Sherlock Holmes Edwardian Parodies and Pastiches II

by Bill Peschel

  “What has happened? I thought I saw you falling, shot out of your armchair, and where is that scoundrel Moriarty?”

  “My dear Watson, you look bewildered, you must forgive a little ruse I adopted to gain a position of safety on the floor out of range of the window. Our amiable professor is doubtless enjoying his breakfast in London by this time.”

  “Thank Heaven you escaped. But what occurred when I was struck down? I insist on an explanation, else I will get out of bed at once.”

  Holmes chuckled at my eagerness, he seemed a new man this morning. There was a brightness in his eye, which showed that he no longer complained of the monotony of existence.

  “The last move of our friend Moriarty was not entirely unsuspected by me. I felt convinced that he had at least one confederate in the verandah, while he was entertaining us with his story. When he produced his pistol, I flung a block of coal, which was ready to my hand, and struck it from his grasp. At the same time I unfortunately stunned you with the missile as it glanced from the pistol, and as I collapsed on the floor his supporter began to show his hand by bursting in at the window. For a few minutes, I assure you, my little room was the scene of a lively melee. My young friend and neighbour, Dickson, fortunately tumbled in upon our activity, and the enemy retreated in some confusion. There is a coolness about the modern British youth, Watson, that occasionally makes me feel absurdly immature. My young visitor calmly remarked that he had come round for a game of chess, but that this was rather more of a rag, and hoped I could see my way to a repetition of the sport.”

  “Of course you will put the police on Moriarty’s track.”

  For a moment a shade passed over Holmes’ face.

  “Our old opponent is a singularly cunning individual. While he was amusing us with the account of his escape, his friend coolly burgled the few pieces of plate which adorn my dining-room. You will regret to hear of the departure of the German Emperor’s cup, and of the set of dishes presented to me by the French Government on the happy solution of the Tournay incident.”

  “What!” I exclaimed, sitting up in bed in dismay. “Surely you have wired to Scotland Yard already?”

  Holmes laughed drily.

  “I can see the British populace grinning cheerfully over a glowing example of modern journalism. ‘Burglary at Mr. Sherlock Holmes, the unconscious owner sitting in the adjacent room talking over the past with Professor Moriarty.’ No, my good Watson, I am not yet entirely proof against ridicule. Moriarty is quite aware of the fact, and had cleverly arranged this little farce should his attempt to kidnap me fail, in order to secure my silence.”

  The truth of Holmes’ remark was obvious. Moriarty had nothing to fear if Holmes held his tongue. He had cleverly evaded actual implication when his associates had been caught and punished. After his long absence he was practically unknown. He had intended to make Holmes a prisoner, lest he should be interfered with in some important scheme. With infernal ingenuity he had at least secured the certainty that Holmes would have to act as a silent adversary. But I was curious to learn how Holmes had reasoned out his conclusions about Moriarty’s life subsequent to his escape. I implored Holmes to enlighten my ignorance.

  “You know my habits, Watson, I never allow any interference with my private den. It is also a useful habit to retain in your mind the appearance of a room each time you leave it. Last night, when we entered my den, I saw the slightest alteration of my papers. No one had entered by the door. My thoughts went to the window opening upon my little verandah. For some days I have been interested in certain criminal mysteries of the last three weeks, and almost regretted my retirement from active investigation. In them I saw a resemblance to some of Moriarty’s finer work. Then the faintest odour in the air aroused a forgotten memory. Where had I come across a similar perfume? It is curious how potent a smell is to arouse recollection, for both occasions when I met Moriarty, once in my room, and once when his arms were around me on the precipice, I had noted that he used a particular form of balsamic soap. Did it again betoken his presence? I shifted the small mirror in my Japanese matchbox to reflect the heavily curtained window in my rear. The curtains quivered ever so slightly when I mentioned his name. My dramatic production of Moriarty you already know.”

  “But how did you tell him so accurately his actions in Japan, and what was the meaning of that peculiar sign which passed between you?”

