The Sherlockian

by Graham Moore

  Henry stepped back, holding his sore face. All eyes in the room turned to Arthur. It was only then, a few seconds later, that Arthur became aware that he had just assaulted a police officer.

  “Men,” said Edward Henry quietly, “place the darbies on Dr. Doyle, if you will.” Two detectives approached Arthur from behind. They were considerate of Arthur’s comfort, as they placed his hands inside a pair of metal cuffs and clamped them around his wrists. As they stood to Arthur’s sides, each with a hand on one of his shoulders, they stared down at their own boots, as if frightened of making eye contact.

  Arthur was too stunned to speak. What had he done? He looked to Inspector Miller for support.

  “Don’t you worry, now, Arthur,” said Inspector Miller, “we’ll straighten this all out.”Arthur did not say another word as the two bobbies led him down the stairs and out into a waiting carriage, bound for Newgate Prison.

  CHAPTER 32

  The Library

  “Watson insists that I am the dramatist in real life,” said [Holmes].

  “Some touch of the artist wells up within me, and calls insistently

  for a well-staged performance. Surely our profession, Mr. Mac,

  would be a drab and sordid one if we did not sometimes

  set the scene so as to glorify our results.”

  —Sir Arthur Conan Doyle,

  “The Valley of Fear”

  January 11, 2010, cont.

  The outside of the British Library, at St. Pancras, was the color of terracotta. Architecturally, it resembled a set of misshapen rectangles that had been laid on top of one another without quite fitting together. Harold was reminded of a broken Lego kit.

  Harold and Sarah passed through the public gate, under the tall portico on which the words “British Library” descended in pudgy letters from the ceiling. Harold quickly glanced at the mammoth statue of Isaac Newton as they made their way inside; he didn’t have much of an eye for sculpture, but he did think that the bronze figure’s meaty calf muscles were surprisingly large for a mathematician’s.

  They filled out their paperwork in the cramped registration office. They claimed to be bird scholars and presented their driver’s licenses. Harold had thought that getting access to the stacks of the British Library would be difficult, time consuming, and horrifically bureaucratic, but within twelve minutes he and Sarah had made it through security and into the first of the private reading rooms.

  A quick search of the electronic card catalog revealed that the nature section, on Shelf 7852, was located on the fourth floor. They went up the elevator and through the stacks, finally making their way to a low shelf on which sat dozens upon dozens of bird-watching guides.

  The idea of coming to the British Library had been Harold’s. He was certain that the missing copy of British Birds from Alex Cale’s writing office could not be an accident. So where would it be?

  “Remember what Jennifer Peters told us about Cale’s research?” Harold had said. “He did most of it in the British Library. It sounded like he spent much of his final weeks there. And if I had to pick one place in London to hide a book where it wouldn’t be accidentally disturbed . . .”

  As soon as Harold saw the birding section on the fourth floor, he felt more confident in his suspicion that some clue might be waiting for him there. The whole natural-sciences area was devoid of visitors. Dust covered every book on the shelf. It looked as if no one had been there in months, at best. If Cale had left something here to be found after his death, there was every indication that Harold would still be able to find it. He dropped to his knees, yanking the books off the shelves with excitement.

  “Is there a specific book we’re looking for?” said Sarah as she joined Harold on the floor.

  “Not really,” replied Harold. “Anything with ‘British’ and ‘birds’ in the title. In the story the book is just called British Birds, but nothing with that exact name exists. But there are a bunch of similar options. Here.” Harold pulled out a book called Bird Song: A Field Manual for Naturalists on the Songs of British Birds “Hmm,” he continued as he flipped to the book’s copyright page. “From 1925. Too recent. He would have used a book that had been in print when Conan Doyle was alive. Something Sherlock Holmes could have read. Something printed in the 1880s or 1890s.”

