A Study in Sherlock

by Laurie R. King

  The boy laughed, if somewhat nervously. “Can’t imagine my struggling downstairs with a chest of drawers, Mrs. Richmond.”

  “I can.” She gave him the key and ambled back toward the kitchen.

  The boy could not believe his good fortune. Having made his way up twenty steps to the landing, he unlocked the door to the front bedroom. He was about to walk in and begin his investigation, when he stopped. Holmes would perhaps linger, he would consider the room. He would clear his mind. After all, didn’t he tell Watson that most people allow too much clutter to invade the clear processes of deduction? A large sash window at the front of the house needed a good clean, that was the first thing he noticed. Dust motes hung in the sunlight, which also served to draw attention to smears across the panes. He took out the magnifying glass in anticipation. The walls were clad in anaglypta, known for its sanitary properties and ease of cleaning, though it appeared that they had received only a cursory wipe of late, decorated as they were with tidemarks of nicotine.

  A bed—wide enough for two, he noted—was set against the wall in such a way that anyone languishing there would be able to look out if the curtains were drawn back. A green-tiled washstand stood adjacent to the wall on the right, with a bowl and ewer atop the marble. A single grayish white cloth was hung on the towel rail. A fireplace directly opposite had been laid with newspaper and kindling, and a scuttle filled with coal placed alongside. Next to the bed, a dressing table supported a goodly layer of dust and in a recess in the wall neighbouring the fireplace stood a wardrobe of plain oak. The carpet had seen better days, but had been swept, though he recognized another hallmark of less than vigilant housekeeping—there were dust balls under the cast-iron bed. He stepped into the room and went straight to the window and looked out onto the street. This was the room. This was where something untoward—perhaps a murder—had taken place.

  The problem was that there was precious little else for him to use as evidence. With the glass in hand he inspected the walls, the bed, under the bed, in the wardrobe, in every drawer of the dressing table, along the windowsill, under the windowsill, in the folds of the curtains. Nothing to suggest a murder. He was perplexed. The villain was clearly well versed in his trade, and a crafty sort. He would have to question Mrs. Richmond to a greater degree, perhaps tomorrow. As he completed his notes and made his way downstairs, he had the distinct feeling that he had missed something, but he could not imagine what it might be.

  Mrs. Richmond took the key and returned it to the hook above the sink.

  “I will definitely tell my mother about the room. I think it might do very well, though I might be late with the news, as the lady in question could already have secured accommodation.”

  “Well, if she comes, you just remember to tell her to remind me who sent her. There’ll be a special consideration for a friend.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Richmond.” He looked at the clock on the mantelpiece above the stove. “Oh dear, I must be on my way.”

  Having bowed to Mrs. Richmond, the boy ran all the way back to his home in Auckland Road, and having washed the powder from his face and hidden the magnifying glass and tape measure under the bed, he was betwixt the covers looking suitably flushed and feverish by the time his mother came in with tea and two oatmeal biscuits. Taking stock of his countenance, she sent the maid out to summon the doctor. This case of measles appeared to be taking quite a toll.

  The following day, the aunt and mother decided that they would remain out for only one hour rather than take their customary long walk for good health. The boy sighed. There was precious little to be done in one hour, so it appeared the only course of action would be to alert the police to his suspicions before all necessary evidence was to hand. Such a leap of faith would be unacceptable to Sherlock Holmes, who would have had all the facts—no suppositions, no ifs, no buts—to hand before calling upon Lestrade. He could imagine Holmes chastising him: You need more data!

  “Back in an hour, my dear—we’re going out now,” the mother called from the bottom of the stairs.

  Within ten minutes the boy was closing the front door with as much stealth as possible, and was soon on his way to visit the Upper Norwood constabulary. A police sergeant was on duty at the desk as he entered, though it was the latest edition of the Daily News that claimed his attention, and not the doings of the local criminal element.

  “Yes, young sir, what can I do for you today? Lost your dog?”

  “I would like to see the detective inspector on duty, if I may.”

