had desired but a happy result nonetheless. Matters soon ran aground over the issue of compensation. The court awarded £6,000 to Slater, but left him responsible for the legal costs, which were settled with the funds contributed by Conan Doyle and others. Conan Doyle assumed that Slater would act quickly to reimburse his supporters. He did not. Slater argued that he should not have been held responsible for the court costs in the first place, and therefore could not be expected to pay them out of his settlement. At a stroke, Slater managed to alienate virtually every supporter he had. The money mattered little to Conan Doyle, but he bitterly resented Slater’s intent to foist his debts on the people who had won his freedom. He also felt that William Park, whose book had been so instrumental in winning the release, deserved some form of compensation for his long years of labor on Slater’s behalf.
Slater would not yield. “You seem to have taken leave of your senses,” Conan Doyle told him. “If you are indeed quite responsible for your actions, then you are the most ungrateful as well as the most foolish person whom I have ever known.” The two men eventually reached a compromise that found Slater contributing £250 to the costs. In Conan Doyle’s view, Slater had simply reverted to type, an opinion Slater quite naturally resented for the rest of his life.
Slater retired quietly to the town of Ayr, on the western coast of Scotland, where he devoted much of his time to wood carving. He made many friends in the community, and even remarried in 1936, at the age of sixty-six. His death twelve years later brought a curious notice in the local newspaper. It read: “Oscar Slater Dead at 78, Reprieved Murderer, Friend of A. Conan Doyle.”
29
The Case of the Missing Lady
Friends an
d relatives of Teresa Neele, late of South Africa, please communicate—Write Box R, The Times, E.C.4.
—PERSONAL AD IN THE LONDON TIMES, DECEMBER 11, 1926
It was in December of the year 1926 that all England was interested, and the publishing world dismayed, by the disappearance of Mrs. Agatha Christie, under most unusual and inexplicable circumstances.
Under the headline “The Missing Woman Novelist,” the Times of London offered its readers the following summary of the case, taken directly from the official police report:
Missing from her home, the Styles, Sunningdale, Berks., Mrs. Agatha May Clarisa Christie, wife of Colonel Christie, aged 35, height 5 ft., 7 in., hair reddish and shingled, eyes grey, complexion fair, well built, dressed in grey stockinet skirt, green jumper, grey and dark grey cardigan, small green velour hat, wearing a platinum ring with one pearl. No wedding ring. Had black handbag with her, containing probably £5 to £10. Left home in a Morris-Cowley car at 9:45 p.m. on Friday, leaving a note saying she was going for a drive. Next morning the car was found abandoned at Newlands Corner, Surrey.
For the next ten days, the “unavailing search” for Mrs. Christie would dominate Britain’s newspapers. Not even the death of Claude Monet in Giverney, or the meeting of Winston Churchill and Benito Mussolini in France, could push the Christie story off the front pages.
Teller of Tales: The Life of Arthur Conan Doyle Page 47