“Perfectly.”
“Very well.” He took a breath. “When did you first use cocaine?”
“At the age of twenty.”
“Where?”
“At University.”
“Why?”
There was no answer.
“Why?”
“Because I was unhappy.”
“Why did you become a detective?”
“To punish the wicked and see justice done.”
“Have you ever known injustice done?”
There was a pause.
“Have you?” Freud repeated, licking his lips and eyeing me briefly.
“Yes.”
I had resumed my seat and was listening to this exchange with the utmost attention and fascination, my hands propped upon my knees, my body thrust forward as I strained to hear the soft replies.
“Have you known wickedness personally?”
“Yes.”
“What was this wickedness?”
Again the subject hesitated and again he was encouraged to answer.
“What was this wickedness?”
“My mother deceived my father.”
“She had a lover?”
“Yes.”
“What was the injustice?”
“My father killed her.”
Sigmund Freud straightened up with a start and looked wildly about the room for an instant, as totally out of control as myself, for I had risen to my feet in automatic response, then froze, though my eyes and ears still functioned. He recovered more quickly than I, however, and bent down once more to the subject.
“Your father murdered your mother?”*
“Yes.” The voice choked back a sob that split my heart.
“And her lover?” Freud persisted, his own eyes beginning to blink rapidly.
“He fled.”
Freud paused in order to collect himself before going on.
“What became of your father?”
“He took his own life.”
Holmes remained motionless throughout this exchange. Only the sudden appearance of perspiration beads upon his forehead served to indicate his inner torment. Freud watched him carefully, as if estimating how much further he might be questioned, then decided to continue.
“Did you know the identity of your mother’s lover?”
“Yes.”
“Who was he?”
“Doctor—” I moved to cut him off. The name could mean nothing to anyone at this late date. But the question had been posed, and Holmes, with the mechanical precision that was in his nature—both in and out of hypnosis—prepared to answer it.
“Our tutor.”
“Yours and Mycroft’s? Professor Moriarty?”
“Yes,” came the response in another muffled sob.
“I see.” Freud drew out his watch fob and stared at it unhappily for some moments, then put it away again. “All right, sleep now, Herr Holmes. Sleep, sleep. I will awaken you shortly and you will remember nothing, nothing of this interview. Do you understand?”
“I said that I did.”
“Good. Sleep now.”
Watching for some moments and ascertaining that he did not move, Freud rose once more and crossed the room, pulling up a chair close to mine. His eyes were sadder than ever. He said nothing as he clipped and lighted another cigar. I had sunk back into my own chair, my brain in a whirl and my ears roaring with the shock.
“A man does not turn to narcotics because it is the fashion or because he likes it,” he said at length, squinting at me through the smoke of his cigar. “You remember I once asked you how he had been introduced to the drug, and not only were you unable to answer, you did not at the time perceive the importance of my question. Yet I knew from the first that something had provoked his dangerous practice.”
“But—” I cast a look in Holmes’s direction, “did you dream—?”
“No, I did not. I could never have imagined anything like what we have just heard. Yet as he would himself observe: see how much is explained by these facts. Now we not only understand the origin of the addiction and the reason he adopted his chosen profession; we also comprehend his aversion to women and the difficulty he has in dealing with them. Further, his antipathy to Moriarty is explained—as well as Mycroft Holmes’s mysterious hold over the man. And we understand, as well, how it is that your friend makes of this little Professor”—Freud spoke his title with becoming contempt—”the ‘Napoleon of Crime’! Under the saturating influence of the cocaine, Moriarty’s illicit liaison with Herr Holmes’s mother assumes its true emotional proportions—and they are boundless!” Here he leaned forward and gestured with the cigar for emphasis, then sat back, allowing me time to understand his chain of reasoning. “Of course,” he resumed, seeing that I followed him, “all these conclusions he buries deep in his soul—in an area to which I have tentatively applied the clinical term ‘unconscious’—never admitting any of these feelings to himself, but exhibiting the symptoms of his ideas, nevertheless—in his choice of profession, in his indifference to women (as well recorded by you, Doctor!), and finally in his preference for the drug under whose influence his true, innermost feelings on the subject are eventually to be revealed.”
In less time than it takes to report it, I had grasped the stupendous truth in Sigmund Freud’s assertion. This also explained Mycroft Holmes’s equally eccentric withdrawal from the world, to a place where even speech was forbidden, and both brothers’ commitment to eternal bachelorhood. As for Professor Moriarty and his part in the business, I realised with a shudder of horror that Sherlock Holmes had been right about him after all. I turned to Sigmund Freud.
“You are the greatest detective of all.” I could think of nothing else to say.
“I am not a detective.” Freud shook his head, smiling his sad, wise smile. “I am a physician whose province is the troubled mind.” It occurred to me that the difference was not great.
“And what can we do for my friend?”
He sighed and shook his head again.
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?” I was stunned. Had he led me this far only to go no further?
“Nothing. I do not know how to get at these feelings other than through the clumsy and inefficient device of hypnosis.”