  Sarah picked up a thick picture book called The Varieties of British Birds. She looked at the date—1975. No good. Over the next few minutes, they peeled book after book from the shelves. Both were surprised with how thoroughly the subject of England’s birds had been covered in naturalist literature.

  With a gleam in his eye, Harold settled on a squat little volume, torn at the edges. He removed it from the shelf. Bacon’s Guide to British Birds, read the faded cover. He opened it up. The book had been first published in 1876. This edition had been printed in 1894.

  Harold separated the covers eagerly. Before he’d even held the book to his face, a single sheet of white paper fell from between the pages. Harold looked down. The white paper had been folded in half. It looked new.

  Sarah saw the paper on the floor and shifted over next to Harold. As he picked up the sheet, she tilted her head over Harold’s shoulder so that she could read alongside him. He could feel her breath on his earlobes.

  When he opened the paper, he found a typewritten note.

  To Whom It May Concern,

  If you are an amateur ornithologist and have come across this note in the course of looking up information on the wing coloring of the pied wagtail, then please dispose of this paper forthwith. Its intended recipient was slow in finding his way here and is no longer in need of the information below. If, on the other hand, you are a player in the Great Game and have found this note by way of a dead body in a New York hotel room, then congratulations. Your journey is ended. Almost.

  So, fellows, which one of you is it sitting in the British Library reading these words? Is that you, Jeffrey Engels? Were I a betting man, I would have placed my money on you. Or Les, my dear friend Les . . . I would have thought you were too sane to go traipsing about the globe in search of a dead man’s final message. Or Ron? I wouldn’t have believed that you had the faculties to have made it this far, but if this is you, Ron Rosenberg, then congratulations are in order. You’ve surprised me to the last. If this is Sebastian Conan Doyle—well, if this is you, Sebastian, then I have failed. Which one of them did you get to help you? I assume that you would try to throw your money at the problem and hire one of my fellow Sherlockians to figure out the mystery of your own family. Which one of them was stupid enough to agree? I can only hope you’ ll both join me in hell soon enough.

  Which segues rather nicely into what you’re doing here, whoever you are. As you know, I am dead. I was strangled in my room at the Algonquin Hotel in New York, on the early morning of January 6. Do you know who killed me? If you’ve made it all the way here, then I’ ll wager you probably do. I’m the murderer. I killed myself.

  Oh, yes, I’m sure that you’re wondering why. But have no fear. You’ll figure it out. Well, that is, if you’re smart enough!

  Have you deduced where the diary is yet? My guess is that you haven’t. That’s a trickier problem, and it took me over a decade to work it out myself. But as soon as I did, I knew I’ d have to take the secret to my grave. However, I thought it wouldn’t be fair to go off to my doom without giving someone else a hint—just a little push in the right direction. And so I devised this devilish little puzzle, to live on after my passing. In my life, I was the greatest Sherlockian scholar in the world. Whoever can solve the mystery I’ve left behind deserves the title of second place. Now that I am gone, you can feel certain that you are the most accomplished Sherlock Holmes scholar alive. Congratulations. You have earned it.

  So where will you be off to next, Detective? You must know by now that I did not have the diary with me in New York. And you know that it is not in either of my London flats. So where is it? It is a delicious little puzzle, is it not? I can only hope th
at Arthur Conan Doyle would have been proud.

  My father died on January 6. Did you know that? I’m positive that he had no idea, when the aneurysm in his brain burst, that it was Sherlock Holmes’s birthday. I don’t think Jennifer ever made the connection either. My good Jennifer—she was a wonderful sister, I assure you, no matter what she says about me now. And now I have died on January 6 as well. Was I a better man than my father? My God, I hope so. You, Detective, you’ ll be liable to think the worst of me after you’ve read this. You’ ll think I was vain and self-centered, you’ ll believe me to have been unbalanced. You’ ll psychoanalyze me with such ease—obsessed with Holmes, unbalanced after the death of my father, unable to ever lift myself from the burden of his disapproval, etc. You’ll need to get inside my head, won’t you? You’ ll need to feel that you can explain me, because that’s what a great detective does: He explains. Well then, have at me.

