A Study in Sherlock

by Laurie R. King

  “I can believe in a jealous author before—” Conan Doyle stopped in midsentence, and then asked, “His client’s wife died recently, you say?”

  “Yes. It was the reason his client turned to writing—a way of managing his grief.”

  Conan Doyle frowned. “MacTaggart.” He got up and began to pace the floor. “He has just lost his own wife. Confound it, I thought he was reliable. I hadn’t counted on grief turning his mind. It’s the only explanation for his behavior.”

  Whitman answered carefully. “Where does his loyalty lie, I wonder? Either he betrayed you to someone—”

  “It’s the only solution. Not the sweep. MacTaggart.”

  “—or he himself has something to fear from your story. How would Holmes see this?”

  Conan Doyle stopped his pacing, sat down, and stared at his solicitor. “In my story,” he said slowly, “Holmes faults the man who conducted the postmortem. He believed that he’d muddled the case.”

  Whitman said nothing.

  As he examined the past, Conan Doyle’s eyes went to the framed photograph of the king above Whitman’s head.

  “Damn it. There’s no book being written, is there? Holmes saw it from the beginning! I took his remarks to Watson to mean that the man didn’t know enough about poisons. But it wasn’t that, was it? In the Scottish case, MacTaggart did the postmortem. And he shouldn’t have, don’t you see? At the time, I believed he was just the man to find out how Moira’s husband had died. Good God, we all knew that MacTaggart had been one of Moira MacGregor’s suitors before she was married. We never dreamed he still cared for her. I’d suspected William Scott had been infatuated with her. I wasn’t surprised when he was in and out of her house after her husband’s death, helping her with the funeral arrangements and the will. The family doctor and all that. MacTaggart was there nearly as often, and we put it down to kindness.”

  “And no one wondered at this?”

  “We never gave it a thought. He must have been the first to realize that Moira was favoring William. He was there to see it for himself. If he’d killed the husband only to watch another man usurp his place, it would explain everything. What’s more, it could very well have been MacTaggart who put a word in the maid’s ear after William proposed. Who better?”

  “Who, indeed,” Whitman agreed. “He could hardly speak against William Scott himself. The widow wouldn’t have listened. Was he a persuasive man? Could he have managed that?”

  “MacTaggart? Not persuasive, precisely. But his reputation for rectitude and honesty was well known. The maid would have taken to heart any such concern on his part. And he could have thought himself safe in blaming William, because he’d already declared that no poison had been found in the victim’s body. Well, of course it hadn’t—he himself had seen to that. Fortunately for William, that was also what led to the verdict of not proven. MacTaggart was jealous of William. The man he claimed was his dearest friend.” Conan Doyle surged to his feet. “And now he wants Holmes silenced. Because Holmes could raise questions about the case.”

  “Legally it makes sense. If he had brought suit against you, we would have had to know his name. By attacking your creation, he could remain anonymous.”

  “By God, I’ll have his liver for this.”

  He was already on his way to the door. Turning, he said to his solicitor, “My fame counts for something. Thanks to Holmes, although sometimes it galls me to say it. I’m about to ask the Home Office to exhume William Scott’s body. He hanged himself in the stairwell of his home. But did he? Was this suicide MacTaggart’s final act of revenge against William?”

  “The Home Office—” John Whitman began.

  “I know. They have no authority in Scotland. But you see, William Scott went to live in Northumberland after the trial. Driven out of Edinburgh by the verdict of not proven. And so he died in England. I’ll give you any odds you like that it was murder. The trial was not punishment enough. MacTaggart wanted poor William hounded to his grave. And I call myself a writer of detective fiction. It happened under my nose, and I didn’t see it.”

  “You did,” Whitman pointed out. “You let Holmes solve it for you. Still, if MacTaggart is convicted in England for William Scott’s murder, that won’t clear Scott’s name.”

  “Indeed it will. I’ll see to that. Perhaps not in a Scottish court, but in the court of public opinion.”

  “What will you do about the story now?”

  “Destroy it. Write something else. If I’m to be involved in William’s redemption, I want Holmes out of it. I don’t want that case clouding what I’m about to do.”

