Echoes of Sherlock Holmes

by Laurie R. King

  Indeed, I was busily writing when my friend Sherlock Holmes stalked into the room and hurled himself into a chair that late March evening just a few months after we took up residence together. I had hoped that he would presently close his eyes and doze, as he sometimes did after reviewing the successful completion of the day’s work, but it was not to be. He immediately leaped up again and began to pace, ignoring the brandy and gasogene, snapping his long fingers as if counting time in music or attempting to summon up a stray memory.

  Many would have seen this as rude, juvenile behavior. But for me, alarm bells began to ring. His tenseness often infected me, even as I worked diligently to keep to a quiet life to stave off those terrible spells that come over me, paralyzing and robbing me of all sense. But only this morning he had been bemoaning the swirling yellow fog and the prosaic dun-colored houses across the street.

  “You’re writing, Watson.”

  I remarked that his powers of observation had never been more acute.

  Ignoring me, he continued, giving a description of my day up to this point: an empty surgery office, a walk in Regent’s Park to settle my thoughts, luncheon at home on veal pie, and how my writing was proceeding well, after some pacing, based on the scuffing of the carpet by the desk. I might as well have been the skull he kept on the mantel for all the attention he paid me. I was merely an audience—no, less than that. I was merely the rocks upon which a great cataract crashes, for a flood must rush freely, or else tear up all the earth and everything in its path.

  “—and now you are writing up ‘The Clue in Amber’—no, ‘The Adventure of the Unquiet Grave.’”

  “Yes.” This recounting of observations was a habit of his, a plaything for a restless mind.

  “I recall seeing the note with your new publisher’s address in the hallway this morning. There was a sudden re-stocking of our larder. And Mrs. Hudson was humming; she always hums when she’s received the rent. Therefore, you’ve been paid. May I say, this is a far more satisfactory situation than your previous arrangement.”

  I grunted in agreement, torn between finishing the words I’d worked so hard to find and my relief at Holmes providing himself any kind of distraction. My first attempts at selling my work—for my medical practice was still in its infancy and Holmes’s income from his detective work was, to be generous, erratic—had terminated in a most unsatisfying manner, with my publisher retiring for health reasons. In point of fact, the blackguard had cheated me and, when I demanded he make things right, he laughed, telling me I ought to know when I was well off.

  A seething red rage had come over me, followed by a calm I knew all too well. As I methodically went about breaking his jaw, I observed aloud that he could expect more of the same, and worse, if he thought about going to the constabulary. As soon as the publisher could write again (his hand having been broken in three, especially painful, places), he laboriously scribbled a note to his secretary, releasing me from my contract and paying me the sum I was owed. His editorial successor, perhaps acquainted with his colleague’s experiences, cannily suggested that if I made some trifling adjustments to tone and content, my work would sell well to the higher-stepping readers of the more prestigious Strand Magazine. No one likes his work altered, but for a few more bob, I can state with no irony whatsoever that I do in fact know when I am well off.

  So, no more penny dreadfuls; with some bowdlerization of our real adventures, I now produce thrilling tales that are brimful of derring-do. Some slight recasting of the details is necessary. I wouldn’t want to shock my readers, and often the truth is a good deal more unsavory than they would like. But if I smooth over the rough parts of a case, pretty it up—well, it’s good for the general populace to have moral tales and model heroes. Perhaps it’s good for me and my friend, too, giving us an ideal to strive for. We so often fall badly short, no matter how hard we try.

  That day in our sitting room, I crossed out an errant word and stacked my completed sheets with satisfaction. Since I could not resist the attractions of the great cesspool that is London, I strove to keep my tendency to riotous life at bay. I had not slid into old, bad habits for nearly a week, and between being paid, and frugal living, I was quite pleased with myself. “Quite right, Holmes. I finally paid Mrs. Hudson my share of last month’s rent, and better still, have stashed away next month’s as well in our strongbox. I hope you have something coming in soon?”

