by Bill Peschel
The Baron of the Exchequer was just presenting his Majesty with a purse from one of the Ambassadors, when he dropped a cent upon the floor. In the scramble that ensued for it, Holmes (who, it will be remembered, impersonated Osborne) took no part.
Instantly, suspicious murmurs ran around the room and strange glances were directed at the great detective. Still all might have gone well, had I not walked into a cunningly planned trap. The Lord Chancellor, after a whispered conference with the King, placed his hand on my shoulder and familiarly accosted me. “It is strange, ‘Bug,’” he said, “that you don’t care for lacrosse.”
“Here,” thought I, “is a chance for me to make good Holmes’ blunder.” So I said aloud to the Chancellor, “I hate the game and never would play it.”
A cunning leer played over the wicked face of the King as he commanded in a savage tone, “Seize the impostors!” Violent hands were laid upon us, and we were brought before the throne.
“Before you are finally condemned,” thundered the potentate, “there is one final and convincing test. Minions, bring in the last issue of Topics and Hector.”
His commands were promptly obeyed, and no sooner had Hector entered the room, than, with brute instinct, recognizing that I was not his master, he sprang savagely at my throat. Holmes was then presented with a copy of Topics and was sternly bidden to explain the jokes in the “Here and There” column. But the master of nineteen languages and fifty-seven dialects was powerless, and could not utter a word. My sweater, with its “H.A.A.” was rudely torn from me, and Holmes’ disguise was instantly snatched off. We were not only discovered, but found.
“Sherlock Holmes!” exclaimed the “Hot Feet” in unison.
The great detective saw that there was no escape.
“Sherlock Holmes,” roared the King, “you have profaned our sacred rites, and the eyes of a barbarian have beheld sights intended only for the initiated! But as I rather like Conan Doyle and subscribe for all the Household Numbers of ‘Collier’s Weekly,’ I shall be merciful. If you will swear never to reveal what you have beheld; will profit by the example of the Faculty and never try to interfere with the ‘Hot Feet’ again, leaving for England and Baker Street to-morrow, you shall go free and unharmed. Otherwise, you will be compelled to drink four cups of Charlottesville keg beer and die a lingering death.”
Brave man that he was, Sherlock Holmes shuddered, but assuming an air of bravado, he said, “When I first endeavored to out-wit you, O King, I thought that I was an ace. Permit me to acknowledge my mistake and to leave for the ‘foggy, foggy dew’ of London to-morrow.”
* * * * *
“My dear Watson,” said Sherlock Holmes, explaining the case to me afterwards, “it was an occurrence that belongs (as Noah K. would say) to the realm of pure accident. It may be, we shall see; maybe so, I don’t know, and it all goes to prove that you never can tell.”
Padlock Bones, The Dead Sure Detective
He Discovers a Missing Husband
H.A. McGill
Nova Scotia native Harold A. McGill (1876-1952) became the first English-Canadian to become a full-time comic-strip artist. The Padlock Bones strip he developed for Hearst’s New York newspapers did not last long, but the Hall-Room Boys—later renamed Percy and Ferdy—ran from 1906 to 1923 and launched a series of silent movies.
The Adventure of the Second Swag
“Luke Sharp” (Robert Barr)
Illustrated by Bertram Gilbert
We’ll conclude this volume with a clever parody from Robert Barr (1849-1912), who penned “The Great Pegram Mystery” in the 1888-1899 edition. This follow-up from The Idler—a magazine he co-founded with Jerome K. Jerome—takes a lightly satirical turn by setting the story at Conan Doyle’s home Undershaw and casting him and Strand publisher Sir George Newnes as the villains! Barr knew both men well and even played with Conan Doyle on The Idler’s cricket team. An engaging London clubman and storyteller, he carried his spirit of fun and energy into books as diverse as the medieval historical novel The Strong Arm (1900) and The Victors (1902), which was set at the University of Michigan. Conan Doyle remembered Barr fondly in his memoirs, describing him as “a volcanic Anglo—or rather Scot-American, with a violent manner, a wealth of strong adjectives, and one of the kindest natures underneath it all.”
