by Bill Peschel
“Tut, tut! It’s easy enough. The case is so straightforward so far that it cannot admit of a possible doubt. We have got the field of our investigation narrowed considerably. I must think!” returned Tuttlebury, as he puckered his brows, and stared hard at the back of the fireplace.
When he failed to find the despicable ruffian up the chimney, so to speak, he turned his gaze towards the ceiling, and hunted as unsuccessfully for him round the cornice.
“Haven’t you got any further yet, Erasmus? Haven’t you found out who did it?” asked Mrs. Tuttlebury at length.
“N-o-o,” muttered Mr. Sherlock Holmes-Tuttlebury, with cautious deliberation. “I’ve been over the whole line of argument again, and there isn’t a flaw in it—not the slightest shadow of room for doubt. I’ve hunted down the skulking cur into a corner, but I can’t just—Good heavens, Maria!” he gasped, as his face suddenly turned a sickly green, and the cold sweat of anguish poured out from his forehead. “We’ve no beer in the house!—well-known local man!—reputation to maintain!—must have known the beastly stuff wasn’t vinegar!—why, that’s me!”
“You?” screamed Mrs. Tuttlebury.
“There’s nobody else to fit the specification, and I can’t find a flaw in the evidence. It’s—”
“Jim, Farmer Gosenford’s man to see you particular, sir!” announced the servant at that moment. And without any ceremony, the man shoved himself awkwardly into the room.
“Mr. Tuttlebury,” he began, vigorously wiping the perspiration of embarrassment from his face. “I’ve come—thank you on account of my little girl. But for mercy’s sake, don’t ye put this job into t’ police hands! It’s—it’s—well, ye know, what I telled yer about my missus sending for t’ beer? Well—er—well, I might as well tell yer all. Whenever she sends for any she allus has t’ first sup, an’ of course, when there’s nobut a quart t’ start wi’ it doesn’t give me ‘at comes last a fair first sup; an’ I waited in t’ hedge for my little lass, an’ I had t’ first sup, without letting her know who it was, so ’at when she got home and telled my missus perhaps she send her for some more. An’ that’s all about it, an’ I’ll take it very kindly if ye’ll say nowt about it. For if it got to my missus’s ears she’d wash my head for me, an’ no mistake!”
After Jim had gone, Mr. and Mrs. Tuttlebury stood staring blankly at one another. Then, with a sudden hissing growl, like a dog makes when he is about to play at being a rat-trap on the calf of your leg, Tuttlebury snatched up The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes from the table and hurled it into the fire.
“Maria,” he observed at breakfast the following morning, “I’ve come to the conclusion that Sherlock Holmes is a very much over-rated character. The science of deduction has its limitations and its dangers, and to avoid these it is perhaps as well when you see shells to content yourself with merely guessing eggs, without tempting Fate by foolishly attempting to figure out with the sole aid of a bit of shell and a streak of spilled yoke the pedigree of the hen that laid them to five points of decimals.”
Platt’s Tuttlebury stories were collected in several books, including The Tuttlebury Tales (1896).
Life Cartoon
This cartoon appeared in the U.S. humor magazine Life. The punch line refers to the Cockneys’ tendency to drop their H’s while talking (as in “’ave you gone ’ome, ’al?).
S. Herlock Holmes: Be still, Watson. I must think. This surely has a meaning. Ha-a-a-ah! One of the thieves was a Cockney—and he was walking slowly and talking fast.
1903
This was a watershed year in Conan Doyle’s life, when he solved the Adventure of the Disappearing Detective.
He had begun it by promoting several public causes. As president of the Boys’ Empire League, he presided over committee meetings and offered a prize to the public for the best patriotic song for boys. He gave money to help form a club for soldiers and sailors in London and to his alma mater, the University of Edinburgh. He also made plans to participate in a new hobby: motoring. He had been approached to run again for Parliament and in November would agree to become a Liberal Unionist candidate for Scotland’s Border Burghs.