  The sergeant’s eyes grew wider, and he grinned. “Oh you would, would you, sonny? Our Detective Inspector Stickley is a very busy man, so I’m assuming your purpose is genuine.”

  The boy straightened his shoulders. “I am here to report what I believe to be a genuine murder, witnessed by myself a week ago. I have been in my sickbed since then, however, I would like to see Detective Inspector Stickley as a matter of some urgency.”

  “Right you are. Sit yourself down over there, you’re looking a bit peaky, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

  The police sergeant left the desk, making his way along the corridor, where he entered the inner sanctum via wood-framed glass doors. The boy—who was now very hot and flushed—seated himself on the dark wooden bench. Soon the sergeant returned.

  “This way, son.”

  The boy was slightly disappointed in Detective Inspector Stickley. He had hoped for a ferret-featured Lestrade, who would be suitably impressed by the findings of a new and potentially important consulting detective. This man was tall, checked his pocket watch as he entered the room, and seemed to treat the visitor as if he were the day’s light entertainment.

  “Right then, tell me what makes you think someone’s been murdered on my patch.”

  The boy took a deep breath and recounted the story from the time he was sent home from school. And though he did not mention Holmes, the detective inspector appeared to have a sixth sense.

  “Been reading a bit of old Sherlock, have we, son?”

  The boy blushed but feigned ignorance. “Sherlock? I beg your pardon, sir, but I do not know what you mean.”

  “I thought all boys read Sherlock Holmes.” He sighed. “Anyway, I’ll do this for you. I’ll go round and see your Mrs. Richmond, and I’ll take a gander at the front bedroom, and we’ll see if what you say gives us cause for concern. We’ve had a bit of trouble on that road in the past fortnight, what with reckless drivers of motorcars and what have you.”

  “Thank you, Detective Inspector Stickley.”

  The detective stood up and put his arm on the boy’s shoulder as he guided him along the corridor.

  “Thought about policing when you leave school, son?”

  The boy turned to the man; the thought had never occurred to him. “Well, I thought I might like to study law at university, but my uncle has suggested the civil service examinations.”

  The policeman raised his eyebrows, but said little else, except to ask the sergeant if they had the young man’s correct particulars on file.

  Now the boy was more concerned with catching up with Algebra, Latin, and the Elizabethans than the mystery that had occupied the worst days of his sickness. He read a little Mark Twain and William Makepeace Thackeray—both favorite authors—and on Sunday morning skimmed through The Adventure of the Noble Bachelor for good measure. Clearly the police had not investigated the crime he’d witnessed, or perhaps they had not considered him man enough to keep him informed of their progress. Then, on Sunday afternoon while napping in his room, he was woken by voices at the front door. Though he had been allowed up since the day before, weakness left in the wake of the bout of measles—and his secret excursions—had sent him to his bed with fatigue. The doctor had already decreed that he could not return to school for another three days at least. Upon hearing an exchange between his mother and a man whose voice sounded familiar, the boy left his bed and made his way onto the landing to eavesdrop.

  “A message for your
son, madam—would you tell him that Detective Inspector Stickley called?”

  “Oh dear, is there some sort of trouble?”

  “Not at all, madam. He was most helpful in the matter of an investigation. Most helpful.”

  Clearly Stickley wasn’t alone, for the boy heard another man begin to chuckle.

  “Please inform him that we have completed our inquiries, and we would like him to have this as a mark of our gratitude for his sharp skills of observation.”

  The boy leaned around the wooden banister and could see his mother take an envelope from the man. She was flustered and—fortunately, he thought—simply thanked the man and bid him good-bye. The boy rushed back to bed and closed his eyes.

  He heard the bedroom door open, and his mother’s quiet breathing as she watched her sleeping son. Later she conducted her own investigation, and the boy managed to persuade her that he had only left the house once, to inform the police of the gunshots he’d heard on the day he came home from school sick with measles. She scolded him, but as he opened the envelope, she admitted she was proud of him.

  “What does the letter say?”

