15 “How to reconcile this remark with Mycroft’s previous ‘I thought everyone had heard of it’ is something we will not attempt,” comments William S. Baring-Gould wryly.
16 Mycroft seems to echo the preventative sentiments of inventor John P. Holland (see note 14), who wrote, in “The Submarine Boat and Its Future” (published in the North American Review for December 1900), that with the invention of the submarine, “Nations with sea ports will have to refrain from making war.” See “Naval Warfare,” page 1335, for a consideration of Mycroft’s inaccurate prediction.
17 The annual requests to Parliament for money allotments during the forthcoming year.
18 Presumably the director of naval construction, in the department of the controller of the Admiralty Board, is meant.
19 Secrecy aside, there may be even more to the “international problem” than Mycroft lets on. June Thomson makes note of the fact that William II, the emperor of Germany (see “The Second Stain,” note 10), began expanding his navy after dismissing his chancellor, Otto von Bismarck, in 1890. “The theft of the Bruce-Partington submarine plans,” Thomson writes, “was almost certainly connected with the young Kaiser’s naval ambitions, which so alarmed France and Russia that in 1894 they signed the Dual Alliance.”
20 The “honours list” was the announcement of peerages, knighthoods, medals, etc., awarded by the sovereign. In “The Three Garridebs,” we learn that Holmes declined a knighthood.
21 There is no Barclay Square in London, and this likely refers to Berkeley Square, a short distance from Baker Street.
22 Two thousand pounds in 1895 is over £128,000 in modern equivalency, or almost $210,000.
23 These were the railway switches, movable rails permitting a train to change lines.
24 The third of the quartet of Canonical “Violets,” which include Violet Hunter (“The Copper Beeches”), Violet Smith (“The Solitary Cyclist”), and Violet De Merville (“The Illustrious Client”).
25 It is frankly impossible for “the last man out” every evening not to possess keys with which to lock the doors. “Why did he conceal the fact that he had such a set?” ponders R. Kelf-Cohen, in a symposium entitled “The Bruce-Partington Keys” edited by Lord Gore-Booth. “You will agree that it is normal Civil Service practice for Sidney Johnson, the Senior Clerk, to be responsible for closing the office and making everything secure.”
Paul Gore-Booth (Lord Gore-Booth) retorts that a civil servant would never lie; thus Sidney Johnson must telling the truth in saying he does not possess keys to the doors. Perhaps, Lord Gore-Booth proposes, the doors were locked with spring locks (a theory he admits is unlikely, given that if Johnson were ever to step outside momentarily, he would essentially be locking himself out and would be, ludicrously, forced to call upon Sir James for assistance). Alternatively, perhaps the office had keys that did not leave the grounds but were turned in at some central location after use. Such a practice was in use at other civil service offices. “The Head of the Department,” Lord Gore-Booth muses, “probably would have his private keys of the doors but there was no good reason to make a lot of spares, if there was some way of getting at the Departmental set. Perhaps they were left with the ‘old soldier and . . . most trustworthy man.’ ”
26 Rex Stout, famed biographer of Nero Wolfe, complains that Holmes—after having meticulously observed and examined every clue up until this point—finds out that West took the 8:15 train yet fails to inquire about the train’s other passengers, thus missing an opportunity to see if anything may be learned about West’s murderer. “This is indeed,” Stout writes indignantly, “unacceptable.”
27 In the Strand Magazine and numerous editions of His Last Bow, there is a typographical error, with the word given as “chief.”
28 Oberstein and La Rothière are also mentioned in “The Second Stain,” as two of the “only . . . three capable of playing so bold a game” as to purchase and resell the valuable diplomatic letter.
29 A liqueur flavoured with bitter orange peel, distilled on the eponymous island in the Caribbean, which is part of the Dutch Antilles.