  “Sooner than I had expected, it seems.” He stood by the window and motioned for me to join him. “You will please tell me what you think of the gentleman who hesitates just beyond our doorstep?”

  I gladly obliged him, rising to peer out our window. The fog had cleared. “Well-off, in the first rank of fashion, though perhaps a foreigner—I have not seen that style of boots before, on the high streets or in the more fashionable districts. A gentleman, as you say, of robust health, but perhaps troubled by arthritis recently; his gait is somewhat unsteady, and as he pauses, he seems to rest his weight on his left leg.”

  “Well done, Watson! You give me hope for the British university system!”

  I was so pleased at the idea of getting another case before Holmes that I smothered the retort I had ready regarding my considerable talent for diagnostics and a remark regarding his questionable parentage. “Well, then, go ahead. Tell me what I missed.”

  “Almost everything of importance, that is all.” He had the all-too familiar look and tone of a schoolboy’s superiority. “Yes, a foreigner, American—those boots are made by the New York firm of Getzler and Son. He walks stiffly, I would suggest, not because he has arthritis, but because he has not gained his land legs—you will notice that he does not have the characteristic scuffing mark on those fine shoes that is often found in chronic patients.”

  I did not interrupt Holmes with a lecture on the variability of symptoms from case to case. My heart was greatly eased to see that vacant restlessness gone from his face, and his eyes sharp and clear.

  “So, he’s come directly from the wharves, without even stopping at his hotel. If memory serves—and you can confirm this by handing me the papers—thank you, ah, yes. The private steam yacht Anna Hoyt docked earlier today, coming from Boston, in the United States. Therefore he had such a pressing need to see me that he could not wait for the scheduled commercial liner and then, on arrival in London, all but flew from the wharf—but why not cable beforehand? Why not a letter, even, than go to all this trouble and postponed haste of a lengthy ocean voyage? Perhaps—”

  “He had a secret too valuable to trust to post or an emissary?”

  Holmes shot me an irritated look that suggested I’d hit solid in the gold. “Yes . . . perhaps. And yet, what commands such haste and secrecy in a man so well off? Only two things—”

  I mouthed the words as he spoke them, so accustomed were they to me. “Much money or vast power.”

  The bell rang, and the new maid, Aggie, showed him in. Although she was gone as soon as she’d announced “Mr. Habakkuk Sewall,” I couldn’t help admiring the trim profile of Aggie’s posterior. Mrs. Hudson knew my tastes down to the boot button and was determined to taunt me. A dalliance between us, born of equal parts mutual desire and my occasional tardiness with the rent, had cooled recently, but I soon hoped to find my way back into Margaret’s good graces. The rent now caught up, this was now entirely dependent on my ability to resist the temptations she put before me in the shape of our most recent maid of all work. We went through housemaids at an alarming rate, given the eclectic nature of our callers, the irregularity of our hours, and the odors generated by Holmes’s chemical experiments. I have been subject to more than one angry lecture on the adverse effects of chemical fumes on damask upholstery.

  Mr. Sewall was, as we had observed, of elegantly tall proportions, with fair hair, fine teeth, and shrewd, watchful eyes. His rude good health, as much an American trait as a caricature, was carefully restrained with mannerly movement; he had a reserved and contemplative air.

  Having as
sured us that he had dined, Mr. Sewall did not refuse our offer of brandy. “I’ve come a very long distance to see you, Mr. Holmes. I hope you can help me.”

  Holmes and I had agreed early on in our association that, with clients, it was best for him to sink the hook with a display of his not inconsiderable detective acumen, followed by a faint pretense on my part to an overfull schedule, playing the fish before we finally landed the hefty fee. And so, I sat back and listened to Holmes recite what we’d just now observed, with a few embellishments drawn from his immediate assessment of our client. The more I saw of Mr. Sewall’s gold cigar case, the quality and weight of his cuff links, and the exquisite taste in buttons, the better I liked him. Rather, the more I liked our odds of getting paid, and handsomely.

  Doctors, detectives, and writers of detective fiction—or, semi-fiction—must make a living, you see.