  The old centuries had, and have, powers of their own, which mere modernity cannot kill. I believe that’s all the explanation you’re due.

  Farewell,

  Alexander Horace Cale

  Harold held his arms stiff, and the letter outstretched, until Sarah had finished reading. She nodded gently, breathing more warm air onto his earlobe. Harold shuffled forward, giving himself a few inches. He turned to face her. The silence that enveloped them was like many of the silences they had known over the past week. Neither wanted to sully the moment by saying something obvious. And so, neither of them having anything to say that wasn’t obvious, they were silent. He passed her the note, and she read it again. Harold leaned back against the largely empty shelf and closed his eyes.

  There was mostly sadness, now. Even Alex Cale’s suicide note was well written and coursed with his wit, with his charm, with the strength of his personality. Even his suicide note made you want to know him. And yet it seemed to Harold as if no one really did. He had held himself back from everyone.

  “You knew him,” said Sarah after she’d read the letter a second time.

  “I’m sorry.”

  Harold said nothing. He couldn’t help but notice that Cale had not mentioned his name among the list of Sherlockians who might have made it this far. Cale didn’t even know who Harold was before he died. And yet Harold was the one who had made it here. For a moment he felt vindicated and victorious—and then in an instant he was ashamed at the thought. Cale hadn’t died so that Harold could prove himself— though, in some perverse way, he had.

  “Dracula,” Harold said suddenly.

  Sarah was confused. “What? Look, I know that you and Alex weren’t best friends, but you knew him, and—”

  “No.Dracula. The last part of the note is a quotation. ‘The old centuries had, and have, powers of their own, which mere modernity cannot kill.’ That’s from Dracula. He’s telling us something. It’s the next clue.”

  “Oh,” said Sarah. There was hesitation in her voice. “That’s . . . very quick, good work. I’m really sorry about Alex. I just . . . whatever. I wanted to tell you that I’m sorry. I never met him. In person, I mean. Just a few e-mails back and forth. And I read his book, the copy of it we found. It’s funny how much sense you get of a guy’s personality from his suicide note.”

  “Is it okay if we don’t talk about it?” Harold couldn’t handle thinking about Alex right now. He wanted to move on. He wanted to investigate.

  “Yes,” said Sarah reassuringly. She squeezed his hand. “But when you’re done investigating and this all hits you, I want you to remember that you did a great thing. You did what Alex wanted. You followed his clues. You’ve solved his puzzle, almost. There’s no better way you could honor his memory.”

  “Thank you.” He squeezed back.

  “So whatever happens, however this ends, you should feel proud.”

  “I will.”

  “Promise?”

  Harold smiled. “Yes.”

  “Good. So, what’s Dracula have to do with all of this?” Sarah asked as she began putting some of the birding books back on their shelves.

  “That’s the question,” replied Harold. “We know that Conan Doyle was good friends with Bram Stoker. Everybody knows that, it’s public knowledge. But what if Stoker is the key to finding the diary? Is that what Cale was getting at? If Cale somehow found the diary through Bram Stoker . . .”

  Rather than respond, Sarah elected to continue sliding the books back into place.

  “Cambridge!” Harold exclaimed.

  Sarah smiled. She knew he’d get it, of course. All she had to do was wait. Harold did feel proud, and he had her to thank for it.

  “What’s in Cambridge?” she asked.

  “Didn’t Jennifer Peters say that her brother had been on a trip to Cambridge just before he died?”

  “I think so,” she said after she’d thought about it. “But so? He probably went to half a dozen universities for research.”

  “Right. But Cambridge is the university that houses all of the original letters of Bram Stoker.” Harold’s face brightened.

  Sarah took the letter, folded it back up, and put it in her purse.

  “All right then,” she said. “Let’s go get the diary.”

