by Marvin Kaye
“To be blunt, Holmes, if we are to credit what Mrs. Doyle tells us, her husband is suffering from acute . . . frustration. The overindulgence in sport, the banjo playing, the literary feuding, for a healthy male in his prime—”
“Enough, Watson,” said Holmes. “Like you, I have concluded that the man is in dire danger of violating his marital vows. The real issue for me, my dear fellow, is your role here. It has never been my policy to pry into your affairs, but just how well do you know your literary agent?”
“Not well, Holmes, though our relations have always been cordial and correct. As fellow medical men we have traded a tale or two of the dissecting room, and Doyle did present me with an inscribed copy of his story collection Round the Red Lamp, but there all confidences end. I am grateful that he continues in his capacity as my agent, despite his rising fame as an author, though again it has been some while since I have put any work his way.”
After believing Holmes had fallen to his death in ‘91 in the grasp of his archfoe Professor Moriarty, I was too grief-stricken to publish any adventures beyond that of “The Final Problem.” My friend’s abrupt resurrection three years later provided an additional jolt which reinforced my silence.
“Tell me, Watson. I confess I am ignorant of literary practices,” said Sherlock Holmes, “but why on earth have you not submitted your fanciful melodramas directly to The Strand magazine?”
“Well, Holmes, if you can keep a secret, this chap Doyle has done more than act as middle-man. He has touched up my prose here and there, checked details, consistency of names and dates, that sort of thing. After all, he’s a professional, I a mere amateur.”
I was not about to admit that in many instances my agent had been a virtual co-author. Indeed, to safeguard my posthumous reputation, the extent of Doyle’s hand in my own writings must forever remain in mystery.
“Do you, then, have any objections to my assuming Mrs. Doyle’s case?”
“None at all, Holmes.”
“I am sure Mulliner could handle this affair ably enough in my stead.”
“No, Holmes. A lady’s honour is at stake. She trusts only you. If a scandal ensues from your investigation, I am prepared to risk the loss of her husband’s services—of which I may have no real need in future anyway.”
“Good old Watson! How fortunate for your wives to have a man of your loyalty.”
“Thank you, Holmes.”
For a few moments we sat in a silence that was almost comfortable.
“The old queen cannot live forever,” my friend resumed. “Her son, the heir, has already set the moral tone for the new century that looms. With her will pass an age that for all its cant and hypocrisy still upholds the gentlemanly virtues. I suspect, dear fellow, that you and I shall find ourselves increasingly out of step with the laxer times ahead. In the meanwhile, let us put Mrs. Doyle out of her suspense, then join her in a cup of tea.”
Later that month the newspapers heralded Arthur Conan Doyle’s return from South Africa, on holiday from his exertions in the Boer War. He was badly in need of rest, so a clandestine message from his wife informed Holmes; though that would not prevent him from coming up to London to play for Surrey at Lord’s. The detective determined that it might be interesting to learn who might be watching among the crowd. “For now I prefer to theorize in the background,” he said before I set off alone for St. John’s Wood. “Besides, Watson, you instinctively appreciate the nuances of a game, like the subtleties of women, which I with my logical mind find completely baffling.”
In truth I was fond of cricket, if more as a casual peruser of the box scores in the pink sheet than as a spectator on the grounds. In the event I welcomed the chance to visit Lord’s, though by the time I entered the gate the teams had adjourned for lunch. I headed for the pavilion, where I nodded to more than a few former patients and consumed strawberries and cream. It was while I was so engaged that I heard a familiar voice at my side.
“Watson, old chap!”
I turned and there stood the tall, athletic figure of my literary agent, Arthur Conan Doyle, wearing whites. He looked a bit gaunt but otherwise exuded robust good cheer.
“My dear Doyle,” I said, dropping my spoon. We clasped hands.
