Sherlock Holmes Edwardian Parodies and Pastiches II

by Bill Peschel

  The Chronicles he proudly fabled;

  The violin and morphia-case

  Are in the passage, packed and labelled;

  And Holmes himself is at the door,

  Departing—to return no more.

  He bids farewell to Baker Street,

  Though Watson clings about his knees;

  He hastens to his country seat,

  To spend his dotage keeping bees;

  And one of them, depend upon it,

  Shall find a haven in his bonnet!

  But though in grief our heads are bowed,

  And tears upon our cheeks are shining,

  We recognise that ev’ry cloud

  Conceals somewhere a silver lining;

  And hear with deep congratulation

  Of Watson’s timely termination.

  The Adventure of the Diamond Necklace

  George F. Forrest

  Herein lies a mystery, because nothing is known of George F. Forrest apart from his sole book Misfits: A Book of Parodies, from which this story is taken. Yet it is a good piece and has been reprinted several times, the last time in a limited edition by Otto Penzler’s Mysterious Bookshop in 1999.

  As I pushed open the door, I was greeted by the strains of a ravishing melody. Warlock Bones was playing dreamily on the accordion, and his keen, clear-cut face was almost hidden from view by the dense smoke-wreaths which curled upwards from an exceedingly filthy briar-wood pipe. As soon as he saw me, he drew a final choking sob from the instrument and rose to his feet with a smile of welcome.

  “Ah, good morning, Goswell,” he said cheerily. “But why do you press your trousers under the bed?”

  It was true—quite true. This extraordinary observer, the terror of every cowering criminal, the greatest thinker that the world has ever known, had ruthlessly laid bare the secret of my life. Ah, it was true.

  “But how did you know?” I asked in a stupor of amazement.

  He smiled at my discomfiture.

  “I have made a special study of trousers,” he answered, “And of beds. I am rarely deceived. But, setting that knowledge, for the moment, on one side, have you forgotten the few days I spent with you three months ago? I saw you do it then.”

  He could never cease to astound me, this lynx-eyed sleuth of crime. I could never master the marvellous simplicity of his methods. I could only wonder and admire—a privilege for which I can never be sufficiently grateful. I seated myself on the floor, and, embracing his left knee with both my arms in an ecstasy of passionate adoration, gazed up inquiringly into his intellectual countenance.

  He rolled up his sleeve and, exposing his thin nervous arm, injected half a pint of prussic acid with incredible rapidity. This operation finished, he glanced at the clock.

  “In twenty-three or twenty-four minutes,” he observed, “a man will probably call to see me. He has a wife, two children, and three false teeth, one of which will very shortly have to be renewed. He is a successful stockbroker of about forty-seven, wears Jaegers, and is an enthusiastic patron of Missing Word Competitions.”

  “How do you know all this?” I interrupted breathlessly, tapping his tibia with fond impatience.

  Bones smiled his inscrutable smile.

  “He will come,” he continued, “to ask my advice about some jewels which were stolen from his house at Richmond last Thursday week. Among them was a diamond necklace of quite exceptional value.”

  “Explain,” I cried in rapturous admiration. “Please explain.”

  “My dear Goswell,” he laughed, “you are really very dense. Will you never learn my methods? The man is a personal friend of mine. I met him yesterday in the City, and he asked to come and talk over his loss with me this morning. Voila tout. Deduction, my good Goswell, mere deduction.”

  “But the jewels? Are the police on the track?”

  “Very much off it. Really our police are the veriest bunglers. They have already arrested twenty-seven perfectly harmless and unoffending persons, including a dowager duchess, who is still prostrate with the shock; and, unless I am very much mistaken, they will arrest my friend’s wife this afternoon. She was in Moscow at the time of the robbery, but that, of course, is of little consequence to these amiable dolts.”

  “And have you any clue as to the whereabouts of the jewels?”

  “A fairly good one,” he answered. “So good, in fact, that I can at this present moment lay my hands upon them. It is a very simple case, one of the simplest I have ever had to deal with, and yet in its way a strange one, presenting several difficulties to the average observer. The motive of the robbery is a little puzzling. The thief appears to have been actuated not by the ordinary greed of gain so much as by an intense love of self-advertisement.”

