At seven-twenty-five Snewin scurried in, gasped, 'Excuse me, place names, got to put them out,' and went into the dining-room. Through the open door Quarles glimpsed a large oval table, gleaming with silver, bright with roses.
After Snewin came Lord Acrise, jutting-nosed and fearsome-eyed. 'Sorry to have kept you waiting,' he barked, and asked conspiratorially, 'Well?'
'No sign.'
'False alarm. Lot of nonsense. Got to dress up now.'
He went into the robing room with his box—each of the hosts had a similar box, labelled 'Santa Claus'—and came out again bewigged, bearded and robed. 'Better get the business over, and then we can enjoy ourselves. You can tell 'em to come in,' he said to Albert.
This referred to the photographers, who had been clustered outside, and now came into the room specially provided for holding the raffle. In the centre of the room was a table, and on the table stood this year's prize, two exquisite T'ang horses. On the other side of the table were ten chairs arranged in a semi-circle, and on these sat the Santa Clauses. Their guests stood inconspicuously at the side.
The raffle was conducted with the utmost seriousness. Each Santa Claus had a numbered slip. These slips were put into a tombola, and Acrise put in his hand and drew out one of them. Flash bulbs exploded.
'The number drawn is eight,' Acrise announced, and Roddy Davis waved the counterfoil in his hand.
'Isn't that wonderful? It's my ticket.' He went over to the horses, picked up one. 'I'm bound to say that they couldn't have gone to anybody who'd have appreciated them more.'
Quarles, standing near the general, whose face was as red as his robe, heard him mutter something uncomplimentary. Charity, he reflected, was not universal, even in a gathering of Santa Clauses. Then there were more flashes, the photographers disappeared, and Quarles' views about the nature of charity were reinforced when, as they were about to go into the dining-room, Sir James Erdington said, 'Forgotten something, haven't you, Acrise?'
With what seemed dangerous quietness Acrise answered, 'Have I? I don't think so.'
'It's customary for the Club and guests to sing "Noel" before we go in to dinner.'
'You didn't come to last year's dinner. It was agreed then that we should give it up. Carols after dinner, much better.'
'I must say I thought that was just for last year, because we were late,' Roddy Davis fluted.
'Suggest we put it to the vote,' Erdington said sharply.
Half a dozen of the Santas now stood looking at each other with subdued hostility. Then suddenly the Arctic explorer, Endell. began to sing 'Noel, Noel' in a rich bass. There was the faintest flicker of hesitation, and then the guests and their hosts joined in. The situation was saved.
At dinner Quarles found himself with Acrise on one side of him and Roddy Davis on the other. Endell sat at Acrise's other side, and beyond him was Erdington. Turtle soup was followed by grilled sole, and then three great turkeys were brought in. The helpings of turkey were enormous. With the soup they drank a light, dry sherry, with the sole Chassagne Montrachet, with the turkey an Aloxe Corton.
'And who are you?' Roddy Davis peered at Quarles' card and said, 'Of course, I know your name.'
'I am a criminologist.' This sounded better, Quarles thought, than 'private detective.'
'I remember your monograph on criminal calligraphy. Quite fascinating.'
So Davis did know who he was. It would be easy, Quarles thought, to underrate the intelligence of this man.
'These beards really do get in the way rather,' Davis said. 'But there, one must suffer for tradition. Have you known Acrise long?'
'Not very. I'm greatly privileged to be here.'
Quarles had been watching, as closely as he could, the pouring of the wine, the serving of the food. He had seen nothing suspicious. Now, to get away from Davis' questions, he turned to his host.
'Damned awkward business before dinner,' Acrise said. 'Might have been, at least. Can't let well alone, Erdington.'
He picked up his turkey leg, attacked it with Elizabethan gusto, wiped his mouth and Fingers with his napkin. 'Like this wine?'
'It's excellent.'
'Chose it myself. They've got some good Burgundies here.' Acrise's speech was slightly slurred, and it seemed to Quarles that he was rapidly getting drunk.
'Do you have any speeches?'
'No speeches. Just sing carols. But I've got a little surprise for 'em.'
'What sort of surprise?'
'Very much in the spirit of Christmas, and a good joke too. But if I told you, it wouldn't be a surprise, would it?'