“I say, this is a stroke of luck,” my companion began in that solid, precise way of his. “I’ve been meaning to get in touch with you since my return from South Africa—a frightful situation there, you know; it’s all in my forthcoming book, The Great Boer War. At any rate, on board the ship home I met a journalist named Fletcher Robinson. Told me the most wonderful West Country legend about a spectral hound.” Conan Doyle winked. “Back in the eighties, I understand, a crime connected with this hound brought a certain private consulting detective—”
“Sounds promising, Doyle,” I interrupted hastily, “but I’d rather we—”
I disliked discussing business in so public a place, but fortunately the arrival of a third party put an end to this line of conversation.
“Ah, Jean,” said the author, addressing a young woman dressed in a summer frock that showed to advantage her long, slender neck and beautifully sloped shoulders. “I’d like you to meet my client, Dr. John Watson. Watson, may I present Miss Jean Leckie.”
“I’m delighted to meet you, Dr. Watson,” said the woman in a Scots accent like a melody. “I used so much to enjoy the adventures of your friend Mr. Sherlock Holmes in The Strand. Pray, is there any hope of his return?”
Usually when confronted with this question, as I had been all too often since the appearance of “The Final Problem,” my answer was curt. On this occasion, I have to admit, I was no proof against the charm of my lovely interlocutor’s smile and went so far as to say that I had not ruled out the possibility.
We were shortly joined by a fourth individual, a balding young fellow in the colours of the opposing Middlesex team. As tall and strapping as Doyle himself, he was carrying a book.
“Good day, Mr. Doyle,” said the youth, who despite his imposing build had a shy, quiet manner about him. “I hope I’m not imposing. My name is Wodehouse. You may recall you bowled me out for six this morning.”
“Ah, yes, Wodehouse,” replied Conan Doyle with a grin. “One of the stars of the Dulwich eleven your final term, I hear.”
“My friend Fletcher Robinson tells me the two of you met aboard the Briton, Mr. Doyle.”
“Indeed, a capital chap. Spoke highly of you as a cricketer—and as an aspiring journalist.”
“I confess that for the moment I work in a bank, but literature is my great love. I’m a particular fan of yours, Mr. Doyle.” A faint blush mantled the young man’s cheek. “Would you be so good as to sign my copy of your latest book?” Here Wodehouse produced the volume he had under his arm, The Green Flag and Other Stories of War and Sport, by A. Conan Doyle. The author scribbled on the title page with a pen supplied by his admirer.
“Thank you very much, Mr. Doyle.”
“Always glad to oblige a fellow cricketer, my lad. Oh, pardon me, my manners suffered somewhat on the veldt. Allow me to introduce Miss Leckie”—Wodehouse bowed—“and Dr. Watson.”
“Pleased to meet you, Dr. Watson. Yet another literary man, are you not? Author of The Adventures and The Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes?”
I acknowledged the compliment, though mindful of the fact that if you failed to publish, after a while the public tended to forget you, no matter how keenly they may have received you at first.
Attention soon shifted back to Doyle and his recent writings, then to his musical efforts. “It was I who encouraged Arthur to take up the banjo, to accompany my singing,” said Miss Leckie. “He hasn’t told me yet whether he had the chance to practice in South Africa, though I gather his butler was threatening to resign until his timely departure from England.” She laughed, and we all joined in, no one more heartily than the banjo-playing author himself.
“Maybe Mr. Doyle should consider trying the banjolele instead,” suggested the young cricketer.
This spa
rked more laughter, leading to talk between Miss Leckie and Wodehouse of notable stringed-instrument performers that season on the London music-hall stage. Doyle drew me aside.
“Isn’t she a peach, Watson?”
“Miss Leckie is most congenial.”
“An excellent horsewoman, rides to hounds, trained as an opera singer in Dresden.” The man gave a huge sigh. “I won’t pretend with you, old boy. I’ve already confided in a number of my close friends, as well as my mother. To my immense relief ‘the Ma’am,’ as I call her, has given her blessing. I know how it must seem. But I can assure you—”
That my literary agent should be sharing such a confidence was more than a little disconcerting, even though of course he was confirming the very information I most vitally sought. Perhaps the strain of attending the wounded in South Africa, combined with his excitement at seeing Miss Leckie after so long an absence, explained his lack of reserve. Fortunately, at this juncture Wodehouse interrupted to say he needed to go grab a bite before returning to the pitch. Shortly after he left we were joined by a couple who greeted Doyle like a long-lost brother, which in a real sense he was.