Then in March, his agent, A.P. Watt, passed along a stunning offer. The American magazine Collier’s Weekly wanted Holmes resurrected. The impetus behind it was the magazine’s new editor, Norman Hapgood (1868-1937). As a Chicago reporter, he had met Conan Doyle during his lecture tour in 1894. The energetic Hapgood had beaten the other reporters to the story by meeting Conan Doyle at the train station, helping him with his bag and interviewing him as they walked to the hotel, even standing outside the door asking questions as the great man took his bath.
Now, Hapgood was back and as energetic as ever. The negotiating went back and forth, and the original offer of £6,000 for all rights to six stories was reduced to £5,140 for the American rights only. They settled on 13 stories, for which Conan Doyle would receive more than £9,000. Combined with The Strand’s offer for the British rights, The Return of Sherlock Holmes brought in over £20,000 ($100,000), equivalent to nearly £1.8 million today. By any standard, it was an enormous payday.
With the contracts signed, Conan Doyle set to work. By the end of the month, “The Adventure of the Empty House” was written, and two more were finished by the end of April. But there were unexpected objections. The Ma’am, who had delayed Holmes’ death in 1891, now wondered if it was a good idea to bring him back. Greenhough Smith at The Strand read the first three stories and objected that two of them had no actual crime. Conan Doyle revised “The Norwood Builder” on his advice but otherwise held firm.
“I am not conscious of any failing powers, and my work is not less conscientious than of old,” he reassured his mother. “I don’t see why I should not have another go at them [Sherlock stories] and earn three times as much money as I can by any other form of work.” By the end of the year he had nine of the 13 stories written.
His instincts were sound. The reception to “The Empty House” in September showed that readers around the world welcomed Holmes’ return. The Strand’s sales shot up by 30,000 copies.
As Conan Doyle worked on Holmes, a tragedy that would change his life was playing out in an English courtroom. In October, a man of English and Indian extraction was sentenced to seven years in prison for a bizarre series of horse and cattle mutilations. Conan Doyle was not aware of it, but George Edalji would enter his life, to rescue him from grief and add another noble dimension to his reputation.
Publications: Holmes stories in The Strand: “The Adventure of the Empty House” (Sept.); “The Adventure of the Norwood Builder” (Oct.); “The Adventure of the Dancing Men” (Dec.); “The Adventure of the Solitary Cyclist” (Dec.); Other: The Adventures of Gerard (Sept.).
Sebastian Moran is captured in “The Adventure of the Empty House.” Illustration by Sidney Paget.
Dr. Watson’s Wedding Present
J. Alston Cooper
Set before Dr. Watson’s marriage to Mary Morstan, this charming piece appeared in the February edition of The Bookman. It is the sole production of J. Alston Cooper, about whom nothing is known. See how many of Conan Doyle’s titles you recognize.
I.
SCENE: The chambers in Baker Street. Holmes discovered lolling on divan and smoking a long pipe. Enter Watson.
Watson.—Good morning, Holmes! I have missed not seeing you, but I’ve been so busy for the last six weeks.
Holmes.—Glad to see you. Tell me what to give you for a wedding present. I don’t approve of marriage on general principles, but Miss Morstan is a fine girl, and it was I who brought you together.
Watson.—Holmes, you astound me! Who told you that I was going to be married? How did you learn that? Why, I haven’t told a soul yet!
Holmes.—Humph! Rising young doctor, too busy to see friend, but calls four times a week on a particular young lady. At last comes to see friend, wears brand-new clothes in the morning. Never known to do such a thing before—suspicious circumstance. Woman’s
long hair on his right shoulder, and a monarch-of-all-I-survey expression. What more do you want? The inference is obvious. I’d congratulate you, Watson, if it wasn’t for the wedding present I’ve got to give you. I feel that this will be the rock on which my reputation will be wrecked. The public expect great things of me, and they must not be disappointed. Tell me about your plans.
(Leans back in his chair, and pulls at his pipe.)
Watson.—You’re right, Holmes. I hope to make Miss Morstan my wife soon. We shall live Beyond the City, at The Sign of the Four, the crossroads, you know. We shall have A Study in Scarlet, where we can sit Round the Red Lamp, and talk of the wonderful Adventures of Sherlock Holmes; and be a very happy Duet.