  The boy frowned. “The inspector thanked me for reporting what I saw on Margaret Street, and he says he hopes we enjoy ourselves.” He held four tickets in his hand. “They’re for Alexandra Palace on Wednesday.”

  The mother took the tickets. “It looks like a music hall comedy troupe. Let’s see if you’re well enough, shall we? It’s quite a way across London, you know.”

  The boy made sure he was well enough by Wednesday evening and, together with the women of the house, set off for Alexandra Palace in his uncle’s motorcar. In an uncharacteristic offer of generosity, Ernest had provided a chauffeur to take his mother, sisters, and nephew to Alexandra Palace and bring them home again.

  The family thoroughly enjoyed the music hall acts, from the songs to the slapstick. Then, close to the end of the show, the scenery was changed again to stage a drawing room in a grand house. A man and a woman took to the boards, and began a farcical exchange, whereby the man defended himself, with great aplomb, from verbal attack by the woman. The audience cheered and called out, and soon the man was turning to the crowd to ask for their support. More cheers, more calling, as men took the actor’s side, and women called out in favor of the actress. And as the back and forth went on, so the boy began to slide down in his seat, covering his face with his hands. It would not take the mind of a consulting detective to predict the outcome. It was elementary. Voices on the stage were raised again.

  “You are nothing but a philanderer, a thief, and a … a … a thoroughly nasty piece of work. I wish I had never met you.”

  “And that, madam, is a sure case of the pot calling the kettle black!”

  “Don’t you ‘madam’ me, you lout!”

  The audience erupted again, as the man brandished a gun and fired into the air. The boy blushed, as his mother turned to him and smiled.

  “Oh, Ray,” she whispered in his ear. “I wish I had not doubted you—you were right all along. You did hear a gunshot.”

  The following morning, on his way to school, the boy called at the police station to see Detective Inspector Stickley, knowing that an English gentleman would offer an apology where one was required, and take a goodly bite of humble pie.

  “No apologies needed, son.” Stickley paused, regarding the boy. “But a bit of advice. Deeper questioning. You should have asked a few more questions about the lodger; you might have discovered that he was an actor and the troupe were moving on to Alexandra Palace after a run at the Empire down the road—and like many of his ilk, he tried to slip out without paying his rent. And the bloke was only practicing his lines for a new act with the girl who was playing opposite him—mind you, he shouldn’t have broken the rule about women in his room. And if you’d’ve looked up, son, you would have seen a nasty black mark where the blank gunpowder wad hit the ceiling.”

  The boy left the police station and went on his way. Clearly detection was not for him. It was time to put all thoughts of Holmes, his silly backward thinking and his pacing, his magnifying glass and his tape measure behind him. He preferred poetry anyway.

  Mr. Hose, the English master, stood at the blackboard, chalk in hand. He regarded his class. For the first time in weeks, all were present. The outbreak of measles had swept through Dulwich College—a noted school for well-bred boys—like the plague. His lessons would be a source of pleasure again, especially as his favorite pupil had returned and was well enough, if not yet hearty.

  “Chandler, glad to see you in class again. I trust you have kept up with the Elizabethans?”

  The boy stood up to answer, as was customary. “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. Now, if you would be so kind, do tell the class which of the learned gentlemen you chose as subject for your essay.”

  “Philip Marlowe, sir.”

  The class snickered.

  “Still measled, are we, Chandler?”

  “Sorry, sir. I meant to say, Sir Philip Sidney, sir.”

  “Didn’t care for Marlowe, Chandler?”

  The boy shook his head. “I rather prefer Sidney’s verse, sir.”

  Hose nodded. “Yes, something of a poet, aren’t we, Chandler? Great things are expected of you in that field of endeavor, young man. Well then, read on, if you will.”

  The boy cleared his throat, scratched the remains of a spot on his cheek, and proceeded to read his essay to the assembled class. He took his seat again, and following a discussion, it was time for another boy to read. Hose called upon Weston. Rotten Weston.

  “I’ve chosen Philip Marlowe, sir.” He looked across at Chandler and grinned. “Oh—oh dear, oops, I mean Christopher Marlowe.”