There was a general cry of pleasure as Albert himself brought in the great plum pudding, topped with holly and blazing with brandy.
'That's the most wonderful pudding I've ever seen in my life,' Endell said. 'Are we really going to eat it?'
'Of course,' Acrise said irritably. He stood up, swaying a little, and picked up the knife beside the pudding.
'I don't like to be critical, but our Chairman is really not cutting the pudding very well,' Roddy Davis whispered to Quarles. And indeed, it was more of a stab than a cut that Acrise made at the pudding. Albert took over, and cut it quickly and efficiently. Bowls of brandy butter were circulated.
Quarles leaned towards Acrise. 'Are you all right?'
'Of course I'm all right.'
The slurring was very noticeable now. Acrise ate no pudding, but he drank some more wine, and dabbed at his lips. When the pudding was finished, he got slowly to his feet again and toasted the Queen. Cigars were lighted. Acrise was not smoking. He whispered something to the waiter, who nodded and left the room. Acrise got up again, leaning heavily on the table.
'A little surprise,' he said. 'In the spirit of Christmas.'
Quarles had thought that he was beyond being surprised by the activities of the Santa Claus Club, but he was astonished at the sight of the three figures who entered the room.
They were led by Snewin, somehow more mouselike than ever, wearing a long, white smock and a red nightcap with a tassel. He was followed by an older man dressed in a kind of grey sackcloth, with a face so white that it might have been covered in plaster of Paris. This man carried chains, which he shook. At the rear came a young-middle-aged lady who seemed to be completely hung with tinsel.
'I am Scrooge,' said Snewin.
'I am Marley,' wailed grey sackcloth, clanking his chains vigorously.
'And I,' said the young-middle-aged lady, with abominable sprightliness, 'am the ghost of Christmas past.'
There was a ripple of laughter.
'We have come,' said Snewin in a thin, mouse voice, 'to perform for you our own interpretation of A Christmas Carol. . .
Oh, sir, what's the matter?'
Lord Acrise stood up in his robes, tore off his wig, pulled at his beard, tried to say something. Then he clutched at the side of his chair and fell sideways, so that he leaned heavily against Endell and slipped slowly to the floor.
There ensued a minute of confused, important activity. Endell made some sort of exclamation and rose from his chair, slightly obstructing Quarles. Erdington was first beside the body, holding the wrist in his hand, listening for the heart. Then they were all crowding round. Snewin, at Quarles' left shoulder, was babbling something, and at his right were Roddy Davis and Endell.
'Stand back,' Erdington snapped. He stayed on his knees for another few moments, looking curiously at Acrise's puffed, distorted face, bluish around the mouth. Then he stood up.
'He's dead.'
There was a murmur of surprise and horror, and now they all drew back, as men do instinctively from the presence of death.
'Heart attack?' somebody said.
Quarles moved to his side. 'I'm a private detective, Sir James. Lord Acrise feared an attempt on his life, and asked me to come along here.'
'You seem to have done well so far,' Erdington said drily.
'May I look at the body?'
'If you wish'.
As Quarles bent d
own, he caught the smell of bitter almonds. 'There's a smell like prussic acid, but the way he died precludes cyanide, I think. He seemed to become very drunk during dinner, and his speech was blurred. Does that suggest anything to you?'
'I'm a brain surgeon, not a physician.' Erdington stared at the floor. 'Nitro-benzene?'
'That's what I thought. We shall have to notify the police.'
Quarles went to the door and spoke to a disturbed Albert. Then he returned to the room and clapped his hands.
'Gentlemen. My name is Francis Quarles, and I am a private detective. Lord Acrise asked me to come here tonight because he had received a threat that this would be his last evening alive. The threat said, "I shall be there, and I shall watch with pleasure as you squirm in agony". Lord Acrise has been poisoned. It seems certain that the man who made the threat is in this room.'
'Gliddon,' a voice said. Snewin had divested himself of the white smock and red nightcap, and now appeared as his customary respectable self.
'Yes. This letter, and others he had received, were signed with the name of James Gliddon, a man who bore a grudge against Lord Acrise which went back nearly half a century. Gliddon became a professional smuggler and crook. He would now be in his late sixties.'