  “You will remember, Watson, that I passed two years in the East after the Reichenbach incident. While there, I unravelled the secrets of a world-wide society with branches in every country. Of this Moriarty is an active member, but he has repeatedly abused the power of the society for his own ends. He has skilfully concealed his duplicity hitherto. When I astonished him with the most significant secret sign of the order, he dared not assassinate me on the spot, as he doubtless intended at first to do. You, Watson, would probably have accompanied me down the Styx but for that sign. Instead, he beguiled us with the tale of his escape until the burglary of my valuables was complete, and his friends free to lend a hand in kidnapping us. I amused myself during his protracted speech by deducing those facts from his appearance and behaviour which so startled him at its close.”

  “But how could you tell that he was concerned in the betrayal of the Japanese plans?”

  “Watson, you always insist on depriving me of the reputation of a wizard. If I avoided explaining the simplicity of my methods, I should pass as a spiritualistic mystery, capable of uncanny insight into my neighbour’s thoughts. Did it not strike you that had Moriarty returned to England sooner he would have paid me some immediate attention? He has never been a man given to wearing new clothes, yet all his garments to his very socks and tie were absolutely new. His bootlaces spoke of less than a month’s wear, and the tailor’s creases were still in his trousers—our friend is not a man to use a stretcher. Some event had necessitated a complete new outfit on his return to England. I mentally wondered what part of the globe had occupied Moriarty’s restless talents for over ten years.

  “Then at the close of his narrative he showed me the clue. He opened the ingenious puzzle of my matchbox without a moment’s hesitation when he wanted a light. That box was given to me by a high Japanese official in London, its only duplicate belongs to a leading member of the Government in Tokio. Where could the powers of Moriarty have been more skilfully employed than in the interests of that most progressive nation? He has doubtless executed many secret commissions and taken a leading part in the deception of Russian officialdom, when Japan was preparing for the present war.

  “The selling of his employers would be a natural and congenial escapade for Moriarty’s peculiar mental obliquity. Detected by the close espionage around him, he departs so suddenly to save his life that he is obliged to seek a complete wardrobe on his landing in England. From his more than formerly cadaverous appearance, and the still reddish burn on his forearm, his aquatic performance may have been equalled by the fiery ordeal of a homeward journey as a stoker in the hold of a steamship.”

  Holmes got up and stretched himself, and was about to leave the room, saying that I had better take another sleep to recover from my blow.

  “What will you do, Holmes?”

  “London was indeed the sweeter for the absence of Professor Moriarty, but it was undeniably much duller. My experiments in bee farming on the Suffolk downs became, frankly, a bore. On the whole the recovery of my cherished possessions, and an investigation into Moriarty’s present ambitions, promise to relieve the ennui of existence. I have telegraphed to Mrs. Hudson that I propose to return to Baker Street. Should you feel better to-morrow, we may go up to town by the mid-day express. An evening at Kubelik’s recital offers considerable enjoyment; his interpretation is marvellous, though I prefer Joachim in the legato passages.”

  Holmes was slowly leaving the room. For an instant, he paused and looked at me keenly. I felt those piercing, inexorable eyes searching my face.

  “Yes, my dear Watson,” he drawled
maliciously, “I think you can with safety promise your publisher another dozen of our interesting little episodes.”

  The door closed behind him. There are times when Holmes’ startling intuition renders one mute with bewilderment at his extraordinary insight and sagacity.

  The Missing Golf Balls

  Wex Jones

  Little is known of Wex Jones, except that he was a writing dynamo during his career with Hearst newspapers. He specialized in short, humorous essays and poems that circulated widely beyond his home at the New York American, where he edited the comic page. He was also noted for his champion bull terriers that he raised on his New Jersey farm. But before he landed in New York, he was a reporter on The Oregonian, where he wrote this piece.

  Slitting open his left forearm with a razor, Holmes was about to inject a bicycle pumpful of cocaine, Willamette water, and local-option dope, when the light of battle gleamed in his eyes and caused the cat to think dawn had come.