“Ah, Connie, Willie, I’d like you to meet a friend of mine, Miss Jean Leckie. And this is my client, Dr. John Watson.”
I had never met Ernest William Hornung, better known as E.W. Hornung, chronicler of Raffles, the “amateur cracksman,” and Conan Doyle’s brother-in-law, but I certainly knew him by reputation. While his wife, Constance, caught up with her celebrity brother, I exchanged a few words with my fellow detective-story writer.
“Can we look forward to any new adventures of Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Dr. Watson?” asked the man in a facetious tone I found irritating.
“I think not, Mr. Hornung.”
“Come, come, sir. Everyone knows Mr. Holmes has resumed his London practice. It’s been years now. When are you going to reveal how he survived that plunge into the Reichenbach Falls?”
“Some things are best left in mystery, Mr. Hornung.”
“Dear me, Dr. Watson, you are obstinate. If you refuse to honour us with further tales of your detective friend, then I suppose we lesser authors will just have to do our humble best to fill the gap.”
While the exploits of Raffles were all very amusing in their way, they were thin stuff compared with my own. Listening to this man prate, I began to think that perhaps it was time, after all, to “resurrect” Holmes, not that I was about to give my rival the satisfaction of saying so. I made a mental note to talk to Doyle later about that spectral hound legend, assuming we were still on speaking terms after the resolution of the present case.
With relief I turned to the conversation between the ladies, while Doyle reviewed for Hornung some of the finer points of that morning’s match. Mrs. Hornung queried Miss Leckie politely about her family, but it soon became clear that she was more interested in a topic closer to home.
“Where did you say you and my brother met, Miss Leckie?”
“At a party, Mrs. Hornung. My parents were entertaining at the Glebe House, in Blackheath.”
“You say this was in March, Miss Leckie?”
“March three years ago, Mrs. Hornung.”
“To be precise, March fifteenth,” Doyle chipped in, giving Miss Leckie’s hand a quick squeeze. For an instant both Hornungs frowned.
“I see,” said his sister. “Well, we must all have lunch together sometime.”
“Right now you must all excuse me,” said Doyle, looking at his watch. “Play resumes promptly on the hour.”
“Good-bye, then, Arthur. Shall we be seeing you at Undershaw?”
“On the morrow, Connie.”
The Hornungs made their farewells to Miss Leckie. Their frozen smiles, if I am any judge, left behind a distinct air of disapproval. But Miss Leckie, with whom I found myself suddenly alone, seemed not to mind if she even noticed.
“Oh, Dr. Watson, isn’t Arthur the best and wisest man you have ever known!”
That evening I returned to Baker Street and gave Holmes my report.
“I must congratulate you, Watson,” said the detective, “for all your discovery has fallen to you like ripe fruit from a tree. Your literary agent proclaims his attachment to this Miss Leckie as nothing less than an open secret!”
“Yes, Holmes, but I am certain it is no liaison, at least not yet.”
“Ah, there lies the nub of the matter. That Doyle has managed to resist temptation for more than three years shows the utmost chivalry. But for how many more years can he or any man in his position hold out? Especially if he must face censorious relatives who could provoke him into doing something rash.”
“One has to sympathize with the poor fellow, Holmes.”
“Sympathy is all very well, Watson, but one has also to act. The situation is in real danger of coming to a crisis. Tomorrow I shall catch the first train for Hindhead, where I think a little undercover work will be in order.”
“Must you go alone, Holmes?”
“Yes, Watson. Were you to accompany me to Surrey and Doyle learned of your presence, he might view your popping up so soon again as rather more than coincidence.”
Over the next few days, in between my rounds, I had ample opportunity to reflect on this complex business. Who was in the wrong and who in the right became less and less obvious the more I considered my literary agent’s predicament, and I could not help wishing that his wife had spared Holmes and me her problem in the first place. I had no word from Holmes. Then, four days after his departure from London, the wire came urging me to meet him at Paddington in time for an early afternoon train to Gloucester.
I arrived on the platform just as the final whistle was sounding.
