“Yes, he has. That is why I am here, Mr Morris.”
“Well, I thank you, but please, just call me Old Tom, good sir.”
Holmes allowed a warm smile, “Well, Old Tom, you have a missing trophy and I hear the presentation is later this evening?”
“Aye, the championship is just finishing up and we find ourselves in dire difficulty,” Old Tom said sadly. “The Claret Jug, as it is called, has permanently resided at the R&A—as we call the Royal and Ancient Golf Club at Saint Andrews—since 1873. The trophy is presented to the winner of the British Open each year. The winner gets to keep it for a year before returning it to the R&A, thence to be passed on to the next champion. It has lately been returned to the club by last year’s winner. Now the trophy has gone missing. I fear it may even have been stolen.”
“The good doctor has told me that one of your boys has gone ill and not turned up for work.”
“Aye, that is true. Young Daniel Roberts, a caddy, a good boy.”
“And where may we find young Mr Roberts?” Holmes asked.
“In the village. He lives with his mum over her dressmakers shop.”
Holmes nodded, “Then let us repair there immediately, for we have no time to lose.”
* * * *
When we reached the home of the boy we found young Daniel Roberts upstairs in his room in bed with an apparent and dire illness of unknown origin. With the consent of his mother and under Holmes’s instructions, I quickly attended to the boy, giving him a thorough medical examination. Finally I walked outside the room to confer privately with my friend.
“Well, doctor, what is your diagnosis?” Holmes asked me.
“There’s nothing physically wrong with the boy at all. But he is terrified of something that he is desperately trying to hide. His heart is pounding fearfully from it.”
Holmes just nodded, then walked back into the room with me. There we saw Old Tom and Mrs Roberts looking sadly upon the boy laying so sickly in the bed. The boy saw us enter and coughed lightly.
Holmes grew grimly serious, “This will not do, Daniel. Doctor Watson has given you a full examination. There is nothing wrong with you. I know you are feigning illness. Time is wasting. You must tell me what you did with the Saint Andrews trophy.”
The boy’s face fell into despair, he was trapped and looked over to his mother.
“Daniel Roberts, now you tell these men the truth!” the boy’s mother commanded.
Daniel looked shocked, fearful with despair, but he did not reply.
“I know you stole the trophy, young man,“ Holmes declared. “The game is up so you might as well make a clean breast of it now.”
“Come on, lad, ’tis time to speak up,” Old Tom prompted, looking dour and disappointed that one of his boys had actually stolen the famed trophy.
The boy began to cry.
“Come now, Danny,“ Old Tom added gently, “tell me what happened. Why did you steal the trophy? Who did you sell it to?”
“Oh no, that’s not the way it was at all, Mr Tom,” the boy blurted through tears. “I took it when the previous winner retuned it to the club a few days ago. I just wanted to see me name on that trophy like all the great golfers of years before, because one day my name could be etched there too. So I used some ink to write me name there, right below Young Mr Tom’s last win from ’72, I did.”
“Danny Roberts, you didn’t!” his mother shouted angrily.
Holmes motioned her to silence, “Go on, Danny. Where is the trophy now? Did you sell it?”
“Sell it? Of course not, sir! I would never think of such a thing,” the boy stammered obviously upset at the very thought.
“Then what did you do with it?” Old Tom prompted.
Danny looked grim, wide eyes pleading with Old Tom, “I’m so sorry. I was scared, sir. I know I did wrong by putting me name there and was trying to remove it, but it just would not come off. I was terrified! Then I got the idea to take the trophy down to the stream to use the water to wash off the ink. To my relief my name came off, but then I dropped the trophy down into the stream. It went in deep.“
“So why didn’t you dive in after it?” I asked the boy.
Danny looked up sheepishly, “I canna’ swim.“
“I see,” Holmes said, hiding a wry grin.
Danny went on to explain, “I was fearful of disappointing Mr Tom. He been so good to me and all. He always told me how golf teaches responsibility and good sportsmanship, then I failed him. So I pretended to be ill so I would not have to face him. I am sorry, Mr Tom.“
Old Tom smiled gently, “Think no more of it, lad.”