Holmes.—Quite so. I’ll give you The Hound of the Baskervilles stuffed.
Watson.—Heavens! What an idea! I can see the lonely moor, and the gigantic body of the hound looming through the darkness with its gleaming jaws. The thought of that night, and the long, wailing cries that used to float over the moor, make me shudder. Anything but that. I should have chronic nightmare.
Holmes.—Watson, it is an important matter. Sherlock Holmes can’t do as other men would—go into a Bond Street store, hand the clerk a ten-pound note, and say “I wish a wedding present for a friend.” Fame has its drawbacks. The public will flock to your house, and say—“Show us what the man who wrote The Differentiation of Cigar Ashes gave you.” You will say—“Behold—!”—Now what?
Watson.—Why give anything?
Holmes.—My dear Watson, you are my most intimate friend, yet sometimes you really are not quite what such a position demands.
II.
Narrative of Dr. Watson
My wedding duly took place, and we moved into our cozy little home next door to Micah Clarke of the Firm of Girdlestone. Sherlock Holmes fulfilled his promise and sent a present, which made every one think of the great detective, who had unwound so many tangled skeins. It was an enormous ball of worsted, five feet in diameter, and red and black in colour. With it was a note.
My Dear Watson: I send you this ball, which is like an interesting case, for there is a great deal of unravelling to do before one reaches the heart of the mystery. At irregular intervals you will find clues that will help a truly logical mind to deduce the final outcome.
This is the longest yarn I have ever been connected with. The present is worsted, but I am not; for, long before the last piece shall have been unwound, the public will have forgotten I ever gave a present; and so they can not say “How commonplace!” Therefore, my reputation for wisdom is saved.
That all your fondest hopes may be realised is the earnest wish of
Sherlock Holmes.
P.S. All the wool must be knit as it is unwound, though part of it is already crowshade.
S. H.
My wife began knitting. The first clue was the book How to be Happy Though Married. The second, a mousetrap for—“matrimony is like a mouse trap; those who are out want to get in; and those who are in want to get out.” The third was—but she has not found it yet.
Perhaps Holmes’s “public” would like to guess the ending of his wonderful yarn. If they would not, I will tell them,—when I find out.
Mr. Homes Solves a Question of Authorship
John Kendrick Bangs
John Kendrick Bangs was the most prolific American author of Holmesian pastiches during Conan Doyle’s lifetime, penning both humorous crime stories (“The Mystery of Pinkham’s Diamond Stud” and “Sherlock Holmes Again”) and fanciful fantasies set in Hades (“The Stranger Unravels a Mystery” chapter from Pursuit of the House-Boat). He even paired Holmes and gentleman burglar Raffles—sort of—by creating a descendant, Raffles Holmes.
In 1903, he returned to Hades, writing 10 stories for U.S. newspapers in which Shylock Homes opened a detective agency there. Without a Watson by his side, he contacted Bangs by knocking on his radiator in Morse code and dictated The Further Recollections of Shylock Homes.
This story refers to the Baconian theory, which arose in the mid-19th century. It was proposed that Sir Francis Bacon had written the plays and used Shakespeare as a front. To prove his authorship, the theory goes, Bacon inserted enciphered messages in the text. Although very few people believe Bacon wrote Shakespeare’s plays, many have attempted to find alternative candidates, refusing to believe that a commoner could create works of lasting value.
There had been some acrimonious discussion at the last session of the Cimmerian Branch of Sorosis over the authorship of the works of William Shakespeare. Cleopatra had read a paper of some cleverness, which proved to its fair author, at least, that the plays that have come down to us from the Golden Age of Letters were from the pen of a syndicate, of which Shakespeare was the managing director. Xanthippe, in a satirical philippic, demonstrated beyond peradventure that they were written by Guy Fawkes; Queen Elizabeth was strong in the debate in the affirmation of Bacon’s responsibility for the works; Mrs. Noah proved an alibi for her husband, and Anne Hathaway, when called upon to speak, observed that she had never heard of them at all.