“Quick, Watson!” shouted Sherlock Holmes from a carriage window. Moments later I was sitting opposite my friend in an otherwise unoccupied compartment.
“Watson, I only pray that we are not too late.”
“Too late for what?”
“Let me start at the beginning. Once settled at an hotel in Hindhead, I sought to gain the confidence of one of the staff at Undershaw. This proved difficult, as the Doyles employ no women susceptible to the charms of the rakish alias I had chosen to assume. Then yesterday, by great good fortune, I was out for a stroll on the road to Undershaw when I ran into a tall, husky chap with a widow’s peak. In his hand he had a book, The Green Flag. I struck up a conversation and soon ascertained that he was indeed young Wodehouse, as you had described in such telling detail, down for the weekend at the invitation of his new friend and fellow cricket enthusiast.
“Sensing that here was a young man of character, I decided to take him into my confidence. At first he was hesitant, but in the end he agreed to act as my agent-in-place. Like you, he regards a woman’s honour as paramount. He told me he was aware that Mrs. Hornung had scheduled and then, at the last minute, cancelled a luncheon in the town for herself, her husband, her brother, and an unknown fourth party. I instructed Wodehouse to keep his ears open and report anything of significance.
“Early today Wodehouse rang me at my hotel. Over the billiard table late the night before, Hornung confronted Doyle on the matter of Miss Leckie. His taunts apparently hit home, for Doyle lost his temper and stormed out of the room. Wodehouse, who witnessed the entire ugly exchange, feared for his host’s sanity. He and I agreed to rendezvous within the hour at the same spot as our encounter the previous day.
“Wodehouse had more news by the time we met. Doyle was still in a temper and announced that he had to go away on unspecified business. His guests were welcome to stay at Undershaw. After his departure Wodehouse went into the garden, where he was accosted by Mason, the Doyles’ butler, who also serves as his master’s valet. Mason was extremely agitated and in a mood to talk to someone. Just as I had, Mason must have instinctively recognized Wodehouse as trustworthy. He informed Wodehouse of a phone conversation he overheard his master make shortly before he left—in which Doyle reserved a room at the Everson Arms in Gloucester, under the
name of Mr. and Mrs. Arthur Parker. The man evidently wanted to discuss possible courses of action, but Wodehouse said not to worry and rushed out to meet me.”
“I say, Holmes, where was Mrs. Doyle during all this?”
“Too weak to leave her room, conveniently enough for everyone, so Wodehouse gathered. He never saw her, nor did I attempt to communicate with her. I immediately headed for the train station, while Wodehouse returned to Undershaw, vowing that if he ever became an author of fiction he would be sure to leave physical passion out of it. As soon as I got back to London I wired you and went straight to Paddington; hence here we both are, en route in a possibly futile effort to save a gentleman’s honour and a lady’s virtue.”
Any discussion of how we might thwart the designs of the two lovers we agreed to postpone until we got to Gloucester. Upon arrival we discovered the Everson Arms across the street from the terminal, the sort of down-at-heel establishment that catered to commercial travellers and less reputable patrons. In the shabby lobby we decided that Holmes would inquire at the desk, while I would survey the public room, through a side door by the entrance. There, so as to seem an ordinary customer, I ordered a pint of bitter at the bar. I barely touched the glass to my lips when I heard a hearty voice behind me.
“I say, Watson old chap, this is a coincidence!”
I turned my head and there, beaming over my shoulder, was my literary agent.
“Doyle! My goodness, what a surprise,” I replied, trying to sound as if I meant it.
“What on earth are you doing in Gloucester?”
I took a long sip of my bitter.
“By Jove, I’ve got it. You must be helping your friend Mr. Sherlock Holmes on a case. Well, I know better not to ask any further. If you aren’t too busy, old boy, might you join us for a little supper?”
Doyle gestured toward a corner table, where I could see two women sitting—one the fair Miss Leckie, the other an elderly woman in black.
“I’ll have to ask Holmes first.”
“It’s quite all right, Watson,” said Holmes, who had suddenly materialized on my other side. “We would be delighted to join Mr. Doyle and . . . company.”