“Will I be going off to prison?” the boy asked nervously.
Old Tom laughed with gentle warmth, “Of course not, Danny.”
“So where’s the trophy now?” Holmes asked.
“Why, still at the bottom of the stream, where I left it,” Danny replied.
Holmes nodded, “Very well then. Now Danny, get yourself out of that bed and let us go and fetch it immediately.”
* * * *
It was early the next morning when Sherlock Holmes and I played our first round of golf. The problem of the day before had been solved satisfactorily; the trophy had been retrieved and then presented in time to the championship winner with nary a hitch. Young Danny had been suitably chastised by Old Tom but was allowed to keep his position as a caddy at the club. Once again, all was right and well at the R&A.
Still and all that next day offered us a lovely, brisk, Scottish morning, perfect for a round of golf at the Royal and Ancient Saint Andrews. Old Tom had made a gift of a favourable tee time to Holmes and I, in gratitude for our deed. So my companion reluctantly agreed to play a round.
We decided to play a singles match, just he and I, stroke play. Old Tom and Danny even volunteered to act as our caddies, each giving us much needed and helpful instruction and information before we began play.
The course at the R&A was sandy in nature, with small hills that played havoc with even the most well-struck drive, frequently knocking the ball devilishly off-line and into an insidiously placed pot bunker that only the most diabolically warped mind could have created. It was a challenging course to play.
The first hole, known as the “Burn” hole, was a par four. With a good deal of luck, Holmes and I both bogeyed it with five. We were lucky to shoot only one stroke over par. I did better on the second hole actually making par, while Holmes did better than I on the third.
By the fourth hole I began to realize that Holmes seemed to know a lot more about playing golf than he’d ever let on to me. We played a few more holes and we did well enough, mostly through the good advice of our caddies, both of us going over par of course, but not terribly so.
“Where did you learn to play so well?” I finally asked Holmes, astounded by his quality of play. I was no master of the game, nor was he, but I was surprised by the rapidity with which he had picked up the essentials.
Holmes only smiled, adjusted his deerstalker cap, and replied, “On the train to Saint Andrews, of course. While you slept the hours away, I studied up on the game reading the golfing books in your pack. I found Horace E. Hutchinson’s volume most useful, while The Art of Golf by Simpson was highly informative. Did you know it even includes photographic plates of our friend Old Tom demonstrating the value of the swing? His advice is priceless. You may be correct in stating that once you understand this game it opens up a true appreciation of it.”
“Posh, Holmes! Golf from books!” I snorted derisively, but I could not help but laud his improved attitude. “Well then, we’ll see where this leads, we’re off to the Tenth. So far we are even, so let’s see what you can do on the back nine.”
We moved on to the Tenth hole and played through. I went ahead by a stroke, but by the next hole Holmes had drawn even with me. He went ahead on the Thirteenth, but I caught up to him by the Fifteenth. At this point it was anyone’s game. Holmes played with grim determination, scowling at bad shots but s
eemingly elated when he made a good one—in that way he proved no different from any other golfer.
It was on the approach to the last hole that Old Tom announced, “Gentlemen, the Eighteenth Hole. It is a par 4, at 360 yards in length, and you both be even up to this point.”
“A close contest, Watson,“ Holmes said ruefully. “You are quite right, this pursuit can be most challenging. I think I shall win this hole, then put to bed once and for all your obsessive dreams concerning this game.”
“I shall give you a good fight, Holmes,” I warned.
Sherlock Holmes smiled, “I would expect nothing less, old man.“
It had taken us each two strokes to get onto the green of the Eighteenth. Holmes had a difficult 20-foot putt to make the hole. My putt was shorter, being almost 12 feet in distance. Being farthest from the hole, Holmes played first.
Holmes’s putt went straight and true right towards the hole. It looked like it just might go in. My face grew grim with the bitter taste of impending doom. Surely his ball was heading straight for the hole and would fall in right away. I looked over at my friend and he appeared elated.
Then I saw his ball suddenly stop dead, less than a foot from the cup. Holmes stared at the ball in utter shock and disbelief as if willing it to move on it’s own accord and go into the cup. But it did not.