The time was Christmas Eve, 1904. The place was an ancient, secluded manor house, built so far back in the last century as 1896. It stood at the head of a profound valley; a valley clothed in ferns waist deep, and sombrely guarded by ancient trees, the remnants of a primeval forest. From this mansion no other human habitation could be seen. The descending road which connected the king’s highway with the stronghold was so sinuous and precipitate that more than once the grim baronet who owned it had upset his automobile in trying to negotiate the dangerous curves. The isolated situation and gloomy architecture of this venerable mansion must have impressed the most casual observer with the thought that here was the spot for the perpetration of dark deeds, were it not for the fact that the place was brilliantly illumined with electricity, while the silence was emphasised rather than disturbed by the monotonous, regular thud of an accumulator pumping the subtle fluid into a receptive dynamo situated in an outhouse to the east.
The night was gloomy and lowering after a day of rain, but the very sombreness of the scene made the brilliant stained-glass windows stand out like the radiant covers of a Christmas number. Such was the appearance presented by “Undershaw,” the home of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, situated among the wilds of Hindhead, some forty or fifty miles from London. Is it any wonder that at a spot so remote from civilization, law should be set at defiance and that the one lone policeman who perambulates the district should tremble as he passed the sinister gates of “Undershaw”?
In a large room of this manor house, furnished with a luxuriant elegance one would not have expected in a region so far from humanising influences, sat two men. One was a giant in stature, whose broad brow and smoothly shaven strong chin gave a look of determination to his countenance, which was further enhanced by the heavy black moustache which covered his upper lip. There was something of the dragoon in his upright and independent bearing. He had, in fact, taken part in more than one fiercely-fought battle, and was a member of several military clubs; but it was plain to be seen that his ancestors had used war clubs, and had transmitted to him the physique of a Hercules. One did not need to glance at the Christmas number of the Strand, which he held in his hand, nor read the name printed there in large letters, to know that he was face to face with Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.
His guest, an older man yet still in the prime of life, whose beard was tinged with grey, was of less warlike bearing than the celebrated novelist, belonging, as he evidently did, to the civil and not the military section of life. He had about him the air of a prosperous man of affairs, shrewd, good-natured, conciliatory, and these two strongly contrasting personages are types of the men to whom England owes her greatness. The reader of the Christmas number will very probably feel disappointed when he finds, as he supposes, merely two old friends sitting amicably in a country house after dinner. There seems, to his jaded taste, no element of tragedy in such a situation. These two men appear comfortable enough and respectable enough. It is true that there is whisky and soda at hand and the box of cigars is open, yet there are latent possibilities of passion under the most placid natures, revealed only to writers of fiction in our halfpenny Press. Let the reader wait, therefore, till he sees these two men tried as by fire under a great temptation, and then let him say whether even the probity of Sir George Newnes comes scathless from the ordeal.
“Have you brought the swag, Sir George?” asked the novelist, with some trace of anxiety in his voice.
“Yes,” replied the great publisher; “but before proceeding to the count, would it not be wise to give orders that will insure our being left undisturbed?”
“You are right,” replied Doyle, pressing an electric button.
Wh
en the servant appeared, he said: “I am not at home to anyone. No matter who calls, or what excuse is given, you must permit none to approach this room.”
When the servant had withdrawn, Doyle took the further precaution of thrusting in place one of the huge bolts which ornamented the massive oaken door studded with iron knobs. Sir George withdrew from the tail pocket of his dress coat two canvas bags, and, untying the strings, poured the rich red gold on the smooth table.
“I think you will find that right,” he said; “six thousand pounds in all.”
