The Sherlockian

by Graham Moore

  Arthur Conan Doyle’s great-grandson paced across the soft cream carpet in Harold’s hotel room. He intertwined his hands behind him, compressing his shoulder blades, and then folded his arms in front of him sternly. He moved back and forth between these two positions as he spoke.

  “Look, it’s no secret that Cale and I fought. We’ve argued publicly about that diary for years, and there’s no point in pretending we haven’t. He mistakenly believed that it was public property and that when he found it, he could donate it to a university or to some museum. Obviously, as I’m sure you’ll understand, that diary rightly belongs to me. It was written by my great-grandfather. It is my property. I came to New York to talk some sense into Cale, to explain this fact to him once and for all.”

  Sebastian Conan Doyle looked to Harold for agreement. Sitting erect on the hard-backed wooden desk chair and listening attentively, Harold had no desire to argue with him on this point and yet didn’t feel like he could let it pass.

  “I understand your position, Mr. Conan Doyle. And look, I’m no lawyer. I don’t know all the fine points of inheritance law. But it doesn’t seem like the diary has been in your family’s possession for eighty years. It all depends on where Alex found it. And right now no one has any idea. Your claim on it doesn’t seem quite so simple, that’s all.”

  Sebastian sighed and shook his head. He turned to Sarah, who sat silently on the edge of the bed. She leaned back on her hands and ever so slightly kicked her legs in the air. She smiled at Sebastian and, while barely moving her head, gave him a look of sympathetic neutrality.

  “You’re spot-on there,” said Sebastian, turning back to Harold. “You’re not a lawyer.”

  Neither was Sebastian, thought Harold, though he had no idea what the man born into a moderate fortune actually did with his days. He did know that Sebastian was the oldest son of the now-deceased Henry Conan Doyle, and while Sebastian had a younger sister, an aunt, and four surviving Conan Doyle cousins, his voice was the one most prominently heard on copyright issues relating to the estate of his great-grandfather. Over the years, there had been tremendous infighting among the family over the literary rights to Holmes and Watson and over the fortune those rights churned out every year. The current state of Conan Doyle family relations was not a happy one, from what Harold understood. Though Lady Harriet Conan Doyle, Sebastian’s aunt, had been generous to scholars and to the public over the years, she and Sebastian were not on speaking terms. Harriet, as well as the younger Doyles, had so far stayed out of the issue of the diary. But just a few days after Alex Cale’s initial e-mail announced the discovery, Sebastian and his lawyers had gotten involved.

  “The courts will decide this well enough when the time comes,” continued Sebastian. “I sued Cale, you know, and if whoever has the diary now tries to donate it away, I’ll sue that bleeding fucker as well. But . . .” And here Sebastian came to a stop in the middle of the room, clicking his heels together like a German general in a World War II movie. “The trouble now, first and foremost, is finding them.”

  “The police still haven’t found anything hidden away in Cale’s hotel room?” asked Sarah.

  “No. Whoever killed him stole the diary as well. I was able to learn at least that much from them. Plus the basic information they’ve gotten from the hotel key-card records and the few interviews they’ve conducted with the hotel staff.”

  “What do the key-card records show?” asked Harold.

  “They show that three people entered Alex Cale’s room last night. Here.” Sebastian produced a folded piece of paper from his pocket and handed it to Harold.

  What the hell was going on? Why was Sebastian Conan Doyle handing him police records from the murder? Harold kept his thoughts to himself and looked down.

  The folded paper was a photocopy of a printout from the hotel’s security department. It listed all uses of Alex’s room key card and every opening and closing of the door to Room 1117. “Cale used his card to first enter his room, after checking in, at 12:46 a.m.,” said Sebastian. “Then three other people entered Cale’s room, at 3:51 a.m., 4:05 a.m., and 5:10 a.m.”

  “God! Whose key card was used to open the door?”

  “That’s the problem. No one’s. Each time the doors were opened and closed from the inside.”

  “So someone knocked and he let them in? Three different times in the middle of the night?”