Now it was my turn. A grim smile came to my face as I prepared for my putt. Danny, acting as my caddy took out one of his favourite hickory-shafted putting cleeks and handed it to me. “Here, Doctor, try this one. You have a level shot, play it straight and it should go true.”
I nodded, my face serious with the competitive spirit as I got into position and made my putt. It was a less forceful stroke than my opponent’s. I intended a simple and straight stroke, but my ball immediately veered off curving in a wide arc. I shook my head with dark trepidation and took a deep breath. I saw that Holmes held his breath also.
All four of us watched intently as my ball rolled in a wide arc, slowly moving closer and closer to the cup with what appeared to be the sureness of inevitability. I let out a tense breath. It looked like I just might make the hole. Then the ball suddenly encountered a rough patch on the green and by some devilish action hooked in front of Holmes’s ball and rolled to a dead stop. I tried to figure out what had just happened. My ball now lay between Holmes’s ball and the cup by barely over six inches—effectively blocking him from the cup.
“That’s the way, doctor!” Danny, shouted with glee.
Old Tom Morris just laughed with uproarious mirth, “Aye, well played, Doctor Watson, it appears you’ve stymied Mr Holmes quite nicely!”
“Stymied?” Holmes blurted. He was obviously not aware of this particular rule.
I was surprised myself by the turn of events but quickly realized it could be a potential game changer for me.
Old Tom explained, “Watson’s ball blocks your own from the cup, Mr Holmes. It’s an old and valued rule of golf, called the Stymie. In golf you must hit your ball true to the hole. Hence, when another ball blocks your own, you are stymied. It‘s your play, Mr Holmes.”
“How can it be played, if Watson‘s ball blocks mine?” Holmes asked.
“Indeed,” Old Tom said most sympathetically, “the balls be just over six inches apart—so Watson’s ball canna’ be lifted as per the rules. Your only option is to concede the hole, or negotiate the stymie. When a player be stymied he obviously can not putt straight for the hole, but if he strikes his ball so as to miss his opponent’s ball and yet go into the hole, he is said to negotiate the stymie. Well, Mr Holmes?”
The Great Detective carefully regarded his options. They were woefully limited. “You have placed me a quite the pickle, Watson. I shall not concede the hole to you, so you leave me no alternative but to attempt, as Old Tom says, to negotiate this…stymie.”
“Bravo, Mr Holmes!” Old Tom enthused warmly at my friend’s obvious pluck. “Here now, use this Jigger, it will give you the loft you need to play your ball.”
Holmes took the hickory-shafted Jigger and prepared to make his play. He took his time and hit the ball with a sudden and sharp lifting motion that lofted his ball into the air. I was shocked to see his ball ride over my own—a bare two inches in height and straight towards the hole. Then his ball kicked right into the hole—and bounced right back out!
Holmes’s ball slowly rolled away to rest a few inches from the cup.
It was heartbreaking. Danny grimaced while Old Tom shook his head good-naturedly at the mystical vagaries of the game. I stood there amazed by what I had just seen.
Holmes for his part said not one word, his face had become a solid mask of stone. I decided it was not the right time for me to make any comment about what had happened.
It was my turn now. I took my time. With the utmost care I took my putt, lightly tapping my ball so it fell squarely into the cup with a soft plop. I sighed with relief and looked over at my friend.
Sherlock Holmes seemed to hardly believe what had happened. A moment later he mechanically tapped his ball into the hole, officially ending the game, and then he walked away in a rather sullen funk.
I had beat Holmes by one stroke but my victory was bittersweet.
I thought I could hear my friend murmuring to himself as he walked off the green, something about how he had been right all along, that golf was a stupid game, a horrendous waste of time, and based solely upon luck rather than any true skill.
“You know, Watson, some day that damnable stymie rule will have to go,” he commented to me sharply as the four of us walked off towards the clubhouse.
Old Tom Morris cut in before I could reply, “Never, Mr Holmes! Not while I live! Aye, golfing tradition, it surely be. One of the most sacred rules of the game.”