  “Is that fair to Holmes?” Whitman asked. “I’ve yet to read the story, but I can see it was brilliant detection. As well as true.”

  “You will never read it,” Conan Doyle replied grimly. “As you said, I created Holmes. I tried once to destroy him and failed. But I can take this case away from him. I can do that.”

  And he was gone, slamming the door behind him.

  “Charles Todd” is the mother and son team of Charles and Caroline Todd. They are the authors of thirteen Ian Rutledge novels, two Bess Crawford novels, The Murder Stone, and many short stories. Their latest Rutledge is A Lonely Death (Morrow, January 2011) and the new Bess Crawford title is A Bitter Truth (Morrow, August 2011). “Charles Todd” is a New York Times bestselling author, and they have received nominations for the Edgar, Anthony, John Creasey, and Indie Awards, and won the Deadly Pleasures Mystery Magazine–Barry Award. They live on the East Coast of the United States.

  Caroline’s fourth-grade teacher promised to read to her class the last twenty minutes of each day if they were good and worked hard. Fortunately, the teacher loved Sherlock Holmes and didn’t think him too mature for nine-year-olds. Caroline admits to owing her not only for the multiplication tables and long division but for opening a new world of adventure and mystery that was just as valuable. As an “innocent young lad,” Charles met Sherlock Holmes through Dr. Watson as read to him before bedtime by his mother. He went off to sleep dreaming of redheaded speckled-banded stick figures from Bohemia.

  Although the events recorded in this story are not dated, it clearly takes place after 1905, when King Edward was on the throne and Sir Arthur had accepted a knighthood. From 1903 to 1927, tales of Holmes continued to appear sporadically in The Strand Magazine, under the steady editorial hand of Herbert Greenhough Smith.

  THE IMITATOR

  Jan Burke

  A summer storm caused us to cancel our plans to ride to the river and spend a lazy day fishing. By one o’clock, we had tired of billiards, cards, and chess. We had adjourned to the upstairs library, where I got no further in a letter to my sister than “Dear Sarah, …”

  For his part, Slye stood at one of the long windows, staring out toward the woods beyond the back lawn. The rain had let up, but the day was still misty, so I doubted he could see much.

  Not much that was actually there, in any case.

  I had been more anxious about him a few hours earlier. The first thunderclap had me watching him with concern. He noted my scrutiny with a wry smile, and turned his back to me. I kept watching. Although I saw a certain rigidity in his spine and shoulders, he did not seem unsettled to the degree I might once have expected, and I began to cherish hope that he might, after all, be able to return to the city at some point in time. Seven months had passed from the time of the incident that had encouraged his family to urge him to retire to the country. He had asked me to come with him, an invitation I had happily accepted.

  Some men returned from the Great War whole of body and mind. Slye and I, while thankful (on our good days) to have survived, were not undamaged. My scars were plainly visible, but his had not made themselves known—to others, at least—until nearly a year after we had returned. Slye would, I thought, soon fit back into society. The methods espoused by Dr. Rivers of England for the treatment of what some call “shell shock” were doing him a great deal of good.

  I had just
decided not to interrupt Slye’s brooding silence when his excellent butler, Digby, quietly entered the room.

  “Excuse me, sir. The younger Mr. Hanslow—Mr. Aloysius Hanslow—”

  Digby got no further—Wishy Hanslow dodged past him, disheveled and a little damp.

  Hanslow wore his usual outfit—clothing of another decade, another continent, another man. Slye had once explained to me that long before Hanslow became a devoted reader of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s books, Wishy had found an 1891 copy of the Strand among the stacks of periodicals his father hoarded—which perhaps had planted the seed that later blossomed into his present mania for all things Sherlockian. Hanslow had been particularly taken with one of Sidney Paget’s drawings from “The Boscombe Valley Mystery,” and two years ago his tailor and hatter had been charged with re-creating Sherlock Holmes’s long coat and deerstalker. Judging by the condition of these articles of clothing, Hanslow seemed not to have seen the drawings in which Holmes carried an umbrella.

  “No need to announce me, Digby!” Hanslow said now. “No need! All family here!”

  “Indeed?” Digby said in an arctic tone.