30 The definition of a “suspicious character” may be found in the Police Code of 1904, which stated, “Every one is liable to penal servitude . . . [w]ho is found, by night, having in his possession, without lawful excuse (proof of which excuse lies upon him), any picklock or false key, jemmy, centre-bit, chisel, bradawl, gimlet, or other instrument adapted for housebreaking and forcing windows, doors, or locks. . . .” It’s little wonder Holmes was concerned about Watson’s culpability.
31 The open space below the pavement level, giving light to the basement windows and entrance to service quarters.
32 That is, the American “second floor.”
33 Holmes’s knowledge of newspaper print is featured in The Hound of the Baskervilles, where Holmes tells Dr. Watson: “The detection of types is one of the most elementary branches of knowledge to the special expert in crime, though I confess that once when I was very young I confused the Leeds Mercury with the Western Morning News.”
34 “What possessed [Oberstein],” wonders D. Martin Dakin, “after clearing his house of all other suspicious papers, to leave . . . his newspaper advertisements to his confederate? Why should he keep them at all, once they had served their purpose? Just to make it easier for Holmes?”
35 A traditional toast in the Royal Navy and oft-cited phrase in literature. Its earliest published appearance seems to have been in the song “The Death of Nelson,” from the opera The Americans by John Braham (with words by S. J. Arnold), first staged in 1811: “But dearly was that conquest bought / Too well the gallant Hero fought, / For England, home and beauty. / He cried as ’midst the fire he ran, / ‘England shall find that ev’ry man / This day will do his duty!’ ”
36 One must wonder, here, how Holmes knew the place of the meeting. There was no evidence at Oberstein’s flat that he had met his confidant there—was this just a lucky shot, or did Holmes know something which Watson failed to record?
37 Orlando di Lasso (1532–1594), also called Roland de Lassus, was a prolific Flemish composer whose more than two thousand compositions included a collection of 516 Latin motets (religious choral works), published posthumously as Magnus Opus Musicum in 1604. He was equally comfortable composing masses, Italian madrigals, French chansons, and German lieder, and setting love songs to the words of Petrarch. Emperor Maximilian II raised him to the nobility in 1570, and he received the knighthood of the Golden Spur from Pope Gregory XIII in 1574, after dedicating a collection of masses to him. Lasso’s best-known work is Penitential Psalms of David (published in 1584). See “The Polyphonic Motets of Lassus,” page 1338, for further consideration of Holmes’s monograph and his musical abilities.
38 “Now the puzzle is this,” writes Nathan L. Bengis, in a letter to the Sherlock Holmes Journal: “Who, if not Walter, was the ‘bird’ Holmes was expecting? There can be little doubt that the man Holmes had in mind was Sidney Johnson, the senior clerk.” Johnson does seem a likely (perhaps too likely?) suspect, considering his easy access to the papers and the fact that he was the last to leave the building on the night in question. Thus it is not difficult to see why Holmes may have guessed wrong. Bengis credits him for a quick recovery, but otherwise cuts the Master little slack, writing, “In view . . . of his failure to identify the culprit in advance, Holmes must no longer be assigned full marks in this adventure.”
39 Holmes’s innate snobbery is revealed here. It would be expected, he implies, that a man of the middle classes, such as Mr. Sidney Johnson, might commit treason, but a gentleman—never!
40 If Cadogan West was suspicious of Colonel Walter—and the origin of those suspicions is never revealed—it seems logical that he would have informed Sir James; yet he did not. Also unrevealed is the manner in which Colonel Walter first realised West suspected him. Naturally, West’s recognition of the delicate hierarchy and etiquette involved may have dictated his actions. “If West knew of Colone
l Walter’s financial embarrassment,” D. Martin Dakin reasons, “and heard him asking fishy questions about the plans, it might be enough to arouse his suspicions, but it would be acutely awkward for him, a junior official, to express them about his boss’s own brother. It would be easier for him to drop a few tactful hints to the colonel himself.”