“Hah!” Holmes snorted derisively dismissing the entire affair. Then he looked at me and suddenly smiled with renewed good humour, “Well played, Watson. I must say, well played, indeed.”
“Why thank you, Holmes, that is very gracious of you. It was a close contest. I am sure you will do better on our next outing,” I said in an upbeat tone, trying to offer him some measure of support, but I knew the truth. I knew my friend. This was the first and last game of golf I or anyone else would ever play with Sherlock Holmes.
I shook my head in consternation as Holmes and I accompanied Old Tom towards his club-making shop off the 18th green. We had sent young Danny off, and now the three of us sat down enjoying a few pints, sharing stories about golf and life, and never once did we ever mention the stymie again.
HISTORICAL NOTE:
Much of the background of this story is based on historical facts that deal with the Royal and Ancient Golf Club at Saint Andrews, in Scotland; the British Open trophy, better know as the Claret Jug; and the lives of Young Tom and Old Tom Morris. I also want to thank the real Dan Roberts, as well as the Gerritsen Beach Golf Museum Library for their assistance. The Stymie rule was finally taken out of golf in 1952. Before then, players could not lift their ball, but after 1952 they would use a marker on the green and then lift their ball so as not to obstruct an opponent’s ball. There are many who wish the Stymie was still in effect.
YEARS AGO AND IN A DIFFERENT PLACE, by Michael Kurland
Professor James Moriarty, Ph.D., F.R.A.S.
“The famous scientific criminal, as famous among crooks as—”
“My blushes, Watson,” Holmes murmured, in a depreciating voice.
“I was about to say ‘as he is unknown to the public.’”
“A touch—a distinct touch!” cried Holmes. “You are developing a certain unexpected vein of pawky humour, Watson, against which I must learn to guard myself. But in calling Moriarty a criminal you are uttering libel in the eyes of the law—and there lies the glory and the wonder of it. The greatest schemer of all time, the organiser of every devilry, the controlling brain of the underworld, a brain which might have made or marred the destiny of nations—that’s the man. But so aloof is he from general suspic
ion, so immune from criticism, so admirable in his management and self-effacement, that for those very words that you have uttered he could hale you to a court and emerge with your year’s pension as a solatium for his wounded character. Is he not the celebrated author of The Dynamics of an Asteroid, a book which ascends to such rarefied heights of pure mathematics that it is said that there was no man in the scientific press capable of criticising it? Is this a man to traduce?”
—The Valley of Fear
YEARS AGO AND IN A DIFFERENT PLACE
My name is Professor James Clovis Moriarty, Ph.D., F.R.A.S. You may have heard of me. I have been the author of a number of well-regarded scientific monographs and journal articles over the past few decades, including a treatise on the Binomial Theorem and a monograph titled “The Dynamics of an Asteroid,” which was well received in scientific circles both in Great Britain and on the continent. My recent paper in the British Astronomical Journal, “Observations on the July 1889 Eclipse of Mercury with Some Speculations Concerning the Effect of Gravity on Light Waves,” has occasioned some comment among those few who could understand its implications.
But I fear that if you know my name, it is, in all probability, not through any of my published scientific papers. Further, my current, shall I say, notoriety, was not of my own doing and most assuredly not by my choice. I am by nature a retiring, some would have it secretive, person.
Over the past few years narratives from the memoirs of a certain Dr John Watson concerning that jackanapes who calls himself a “consulting detective,” Mr Sherlock Holmes, have been appearing in the Strand magazine and elsewhere with increasing frequency, and have attained a—to my mind—most unwarranted popularity.
Students of the “higher criticism,” as those insufferable pedants who devote their lives to picking over minuscule details of Dr Watson’s stories call their ridiculous avocation, have analysed Watson’s rather pedestrian prose with the avid attention gourmands pay to mounds of goose-liver pâté. They extract hidden meanings from every word, and extrapolate facts not in evidence from every paragraph. Which leads them unfailingly to conclusions even more specious than those in which Holmes himself indulges.
The Sherlock Holmes Megapack: 25 Modern Tales by Masters: 25 Modern Tales by Masters Page 18