'But dammit man, this Gliddon's not here.' That was the General, who took off his wig and beard. 'Lot of tomfoolery.'
In a shamefaced way the other members of the Santa Claus Club removed their facial trappings. Marley took off his chains and the lady discarded her cloak of tinsel.
Quarles said, 'Isn't he here? But Lord Acrise is dead.'
Snewin coughed. 'Excuse me, sir, but would it be possible for my colleagues from our local dramatic society to retire?'
'Everybody must stay in this room until the police arrive,' Quarles said grimly. 'The problem, as you will all realize, is how the poison was administered. All of us ate the same food, drank the same wine. I sat next to Lord Acrise, and I watched as closely as possible to make sure of this. After dinner some of you smoked cigars or cigarettes, but not Lord Acrise.'
'Just a moment.' It was Roddy Davis who spoke. 'This sounds fantastic, but wasn't it Sherlock Holmes who said that when you'd eliminated all other possibilities, even a fantastic one must be right? Supposing poison in powder form was put on to Acrise's food? Through the pepper pots, say . . .'
Erdington was shaking his head, but Quarles unscrewed both salt and pepper pots and tasted their contents. 'Salt and pepper,' he said briefly. 'Hello, what's this.'
'It's Acrise's napkin,' Endell said. 'What's remarkable about that?'
'It's a napkin, but not the one Acrise used. He wiped his mouth half a dozen times on his napkin, and wiped his greasy fingers on it too, when he'd gnawed a turkey bone. He must certainly have left grease marks on it. But look at this napkin.'
He held it up, and they saw that it was spotless. Quarles said softly, 'The murderer's mistake.'
Quarles turned to Erdington. 'Sir James and I agree that the poison used was probably nitro-benzene. This is deadly as a liquid, but it is also poisonous as a vapour—isn't that so?'
Erdington nodded. 'You'll remember the case of the unfortunate young man who used shoe polish containing nitro-benzene on damp shoes, put them on and wore them, and was killed by the fumes.'
'Yes. Somebody made sure that Lord Acrise had a napkin that had been soaked in nitro-benzene but was dry enough to use. The same person substituted the proper napkin, the one belonging to the restaurant, after Acrise was dead.'
'That means the napkin must still be here,' Davis said.
'It does.'
'Then I vote that we submit to a search!'
'That won't be necessary,' Quarles said. 'Only one person here fulfils all the qualifications of the murderer.'
'James Gliddon?'
'No. Gliddon is almost certainly dead, as I found out when I made enquiries about him. But the murderer is somebody who knew about Acrise's relationship with Gliddon, and tried to be clever by writing those letters to lead us along a wrong track.' He paused. 'Then the murderer is somebody who had the opportunity of coming in here before dinner, and who knew exactly where Acrise would be sitting.'
There was a dead silence in the room.
Quarles said, 'He removed any possible suspicion from himself, as he thought, by being absent from the dinner table, but he arranged to come in afterwards to exchange the napkins. He probably put the poisoned napkin into the clothes he discarded. As for motive, long-standing hatred might be enough, but he is also somebody who knew that he would benefit handsomely when Acrise died. . .stop him, will you?'
But the General, with a tackle reminiscent of the days when he had been the best wing three-quarter in the country, had already brought to the floor Lord Acrise's secretary, Snewin.
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16 - The Secret in the Pudding Bag by HERLOCK SHOLMES
(A Story of an Amazing Christmas Mystery recorded by Herlock Sholmes himself)
SHERLOCK HOLMES is the most parodied detective in fiction. Nothing startling in that; he's also the most famous. What is startling is how soon the parodists identified their prey and pounced on him.
Luke Sharp (in fact the novelist and editor Robert Barr) is probably—though who knows?—the first: his 'Adventures of Sherlaw Kombs' appeared in the Idler in 1892, before the first series of Holmes stories had even finished its run in the Strand Magazine. R. C. Lehmann's admirable cycle of stories (eight in all) featuring Picklock Holes ran in Punch (August 1893 to January 1894) during the latter half of the Strand's printing of the Memoirs. In the same month that Lehmann's final parody, 'Picklock's Disappearance', appeared (nice touch: Holes's amanuensis Dr Potson reveals the ghastly truth that it was Holmes himself who dragged Picklock Holes to his doom), Allan Ramsay contributed a one-off burlesque to The Bohemian featuring Thinlock Bones. And Holmes wasn't only exercising the minds of English-speaking humorists: on the Continent 'Les Aventures de Loufolk Holmes' by 'Cami' was running in France sometime around 1895.