  At the end of a scintillating performance, Mr. Sewall’s mouth opened and closed. “I had thought to come in here with my broadest Chicago hick accent, playing Eustis Goodfellow, the Corn King of the Midwest, but I see I would have failed almost instantly, Mr. Holmes. My hat is off to you.

  “My goal in coming to England is of the utmost importance,” he continued, in accents that were polished, by American standards. “I hope you will forgive my doubts and my aspirations to test you.”

  “You are not the first who has tried,” said Holmes, inclining his head. I observed he did not actually accept the proffered apology but our guest seemed not to notice.

  “Thank you. I am a good judge of character, sir, but that takes time and observation, and speed is of the essence. A fortune stands in the balance, but more than that, the safety and health of many innocent people.”

  “Pray, tell me how I may be of assistance.” Only I recognized the impatience behind Holmes’s request.

  “My ancestress many times over, Anna Hoyt, was a woman of some means. It has recently come to light that she had a considerable fortune hidden here in England.” At this, his expression became somewhat rueful. “I understand that during the War of Independence, she was known as a true patriot, but it appears she was also careful enough to have money—and possibly friends—in both countries, so that she might find some security no matter the war’s outcome. This canny little lady, having started as a lowly tavern keeper, founded the family from which I am proud to be descended. Her caution, however, has placed me in a real bind. She hid the money, as one might during those bad old days, particularly keen not to let anyone find, seize, and tax it.”

  “How did you discover this?” Holmes sat forward, his fingers steepled.

  “An advertisement, published by the law firm that was charged with producing the notice one hundred years after her death. I understand that, in addition to notifying possible family connections, newspapers around the world were hired to advertise that anyone with a claim to the inheritance must produce evidence in order to receive the clue that should lead to the treasure.”

  “What sort of treasure?” I asked. “Why a clue?”

  “As I understand it, the old girl hid a small fortune in jewels and gold.”

  “Small, portable, universally valuable,” Holmes remarked.

  “Yes. And offered a clue and not a location as her reasoning was, anyone too stupid to find it, didn’t deserve it. Of course, the lawyers said it much fancier than that.” Mr. Sewall heaved a sigh. “First one who finds it, keeps it. I aim to be the first.”

  Holmes frowned. “And has any other family come forward?”

  “Only one that can be proved—or rather, the lawyers are unable to disprove her credentials.”

  “‘Her’ being . . . ?”

  “Miss Arabella Hartley. I met her once; the little hussy was running with a bad crowd in Europe. She claims to be a direct descendant through the male line, but I can find no record of any marriage between Anna Hoyt and an Englishman over here. Miss Hartley is nothing more than an adventuress, so far as I can tell.”

  I cleared my throat. “Forgive me for saying so, Mr. Sewall, but . . . would it be so difficult to lose out to Miss Hartley?” I did not like the way he’d spoken of his ancestress—the reason for his family’s wealth—and this young lady.

  A smirk on Holmes’s face revealed that he thought my weakness for the ladies was showing itself.

  “What you mean, in your very polite British way, is if I can afford to keep a private steamship, why do I care so much about a fistful of antique jewels?” He sighed. “If it were up to me, I would not. While I do not approve or know this young person, I have a debt of honor to repay.”

  He looked very solemn now. “My wife asked me, on her deathbed, to fund a hospital. I had need before that to put all my assets into my business—all the political unrest in Europe has been bad for my shipping trade—but if I can find that inheritance, well, I can honor both my wife and the founder of my family.”

  “And save innocent lives with the hospital,” Sherlock Holmes murmured. “You have given me all the salient points?”

  “All saving the lawyer, Mr. Deering’s, address, my card and letter of introduction, and the address of my residence in London. If I may count on you, Mr. Holmes, I believe I shall soon be at rights with heaven and earth.”

  We exchanged farewells, and Mr. Sewall left.

  “Well, Watson, what do you think?”

  “I don’t buy that cock-and-bull story about a wife’s dying wish for one minute.”