  “Evidently,” said Sebastian. “Or someone came in and then left and then came in again. Of the three door openings, we can’t say which were comings or goings.”

  “Did they determine a time of death?”

  “Between four and eight in the morning. Any one of those visitors, if there were more than one, could have been the one to kill him.”

  “What about cameras? In the hallways?” asked Sarah.

  “None to speak of. There’s a few in the lobby, but they’re focused on the front doors and registration desk.”

  “So who came in the front door?” said Harold.

  “A bloody ton of people, Harold. It’s a two-hundred-room hotel. It was about two-thirds full on January the fifth.”

  “Did anyone come into the hotel just before Alex received his first visitor? At 3:40, or 3:45?”

  “Good question! I’m so glad I’ve come to you for help.” Harold refused to be perturbed by Sebastian’s blatant condescension. His mind was occupied with the details of the case. “No. No one entered the hotel between 3:20, when an out-of-town businessman returned from a strip club, and 4:30, when some Sherlockian stumbled in from the vodka lounge down the street—one of the Japanese ones, I forget his name.”

  “So whoever killed Alex was staying in the hotel last night?” said Sarah excitedly.

  “Indeed,” said Sebastian.

  “Or,” noted Harold quickly, “the killer just entered the hotel hours earlier, during a busy time when there’d be no way to identify him, and waited.”

  Sebastian considered this. “That’s a plausible scenario, I suppose. Interesting.” He scratched at his neck thoughtfully. “Let me make this very clear for you, Harold. Someone has stolen my property. I would like to get it back. And I’m willing to spend quite a bit of money to do so. Do you understand?”

  “Sure,” said Harold. As he returned Sebastian’s gaze and the moment stretched between them, Harold realized that there was an unasked question hanging in the air. “Is there something you want me to do about that?”

  Sebastian grimaced. He didn’t seem like a man who often felt the need to explain himself to those around him, and he looked uncomfortable having to do so now.

  “I told him,” said Sarah. Harold looked at her and realized that she was addressing him, not Sebastian. “I told Sebastian what you’re planning to do. That you’re going to solve the case. You are, aren’t you?”

  “Yes,” said Harold warily.

  “Good,” said Sebastian simply. “Then I’d much like to help you do it. I want you to find the diary. If you’d find the killer as well, fantastic. If not, fantastic. I couldn’t give a damn. But recover the diary, and return it to me, its rightful owner. I’ll pay you. Well.”

  Harold looked to Sarah for confirmation that Sebastian was serious about this. Her tiny curl of a smile remained as impenetrable as ever. How did she even know Sebastian?

  “Why me?” Harold asked, skipping over the thornier questions for a less prickly one.

  “In point of fact, that was Sarah’s idea. She’s been interviewing me these past few months, for her article. I’ve been staying at a hotel across town. I rang her as soon as I heard what happened. Sarah told me what you did in Cale’s room this morning. I was impressed. Let’s be honest— I think one of you people did this. I think one of your giddy, delusional pals killed Cale and stole my diary. Probably for some obsessive, arcane, and pointless reason. The twisted tosser is most likely building a shrine to the thing right now, praying to it like a dusty Ganesha. I’m going to need someone who is—how shall I put this?–similarly di
sposed in order to get the diary back. ‘Elementary’ written in blood on the wall? Come on. It’s some sick Sherlockian leaving messages behind for another sick Sherlockian to follow. No offense, of course.”

  “None taken,” said Harold genuinely. Sebastian stepped toward him and, standing before Harold, looked him right in the eye. “I have access to certain . . . Well, I can get you what you need. Tell me how I can help.”

  Harold thought of the thrill of discovery he’d experienced in Alex’s room. The sensation of finding things out. Of solving the puzzle. He thought of his need to know.

  “ ‘My professional charges are upon a fixed scale,’ ” said Harold. “ ‘I do not vary them, save when I remit them altogether.’”

  “Excuse me?”

  “It’s a quote. It’s from ‘Thor Bridge.’ One of the stories.”

  Sebastian and Sarah looked at Harold blankly.

  “I’ll do it,” Harold explained. “And I’m not going to charge you. But I’ll need a few things.”