Since then, the Deluge: Holmlock Shears, Shylock Homes, Hemlock Holmes, Hemlock Jones, Sheerluck Jones, Sheerluck Soames, Shamrock Jolnes, Sherbet Scones—good grief!
And all over the shop, too. If you have the time (an idle year or so) you can find them easily in newspapers, women's magazines, humorous papers, arts and literary journals, from the 1890s to the present day. And it wasn't only in the high-profile periodicals that parodies appeared.
Pick up a musty bound volume of any great public-school magazine in a secondhand bookshop and a pound to a penny somewhere amongst its browning pages you'll find a Tomes story, or a Fones story, or a Groans story. Leaf through ten years' worth of old issues of your local parish magazine piled on the White Elephant stall at the summer fete and if some bright spark hasn't contributed 'The Mystery of the Exploding Marrow' at some time or another it was a dull decade. Holmes parodies were everywhere (probably still are): bicycling magazines, cricketing magazines, amateur dramatics newsletters, nature notes, house journals for banks, insurance companies, charities, catering organizations. . .
It has to be said that many of them—probably most, if the truth be known—are pretty forgettable, especially when the writer overextended the joke and pitched into a whole cycle of parodies. What might have started out as a labour of love in short order became just a labour, both for reader and writer.
A parody cycle of course is the toughest thing in the world to maintain successfully. August Derleth did it, although his Solar Pons stories are not really parodies, not really pastiches; uniquely, the series stands on its own as an affectionate (and often highly ingenious) tribute to a favourite sleuth. More recently Robert Fish succeeded too, with his entrancing tales of Schlock Homes: at no time did it look as though he was running the joke into the ground.
The longest-running parody cycle of them all has to be the Herlock Sholmes burlesques which Charles Hamilton, as 'Peter Todd', began in the British boys' story-paper, the Greyfriars' Herald, in 1915
.
Exactly one hundred of the Sleuth from Shaker Street's extraordinary cases were recorded, mostly by 'Peter Todd', sometimes by 'Dr Jotson', on the odd occasion—as here—by 'Herlock Sholmes' himself. They appeared in a number of weekly papers from 1915 to 1925—Gem, Magnet, Penny Popular—with odd bursts in later decades, and although Hamilton wrote a good many of them other hands took a turn as well. The trouble is it's difficult after so many years to identify the non-Hamilton authors.
It's said that George Samways (b. 1895) wrote many of the Sholmes stories of the early-1920s, although in a letter to me he categorically denied it. Other candidates include W. E. Stanton Hope (1889-1961) who, before he became a world-traveller, wrote a good deal for the papers in which Sholmes appeared, and W. L. Catchpole (b. 1900), who certainly contributed quantities of parodies, sketches, and squibs to both Gem and Magnet. Yet Hope had gone on to better-paying markets by the time Hamilton stopped writing the Sholmes parodies in 1921, and Catchpole didn't really start writing until after the main Sholmes series ended in 1925.
The only thing one can say about 'The Secret in the Pudding Bag' is that it's fine knockabout stuff, but it isn't by Charles Hamilton. I suspect it was a lowly sub-editor earning an honest bob or two on the side. . .
BEFORE revealing the amazing Secret of the Pudding Bag, I, Herlock Sholmes, detective of Shaker Street, London, desire to explain my action to my readers.
For years my faithful friend, Dr Jotson, who assists me to pay Mrs Spudson's exorbitant rent, had acted as the official recorder of my cases. Never was there a better man. Although a general practitioner, he is an expert on disordered brains. As I have told him many a time, he should be in a mental asylum—as house-surgeon, of course. Yet his great talents have not been wasted altogether in Shaker Street.
But his very devotion to me has one draw-back. He refuses to record any but my astounding successes. And the case of the Pudding Bag can hardly be classified as one. But because of its Christmas flavour the Editor desired it greatly—the story, not the pudding bag.
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