by David Marcum
I’d been kicking around a story in my head since I finished the final edits of The Pearl of Death the summer before. It had to do with a young violin savant who could communicate only through writing and playing music. I’ve always been fascinated with Holmes’s use of the violin and I wanted to write a story where it played a more integral part in the plot, but the story I was thinking up was getting so complicated I hesitated at even starting it. Mr. Marcum’s missive changed that. It forced me to rethink the story, simplify it, and soon I had great motivation to complete it.
Whenever I write a Sherlock Holmes story I try to add something new, push the envelope a little bit, while staying within the strict guidelines of the original Canon of stories. It’s a technique that forces me not to repeat myself. “The Strange Case of the Violin Savant” was no exception. Testing Holmes’s genius against a completely different form of genius excited me and I believe made for an interesting story. I hope you agree. More importantly, I hope you received some modest amount of entertainment from it.
The Hopkins Brothers Affair
by Iain McLaughlin and Claire Bartlett
I have known my good friend, Sherlock Holmes, some many years now. In that time he has never failed to amaze me, both with the breadth of his knowledge on some matters and the depth of his ignorance on others. I am certain that he would take no offence at my use of the word “ignorance,” because it is a state he both recognises in himself and dismisses as unimportant. His interests lie only in facts which may be of some use in his deductive work. However, the breadth of his knowledge can be quite startling, even to myself after these years of his friendship. I will admit, I am also, on occasion, quite set upon the back foot by his actions. Sometimes, he makes a small decision which I find reveals a new aspect of his personality.
We were seated in Baker Street on a dull, grey morning when summer was turning to autumn, and occasionally the clash of warm and cold weather brought a thick, cold fog upon the city. We were enduring just such a day. For myself, I was content to sit by the fire reading the paper, but Holmes was noticeably in need of stimulation, lest he fall back upon the relief he found at the point of a sharp needle. He rarely made any attempt to hide his frustration when overtaken by ennui. For that reason, I was delighted to hear a firm knock at the front door which, at that time of day, could only mean the possibility a client. I say “possibility,” for Holmes has often been in the depths of despair and yet rejected a case as being beneath him. More than once I know he has deduced the answer to a client’s malady before the individual has taken their seat. I found myself hoping that Holmes would find this case worthy of his time.
A minute later. Mrs. Hudson’s familiar knock brought her into our rooms. “A gentleman to see you,” said she, ushering a tall fellow into the sitting room. I gauged he was north of his fortieth year, but only just. His face was tanned from an outdoor life in a climate far better than that which we endured that morning. His clothing was of reasonably high quality, and he bore himself with the confidence of a man used to being in control of his situation. It afforded little surprise when the fellow introduced himself as Captain Hopkins.
“Matthew or Jonathan?” Holmes asked, drawing deeply upon his pipe. He waved a hand to suppress the obvious incredulity from our guest. “You are clearly a seafaring man,” Holmes said briskly. “You introduced yourself as a captain and carry yourself with the manner of a gentleman. By my reckoning, the only gentlemen captaining ships out of London by the name of Hopkins are the owners of the Hopkins Brothers Sailing Fleet. I deduced nothing. I merely recognised a name.” He turned those pale eyes to me. “People see my methods when there are none in use, Watson, and the cause of it is those penny dreadfuls you churn out.”
I ignored the barb from my friend and invited Captain Hopkins to sit.
“I am Jonathan Hopkins,” said he. “The younger of the brothers. Matthew is my senior by almost two years.”
Holmes nodded, locking the information into that great mind of his. “Please tell us why you are here, Captain Hopkins,” said Holmes. His tone was flat and far from interested. I found myself hoping that this visitor would have a tale of interest for Holmes, and then a pang of guilt stabbed me, for if the story did interest my friend, there would undoubtedly be some degree of suffering involved for this fellow sitting with us. I offered Hopkins a cigarette or a fill of tobacco, but he declined politely.
“Thank you but no, Doctor Watson. I have fallen from the habit of smoking these past few years. The smoke irritated my brother’s chest and so I desisted.”
“You gave up the habit for your brother?” Holmes enquired. “You have a close relationship with him?”
“Oh, indeed,” Hopkins agreed readily. “Should not brothers have such a friendship? That is why I find myself at your door this morning.”
Holmes sucked again on his pipe and cast his gaze upon the fire. “Go on.”
Hopkins did as he was bid. “Mister Holmes, I believe something has happened to my brother, and I am sorely in need of assistance in discovering what has occurred.”
“Do you suspect foul play?” I asked.
Holmes waved a hand to silence me. “It must be in his own words,” said Holmes with some irritation. “You know well enough we must not interfere or place our interpretations on the facts until we know what the facts really are.” Having duly chastened me, he glanced at Hopkins. “Continue.”
The captain picked up his narrative as requested. “As you are apparently aware, Mister Holmes, my family’s fortune relies upon our sailing ships trafficking cargo to and from London. We sail to every corner of the world. However, as the new century closes upon us, our customers demand greater and greater speed from the carriers of their goods. Those of us who still rely upon canvas and the Good Lord to provide the wind to fill those sails are in danger of losing our livelihoods.”