41 E. Cobham Brewer’s Dictionary of Phrase and Fable provides: “[A] loaded staff or knuckle-duster for self-defence.”
42 The exact path of the train is worked out in enormous detail by various scholars, who—shockingly—fail to agree. Norman Crump painstakingly reconstructs Holmes’s investigation on the ground, both at Aldgate and in Kensington. The essential issue he considers is whether the body travelled from Gloucester Road to Aldgate via the north side (that is, via Baker Street) of the Inner Circle (the name of the oval train route including Gloucester Road and Aldgate) or via the south (via Victoria). On the “outer” rail of the Inner Circle, the trains orbited in a clockwise direction, while on the “inner” rail they ran counter-clockwise. Crump neither finds a window overlooking the inner rail nor locates Herr Oberstein’s house but, despite six “extreme improbabilities” of his own reasoning, concludes that the outer rail was the path in question.
In “The Bruce-Partington Railway Geography,” Wayne B. Swift gives great attention to signalling and attempts to bolster Crump’s arguments by postulating how and where trains might have been held by signals in 1895. Bernard Davies cuts the Gordian knot by concluding that the train was not on the Inner Circle at all, demonstrating at length that each and every problem of the text can be explained. The most telling piece of evidence brought forth by Davies is that “Inner Circle trains were never normally broken up; the standard sets of 5 Metropolitan eight-wheelers or 9 District four-wheelers being always kept coupled unless a particular vehicle needed repairs.” Although historical detective work such as Davies’s can never be wholly certain, his analysis certainly seems definitively to place the train on the Outer Circle.
43 “[W]hat were the extenuating circumstances whereby Oberstein got only 15 years for as cold-blooded and indefensible a murder as can be found?” Felix Morley asks. W. E. Edwards posits that Oberstein may have been in a position to blackmail major British figures into using their influence to have his death sentence commuted.
THE ADVENTURE OF THE DYING DETECTIVE1
The only one of the seven new cases reported in His Last Bow to occur before Holmes’s disappearance in 1894, “The Dying Detective” (which scholars generally place between 1887 and 1890) has stirred up controversy over Holmes’s cruel treatment of his closest friend, Dr. Watson. Here Holmes feigns illness (the practice known in Victorian times as “malingering”) to deceive a murderer. In doing so, he not only allows Watson to believe that he is dying, he pretends to denigrate Watson’s talents as a doctor. While Holmes’s capture of the criminal is undeniably dramatic, it is the strain on the relationship between Holmes and Watson that holds our attention. Holmes’s deception of Watson foreshadows his far greater (and crueller) deception in “The Final Problem” in 1891, when he allowed Watson to believe for three years that he, Holmes, was dead. The late publication of this tale may indicate Watson’s reluctance to reveal this cold side of his beloved friend’s character.
MRS. HUDSON, THE landlady of Sherlock Holmes, was a long-suffering woman. Not only was her first-floor flat invaded at all hours by throngs of singular and often undesirable characters, but her remarkable lodger showed an eccentricity and irregularity in his life which must have sorely tried her patience. His incredible untidiness, his addiction to music at strange hours, his occasional revolver practice within doors, his weird and often malodorous scientific experiments, and the atmosphere of violence and danger which hung around him made him the very worst tenant in London. On the other hand, his payments were princely.2 I have no doubt that the house might have been purchased at the price which Holmes paid for his rooms during the years that I was with him.
The landlady stood in the deepest awe of him and never dared to interfere with him, however outrageous his proceedings might seem. She was fond of him, too, for he had a remarkable gentleness and courtesy in his dealings with women. He disliked and distrusted the sex, but he was always a chivalrous opponent. Knowing how genuine was her regard for him, I listened earnestly to her story when she came to my rooms in the second year of my married life and told me of the sad condition to which my poor friend was reduced. “He’s dying, Dr. Watson,” said she. “For three days he has been sinking, and I doubt if he will last the day. He would not let me get a doctor. This morning when I saw his bones sticking out of his face and his great bright eyes looking at me I could stand no more of it. ‘With your leave or without it, Mr. Holmes, I am going for a doctor this very hour,’ said I. ‘Let it be Watson, then,’ said he. I wouldn’t waste an hour in coming to him, sir, or you may not see him alive.”