  “I can hardly imagine,” I said with some surprise, “a burglar, qua burglar, wishing to advertise his exploits to the world.”

  “True, Goswell. You show your usual common sense. But you have not the imagination, without which a detective can do nothing. Your position is that of those energetic, if somewhat beef-witted enthusiasts, the police. They are frankly puzzled by the whole affair. To me, personally, the case is as clear as daylight.”

  “That I can understand,” I murmured with a reverent pat of his shin.

  “The actual thief,” he continued, “for various reasons I am unwilling to produce. But upon the jewels, as I said just now, I can lay my hand at any moment. Look here!”

  He disentangled himself from my embrace, and walked to a patent safe in a corner of the room. From this he extracted a large jewel case, and, opening it, disclosed a set of the most superb diamonds. In the midst a magnificent necklace winked and flashed in the wintry sunlight. The sight took my breath away, and for a time I grovelled in speechless admiration before him.

  “But—but how”—I stammered at last, and stopped, for he was regarding my confusion with evident amusement.

  “I stole them,” said Warlock Bones.

  The Land of the Wonderful Co

  Walter Kayess

  Illustrated by Harry Furniss

  “The Land of the Wonderful Co,” published in Harry Furniss’s Christmas Annual, bears a strong resemblance to Alice in Wonderland. The heroine of the story, Meg, falls asleep in her comfortable chair and with the help of a talking kite flies off to the Land of Co (who being found on business signs such as Smith and Co. is “partner of no end of people all over the world” even though no one knows what he looks like). Like Alice, the story is full of songs, clever wordplay, even a trial scene and a cameo from Alice.

  Little is known about Walter Kayess (1863-?). He was a Cambridge graduate who had studied to be a doctor. The only other publications found are three one-act farces he wrote in 1906: A Christmas Catastrophe, “What’s Up?”, and Dormer’s Detective. Harry Furniss (1854-1925) was a prolific artist for newspapers and magazines, contributing more than 2,600 drawings to Punch alone. His short-lived humor competitor, Lika Joko, published the “Round the Pink Pill Box” parody reprinted in the 1888-1899 volume. He also illustrated Lewis Carroll’s two Sylvie and Bruno novels, and the complete works editions of Dickens and Thackeray.

  Holmes appears briefly earlier in the book. During the trial scene, he elects himself foreman of the jury and sits “with his eyes shut and a blissful smile on his face, playing exquisite melodies on his violin with one hand, while with the other he injected a strong solution of prussic acid into the back of his neck.” That part is omitted. The excerpt below begins with Meg, accompanied by Dr. Bossis and the Half-Crown Prince as she seeks the answer to a riddle.

  “Hullo!” said the Prince. “Here comes Professor Phemynin! Good business!”

  He went forward to meet the magician, who respectfully took off his hat and produced therefrom six glass bowls of water with canaries swimming about in them, a quantity of lighted paper lanterns, a Welsh Rabbit, and a cannon ball.

  “Professor,” said Meg, “you are a very clever man, I am sure. Can you tell me why a miller wears a white
hat?”

  “I’m not afraid,” said the magician. “That isn’t much in my line. If you’ll bring me the miller I’ll change his white hat into a blue one or a pink one, or any colour you name; but I can’t answer riddles. See, here comes Mr. Sherlock Holmes; he can tell you, no doubt.”

  Holmes came down the street at a great pace. He was so deeply absorbed in a delicate chemical experiment which he was performing with a test-tube and a galvanic battery as he walked along, that he nearly ran into Meg.

  “I beg your pardon!” he exclaimed, stopping suddenly.

  “Mr. Holmes,” said the little girl, “can you tell me why a miller wears a white hat?”

  Holmes stroked his chin thoughtfully.

  “What a beautiful animal is the horse!” he said abstractedly. “And with what forethought has Nature made the creature long and narrow, so that it fits perfectly into the shafts of any vehicle!”

  “But what about the hat?” asked Meg.