The writer dragged his heavy chair nearer the table and began to count the coins two by two, withdrawing each pair from the pile with his extended forefingers in the manner of one accustomed to deal with great treasure. For a time the silence was unbroken, save by the chink of gold, when suddenly a high-keyed voice outside penetrated even the stout oak of the huge door. The shrill exclamation seemed to touch a chord of remembrance in the mind of Sir George Newnes. Nervously, he grasped the arms of his chair, sitting very bolt upright, muttering:—
“Can it be he, of all persons, at this time, of all times?”
Doyle glanced up with an expression of annoyance on his face, murmuring to keep his memory green:—
“A hundred and ten, a hundred and ten, a hundred and ten.”
“Not at home?” cried the vibrant voice. “Nonsense! Everybody is at home on Christmas Eve!”
“You don’t seem to be,” he heard the servant reply.
“Me? Oh, I have no home, merely rooms in Baker Street. I must see your master and at once.”
“Master left in his motor car half an hour ago to attend the county ball, given to-night at the Royal Huts Hotel seven miles away,” answered the servant, with that glib mastery of fiction which unconsciously comes to those who are members, even in a humble capacity, of a household devoted to the production of imaginative art.
“Nonsense, I say again,” came the strident voice. “It is true that the tracks of an automobile are on the ground in front of your door, but if you will notice the markings of the puncture-proof belt, you will see that the automobile is returning and not departing. It went to the station before the last shower to bring back a visitor, and since its arrival there has been no rain. That suit of armour in the hall spattered with mud shows it to be the casing the visitor wore. The blazonry upon it of a pair of scissors above an open book resting upon a printing press indicates that the wearer is, first of all, an editor; second, a publisher; and third, a printer. The only baronet in England whose occupation corresponds with this heraldic device is Sir George Newnes.”
“You forget Sir Alfred Harmsworth,” said the servant, whose hand held a copy of Answers.
If the insistent visitor was taken aback by this unlooked-for rejoinder, his manner showed no trace of embarrassment, and he went on unabashed.
“As the last shower began at ten minutes to six, Sir George must have arrived at Haslemere station on the 6.19 from Waterloo. He has had dinner and at this moment is sitting comfortably with Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, doubtless in the front room which I see is so brilliantly lighted. Now, if you will kindly take in my card—”
“But I tell you,” persisted the perplexed servant, “that the master left in his motor car for the county ball at the Royal—”
“Oh, I know, I know. There stands his suit of armour, too, newly blackleaded, whose coat of arms is a couchant typewriter on an automobile rampant.”
“Great heavens!” cried Sir George, his eyes brightening with the light of unholy desire, “you have material enough there, Doyle, for a story in our January number. What do you say?”
A deep frown marred the smoothness of the novelist’s brow.
“I say,” he replied sternly, “that this man has been sending threatening letters to me. I have had enough of his menaces.”
“Then triply bolt the door,” advised Newnes, with a sigh of disappointment, leaning back in his chair.
“Do you take me for a man who bolts when his enemy appears?” asked Doyle fiercely, rising to his feet. “No, I will unbolt. He shall meet the Douglas in his hall!”
“Better have him in the drawing-room where it’s warm,” suggested Sir George, with a smile, diplomatically desiring to pour oil on the troubled waters.
The novelist, without reply, spread a copy of that evening’s Westminster Gazette over the pile of gold, strode to the door, threw it open, and said coldly:—
“Show the gentleman in, please.”
There entered to them a tall, self-possessed, calm man, with clean-shaven face, eagle eye, and inquisitive nose.
Although the visit was most embarrassing at that particular juncture, the natural courtesy of the novelist restrained him from giving utterance to his resentment of the intrusion, and he proceeded to introduce the bidden to the unbidden guest as if each were equally welcome.
“Mr. Sherlock Holmes, permit me to present to you Sir George—”
“Mr. Sherlock Holmes, permit me to present to you Sir George—”
“It is quite superfluous,” said the newcomer, in an even voice of exasperating tenor, “for I perceive at once that one who wears a green waistcoat must be a Liberal of strong Home Rule opinions, or the editor of several publications wearing covers of emerald hue. The shamrock necktie, in addition to the waistcoat, indicates that the gentleman before me is both, and so I take it for granted that this is Sir George Newnes. How is your circulation, Sir George?”