  “Of course! I think of Bunny as a brother!”

  “Now, Wishy,” Slye said, as Digby frowned, “stop trying to irritate Digby. You and I are friends, and as such, far more likely to get along than I do with my brothers.” He turned to Digby. “Thank you, Digby.”

  “Sir, he would not let me take his hat and coat,” Digby said, looking anxiously at the carpet.

  “No, I don’t suppose he would,” Slye said. “But we’ll be leaving soon, I’m sure, so no need to worry.”

  “Don’t know why you keep him around,” Wishy said as soon as the butler left. “If I had to look at that mug of his seven days a week, I’d be a nerve case, too. Sure that’s not your problem?”

  I couldn’t help but stiffen. Slye observed this, smiled at me, then said, “Do you suppose Wishy is on to something, Max?”

  Hanslow turned, only just then noticing my presence. He winced and moved his gaze to a point somewhere over my left shoulder. “Oh, didn’t realize you were in the room, Dr. Tyndale.” He didn’t sound pleased. The feeling was mutual.

  “No, Wishy isn’t on to anything,” I said, answering Slye. “What would you do without Digby?”

  “True,” Slye said. “He is indispensable to what passes for my happiness. Now, Wishy, what brings you out on this dreary day?”

  “Crime, Bunny! Crime. I need your help! Lord, I wish you’d get a telephone!”

  “I find them unrestful.”

  “You have one in the city!”

  “Yes, but the city is already unrestful, so I don’t notice it as much there.”

  “Well, never mind that. Will you come with me to Holder’s Crossing?”

  “What has occurred at Holder’s Crossing?”

  “The colonel’s gone missing—looks like foul play.”

  “Not Colonel Harris?” Slye said, looking troubled.

  “Yes. Sheriff Anderson called and particularly asked me to lend a hand. Mentioned you, too, Bunny. Must have my Watson with me. And—er, you can come along as well, Dr. Tyndale, if you’d like.”

  “We’d be delighted to help in any way possible,” Slye said. “Wouldn’t we, Max?”

  This was by no means the first time we had accompanied Wishy on such an expedition. I had given up trying to persuade Slye that we were only encouraging Hanslow to embrace his delusion that he was an American Sherlock Holmes. Bunny rightly pointed out that Wishy would never claim to be as great as his hero. “Of course not!” I said. “My dear Slye, the gap between the intelligence of the two is nearly as wide as the ocean that separates them!”

  “Oh no,” Slye said in his calm way. “Wishy isn’t at all stupid.”

  I kept my tongue behind my teeth. Sometimes, friends must agree—even if silently—to disagree.

  Wishy Hanslow had a second obsession—automobiles. I have been told that he razed his former stables and built a structure that houses no fewer than ten of them. It was easier to abide this infatuation. As a result of it, we rode in comfort in his chauffeured Pierce-Arrow Series 51 limousine to Holder’s Crossing. On the way, I asked him why he had been out in the storm.

  “Oh, you’ve noticed my clothing is a bit damp! Very observant. I was coming back from driving myself to a separate case—”

  “I told you I would have driven you, sir!” the chauffeur said.

  “Yes, well, now I wish I had listened to you. Thing is, bad roads, had a flat, and had just managed to change the tire when the rain started.”

  Slye asked him about that case, which involved finding a missing dog, detective work that apparently fell within Wishy’s capabilities. Somehow in the telling of his tale, he seemed to grow more accustomed to my scarred face, actually looking me in the eye when he answered my questions.

  When Slye asked what he knew about the case at Holder’s Crossing, though, he blushed and admitted that he knew very little. Sheriff Anderson had called and stated that Colonel Harris had gone missing. “Said there was reason to suspect foul play, but that he would explain everything in detail if I would be so good as to bring you along.”

  “How kind of him to mention me,” Slye said.

  “I’ve asked him to ensure that nothing is disturbed until we get there. He promised he would do his best.”

  “You know this missing gentleman?” I asked.

  “Oh yes. He must be in his seventies now. I haven’t seen him in years, though.”

  He briefly fell into one of his moods, but Wishy’s incessant chatter seemed to distract him, for by the time we arrived at Colonel Harris’s estate, he was looking mildly amused.