  The class laughed.

  “That’s enough! Indeed, more than enough of your particular strain of humor, Weston. A joke’s only a true joke the first time. Now, what sort of Faustian pact have you made with the gods of true literature?”

  Chandler, the boy who had, in his own estimation, made rather a hash of detection, even though he had been tutored at home by the esteemed Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, cast his eyes down to his notebook and doodled a name in the margin. Philip Marlowe. He wondered about the name, and after a while thought it might one day provide a good nom de plume for the man of verse he aspired to become. He suspected it might prove useful in time.

  Jacqueline Winspear—author of the award-winning New York Times and national bestselling novels featuring ex–World War I nurse turned psychologist and investigator Maisie Dobbs—is a UK native but has made California her home for more than twenty years. Sherlock Holmes first came to her serious attention when portrayed by Jeremy Brett—on whom she admits having had a bit of a crush—in the critically acclaimed Granada Television series.

  Raymond Chandler, acclaimed mystery novelist and screenwriter, creator of the iconic detective Philip Marlowe, was born in Illinois in 1888 but moved to London in 1900 with his mother. He attended a local school in Upper Norwood and after attending public school at Dulwich College, London, he became a naturalized British citizen and entered the civil service. In 1912, he moved to Los Angeles, where (with brief periods of absence) he resided for the rest of his life.

  A STUDY IN SHERLOCK: AFTERWORD

  Laurie R. King and Leslie S. Klinger

  The following is a transcript of a conversation conducted via Twitter between Leslie S. Klinger (whose Twitter address is @lklinger) and Mary Russell (@mary_russell) in the fall of 2011. Klinger is the editor of The New Annotated Sherlock Holmes. Russell is a theologian and investigator, who married Mr. Sherlock Holmes in 1921 (The Beekeeper’s Apprentice, et cetera).

  (Les Klinger) @mary_russell Am editing w/LRKing “stories inspired by SH” & wd love an interview w/him or you. OK 4 LRK 2 giv me yr contact info?

  (Mary Russell) @lklinger No, my literary agent Ms King does not have permission to give you my private contact information.

  (LK) @mary_russell But wouldn’t u prefer t
o talk in private?

  (MR) @lklinger “Private” conversations undergo changes in the mind of the interviewer. I prefer that such exchanges be on public record.

  (LK) @mary_russell U want me 2 interview u on Twitter?

  (MR) @lklinger I do not wish you to interview me at all, but clearly that is not an option.

  (LK) @mary_russell We could call it a Twinterview.

  (MR) @lklinger Mr Klinger, if you wish my participation, I must ask that you refrain from whimsy. And excessive abbreviations.

  (LK) @mary_russell Sorry, Ms Russell. Okay, no whimsy, & I’ll keep the questions suitable for all eyes.

  (MR) @lklinger I should hope so. And I prefer “Miss.” Now, may we proceed with this conversation? I have an experiment awaiting me.

  (LK) @mary_russell First, how does Mr Holmes feel about having inspired the creativity of more than a century of crime writers?

  (MR) @lklinger My husband does not care to discuss his feelings.

  (LK) @mary_russell OK, how do YOU feel re his having inspired 100 yrs of crime writers? People other than (sorry must make this 2 Tweets)

  (LK) @mary_russell—than Dr Watson were telling Holmes stories even as the originals were coming out. Why do u think they felt that urge?

  (MR) @lklinger They admired Holmes. They wished to speculate about him. So they made up stories.

  (LK) @mary_russell That’s it? Just a desire for more?

  (MR) @lklinger Nicholas Meyer (your friend?) claimed that Dr Watson was such a great writer, others saw the stories as a challenge.

  (LK) @mary_russell But NM was explaining why he wrote his books & doesn’t speak for others. I’m not even sure I believe his excuse.

  (MR) @lklinger I said claimed. I met Meyer when he was young. I think he wrote them through frustration with a mere 60 published tales.

  (LK) @mary_russell Does it bother u that writers make up fictions about your husband? Some of their stories are pretty outrageous.