“But inefficient?” I protested, my hand grasping his sleeve. “Surely—”
“Because the patient in this case would be unwilling—I say unable—to accept its testimony when conscious. He would not believe me. He would not believe you. He would say we were lying”
“But—”
“Come now, doctor. If you had not been here and witnessed it yourself, would you have believed it?”
I confessed that I would not.
“Well, therein lies our problem. In any case, it is doubtful whether or not he would remain here long enough for us to work our way down to those innermost depths by any other route. Already he is in haste to depart.”
We argued the matter for several minutes, but I knew from the first that he was right. Whatever techniques would help Sherlock Holmes, they were yet to be discovered.
“You must take heart,” Freud enjoined me. “Your friend, after all, is a functioning human being. He performs noble work and performs it well. Within the framework of his unhappiness, he is nevertheless successful and even beloved.
“Some day perhaps science will unravel the mysteries of the human mind,” he concluded, “and when that day comes I have no doubt that Sherlock Holmes will be as responsible for its arrival as anyone else—whether or not his own brain is ever relieved of its terrible burden.”
Then we both fell silent for a time, after which Freud roused the detective from his trance. As he had been directed, he recalled nothing.
“Did I tell you anything of importance?” Holmes enquired, relighting his pipe.
“I am afraid it was not terribly exciting,” the hypnotist told him, smiling. I contrived to be looking in another direction as he said this, whilst Holmes rose and c
ircled the room for the last time, running his eye eagerly over the countless volumes.
“What will you do for the Baroness?” he asked, coming forward again and reaching for his Inverness.
“What I can.”
They smiled, and shortly thereafter we made our farewells to the rest of the household: to Paula, to Frau Freud, and to little Anna, who wept copiously as she waved goodbye to our cab with a tear-stained handkerchief. Holmes called out a promise that some day he would return and play the violin for her again.
Throughout the ride to the station, however, he relapsed into a thoughtful silence. He remained in such a brown study that I did not like to disturb him, though his sudden alteration of mood surprised and worried me. Nevertheless, I felt bound to tell him when we arrived that he had led us to the platform of the Milan express. He smiled at me and shook his head.
“I’m afraid there is no mistake, Watson,” said he.
“But the Dover train is—”
“I am not returning to England.”
“Not returning?”
“Not just yet. I think that I need a little time to myself, a little time to think—and, yes, to pull myself together. You go on without me.”
“But—” I floundered, stunned by this turn of events. “When will you return?”
“One day,” he replied vaguely. “In the meantime,” he added coming to life, “inform my brother of my decision and ask him to tell Mrs. Hudson that my rooms are to be maintained as always and not to be touched. Is that clear?”
“Yes, but—” It was no use; he was travelling much too fast for me. I looked helplessly about the busy terminus, furious with my own inability to deal with him in this humour and wishing desperately that Freud were here.
“My dear fellow,” said he not unkindly, holding me by the arm, “you mustn’t take it so hard. I tell you I am going to recover. But I need time. It may be a long time.” After a pause, he went on hastily. “But I shall return to Baker Street, you have my word. Please give my best to Mrs. Watson,” he concluded, pressing my hand warmly as he stepped on to the Milan train, which had begun to roll slowly out of the station.
“But Holmes, how will you live? Have you any money?” I was walking beside the train, the length of my limping stride increasing with each step.
“Not much,” he admitted, smiling down cheerfully, “but I do have my violin and I think I may be able to support myself in more ways than one when my arm has mended.” He chuckled. “If you wish to keep track of my whereabouts, simply follow the concert career of a violinist named Sigerson.” He shrugged with his good shoulder. “And if that should fail me, why then I shall wire Mycroft for a draft.”
“But—” I was running alongside the train now—”what about your readers—my readers! What shall I tell them?”
“Anything you like,” was the bland reply. “Tell them I was murdered by my mathematics tutor, if you like. They’ll never believe you in any case.”
Then the train steamed off at a pace my failing legs could not hope to manage.
My own trip back to England was uneventful. I slept most of the way, and when I stepped off the platform at Victoria, there was my own dear girl waiting for me with a wide smile and open arms.
And it will surprise no one to learn that when it came time to write down what had occurred, I followed Sherlock Holmes’s advice to the letter.
* * *
* This amazing event was actually deduced by Trevor Hall in his essay, ‘The Early Years of Sherlock Holmes’, included in his masterly volume, Sherlock Holmes Ten Literary Studies, St. Martin’s Press, 1969. N.M.
Acknowledgments
IT IS MY HAPPY TASK to take the reader of this book behind the scenes and to express my gratitude to the writers, critics and friends whose works or suggestions directly influenced the shape and outcome of The Seven Per Cent Solution.
First and foremost, I am overwhelmingly in debt to the genius of the late Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, who created in Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson the most popular characters in fiction. Without Doyle, this book could not have been thought of, let alone written.
Readers who are not Sherlock Holmes aficionados are doubtless unaware of the tremendous bibliography of Holmesian criticism, a wealth of literature that fills hundreds of volumes. These lighthearted speculations on the part of some brilliant writers were responsible for putting the idea of this book into my head in the first place, and some of their most imaginative theories I have endeavoured to intertwine and incorporate into the book’s plot. I should like to acknowledge my chief sources of inspiration.