I was horrified, for I had heard nothing of his illness. I need not say that I rushed for my coat and my hat. As we drove back I asked for the details.
“There is little I can tell you, sir. He has been working at a case down at Rotherhithe,3 in an alley near the river, and he has brought this illness back with him. He took to his bed on Wednesday afternoon and has never moved since. For these three days neither food nor drink has passed his lips.”
“Good God! Why did you not call in a doctor?”
“He wouldn’t have it, sir. You know how masterful he is. I didn’t dare to disobey him. But he’s not long for this world, as you’ll see for yourself the moment that you set eyes on him.”
He was indeed a deplorable spectacle. In the dim light of a foggy November day the sick-room4 was a gloomy spot, but it was that gaunt, wasted face staring at me from the bed which sent a chill to my heart. His eyes had the brightness of fever, there was a hectic5 flush upon either cheek, and dark crusts clung to his lips; the thin hands upon the coverlet twitched incessantly, his voice was croaking and spasmodic. He lay listlessly as I entered the room, but the sight of me brought a gleam of recognition to his eyes.
“Well, Watson, we seem to have fallen upon evil days,” said he, in a feeble voice, but with something of his old carelessness of manner.
“My dear fellow!” I cried, approaching him.
“Stand back! Stand right back!” said he, with the sharp imperiousness which I had associated only with moments of crisis. “If you approach me, Watson, I shall order you out of the house.”
“But why?”
“Because it is my desire. Is that not enough?”
Yes, Mrs. Hudson was right. He was more masterful than ever. It was pitiful, however, to see his exhaustion.
“I only wished to help,” I explained.
“Exactly! You will help best by doing what you are told.”
“Certainly, Holmes.”
He relaxed the austerity of his manner.
“You are not angry?” he asked, gasping for breath.
Poor devil, how could I be angry when I saw him lying in such a plight before me?
“It’s for your own sake, Watson,” he croaked.
“For my sake?”
“I know what is the matter with me. It is a coolie6 disease from Sumatra7—a thing that the Dutch know more about than we, though they have made little of it up to date. One thing only is certain. It is infallibly deadly, and it is horribly contagious.”
He spoke now with a feverish energy, the long hands twitching and jerking as he motioned me away.
“Contagious by touch, Watson—that’s it, by touch. Keep your distance and all is well.”
“Good heavens, Holmes! Do you suppose that such a consideration weighs with me for an instant? It would not affect me in the case of a stranger. Do you imagine it would prevent me from doing my duty to so old a friend?”
Again I advanced, but he repulsed me with a look of furious anger.
“If you will stand there I will talk. If you do not you must leave the room.”
I have
so deep a respect for the extraordinary qualities of Holmes that I have always deferred to his wishes, even when I least understood them. But now all my professional instincts were aroused. Let him be my master elsewhere, I at least was his in a sick-room.
“Holmes,” said I, “you are not yourself. A sick man is but a child, and so I will treat you. Whether you like it or not, I will examine your symptoms and treat you for them.”
He looked at me with venomous eyes.
“If I am to have a doctor whether I will or not, let me at least have someone in whom I have confidence,” said he.
“Then you have none in me?”
“In your friendship, certainly. But facts are facts, Watson, and after all you are only a general practitioner with very limited experience and mediocre qualifications. It is painful to have to say these things, but you leave me no choice.”
I was bitterly hurt.
“Such a remark is unworthy of you, Holmes. It shows me very clearly the state of your own nerves. But if you have no confidence in me I would not intrude my services. Let me bring Sir Jasper Meek or Penrose Fisher, or any of the best men in London. But someone you must have, and that is final. If you think that I am going to stand here and see you die without either helping you myself or bringing anyone else to help you, then you have mistaken your man.”
The New Annotated Sherlock Holmes: The Complete Short Stories: The Return of Sherlock Holmes, His Last Bow and The Case-Book of Sherlock Holmes (Non-slipcased edition) (Vol. 2) (The Annotated Books) Page 64