  “The hat!” cried Holmes, resuming his usual manner. “Show me the hat and I will tell you all about the owner—his age, height, appearance, previous history, and mental peculiarities.”

  “I haven’t got the hat,” said Meg. “I only want to know why he wears it.”

  “Then why don’t you ask him?”

  “I don’t know who he is, or where he lives.”

  “Young lady,” said the detective, “I perceive that you are trying to be facetious at my expense. If you have any problem worth my attention I shall be happy to solve it; otherwise—”

  “I’ll give you a problem,” said the Prince. “Find out what has become of the man who was in that cab five minutes ago.”

  “And I will pay you £100 if you can find him before Friday,” added the conjurer.

  “Excellent!” said Holmes, putting the tips of his long fingers together and shutting his eyes. “Tell me the facts, please.”

  The Prince explained how the man had disappeared.

  “Very good,” said Holmes. “I will now examine the cab.”

  He entered the vehicle, and crawled about the floor on his hands and knees, with his nose on the mat and a microscope fixed in one eye. After that he minutely examined the horse and the outside of the cab; then he went inside again, and presently came out with a small quantity of tobacco ash, a hook, two hairpins, and a shirt-button.

  “Now, Mr. George Barnwell,” he said to the cabman, “I shall—”

  “Blow me tight!” exclaimed the driver. “How did you know my name was Barnwell?”

  “I deduced it,” said Holmes, smiling.

  “Well, it isn’t anyhow,” said the cabman.

  “Nonsense!” said the detective. “I found a volume of poetry in the cab with the name written on the fly-leaf.”

  “It ain’t mine,” replied the man. “Someone must have left it behind. They are always leaving things. My name happens to be Lasher.”

  “Then why didn’t you say so before?” asked Holmes, with some warmth.

  “You never asked me,” said the man.

  Holmes was silent for a minute; then he said sharply:

  “Lasher, I want to ask you a question. Have you ever demanded more than your legal fare?”

  Lasher trembled and turned pale. “Great Jehu’s Ghost!” he exclaimed. “How did you know that? Yes, sir, I’m afraid I did once, afore I knew any better.”

  “Ha!” chuckled Holmes. “That was a long shot of mine.”

  “Well?” said the Prince. “Have you a clue?”

  “I have nineteen clues,” answered Holmes, “and twenty-four theories which will account for the disappearance. All that remains now is to find out which is the right one.”

  “But suppose they’re all wrong?” suggested the Professor.

  “Wrong!” cried Holmes angrily. “I beg to state that I am not one of those stupid story-book detectives who sometimes make a mistake. I am never at fault.”

  “What are you going to do next?” asked Meg.

  “You must excuse my answering that question,” said Holmes. “I used to explain my methods to that idiot Watson, and he went and gave me away in one of the magazines. So much for friendship! Pah!”

  “I must be off,” said the Prince. “You’ll come with me, young lady, and be presented at Court. I hope—and you, too, doctor?”

  “Thanks,” said Meg. “I should like to. Shall we take this cab?”

  “No,” said the Prince. “The cab shall take us. Jump in.”

  The three friends took their seats and drove away. Holmes, who hated walking, whistled for another cab; then, as none appeared, he pinned his name and address to his waistcoat, and had one of his celebrated sham fits on the pavement, whence he was taken home by the police in an ambulance, free of charge.

  Earlier in the story, Holmes marches into the Circus of Justice as the self-selected foreman of the jury. In this detail from a full-page illustration, he appears in the parade at right.

  1906

  The new year opened with Conan Doyle rejected again at the polls. Unlike the narrow margin he lost by last time, this was a sound defeat for the candidate, the Liberal Unionists, and restrictive trade. In some ways, Conan Doyle brought it on himself. He was offered a safe seat in Parliament. But he had a need to test himself, to measure his strength and will by his own standard. He needed the stimulant provided by the challenge, the uphill fight against the odds. “Providence one way or another gets a man’s full powers out of him,” he wrote in his memoirs, “but that it is essential that the man himself should co-operate to the extent of putting himself in the way of achievement.