“Why do you not change to steam driven ships?” Holmes asked. There was neither judgement nor condemnation in his tone. He sought information, nothing more.
“I would happily make that change, Mister Holmes,” said Hopkins. “However, with finances as they are, we need to keep all our ships at sea. While they sail, we continue to make a profit, albeit one that diminishes each year. Buying a steam ship is not financially an option we may entertain at this time, and were one of our current ships to be taken out of service long enough to be adapted to steam, it would surely send us into bankruptcy.” He sighed heavily. “Unfortunately, I fear we are sailing towards losing money and ultimate bankruptcy anyway. Our dwindling profits will, in a year or two, surely become losses.”
“What shall you do then?” I asked, hoping the fellow had a plan in mind to rescue his fortunes. I was to be disappointed.
“That I do not know,” he answered in a forlorn tone. “My brother...” his voice faltered and he steadied himself. “My brother took the blame for our situation upon himself.”
“Why so?” Holmes’s voice was calm but insistent.
Hopkins leaned forward in his chair, gripping his hat tightly. “Some years ago, Matthew and I discussed the future of the business. We were doing well. Steam was not yet the force it has become and we were profiting well from our fleet. However, I could see the advantages of this new technology. I am firmly of the belief that once a new idea has secured its footing it will quickly take strides forward. I felt this was the case with steam. In their Civil War in the Americas, they had steam battleships. We ourselves have them now also. Steamers had already taken to the ocean, and I was of the opinion that they should come to dominate within a decade or less. I believed that we should invest in this new technology. I argued for it very strongly.”
“And your brother refused the idea?” said Holmes, tapping the bit of his pipe against his lower lip.
“Sadly he did,” our guest confirmed. “I have regretted that decision ever since, though he is still loudly in favo
ur of sail over steam as a means of propulsion for ship. In truth, I fear steam will one day be as obsolete as sail soon will be, but by then we shall be scuppered.”
Holmes sat forward and fixed his gaze upon Captain Hopkins. “While I undoubtedly concur with your opinions on maritime matters, I fail to see why you find yourself upon our doorstep.”
Hopkins cleared his throat. “I was coming towards that matter.”
“Please do so,” said Holmes, settling back into his chair. I offered Hopkins an encouraging smile.
“I am only recently returned to this country,” Hopkins said. “I have been on a voyage.”
“Africa,” Holmes said carelessly. He peered at us, aware that his audience awaited his reasoning. He gave it quickly. “Your skin is tanned but the weather in Europe has been uncommonly poor these past few months. As a newly married man, you are unlikely to have sailed far afield from your bride.” He paused before admitting with a smile, “I also remember reading of your recent marriage in The Times, which means you could have sailed no further than Africa to have returned so quickly.”
“You are perfectly correct, sir,” affirmed Hopkins. “And I was sorely reluctant to be away from home even for that time. I am late to marriage, and I would enjoy as much of it as I can, but business requires my hand also.”
“Your brother?” prompted Holmes.
“When I returned, my wife handed me a letter from Matthew. She said that he had delivered it by hand, and that it was solely for my eyes upon my return.”
“You have the letter with you?” Holmes asked.
“Indeed.”
“Read it,” instructed Holmes.
Hopkins produced an envelope and drew folded sheets of paper from within. What he read aloud followed thus:
My dear Jonathan,
I trust you are well and in good fettle following your trek to Africa. A also trust that your voyage was a swift and profitable one. I choose the words “swift” and “profitable” with good reason. As you are aware, those of us who sail under canvas are frequently subject to slights and comments from those using more modern but less reliable means of propulsion. Last week, Henry Meek of the Charters and Meek Company chose to round upon me with such taunts as I could no longer resist the urge to prove the fellow wrong. He issued a challenge of a race between one of his ships and one of ours. Sail against steam. He even sweetened the pot with a wager of a hundred guineas. I could not resist and so there shall be a race between our fastest ship, the Charlotte Hill, and his steam ship, the Spirit of Dorset. The first to reach Lisbon shall be the winner. I am confident enough of victory that I shall captain the Charlotte Hill myself. I look forward to seeing the defeat etched upon the face of Meek’s captain as they arrive to find me waiting for them.
I shall see you upon my return and we shall dine well on Meek’s hundred guineas.
I am, always, your devoted, loving and proud brother.
Matthew
Reading the letter had affected Hopkins rather deeply, and he needed a moment to compose himself. I made a slight motion to halt Holmes when he began to appear impatient.
“Take your time,” I said to Hopkins, though my eyes were firmly set on Holmes at the time.
“Thank you, Doctor,” said Hopkins, putting the letter back into the envelope.
“Did your brother win?” I asked, eager to draw the fellow towards facts which would interest Holmes.
“The Charlotte Hill never made Lisbon,” Hopkins said sadly. “She set sail as planned, but she was never seen again. She is assumed lost with all hands.”
“Oh, I am so sorry,” I said with some feeling. I had not imagined that his brother might be lost at sea.
Holmes, too, offered a few words of comfort. “My condolences, captain. However, with utmost sympathy, may I ask why you gave come to me when a more maritime authority would surely be of greater assistance to you?”