  “Some one is coming upstairs, Watson,” he said. “I heard footsteps on the stairs, but—you wonder how I know our visitor is coming up instead of going down,” interrupted Holmes, reading my thoughts. “It’s childishly simple,” he continued. “I fixed the second step from the top so that anyone treading on it is shot down the whole flight. The stranger hasn’t fallen yet, and must therefore be coming up.”

  At that moment there was a crash. Holmes opened the door and stepped out. “Try again, my dear sir,” he called out to the man who lay in a tumbled heap at the bottom of the stairs. This time our visitor was more successful. He entered the room and took a seat opposite the window.

  “Did you have a good game?” said Holmes.

  “How did you guess—”

  “Nothing, my dear sir,” answered Holmes. “Your mouth has certain lines brought on by saying a vigorous word beginning with d, and the Sellwood transfer in your pocket tells me you are a golfer.”

  “Yes, I play golf. My name is McStingo,” said our visitor. “I have come to ask you to solve the mystery of the lost golf balls.”

  Holmes brightened up. The old sleuth-hound instincts awoke. In a few moments he had the story from McStingo. Four thousand golf balls had been lost in two weeks.

  “Are you prepared for a long trip, Watson?” said Holmes, placing a revolver in his pocket. “Better take a Scotch glossary,” he added.

  I compromised on a flask of it.

  Reaching the ground, Holmes drew out a microscope and examined each blade of grass. “A cow has been here lately,” he muttered.

  “How did you know?”

  He showed me a cowslip.

  Inquiries in the neighborhood showed that there was indeed a cow. She was the picture of health.

  “That cow,” said Holmes, “has swallowed the golf balls. You see that big ad over there, ‘Pills for the Pale’? She has taken the golf balls for pills, and the influence of mind over matter has caused her to grow well and give lots of milk.”

  On our return to the house Holmes turned the case over to Detective Night, with the advice to get out a search warrant.

  The Humility of Holmes

  Frank Richardson

  This multi-chapter excerpt was taken from The Secret Kingdom, a comic novel that parodied Ruritanian romances popularized by The Prisoner of Zenda. The hero, Paul Peterson, is an Oxford graduate and unknowing heir to the throne of Numania. He was raised by his guardian, Col. Bombovitch, and is in love with his guardian’s niece, the self-promoting novelist Amanda Dolorosa. When strangers approach him with messages such as “Paul Petrovitch, be prepared, the day is at hand,” he seeks the great detective’s help, only to discover that all is not as it seems.

  Frank Richardson (1870-1917) was a barrister, writer, and wit, credited with coining “face-fungus” to describe whiskers (in fact, judging by this excerpt, he seemed curiously obsessed with facial hair). In addition to his light novels, he also wrote a detective novel, The Mayfair Mystery, that was republished in 2015.

  Directly the launch reached London, Paul jumped into a cab.

  “Sherlock Holmes, Baker Street.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The driver stopped at an unpretentious house near Klein’s, the hairdresser’s, on the front of which was a small circular tablet bearing the words:

  “SHERLOCK HOLMES

  LIVED HERE

  1890—. . .”

  The second date had happily not been filled in.

  Following a page-boy, Paul was ushered into the presence of the eminent detective, and a person whose unintelligent demeanour proved him to be Dr. Watson, his Boswellian assistant.

  Before the visitor had spoken a word, Holmes gave him proof of his marvellous sagacity.

  “You have come to consult me,” he said, tapping his slender fingers together and gazing with eyes like burning coals.

  “Impossible!” exclaimed Paul in surprise.

  “Yes; it is as I have said.”

  Watson held up his hands in amazement.

  “It is,” admitted Paul, aghast.

  “Let me see, you have just coxed the Oxford Eight to victory, Mr. Peterson, have you not?”

  “You know me!”

  “I have never heard of you in my life until today.”