“Rapidly rising,” replied the editor.
“I am glad of that,” asserted the intruder, suavely, “and can assure you that the temperature outside is as rapidly falling.”
The great detective spread his hands before the glowing electric fire and rubbed them vigorously together.
“I perceive through that evening paper the sum of six thousand pounds in gold.”
Doyle interrupted him with some impatience.
“You didn’t see it through the paper; you saw it in the paper. Goodness knows, it’s been mentioned in enough of the sheets.”
“As I was about to remark,” went on Sherlock Holmes imperturbably, “I am amazed that a man whose time is so valuable should waste it in counting the money. You are surely aware that a golden sovereign weighs 123’44 grains, therefore, if I were you, I should have up the kitchen scales, dump in the metal, and figure out the amount with a lead pencil. You brought the gold in two canvas bags, did you not, Sir George?”
“In the name of all that’s wonderful, how do you know that?” asked the astonished publisher.
Sherlock Holmes, with a superior smile, casually waved his hand toward the two bags which still lay on the polished table.
“Oh, I’m tired of this sort of thing,” said Doyle wearily, sitting down in the first chair that presented itself. “Can’t you be honest, even on Christmas Eve? You know the oracles of old did not try it on with each other.”
“That is true,” said Sherlock Holmes. “The fact is, I followed Sir George Newnes into the Capital and Counties Bank this afternoon, where he demanded six thousand pounds in gold; but when he learned this would weigh ninety-six pounds seven ounces avoirdupois weight, and that even troy weight would make the sum no lighter, he took two small bags of gold and the rest in Bank of England notes. I came from London on the same train with him, but he was off in the automobile before I could make myself known, and so I had to walk up. I was further delayed by taking the wrong turning on the top and finding myself at that charming spot in the neighbourhood where a sailor was murdered by two ruffians a century or so ago.”
There was a note of warning in Doyle’s voice when he said:—
“Did that incident teach you no lesson? Did you not realise that you are in a dangerous locality?”
“And likely to fall in with two ruffians?” asked Holmes, slightly elevating his eyebrows, while the same sweet smile hovered round his thin lips. “No; the remembrance of the incident encouraged me. It was the man who had the money that was murdered. I brought no coin wi
th me, although I expect to bear many away.”
“Would you mind telling us, without further circumlocution, what brings you here so late at night?”
Sherlock Holmes heaved a sigh, and mournfully shook his head very slowly.
“After all the teaching I have bestowed upon you, Doyle, is it possible that you cannot deduct even so simple a thing as that? Why am I here? Because Sir George made a mistake about those bags. He was quite right in taking one of them to “Undershaw,” but he should have left the other at 221B, Baker Street. I call this little trip ‘The Adventure of the Second Swag.’ Here is the second swag on the table. The first swag you received long ago, and all I had for my share was some honeyed words of compliment in the stories you wrote. Now, it is truly said that soft words butter no parsnips, and, in this instance, they do not even turn away wrath. So far as the second swag is concerned, I have come to demand half of it.”
“I am not so poor at deduction as you seem to imagine,” said Doyle, apparently nettled at the other’s slighting reference to his powers. “I was well aware, when you came in, what your errand was. I deduced further that if you saw Sir George withdraw gold from the bank, you also followed him to Waterloo station.”
“Quite right.”
“When he purchased his ticket for Haslemere, you did the same.”
“I did.”
“When you arrived at Haslemere, you sent a telegram to your friend, Dr. Watson, telling him of your whereabouts.”
“You are wrong there; I ran after the motor car.”
“I ran after the motor car.”
“You certainly sent a telegram from somewhere, to someone, or at least dropped a note in the post-box. There are signs, which I need not mention, that point irrevocably to such a conclusion.”