  The defeat at the polls signaled to him that he was done with the “vile business” of politics and the Border Burghs in particular. “I wipe the mud of these awful towns from my boots,” he wrote his mother, “Poor devils, they seem to me to be all in hell already.”

  With Sir Nigel running in The Strand and in U.S. magazines, Conan Doyle turned his attentions again to the stage. He’d written a play featuring his Napoleonic hero Gerard and needed a theatrical manager to mount the production. He found one in Lewis Waller, the dashing actor who thought he was perfect for the role. But after a promising start, the two men clashed over the details, and the play opened in May to lukewarm reviews.

  At one of the performances, Innes accompanied Louise. It would be the last time he saw his sister-in-law. During June, she became bedridden and suffered from deliriums. On July 4, Louise died with her son and daughter at her side. Her husband was there, too, holding her hand as she faded, the tears rolling down his face.

  “The long fight had ended at last in defeat,” he wrote, “but at least we had held the vital fort for thirteen years after every expert had said it was untenable.” He had tried to give her everything he could, he thought, and never a moment’s unhappiness, especially over his platonic mistress, Jean Leckie. Unless we believe their daughter; Mary wrote long after her father was dead that her mother had told her about Jean, and urged accepting her stepmother-to-be.

  Louise’s death sent Conan Doyle into a depression. The wait for her to die had drained him emotionally; now he had the period of public mourning to endure before he could reward Jean for her quiet loyalty. He cancelled his public appearances. He had trouble sleeping and concentrating. He couldn’t work. Like Holmes, he needed work or he would go mad.

  Salvation came in the form of a challenge. In a magazine he came across the story of George Edalji. The half-Indian solicitor had served most of a seven-year sentence for a series of horse and cattle mutilations. A public outcry over the feeble evidence used to convict him led to his early release, but he sought a pardon so he could resume his law practice.

  The more Conan Doyle read, the angrier he got. He thrust himself into the case. He reviewed the evidence, walked the fields near Birmingham where the attacks took place, and personally interviewed Edalji. Seeing the little man holding his newspaper close to his glasses, Conan Doyle concluded there was no way he could cross rugged fields in the da
rk and razor large animals without getting trampled.

  Edalji already had his supporters, but the newspapers trumpeted the news that Sherlock Holmes’ creator was on the case. Letters about the case flowed from his pen, followed by a pamphlet defending Edalji.

  As the Christmas holidays approached, the family gathered one last time at Undershaw, marking the end of a chapter in Conan Doyle’s life.

  Publication: Sir Nigel (Nov.).

  Sherlock Holmes Umpires Baseball

  Anonymous

  Illustrated by George Hager

  This glimpse of baseball’s early years appeared in the Feb. 25 edition of the Seattle Post-Intelligencer. George Hager (1885-1945) was the son of John “Dok” Hager, staff artist and weather forecaster for the Seattle Times. George edited the children’s page for the Christian Science Monitor and in 1925 continued his father’s comic strip The Adventures of the Waddles after his father retired due to blindness.

  A bunch of old-time fans were sitting in the rear of a downtown cigar stand the other day, talking over the good old times of the past, when baseball was the real goods and everybody would turn out to witness an exhibition of the national sport without too much regard to the quality of the article.

  The discussion finally wandered into the umpire line when one old-timer that looked like a reproduction of the character of the fat man portrayed by Gibson in his famous cartoon “Three Strikes and Out” broke into the conversational game.

  “Did any of you ever hear of the time Sherlock Holmes umpired a baseball game?” No one had, and so he continued. “I was playing on a nine in a small town in Iowa one summer and was mixed up in a way in the first and only exhibition ever given by Sherlock Holmes of the correct way to umpire.

  “We were playing a series of games with another town about thirty miles distant, and the feeling between the two teams and their following was at a high pitch. Hardly a game passed without ending in a free-for-all fight or mobbing the umpire. There were two twins playing on our team that looked so much alike that even the players that worked with them every day were unable to tell them apart except by looking at their feet. One of the twins had a very slight deformity to his right foot; so slight that it would never be noticed by a casual observer.