The discussion waxed so fast and furious that in order to prevent the disruption of the society, a committee of three, consisting of Lucretia Borgia, Madame du Barry, and Portia, was appointed to wait upon myself with the request that I solve the mystery on behalf of the club, promising to abide by whatever decision I might render. The ladies mentioned did me the honor to call at my office, where they laid the whole question before me.
“We shall be glad to lay before you any evidence at your disposal,” said Portia. “I, for one, have worked out a cipher which seems to me conclusively to prove Bacon’s authorship, but, of course, you can take it or reject it, just as you please.”
Thereupon she handed me a slip of paper, upon which the following was written:—
I glanced the acrostic over with interest, and then I asked:—
“But what does this prove?”
“Bacon was born in ’61,” replied Portia, “which number is the sum total of the letters that spell out his name in the plays I have put down there. Certainly such a coincidence, Mr. Homes, is not without significance.”
Lucretia Borgia sneered.
“I have a penchant for that,” she said, and she, too, handed me a slip of paper, upon which I read as follows:—
“You think you’re clever, don’t you?” retorted Portia, as she read the pendent acrostic, “Nit,” “but I fail to see its significance.”
“On your own plan,” said Lucretia Borgia, coldly. “The sum total of the numbered letters proving it is five, which, when added to your sixty-one, makes sixty-six.”
“Well?” asked Portia.
“Bacon died in his sixty-sixth year—that’s all,” said Lucretia Borgia.
“You absurd creature—” began Portia.
“Ladies, ladies! I beg of you!” I interjected, foreseeing a row of stupendous proportions. “Pray do not quarrel. Your evidence—that of both of you—interests me hugely, but I must look into the situation a little more carefully before I decide between you, and, since you both seek only the truth, you should not be angry if the theories of one or the other, or even both, are overthrown. Now, I’m something of a cipherologist myself, and I should like to see what I could prove to you in the same line. Suppose we try this arrangement,” and I wrote out the following:—
“You see, Mr. Clyde Fitch is thus proved to be the author of Shakespeare’s plays, which is preposterous, since he was not living at the time. Nevertheless, he was thirty years old when he had his first great success; he writes thirty plays a year, and each act is about thirty minutes long. Some of his characters look like thirty cents, and so on, and so on. Thirty is his magical number. You perceive the fallacy of your own method of proving by a course of acrostical reasoning that Bacon either did or did not write Shakespeare’s plays,” I continued.
“Oh, well,” said Portia, a bit perplexed, “it only happens that way in this particular case.”
&nb
sp; “Let’s see about that,” said I. “Here is another cipher for your consideration.”
And I worked out the following:—
“Well,” sneered Portia, in that freezing tone of hers, “what of it?”
“Only that the numbered letters of the cipher foot up to thirty-two, which is Mr. Dooley’s age, his books are all 32mos and for two years he has been getting thirty-two cents a word for all he writes,” I explained. “My dear ladies,” I added, rising, “these things are interesting, but they prove nothing. By them you can prove that almost anybody, except Sienkiewicz, wrote Shakespeare’s plays—aye, even Hall Caine and Marie Corelli.”
“Why not Sienkiewicz?” asked Portia, icily.
“Because, as you will observe from a glance at the backs of the immortal bard’s works, there is no ‘z’ in any of Shakespeare’s titles, madam,” I replied.
“How about ‘Julius Caesar’?” she demanded, hastily.
“A good play, madam,” I replied promptly, “but spelled with an ‘s,’ as you would note at once if you had ever glanced at one of Mr. Mansfield’s programmes.”
And then I entered upon the enterprise which, I must confess, startled even myself in the manner of its ending. The first thing I did was to call upon Sir Francis Bacon. He received me in the library of his villa at Noxmere, and I found him a most interesting personage.
“What can I do for Mr. Shylock Homes?” he asked, after we had exchanged the civilities of the moment.
“Well, Sir Francis,” I replied, “I have a somewhat delicate mission. I would like to make use of your keenly critical mind to solve a disputed authorship.”