  CHAPTER 33

  Newgate

  I sometimes think we must be all mad and that

  we shall wake to sanity in straight-waistcoats.

  —Bram Stoker,

  Dracula

  November 13,1900, cont.

  The stench of Newgate Prison wet the tiny hairs on the inside of Arthur’s nose. Given his social stature, the prison’s governor had granted him a private cell. The knowledge that this must have been the largest and best maintained of all the cells in Newgate only served to further horrify him. The room was eight feet by twelve, with a barred window at the far end, facing the central yard. Yet as Arthur was on only the second floor, not much light got through the thick bars. A water tank and a washbasin lay beneath the window, accompanied by a rolled-up set of bedding. There was no table in the cell, but merely a single shelf, on which rested a plate, a mug, and a Bible. On the opposite side from the window, Arthur could see out the cell doors to the gallery. When he pressed his face against the bars, he could see cell after cell in neat little rows, like hedges stretching into the distance. Arthur could not see the end of the cells, or any of the floors above or below his. There was a skylight at the roof of the prison gallery, and yet little light from that made it to Arthur either. The gallery smelled like a rotting corpse and sounded with the wails of men halfway to death themselves.

  Arthur thumbed through a Bible to pass the time. It was the King James Version, and so stained with filth as to be barely readable. He wondered if it would provide him some comfort in this moment of need. Might he open the page to a trenchant aphorism that would buoy his soul from the crushing iniquities of the prison? The first words he saw, when he let the Bible fall open, were these: “I am a victem of yer sweet smell’d cunt.” Some previous inhabitant of these quarters had scrawled the words into the margins, as if they were a scholar’s commentary upon the text. Arthur glanced down at the cheaply printed verses. He was treated to the bit in Joshua where the children of Israel are circumcised for the second time. “And Joshua made him sharp knives, and circumcised the children of Israel at the hill of the foreskins,” Arthur read. He was unsure as to whether the misspelled commentary was supposed to refer to this specific verse or whether it was more a general statement of the man’s attitudes on the day he’d written it. After thinking upon this matter for a minute, Arthur realized that he did not much care. For the Bible or for his fellow prisoner.

  The day wore on, and he did not speak to a single inhabitant of the nearby cells. When the men were released into the yard, for some sort of recreation, Arthur was purposefully kept inside his cell by the guards. “You’ll find it safer here,” a guard told him as he unlocked the cell beside Arthur’s while leaving his door untouched. Arthur was not in a position to disagree.

  While the other priso
ners frolicked in the yard, the governor of Newgate came down to see him personally. “Terribly sorry about all this,” the man said. “Inspector Miller sent word, and he’ll try to have you out by nightfall. Can we fetch you anything to help you pass the time?” Arthur thanked the man for his sympathies but said that he had all that he required. The governor offered to assist him in sending a message to his family—“I’ll take it down to the GPO myself,” he said—but Arthur wouldn’t hear of it. He would rather that Touie and the children not learn about this particular adventure. The governor said that he understood.

  “I’ve a family, too, Dr. Doyle. My good wife, Shelly, and my boy. Terrific lad. His name is Arthur, too. Funny that!”

  “Yes. I appreciate your discretion,” said Arthur, well aware of where this discussion was headed. He had learned, over the years, that as soon as any man made even the briefest mention of his “terrific lad,” Arthur should begin to search around for a pen forthwith.

  “If you don’t mind, sir,” said the governor. “He’s a great admirer of yours, my boy is. And . . . well, of course I am, too. If you wouldn’t mind, if it’s not too much of an imposition . . .”

  “Oh, just give me the bloody book,” said Arthur. He signed a copy of The Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes for the governor and then signed a copy of The Sign of the Four as well. Elated at his good fortune over having Arthur Conan Doyle as a day prisoner, the governor left Arthur alone with a firm handshake for a farewell. As the man strode through the galley of his prison, Arthur could hear him whistling.