“Normally I would agree with you, sir,” said Hopkins firmly. “However, my brother was a man who never once in his life took on a wager when it was offered. He did not believe in gambling. Our father... our father was prone to it, you see, and prone to losing when he did so. Neither my brother nor I followed his stead in that manner.”
“Men do occasionally act in a manner outwith their normal character,” Holmes said slowly, but I could see that he had slowly become intrigued by the story being unfolded in front of him. “Pray continue, captain.”
Hopkins resumed as requested. “I was surprised to find the crew of the Charlotte Hill still ashore. The bosun came to me and had some harsh words for me on the manner in which Matthew had told them that they were all stood down from this voyage. He replaced them with a much smaller crew. He claimed these were sailors who specialised in speed rather than in handling cargo, and that was what he needed for this voyage. It did not sit well with the bosun or the men, Mister Holmes. Every sailor prides himself on doing his job the best he can. To be replaced in such a manner was a huge insult, and that was not Matthew’s way either.” He raised the envelope containing the letter he had received. “But I should say that the most uncommon aspect of this was that my brother finished his letter in such an emotional manner. He signed himself ‘devoted, loving and proud’... my brother was not a man given to emotion, gentleman. The affection we bore for each other was never expressed in words. That was the first time he had ever inferred love in our relationship.”
“Intriguing.” Holmes was tapping his pipe against his bottom teeth, making an annoying hollow sound. “Yes, indeed, intriguing. Tell me, Captain, what do you know of the men he signed aboard for this voyage?”
“Nothing,” Hopkins admitted. “And the records my brother made of his crew were somewhat perplexing. They gave only names rather than addresses and details of their sailing experience, which was his normal way.”
“Do you know how quickly he sought and obtained the services of this crew?” Holmes asked. I could tell from the way he spoke that his mind was already sifting the facts.
“Quickly, I believe,” Hopkins replied. “Although I cannot be sure of that.”
“No matter,” Holmes said briskly. “I shall have the Irregulars visit my informants at the docks to find what they know.”
The relief upon Hopkins’ face was palpable. “You will?” he cried. “Mister Holmes, I do not know how to thank you.”
Holmes raised a hand to silence the fellow. “It is possible we will learn nothing from my informants. You tell me your brother has been acting in a manner quite unlike his normal self.”
“I do, sir.”
“Then I will require to make some assessment of the man for myself,” said Holmes rising swiftly to his feet. “Would you be willing to show me his home?”
“I would,” replied Hopkins firmly.
“Will his wife object?” I asked.
Hopkins shook his head. “As I said, Doctor, my brother was not a man for allowing emotions to seep into his day. He has never married.”
“Come, gentlemen,” said Holmes. He had already removed his dressing gown and tossed it casually onto a chair. “Let us not waste time.”
Within half an hour, a carriage had delivered us to Matthew Hopkins’ townhouse, a fine looking three storey building near Hyde Park. The housekeeper, a small and fussy woman by the name of Mrs. Priddy, let us in with some considerable lack of grace, which was only slightly eased by the presence of her master’s brother.
“Kindly do not venture far,” said Holmes. “I may have questions for you.”
The woman’s protests were harshly quieted by Hopkins, who clearly bore no affection towards the woman. “She is a shrew,” said he when the woman had left us. “But she ran the house to Matthew’s satisfaction.”
The interior of the house was comfortable enough, but lacking in warmth or individuality. It was how I imagine it h
ad looked when Matthew Hopkins had moved in. Even the paintings of ships which adorned a few walls were too generic to actually be ships from the Hopkins Brothers’ line. It felt like a house still waiting for someone to give it life and turn it into a home. I found it a deeply sad place.
Holmes’s eyes were scanning the room, taking each piece of information and storing it. He moved around the ground floor, inspecting each of the rooms in turn, asking if there had been any changes that Captain Hopkins could recognise. After some coaxing, Hopkins agreed that within the study the desk had been shifted so that the light now came over the shoulder of anyone seated at the desk, rather than falling onto the desktop at an angle from the side. The alteration afforded the person sitting at the desk a direct view of the doorway.
I could tell Holmes has far from satisfied, and Hopkins also sensed my friend’s restiveness. He suggested continuing the exploration upstairs, which duly outraged Mrs. Priddy. None of us cared a whit for the woman’s protests and soon we found ourselves on the first floor. Here, Hopkins showed us to his brother’s bed chamber, a large, well-appointed room with a splendidly sized bed. The room was unnaturally tidy. With permission from Captain Hopkins, Holmes opened cupboards and wardrobes, inspecting clothes and whatever else he found. The bedside cabinet was locked, and Hopkins said that he would call for Mrs. Priddy. Holmes smiled wryly, stating that would not be necessary. A few moments later, the cabinet was open. Holmes has learned a number of skills from his experiences with the criminal classes, which can occasionally prove to be of use in his cases.
The contents of the drawer took Captain Hopkins by surprise. “These are family letters,” said he in a hushed voice. “Letters between our parents while our father was at sea, and letters from Matthew and me to our parents when we were at school.”