  Holmes nodded. “I believe that is a lie, but he told one truth: He needs our help.”

  “He needs a good thrashing,” I said warmly, thinking of his unkind words about Miss Hartley.

  “So powerful a man? Coming here personally and lying to us? You may well get your wish, Watson.”

  Our eyes met, and a slow smile spread across my face. It was mirrored by Holmes’s own rather feral grin.

  A client with deep pockets and the promise of violence? Better than plum pudding on Christmas Day.

  The next morning, armed with our client’s particulars, Holmes wired his contact in Boston, asking him to examine more closely Sewall’s family, business, and reputation. Then, we went to the office of Deering and Deering, where we presented our credentials. We were surprised when the senior partner, a round, balding little fellow with a gold pince nez, brought us the clue. It was not some legal document, but a portrait.

  “It’s all very irregular, of course,” Mr. Deering said. “But there’s nothing about this bequest that is regular!”

  The antique portrait was in three-quarter, showing the lady herself in the garb of the previous century. She was perhaps sixty-five or so, I thought, but there was still more gold than silver in her hair and her features were very fine. She was resplendent in a scarlet gown and ribbons, and if I was any judge, the satin was costly and the lace on her cap and fichu very fine. There was a hardness in her eyes that might have been some trick of the light, because that hardness was belied by the slight smile on her lips.

  “Copley, I think,” Holmes said. His eyes were wide and slightly unfocused, his usual way of drinking in the entirety of a view—usually a crime scene.

  I grunted.

  “Really, Watson, the National Gallery is free. If you would only spend an afternoon improving yourself—”

  “What will seeing this picture do to help us?” I broke in. “A lady, some books, a view overlooking a house—it’s all quite ordinary.”

  It was an unsubtle strategy, but I was eager to see him engaged in this new project. His want of diversion affected me, threatening to unbalance the equilibrium I fought to maintain. Holmes, understanding my intent precisely, scowled at me.

  But he took the proffered bait—how could he resist? It was precisely to his taste.

  I breathed a sigh of relief as he continued.

  “If you’ll promise to spend time with the images of the great and the good, you’ll soon learn that portraits often show the sitters’ most valued possessions—books, maps of their estate, ships, family je
wels. Therefore, Anna Hoyt’s hand gesturing to the window indicates her land and the source of her wealth; the map behind her suggests that she’s here in England. From the books on the table, we see she is literate; that table was new and fashionable at the time, and her dress is also quite rich. Very wealthy indeed, to judge from this picture.”

  “We know she’s wealthy, because she left a fortune,” I retorted. Sometimes Holmes took the long way round to a point.

  “We also know she’s wealthy because she had this portrait made,” he said, with some asperity, “and had it done by a very sought-after artist. She knew people, Watson, and knew how to move through society—if she was able to elevate herself from running a tavern to traveling in these circles.”

  “Wait—Holmes!” An inspiration took me. “The house she’s pointing to! Might that not be the location of the inheritance?”

  He smiled absently. “It seems almost too obvious, does it not? But we must not count the house out, though we do not yet know its whereabouts. No, Watson, the thing that is puzzling me is that we see this English house—not her ships. Far more traditional either to show the ships themselves, as her main business, or the expensive goods she traded. No, this is odd . . .”

  I turned to examine the picture. “That chatelaine-thingummy she’s wearing is entirely too bulky for that dress. She should have fine little sewing implements or a locket or vinaigrette hanging from that hook, all in silver or gold. Not that heavy bunch of keys and such.”

  Holmes looked up. “What—thingummy?”

  “The chatelaine—that hook at her waist?” And then I could not resist. “Honestly Holmes, there was a new embroidery pattern for a chatelaine purse in the Ladies’ New Journal just last number, I, er, happen to know. If you’d only spend an hour or two educating yourself with the popular press, you would learn a great deal.”

  “No, no, I know what it is. Watson, it’s your eye for the ladies that has once again proved so useful, as well as your—”