  The estate lay three miles or so beyond Holder’s Crossing. We took a winding, mostly paved, relatively wide road up a wooded slope, passing a few narrow farm lanes here and there, before suddenly coming upon a clearing. A large two-story home stood at the end of a sweeping drive. The house was not as large as Slye’s, nor even Hanslow’s, but there could be no doubt that this was the home of a wealthy man. The grounds, although not extensive, were well kept. A service road led to a horse barn and other outbuildings, but no other houses were within sight. The home’s situation, placed as it was within the woods, gave one a sense of peacefulness and privacy.

  A Model T was parked in the drive. It was splattered with so much mud that the grime nearly obscured the sheriff’s department’s markings on its doors. The vehicle was dwarfed by the far less muddied yellow Rolls-Royce parked next to it, a gorgeous machine that drew a sigh from Wishy. “A forty/fifty,” he said. “Silver Ghost. Six cylinders and quiet as a whisper.”

  “The colonel’s?” I asked.

  “Oh, I doubt that very much,” Hanslow said. “He’s something of a pinchpenny.”

  “Still getting around by horse and buggy?”

  “No, he sold off his horses five years ago, on his seventieth birthday.”

  He fell silent, and suddenly looked so sad, I couldn’t help but feel both pity and curiosity. I was about to ask him what was wrong, when Slye said, “Wishy is an expert on automobiles, and a walking catalog of his neighbors’ vehicles. What does the colonel drive, Aloysius?”

  “Model T Center Door Sedan—1915, I believe,” he answered, perking up. “Thank you, Bunny. I’m flattered you’ve noticed. I have a scheme in mind about the individual identification of automobiles, but I haven’t quite worked out all the details.”

  “License plates do that, don’t they?” I asked.

  “Oh, no. Not at all. Easy to switch them. Now what I have in mind involves something like the engine casting number—”

  I was spared a lecture on his automotive identification scheme when the chauffeur opened his car door before ours, causing Wishy to remonstrate with him, and to switch his attention to the topic of automotive etiquette, and his strong view that his passengers should have been allowed to exit first.

  The colonel’s elderly butler, Rawls, knew my c
ompanions—I noticed he did not attempt to relieve Wishy of his deerstalker. He looked pale and shaken, but maintained a dignified pace as he guided us to a parlor on the first floor. Sheriff Anderson, a stout man of sixty with luxuriant mustachios, stood by the fireplace, studying a small notebook. He looked up as we were announced and smiled. “Aloysius, thank you for coming! And you’ve brought Mr. Slye and Dr. Tyndale! Excellent!”

  “Is this some sort of jest?”

  We turned toward the speaker—a frowning, elegantly dressed young blonde, who lounged carelessly in a large chair at the opposite end of the room. She flinched when she beheld my beauty, and quickly busied herself with taking a cigarette from a gold case and fitting it into an ebony holder.

  She was not alone. A pale, sandy-haired gentleman, whose clothes were equally fine, stood just behind her. He blushed when our eyes met, then moved to light her cigarette.

  “You own the Rolls-Royce Silver Ghost parked in the drive,” Hanslow said with some reverence, removing his hat in the lady’s presence.

  She lifted her brows and addressed the sheriff. “Is this play actor supposed to find my uncle?”

  “Allow me to introduce Colonel Harris’s niece and nephew, the children of his youngest sister,” Sheriff Anderson said coldly. “Miss Alice Simms and Mr. Anthony Simms.”

  Anthony Simms came forward and shook hands with each of us as the sheriff named us. He had an athletic build and a firm grip, but his palms were damp.

  Alice stayed where she was.

  “Mr. Simms works in an office,” Hanslow began. “He rushed here today from work. Note the smudge of ink on his vest—”

  “Are you certain that’s ink, Aloysius?” Slye asked.

  Hanslow held up a large magnifying glass and bent closer to Simms.

  “Now, see here!” Simms protested. “I don’t know what you’re blathering about but I don’t care to be—”

  Wishy straightened and said with resignation, “No, might not be. But it is a smudge. And it’s improperly buttoned.”