Among these ‘Sherlockians’ (as they are termed in the United States), the late William S. Baring-Gould, author of Sherlock Holmes of Baker Street, a wonderful biography of the detective, and editor of the stupendous two-volume annotated collection of the complete Holmes stories, may be said to have performed the function of Head Muse. It was Baring-Gould’s contention that Professor Moriarty tutored young Sherlock in mathematics.
More recently, Trevor Hall, in his indispensable work, Sherlock Holmes—Ten Literary Studies, deduced the adulterous affair of the detective’s mother and her subsequent murder by his father, a family history that very conveniently explains a great many aspects of Holmes’s character, including his profession.
Psychiatrist Dr. David F. Musto, in a brilliant essay published in Journal of the American Medical Association, plausibly connected Holmes with Dr. Sigmund Freud through the all-important link of cocaine, and Irving L. Jaffee, in his slim volume, Elementary My Dear Watson, also suggested to my mind a relationship between Holmes and Freud.
For Victorian history and descriptions of the world and era of Sherlock Holmes, I am obliged to Michael Harrison, whose excellent In the Footsteps of Sherlock Holmes and The London of Sherlock Holmes are delightful and informative reading even to those who have never read any of the famous detective’s exploits.
I am further indebted to the close scrutiny of several friends and relatives, whose encouragement and sharp-eyed criticism kept me going and as accurate as possible where details of Holmesiana were concerned. Sean Wright, Chairman of the Los Angeles Sherlock Holmes Society (the Non-Canonical Calabashes), made many important suggestions and corrections, as did Craig Fisher, Michael Pressman, and Michael Scheff, as well as my cousins in Fresno—the entire Winston Strong family—and my father, Dr. Bernard C. Meyer of New York City.
Deepest thanks are also extended to Ruth Notkins Nathan and Harriet F. Pilpel, without whose assistance the publication of this book would not have been possible.
Finally, my special thanks and appreciation are extended to Ms. Sally Welch Conner, whose unremitting enthusiasm for the project was really responsible for my actually writing the book. She also proof-read and typed the manuscript, and threw in the title—at no extra charge.
“What a splendid book, what grand fun. . . . A corking good read and a cracking good adventure that performs the delicious miracle of bringing back to life the greatest detective of them all.”
–CHICAGO TRIBUNE
“Imagine Holmes so far gone in cocaine-induced paranoia that he insists oysters will overrun the earth. . . . Imagine Sigmund Freud on the tennis court or shoveling coal for a locomotive. . . . Sheer fun.”
–NEW YORK DAILY NEWS
“A gem. . . . Delightful reading for everyone.”
–WALL STREET JOURNAL
"If you read only one thriller this year. It should be this one.”
–LOS ANGELES TIMES
NICHOLAS MEYER is also the “editor” of The West End Horror, a rediscovered Holmes adventure featuring Jack the Ripper, and the newly published The Canary Trainer, in which Holmes grapples with the Phantom of the Opera. His other books are The Love Story Story, his first work about the making of the film, and the novels Target Practice, Confessions of a Homing Pigeon, and Black Orchid (with Barry Jay Kaplan).
In addition to being a best-selling novelist Meyer is a highly successful screenwriter and directo
r. His screenplays include the scripts for the film of The Seven-Per-Cent Solution, directed by Herbert Ross, which received an Academy Award nomination for Best Adaptation; Time After Time; and the recent hit film Sommersby. Films he has directed include the television movie “The Day After,” the most watched made-for-tv-movie in television history; Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan; and Star Trek VI: The Undiscovered Country, which he co-wrote.
Meyer divides his time between Los Angeles and London.
First discovered and then painstakingly edited and annotated by Nicholas Meyer, The Seven-Per-Cent Solution relates the astounding and previously unknown collaboration of Sigmund Freud with Sherlock Holmes, as recorded by Holmes’s friend and chronicler, Dr. John H. Watson. In addition to its breathtaking account of their collaboration on a case of diabolic conspiracy in which the lives of millions hang in the balance, it reveals such matters as the real identity of the heinous Professor Moriarty, the dark secret shared by Sherlock and his brother Mycroft Holmes, and the detective’s true whereabouts during the Great Hiatus, when the world believed him to be dead.
Copyright © 1974 by Nicholas Meyer
First published as a Norton paperback 1993
All rights reserved
The use of the character “Sherlock Holmes”
and other characters created by Sir Arthur Conan
Doyle is with the permission of Baskervilles
Investments Ltd.
The Library of Congress has cataloged the printed edition as follows:
Meyer, Nicholas.
The seven-per-cent solution.
I. Title.
PZ4.M6135Se [PS3563.E88] 813'.5'4 74.4018
ISBN 978-0-393-31119-8
ISBN: 978-0-393-35254-2 (e-book)
Drawing of Sherlock Holmes by David K. Stone
The Seven-Per-Cent Solution Page 20