  “Very well,” said Sebastian.

  “I need copies of the police reports. The autopsy, the full interviews, everything.”

  “Certainly.”

  “And a ticket to London. First class. I could sit here interviewing Sherlockians all day, but it won’t get me anywhere. They’re too smart for that. I think the key to the murder is the diary. In order to find out where the diary is, we need to find out where it came from. Where did Alex find it? How did Alex find it? I need to see his home. His study.”

  “Done.” Sebastian positively grinned.

  “Two tickets,” chimed Sarah. They both turned to her, surprised to hear her voice. “I came here to follow the story. Right now you’re it.”

  Harold had up until this moment not been sure that he trusted Sarah Lindsay. He was now absolutely certain that he didn’t.

  “You need a Watson, don’t you?” she said, registering his apprehension.

  Sebastian looked down at his shoes, as if to hide his embarrassment at being a part of this conversation. Thinking it over, Harold could muster up no argument against Sarah’s logic. If he were to be Sherlock Holmes, he would indeed need a Watson. And yet . . .

  Sarah smiled broadly at him, and with that went the last of his sensible caution.

  “The game’s afoot!” Harold said proudly as he rose from his chair. Sarah closed her eyes for a second, withholding a smirk.

  CHAPTER 13

  The White Dress

  “My revenge is just begun! I spread it over

  centuries, and time is on my side.”

  —Bram Stoker,

  Dracula

  October 21,1900

  “Might we run over what exactly it is that I am doing here?” asked Bram Stoker as they climbed York Street north from the Stepney Station. Though not crowded, the passenger trains along the Blackwall line were few and far between, and so this afternoon’s excursion to the East End had already proved quite time consuming. “I’ve a play which needs attending, mind you. Henry wants a live horse onstage for his Don Quixote tomorrow, so I really must be digging a mare up somewhere.”

  “Dribbling imbeciles, Bram,” exclaimed Arthur as he waded through the unwashed pedestrians. “I wouldn’t trust the Yard to find their own soiled knickers.” He looked up in vain for some sign as to his location. Merely two blocks from the entrance to Stepney Station, and he was quite lost. “There’s a dead girl in desperate need of assistance. It would be ungentlemanly to turn away.”

  “She’s dead. I don’t know that either of us is in a position to give her the assistance she might need, unless you’ve been the recipient of some ordination of which I’m unaware.”

  “Justice, then,” submitted Arthur. “We’ll give her justice.”

  Bram did not appear convinced.

  “Someone blew apart my writing desk. My family was in the house. My well-being aside, that of my family’s ought to concern you.”

  Bram sighed. “Arthur, what am I doing here?”

  Arthur stopped. “I need your help.”

  “My Lord. You want me to be your Watson, don’t you?”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “You think that because you squirted life into Holmes from the tip of your pen, you might become him yourself. So you need a Watson, and for some reason known only to yourself, you’ve chosen me. Why not Barrie or, better yet, Shaw? I’m certain he has nothing else to do.”

  “That’s quite a deduction. Perhaps you’re the one who fancies himself a detective.”

  “Very well, if you’re to act like that, then yes, let’s speak plainly,” said Bram. “Watson is a cheap, efficient little sod of a literary device. Holmes doesn’t need him to solve the crimes any more than he needs a ten-stone ankle weight. The audience, Arthur. The audience needs Watson as an intermediary, so that Holmes’s thoughts might be forever kept just out of reach. If you told the stories from Holmes’s perspective, everyone would know what the bleeding genius was thinking the whole time. They’d have their culprit fingered on page one. But if you tell the stories from Watson’s perspective, the reader is permitted to chase in the darkness with the bumbling oaf. Watson is a comic flourish. He’s a gag. A good one, all right, I’ll give you that, but I hardly see how you’ll be needing one of him.”

  Arthur addressed his friend as if he were forced to explain for the hundredth time why the sky shone blue. “Look here,” he began, “I’m trying to put this with all the respect you’re due. I’m not well versed in this—yes, you understand—this neighborhood, you see? And I’m no gossiping crone, of course. But, let us speak frankly. I’ve come to understand that you’ve spent some time in this neck of the woods, and you might have some experience with the local inhabitants that might prove useful in our investigations. Very good?”