  “But how did you identify me? How did you know that I had coxed the boat?”

  “Your hands are torn and bleeding. That could not be caused by the oars. But it could be caused by tiller-ropes. So, in spite of your unusual size, I deduced that you had acted as cox.”

  “I begin to understand your methods.”

  “The beginning is not the end, as Dr. Watson here can certify.”

  Watson certified.

  “But, Mr. Holmes, granted that my hands are out of repair, how did you know that I was in the Oxford crew, or that my name is Peterson?”

  “You are wearing the blazer and the cap of the Oxford Eight. I could hardly be mistaken, you see.”

  He smiled at his superhuman intelligence. Watson seconded the motion.

  “An early edition of an evening paper, judiciously purchased, told me the rest.”

  “The greatest thinkers,” said Watson, “are those who discover the obvious.”

  “Shut up!” snapped Holmes. “Every man his own impresario.”

  Then Paul told with absolute accuracy the history of the three messages and the story of his life in so far as he knew it.

  Holmes’s lofty brow clouded. At the end of the account he said:

  “One question. Did you take off either of the boots of either of the men?”

  “I neglected to do that. I never thought of doing that,” Paul confessed.

  “You should have,” answered the Master, sadly shaking his head. “That should have been your first thought.”

  “But, pardon me, why?”

  “I will explain,” he said, with a smile of condescension beautiful to behold. “For this reason: Had you secured a single boot of one of these men—you could have made some tactful excuse for doing so—I should have been able to trace him. Any fairly respectable man walking about the streets of London with one boot and one stocking or sock would undoubtedly attract remark. Would he not?”

  “He would.”

  “Also, I have always found that it is infinitely easier to trace, either in the snow or in the dust, the tracks of a man with only one boot, which is practically only one foot. The bulk of Londoners, at least, are ambi-pedal. You, Watson, of course, remember my marvellous success in the case of Wooden-legged Willy.”

  “Of course.”

  “That was a mysterious affair which baffled the police for over forty years. It happened that in a small hamlet a woman was murdered with a wooden leg. A diminutive splinter, such as could only belong to a wooden leg—an off-side wooden leg—had been discovered in her head. The police knew this, yet they were completely at fault. They could not trace the murderer. But after forty years they had the good sense—call it what you will—to come to me, and I instantly arrested the only wooden-leg
ged man in the hamlet. He had lost his right leg, and supplied its place with scaffolding. As, on microscopical examination, the leg was found to have lost several splinters, it seemed to me that I had made out a pretty clear case. Eh?”

  “I should think so, indeed!” exclaimed Paul, lost in admiration.

  “But—would you believe it?—the jury acquitted him!”

  “Impossible! On what grounds?”

  “On the grounds, forsooth, that he was only twenty-three years of age. His counsel produced evidence to prove that the prisoner was not born at the date of the crime. So much for our criminal law!” he commented severely.

  “Statistics are accepted in place of circumstantial evidence.”

  Then abruptly he addressed Watson:

  “Can you go to America to-night? Can you make arrangements to leave your patients?”

  “I cannot leave you, my dear Holmes,” answered the devoted Doctor, with a smile that seemed more professional than friendly.

  Holmes waved the innuendo aside:

  “No, no, no, my dear Watson; you and I must go together to investigate this very interesting case. Besides, I have never visited the States, and I have a great wish to see Niagara Falls.” Then to Paul he said: “My dear sir, this mystery of yours—I need not conceal from you—may be a matter of life and death. It will cost money. Would you be prepared to pay. . . five thousand pounds?”

  “Certainly.” The Duke of Dorsetshire owed him £25,000.

  “Watson, we sail to-night. My deer-stalker cap is here, and I shall require no other luggage.”

  He had already risen, as though for instant departure.

  But Watson was firm.

  “No, my dear Holmes; it is impossible.”

  “Impossible!” cried the eminent one with flashing eyes. “See, I am ready!”

  With these words he put on his famous deer-stalker cap.