  Bram was offended by Arthur’s implication.

  “You do me wrong, my old friend. I don’t believe I can stand here and take your insinuations lightly. You know very well what sort of women call this place home, and what a gentleman like you or me would be looking for if we were to come down this way. I’ll have you know that your words are most unkind.”

  Arthur stared Bram dead in the eyes for a moment. He looked up at the surrounding buildings, finding nothing to provide directions save the advertisements for Duke of Wellington Cigars and Grover’s Lime Juice. He looked down at the address he’d printed neatly on a scrap of writing paper and scrunched his face in befuddlement.

  “My deepest apologies. I had no intention of giving offense. I most certainly did not mean to imply that you were the sort of fellow who sought comfort in this wretched, ungodly place. Blast it, I’m properly lost. Is this Salmon Street?”

  “No,” said Bram without pausing to think. “Salmon is the next right up that way. You’ve wandered onto—” Bram stopped himself, realizing his accidental admission. “Yes, give me a moment. I don’t know this area.” He made a great show of looking around for street signs as well, and of being surprised to find none.

  “Pardon me, ma’am?” said Bram to a passing young woman in a black dress. “Might you know the way to Salmon Street?”

  The woman stopped, quickly looked Bram up and down, and smiled flirtatiously. Her cheeks were brighter, as she grinned, than the copper buttons on her dress.

  “I do, sir,” she said. “Might you be looking to take a trip to Hairyfordshire?”

  Arthur looked genuinely confused; what in the world was she talking about?

  “I’m very sorry, ma’am, you’ve misunderstood me,” said Bram in a hurry. “We’re just looking for Salmon Street. Is it that way?” He pointed up ahead, in the direction he had already suggested.

  Now it was the young woman’s turn to look confused.

  “Why, yes,” she said. “It’s just up there, take a right.”

  “Thank you most kindly,” said Bram as he turned to walk in that direction.

  “But I do think,” said the lady, “that if two right gentlemen such as yourselve
s are looking to take a trip elsewhere, perhaps somewhere more soothing, threepence apiece might pay your fare.”

  Arthur figured out what she was driving at. He was shocked by the woman’s bluntness.

  “Good day, madam,” he said simply, and walked away in the direction she, and Bram, had indicated. As Bram trotted behind Arthur, he turned back to the confused young woman and offered her a look of apology for his rude and simple companion. She shrugged and continued on her way.

  A few minutes later, Arthur had found the address and rapped at the small door. Begrudgingly, Bram stood at his side, shifting his weight tediously from foot to foot.

  Arthur knocked on the door once again, this time banging with the flat, pinkie side of his coiled fist. Paint peeling from its edges, the door creaked open, and a squat, angry man appeared behind it.

  “And who all are you lot supposed to be, then?” he barked. He wore britches, and a dull gray vest open over his work shirt. His hair, slicked to the back of his head, receded aggressively from his brow, as if running flat out for the nape of his neck.

  “Good sir, we are here investigating the case of the poor girl who was murdered two weeks past in your boardinghouse.”

  “You don’t look like bobbies,” he said.

  “No, we’re not. We’re—”

  The man quickly shut the door in Arthur’s face. Arthur was stunned.

  “Sir!” he yelled inside after a moment had passed. “Sir, if you’ll open the door again, I give you my word that we won’t take up too much of your time. We’d just like to see your rooms for a moment. To get a look at the crime scene, if we might. We—”

  “This is Arthur Conan Doyle!” shouted Bram at the stolid door. Arthur turned to his friend, surprised to hear his voice.

  “I don’t see how that’s relevant,” Arthur said.

  But before he could continue, the door opened halfway and the angry man popped his head out into the street.

  “You’re Arthur Conan Doyle?” he said to Bram.

  “No,” Bram replied. “I’m . . .well, I’m nobody. This”—and here he gestured at Arthur—“this is Arthur Conan Doyle.”